Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cold winds of Ullapool howled in Simon Riley’s ears as he drove along the narrow roads of the Scottish Highlands. The sky, covered in heavy, dragging clouds, seemed to press down on the empty fields, as if even time itself were weary. The steering wheel remained steady in his gloved hands, and his eyes, fixed on the road, reflected the dull gray of the weather that surrounded him.

There wasn’t any grand or emotional reason behind choosing that particular village. No emotional ties, no nostalgic memories. Ullapool simply met the criteria Simon was looking for: a remote, quiet place, with few inhabitants and far from the hustle of big cities — and, above all, from the constant noise of the world. That was enough. He didn’t want to start over; he just wanted to disappear with dignity. Fortunately, the village lived up to expectations. Scattered houses, surrounded by wild vegetation, and a silence that seemed to rise from the very ground. It was good that it was like that, because Simon had no intention of leaving anytime soon. It was early autumn, and the Scottish hills were already beginning to turn shades of red and gold, as if the earth were slowly bleeding to welcome winter. It was a landscape many would call beautiful — perhaps even poetic — but Simon’s eyes saw no beauty in it. His mind was too tired, too fragmented, to find poetry in dry leaves.
All he wanted was to reach his new home and rest. Not sleep — real rest, deep, the kind the body begs for when even dreaming becomes torture.

He had stopped in Dundee almost five hours earlier, just to refuel and grab a coffee far too bitter even for him. Though used to long trips, the weariness of this journey felt heavier, more mental than physical. Each kilometer traveled was a kind of silent mourning for what he was leaving behind.
And finally, after a few more solitary kilometers of road and crossing a narrow bridge over a mist-covered stream, he saw the gate to his new home.

In his truck, he slowly climbed the dirt path that ended in front of the house’s façade. It was a large building, of traditional 1980s architecture, with a slate roof, wide windows, and distinctly British features still well preserved. Despite its visible age peeling paint here, a rusty railing there the structure was in great condition. Simon felt a rare and brief sense of relief. When he bought the property, he had only seen a few old photos — clearly outdated and taken in forgiving light. The whole purchase had been rushed, a direct consequence of a retirement that had come suddenly and, above all, unwillingly.
Simon still remembered with bitterness the conversation he had with Captain Price, who had declared the end of his military career.

 

“Look, Simon... I don’t really know how to say this, but it was the right thing to do. I appreciate all your service in the 141, but unfortunately, your time here is over. I’ve requested your retirement.”

Price’s expression mixed weariness, disappointment, and maybe even a hint of sadness.

“What do you mean, Price? I’m not retiring. There’s no reason for that. I’m fully capable of continuing to serve.”

“You and I both know that’s not true.” The captain’s voice hardened.

“I’m sorry, man, but your behavior in recent months has become unsustainable. You’re not mentally fit for combat anymore.”

Simon remembered the anger bubbling inside. The feeling of helplessness, of being cast aside seen not as a weapon anymore, but as a burden.

“This is about those deaths, isn’t it? Oh, for God’s sake! We deal with scum, the worst kind of people! I did what had to be done. What the hell is wrong with that?” he snapped, raising his voice.

“Shut the fuck up, Ghost.” Price’s tone was icy, cutting, using the military codename like a sentence and a symbol of distance. “You know very well what you’ve done. And it’s not just recent. Yes, enemies die in combat, but the issue here isn’t the deaths themselves it’s the twisted pleasure you take in executing them. Excessive violence. Uncontrolled impulses.”

Simon fell silent, the words stuck between clenched teeth. Price continued, softer now, but with no hesitation:

“I turned a blind eye for too long. But it’s clear: your conduct has become unstable, nearly insubordinate. There’s something punitive in the way you operate, as if you’re taking out a pain on others that you haven’t been able to face.”

“I’m sorry for what you went through at the hands of the Soviets, Simon. I truly am. But I can’t let you keep wearing the uniform as a shield for your rage. Your presence in the squad is a risk. You’re retired. And there’s no more discussion.”

 

Remembering it made something burn inside him. A mute, constant flame that didn’t warm only consumed. Not just because of the loss of a role that still made him feel useful, alive, even — but because of the truth hidden in Price’s words. Simon knew the captain was right. And even so, he didn’t regret anything. He couldn’t regret the only language he had learned to speak after being broken.
He turned off the engine and sat for a moment, staring at the house’s façade. This was where he would spend his days now. A place of silence, isolation, and, with luck, forgetfulness. He would leave the Ghost mask behind, and maybe, over time though he held no real hope he might remember who Simon Riley was before it all.
But at that moment, all he wanted was to go inside, lock the door, and be quiet. The world was finally far enough away for him to breathe without thinking of combat.

Days later, already settled in, Simon reluctantly went out to buy groceries. He needed something for the first few days, even if simple. He got into the truck and drove to the village’s small shopping area but found almost nothing open.
The streets were practically deserted, except for an elderly lady sweeping the sidewalk with slow, mechanical movements. A light mist covered the ground like a veil, and the air smelled of wet earth and wood smoke. Simon didn’t know if the silence of the place was comforting or just another reminder of how isolated he was from the world.
Then he spotted a rustic building on the edge of a slope, with a slightly crooked wooden sign that read: “MacTavish’s Cottage.” The façade was made of stone, with small windows framed by checkered curtains. There were flower pots on the windowsills, and a faint smell of fresh bread escaped through the cracks of the door, mixed with the woody aroma of the heated interior.

Simon parked and stayed inside the truck for a few seconds, watching the place suspiciously. There were no other customers. That was good. He took a deep breath, adjusted the hood of his coat, and got out of the vehicle, walking with heavy steps toward the entrance. When he opened the door, a little bell rang above his head, breaking the silence like a high note in a sacred space.
The interior of the shop was small but incredibly cozy. There were wooden shelves full of jars with homemade jams, cakes wrapped in cellophane, and glass bottles with handwritten labels. In the left corner, a pot steamed over a small wood-burning stove, next to a sign written in white chalk: “Soup of the Day – Barley and Vegetables.”
Thick rugs covered the wooden floor, muffling Simon’s footsteps as he looked around the place. Soft instrumental music played in the background something with violin and piano, perhaps Scottish folk. The combination of sounds, smells, and warmth clashed violently with what was going on inside him. It was like stepping into a different world, made of comfort and calm, when everything in Simon was accumulated tension and constant alertness.

“Well... it’s going to be right here.” he murmured to himself, his hoarse tone cutting through the silence, as if trying to convince himself that this choice was rational, not emotional.

He was about to approach the counter when a cheerful voice suddenly broke the quiet, cutting through the room like a ray of light piercing a dense forest:

“Hey! Welcome! Never seen you around here. Tourist or new resident? Bet you just moved in. Nobody comes to Ullapool for fun, haha!”

Simon slowly turned around, his shoulders already stiffened by defensiveness. But what he saw caught him by surprise.

The young man who spoke looked no older than 19 or 20. He had light brown hair, carelessly styled, and blue eyes that were smiling even before his mouth moved. He wore an apron with the name “John” embroidered on the chest and had hands covered in flour, as if he had just finished kneading some dough.The boy’s spontaneity was so incompatible with the mood Simon carried with him that, for a moment, he simply... froze. Not out of hostility, but out of unfamiliarity. That energy was disconcerting.

“Halò! My name’s John MacTavish, but you can call me John. I work here with my dad, family business, you know how it is.”

Simon blinked slowly, then nodded. It was clear he wouldn’t escape the conversation without seeming rude. And for some reason, maybe tiredness, maybe something else — he decided not to.

“Simon Riley. I’ll have a portion of soup… and a slice of that red fruit cake.”

John’s smile grew even wider, as if he had just received an order for something exotic and wonderful.

“Excellent choice! You can sit down; I’ll bring it to you in a few minutes.”

Simon grunted in consent and headed to the farthest table, against the wall, where the lighting was dimmer and the movement slower. He sat with his back to the wall, facing the door — an involuntary reflex from old military habits. His eyes silently scanned the room. A ginger cat was curled up sleeping near the fireplace. On the wall, framed old photographs showed sepia images of harvests, village festivals, and smiling faces from past generations.
For the first time since leaving the barracks, Simon felt that he was... far away. For real. As if he had crossed not only a map but a portal to a forgotten time , one where he didn’t have to be ready to kill or be killed.
Then John reappeared, balancing a tray with steaming soup, a generous slice of cake, and, curiously, a cup with a dark drink.

“Hey, I didn’t order a drink.”
John gently set the tray on the table and blinked.

“No mistake, Mr. Riley. It’s on the house. I saw you’re new around here and wanted to welcome you.”

Simon stared at him for a moment longer than he intended. The naturalness of the gesture was... strange. Disarming. But he didn’t sense irony or ulterior motives. Just kindness — something rare and uncomfortable for someone who had spent his life expecting the worst from everyone.

“I see… thank you, John.”

And for the first time in a long time, Simon took a sip of something hot without wondering if it was poisoned.
While eating, Simon noticed something curious: the boy didn’t stop talking. In any other context, that would have irritated him. Long, enthusiastic conversations always reminded him of chatty civilians, clueless about the horrors of the world. But there, in that space warmed by a discreet fireplace and filled with the smell of freshly baked apple cake, John’s voice was not bothersome. Quite the opposite.
There was something in that spontaneity that completely eluded him. A lightness. A lack of malice. The casual speech, the lively gestures, the way he seemed to fill the space with life without effort.

Simon chewed slowly, his body still but senses alert — a residue neither time nor therapy had managed to erase. He watched him with the attention of a soldier, even though there was nothing threatening about this boy with a flour-dusted apron. It was comforting, and that alone was strange. Comfort was something he no longer knew how to recognize without suspicion.
In the army, he was treated with tense respect, an almost clinical care. His comrades admired him, yes , but with fear. His superiors, when not using his brutality for the mission, those damn hypocrites, made clear their silent contempt for what he represented: a living reminder of what happens when war no longer fits inside a man.
But here... here someone saw him as Simon. Or rather Riley, a civilian. Not as Ghost, the butcher. Not as the monster a military psychologist recommended to be “permanently” kept away after a field breakdown. John didn’t know. And if he did well, the smiles would certainly stop. The kindness would vanish into the air like cold smoke.

“So then,” John said, returning from the counter with a cup in his hands, carefully balancing it “what brought you to Ullapool? Certainly not the lively nightlife we have here.”

Simon raised his eyes, his eyebrow arching with mild irony.
— “Actually... that was exactly it. I wanted a quiet place. Isolated. I retired. Thought it was time to... disappear a little.”

“Retired?!” John’s face showed disbelief, making Simon almost smile for the first time in that conversation, almost. “How old are you, anyway?!”

There was a strange relief in that astonishment. A break in the tension. The boy didn’t see him as something broken. Just as someone unlikely. Simon leaned back slightly in the chair, more comfortable than he cared to admit.

“Military retirement. It works differently. I was a lieutenant.”

“Ah.” John seemed to absorb the information but didn’t show the kind of discomfort Simon expected. On the contrary, he continued as if they had just exchanged trivial facts.

“So, Mr. Riley... do you like hiking?” he asked, now resting his hands on the back of a nearby chair. “There are some incredible views around here. I usually go to the Rubha Cadail cliffs when I want to think.”
Simon slowly raised his gaze, as if weighing each word before letting it out.

“I’m not much for... thinking while looking at landscapes.”

He murmured. “But I walk a lot. Old habit. Training muscle.”
John laughed. A light laugh, without mockery.

“Yeah. I can tell. You look like someone who lifts weights at dawn and drinks black coffee without sugar.”
Simon blinked, surprised by the involuntary accuracy of the description.

“Almost.” he replied, with a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

John pulled a chair in front of Simon and sat down, as if it was the most natural thing in the world as if completely ignoring the personal space the customer clearly marked around himself. Not out of rudeness, but out of a kind of gentle faith: that there was no threat there, only a conversation in progress.
Simon stared at him for a few seconds. He tried to decipher whether all that insistence was a disguised form of pity or simple curiosity. But there was something in John’s eyes... something clean, without judgment.

“Do you always talk this much to everyone?” He asked, without irony, just genuine perplexity.
John laughed, more quietly this time.

“No. Only when someone seems interesting.”
That caught Simon off guard. Reflexively, he let out a short, hoarse laugh , a sound he barely recognized as his own. It was as if he had rusted from so much time in silence.

“Interesting?”

“Sure. You show up here out of nowhere, with a face like you don’t make friends, order soup and cake, and sit in the corner like you’ve been dropped into the world. That draws attention, don’t you think?”

Simon slowly shook his head. He didn’t argue. He had no strength — or perhaps he just no longer saw the need.

“Maybe I just wanted to be alone.”

This time, John didn’t respond immediately. His smile gave way to a softer, more serious expression. His eyes held Simon’s for a moment longer.

“This is a good place for that.” — he said with raw honesty. “People here, though they know each other all the life, also don’t usually want closeness between themselves.Typical small town behavior."

Simon looked away and stared at the empty bowl. The spoon rested there, still, like he was inside.

“Well, looks like I’ll do fine here.” Simon said.
John stood up naturally, as if he knew the moment needed to end there.

“I’ll leave you alone now. But come back whenever you want. And... if you accept my offer, I can show you Rubha Cadail. It’s better than it sounds.”

Simon hesitated. Silence stretched between them.
When he finished, John approached with a dish towel thrown over his shoulder and a casual but attentive gesture. He collected the bowl and plate with the care of someone who understands the value of a moment of quiet , not wanting to break it, just to gently conclude the scene.
“It was a pleasure, Mr. Riley.” He said with a light but genuine smile. His eyes still carried that curious sparkle, as if trying to read between the lines of the man in front of him. “Can I call you Simon? I hope to see you here more often.”

Simon looked at the boy for a moment. There was no pressure in the question, just a sincere offer of closeness. An invitation to abandon, if only for a second, the weight of the surname and formality. It was just a name — Simon — but he knew how much it cost to offer it.
He hesitated. Not out of distrust, but out of habit. Out of defense. The name he had always kept guarded now pulsed between them like a rope about to be released. And then, he gave in.

“You may. See you, John.”

John nodded with a more contained smile, but full of satisfaction. As if that “you may” had meant more than any previous conversation.

“See you, Simon.”

Simon stood up slowly, put on his coat with methodical movements, and headed for the door. The little bell rang softly as he opened it, cutting through the warm air of the café with the cold wind of Ullapool. Before leaving, he glanced back over his shoulder. John was already putting the cups back in order behind the counter but was still whistling that melody that seemed to have stuck in Simon’s memory like dust at the bottom of his chest.
Outside, the night was already settling over the rooftops. The village went to sleep early, wrapped in mists and silence. But there was something different in the air , a subtle change in tone, as if the world had sighed along with him.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked through the empty streets with steady steps, but not as heavy as before. He still didn’t know if he would come back the next day , but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t rule out the idea.

Chapter Text

Simon didn’t return the next day, nor the one after. Five entire days had passed, steeped in a silence that felt almost clinical. The house seemed colder than usual, even with the fireplace lit. Sitting in the armchair of the bedroom, Simon read through an old manual on asymmetric warfare for what must have been the thousandth time. Not because he needed to — but because the dry sound of turning pages was better than the sound inside his own mind. The ticking of the wall clock began to grate on his nerves.

Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.

Simon slammed the book shut. The sound echoed through the empty house like a muffled explosion. He got up and crossed the room to the window. It was still early, five o’clock. The sky was dull, painted with the melancholic gray of a light mist that wrapped Ullapool like an indifferent shroud. He decided to go for a walk. He needed to breathe or at least pretend he could. He pulled on the heavy military coat, checked the door lock twice, grabbed the truck keys, and left. Driving into the village was almost muscle memory by now, but today, every stone on the road seemed to magnify his unease. When he parked at the village entrance and stepped out, he was met by a biting breeze typical of the Scottish north. The air felt heavier or maybe it was just that he was too full of weight inside.Walking the streets without his balaclava was still uncomfortable. Exposure, to him, meant danger. Vulnerability. Not even among his own battalion did he remove that second skin. Only in the rare moments when solitude was absolute.

He thought of John MacTavish. The way the boy had looked at him the first time , without fear, without pity, without disguise. That had disarmed him more than any firefight. There was something in that gaze… warmth.
Unlike the glances he received now as he passed two or three villagers ,mostly elderly. There was distrust in their eyes. Silent judgment.

“Shit… should’ve brought the damn balaclava.” But he wanted to try. To unlearn the habit of hiding.

“Simon! Aye! Simon, haud on, please!”

Simon recognized that voice instantly.
He turned and saw the boy jogging along the pavement, moving with the careless urgency of someone who had never learned to measure pace with adults.

"Haw, Simon! Yer oot an’ aboot the village, aye? Whit ye up tae the day?" Simon narrowed his eyes, struggling to understand the boy’s speech — his thick accent made comprehension difficult. Even though his visit to MacTavish’s Cottage had been brief, he didn’t remember the kid speaking with such a strong brogue.

“Just… going for a walk,” he replied in a dry, almost automatic tone.

“Och, that's braw! Ah’ll come wi’ ye. Got aff early frae ma da's bakery. Dinnae fancy headin’ hame the noo."

Simon hesitated before answering ,partly because of John’s thick Highland accent, which made his words hard to decipher; but in truth, the reason was something else entirely. He simply didn’t know what to say. Should he refuse? Every instinct in him screamed to shut it down right there. It’s what he’d do with anyone else. But with John…

“Sure, kid. Come on.”

John took long strides to keep pace, clearly making an effort to match Simon’s rhythm. Simon glanced sideways, studying him with more attention now. The boy was obviously shorter. Brown hair, caught somewhere between a mohawk and the rebellion of a failed military cut, fell with a certain ease. His eyes — a startling blue — held no trace of a soldier’s coldness. They held warmth.

“So then, Simon, ciamar a tha thu findin’ yer first days here? It’s fair colder than England, aye? Ye’ll’ve felt it yersel. Ah cannae wait 'til the snaw starts fallin’!"
Simon frowned.

“Speak a human language. I didn’t understand a damn word.” The answer came out harsher than he intended. And he regretted it instantly. Not because of the words themselves, but because it was John who had received them.

"Uill, a Simon, chan eil cùisean dona gu leòr fhathast. Chan urrainn dhomh feitheamh." This time, he responded in a language that sounded like Scottish Gaelic to Simon’s ears. The boy’s reply came light, unbothered, punctuated by a smile that didn’t fade. His good humor in the face of rudeness caught Simon off guard.

“Heeeey, you English think you’re all superior. With those giant ears, you should understand us better.”

The Scot modulated his tone. The accent was still there, strong as the land he came from, but the choice of words was clearer ,almost like a gesture of goodwill.
John laughed. A carefree, youthful sound, almost childlike, as if the joke itself were a small gem stumbled upon by chance. Simon couldn’t help himself. A brief, unexpected laugh escaped his lips like an involuntary hiccup.

“Are you calling me big-eared, you little shit?”

“Never. You’re not a full Englishman yet. Your ears haven’t reached regulation size. But who knows? One day, maybe.” Simon laughed again. And that… bothered him. Because it felt good.

“Alright. You’re funny. A little bastard, but funny.”

“Hey, kid… how did you know I was English? I never said that.”

“Accent, Simon. I’ve lived here all my life. It’s easy to spot someone who’s not from around here.”

Simon nodded. Sharp kid. He liked that.

“In the army, you have to pay attention to the details. I didn’t remember saying anything. I just instinctively followed your logic.”

“When you walked into the bakery… I could tell right away you weren’t local. You looked wary. I wanted to make you feel at ease. I even tried speaking less Scottish, just so I wouldn’t confuse you.”

Simon walked in silence for a few steps. That hit him like warm air in a frozen trench. “Kindness… isn’t something I’ve received much of in life,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“I just wanted to be nice. You seem like a good man, Simon.”

Simon stopped walking for a moment. He stared down at the tips of his boots. And he thought:

You’re so wrong about me, kid.

But he didn’t say it.
Because he wanted John to keep seeing only Simon — not the soldier, not the monster.
Just… him.

 

The days unfolded in a measured silence, like pages turning slowly on a calendar. And as they passed, Simon and Johnny saw each other more and more often . As if chance had lost its power, and now it was intention.They walked together to the edge of town, where the fields swallowed the road in soft mists. And even though neither dared admit it, they were deliberately inventing excuses just to prolong each other's presence. Simon, for example, had developed a strange and sudden need for fresh bread, berry pies, and any other trivial delicacy from the local bakery. He didn’t need them and they both knew it. But Johnny smiled every time he saw him walk in, and that was enough. And Simon stayed. Even when there was no reason to.But for Simon, it carried the weight of something much bigger. The anticipation brought him a quiet discomfort, like a razor’s edge beneath the skin. Because getting involved… forming bonds… allowing himself to care for someone all of that, to him, meant risk. And risks, Simon knew, never came alone.

That night was even colder.

Simon waited for Johnny to close the bakery... Yes, now he was just Johnny. Hands shoved in his pockets, wind biting at his collar. The Scot finally came out, wrapped in a scarf far too big for his thin neck.

“I said I wouldn't be long!”

“That’s exactly what you did.” Johnny laughed, shivering.

“Do you want my coat over you, Johnny?”

“What? No, Simon! You’ll freeze to death.”
Simon scoffed, sarcastic.

“You’ve got no idea what kind of temperatures I’ve faced. Just take it.”

Without ceremony, he pulled off the heavy coat and draped it over the boy’s shoulders, covering him with the firmness of an instinctive gesture. Johnny stood still for a second, as if unsure what to do with such sudden kindness. His cheeks, already red from the wind, turned even brighter. And Simon, seeing him like that, felt a flash of childish satisfaction. Like an idiot in the middle of his first flirtation.
After a few minutes, they reached the front of the MacTavish house.

“I’ve got a surprise. Come with me!” Simon hesitated. But followed. He was curious… and, again, wary.

“Wait here!”

Johnny disappeared down the hallway. The living room was small, but cozy. There was a subtle warmth to it, like a blanket forgotten on the sofa. The scent of cinnamon, fresh coffee, and old wood filled the air, creating a strangely intimate atmosphere. Simon remained standing, unsure if he could — or should — make himself comfortable. He felt like an intruder stepping across the invisible threshold of someone else's life. Johnny came back smiling, carefully holding a plate. “Look. I made this for you. Red berry cheesecake. I noticed you always buy things with red berries at the bakery. I wanted to try this recipe... and I wanted you to be the first to taste it.”

Simon blinked. The gesture was so… sincere.— “I... I loved it. Really, Johnny. Thank you.” He felt his face heat up. Was he blushing? Shit. He hoped the boy wouldn’t notice.

Then the hallway door opened.Revealing a short man with a mustache and eyes as blue as Johnny’s. He was covered in flour, and although his words carried friendliness, his eyes said the opposite. “Haló. Guid evenin’. You must be the lad Johnny’s been goin’ on aboot?” The voice was polite and well-mannered. But the look was not.

“Da, please. This is Simon. He juist moved tae the village. He comes tae the bakery a lot.”The boy seemed embarrassed by his father's rude behavior, who made no effort to hide his displeasure at seeing the former lieutenant in the room with his son.

“Weel, nice tae meet ye, Simon. Ah’m Johnny’s faither.”
As soon as he finished speaking, the man turned and went back to his room without even pretending to be friendly. The door closed with a soft, dry click.
Johnny rolled his eyes.

“Don’t mind him. He’s a hermit. He doesn’t know anyone.”

“It’s okay, Johnny. I get it. Sometimes... you forget I’m like that too.”

“Yeah. But you’ve never been like that with me.” Simon looked at him. And for the first time, he was afraid of how badly he wanted to stay.

 

In the days that followed, being together became habit.
And habit, a disguised form of longing. Simon stopped by the bakery every afternoon, even when he didn’t need anything. He’d just lean against the wooden counter, wait for Johnny to come down from upstairs, and quietly watch as the boy absentmindedly handled the freshly baked bread. “Do you actually like apple pie, or do you just pretend so you’ve got something to talk to me about?” Johnny asked one day with a crooked smile, slicing pieces for display. Simon lifted his gaze, taking a little longer than necessary to answer.

“I don’t like apple pie.”

“Knew it!” Johnny laughed loudly, clearly pleased with his own deduction.

“You buy it and don’t even eat it. I bet you throw it out in the woods.”

“I throw it in the fireplace,” Simon replied flatly though the corner of his mouth twitched in something close to a smile.

“But I like seeing you smile when I buy it.” The silence between them lasted a few seconds too long. Johnny looked away, blushing to the tips of his ears.
Simon didn’t say a word. Just stared down at the slice of pie on the counter, as if waiting for it to resolve something he couldn’t say aloud.

The woods beside Simon’s house gave off the fresh scent of damp earth and moss. The sun was already low, filtering its last rays through the treetops, casting golden stains on the ground, stains the two of them ignored. Johnny was restless, pacing back and forth near the stacked bottles in the distance, his eyes shining with an excitement that bordered on childish. Simon watched him silently for a moment, a semi-automatic shotgun resting on a makeshift stone bench covered in leaves. Beside it, a Glock and an old revolver. He’d left everything out in the open to impress the boy and it worked. Johnny looked fascinated, as if each weapon were a museum piece. Or a forbidden toy.

“Aye, Simon! Gie’s a shot wi’ the shotgun, go on! Let me, aye?” he insisted, eyes gleaming.

“I caught my name and nothing else. Was that an insult or a compliment?” Simon chuckled.

“First I’m gonna teach you how a gun works.”

“I already know how it works, Simon. Come on, just let me shoot!” It was the kind of eager impatience only those who didn’t yet know the weight of consequences could muster.

“Oh yeah? How do you take the safety off?” Johnny opened his mouth… but froze. One second. Two.
Simon huffed, amused.

“Thought so. Now pay attention.”

He picked up the shotgun as casually as one would a coffee mug. Showed the details of the mechanism with near-clinical precision, his calloused hands moving calmly.
Johnny watched closely now, quieter than usual, perhaps realizing Simon changed when he spoke about these things. He became more restrained. More serious. As if each piece of metal tied him to something old — and dangerous.

“You hold tight here. Shoulder locked. The safety’s here, push it with your thumb. And nothing — I repeat, nothing — gets pointed at something you don’t intend to kill.”
Johnny swallowed hard.

“I know.”

Simon looked at him. Up close. Those blue eyes always trying to seem older than they were. But he could see through it.

“No, you don’t. Not yet. But you will.”

He held out the weapon to him, slowly. Johnny took it with both hands, trying to imitate Simon’s steadiness. But he trembled. Just a little. The weight was more than he’d expected. Simon positioned himself behind him, his broad arms naturally encircling the boy’s. He guided Johnny’s hands carefully, like a patient instructor.
The boy’s body tensed from the closeness. Simon’s did too. But he didn’t pull away.

“That’s it. Now aim. Breathe slow. When you’re ready... just pull.”

Johnny bit the corner of his lower lip, focused. His fingers gripped tight around the stock, his trigger finger trembling. He inhaled deeply, lungs filling with the cold woodland air. And then held his breath. The shot rang out sharp, loud , a muffled explosion echoing through the trees, startling a flock of birds into chaotic flight. The glass bottle set on the stone shattered into pieces, as if it had imploded from the force of the sound. Johnny burst into an unexpected, vibrant laugh. His eyes sparkled like he’d just crossed the finish line of a race he never thought he’d win.

“I DID IT! Did you see that, Simon?! I hit it! First try!”
Simon took a small step back. His eyes smiled — a rare smile, brief, but genuine.

“Beginner’s luck.”

“Oh, piss off! I’m a natural!” Johnny turned slightly, puffing out his chest as if demanding recognition.

“Alright, Rambo. That’s enough for today. A shotgun’s no toy.”

Johnny was still smiling, and it made him look younger than he was. His hair messy, face flushed from the cold and the rush. Simon watched him in silence, from the side — as if staring at him head-on might give too much away.
There was something unsettling in that vibrant smile. Something that touched him in a quiet, almost dangerous way. He wanted to protect him of that he was sure.
But it wasn’t just that. A part of Simon wanted him to stay right there, in that forest, in that moment. Wanted Johnny never to go back to the village. Wanted him to belong to that fragment of the world where guns, cold, and silence didn’t seem quite so heavy.

“Can I see the revolver too?” Johnny asked, already stepping toward the bench.

Simon walked over, picked up the weapon gently, and placed it back inside the dark wooden case. Locked it with a key.

“No. That’s for another day. You’ve had enough excitement for one afternoon.” Johnny crossed his arms, sulking.

“You’re no fun.”

“And you’re stubborn.”

They stared at each other for a second. Johnny looked away first — but with a smile.

“You’re gonna teach me to use them all, right?” he asked, far too casually for the question he’d just thrown. Simon took a moment before replying. He studied Johnny’s face like someone judging a road before stepping forward.
At last, he spoke. His voice dry as always, but without cruelty.

“Only if you promise you’ll never use them on someone.”
Johnny turned with a half-ironic smile, glancing over his shoulder, the usual dark humor close behind.

“I’d never do that, Simon. I’m not like you.” Simon tensed. Not because of the jab , because it wasn’t one. But because the truth of it was there. Raw. Clear.
Johnny wasn’t like him. And never would be.
And that hurt , in a quiet, deep way.

“Yeah... I know.”

A brief silence settled between them. The woods seemed to listen too. The light was starting to dim above the trees. The day dissolving. Simon turned, casting a glance toward the house. His body a little more rigid than before. Johnny noticed.

“Did I say something wrong?” His voice was soft, almost shy.

“Sorry, Simon.”

Simon shook his head, still not meeting his eyes. “You didn’t say anything wrong. Let’s go. It’s getting dark.”

They started walking in silence down the narrow trail, dry leaves crunching beneath their boots. And for the first time in a long while, Simon wished the night would take longer to fall. That the walk back would stretch just a bit more.
Because whatever was being born there…He didn’t know how to stop it.And maybe he didn’t even want to. Simon opened the door for him, letting the boy step inside first.

“You can come over whenever you want. Now that you know the way.” Johnny smiled, pulling off his coat.

“You’re gonna regret saying that.”

Simon smiled too. But deep down, that was exactly what he wanted

That Johnny would come back.

That this moment would happen again.

That the sound of his footsteps in the house would become habit.

That he’d stay.

 

Night had fallen with a dense, silent chill, like an invisible blanket covering the woods around them. Inside the house, the only light came from the fireplace now lit by Simon, its flames flickering across both their faces. Johnny sat on the rug in front of the fire, legs crossed, staring into the flames as if he could see something within them. Simon remained in the armchair behind him, a glass of whiskey in hand, his shoulders relaxed in an unusual way. The conversation had quieted after the simple dinner they shared — scrambled eggs and toast, because Simon didn’t know how to cook anything more elaborate. Johnny didn’t mind. He ate smiling, as if it were a feast. Simon turned the glass between his fingers, eyes fixed on the rim, as if wrestling with a memory that still burned.

“You know... you have this habit of thinking I’m a good guy,” he said finally, not looking directly at Johnny.
The boy turned slightly, glancing back over his shoulder at him.

Simon let out a dry sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. He stood slowly, went to the bottom shelf, and took a metal box closed with an old latch. He sat down again, this time closer, on the rug beside Johnny.
He opened the box. Inside, a series of military medals, old photographs, documents stamped in red. A worn combat knife. A notebook yellowed by time. Johnny looked through it all carefully. His eyes landed on a black-and-white photo of a younger Simon with a group of soldiers — all muddy, covered in blood and dirt. Even back then, his eyes looked empty. Cold. Simon picked up the photo and held it between his fingers. “That was my unit. All dead. Except Captain John Price.” Johnny stared at him, a little surprised. But he said nothing. Simon went on, voice low and rough.

“I’ve killed, Johnny. Many times. Sometimes because it was the mission. Other times... because I wanted to. Because I was angry. Because I thought it was right. Because I believed if I did it first... no one would do it to me.” He ran a hand across the scar on his chin, almost absentmindedly.

“I was captured by the Soviets in 1991. What’s that, sixteen years ago now? I still remember... it was January, just months before the dissolution. No one came for me for weeks. They were busy with another front. I spent 18 days in a concrete basement. It was dark. Wet. They broke my fingers, my legs. Laughed while they did it. Left me without water for three days. They didn’t say a word I could understand... but I understood everything.”

Silence.
Johnny slowly slid closer. His eyes were filled with something Simon couldn’t quite decipher.

“They let you go?” Simon shook his head.

“I escaped. Killed two guards. When one came alone to where I was kept, I sank my teeth into his jugular. Managed to free myself and wore his uniform to avoid being identified... the other, I killed because I wanted to, and I fucking liked it, Johnny. I liked watching his blood pour into my hands. I almost died trying to reach a road. When Price found me, I’d already given up.” The fireplace crackled, casting trembling shadows across the stone walls.
Johnny, still seated on the rug, slowly lifted his hand and touched Simon’s knuckles. The gesture was small, almost shy but it carried the weight of an unspoken embrace.
Simon looked at the touch like it was a mistake, like it wasn’t supposed to happen. But he didn’t pull away. His hardened eyes met Johnny’s, searching for some logic, some reason.

“You should stay away from me,” he said, voice hoarse, faltering, weaker than he would have liked. Johnny didn’t answer immediately. The silence between them thickened, filled only by the sound of crackling fire. Then, instead of words, Johnny laced his fingers through Simon’s , calmly, gently, as if saying: I’m not going anywhere.
And then, unhurried, he rested his head on Simon’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to,” he murmured, like someone confessing a secret.

Simon closed his eyes. His whole body was tense, hard as stone, as if any movement might cause him to fall apart. For a moment, it seemed he didn’t know what to do with that touch, that warmth. That impossible trust. But he didn’t run. After a while , perhaps too long, he slowly raised his arm, hesitant like someone afraid to break what they’re touching. He wrapped it around Johnny, pulling him closer, feeling the slender, warm body press against his. The scent of his hair was soft, warm, faintly woody, like the smoke curling through the air. Simon rested his chin on top of Johnny’s head. The position was strange, too intimate and for that very reason, impossible to resist.

There, with that small body nestled beside him, Simon felt the walls inside him begin to fall — one by one. He felt the cold dissolve into something that hurt more: tenderness.
Johnny didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His hand remained entwined with Simon’s, firm, present, breathing with him. And in that warm stillness, broken only by the crackling wood, Simon realized what was happening.
He felt safe. For the first time in years. Not in the absence of pain but in the fact that, even with it, someone had chosen to stay.

A part of him — small, desperate — wanted to pull away from that embrace. Wanted to push Johnny back, to scream that he had no idea who he was dealing with. That he didn’t know what Simon was capable of when he lost control. But his arms held him tighter. And for the first time, Simon didn’t fight the urge to stay. A slight tremor escaped his fingers, and he didn’t know if it was from the chill of memory or the warmth of now.

Johnny squeezed his hand tighter. And then said, in a nearly imperceptible whisper:

“You’re not just what they did to you.”
Simon closed his eyes hard. Swallowed the knot in his throat.

But sometimes… I am, he thought.

And even so... even so, the boy didn’t let go. Simon held him tighter. Felt Johnny’s head slip slightly against his chest. And there, in that night where the world seemed to have vanished outside, he wished for the first time in a long time that time would stop.And in that warm stillness, among the crackling wood and the weight of so many memories, Simon felt something rare settle in his chest.

Peace.

And fear.

Because that peace came from something he could never control.

Nor deserve.

Chapter Text

The drops that dripped rhythmically from the cracked pipe sounded like a torture of their own, echoing through the cold concrete walls with the cruel precision of a metronome from hell. Each one fell with a hollow, wet, lonely sound, as if marking the passage of a private eternity. The basement of the Kursk base was a living chamber of rot, saturated with dampness, mold, and the metallic stench of blood. His blood.

His leg lay in an unnatural position, bent at a grotesque angle, the broken bone tearing through the flesh as if trying to escape from a body that no longer belonged to him. The surrounding tissue throbbed, pulsing as if screaming for help that would never come. Beneath the iron chair, the floor collected crimson puddles, some darker, nearly black, silent witnesses to what had been extracted from him drop by drop. A constant, quiet trail of his humanity slipping away. Simon no longer had fingernails. Neither on his hands nor his feet. They had been ripped out one by one, with the care of a ritual. Now, the raw, inflamed stubs bled and burned, flooding his mind with relentless waves of sharp, feverish pain. His back was flayed — long, open, infected wounds left by rusted iron hooks that had torn through his skin with the cruel devotion of someone who didn’t see him as a man, but as an enemy. A test subject. Filth.

Cold cuffs bound his wrists to the metal chair, so icy they seemed to fuse with his skin. Simon no longer remembered how long he had been there. The days had dissolved into a blur of darkness, pain, and foreign voices. Most of them spoke in a language he couldn't understand, harsh syllables, spat rather than spoken, that bounced off the walls like mocking ghosts. From time to time, an officer would enter. He spoke fluent English, interrogating Simon with the precision of someone who already knew they wouldn't get answers — but still persisted. There was always a chance, a moment of weakness to exploit. But Simon would not break. Never. He had been trained to resist. Programmed to endure. And he took pride in that, even with his body in ruins. The problem...the tragedy, was that he didn’t have the information they wanted. His rank, though high, hadn’t granted him access to what those men were seeking. Simon believed or at least hoped they would kill him soon. A bullet. A blade. Any end. But death didn’t come. Fate had condemned him to something far worse. To live.

But something kept him going or at least, breathing. Something that burned inside him with the constancy of a subterranean fire: hatred. Raw, incandescent rage fueled his lungs more than air itself. It wasn’t just pain — it was distilled fury, rooted in the deepest part of his shattered soul. With every laugh that echoed off the damp walls, mocking his suffering, Simon’s brown eyes darkened, tinged red in the shadows like living embers smoldering beneath a layer of human ash.It was in that basement that Simon Riley ceased to exist. And there, among clotted blood and torn flesh, in a place forgotten by God, something new was born. Something that doesn’t bleed. Something that doesn’t forgive.Something born of death.

Ghost.

_________

 

The afternoon slowly settled into cool tones over Ullapool, casting a soft, melancholic gray across the rooftops. The northern wind slipped sharply through the window cracks, and even inside Simon’s house, the air carried a quiet heaviness. Johnny, relaxed and unbothered, had spent the day there — something that had become common on his days off from his father’s bakery. He lay sprawled across the sofa with careless ease, barefoot, a pillow hugged to his chest — the picture of youth with no reason to rush.In the kitchen, Simon searched through the fridge as if looking for something to break the silence. He grabbed two beers and headed back to the living room. When he saw the boy stretched out like he belonged there, he let out a dry remark, one that almost passed for affectionate:

“Here. For Your Majesty.”

His tone carried sarcasm, but a quiet warmth flickered in Simon’s eyes — a trace of affection that slipped through despite his efforts to stay guarded.Johnny sat up with mock drama, taking the bottle with a grin. Without ceremony, he opened it with his teeth, the cap clinking softly against the wooden floor.

“Very funny. But look at this” Simon brought the bottle to his lips and drank the whole thing in one go. It burned on the way down, but his face didn’t flinch. When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gave Johnny a look — unreadable, but calm.Johnny’s eyes widened before he burst into laughter, tossing his head back.

“Aye! Never thought I’d see that from you.”The sudden ring of the phone broke through the warmth in the room. Simon looked up and slowly walked to the counter where it rested. The screen showed just one name:

Price.

His expression shifted. His jaw tensed slightly — barely noticeable, but enough to show something had changed. A dry heat rose in his throat. Not him again. Even here, in this quiet edge-of-the-map place called Ullapool, Price still reached him. Still lingered in the background like a shadow that refused to fade. Simon still carried anger. And hurt. Still felt the weight of that unspoken judgment: not fit. It was hard to accept that his end had been written without his say — a forced retirement, wrapped in hollow words of rest and “well-being.” As if war could be turned off with a handshake. — “Who is it, Simon?” — Johnny’s voice came from behind, light, almost playful.

Simon didn’t turn. His voice was short, clipped:— “No one important.”

Johnny, already used to Simon’s shifts in mood, just laughed and raised an eyebrow in exaggerated offense.

“Aye! What is it? Top secret? Can’t I know?”But Simon wasn’t in the mood for jokes. Not now. — “It doesn’t concern you. Excuse me.” — He replied harshly and walked away with firm steps, answering the call as he entered the kitchen. Leaning against the sink, his fingers tense around the phone, he lifted it to his ear.

“What do you want, Price?” On the other end, a deep voice — worn down by time and wars — replied with slow composure:“Good morning to you too, Simon.” Simon’s eyes narrowed.

“Why are you calling?”

“Just wanted to check in. It’s been almost two months since you moved to Ullapool. Wanted to see how you were doing.”

Simon drew in a breath, his gaze settling on the white tiles on the wall. “I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“Simon…” — Price’s voice softened, lowered — “...I’m being serious. I feel responsible. For everything.”

“You’re not my superior anymore, Price.” — Simon answered, firm but quieter now — “You don’t need to be involved in my life.”

“Hm.” — a pause. Then: — “I was your superior for over a decade. I was there when we buried our men. I was there in Kursk, when you could barely stand. It wasn’t just the uniform, Riley. I care. You may resent me, but that doesn’t change what I feel.”

Simon closed his eyes for a moment. Kursk. The word still stung. Price had been there. Truly. He had dragged Simon’s half-conscious body through frozen ruins. And for that, a part of Simon would always owe him. The bitterness eased slightly. There was gratitude — there always had been — but the pain remained.

“I told you I’m fine, Price. That’s all.”

The line went quiet. Then came a soft murmur: “Alright, Simon.” But the tone said he didn’t believe a word.Simon ended the call with a slow motion, but his hand lingered on the phone. His knuckles were still pale, and his eyes, distant, fixed on something unseen. Something inside him stirred — a quiet ache he tried to keep buried, but that always found its way back. At last, he placed the phone down. The sound echoed softly, as if drawing a line in the air. Simon returned to the living room. Johnny was still on the couch, watching him now. The light through the side window had deepened into something cooler, bluer. Evening was coming, and the room was wrapped in a dim, comforting stillness.

Simon paused at the threshold, just watching him. Johnny tilted his head slightly, as if trying to read something beyond the man’s silence. Simon’s face bore traces — not of pain, exactly, but of a tiredness that lived quietly beneath the skin. And yet, there was something almost peaceful in it. A solemn, quiet sort of sadness.

“You alright?” — Johnny asked softly. His voice held a sincerity that felt both careful and close — not pressing, but present.

Simon hesitated. He wanted to fall back on a sharp, distant reply — one of the many defenses he always kept close. But something in Johnny’s expression — the stillness he carried without saying a word — made it hard to keep pretending. He wasn’t demanding answers. He just was. Simon sat down beside him. For a moment, neither spoke. Only the soft sound of the wind against the windows, and the occasional creak of the old wooden beams filled the silence.

“It was Price.” he said quietly, offering only what he needed to. Johnny nodded once, not asking more.

“What did he want?”

“Nothing much, I just wanted to know if I was okay.”

Johnny shifted, resting his arm on the back of the sofa. His gaze remained steady, but gentle. He didn’t push, didn’t prod. He simply stayed.

“You should go home.” Simon said at last, his voice lower now, almost uncertain. He turned to look at Johnny. And for a moment, his gaze held, lingering on the boy’s soft features, the quiet curve of his mouth, skin untouched by time, and those eyes… those eyes, so full of life. A quiet warmth rose in Simon’s chest. Slow. Deep. Inescapable. It wasn’t the beer. It was the presence. It was Johnny. So near. So unguarded. So real.

“Do you want me to?” Johnny asked. But his tone had changed. It wasn’t a casual question. It was something deeper — a choice he was offering.
Simon brought a hand to his face, rubbing his temple like someone trying to chase away a thought. But the thought stayed. And so did the warmth.

“No, I don't want you to leave,” he finally said, his voice a husky whisper, almost resentful of his own admission. Johnny looked at him for a moment, serious. Then, in a calm gesture, he reclined on the couch again, as if that simple permission was more than enough. There was something in his posture now — a deliberate ease, almost teasing. He reached down and grabbed the beer bottle he had left by the side of the sofa, taking another sip while keeping his eyes fixed on Simon. Simon returned to the armchair in front of him, sitting down with less stiffness than before, as if the tension inside him needed somewhere to drain. He was tired of resisting. And Johnny... Johnny was a crack in that tired silence.

“We didn’t toast,” Johnny said, holding his bottle out toward him with a half-smile. Simon hesitated for a second, then raised his own and clinked it lightly against Johnny’s. The sound of glass against glass was dry and muffled, far too intimate for the quiet room. They drank at the same time, and for a moment, Simon kept his eyes on him — on the way Johnny tilted his head back, the exposed line of his throat, the drops running down the corner of his mouth before being wiped away with the back of his hand.
Johnny shifted on the sofa, tugging a little at the hem of his T-shirt, which had ridden up — perhaps unknowingly, or perhaps not. The soft cotton bunched around his abdomen, revealing the warm, smooth skin of his belly. Simon saw the gentle curve of muscles still forming, the pale skin marked by a small scar beside the navel — something trivial, perhaps a childhood mark, but it struck him like a target.

Johnny kept talking, some teasing nonsense about alcohol tolerance, but Simon was no longer listening. The boy’s voice became background noise, muffled by the rising heat coiling in his stomach. He tried not to look. He really tried.But it was as if his eyes were being pulled, drawn to the softness of what was revealed — the raw vulnerability of that gesture, that carelessness. It was simple. Ordinary.And at the same time, too much. Too much for Simon. Johnny turned onto his side, his body now lying more loosely, one leg draped over the other, the shirt still hitched up. The fabric clung to the creases of his stomach like a silent invitation.

“You’re quiet,” Johnny said, turning a bit more, his eyes half-lidded from the drink. “Thinking again, Mr. Riley?”
Simon forced a smile. But it was bitter. Almost painful.

“It’s nothing.” But as he passed by the couch, Johnny stretched out his arm and touched Simon’s leg with the tips of his fingers — a brief touch, but real. It was light. So light it almost didn’t exist. But to him, it was fire.

“Are you okay?”

It took Simon a few seconds to answer. When he did, his voice came low, hoarse. “It’s just the alcohol.”

Simon gave a short, dry laugh. But there was something in it — like an excuse not to fall. He was on the edge. And Johnny had no idea. Or did he?The way he shifted on the couch, the way his fingers absentmindedly played with the hem of his shirt. The way his gaze wavered between teasing and innocence... there was something deliberate, even if he didn’t fully understand what he was awakening. Simon grabbed the bottle again, as if it could keep him grounded. But the alcohol wasn’t enough anymore. Not to drown the desire growing inside him. And Johnny was right there... so close. So unguarded. Johnny let out a low laugh, dragged by the alcohol’s weigh.— “You’re a terrible host, you know that?” he teased, his voice slightly slurred.

 

Simon let out a dry sigh, almost ironic. “I’m a retired lieutenant. I wasn’t trained for... hospitality.”

“Shame. ‘Cause your house is perfect for it,” Johnny replied, sinking deeper into the couch, stretching his legs like a cat. His shirt still hiked up around his stomach, eyelashes growing heavier. Simon returned with slow steps, stopping close to the sofa, bottle still in hand. He looked at the younger man for a few silent seconds. Johnny was completely at ease. There was a sweetness in that scene, a tranquility Simon didn’t know if he deserved — nor if he could hold on to it much longer. — “I think you’ve had enough,” Simon murmured, his voice low but not harsh.
Johnny chuckled again, the sound a bit muffled now, and waved lazily.

“I’m fine... just... maybe I overdid it a little.” He brought a hand to his forehead, rubbed his eyes, then leaned back into the cushions, his head tilting slightly to the side.— “But... it’s nice. Being here. It’s peaceful,” he said with drunken sincerity. “With you I feel... I don’t know. Safe, maybe.” Simon looked away. Those words, said so effortlessly, hurt more than any confession. Because he knew what he carried. He knew what he was. And he wasn’t someone safe. Never had been. Johnny, his body relaxed and eyes now half-shut from sleep and alcohol, awkwardly lifted his head from the couch and looked at Simon with a crooked smile, full of innocence. His voice came out slow, a bit shaky, almost a whisper filled with the kind of trust only drunken vulnerability can bring.

“Would you protect me, Simon?” he asked, with a tone that mixed playfulness and sincerity, eyes glimmering behind heavy lids, searching for an answer that meant more than just words. Simon paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on that young, open face — so unlike the harsh and shadowed world he himself carried. The contrast was painful. Johnny’s simple question cut through Simon’s defenses like a sharp blade — “Would you protect me?” — and the answer boiling in his throat wasn’t the one the boy was hoping for. Fear gripped him, not just of the question, but of the silent weight that promise would carry. Simon had never learned to care for something without eventually breaking it. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. His voice came rough, a little broken, heavy with a cruel honesty that, in his current state, Johnny would forget by morning.

“I’m not a good person, Johnny,” he confessed, quietly, almost like a forbidden secret. Not really answering the boy’s question.

Johnny smiled , a sleepy, silly smile, innocence still intact even under the haze of drink. “But you’re here... with me... aren’t you?” His hand trembled slightly as it reached for Simon’s, squeezing it with a pure, disarmed trust, almost sacred in its simplicity.“That’s enough.”

Simon felt the fragile grip, but it was full of meaning. A cruel reminder of everything he’d never had. The ability to be just a man — not a shadow. He squeezed Johnny’s hand back, with an unexpected tenderness, a silent pact between two worlds so different.— “Johnny…” he whispered, just to himself, like invoking a sacred name.

No answer. The boy was asleep.His hair had fallen a bit over his forehead, mouth slightly open in a restless peace. Simon reached out, hesitated for long seconds… and then gently brushed a strand from his eyes. A small gesture. An intimate gesture. One that burned more than anything else. Simon carefully lifted Johnny, the boy’s light body already surrendered to the heavy sleep of alcohol. With quiet steps, he carried him to his room, the cozy darkness lit only by the soft light coming from the street outside. He felt Johnny’s warmth against his chest — a subtle contrast to the cold that had always followed him. With an almost unexpected gentleness, Simon laid Johnny on the bed, pulling the blanket over his shoulders to shield him from the cold seeping into the old house. He watched the boy’s peaceful face, his features relaxed in a serenity that felt so far from the cruel world Simon knew.As he turned to leave, he hesitated. His voice, hoarse and low, escaped in a whisper:

“Yes, Johnny... I would protect you.”

For a moment, the promise hung in the air — an invisible thread connecting two very different worlds: his, marked by pain, and Johnny’s, full of light and hope. Then Simon slowly closed the door, leaving behind the silence and the fragility of that confession.

_______

 

Johnny walked briskly through the narrow alleys of Ullapool, the damp gravel crunching under his shoes. The sky remained overcast, as if it too carried the weight of that morning. Simon had dropped him off quietly a few blocks from home—a silent gesture of care, or perhaps a way to avoid curious eyes. Johnny wasn't sure. His mind was still clouded by the remnants of alcohol and the strange sense of comfort that had lingered since he woke up. He barely remembered falling asleep. One moment he was sprawled on the couch, laughing at some nonsense between sips; the next, he was waking up in sheets that weren’t his, wrapped in the quiet warmth of Simon’s bedroom. The memory burned his cheeks. The sudden heat rising to his face made him frown, annoyed at himself for blushing like a dumb teenager. "Idiot," he thought. "He's just a friend. A friend. That’s all."Reaching his front door, Johnny hesitated for a second, his eyes scanning the front windows. He took a deep breath and turned the knob as quietly as he could, hoping his father had already left for the bakery. He didn’t want to deal with lectures or with that suspicious look the man always gave when Simon’s name came up. But fate, as usual, wasn’t on his side.

Before he could even close the door, he heard heavy footsteps on the wooden floor. His father appeared in the kitchen doorway—his face partly hidden behind a thick ginger mustache, his eyes sparking with a mix of disappointment and restrained worry. — “Where the hell were you, Johnny?!” — the tone wasn’t just angry; there was a sharp edge of fear, disguised as rage. — “I was up all night worrying! Where were you?”

Johnny straightened, trying to hold himself together despite the queasiness still twisting in his stomach.

“I was with a friend,” he replied, avoiding direct eye contact. The man scoffed, crossing his arms.

“Och, a friend. Let me guess... Simon Riley?” Johnny sighed. He was tired of this kind of argument.

“Dad, I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal out of this. He’s my friend, that’s all. I have no one else here, remember? My friends went off to Edinburgh. I stayed.”

“ That’s nae excuse, Johnny.” — His father’s voice rose a notch, his shoulders tensing.

“Ye disappeared. No text, no calls. And now you show up like this—fuck...” He paused, frowning as if he’d just picked up a scent in the air. — “Have you been drinking?”

“Yeah, I drank. I’m an adult, Dad. What’s the problem?”

The man raised an eyebrow, disbelief painting his expression with something between sarcasm and real concern.

“You got drunk... at Simon Riley’s house?” — The name came out like poison, his eyes narrowing, jaw tight. — “You’ve known this man what... two months? And you already trust him like that?” Johnny looked at the floor for a moment, ashamed, then lifted his head with steady resolve—calm, not aggressive, seeking understanding.

“Yes. I trust him.”

The silence that followed hung between them like a sky ready to collapse. His father didn’t answer right away—he just stared, as if trying to read him, searching for some crack in the certainty Johnny carried.

“Did you sleep there?” — the question came like a quiet shot, heavy with implication. As if his father already knew the answer but needed to hear it out loud. Johnny hesitated. His throat went dry—not from shame, but from knowing exactly what was behind that question. His father wasn’t asking for confirmation; he was asking for a confession.

"Yes,” he said at last, in a low, cautious tone. Like stepping onto thin ice. The man took a deep breath, looking away for a moment. The muscles in his face shifted subtly, like he was swallowing a bitter reply.

“Did he... do anything to you, Johnny?” — The question, though softly spoken, cut like a blade. It wasn’t asked with anger. Or disgust. But with an old fear—a father’s fear, the kind that can’t be put into words, only felt.

Johnny slowly lifted his face. His blue eyes were firm, offended by the accusation.— “What are you tryin’ tae suggest?”

The question fell between them like a stone into still water. The silence echoed.His father looked at him for a long moment, then let his shoulders drop—not from defeat in the argument, but from the realization that he no longer had control over his son’s world. The boy had grown, and now walked roads where he, as a father, could no longer follow.

“Nothing,” he muttered. — “Just... forget it.” He turned back toward the kitchen, but stopped halfway. His broad back still visible, his voice now less steady, more human—almost sad:

“Just be careful, son. This... this isn’t normal.” Letting Johnny retreat to his room, Mr. Mactavish stayed in the kitchen for a while, standing silently as the stillness settled over the house after their conversation. His calloused hands rested on the cold surface of the sink, but it was the photo on the wall that held his attention—a simple frame of worn wood, preserving a memory that refused to fade.
There they were, frozen in time. Him, his wife, and Johnny—still a boy, smiling with a missing tooth, eyes glowing with a world that hadn’t hurt him yet. His wife, hair pulled back, face calm, hands resting gently on their son’s shoulders, looked more like an echo now than a presence. It had been nearly six years. And still, it felt like she might walk down the hallway at any moment and call them for dinner. But she wouldn’t.

And Johnny... Johnny was no longer that boy in the picture. He had grown too fast, impatient to step into the world on his own. But to him—to that man of few words and oven-rough hands—his son would always be that boy, the one who held his hand to cross the street, the one who ran to him with scraped knees after falling. And that hurt more than any argument. He didn’t trust Simon Riley. There was something in that man’s eyes—not just silence, but the weight of it. Like staring down a gun that might still be loaded. Johnny might be naive, but Mr. Mactavish wasn’t. With a long sigh, Mr. Mactavish stepped closer to the photo and placed his fingers on the glass. He gently touched the boy’s face in the image, as if trying to recover something that would never come back. His eyes narrowed slightly, holding back emotion. The ginger beard, now threaded with white, itched under his chin.

“Ye’re still ma wee boy" He murmured to no one.
And as long as he was there, as long as he breathed under that worn roof, he would do everything, everything, to protect him. Even if it meant standing against his own son.

Chapter Text

The room was submerged in shadow. The light that filled it didn’t seem to come from anywhere. It was a bluish, diffused haze, as if it emanated from the very walls. A mild heat lingered in the air, not scorching, but dense and alive, like the breath of someone just awakened. Simon lay naked on the tangled sheets, skin stuck to the damp fabric, breath held under a weight he couldn’t name.

There was a strange smell in the air. Not sweet in the usual sense—not floral, not sugary—but something warm, an intimate scent. Familiar. Simon inhaled deeply. It didn’t calm him. It addicted him. The doorknob turned slowly. The door creaked open. Johnny appeared in the doorway, his body wrapped in shadow, his silhouette outlined by that bluish glow. He walked barefoot, his steps barely making a sound on the wooden floor. His naturally ruddy skin looked even warmer in that atmosphere. His dark, damp hair clung to his forehead, tousled. He wore only a white T-shirt that was clearly far too big for him. Simon recognized it. It was his. Johnny’s shoulders barely filled it out, and yet he wore it like it was part of him.

Those blue eyes—those damn eyes—met Simon’s with a soft, almost complicit gleam.

“You always wake up this serious?” he asked in a sweet voice, tilting his head, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile that hovered between teasing and affection.

Simon didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure he could. Silence felt safer. More intimate.
Johnny stepped closer, his stride short and unhurried. He sat on the edge of the bed with care, as though entering sacred ground. Then, slowly, he lay down beside Simon, the heat from his body radiating like a controlled fire.

“You never say anything…”

he murmured, tracing the contours of Simon’s broad shoulder with his index finger, as if sketching the bones beneath the skin.

“But I know. You think. You think more than you should.”

Simon turned his head, as if trying to find air in another direction. His lips parted, but before a sentence could form, Johnny silenced him. First with a dry kiss, barely a brush against his lips. Then on his jawline. Then at the center of his throat, where the skin was thinner, the pulse stronger. Johnny’s lips were warm, firm, lingering. They tasted like a dream, like a corrupted memory.

“Do you think about me, Simon?”

he whispered softly into his ear, his voice now lower, weighted differently. A whisper of moisture, desire, and certainty. “When you're here, alone… in this bed? When no one can see?”

Johnny’s fingers glided down Simon’s ribs with studied delicacy, as if they knew every scar before they touched it. He paused at Simon’s chest and there placed a chaste kiss.

“Wanna know what I think?” he smiled. The voice didn’t ask permission. “I think of you looking at me like that. Like it’s wrong. Like you don’t want to. But you don’t stop. You never stop.”

Simon then pulled him in, slowly, as if afraid Johnny might disappear if he moved too fast. Johnny’s body came willingly, loose, like it already belonged there. He slid into Simon’s lap, his thighs settling on either side with a cruel sort of ease. The shirt rose, revealing his stomach, the soft curves of his hips. Simon’s hands touched his thighs—warm, smooth, firm. The touch was hesitant at first, like someone unsure if they deserve it but quickly gave in to lust. His hands slid slowly up his sides, his flanks, until they reached the face of his obsession, where Simon cupped Johnny’s face gently with both hands. Johnny looked at him with that impossible smile—innocent in the mouth, lascivious in the eyes. A contrast that broke something inside Simon. Or opened it.

He kissed him hungrily. There was no more holding back. It was the need of a man who’d spent too long denying his own desire. Their lips collided with force, then molded to each other, then lost themselves. Johnny kissed him back firmly, moaning softly into his mouth.
Johnny’s skin radiated heat. He seemed made of warm fire. Simon let his fingers slide down his back, along the vertebrae, down the curve of his lower back. He wanted it all. Wanted to tear off that shirt and etch the moment into flesh.

Johnny giggled. A muffled, intimate, victorious sound. Yet still gentle. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Simon’s, both still panting, their breath mingling. His eyes shimmered with a cruel tenderness.

“You’re not getting rid of me, you know?”

 

he whispered.

 

“Even when you wake up.”

 

Simon woke with a sharp jolt.

 

The room was dark again. The bluish haze was gone. The heat wasn’t. It remained on his skin, in the center of his chest, between his legs. The sheets were damp, sticky—stained with sweat and semen. His breathing was uneven. His throat dry. But what unsettled him most was the sound. The laughter. Johnny’s laughter still echoed in the room. Faint, muffled, almost imperceptible. But real enough to send a chill down his spine and simultaneously warm his skin.

He ran his hands over his face slowly, as if trying to erase the dream. But he couldn’t. Johnny’s fingers still seemed to linger—phantom-like, tattooed into his sensory memory. The touch, the taste, the sound. Everything had been too intense to fade with waking.

And the worst part—was that a part of him wanted to fall back asleep.

Wanted to hear that laughter one more time.

 

Morning arrived unannounced. There was no clear dawn, only a gradual transition from the opaque darkness of the night to the trembling gray that filtered through the curtain slits. The sky, covered in dense clouds, cast a pale, heatless tone across the room. The light seemed still, suspended in the air, as if it too hesitated to touch Simon’s body.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped before his mouth. The deep shadows under his eyes marked the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t fade with sleep. He’d slept little—and poorly. Another night interrupted by dreams that left him tense, feverish, and soaked in sweat.

Johnny.

Always Johnny.

Since the night the boy had slept at his house after drinking too much. Simon’s dreams had been invaded by that sweet, dreamlike figure who seduced him. Faces came and went. Landscapes dissolved. But he was always there. In every variation, in every reverie, smiling, touching, whispering things Simon had never truly heard but that somehow felt right. Sometimes the dreams ended in a hot, lonely release into the sheets. Other times, they ended in a start, heart pounding, throat dry.

When the phone vibrated on the nightstand, the sound cut through the silence like a wire. Simon lifted his eyes but took a while to move. The screen’s blue light blinked rhythmically. Finally, he stretched out his arm, picking up the device with stiff fingers.

The notification was simple, almost innocent:
Johnny:

 

"Hey! Can you come pick me up after my shift ends :)? I wanted to see you today."

 

Simon read the message once, then again.It's simplicity disarmed him.“I wanted to see you today.” The sentence hovered before his eyes with a disproportionate weight, as if it carried something he couldn’t name.

For a few seconds, his mind considered refusing. Pretending he hadn’t seen it. Avoiding it. Maybe that would be wise, after that night the boy had slept in his bed. Maybe it would be sensible to keep some distance—to bring order to his thoughts, to tame what he was feeling. But then his fingers moved, as if on their own, and typed:

"Of course I can."

He sent it before he had even reflected on what it meant. The phone lingered in his hand a moment longer, heavy, useless. Simon set it back down on the dresser with a quiet thud, then stood. The mirror hanging on the wall reflected his hunched silhouette, his serious face, the unshaven jaw. There was something in his eyes—not exactly shame, but a kind of silent acknowledgment. As if he were seeing something he already knew, but preferred not to name.
It was growing inside him.Fast. Deep.

Johnny

The name came with the sound of his voice, with that lazy, effortless way of speaking, with the hidden laughter between the lines. Simon found himself thinking about the boy at random times, in the most mundane moments while boiling water, putting on his boots, even just watching the wind shake the pines outside. It was subtle, but constant. Like distant music that refuses to stop. Johnny was everywhere. Filling gaps Simon thought were already fossilized—old, dry, useless. He had always been solitary. Even before Kursk. Before the uniform, the missions, the graves. Loneliness had lived in him since the long hallways of a house his mother never returned to, since conversations cut short with a father who only knew how to teach silence and violence.

Simon had learned early on to get by. Or at least, to survive in the void. And now... now there was this boy. With blue eyes and loose words. With warm hands and a light laugh. And for some reason Simon didn’t understand—nor dared investigate—Johnny was carving out space inside him.

Simon ran a hand over his face and took a deep breath. The morning air was cold. Outside, the wind made the windows groan. But inside, something boiled. And thinking too much had never been safe. Simon stood up, leaving his room and heading toward the basement, in search of his weapon case—looking for some old firearm to clean, or anything else to keep himself occupied. But deep down, he knew: it was too late to pretend this wasn’t happening.

 

The rain fell steadily over the town, creating a constant noise on the truck’s roof. The windshield wipers swept the water in slow, hypnotic arcs. Simon sat still, watching the bakery’s entrance ahead—a structure of damp stone and weathered wood, wrapped in a halo of steam rising from clogged gutters. He pulled up his hood before stepping out, the balaclava leaving only his eyes visible. The thick fabric absorbed the impact of the raindrops. As he pushed the glass door open, the bell chimed softly, blending with the dormant scent of yeast, butter, and old coffee.

What he found was, at first glance, an ordinary scene. Johnny stood behind the counter, wrapping a slice of cake in wax paper. The movement was mechanical, automatic. In front of him, a middle-aged man waited—upright posture, hands clasped at his waist. He wore a long black cassock, buttoned up to the collar. His hair was thinning at the top, still dark brown, streaked with white. His skin was fair, polished. Almost too clean. Simon paused at the entrance, saying nothing. But Johnny’s eyes found him over the customer’s shoulder. Brief, instinctive. There was no joy in that look. That social expression, carefully constructed.

It was the first time he had seen him like that.

Downcast. Almost… withdrawn. The man turned. His eyes met Simon’s quickly, with a familiarity that felt trained.

“Ah, so you’re the one. The town’s new resident?” The voice was velvety, slow, with that kind of gentleness that refuses to touch deep.

“A pleasure. I’m Father Donald, from the Ullapool Cathedral.”

Simon nodded slowly. His gaze passed over the man's face, searching for something, before returning to Johnny.

“Pleasure,” he said, voice dry, effortless.
But his eyes said something else.

Johnny no longer looked at him. He was finishing the cake box in tense haste, as if completing that task were the only way to disappear. His shoulders hunched, breathing too shallow. He was trembling slightly, but still.

“Here it is, Father,” Johnny said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Ah, you always get it just right, boy. You’ve got blessed hands.” Simon didn’t like the choice of words. Nor the way the priest said them. He noticed a flicker of discomfort in Johnny after the priest’s comment.

Father Donald took the box with a modest smile, unaffected by the silence around him.

“Well, I’ll be off now. Always nice to meet the new folks. I just came by for a bit of that delicious cherry cake. Isn’t that right, Johnny?”

He spoke, turning to Simon.The tone was light, almost playful. Too civil. Too rehearsed.

Johnny didn’t answer right away. His jaw tensed. Only after a moment, with his eyes still downcast, he murmured:

“Have a good day, Father Donald. Come again soon.”

It came out as automatic as it was empty. Simon noticed. The priest seemed satisfied. He raised his hand in a discreet goodbye and stepped out, opening the door with an elegant motion. The bell rang again—sharper this time, as if silence had solidified in the last few minutes. The door closed with a sigh of wind. Only the rain remained. And nothing else. Simon didn’t move right away. The air inside had changed. Grown thick, damp, filled with something unnamed. Something that settled slowly into the cracks, like mold. Johnny still had his hands braced on the counter. Eyes fixed on a spot somewhere between the gumdrops and the sweet rolls. His chest rose and fell slowly, as if breathing had become effortful.

“Do you know him?” Simon asked, voice low, restrained.

It wasn’t curiosity. It was verification.
Johnny nodded once. The reply was as dry as the question:

“Yes.”

And nothing more. Coming from Johnny—restless, naturally talkative—that sounded wrong. Cut off. Emptied on purpose.

Simon stepped closer slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, keeping Johnny’s personal space intact. He observed him, his facial features tight beneath flushed skin, jaw clenched, eyelids heavy, lips pressed together in unconscious effort to contain something.

“Did he say something that bothered you?” Simon asked quietly. Almost a whisper.

Johnny took a few seconds to answer, still looking down.

“I’m fine, Simon.”

He shook his head, but it was the kind of denial that convinced no one. Then he looked up but not at Simon. He looked slightly to the left. A dead space. Somewhere out of reach.

“It’s nothing,” he said finally. “It’s fine, Simon. Nothing to worry about, okay?”

There was no truth in the words, but Simon didn’t press. He just stayed there, beside him, watching. He knew how to recognize someone lying to survive. And Johnny didn’t lie well.

“Just give me a few minutes, I need to gather a few things before I close the shop.”

The words came too fast, like rehearsed. And as soon as he finished, Johnny turned quickly, heading to the back shelf where some trays and plates still needed putting away. He tried to appear casual, an automatic gesture, like someone resuming motion to avoid exposure. But his movements were off. Hands too quick. Urgency where there had once been ease. Simon stepped forward, just once and it was enough.

The sound of breaking glass cracked the silence like sudden thunder. One of the plates slipped from Johnny’s hands and shattered on the floor, splintering into dozens of pale shards on the dark tiles.
There was a moment of paralysis. Then Johnny crouched immediately—too fast—and began gathering the pieces with his bare hands, thoughtlessly. As if he had to erase it before it could be seen.

Simon moved closer, alert.

“Johnny, careful.”

A thin trickle of blood began to run down Johnny’s right palm, cut by a sharper fragment. Still, he kept trying to pick up the pieces, face bowed, shoulders tight. He muttered something through clenched teeth.

“Damn… sorry… I didn’t…”

His breathing was uneven now. Shaky. A little panicked. Simon crouched slowly beside him.

“Johnny. Stop. Let me get that.”

Simon swept up the rest. The shards clinked into the dustpan like small broken bones. Once everything was cleared, Simon held out a hand to help Johnny up.
The boy didn’t take it. He stood on his own, as if pride wouldn’t let him accept even the smallest gesture.

“You ready to go? The car’s outside, it’s raining, so better grab your jacket.”

Johnny seemed to come back to himself after Simon’s question. He nodded faintly, grabbed his coat from the hook behind the counter, and followed Simon to the door.

 

The rain had now softened to a persistent drizzle. The wind remained damp and thin, sweeping through the town’s empty streets. Neither of them spoke as they walked toward the truck. But inside Simon’s head, the image of the priest lingered. And Johnny’s silence—more than silence now—was evidence.

Something was definitely wrong between Father Donald and Johnny. Once in the truck, Simon observed quietly as Johnny began to show signs of growing anxiety until his body started saying what he couldn’t yet put into words.

The sound of rain, now reduced to a whispering murmur, filled the muffled interior of the truck. The wipers glided slowly across the windshield, leaving wet trails that refilled almost instantly. The engine hummed in a low, steady rhythm. Simon drove with both hands firm on the wheel. His gaze shifted between the empty road ahead and the edge of his vision, where Johnny sat far too quietly in the passenger seat. The boy had sunken into the seat, arms crossed over his chest, his face turned slightly toward the window but not really looking out. The fogged-up glass hid the landscape, yet Johnny kept his eyes fixed there as if it mattered.

At first, Simon didn’t notice. The road demanded attention, the tires slid lightly over the wet asphalt. But there was a subtle sound coming from the seat beside him. A faint clicking.

Repetitive. A nervous tic.

Simon glanced over briefly. Johnny’s fingers were tapping on his own arm not casually, but too fast, nearly frantic. His shoulders were tense, legs shifting in small nervous jerks, like he was trying to contain an energy that didn’t fit inside him. Simon didn’t say anything. But he saw. And he stored it. He respected Johnny’s privacy, though his mind was already forming scenarios of what Father Donald might have done to provoke this reaction. Deep down, Simon harbored suspicions—clearer now—rooted in the priest’s words: “Blessed hands.” A flash of Johnny’s subtle reaction came back to him. Simon’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Minutes passed like that. Only the engine, the rain, and Johnny’s anxious tics filled the cabin with a kind of unease that needed no words. Then came the first sharp sigh. Then another.

Johnny leaned forward slightly, like the air inside the truck had suddenly thickened.
Simon turned his eyes toward him.

“Are you nauseous?”

Johnny shook his head, but the motion was small. Uncertain.

“Tell me if you want me to pull over.”

The boy didn’t answer. But he rubbed the back of his neck hard, then his face.
His right leg was now tapping against the floor—an involuntary, urgent motion. The silence lasted until he spoke, almost in a whisper:

“Simon… pull over. Now.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a warning.
Simon immediately pulled the vehicle onto the shoulder, stopping beneath a thick tree dripping rain in long droplets. Before the truck came to a complete stop, Johnny had already opened the door and leaned out.

The sound of vomiting tore through the cabin’s heavy silence—dry, rough, repeated. Simon remained in the truck, watching in silence. He kept his hands on the wheel, but his breath deepened. There was no surprise in his face, only a quiet understanding that was beginning to take shape. Slowly, he turned off the engine.

Johnny was still bent outside the truck, leaning on his knees, the back of his sweatshirt damp. He coughed between uneven breaths, trying to catch his air.
Simon reached behind the seat for a half-forgotten water bottle and twisted the cap open.

“Here.”

Johnny turned slowly, his face pale, eyes slightly red. He took the bottle without a word. Rinsed his mouth. Then drank. The silence returned.

Simon stared straight ahead. But his voice came out steady, contained:

“It was because of him, wasn’t it?”

Johnny didn’t answer immediately. He clutched the plastic bottle in both hands, the crinkling of the material filling the space in tiny pops. His chest rose and fell more slowly now, but there was no relief in it—only exhaustion.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Simon said, still not turning. “But you don’t have to pretend everything’s fine, either.”

Outside, the rain had begun to intensify again. But inside the truck, for the first time, Johnny’s silence felt like it might finally break. Johnny looked at him, his eyes still dull.

“I… I just don’t want you to look at me differently.”

Simon turned then, finally. His eyes were calm, but there was something more there—not pity, not surprise. Just presence. Solid.

“That could never happen, Johnny. Not even if you tried.”

Johnny still held the bottle, but with less force now. The hands that had been tense started to tremble slightly, like his whole body was finally allowing the containment to crack open. Simon watched him from the side, still, unhurried. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch him. Just waited. He knew enough about pain to recognize when silence wasn’t empty—but far too full for words.

Johnny kept his gaze lowered. His eyes were fixed on the inner panel of the door, as if the plastic texture could distract him from what was rotting inside. But then something gave way. It wasn’t a sigh. Nor a dramatic gesture. It was a single tear—silent, unexpected—that fell slowly and disappeared into the fabric of his hoodie.
He wiped his face with his sleeve, quickly, as if trying to erase the evidence.

But he couldn’t stop the next one.
Nor the third.
When he spoke, his voice came out rough, scraped:

“I’m sorry... I just… I can’t tell you.”

Johnny’s voice carried shame and fear.
Simon still didn’t move.

“You don’t need to apologize.”

Johnny shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. The tears came now in an irregular, disorderly stream, like they’d been dammed for too long and, finding the smallest crack, simply fell. But still, he kept his shoulders tight, posture tense, mouth clenched.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s okay.” Simon nodded once.

The boy turned his face toward the fogged-up window, trying to steady his breathing.
What ran down his face now wasn’t just tears—it was a kind of raw helplessness that only shame and fear can create.There was no scream. No dramatic collapse. Only the muffled sound of someone trying to stay whole while breaking inside. He spoke again, through clenched teeth:

“It makes me feel disgusted.”

Simon turned his face toward him, his gaze slow, filled with pause.

“At him?”

Johnny took a while to answer. When he did, it was with a nearly imperceptible nod. But then he spoke, in a thin thread of voice

“At myself.”

That weighed more than anything else. And Simon didn’t try to argue. He didn’t try to correct him, or comfort him, or say he was wrong. He just breathed. And stayed.

After a few seconds, he reached into the glove box and pulled out a crumpled tissue. He handed it to Johnny without looking directly at him. The boy took it with trembling hands and wiped his face, sniffling. He was still crying—but quietly now, his body hunched slightly forward, as if curling into himself might protect him from his own thoughts. Simon looked straight ahead again.

Raindrops traced slow paths down the glass. He didn’t know what had happened—not the details. But he also knew that this wasn’t something words could fix.
The only thing he could offer—and maybe the only thing that mattered—was to be there.

No questions.
No promises.
Just there.

“Let me know when you want to go,” Simon said at last, his voice low, clean.

Johnny didn’t answer for a moment, just gave a timid nod. “We can go, Simon.”

The older man drove slowly. Every meter of road seemed to drag them deeper into something he couldn’t name. The silence between them wasn’t comfortable, but it was necessary. A kind of truce.

Simon knew this kind of silence. The silence that comes after something you can’t name.A soul-marking pain. He had carried it within him since Kursk, even before that maybe. He knew the way a body moves when it has learned to stay quiet to survive.

But Johnny… Johnny was different. He shouldn’t have to carry this. There was a vitality in him the world hadn’t fully broken yet, a brightness in his eyes, an awkward courage, a hunger for affection that made him human in a way Simon no longer was. Or perhaps had never been. He gripped the wheel tighter. His gloved hands were tense, jaw clenched.

He didn’t know what had happened to Johnny—not yet. But part of him burned with the certainty that it was something vile. Something that left invisible marks, still crawling under the skin.

Simon glanced at him quickly. Johnny was asleep—or pretending. His brow was still furrowed, breath short.

There was a dried trace of tear at the corner of his eye.

No one else was going to hurt him.

Not ever again.

Chapter Text

That day, Simon took him to his house. They had watched a silly comedy — the kind that, under any other circumstance, would have made Johnny laugh loudly, eyes squinted from laughing so hard, knees pulled up in a childish reflex. But this time, the laughter didn’t come. The movie played through without a single sound escaping his throat. His face remained stoic, unmoving, lit only by the colorful flashes of the screen.

Simon pretended not to notice. He would give the boy space. He, more than anyone, hated when people invaded his emotional space on bad days, Price used to do that during the first months after Kursk, out of concern for his lieutenant, but he stopped when he saw it had no effect expect making Simon angry. In the end, dropping Johnny off felt like a twisted kind of relief. Johnny took his time leaving the car. His hand hesitated on the door handle, his eyes fixed on something invisible beyond the glass. As if there was doubt there… or fear. In the end, he left without a word. And Simon sat in the driver’s seat, watching the door close with a soft click.

The next day, Johnny laughed. Laughed like he always did. Told silly jokes, teased Simon with that light, careless manner. As if the previous afternoon had never happened, as if there was nothing there to be remembered. Simon didn’t know whether to feel relieved or uneasy. There was something wrong with that sudden lightness but he wasn’t sure if it felt more like a learned reflex than a genuine emotion, or if Johnny had learned to bury pain deep in his mind, so that the memory only surfaced when triggered.

Maybe he had learned to handle pain better than Simon ever did. To lock it away like a sealed box, hidden in a corner of the mind.

Simon had never managed the same. Something in him had broken permanently during those days in Kursk. That hadn’t just been another mission, it was the limit. A point of silent, irreversible rupture. His mind, already fractured by other horrors, couldn’t bear what it found in that6 frozen basement. It wasn’t the physical pain, nor the muffled screams from afar. It was the inhumanity. The consistency of suffering. The absence of meaning. The little light that still survived inside him… went out there. Simon had learned early on that life didn’t offer many good things. In truth, almost none. The few tender memories he had came from a short, unstable childhood — before death took his mother from the world and, with her, any trace of gentleness. She had been pregnant with what would have been his younger brother when she died. After that, only the father remained. A man who, instead of soothing the absence, made it crueler.

Simon didn’t like to think of her. Nor of what was. Nor what could have been.

His wounds always bled at the edges. Johnny, somehow, seemed stronger — or simply more trained at pretending. But pretending wasn’t the same as healing. He knew that.

And he also knew where to look. Finding the information was almost mechanical. Simon had never stopped being who he was. Sharp eyes, sharp mind, hands that knew where to dig. During his time in the SAS, tracking names, cross-referencing files, reading patterns… all that became second nature. Finding criminals, retracing steps, locating evidence. It was like breathing.

This time, there was only one difference: it was personal.

 

Father Donald. Or, as the official records stated: Samuel O’Byrne.

Fifty-eight years old. Born on September 12, 1949, in Dundee. Irish descent on his father’s side — Donald O’Byrne — from whom he inherited not only the surname but also the nickname he was known by in the parishes.

He was ordained in 1977 at St. Peter’s Seminary, an institution that, although deactivated today, operated under the authority of the Archdiocese of Glasgow at the time. After ordination, he passed through three small Scottish towns, never staying more than six or seven years in any of them.

Only in 1998 did he settle permanently in Ullapool, assuming duties at Saint Barbara’s Cathedral, where he remains to this day.

Simon gathered the data like one sets a trap. Cold, objective, almost clinical. But there was something unsettling about applying a method he once used to catch targets to a story so close. It felt like touching exposed bone.

In the notes above the table, there was one name that drove it all.

John Mactavish.

The same boy who now occupied Simon’s thoughts with more weight than any mission. He had joined as an altar boy at the same cathedral in 1999, at age eleven. Stayed until 2003. From eleven to fifteen. Four years of silence intertwined with Father Donald’s constant presence.
He tried to find any trace or dirt that Samuel might have left behind. But the priest’s record was clean.

Too clean. Clearly, the man knew exactly how to erase his tracks.

Simon pored over the official records with clinical eyes. Transfers, archdiocesan recommendations, old parish bulletins. Everything neatly arranged. No mistakes, no stains. No complaints. No formal accusations. No ambiguous notes in the diocesan files available to the public. The kind of history that felt more crafted than lived.

Father Donald left no traces. Only dates, places, celebrations. In every archived photo, the same kind smile. The same warm, holy-man gaze.

Simon didn’t turn on the lights. He stayed in the dark, the monitor still lit dimly, the file open in front of him. Johnny’s name underlined twice, like a wound.

He needed more information. Fast.
He picked up his phone. Dialed a number he hadn’t used in years.

“Graves?”

“Ghost? To what do I owe the call?” — the voice on the other end answered, charismatic, and false.

Graves was never an ally — far from it. The man wasn’t trustworthy, but often necessary, given the excellence of his work. Now an ex-soldier like Simon, he operated more behind the scenes than in the field. Graves belonged to Shadow Company, working as a hybrid between mercenary and investigator. When 141 needed information that official channels would take weeks to retrieve he was the one who showed up.

Simon took a moment to respond. When he did, his voice was firm but low.

“I need a favor. I want everything on a Scottish priest. Name: Samuel O’Byrne. Start with St. Peter’s Seminary. 1977. Dig deep.”

There was a silence on the other end. Then:

“You doing this for work or for someone?”
Simon didn’t answer right away.

“For someone.”

He hung up before hearing any further questions. Graves didn’t need details — only what had been asked. And he owed Simon a few favors, so it wasn’t like he could say no.

In the darkness of the room, silence returned like a thick, living fog, curling against the walls and into the bones. Simon leaned back in the chair, his fingers pressing into his face as if trying to hold something in.

For a moment, he thought about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t answered Johnny’s message that day, that ordinary day that now felt like a turning point. One simple gesture. A touch on the screen. And because of that… he had seen.

He had noticed what no one else had. The way the priest’s eyes lingered too long. The rehearsed tone of his soft but predatory words — a false gentleness with the scent of old guilt. But he would fix this. And until he did, Father Donald would have no more access. Not a step. Not a glance.

If he dared…
That would be enough.
Simon wasn’t one to forgive.

 

________

 

Simon’s presence in Johnny’s life had become constant, perhaps too constant. Ever since the day the boy cried in his car, his protective instincts hadn’t quieted. It was as if something dormant in him had awoken. Something old and primal. To his relief, Father Donald had not returned to MacTavish’s Cottage. But that didn’t make Simon lower his guard. On the contrary. He began accompanying Johnny more frequently and surprisingly, that quiet watchfulness brought them even closer.

Now, Simon stood in the only room in the house that was solely his — reserved, protected, carefully closed off from Johnny. An old storage space, turned into an improvised command center. The harsh light of the lamp revealed a methodical mess: papers strewn across the desk, a wall lined with photos, dates, strings connecting names and places.Certificates. Copies. Records. Everything arranged with military precision. At the center of it all, written in cold letters: Samuel O’Byrne.

Simon remained still for a moment. There was urgency, yes.

Still, this would have to wait.

Johnny would arrive any minute.

And he could never — not ever — see this.

Simon gave the papers one last glance before leaving. He turned the key in the lock and removed it, taking it with him. A small black key, hanging from a cord that quickly disappeared beneath his shirt. As he crossed the dark hallway, his steps were soft as if the weight he carried didn’t want to echo. Outside, the brief sound of the doorbell. Right on time.
Simon paused in front of the door. Took a deep breath, forcing his body to leave the other behind. The man with maps on the wall and bloodied intentions in his hands. Now he would be just Simon, Johnny’s dearest friend.

He turned the knob and opened the door.
Johnny was there, hair still tousled from the wind, his grown-out mohawk now falling in longer strands over his forehead, one hand holding a bag. He had a hesitant smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Aye, I’ve got something you’ll like.” Simon held his gaze for a moment.

Then responded with a simple gesture: stepping aside to let him in. Johnny crossed the threshold, heading toward the kitchen.

He placed the bag on the table and, with some care, emptied its contents: a small brown paper box, stained with grease at the bottom, and the sweet smell escaped as he unfolded the top.

“Hope you like it,” he said, already lifting the lid with his fingertips. “Ecclefechan Tarts. My mum used to make them at the shop… my dad wants to start selling them again. I stole a few for you.”

“You stole tarts for me? How sweet,” Simon asked, voice lower than the teasing tone suggested.

“Thought it’d be more romantic than flowers. And… less cheesy.”

In the past few weeks, their relationship had evolved into an open flirtation, but still restrained enough to be interpreted as two friends teasing each other. A clear limit.

“You know… I guess it’s no wonder your name was ‘Ghost’, huh?”

Simon raised his eyebrows.

“Why?”

Johnny shrugged, smiling faintly.

“I’m not complaining, but lately it’s funny seeing you always in black and grey, following me with that cloth on your face… looks like a black mountain spying on me from the corners.”

Simon lifted a brow.

“You’re just jealous you didn’t grow that tall.”

“Oh, hilarious of you.” He moved closer now, near enough to Simon.

“But I wanna try it.” He pointed to Simon’s face.

“What exactly?”

“Let me wear the balaclava. Please, Simon.”
He’d forgotten it was still on his face, so familiar it felt like second skin. He’d forgotten to take it off after getting home — too focused on his secret project. Simon looked at him a second longer than he should have. Then lowered his eyes, as if weighing it, and let out a restrained chuckle.

“Oh, so that’s what you want, you little shit? Fine.” He sighed.

He stood and slowly pulled the balaclava over his head, revealing pale skin marked by irregular, old scars. Johnny looked at them, saying nothing. Then, without ceremony, Simon handed it to him. Johnny took it slowly. The fabric was still warm from Simon’s skin. The scent nearly imperceptible: metal, wood, and something purely him. Without ceremony, Johnny pulled it over his head. When done, his blue eyes were all that remained visible.

Simon crossed his arms, watching.

“It looked ridiculous.”

“I bet you're overreacting”

Johnny said from behind the fabric, his voice muffled, eyes sparkling. “Give me your knife now. I want to complete the look.”

“You were going to cut yourself at the first move.”

Johnny slowly removed the balaclava, his messy hair falling back into place, cheeks flushed. But when he reached out to return it, something shifted at the last moment. He pulled it back with a tilted, almost mischievous smile.

“Actually… I think I’ll keep this on a little longer.”

Simon narrowed his eyes.

“Johnny.”

“You said I looked ridiculous. But I think I want to stay like this a bit more.”

“No. Give it to me.”

He reached his hand toward the boy, but Johnny stepped back.

“Come and get it then.”

There was a pause. A silence that carried more than just play. Simon still stood there, shadow-like. But something in the way his mouth curved into a half-smile spoke of an accepted challenge.

“You’re gonna regret this.”

Johnny turned his body and ran. Simon took a second to react, just enough for him to gain distance down the narrow corridor of the house. But he easily caught up. Johnny could be agile, but Simon moved like he knew every inch of the place, every weight, every necessary impulse.

“You’re screwed." he murmured, already behind him.

Johnny rounded the corner of the living room and slipped beside the sofa, laughing.

Simon grabbed his arm with automatic precision, and they both stumbled. They fell together on the rug with a muffled thud. Simon on top.

His knees trapping Johnny’s hips against the floor. Firm hands pinning his wrists, now extended above his head. Their breaths panting — short, hot, mingled. Between their bodies, there was no laughter anymore.

There was heat.

Johnny opened his eyes slowly, staring up at Simon while pinned beneath him. His chest rising and falling forcefully under Simon’s weight. His legs still parted under Simon’s knees in a voluntary prison.
Simon felt it too. The way the body beneath him responded. The warmth radiating from Johnny’s skin, seeping through the clothes, mixing with his own. The tension in the arms — not resistance, but expectation. The eyes saying what the mouth dared not.

The game had changed. And now it was a different kind of hunt.

“You’re heavy,” Johnny whispered, not moving him away.

“Don’t complain. You put yourself here.”

“You pushed me.”

“You cause it." Simon’s voice now lower, denser, but not in a bad way. “You knew what you were doing. Didn’t you?”

“And if I did…?” The tone was low, provocative. His eyes fixed on his.
Simon didn’t answer. He only pressed the wrists harder, his thumb brushing the exposed tendon on Johnny’s wrist. Too intimate.

“You got me,” he said, smiling in his voice, his gaze drifting from Simon’s eyes to his lips.

 

“What are you going to do now, Lieutenant?”

 

Simon leaned in a bit more. His face just inches from Johnny’s.

 

“I should teach you a lesson.”

 

“Then do it.”

 

The air between them grew heavy, almost tangible, as though time slowed. Johnny’s eyes glinted with lust. Simon felt warmth swell in his chest, a knot tightening , a desire he could no longer deny.

Without thinking, without retreating, he leaned forward, keeping his hands firm on Johnny’s wrists, like holding a flame too dangerous to extinguish. Simon’s face came so close that Johnny’s warm breath touched his mouth, sweet and familiar. He tasted the boy’s subtle scent, a mixture of youth and innocence shadowed by what only he knew. Johnny did not pull away. On the contrary, he relaxed beneath the weight, almost offering himself. Their gazes met — intense, charged with an ancient and novel desire that could no longer be contained in silence or avoided touches. Simon closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, his lips brushed Johnny’s. First a hesitant, sweet exploratory kiss, like tasting danger.

Johnny responded, his arms flexing slightly, breath quicker. The kiss gained intensity more urgent, full of a longing neither had dared name. Letting go of the wrists, Simon slid his hands down Johnny’s forearms, feeling his skin shiver under his touch. Their bodies pressed together; their hearts raced. Simon’s lips traveled from the kiss to Johnny’s delicate neck, feeling his flesh tremble under the gentle, determined touch. Johnny arched, a breath caught between silence and longing.

“Simon…” his voice came out thin, hesitant, yet imploring.

Simon looked up, meeting Johnny’s eyes. Seeing desire, confusion and more desire.

Simon breathed against Johnny’s skin, lips brushing his neck, feeling those small tremors escaping his body. The taste was warm, alive, and when he gently bit the curve between the neck and shoulder, he felt Johnny catch his breath.

The way Johnny responded — between challenge and surrender — ignited something ancient, visceral inside Simon. He slid one hand along the side of the boy’s body to his waist, fingers tightening. Simon raised his eyes to look down. Dark and intense, but attentive.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it…?”

Johnny blinked slowly; his breathing was fast. His lips red, wet from the kiss. His body tense beneath Simon, yet unyielding. There was no fear. There was a fire waiting to be fully kindled.

Simon lowered his face again, nose brushing Johnny’s chin as he spoke against the skin:

“All this provocation… this stupid game. You wanted me to take you like this?”

Johnny bit his lower lip, averting his gaze, the blush spreading to his neck. But he answered:

“Maybe…”

Simon smiled against his skin. This time, softening sexuality into tenderness and care.

“Maybe isn’t enough.”

He looked at Johnny again, his brown eyes full of desire and concern.

“Tell me this is what you want, Johnny. Because if you say you don’t… I’ll stop now.”

“It’s what I want.”

That was all he needed to hear. Now with his consent, Simon crossed Johnny’s arms above his head, holding them firmly with one hand leaving his body completely vulnerable beneath him. The other hand slipped beneath his shirt, skin against skin now, direct and warm. The hand under the shirt climbed, touching Johnny’s chest with a rough reverence, feeling his heart pounding under his fingers.

“Then you’ll stay exactly like this,” he murmured. “Under me. Where you belong.”
The wrists-holding hand squeezed a bit more.

“You’re mine now. Understand?”
Johnny nodded, face red, eyes brimming with excitement.

Simon moved in again and this time the kiss was voracious — taken, intense, with teeth, with hunger. Johnny opened fully in response — no more doubt, no more games.

Simon held Johnny beneath him for a few more seconds. The silence between them thick with breath, heartbeat, heat, the kind of silence that presses on skin like a heavy blanket. Johnny wiggled his wrists slightly still pinned, not in protest but signaling he was still there, wanting more. His gaze was pure provocation: ironic and vulnerable at the same time.

Simon slowly loosened his fingers but didn’t release him completely.

“You’re too bold for your own good. Did you know that?” he murmured, raspy voice brushing Johnny’s ear.

“Or you’re too slow to handle me?” Johnny replied calmly, with a smirk aimed right at his weakness.

Simon stared for a second. A different lust crossed his eyes. He was loving every second of this — the way Johnny teased him aroused him.

“Say one more shit like that and I’ll flip you onto your stomach right now.”

Simon released the wrists slowly, aware of his own actions, but stayed atop him, knees firm around Johnny’s hips. The free hand slid down his exposed torso. Johnny shivered beneath the touch, eyes half-shut, mouth open as if still seeking more air than needed.

“Quiet,” Simon murmured, sliding his fingers down to Johnny’s hip, lifting his shirt to reveal the white-reddened skin.

“Let me take care of this proper.”

His hands traced slow lines across the abdomen, climbing the side ribs. The touch alternated between firm and caressing as if mapping every inch with the care of someone handling something too fragile to drop. Johnny didn’t respond with words. His body obeyed, small beneath him, tense and eager. Then, in an unexpected move, Simon raised his hand and delivered a sharp slap directly to Johnny’s outer thigh near his cheeks. The sound cut through the air, muffled by the rug but enough to make Johnny gasp loudly, his entire body reacting to the impact.

“Agh—!” The sudden sound of arousal and embarrassment. Simon loved seeing the shy blush form on Johnny’s cheeks, his blue eyes avoiding contact. He felt victorious seeing Johnny embarrassed after teasing him. It’s kind of cute.
Simon held the leg firmly to stop him from pulling away.

“Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered, low, slow, almost comforting. “That was for stealing my balaclava, you little shit.”

He leaned in and kissed exactly where he had struck — under the clothes. A long kiss, a contradictory reverence to the earlier harsh touch.

He slowly moved away from Johnny’s skin and sat back on his haunches, still between his legs but now distant. The warmth of the flesh under his fingers still burned, etched in his palm, but the desire that drove him for minutes dissolved into something denser, more cruel and real: awareness.

He slid one hand across his face slowly, as if trying to erase what shouldn’t have happened. His chest rose and fell restrainedly; breath stuck in his throat.

“Shit…”

Johnny blinked, eyes still hazy from the intensity they'd shared. He tried to rise, propping himself on his elbows. His body ached in a new way, not discomfort but exhaustion from the overload of the moment. But what unsettled him most was Simon’s silence after it all. That, more than anything, chilled his heart.

“Simon…?”

Simon didn’t answer immediately. He stared at his hands. His mind raced. Each touch, each sound from Johnny, each word uttered through clenched teeth still echoed inside him like a mistake he knew he would make and yet had chosen. His fantasies, the ones he tried to suppress for months, had come true. They had kissed. He’d touched him. He’d had him. And Johnny wanted it too.

It was real now.
And it thrilled him.
And it terrified him.

“You realize what just happened…?” he asked, low, husky, heavy with disbelief.
Johnny nodded slowly.

“I do.”

The silence that followed was no longer awkward. It was deep, almost ritual. A limbo between what they were before and who they would become.

Simon took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the floor.

“It wasn’t just a kiss,” he murmured. “It wasn’t just a moment. This… this changes everything, Johnny.”

Johnny swallowed hard, eyes fixed on him. The way Simon said his name sounded more intimate than any touch.

“I know…”

Simon finally lifted his gaze. His eyes were red from emotional exhaustion, the kind that comes from holding everything in too long. He looked older there. More broken.

“You’re nineteen.” The sentence came almost as a warning, as if convincing himself. “I’m thirty-seven. I… fuck, Johnny. I never thought I’d actually let this happen.”

Pause.

Simon wasn’t exactly a role model of self-control. His explosive temper and chronic indiscipline had cost him his career in the SAS. But when it came to this — desire, intimacy — he’d always exercised cold, functional restraint. But Johnny breezed through it all with absurd ease.

He was vulnerable.
He was taunting.
He was pure.
And that terrified him.

“Do you regret it?” Johnny’s voice was quieter, broken. Hurt held in.

Simon jerked his face upward. His eyes wide.

“What? No.” The answer came firm, immediate. “You are everything I’ve spent years burying. Desire. Affection. Hope, even. And now you’re here, before me…” His voice broke for a moment. “That’s the problem.”

“Simon…”

“And I like it.” He spoke as though confessing something indecent. “I like the way you look at me. The way you shrink, then dare me. I like your smaller body, your warm skin, your stupid laugh when you think you’re annoying me.”

He closed his eyes, breath uneven.

“I like all of it. And it fucks with my head.” The last sentence was a near-broken whisper. “Because now it’s real. Now I can’t lie to myself anymore.”

Johnny swallowed. His eyes had a faint melancholy, as if betrayed not by the act, but by Simon’s restrained reaction, as though it were a mistake.

“You think I don’t know what this means? I’m scared too. But… it’s not like I don’t know what I want.” His voice was low, tense, but clear. He turned his face toward Simon, his blue eyes now shining with resolve.

“I’m scared too, Simon. You think I wasn’t afraid you’d hate me after this?”
His voice faltered.

“I was — am afraid — you’d want to distance yourself from me because of this. So please, please Simon… don’t act like this was a mistake.”

Simon paused. His shoulders once tense as if bearing invisible armor relaxed little by little, as though Johnny’s confession broke his final defenses.

His hardened expression softened. The lines of tension lost their weight momentarily.

“You’re right.” He spoke simply, devoid of justification, just truth. “I’m sorry, okay?”

Simon moved closer slowly, as if aware that one misstep could collapse everything. He reached out and brushed Johnny’s cheek with the back of his fingers a tender, almost reverent gesture.

His thumb traced the flushed, sweat-damp skin, and for a second he just looked. As though in that young face, marked by more than he deserved to live, lay something the world never taught Simon how to protect.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel insecure. Don’t think that, okay? I don’t regret anything we did today.”

He could feel Johnny’s hand touching his.

“We’ll work this out, okay?” he whispered, voice nearly trembling. “Just you and me. Trust me.”

Johnny nodded slowly. His expression grew gentle, softer. Sighing something: relief.

“All right, Simon.”

The silence that followed was not awkward, it was a kind of rest. A suspension. As though both knew the moment was fragile but too precious to rush. Johnny looked around and, as if noticing only then, bent to pick up the balaclava from the floor. The dark fabric crumpled, still warm from his body. He held it out with a small smile.

“Almost forgot to give this back.”

Simon looked at the object, then at the extended hand, and laughed softly. He took the balaclava, but instead of wearing it, passed it slowly between his fingers, as if it still held Johnny’s image — laughing, running, teasing.

“You look good in it. I was just messing with you,” he murmured.

Johnny lowered his gaze, slightly shy. Simon gently drew him closer, arm circling his shoulders, pulling him into his chest. It wasn’t a gesture of possession or desire. It was… home.

______

 

That night, Simon’s house was silent, wrapped in the discreet rustle of trees outside and the occasional creak of old wood. The fireplace still emitted a gentle warmth, enough to discreetly fog the windowpanes and make the room almost too warm for what was happening between them. Johnny slept with his head on Simon’s chest, their fingers intertwined, legs entwined in an almost childlike gesture but there was a new weight in the body now resting there. It wasn’t just physical fatigue. It was the exhausted relief of having crossed a barrier he didn’t know he’d ever dare touch.

Simon kept his eyes open. His arm held Johnny firmly, but his fingers resting on the boy’s shoulder moved slowly, as if trying to memorize that presence. The texture of skin, the warmth of body, the rhythm of breath. Simple things. But now they felt too intense to ignore. He didn’t know he could feel this way. So deeply. So alive. And that frightened him more than it should; everything that had happened still didn’t feel real. Johnny’s eyelids fluttered and he let out a small sigh, murmuring something shapeless as if his body instinctively sought more than it already had. Simon tightened his arm around him and kissed the top of his head. Then the phone vibrated. A single, dry, muffled sound against the wooden side table next to the sofa. Simon closed his eyes for a second, as if resisting the outside world invading this moment. But he knew he couldn’t ignore it. Carefully, he withdrew his arm from under Johnny, who stirred slightly but didn’t wake. He placed a pillow under his head, pulled the blanket back reflexively. And picked up his phone.

On the screen, just one short, objective notification from Graves:

 

01:51 AM FILES DELIVERED. I’ll send the encrypted folder via email. Good luck.

Simon stood there, phone in hand, the screen’s glow illuminating his tense face in the darkness.

Shit, he thought, tossing the phone back on the table. It would be too risky to open the files with Johnny in the house. He ran his hands over his face, then just sat there, staring into the darkness as though waiting for the night to give permission to continue. And what if?

The visceral need to know what he was dealing with consumed him. And everything had changed — now… now everything carried even greater weight.
He looked at Johnny. The boy slept with a peaceful expression, messy hair, one hand unconsciously reaching toward where Simon had been lying. As if his body still remembered wanting him close. Simon bent down slowly and pressed his lips to the back of that hand. A small gesture, but one that said everything.

“I’ll sort this out. I’ll be back,” he whispered. “Soon, you’ll never have to fear seeing him. I promise.”

Simon stood up slowly, feeling the heavy silence of the house. Johnny continued sleeping, oblivious, wrapped in the blanket on the living room sofa, his breath slow and steady, a breath of tranquility amid the storm Simon carried in his chest. He walked down the dark corridors of the house, soft steps on the old wood floor echoing low, almost imperceptible. He climbed the stairs to the second floor, each step a brief crack that seemed to break the calm.

Arriving at the door to the storage-room he used as his plan headquarters. The door creaked slightly when he opened it, locking it from the inside in case Johnny woke and looked for him. He sat in front of the desk, where the laptop awaited in silence. With steady yet slightly trembling fingers, he switched it on. The screen glowed in the room’s dimness, casting a cold glare that reflected the weariness etched on his face. Simon took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the dark screen as he typed the password. The muffled sound of keystrokes joined the silence.

The encrypted file Graves sent awaited him there. The weight of toxic urgency pressed on his chest.

The screen’s light illuminated his face.
The file had a neutral name:

 

"Archive_DonaldO'Byrne.pdf"

 

___________________

 

Report 1— Parish of Inverness – 17/02/1983

Internal documents mention “transfer due to personal and health reasons,” with no further details.

 

___________________

 

Report 2 — Parish of Aberfeldy — 15/03/1990

Internal documents mention “transfer due to personal and health reasons,” with no further details. There are no records of formal complaints during this period.

 

___________________

 

The pattern began to emerge — So obvious that Simon felt his intelligence being insulted. But the information that followed Report 2 caught Simon’s attention.

 

___________________

 

Confidential statement — Archdiocese of Glasgow, 1990

“There are suspicions of inappropriate behavior involving Father Samuel Donald O’Byrne and two teenagers from the community. Compromising material was found in the dormitory of Father Samuel ‘Donald’ O’Byrne. The families refused to file formal complaints. Immediate transfer is recommended to avoid exposure.”

 

___________________

 

There it was...what he was looking for.

 

___________________

 

Report 3 — Parish of Blairgowrie, 1997

Relevant information not found. Nothing to report.

 

___________________

 

There it was now. The last transfer.

 

___________________

 

Report 4 — Cathedral of Ullapool — 01/07/1998

Father Donald was transferred to St. Barbara’s Cathedral in Ullapool in 1998. Assigned for administrative reasons.

 

___________________

 

No mention of investigations. No sign of a past. A clean, cold, and unpunished restart.

Simon leaned his elbows on the table and slowly bent forward, his eyes still fixed on the screen as he processed, with methodical coldness, each piece of information unfolding before him. Everything there was carefully concealed, swept under the altar with the bureaucratic precision of someone who had learned to hide monsters beneath cassocks. Behind the formal, laconic language stretched an entire chain of omissions. Absence of formal complaints. Transfers suddenly justified by “health reasons.” And between the gaps in the reports, the outline of a pattern took shape. Recurring, repeated, cynical.

There weren’t many specific details about Samuel O’Byrne’s actions. But there was enough for Simon to understand the systematic nature of his behavior. One passage, however, made him stop. His gaze froze on a sentence from the 1990 confidential statement: “Compromising material was found in the dormitory of Samuel ‘Donald’ O’Byrne.”

Simon remained still for a few seconds. His mind raced, his blood turned cold. That detail said more than any formal complaint. It indicated a concrete possibility that the priest had recorded his victims. And that... that made everything worse, unspeakably worse. His stomach turned at the simple thought that what Johnny had gone through might have been recorded, archived, and rewatched. Kept alive like a filthy trophy.

 

What if O’Byrne still had the recordings...?

Simon clenched his jaw, anger now throbbing beneath his skin. He could feel his heart beating in his temples, a tense and precise rhythm.

This wasn’t going to end like this. Not a chance. He had already planned, for that week, to go to St. Barbara’s Cathedral to observe the priest’s routine, study his schedule, his movements, the moment he was alone. But now there was a new variable in play. A new purpose in the plan. He would search. Ransack every room, every corner, every cabinet if he had to. And if there was any trace of Johnny there — any recording, letter, object, record — he would destroy it all with his own hands.

 

Simon stayed there for a few more minutes, the screen still open in front of him, as if the weight of the content had permeated the air of the room. His eyes scanned the report one last time, but his mind was already elsewhere, returning downstairs, to the sleeping body on the sofa, to the hand reaching into the empty space where he had once been. The plan was in motion. But it wasn’t just about evidence or revenge anymore. There was something more at stake now, something intimate that couldn’t be measured in files or proof. Johnny had trusted him. Not as one trusts a protector or… just a friend. He had opened himself, allowed himself to be seen, touched, felt. He had given Simon a part of himself that had once been stolen against his will.

Johnny trusted him as a man.

That trust carried immense weight. But it was a weight Simon embraced without hesitation. And protecting that would be, more than a duty, a pleasure.

Because now, everything he did… was for Johnny.

Chapter Text

Father Donald was methodical in his routine. The short morning walks, the fixed times of mass, the hours when he would disappear, locked inside the cathedral, or leave for the retreats he conducted in nearby villages. Simon watched from afar, his gaze always hidden behind glass, behind shadows, behind the fog that seemed to never lift. He waited. Mentally noted every detail. Every pattern. Every gap. Everything timed with the patience of someone who had learned to act only when the world sleeps. The priest was predictable, his routine steady and unchanging, and fortunately full of moments when he was alone — that would make everything easier.

The lodging behind the cathedral was a dead piece of time. Hidden behind moss-covered high walls, far from the rest of the world. No cameras. No noteworthy locks.No sign of real security, which was expected. Ullapool is a small village, with a crime rate close to zero — only animal thefts had become a real problem in recent times. Simon wasn’t naive, either. He knew the lack of security wasn’t only because of that. It wasn’t uncommon for religious institutions to be exempt from many things, shielded by the symbolic armor of faith.

At first, Simon only wanted to confirm: enter, look around, leave. Memorize the priest’s routine and analyze the location to execute his plan as discreetly as possible, away from witnesses. Nothing more. But then came the email from Graves. A zipped file. Twenty megabytes of hell. Scanned documents, dates, locations, names. And worst of all — references to physical media. Tapes. Recordings. Voices.

Johnny...

The mere idea of his voice… his image… his pain… preserved, archived, stored in some rotting corner by a man like Samuel O’Byrne was more than Simon could bear. And he would deal with it with his own hands.

But first… first, he needed to recover everything that belonged to Johnny.

Late afternoon was the perfect time. On Tuesday evenings, mass at St. Barbara’s Cathedral would be underway. The sound of the organ filling the cathedral’s interior, covering noises with its melody disguised as faith. The faithful kneeling, entranced. The priest — there he was — in the pulpit, speaking soft words with eyes that never revealed what they held. Simon watched from afar, then slipped along the cathedral’s sides, moving through the shadows like an unwanted memory.

Reaching the lodging was simple. The old doorknob gave way with a dry snap when he struck it with his elbow, using the same motion he had learned in his early years in the SAS. It didn’t take much force; the wood, old and fatigued, offered no resistance.

The air inside was heavy. A smell of things long shut away — moldy, damp wood, old paper, the metallic scent of rust and time. The curtains were closed, stifling the last of the natural light. Crucifixes on the walls. Books stacked in disarray. A table covered with papers, obsessively organized. Simon scanned everything with his eyes, searching, feeling with his gaze. Nothing stood out, until he saw the bed. Or rather… what was beneath it.

Simon knelt beside it, feeling his knees sink into the old floorboards. His fingers slid along the floor until they touched the box, it was heavy, made of thick cardboard, almost damp with age. He pulled it out slowly.When he opened the lid, the silence seemed to deepen. Tapes. Many. Cassettes lined up in perfect rows. Each one labeled: dates, locations, names  or rather, codes and initials.

Simon recognized some immediately. They were in the report. Different cities.Different years. But it was when he saw the initials JM that the world seemed to contract around him.Not five. Not six. Twenty. Twenty tapes labeled JM, ordered like relics. Some already dust-covered, others still recent. White labels, handwritten in careful script. The most recent dated back to 2003 — four years ago.

Four years.

That was too recent... according to the records he had checked a few days ago, Johnny had remained at Saint Barbara's church as an altar boy until 2003. However, Simon hadn't expected the abuse to have lasted that long he had hoped, perhaps, that the priest had only taken advantage of Johnny in isolated incidents. Simon picked up one of the tapes with his hands. He read the label. Then reread it. His eyes fixed on it as if the opaque plastic could hide a face. He could almost hear Johnny’s breathing through it — the sobs. He wanted to break it, crush it right then and there.

But first, he needed to understand what he was dealing with. And that’s when he saw it  between the tapes, almost hidden, there was a photograph. Simon didn’t move for a moment. He just stared.

It was Johnny. Younger... much younger, in fact. His skin flushed red by the camera flash. A small, forced smile, like someone made to open their mouth against their will. The edges of the photo were bent, but still clear. In his hands, Johnny held something — a book, maybe a Bible. The eyes, even faded by time, pleaded silently. Simon touched the image with the tip of his fingers. Slowly, as if afraid it might tear. Something inside him... withered. So that was it? Was that how the priest kept Johnny close? As a trophy? A souvenir? An object?

He placed the photograph carefully in the inner pocket of his coat, with the reverence of someone preserving a relic. Then, in silence, he began to stack the tapes marked JM into his backpack — one by one. To Simon, those tapes weren’t just objects. They were fragments. Fragments of John Mactavish’s pain.

Simon still remembered the first night Johnny had slept at his house. Tired and drowsy from the effects of alcohol, Johnny had fallen asleep peacefully on his bed. Simon had never forgotten that. The peace on the boy’s face, the soft sound of his breathing filling the room. Was that a vote of trust? He didn’t know, but he was certain that Johnny trusted him enough to allow himself the vulnerability of drunkenness in his presence.

"Would you protect me, Simon?"

The sentence Johnny had once said echoed in his head.

That night, Simon knew. That boy was his responsibility.

Before leaving, Simon paused. He looked around the room one last time.

The crucifix above the bed. The long shadows of the afternoon darkening the furniture. The sense that this place would never see daylight again. He checked his watch. Thirty minutes ahead of schedule.

The plan had worked. He had everything he needed.

When he got home, Simon didn’t turn on any lights. The dimness followed him like an obedient shadow, an old cloak he wore with ease. He dropped the backpack on the floor, against the base of the couch. He stood still for a few moments, the weight of what he carried pulling at his shoulders — though the weight was no longer physical. It was another kind, one that pressed from the inside, and it disturbed him. He sat in front of the television. The device was old, the same as always, one of those that still emitted a high-pitched hum when turned on. He picked up one of the tapes carefully and read the handwritten label.

"JM - 04/05/2002."

He inserted the tape into the player with the mechanical precision of someone performing a familiar task, but the tension in his shoulders told a different story. He had done this hundreds of times — during operations, investigations. But this time... was different. The image flickered on the screen. Horizontal lines crossed the recording, muffled static, like voices trapped inside a metal chamber. Then, he appeared.Johnny.

Sitting on the edge of a bed. The same bed. The same stuffy, poorly lit room at the back of the cathedral. Simon recognized the details — the faded blue curtain, the crooked crucifix on the wall. Nothing had changed. The boy’s torso was hunched forward, shoulders tight, arms pulled in as if trying to make himself smaller. His eyes... empty. They didn’t shift or meet the lens. They simply existed, damp, in a face far too pale. From the other side of the camera. Donald’s voice.

"Take off your shirt, Johnny." The tone was soft, almost sweet. Like a whisper meant to sound like affection.

Johnny hesitated. His hands moved slowly, as if every motion took more energy than he had to give. He removed the shirt. The thin frame exposed. Pale skin. Bones faintly visible under the yellowish light. A shiver ran down his spine visible even in that grainy footage.

"You look so much prettier when you obey, you know?"

"It’s easier this way. Why don’t you take off your pants now?"

Simon didn’t blink.

Johnny’s silence was more violent than any response. The boy tried to whisper, but his voice came out shaky, childlike.

"Not today... p-please... it still hurts..."

Donald sighed like a tired teacher. As if dealing with a stubborn child.

"Don’t you want to be saved, Johnny?"

"Father-"

"Come on, Johnny... you know we need to work on your forgiveness... Or would you prefer I talk to your father about your peculiar interest in boys?"

It was like pulling a trigger. Johnny obeyed. Quickly. Shame overcame pain. He began to pull down his pants. The small frame curled up, recoiled. There was no more hesitation, only fear. Simon paused the video, the silence in the room was heavy. Almost hostile. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlocked. His jaw was clenched, breath held.

It didn’t end there, there was more to see.He rewound a few seconds. Fast-forwarded others. Then skipped straight to the end of the tape. The image that appeared next froze his blood.

Johnny was kneeling now, his face wet, his eyes red from crying so much. His skin flushed in a sickly way. His breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling in an erratic rhythm. And Donald’s hand was there, holding his face, forcing his chin up. The camera was trembling.

On Johnny’s face... a thick, white substance.

Simon froze.

It was explicit. Pornographic. Cruel.

The camera zoomed in on the boy’s face as if trying to eternalize it. Then Donald’s voice, whispered, low, but perfectly audible:

"See, Johnny? This is your worth. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

Simon clenched his fists.

“That’s... not true."Johnny’s voice was almost inaudible. A wisp. A breath.

"Isn’t it?” Donald’s reply came laced with mockery disguised as logic.

“Why else would anyone want you, Johnny, if not for this?”

Simon paused the video, remaining still for a few seconds. Head tilted, eyes lowered. Inside him, something began to break. His heart beat out of sync, as if trying to keep up with what his eyes had just seen and heard. It was hate. He got up slowly. Removed the tape from the device. Held it between his fingers. There was no tremor in his hand—only tension, rigid and silent. For a moment, he just stared at it. A black plastic rectangle, with a white label, handwritten.

Johnny, reduced to this.

Then he let go.

Let the tape fall to the floor. The impact was sharp.

Simon brought his foot down.

Once.

Then again.

And again.

The sound of the plastic shattering, the internal mechanism snapping, mixed with his heavy breathing. He knew—what was done couldn’t be undone. But he kept going. As if, in the friction between vinyl and floor, there was any chance of ripping that from Johnny’s memory. Of digging the priest’s voice out of the boy’s flesh. As if, by destroying the tape, he could undo the sound. But the voice still echoed.


“See, Johnny? This is your worth. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“That’s... not true.”

That whispered reply wouldn’t leave his head. That fragile, worn-out voice, the last attempt to hold onto something still his.

"Why else would anyone want you, Johnny, if not for this?”

Simon remained still for a moment. His chest rose slowly, as if breathing required conscious effort. The heat of the moment still pulsed beneath his skin—in his rigid shoulders, his half-closed fists, his clenched jaw. Then he looked down. The tape lay at his feet, twisted, opened at impossible angles, its internal gears exposed like the guts of a violated mechanical body. The cracked plastic reflected light in sharp slivers. The label still clung to one side—torn, but legible. JM.

Simon crouched down slowly. His eyes fixed,whole body focused on that.

It seemed small now. Harmless. Just a tape.But it represented everything that couldn’t be undone.

Night had fallen without Simon noticing. He remained motionless for long minutes in the center of the room, body still leaning forward from the contained effort, eyes fixed on the shards of the tape he had just destroyed. Fragments of plastic and metal scattered around his boots like the remains of something that never should’ve existed. The other tapes were still there. Intact. Inside the backpack.JM – 07/02/2000. JM – 14/08/2001. JM – 27/11/2002. And so on, up to the most recent. Twenty in total. Evidence, wounds and scars locked in magnetic reels.

Simon looked at them with a dry, lifeless hatred. JM. John Mactavish, reduced to initials in a sick collection kept as a trophy.With short, controlled movements, he grabbed the backpack and walked toward the fireplace.

It was cold, long dormant.Simon stacked pieces of dry wood with precision. Then threw crumpled newspaper on top, followed by alcohol, enough to make the smell sting his nostrils. He struck a match. Lighting it was almost an act of faith. The flame appeared small, flickering at the tip of the stick. For a moment, he just watched. The fire grew quickly. Crawled up the edges of the wood, devouring the paper as if it recognized the call. Simon, without ceremony, opened the backpack and began what had to be done. He threw the first tape into the fire, then the second. One by one, without hesitation. The sound was grotesque. The plastic crackled, the reel twisted before shrinking and dying in black smoke. The room filled with a thick, chemical sweetness, like rotting flesh being caramelized. Simon didn’t look away, nor did he cover his nose. And then only one remained—the last tape. Simon held it between his fingers. JM – 2003. The most recent. Four years ago. He looked at it for a long moment... and let go.

But it wasn’t over... there was still the photo, kept in the inner pocket of his coat. The image was faded around the edges. Johnny, still such a boy. Despite the purity of the picture, it was a filthy portrait.

But Simon...

..still saw tenderness in that face. Still saw what he loved.

He brought the photo to his lips. Kissed the corner of the image, and then tossed it into the flames, which consumed it in seconds. When the fire finally died out, what remained was twisted plastic, dense smoke, and ashes scattered among half-burned pieces of wood.

Johnny was free of it now.



______


The day was slowly fading over the highlands of Ullapool, painting the sky in a shy golden hue, while the sea breeze blew gently, carrying the scent of salt and damp grass. The gravel road snaked through wild fields and low bushes. Simon drove in silence, eyes fixed on the road ahead, though his mind was drifting. In the back of the pickup truck, carefully arranged, were the elements of something he had never planned before with such care: a good night. Pizza still warm inside the box, a cheap red wine he knew Johnny liked, two plastic cups wrapped in a checkered towel… and flowers. Small. White. Simple. Johnny used to call them “no-fuss flowers.” Simon had passed by the makeshift stand of the old lady near the Mactavish's Cottage crossing and chose those without hesitation.

That’s what he wanted: something without artifice. A clean, light moment. He had spent the last days very focused on planning the murder of Samuel O’Byrne, observing schedules and strategic points. However, the events of the past few days had brought a different urgency to Simon’s mind—the graphic violence shown in those tapes inflicted upon the boy he held so dear. He wanted to do something good for Johnny, to create a good and memorable memory with him. They had only recently begun their relationship, and Simon wanted the boy to feel wanted and special. Johnny was waiting at the gate of the house, already in his coat, arms crossed and brow furrowed as if trying to hide the cold. When he saw Simon arriving, he gave a small and sweet smile.

"I'm curious to know what it is you're planning that I can’t know about." He joked, climbing into the car, with a teasing half-smile.

Simon let out a soft laugh. He hoped Johnny would like it. Johnny settled into the passenger seat and gave Simon a small kiss on the lips, which he returned.

"You know, Angus Mactavish wasn’t exactly thrilled about this whole thing," he said in a joking tone.

The mention of Johnny’s father was no longer a surprise to Simon, the man had never liked him. He suspected the boy’s father had a hunch that something was going on between them.Johnny rested his head on the older man’s shoulder and snuggled close. The drive took nearly an hour; the place Simon had chosen was near Ullapool, a deserted beach located in Ardmair. Simon drove the car to a more remote spot, where the rocks opened into a hidden stretch of lighter sand. Johnny looked around, confused. Still leaning against Simon’s shoulder.

“Are we at a beach? I didn’t know you liked this.”

“It’s not really for me,” he said as he parked the car, undoing his seatbelt, which made Johnny lift his head from his shoulder. Before opening the door, he turned again to Johnny.

“You stay here for a bit. When everything’s ready, I’ll come get you. Don’t you dare peek, you little shit.”

Johnny looked at him, puzzled, and let out a chuckle.

“If you say so.”

"Good boy.”

Simon left the car, leaving Johnny inside the vehicle, and walked around to the back. He carefully lifted the lid of the bed and first took out a thick checkered blanket, spreading it on the sand near the car, weighing down the corners with some larger stones scattered in the sand. It would keep the wind from ruining the surprise he was planning. After checking that the blanket was secure, Simon returned to the truck bed and began to take out the items: the pizza box, the wine, the glasses, the flowers wrapped in brown paper. He placed everything on the blanket, one by one, with ceremonial care, something Simon wasn’t used to but made an effort to execute with perfection.

Satisfied with the arrangement, he went back to the car, opened the passenger door, and extended a hand to Johnny.

“Come. I want to show you something.”

Johnny hesitated for half a second. Then he took Simon’s hand, and upon feeling the firm warmth of that palm, his face softened. He climbed down from the pickup with quick, almost eager steps.

“What is it? What did you do?” he asked, with a curious sparkle in his eyes.

Simon just gave a half-smile, his gaze warmed by quiet anticipation, and led the boy along the narrow trail between the rocks. The sound of the sea grew louder with every step, and the breeze, laden with salt and sea mist, blew through Johnny’s tousled hair. When the clearing finally opened before them, the world seemed to stop for a moment. Johnny stopped too. His eyes widened, the blue irises lit by the golden tones of sunset. The dark blanket carefully spread over the sand, the pizza box, the bottle of wine nestled between two plastic cups, and the small bouquet of white flowers resting like a modest offering — all laid out before the calm sea. Everything arranged as if someone had paused time just to create that moment.

“You…” Johnny began, but the phrase died in his throat. He let go of Simon’s hand only to, in an abrupt impulse, run back and throw himself at him, arms around his neck, legs lightly wrapping around his waist.

“You did this for me?!”

Simon laughed, surprised, nearly stumbling from the boy’s enthusiastic impact. He steadied his feet on the soft sand, holding him firmly, arms automatically tightening around the slim waist.

“I did,” he replied, still breathless, the smile caught in his voice, restrained but sincere. Johnny snuggled closer, his face hidden in Simon’s neck. He laughed softly, like someone who didn’t know where to hide so much joy.

"You’re a romantic idiot. I loved this!”

“It’s not perfect,” murmured Simon, his face pressed to the boy’s hair  “but I tried. It’s not like I’m used to these things.”

Johnny climbed down from his arms reluctantly and ran to the blanket, kneeling with the clumsy rush of someone who nearly slips. His fingers passed over the newspaper wrapping the flowers, touching with care, reverence, almost as if afraid to damage them.

“You really prepared all this?”

Simon approached and sat beside him.

“For me?”

"For you, Johnny,” he answered softly, before raising his hand and gently placing it on his cheek.

The boy smiled at the gesture, a smile that asked for nothing, that simply existed. An open, fragile laugh, almost childlike. And in that moment, Simon felt his chest tighten. There was tenderness there, a tenderness he barely recognized in himself. They sat side by side. The sun was lower now, casting an orange glow across the surface of the sea. Simon opened the pizza box, served a slice on a paper plate, then pulled out the corkscrew and opened the wine with ease. The dark liquid filled the plastic cups halfway. Johnny accepted his with both hands and took a timid sip. Then he kept looking at the drink inside the cup, slowly swirling his wrist.


"Why?” he asked after a while. His voice came out small but clear.

Simon stared at the horizon, his gaze lost in the movement of the waves. He took a deep breath.

“I thought…” he began, his voice low. “Because you deserve it, I wanted to give you a special moment.”

Johnny didn’t respond. He just pressed his body against Simon’s, resting his head on the older man’s broad shoulder. The world fell more silent there. A kind of silence that didn’t hurt. A silence that welcomed.

“Thank you, Simon. Thank you so much,” he murmured.

Simon didn’t say anything. He simply buried his face slowly in the boy’s mohawk, inhaling the smell of the sea mixed with Johnny’s scent. There was a knot in his throat he could not loosen. Not with words.The image of the tape, now destroyed in ashes and melted plastic, still returned to his mind like a fresh wound. It couldn’t be undone. But maybe, just maybe, he could offer Johnny something that replaced, even for an instant, that memory. A good memory. One in which Johnny was wanted, chosen and loved. They sat, and Simon served the pizza, opened the wine effortlessly, and poured the liquid into the plastic cups. They ate there, lying side by side, sharing bites between laughs, their fingers touching beneath the blanket. Johnny spoke more than usual, laughed at silly things, told disconnected teenage stories, gesturing as if trying to keep the moment alive through his own voice.

Simon listened attentively. His eyes stayed on him as if trying to memorize every detail, every expression. It was as if he wanted to freeze that moment inside himself. When the pizza had cooled and the wine had left Johnny’s cheeks slightly flushed, silence returned — not uncomfortable silence, but a breath. They were lying now, side by side, looking at the darkening sky. The sea breeze blew gently, and the sound of the waves sounded like a distant song.

Simon turned his face toward Johnny. His profile, outlined against the pale light of the moon. His eyes held something hard to name: a shy contentment, almost childlike. Simon leaned in slowly, saying nothing. And Johnny, as if he knew what would come next, turned to meet him. Unlike their first kisses, this one didn’t come from desire, but from silence and closeness. A gentle, soft gesture — lips touching with hesitation — and then more firmly. Simon’s fingers slid along the back of the boy’s neck until they caught in the grown mohawk, pulling him closer. Johnny let him. He curled in. Their skinny bodies molded together with a natural ease that seemed rehearsed.

Simon broke the kiss for a moment, searching his eyes. There was something he wanted to ask. A question, perhaps. Due to Johnny’s traumatic sexual past, he had told himself he would be more careful before advancing their sexual intimacy, always respecting Johnny’s boundaries. But he didn’t get the chance. Johnny pulled him back, pressing his lips against Simon’s again as if to leave no space for doubt. The light weight on top of him moved with ease. Warmer kisses. Hands sliding beneath his shirt. Hips pressing with intention, moving back and forth. And Simon felt again that suspicious pang in his chest. Something was off in the way Johnny was guiding things. Since they had started their relationship, he had noticed certain behavioral patterns in Johnny that left him confused. Simon had been worried in the early moments of their intimate moments, fearing that Johnny might show any sign of fear or discomfort because of the impact of the trauma he had lived through for years. But that never happened; the fear never came. On the contrary, Johnny seemed overly enthusiastic about it all—Simon didn’t know whether that should relieve him or worry him. Was it a good sign that Johnny wasn’t afraid of intimate touch?

The boy pulled back for a second, his face lit by the reddish sky. He brought his hands to the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, letting the fabric fall aside. His pale skin bristled in the sea breeze, his pink nipples contracting in the cold. He said nothing. He only looked at Simon as if waiting for a response, like it was a test or a performance.

Simon looked him up and down. His chest was slim but the muscles stood out. The shoulders angled. The delicate curve of his abdomen. An image that hurt for being so beautiful and so attractive to Simon’s eyes.Johnny leaned forward, pressing his face into Simon’s chest, still sitting on his lap. His voice, when it came, was soft. Almost sweet.

“Can I suck you?”

Simon trembled. Shit.. he wanted that so bad, the mere thought of Johnny on him was enough to send heat pooling in his pelvis. On the other hand, this wasn’t part of his plan to turn this encounter sexual. But that night meant something else… this wasn’t about desire, much less his own. But if Johnny wanted it, what was the problem?

“Are you sure?” Simon asked, his voice low, a little hoarse. “Are you okay with this?”

Johnny nodded immediately, too quickly. A smile appeared on his face, but his eyes didn’t follow, reflecting a different light.

“I want to,” he said. “I want to do it for you. I want it to… to be good.”

Simon took a deep breath, this arousal almost overwhelmed him.

“Fuck, Johnny, I won’t resist. Go ahead, I’m waiting.” Simon placed one hand on the back of Johnny’s head, and he already began to lean down. The agile hands undid the belt, opened the jeans swiftly. Simon’s hardened member was exposed. Johnny’s warm, moist lips encased him with a devotion that nearly hurt. Simon released a hoarse moan, arching his pelvis further, his fingers unconsciously digging into Johnny’s soft hair. He felt the first gentle pressure of the boy’s tongue exploring his sensitive head, a deliberate movement that drew another deep sigh from his chest. It was intense—almost overwhelming, like something out of his dreams. His large, calloused hand rested at the base of Johnny’s skull, not pressing, but present.

Johnny tried to go deeper, seeking depth in a way Simon sensed was more about demonstration than mutual pleasure. A slight tremor ran through the boy’s body across him. Simon felt Johnny’s jaw muscles tighten under his palm, the effort visible. A deeper, more insistent movement, and then it happened: a sudden short gag, followed by a violent contraction of Johnny’s body. The sound was harsh, involuntary, shattering the symphony of sighs and the gentle noise of the sea in the background.

Johnny pulled away quickly, almost flinging backward, wiping swollen lips and a wet chin with the back of his hand in a rough motion. Tears welled instantly in his eyes, not just from the throat irritation, but from the acute, wrenching frustration evident in every line of his face. He avoided Simon’s gaze, looking down at the ground. Simon rose on his elbows, his body still pumping with the echo of interrupted pleasure, but the deeper protective instinct had already taken over. The hand on Johnny’s head slid down slowly, resting on the boy’s bare shoulder, feeling the fine tremor running through him, muscles tense beneath the wet sweat and saliva on his skin.

“Hey,” he called, his voice low, still husky, but softened by concern. “Are you all right? Breathe.”

Johnny tried to laugh, a strangled sound that turned into a trembling sigh. He looked at his own hands, not at Simon.

"Sorry… I just…I…I can. I just… just need another minute. Let me try again.”

His voice was a thread, filled with a desperate determination that cut Simon’s heart. The phrase uttered with such nervousness led him to a cruel conclusion he feared. Johnny hadn’t offered to pleasure Simon because he wanted to, he wanted to prove something to the man, maybe due to insecurity? Did the age difference make him feel that way because of his lack of experience? Simon didn’t understand.

…Was it because of sexual abuse?

The thought froze Simon.

He gently squeezed the shoulder under his hand, feeling the fragility there.

"Johnny, listen…” He waited patiently until the boy lifted his gaze, meeting his own. Johnny’s eyes were red, frightened, full of a shame that didn’t belong to this moment.

"You don’t have to prove anything to me. Nothing at all. Understand?”

“But I want to,” he interrupted, urgent, almost pleading.

 “I want to please you, Simon. I swear I can do it right. Just give me one more chance… please.”

“Johnny,” Simon said with firmness born of care, not authority. His hand slid from the shoulder to caress the boy’s damp face, his thumb gently wiping a trace of moisture at the corner of his lips.

“This isn’t about doing it ‘right.’ It’s not a test. It’s not a trial you need to pass.” His voice was calm, an anchor. “We’ll go at your pace, okay? No rush. No goals. I want you to be okay. More than anything else.”

The boy bit his lower lip forcefully as if trying to hold back a tremor. Simon didn’t wait. He gently but decisively pulled Johnny onto his lap. Wrapped his arms around him, feeling the thin, still trembling body fold into his chest like a broken flower seeking sun. Johnny rested his head under Simon’s chin.

"You don’t have to prove anything to me. You’re younger, I know you don’t have as much experience as I do. I knew that when I decided to be with you, it’s not a problem for me, understand?” he whispered, his lips almost touching the top of the boy’s head. The scent of the sea mingled with sweat and the unique aroma of Johnny.

“And when it does happen… when it does, Johnny, it will be because you want it. Because it brings you pleasure too. this isn’t about forcing yourself into anything, got it?”

“Okay, Simon…”

Simon kept him there, nestled against his chest, as if the simple act of holding him was enough to protect him from everything. And maybe it was, at least for that moment. But Johnny’s body, though still, seemed to carry an invisible tension. His shoulders were stiff under the warm skin, and his breathing, though calmer, still bore small tremors as if he fought something within himself. Simon took his time before releasing him. He did so gently, as one would remove something precious from a fragile case. His arms opened slowly, hands sliding down Johnny’s back, guiding him until he could sit properly on the blanket. The boy did as instructed without resistance, but also without looking directly at him.

Simon then leaned sideways, retrieving the small bouquet forgotten beside the wine bottle. The flowers were still intact, wrapped in crumpled paper. He returned with them in hand, and without saying anything at first, placed them carefully in Johnny’s lap.

“They’re for you,” he said softly, almost in a whisper.

“They’re just to see you happy, Johnny. That’s all.”

Johnny gazed at the flowers as if they were something distant, a symbol of another world. He touched the petals with the tips of his fingers, slowly. Then raised his face, and the smile that appeared was not one of laughter. it was one of recognition, of seeing something beautiful even amid the pain. A bittersweet smile, full of tenderness, but with a shadow behind his eyes.

“You’re a dork, Simon,” he murmured, unable to hold back the emotion in his lips. “But… I like this.”

And then, without warning, he nestled against him again. Pulled Simon’s large body and rested his head on his chest, eyes closing as if that gesture could ward off any evil from the world. Simon welcomed him without hesitation, one of his hands rising to caress the nape of his neck in slow circles. He felt the warmth of Johnny’s body and how he sought security there, and it warmed him… but also weighed on him. Because as genuine as that embrace was, Simon still heard, deep down, like a muffled echo, the voice from the tape. The cold words, the manipulative tone, the way Johnny had offered himself moments ago, not out of desire, but something much older. Something much more sad.

Simon couldn’t shake the idea that perhaps, for Johnny, affection and submission were still too intertwined. As if he needed to give his body in order to earn the affection. As if love, for him, was still a silent transaction.

He closed his eyes and rested his chin on Johnny’s head, inhaling slowly. He wanted to believe that that moment, the blanket, the flowers, the clumsily poured wine were enough to break a cycle. That they were building a new space there. But something inside him remained alert. As if the ground beneath them was still too unstable. Johnny nestled more deeply, his hand holding Simon’s loosely but firmly. And Simon squeezed back. A silent pact.

Maybe he didn’t know how to undo a past that wasn’t his. But he knew he could guard the present. Care for every moment. Create a future where Johnny could simply be who he was. Loved.

Yeah… he loves Johnny.

Chapter Text

It was still dark, the sky seeming to hold its breath for one moment longer, as if reluctant to yield to dawn. The blackness was cut only by the quiet speckling of the stars, which stubbornly clung to the heights even with the subtle announcement of the first light on the horizon. Leaning against the cold wall of Saint Barbara’s Cathedral, Simon observed the stillness around him with the precision of someone who had learned to find patterns in silence. The stained-glass windows were dark, the inner corridors submerged in the welcoming darkness of sleep. Exactly as he expected — and as he had confirmed over the last five days. The residents of the religious institution followed a predictable routine: they remained in their quarters until seven in the morning, when preparations for mass began. All of them… except one.

Father Donald.

Simon had watched him discreetly, from a distance, as if stalking a skittish animal in an open field. The man was punctual, religiously punctual. He rose before everyone else, left through the side door at exactly five o’clock, walked to the smaller chapel behind the cathedral, and stayed there in silent prayer for almost an hour, alone. Without fail. No variation. And that detail, that blind rigidity of faith was exactly what Simon needed.

Trust routines. Anticipate the predictable. His wristwatch read 4:56. Simon checked the time with the disciplined calm of someone who knew how to wait. He wore a dark balaclava, partially concealed by the hood of a black sweatshirt. The streets of Ullapool, as expected, were deserted. The small, isolated town slept a heavy sleep, cradled by the cold and the solitude of the early morning. Still, he never trusted luck. He never had. During his years in the SAS, he had learned that luck was only the flimsy curtain covering negligence. Ghost, as they knew him, never left gaps. He never underestimated a mission, no matter how simple it seemed. And eliminating a priest in a God-forgotten small town… well, this would be no different.

Time dripped without hurry. The bluish light of the sky began to shift subtly, but darkness still reigned. Then, at exactly 5:00, Simon heard slow, steady footsteps. The faint creak of old wood giving way as the cathedral’s side door opened. No sudden sounds. No rush. Everything as predicted.

Simon didn’t move. He stayed pressed to the stone wall, his body as still as part of the structure. His eyes, watchful. Waiting for the right moment. The priest crossed the inner courtyard, a dark silhouette against the faint shine of the stars, wrapped in his own thoughts or prayers. Simon would not rush. He only had to wait for the ritual to complete. Then he would act.

The door of the smaller chapel closed slowly behind Father Donald, letting out a soft groan, like the sigh of tired wood. Inside, everything seemed suspended — time, sound, even the air. It was a small space, forgotten by the world, where the faithful rarely stepped. Only he did. Every morning, as if his devotion could halt the slow decay of that place. Simon remained outside for a few seconds. He looked at the highest stained glass, where the faint light of candles lit the night before still leaked through. They still glowed, timid, as if hesitant to go out alone. That kind of detail reminded him that the world kept turning even where it seemed stagnant. Faith, for some, was just that: an empty repetition.

His right hand tightened on the grip of his pistol. Simon hadn’t trembled in many years. But there was something primitive in that gesture, like confirming he had absolute control over what was to come and savoring every moment.The sound of his boot sole on gravel was barely audible. The side door of the chapel was ajar. Inside, kneeling with his back to the entrance, the priest prayed.

Simon stopped at the threshold.To him, the hypocrisy of the scene before him was ironic. The man kneeling before faith, small, fragile. Like a deer drinking water, unaware of the predator on the opposite bank.

He stepped inside. The noise of wood under his boots was minimal, but enough for the priest to pause his prayer. Simon didn’t quicken his pace. He walked slowly between the pews, his eyes fixed on the exposed nape of the man ahead. When he was two steps from the altar, Simon raised the pistol. With violence and coldness, he pressed the muzzle to the base of the priest’s head, exactly where the brain meets the spine. A point where everything can go dark in a second. The priest’s body tensed.

“Quiet,” Simon whispered, his voice muffled by the balaclava. Low, dry, without a trace of emotion.

“Turn slowly. Don’t scream.”

The priest didn’t respond. Maybe he prayed in silence. Maybe he tried to control his bladder. Whatever was going through his head, Simon couldn’t — and didn’t want to — know.

With forced slowness, the priest began to turn. He kept his hands raised, visibly trembling. His pale face, wide and sunken eyes. Aged by the sudden awareness of death. He tried to see through the shadow of the hood, searching for humanity, or redemption, or something to spare him. But what he found was the void in Simon’s eyes.

"We’re going to have a little conversation” Simon murmured, the gun still steady, still without the slightest hint of hurry.

The silence between them stretched for a time that couldn’t be measured precisely. The barrel of the gun still pressed against the priest’s sweaty forehead, and Simon held the stance without apparent effort. The other man panted in silence. Eyes wide, wet, locked on his, as someone who looks at death with a faith already broken. Around them, the candles crackled softly, trembling in their holders, dripping melted wax like hot tears.

“Why did you do that to him?” 

Samuel’s eyes widened. A flicker of confusion mixed with something else… a tremor too studied to be real. Simon saw it. And hated it.

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man murmured, his voice trembling like a glass about to fall from the table’s edge.

“Son… I think you’re mistaking me for—” The crack came before the pain. Simon didn’t wait for the sentence to end. His fist shot forward, the trained arm delivering the blow hard. The impact landed squarely on the side of the priest’s face, sending his limp body down.

He collapsed to his knees on the cold stone floor, his cassock rumpling around his legs. The thud echoed through the chapel walls. Simon breathed steadily, without rush. His eyes locked on the fallen figure. A step forward. His boots found the stones as if part of the floor. Blood from the corner of the priest’s mouth was already beginning to trickle.

“Don’t fake it,” he said, lower now, but with raw ferocity. “Don’t fucking fake it with me. Why did you do that to Mactavish?”

The priest hesitated. Then he raised his eyes, still kneeling. A hand felt his injured face, blood-stained fingers resting on his lips, as if the taste of his own punishment brought him focus. But something had shifted. Something in his eyes, the façade of compassion beginning to crumble.

“You’re talking… about Johnny?” he asked at last, his voice drier, more worn. And there was something there Simon recognized. Cynicism. Deceit. The filthy language of someone who knows he’s been found out.

Simon didn’t answer. He took another step. The movement was almost imperceptible before the strike came. Quick, brutal. The butt of the gun hit the top of the priest’s head, making him fall to the side, his hand trying to soften the impact with a muffled groan.

“Don’t say his name.” Simon crouched beside the twisted body, his face now only inches away. The gun still steady. His eyes didn’t even blink. “Don’t you dare. You don’t have that right.”

Samuel fell silent. Outwardly, he coughed and groaned. Inwardly, something rearranged itself. Simon saw it. There was no priest anymore. No “Donald.” Only Samuel. And Samuel was no man of faith. Samuel was a predator. But that was fine, because at that moment, he was face-to-face with Ghost.

“The tapes, Samuel. I saw them.”

The priest’s expression melted like wax under fire. But not from fear — from something darker. The corner of his mouth lifted, swollen and bloodied, yet still carrying a shadow of contempt. No more room for theater.

“So… you saw them?”

His voice was different now. Low. Drier. And clean — clean of the illusion of innocence, clean of the fantasy of remorse. Simon straightened slowly. The gun now pointed at the man’s chest, still kneeling, still panting, his face cut and dirty, but his gaze… steady. Arrogant.

“What’s all this about?” Samuel murmured, tilting his head slightly, as if studying something with boredom. “Justice?”

The last word was spat with disdain.

“It doesn’t matter what you do now.” He continued, his voice taking on a calmer tone. “It won’t change what happened to those boys. Any of them. Is that what you want? To play vigilante?”

Simon didn’t answer immediately. “I don’t believe in justice.” He paused, as if tasting the sentence. “Or redemption. Or any other utopian bullshit like that.”

“What you did is repulsive, O’Byrne. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m not a good man. Never have been. I don’t care what you did to the others.” — He inhaled. “But you. Never. Fucking. Ever. Should have laid a hand on John Mactavish.”

The name fell like lead. Samuel stayed silent for a moment. Then the laugh came. Weak, almost imperceptible. But there. Like something crawling out of the sewer.

“Ah…” he said, with a sigh between cynical and satisfied. “So it’s about the Mactavish boy after all?”

Samuel tilted his head slightly, as if finally piecing something together. His breathing still heavy, blood still dripping from the corner of his mouth.

“So that’s it…” he murmured, eyes narrowing as if spotting an exposed weakness. “All because of him.”

The word was said with a taste Simon felt like poison.

“You saw the tapes, yes… And decided to play the gallant knight to save the blue-eyed whore.”

Simon didn’t move. Not a centimeter. But inside, something boiled. An old, violent, almost primitive heat. The kind of rage that doesn’t scream — it pulses.

“He always had that little slut’s way, didn’t he? Always pretending to be lost, fragile…” — Samuel chuckled, dry. — “And in the end, it was just about lowering his pants. A bit of attention. A treat. A lap to curl into. And he’d open his legs.”

Simon tightened his grip on the gun. His knuckles turned white under the black glove. But he said nothing. Not yet.

“You think you’re the first to fall for it?” The priest spat on the floor, blood and saliva in a gesture of disdain. “He does that with everyone. With a look. A little laugh. And that hot little ass he pretends he doesn’t have but uses better than any street whore.”

Samuel laughed again, harder, with scorn.“I bet you’re in on it too. You fuck him as well? Is that why you came here with all this theater? To defend your little bitch?”

That was when Simon moved. His free hand came down like a sledgehammer, hitting Samuel’s face with enough force to knock him off balance, his head slamming against the stone floor. Then Simon moved again. Slowly, he raised his hands to his own face. His fingers calmly pulled at the edge of the balaclava. The fabric slid away, revealing his face. Simon wanted Samuel O’Byrne to see the face that would send him to his coffin.

“…You,”

Samuel whispered, choking on his saliva. “You’re the ex-military. The one who moved here months ago… ”

Samuel’s body shifted back slightly, dragging himself away, as if he could escape his own sentence. But Simon was already crouched at his backpack. Still silent. Every gesture seemed calculated with cruel precision, as if each second had been imagined dozens of times before this morning arrived. From the backpack, Simon pulled a translucent, slightly dented plastic container.

Gasoline.

The sharp, familiar smell spread through the air before he even removed the cap.Samuel’s eyes widened.

“Wait,” he started, his voice now different, more human, almost trembling. “You’re not… you’re not going to do this. You can’t—”

Simon approached. Without a word, he lifted the container and poured it over the priest’s chest, letting the liquid gush in heavy, cold streams, soaking the black cassock and the shirt beneath. The smell intensified immediately — cutting through incense, wax, and dried blood. The entire chapel now smelled like a gas station before an explosion.

The priest writhed, coughed, tried to stand.

“Stop. Please… listen, listen… I… I was sick.” His voice was now a plea — but a filthy, cowardly plea, without remorse, only fear. — “You don’t have to do this. You can… you can give everything to the police, the bishop, the press, I’ll confess, I—”

“This isn’t about justice, don’t you get it?” Simon murmured, low. “It’s about what you deserve.”

Simon still held the empty container in one hand, and now, with the other, he reached into the inside pocket of his coat. He pulled out a small, battered matchbox, its edges dented with time and use. The wood inside rattled softly when he shook it, as if celebrating the moment. He opened it calmly. Chose a single match, with almost ceremonial care, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly, as if weighing the act itself. There was an icy rage in his eyes.

"You know, Father…” he began, his voice calm enough to be more threatening than if he shouted.

“Part of me wanted to do this another way. Keep you alive. Sat in a rusted chair. Bound with barbed wire. I wanted time. To break your legs one by one. Cut your tendons. Maybe even take a limb.”

The hand with the match lowered slowly, his eyes still fixed on the kneeling man before him, drenched and trembling.

“I wanted to tear out your tongue. I wanted to hear you cry the way I heard him.”

He closed his eyes for a second, as if taking a deep breath — then smiled. Brief. Harsh.

“But the plan has to move forward.” His eyes lifted to the old boards of the chapel’s ceiling. “A candle fell, didn’t it? Rolled off the altar. Brushed against old fabric… old wood catches fire so easily.”

He stepped closer, his boots making the ancient floor creak. “They’ll cry for the loss of this place. Maybe even for you. One of those poetic tragedies people love to talk about between prayers. But only you and I will know what it really was.”

Samuel coughed, his hair and cassock dripping gasoline.

“You can burn it all, you lunatic. Wipe my body from this place. But you won’t take him away from here.”

Their eyes locked now. A sick gleam ran through Samuel’s. “Your precious Johnny’s mind is buried in this altar. And it always will be. Every time he cries, it’s because of me. Every time he trembles in your arms, it’s me he feels. I was the one who opened that body for the first time.”

Simon didn’t react. Not a twitch of his jaw.

"You might even say he’s yours now,” Samuel hissed. “But every time you touch that boy, no matter how gentle you try to be… I was there first. And maybe, just maybe… he liked it. Moaned like a grateful little bitch.”

Simon tilted his head, looking at him as one contemplates something already dead. He struck the match against the box’s side. The flame came alive, hungry. Samuel’s body recoiled instinctively. But there was no escape. Gasoline dripped from his clothes, his hair, his hands. Simon watched the flame for a second longer, then let it fall. The match danced briefly in the air — and found the priest’s chest. The fire roared upward. The garments caught in seconds. The skin began to crack before the first scream left the man’s throat.

Simon stood still. The scream came — raw, animal, inconsolable. Samuel writhed, toppled to the side, knocking over candles, hitting the altar. The flames spread as if hell itself had awakened inside. The carpet, the curtains, the old pews… everything ignited in a frenzied blaze.

Simon then put the matchbox back in his pocket. And walked away. He left behind a trail of smoke and burning flesh, of religious images turning to charcoal before stone eyes. By the time he crossed the chapel’s door, the fire had reached the ceiling. The cross above the altar groaned under the heat and toppled backward, plunging into the flames as if abandoning a kingdom. Simon paused at the threshold. The wind blew against his face, bringing the bittersweet scent of old wood burning and charred flesh. The heat licked at his back, a living reminder of what he had just done — and what he was willing to do again, if necessary.

He lingered longer than he should, eyes fixed on the collapsing church interior. Flames rose like living walls, devouring sacred images, shattering stained glass, turning relics into embers.

There was something sacred in that ending.

And for a second, he allowed himself to feel. Not guilt. Not regret. But purpose. A thin thread of thought slid through him, slow, viscous, and took shape as he let it surface:

“Everything I did… was for him.”

Johnny.

With his restless ways, his cheerful voice, his stupid hair, and his blue eyes too big for such a small world. Johnny, who even wounded, could still smile.

Johnny, who never knew how much he was worth.

It was all for him.
Even when it hurt.
Even when it stained.



____________



The sky over Ullapool, usually overcast, dawned stained with an irregular grayish-yellow hue, and those passing through the square early quickly noticed the strange heat coming from the direction of the hill.

The Cathedral of Saint Barbara did not ring its bells that morning.

And when they did ring, at nine o’clock sharp, it was the high-pitched sound of the local fire station’s siren.

Three days after the fire, a small ceremony was held at Saint Barbara’s Cathedral, gathering a few townsfolk for Father Donald’s funeral. The coffin was closed — and not out of vanity, but necessity. The body had been found in a deplorable state, burned to the point where any traditional funeral ceremony was impossible. The smell of charred wood still seemed to cling to the small community, as if the fire had left a mark the wind could not carry away. Simon stood beside Johnny, in the aisle near the church wall. The boy kept his gaze down, shoulders slightly hunched, as if simply being there was a garment that no longer fit him. Johnny had only come because his father insisted. Angus had said it was the least respect to show the man who had led his son’s catechism years ago. He had no idea that the man he’d trusted was the same one haunting his beloved child’s nightmares — if he knew, Simon was certain, he’d never have forced him to come. Simon glanced sideways at Angus, sitting a few pews ahead, his face closed. The man clearly disliked his presence, but despite that, Simon could not deny he was a good father. Was there perhaps a shadow of suspicion there? Or was it just the natural hostility of a man who fiercely protects his own blood? He couldn’t tell.

Johnny shifted beside him, restless. Simon leaned slightly and touched his shoulder, a brief gesture.

" I’ll step outside for a bit. Want to come? " he asked in a low tone. The boy shook his head.

"No, Si. It’s fine. Go ahead."

With that, Simon walked down the central aisle, feeling the muffled murmur of prayers dissolve as he neared the door. The cold morning light met him outside, along with a silence heavier than the words inside. He paused at the entrance of Saint Barbara’s Cathedral. In the distance, the remains of the small chapel where it had all ended were still visible. The charred walls, the collapsed roof, the smell of ashes. Simon looked at the scene like someone gazing at the final work of an inevitable act. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and leaned against the stone wall of the church. He inhaled slowly, feeling the smoke fill his lungs and the tension ebb away.

There was no regret. None. Johnny was free now, free from that venomous voice, from that past that insisted on holding him prisoner.

Simon saw Angus emerge from the heavy cathedral doors, his steps firm on the damp pavement. The silhouette stood out against the gray morning, and it took Simon a moment to realize he was coming toward him. He frowned, confused. Angus was not one to seek him out. In fact, he made a point of avoiding him — not rudely, but with that calculated distance of someone who prefers to pretend the other does not exist.

“Riley,” the man began, his deep voice carrying an uncomfortable formality. “I’d rather not have this conversation here, in this situation. But I see it’s necessary to say this once and for all.”

Simon took a slow drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke slip from the corner of his mouth without rushing his reply.

"Go on."

Angus kept his eyes fixed on him, without beating around the bush.

" What’s the nature of your relationship with my son?"

The question caught him off guard. Simon had always known the man held a certain discomfort about his closeness to Johnny. What he hadn’t expected was for Angus to put it into words — especially under the circumstances of the current event.

"I don’t understand your question, Mactavish." He took another drag, holding his gaze. " I arrived in town a few months ago, and your son was the only person who talked to me, who made an effort to get to know me. We became friends, that’s all."

It was such a simple lie it almost sounded convincing. Angus could never know what truly existed between them, neither he nor anyone else in that village. The age difference alone would be enough to spark judgmental looks, but there was also the invisible yet solid barrier of religion. He and Johnny were both men. Angus was a devout Catholic, and to him, it would be more than a mistake, it would be a sin. Simon didn’t care what Angus thought. He couldn’t care less about the boy’s father’s disapproval. But he did care about how Johnny would feel. He didn’t want to see that broken look on his face, the weight of family rejection.

Angus let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders sinking as if carrying an old burden. His tired eyes held something unsettled.

"My son has always been very lonely. The few friends he had left when they turned eighteen. I was glad when he came home saying he’d made a new friend." He paused briefly, as if what came next was forbidden ground.

"I’ve always found this closeness strange… And ever since that day he got drunk at your place and slept there, I’ve thought this conversation was inevitable."

Simon narrowed his eyes. " What are you implying?"

" You and my son... Is there something going on?"

" No."

Angus studied him, his mouth set, as if trying to wrench the truth from him by sheer force of will.

"But you want there to be… don’t you?"

The silence between them thickened. Simon didn’t answer, but the tension in the air seemed to confirm more than it denied.

" I’m not stupid, Riley. I see the way you look at him." Angus’s voice carried a barely contained hardness. " He’s an adult, yes… but he’s still just a boy. He doesn’t know what he wants from life, and I’m not even sure he understands how strange this is."

Simon pressed the cigarette between his fingers. 

"I would never hurt your son, Mactavish."

The man’s gaze was apathetic on the surface, but beneath it was a trace of anguish, like a knot that wouldn’t come undone.

" If Johnny wants this… there’s nothing I can do. It’s his choice, but I will step in the moment you do anything against him."

" My son likes you a lot" Angus concluded, almost in a murmur. " So, for God’s sake… don’t disappoint him."

When Simon returned inside the cathedral. The air there felt heavier than before, thick with old incense and the low murmur of prayers. The yellowish lights reflected off the wooden surfaces, casting long shadows like fingers stretching across the floor.

Johnny was sitting in a pew now, his body slightly hunched, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. He lifted his eyes as soon as Simon approached.

"You okay? "Johnny asked quietly. The boy had noticed the subtle change in Simon’s demeanor upon returning. Tense shoulders, heavy steps, and a vacant stare.

Simon simply sat beside him, his coat creaking softly against the wood. The question echoed inside him but found no simple answer. He wasn’t okay. Not since meeting Johnny… or rather, not since fearing losing him.

As he stared at the altar, his thoughts began to thicken like smoke. What if Angus decided to pull him away from me? The conversation from moments ago still burned in his mind, like barely extinguished embers. What if someone convinced Johnny I’m no good for him? There was something corrosive in simply imagining that absence.

The distant sound of footsteps and voices couldn’t pierce the mental siege Simon had built. He didn’t want to, couldn’t allow Johnny to be taken. Not by Angus, not by the town, not by anyone. Johnny was sitting right beside him, breathing, alive, present… but the mere thought of seeing him go — by choice or not — was enough to make his muscles tense, as if ready to hold, contain, keep.

Simon’s gaze shifted toward him. Johnny didn’t notice — or pretended not to — that look lingering longer than necessary, a possessive, claiming look.

Deep down, Simon knew this wasn’t a healthy way to feel, but he also knew he didn’t care. Johnny was the only thing that still brought any color to the world around him. And once a color is lost, it can never be regained.

 

He answered the question far too late.

 

"Yeah, Johnny, it’s fine..."

Chapter Text

It was nothing more than a routine day, but to him it felt like something precious. Johnny was in his kitchen, making pizza dough, his hands sticky with flour and his mohawk slightly messy, as if decorating himself with the chaos of what he was doing was the most natural thing in the world. The homely sight took Simon’s breath away — such a sweet contrast to the usual violence he had been shaped by for years. He never thought he would want anything like this for his life, never pictured himself inside a scene so ordinary, so domestic. But somehow, more and more, he clung to these small moments, as if the weight of everything else had no place there.

Simon Riley had never been so happy in his entire life.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching silently. Johnny was humming softly, off-key and carefree, but so surrendered to his own joy that it made Simon smile behind the invisible mask he always carried with him. It was rare to feel light, but there, in that instant, in his presence, the burdens of the past seemed to dissolve — there was no war, no pain. Only the smell of fresh dough, of cheese, of life.

"Gonna just stand there watching or are you gonna help me? "

Johnny lifted his face, a crooked smile, his heavy accent flowing with ease.

Simon took a second to move. He walked to him slowly, like someone afraid of breaking something sacred, like someone stepping into a dream. He slid his hand behind Johnny, wrapping his arm around his waist, pulling him closer with care. The fabric of his T-shirt was already dusted with flour, rough and soft at the same time under Simon’s palm. He lowered his face and rested his chin on Johnny’s shoulder, breathing deep, imprinting the smell, the warmth, the presence.

" I’m helping. Supervising you " He murmured, his voice deep and low, almost a confession.

Johnny turned his face halfway, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

" Are you? " he teased.

Before Simon could reply, Johnny smeared his flour-covered hand across Simon’s face, leaving a white streak on his skin, as if he wanted to sign his name there. Johnny laughed loudly, the sound reverberating through the small kitchen, filling it with life.

"Now you’re participating." Simon snorted, tightening the embrace, ignoring the mess now also on him. He didn’t care — in fact, he liked it. He liked the idea of being marked by him, of being dragged into this lighthearted routine he had never believed he deserved.

" You’re a little shit, you know that? " Simon’s voice came muffled against Johnny’s neck, and still carried something almost sweet. Johnny laughed again, leaning against him, still with the dough between his fingers.

"An’ yet ye adore me." He spoke with a heavy accent. Johnny often avoided speaking in his native language so as not to confuse Simon.

Simon closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t need to answer. The silent squeeze he gave Johnny said it all. Leaving Simon’s arms, Johnny picked up the now uniform dough and transferred it into a deep plastic bowl. He covered it with the cotton cloth he had asked Simon to fetch minutes before, like a small domestic ritual.

" I have to let the dough rest a while so it can rise. " he said naturally, adjusting the cloth over the bowl. " I’m not making you a flat pizza. I take pride in my culinary skills."

Simon raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly at Johnny’s confidence.

"Can we watch a movie while we wait? "Johnny asked, wiping his palm on his apron.

" Of course we can." Simon replied, his deep voice quiet. "But wash your hands first."

The Scotsman made a theatrical grimace, but obeyed. As he headed to the sink, Simon left the kitchen, crossing the hallway to the living room. He rarely turned on the TV. To him, it had always been a useless object, an artificial noise in a life already too full of voices, most of them inside his own head. The last time that screen had lit up was weeks ago, when he’d watched one of the sex tapes the late Father Donald had recorded of Johnny. The memory still corroded him — as if he were witnessing the violation live and not through an old recording.

The mere thought was enough to churn his stomach. Donald was dead now. Dead by his hands. He would never again have the chance to hurt Johnny, never again haunt him. And yet, traces of his cruelty remained, like open scars. Simon remembered clearly a particular day, weeks earlier, when Johnny had cried in the passenger seat of his car after seeing the priest in the flesh. The words spoken that night, between sobs and ragged breaths, were etched into his mind like red-hot iron:

 

"This makes me feel disgusting..."

 

If Johnny didn’t want to talk about it, he would respect that. But he would always be there, arms open, ready to bear the weight, if Johnny ever decided to share.

He turned on the television, settling on a random channel. It turned out to be one of those second-rate war films — a cheap WWII classic. The lines were shallow, the historical mistakes glaring, the cinematography overdone. To Simon, it was almost a parody. Nothing compared to the raw reality he knew in detail. But he imagined Johnny might be entertained. Simon was already on the couch when Johnny came in, now with clean hands, his hair still messy from rushing around the kitchen. Without asking, he dropped beside Simon, fitting himself into the space next to him as if that spot had always been meant for him.

" What a cliché, Simon. " he laughed, shaking his head at the screen. "You can’t be serious. Right?"

Simon turned his face slightly toward him.

"What? You want me to change it?"

"It was just a joke, silly." Johnny nudged his shoulder lightly, smiling. " It’s kind of cute, actually. You putting on something like this. Leave it."

The movie went on. Johnny made comments and questions about the military, about uniforms, about the storyline that seemed lost between shallow dialogue. Simon always answered with deep knowledge, sometimes too technical, but Johnny seemed to enjoy it, interrupting with more questions, laughing at some details. For a few minutes, everything was fine. Normal. Almost comfortable.

 

Until the scene changed.

 

The American protagonist had been captured.

The screen showed a dark, damp bunker, lit by a single lamp hanging from the ceiling. The soldier was tied to a chair, arms bound, panting. The first slap echoed. 

 

Then the screams.

 

Simon’s body froze instantly.

 

An invisible chain yanked him back in time.

His eyes, once attentive to Johnny’s questions, locked on the screen. But he wasn’t seeing the movie anymore. The sound no longer came from the TV. The screams didn’t belong to an actor. They belonged to memories that never stopped echoing in Simon’s troubled mind, ricocheting back to the surface.

 

His spine stiffened. His blood turned cold. The air grew heavy.

 

The living room vanished. Johnny vanished.

 

There was no couch, no smell of dough rising.

 

There was no Ullapool. No 2007.

 

It was 1991.

 

The cutting Russian winter seeped through holes in the walls, blending into the foggy atmosphere of Scotland. That blue darkness so characteristic of frozen days had haunted Simon for years. The iron chair he sat on was the same. The cold of the shackles burned his skin.

And the sound… the sound was identical.

Simon’s chest rose and fell fast, though he didn’t notice. His gaze was trapped on something far beyond the screen, beyond the room. The pain was back, invading him without permission.

 

Everything was ripped away from him as if it had never existed.

 

The cold was cutting, sinking into his bones, but not enough to dull the pain. His feet throbbed raw, without nails, the sensitive stumps pulsing like open wounds. His hands, swollen and purple, still burned. The broken leg hurt in a way he thought he had already gotten used to, but every second it renewed itself, as if the bone had just snapped again.

His back was a field of flames. He remembered the hook in the ceiling, remembered the iron cutting his flesh when he had been hung like an animal in a slaughterhouse. To this day he could feel the skin tearing, the muscles ripping open under the weight of his own body.

And the voice.

 

That damned voice.

 

" Ty sil'nyy soldat, da? " Petrov’s mocking intonation echoed through the space. “You’re a strong soldier, aren’t you?”

Simon closed his eyes, but it didn’t matter. The voice came from all sides, as if it were recorded inside his skull.

Petrov always spoke in an almost friendly tone, like someone telling a joke over vodka. That was the worst part. The contrast between the words and the terror they carried made Simon feel even smaller. The sound of boots dragging on concrete filled the echo, each step drawing closer.

"Nu i chto, maska? "— he whispered near his ear, the sour reek of tobacco burning his nostrils. “And so, mask?”

Simon tried to move, but the chains clamped his wrists brutally. The chair groaned under the weight of his exhausted body. He felt the dried blood on his shirt, sticking to the fabric like a second skin. Each breath was a new slash to his lungs.

Petrov laughed low, a harsh sound, almost intimate.

 

" Ya vsegda khochu uslyshat', kak tvoy golos lomaetsya."

“I always want to hear how your voice breaks.”

 

Simon clenched his teeth. He wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Never. But his throat throbbed, dry, as if it would burst at any moment. The pain wasn’t just physical. It was a hollowing-out. As if with every blow, every session, a part of him was being torn away. Time lost its shape. Days? Months? He no longer knew. He had escaped, hadn’t he? Why was he here again? 

 

The cold iron of the chair against his bare skin.

 

The taste of blood always present in his mouth.

 

The constant ringing in his ears.

And Petrov’s shadow, always there, pacing in circles, smoking, laughing, speaking in a tone that mixed cruelty and indifference. Simon wanted to disappear.

He wanted his body to stop existing.

But he was trapped. Trapped in that chair. Trapped in that basement. Trapped in that winter that never ended.

 

His voice returned, whispering like poison.

"Nikto ne pridët za toboj, maska. Ty umrësh’ zdes’.

“No one will come for you, mask. You’ll die here.”

 

The hatred came first as a faint spark, hidden under the ice of trauma. But suddenly, it was like fire consuming a dry field. Simon no longer felt the weight of the chains on his wrists, nor the iron biting at his ankles. He was free. Free to kill.

 

When his eyes opened again, Petrov was standing before him, so close the smell of tobacco and sweat seemed to invade his nostrils. Without thinking, Simon lunged forward, his body propelled by a fury that wasn’t a choice, but instinct.

 

His hands closed around Petrov’s neck, squeezing violently. The rough skin gave way under his fingers. The Russian’s green eyes widened, his large hands clawing at Simon’s wrists, trying to breathe.

 

"Enjoying it, Petrov? You son of a bitch."

 

The sound of chains was replaced by the sound of choking gargles.

 

"Come on, beg! Beg like I begged!"

 

" Simon… please… " the voice faltered, choked, pleading.

 

His true name.

 

Not Ghost, not maska.

 

“Simon.”

 

That only fed the rage further. Simon squeezed harder, feeling the veins in the neck bulge beneath his grip, feeling the air escape in useless spasms. For a moment, there was pleasure in it. A perverse relief. The monster was finally falling.

 

But something began to collapse.

Petrov’s features… weren’t right. It wasn’t the broad, gray face he remembered. The eyes weren’t the same. The accent broke into another cadence, another rhythm.

Why were Petrov’s eyes blue?

 

The man before him began to cry.

And Petrov didn’t cry. Never cried. Not even when Simon murdered him.

 

The sound cut through him like a blade: a loud, desperate sob, a cry Simon knew. A cry that didn’t belong to Russia, nor to that basement.

 

He blinked. Once. The scene trembled, warped like cracked glass.

 

The concrete walls dissolved. The cold vanished. The smell of tobacco disappeared.

 

And beneath his hands… it wasn’t Petrov’s neck.

 

It was Johnny.

The messy mohawk, the skin now marked red from the pressure, the blue eyes wide with panic. Johnny writhed beneath his weight, tears streaming down his temples. The slim hands clawed at Simon’s arms, trying to pull him off, trying to breathe.

" Simon… please… let me go" it was Johnny speaking. His voice broken, choked, pleading, while Simon felt each frantic heartbeat pulsing beneath his fingers. Simon’s world shattered into absolute silence.

And Simon felt fear too. Not of Petrov. But of himself.

Simon’s hands opened suddenly, as if Johnny’s neck had burned his skin. He stepped back, his trembling fingers still remembering the sensation of hot, pulsing flesh under his grip. Johnny’s air escaped in a painful rasp, and the red marks, clear and deep, were engraved in the delicate skin of his throat.

Johnny’s hands flew to his own neck immediately, instinctive, desperate, as if he still needed to protect it. He coughed hard, the dry sound slicing through the silence of the room like knives. Each cough seemed to tear something from inside him.

Simon collapsed to his knees before the scene, as if his legs had given up holding him. His heart beat erratically, his breath short, and the world spun around him in suffocating spirals.

"No… no, no, no… " his voice shook, dragged, a strangled whisper. He reached his hands toward Johnny, but pulled back before touching him, as if afraid of his own touch. " Forgive me, Johnny… please… I never… never meant to…"

Simon’s eyes burned, red, wet, but no tears fell. It was as if he was too dry even to cry. He crawled across the floor to Johnny and tried to lift him by the back to help him sit, desperate to give him some support. Johnny coughed again, his body hunched, fingers still clutching his own throat. He tried to speak, but his voice came out hoarse, broken by pain. Only a brief sound, shapeless, soon swallowed by another coughing fit.

" I didn’t want to hurt you… I swear " Simon babbled, his voice unraveling. "Do you believe me? Please, believe me… I never… Johnny, I never! " His tone rose, almost a scream, broken with despair, as if the words were a loose rope trying to hold an abyss.

He gripped the boy’s shoulders, pleading with his eyes, unable to look at him for more than a second. Each glimpse of the marked neck made his stomach twist in disgust at himself.

" Look at me… please " he asked, almost begged. "Forgive me Johnny, I didn’t mean to do this… I… I…"

Johnny opened his mouth, trying to say something, but the sound died in another dry, painful cough. His tearful eyes met Simon’s for an instant, and what Simon saw there wasn’t hatred, wasn’t contempt… it was fear. Fear of him.

That sight destroyed him.

Simon dropped Johnny’s shoulders as if struck, and brought his own hands to his face, curling up. Simon could no longer bear the weight he carried in his chest. The knot in his throat broke, and for the first time in years the tears came. They weren’t discreet, they weren’t silent. They came raw, violent, heavy, as if each one were dragged from a dark place he swore he had buried forever. His whole body trembled. His ragged breathing made his chest heave like a wounded animal, and the sobs mixed with disjointed words:

" I didn’t want to… never wanted to… Johnny… I didn’t want to hurt you…"

Johnny tried to draw in air, his chest rising and falling with effort, his face still red, the skin of his neck stained by the hands that, until seconds ago, had been his shelter.

Simon pressed his forehead to Johnny’s knee, his voice breaking into repeated pleas. He bent in on himself, head lowered, his hands clutching his own hair as if he could rip that memory from his skull by force. But it was true, wasn’t it? It wasn’t another hallucination — he had hurt Johnny.

" I didn’t want to… not you… never you…"

The heavy silence of the room was filled only by Johnny’s ragged coughing and Simon’s desperate murmurs. Johnny, still gasping, took time before managing to extend his hand. His fingers trembled, his throat ached with every swallow, but still he leaned forward. With effort, he brushed his hand over Simon’s face, wiping the heavy tears that ran in trails down his chin and sparse beard. The touch was fragile, hesitant — but real. Simon’s eyes widened, paralyzed. Johnny had never seen him like that. No one had. And still, there he was, touching him as if the world hadn’t just collapsed.

Johnny tried to speak, but his voice failed. He coughed, cleared his throat, choked on his own air. Even so, he persisted. Each word came broken, scraped, but loaded with truth.

" I… I’m not upset with you… " he said with difficulty, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper. " It’s okay… it’s okay, Simon."

Simon felt the ground open under his feet. “It’s okay.” How could it be? He had almost destroyed the one thing he loved most. The contrast between the forgiveness offered and the crushing weight of guilt buried him deeper. He pressed Johnny’s hand against his face, holding it tightly, as if he needed to make sure he was still there, still breathing. The tears wouldn’t stop, falling heavy. Simon brought his hands to Johnny’s neck with an almost ceremonial slowness. His calloused, heavy fingers slid over the warm, sensitive skin, tracing the red mark beginning to form. The impressions of his own strength were there, engraved like a cruel reminder of what had just happened. He swallowed hard, his jaw locked. With each new mark revealed under his touch, the guilt pressed deeper into his chest, as if each scratch were a reminder that he could never escape what he carried inside.

" I did this… " he murmured, almost to himself, his thumbs brushing carefully over the reddened marks. " My God, Johnny… I almost…"

He stopped. The sentence wouldn’t come out whole. The weight of it refused to be spoken aloud. Johnny, for his part, remained still for a few seconds, letting Simon look, touch, absorb. The silence was dense, suffocating. Then, when he realized Simon was about to sink back into that dark pit of guilt, he took a deep breath and raised an eyebrow, his tone hoarse, but clearly trying to lighten the moment:

"Well… at least you didn’t break anything, right? I can still swallow."

Simon lifted his gaze, shocked by the comment, but before he could react, Johnny continued with a crooked smile, tired but genuine:

"That’s a good sign, isn’t it? Means you won’t have to feed me through a straw."

The breath trapped in Simon’s chest escaped in a heavy sigh. There was no humor in it, but his eyes trembled in disbelief as they met Johnny’s.

"Don’t joke about that…" he murmured, his voice deep and heavy. "That’s not funny, Johnny."

"I’m serious," Johnny insisted, though the mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed him. He lifted one hand to Simon’s face, resting his palm against his cheek. "If I’d kicked you in the face, wouldn’t you laugh a little too?"

Simon sighed again, looking away. He couldn’t find it funny, not in that moment. But there was something in Johnny’s attempt — that effort to turn pain into lightness — that cut through him like an unexpected blow. He pressed his lips tight, looking back at Johnny’s neck, his fingers sliding once more over the marked skin.

"Even so… I hurt you. That’s not… that’s not acceptable."

Johnny gave a half-smile, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. The contact was soft, intimate, breaking the harshness of Simon’s tone.

"You scared me, yes. But I know it wasn’t me you were fighting." His voice was calmer now, warm, even hoarse. Simon closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, absorbing every word as if they were drops of water in a desert. Even so, he whispered back:

"That doesn’t change anything. I should have realized, should have stopped…"

"And you did stop. See?" the smile broadened, still gentle, still tired, but insistent. "You’re here now, talking to me. That’s what matters."

There was a heavy silence between them, but it was no longer suffocating — it was a silence filled with closeness, with shared breath. Simon kept his hands on Johnny’s neck, now no longer examining, but simply holding him carefully, as if afraid he might disappear.

Johnny then laughed softly, hoarse, his voice rough but full of lightness.

"And look… if it’s going to leave a mark on me, I’d rather have a few bites on the shoulder, not this crap here."

Simon frowned, but the corner of his mouth twitched, almost an involuntary smile. Johnny winked at him, his hand still on his face.

"See? I already got you to smile a little. Mission accomplished."

Simon shook his head, resigned, and finally let out a less-heavy sigh. He didn’t know if he deserved that forgiveness, that affection. But Johnny was there, laughing, even with the pain, trying to heal him in the only way he knew how.

Simon sighed and stepped back just enough to help Johnny stand up. He held him by the shoulders with exaggerated care, as if his body were made of glass. 

" I’ll get some pain ointment " he said in a low voice, barely meeting the other’s blue eyes. Johnny just nodded, a tired smile on his lips.

Within a few minutes, Simon returned with the small tube of analgesic ointment, helping Johnny sit on the sofa. He squeezed a bit onto his fingertips and, in silence, applied it to the reddened skin of Johnny’s neck. The touch, so careful, contrasted brutally with the force that had left those marks minutes ago. Every slow movement carried regret, as if it were a way to apologize without words.

Johnny watched Simon the whole time, studying the heavy expression he tried to hide behind seriousness. There was no trace of lightness on the Simon’s face — only focus and guilt. When Simon finished, he wiped his hands in silence, but before he could get lost again in that suffocating weight, Johnny cleared his throat and said, his voice still hoarse:

"You know… I think the dough must have risen by now." Johnny said, with a half-smile that hid, beneath its lightness, the recent worry. He tilted his head toward the kitchen, as if the mere suggestion could lift the weight that still hung between them.

"What if we go there before it decides to escape the bowl and take over the whole house? I don’t want to have to clean your kitchen afterward."

Simon blinked, as if waking from a stupor. Johnny’s voice was like an anchor, pulling him back to the present. Still hesitant, he replied softly:

"Alright… let’s check it."

Johnny was the first to stand, but he didn’t let go of Simon’s hand. He guided him gently, almost with silent stubbornness, as if saying he had no choice but to follow. Simon let himself be led, fingers intertwined with Johnny’s, feeling that it was he, after all, who needed that support. Upon entering the kitchen, the air had changed — filled with the smell of yeast and wheat spreading through the space. The bowl rested on the counter, covered with the cotton cloth Johnny had arranged earlier. He slowly pulled the cloth, as if revealing a little secret, and the satisfied smile spread across his lips at the sight of the risen dough.

"See? Beautiful, fluffy… a masterpiece."

Simon watched, but his eyes weren’t really on the dough. What held his attention was Johnny’s naturalness, the almost magical way he restored balance to the moment, trying to rescue something ordinary from what seemed so fragile. Simon wondered how someone like him, marked by scars that would never fade, could be worthy of something so simple, so human.

Johnny clapped his hands together, making the still-sticky flour fly in light particles. He looked at Simon with the mischievous spark so typical of him.

"Come on, put your hand here. We still need to do the last knead before putting it in the oven." 

He grabbed a handful of flour and spread it on the counter, the white dust floating in the air like a little cloud. He pushed the bowl toward him, with a crooked little smile.

"Go on, you can use the dough as a punching bag."

"Johnny." Simon’s voice came out loud, charged with indignation. Not anger, but a seriousness born from his own guilt.

Johnny just laughed, ignoring the shadow that still lingered, and leaned in to plant a quick kiss on his cheek.

"I’m just joking, Si. Relax."

Simon sighed deeply, giving in. He approached the counter and placed his large hands on the fluffy dough, pressing it slowly, as if he feared hurting it. He began slow movements, kneading and turning, trying to follow a rhythm vaguely reminiscent of what he had seen Johnny do before.

"Am I doing it right?" he asked, his voice hoarse, eyes fixed on his task, shoulders still tense. Johnny rested his hip on the counter beside him, watching with that playful and affectionate look that could melt Simon’s thickest walls.

"Yes… but, look, it has to be firm. That makes the yeast activate and the dough rise in the oven." Johnny took his hands over the dough, guiding the circular motion. "Like this… like it's dancing."

The comparison made Simon raise an eyebrow subtly, but he obeyed, following the rhythm Johnny set. The warmth of the kitchen, the touch, the dough yielding under his hands… all created an absurdly mundane moment, but for Simon, it was almost surreal in its intimacy. Very different from what had happened minutes before.

Those same hands now working the dough had been on Johnny’s neck. They had left red marks on his delicate skin, marks that in Simon’s mind seemed deeper than they really were. He wondered, with a tight knot in his chest, if Johnny was truly okay or just pretending to spare him. The memory of the boy coughing, of tears streaming down his face as he struggled for air, appeared suddenly like a cruel specter. Johnny’s crying still haunted his ears, echoing like a silent accusation. He knew, with bitter certainty, that he wouldn’t forget that scene for a long time. Perhaps never.

Even so, Johnny smiled. Even so, the boy joked, guided his hands in the dough, nudged him lightly with his shoulder as if trying to coax a stubborn laugh. Simon didn’t know how to handle it — whether it was sincere forgiveness, or just Johnny’s desperate way of stitching normality back together. When they finally put the stuffed pizza in the oven, the smell of melting cheese mixed with oregano began to fill the air. Johnny, with the simple joy of someone cooking for someone they love, leaned on the counter and spoke about trivial things — the wrong cut he had received in his mohawk last week, the grumpy neighbor who complained about the smell of bread from his father’s bakery. Simon listened in silence, simply absorbing the sound of his voice, as if he needed to remind himself that he was still there, still alive, still had Johnny.

The pizza was ready in a few minutes. When Simon bit into the first piece, he felt a strange mixture of relief and nostalgia. It was delicious, of course. He had never doubted Johnny’s culinary skills, not after so many times seeing the boy leave the bakery with flour-covered hands, bringing bread and sweets wrapped carelessly to share with him. Memories that now seemed distant, almost too innocent to fit into his life. But along with the taste came an uncomfortable memory.

Johnny’s father.

Simon swallowed hard, Angus McTavish’s words echoing in his mind like an inevitable warning. He remembered the last conversation he had with him, the firm way the man had looked him in the eyes, jaw clenched. Angus had said, without beating around the bush, that he would intervene if Simon ever hurt his son. And Simon had believed him — he knew Angus wasn’t a man of empty threats. The weight of that thought now crushed him: he had already hurt Johnny. Not intentionally, not on purpose, but hurt him nonetheless.

They were again on the sofa, sharing the still-warm pizza. Johnny chewed slowly, leaning against him, as if seeking normality in the most ordinary gesture in the world. But Simon couldn’t relax. Each bite he took was swallowed with difficulty, as if the pieces of pizza carried the guilt that wouldn’t leave his throat. Finally, the question slipped out, low and trembling, like a fear that could no longer be contained:

"Johnny… would you leave me… for what happened today?" Simon’s voice came out rough, almost breathless, as if the question were a confession ripped from him. 

He felt as if each second of silence after the question was a knife scraping his skin. The possibility, even minimal, of Johnny saying yes ate away at him from the inside. The world seemed to shrink, the room becoming smaller, more suffocating, until only the two of them existed. Simon’s mind slid to dark places. He saw himself alone, the house silent, the sofa empty, the dishes in the kitchen untouched. Johnny ripped from his life, as if he had never existed. The image was so vivid it made him nauseous. The idea of returning to that endless silence… was simply impossible.

And then came the thought — dark, abrupt, almost like a foreign voice whispering in the back of his mind: “I can’t let him go. Never."

Simon shuddered inwardly. It was disturbing even for him, but true. The mere notion of losing Johnny was not just painful — it was devastating, inconceivable. He wouldn’t live without the boy. He didn’t want to live without the boy. And if Johnny tried to leave, Simon didn’t know what he’d be capable of to stop him. Fear twisted into something sick, possessive. It wasn’t just love. It was raw, violent need, an obsession consuming him.

His eyes remained fixed on Johnny, as if trying to memorize every detail. But deep down, hidden beneath the love, there was that dangerous spark.

When Johnny finally lifted his gaze to him, there was vulnerability there, but also a soft firmness, almost innocent, but without hesitation:

"Never. I would never leave you, Simon."

Those words, so simple, sounded like an anchor thrown into the whirlwind. Simon felt his chest tighten even more, not in relief, but in a confused mix of gratitude and despair. It was what he wanted to hear, but also what condemned him — because now he knew, with the cruelest certainty, that he could not bear to live without it.

 

"I love you, Johnny."

 

"And I love you too, Simon."

 

Chapter Text

Johnny entered the house in silence. The sound of the door closing behind him seemed to echo far too loudly, filling the emptiness of the home with a sad melody. His heavy steps carried him straight to the bedroom, almost by instinct, with no desire to turn on the lights or look back. As soon as he reached the bed, he collapsed onto it. His hands immediately went to his neck, caressing the still-sensitive marks left by Simon’s fingers. Each touch was a vivid reminder of the scene that had just taken place. The memory of the grip, of the lack of air… made him shudder.

The tears came quickly, burning his eyes until they streamed down his face. He could no longer hold them back, and perhaps he shouldn’t. The pillow muffled his sobs, but it couldn’t muffle the pain. Johnny cried not only because of the fear he had felt, but because of the cruel contradiction it carried. Because, despite the terror, part of him knew with unshakable certainty: Simon never wanted to hurt him. He would never do it by choice.
“I know… I know he didn’t mean to…” he whispered to himself between sobs, his voice choked.

But the memory gave him no peace. Simon’s gaze, hard, almost deranged, when his hands were on his neck. That absence in his eyes, as if he wasn’t really there, as if he were in another time, another place. That had been the scariest part of all. Because Johnny hadn’t seen the Simon he loved—he had seen a stranger who didn’t recognize him. His heart clenched harder when another moment came to mind: Simon asking if he would leave him because of what had happened. Unlike the outburst, those eyes were fixed on him, not on some ghost of the past. They carried a frightening intensity, and Johnny noticed. He noticed how threatening they were.
It wasn’t the first time Johnny had noticed the different ways his boyfriend looked at him…

Even before they had started anything.
And still, Johnny knew he could never abandon him. The thought of leaving him alone, broken, consumed by his own darkness, was unbearable. He didn’t want to be another scar in Simon’s life. He didn’t want to be the one who reinforced, in his mind, the idea that everything he touched fell apart. The tears slowed, but did not stop. Simon had been by his side when he cried, he had comforted him, without even knowing the reason for Johnny’s tears. He didn’t know if the man suspected the cause, he had never made it clear… but Johnny suspected Simon had already pieced it together the day he cried in his car after seeing Father Donald, especially after Johnny’s failure to give him a blowjob.
Johnny placed a hand on his chest, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. He felt tired, drained by the confusion inside him. Part of him was still terrified, remembering the moment Simon’s eyes had gone blank. But the other part… the other part only wanted to hold Simon in his arms, to tell him everything was okay, that he would never leave him, even if it meant carrying a weight far too heavy.

Johnny curled up in bed, hugging the pillow as if it were a shield. The rough fabric against his face was a desperate attempt to stifle any trace of sobs, as if hiding his own vulnerability would make it disappear. He chose, once again, to ignore. Ignore the heaviness in Simon’s eyes, the dull ache in his chest, the memory of Simon’s hands closed around his throat. But the silence of the room was broken. Shuffling footsteps echoed in the hallway, slow, steady, until they stopped at the door. Three soft knocks. Johnny shivered. His heart immediately raced. Angus shouldn’t be home yet.

“Johnny?” the voice came calm, with that sweet firmness only he had. “Are you there? I wanted you to help me with a muffin recipe; they’re not turning out like yours always do.” A brief pause, followed by a nearly childlike invitation.

 

“Will ye lend me a hand, son?”

Johnny’s eyes widened. His breathing grew short, quick. He rolled off the bed, terrified to realize his face was still wet. He rubbed his eyes harshly, as if he could erase the traces of crying, but the mirror in the corner gave him back the truth: swollen, red eyes, a face marked by pain barely contained.

More urgent still was his neck. He lifted his hands there, trembling fingers brushing the sensitive skin. The contact brought back the immediate memory of the pressure, the lack of air, the panic. He swallowed hard. He needed to hide it. He looked around, frantic. A turtleneck? Nothing. A scarf? Nothing. Until he saw the woolen scarf thrown over the chair. He snatched it up in haste, almost stumbling, wrapping it around his neck in quick, desperate movements. The rough wool burned against the wounded skin, but he didn’t care. What mattered was covering it. Making it invisible. Making it nonexistent.
The moment the scarf settled, a thought cut through his mind like a cold blade: Simon’s handprints. And that detail, that phrase inside his own head, made him shiver. The realization that, now by reflex, he was already naming the violence as part of what they shared.

“Johnny?” Angus’s voice sounded again, a little closer, pulling him back from the abyss.

He took a deep breath, tried to compose himself, and opened the door. On the other side, his father’s face appeared, carrying that comforting expression that had so often been his safe harbor. But it didn’t last long.
Angus’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him, and quickly dropped to his son’s face.

“Why do you look like that, son?” The question was soft, but firm. “Have you been crying?”

“Me?” Johnny forced a laugh, fragile, broken. “No, dad… it’s nothing. Don’t worry.”
But Angus didn’t laugh. He stayed serious, motionless, just staring. The silence grew heavy between them.

“Johnny, boy…” he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “What happened? Please, tell me.”

Johnny averted his eyes, fixing them on some random point on the wall. “I already told you it was nothing.”

For a moment, it seemed Angus would give up. His shoulders sagged slightly, as if accepting his son’s refusal. But suddenly his eyes widened. They had caught something, a tiny detail. The man narrowed his gaze, focusing on his son’s neck.

“What’s that?” The question came out almost a whisper.

Johnny choked on his own breath. “What?”

 

"Why’re ye wearin’ that?""

“It’s just my scarf. It’s cold, dad. I just got home and forgot to take it off.”

But Angus didn’t look away. That suspicion wasn’t paranoia; it was instinct.

“Not that, Johnny…” his voice trembled, but held firm. “I swear I saw it. When you leaned… I saw a mark on your neck. Maybe I’m getting old, but I’m not crazy. What is it?”

The blood drained from Johnny’s face. He tried to escape, to retreat into the room, to invent some flimsy excuse. But Angus’s hand pressed against the doorframe, blocking the way.

“Johnny.” His voice was heavier now, leaving no space for escape. “Take that scarf off. Now.”

“I told you it’s nothing.” Johnny’s voice faltered, almost a whisper.

“Now.” Angus repeated, harsher. The tone was firm, but his eyes… his eyes were filled with sorrow. There was no anger, only fear.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Johnny froze for a moment, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His trembling hands finally reached for the scarf. He closed his eyes for a second, as if that would give him courage. And then, reluctantly, he pulled the fabric down. The marks appeared. Red. Deep. The clear shape of fingers that had wrapped around his throat. Angus swallowed hard, his face shifting at the sight. Johnny didn’t dare look at him. The marks were there, glaring, undeniable. Violence carved into the skin of his only son. Angus remained still for a few seconds, as if his eyes refused to believe what they saw. His breathing faltered, and only then, in a low breath, the word escaped:

“My God…”

Johnny, by reflex, lifted his hand to his neck again, covering it. As if hiding could undo reality.

“It’s not what it looks like,” his voice came quick, fragile, as if trying to intercept his father’s thoughts before they formed.
But Angus stepped forward. His gaze was no longer just concerned—it was fierce. A restrained fury, the raw instinct of a father.

“Who did this?” he asked, low, deliberate.
Johnny retreated, pressing himself against the wall. He felt the cold surface against his back, as if there were nowhere left to flee.

“I… I already told you it’s nothing. It was…” The boy tried to invent some excuse, but his voice failed him. The silence that followed betrayed him more than any poorly built lie.

Angus narrowed his eyes. “It was him, wasn’t it?” The question sounded heavy, almost like a verdict. “Simon Riley.”

Johnny’s heart raced, but not out of fear of his father. It was fear of what would come next. Angus’s face had hardened, his fists clenched, his chest rising and falling in irregular rhythm.

“Dad, no… don’t say that,” Johnny tried to soothe, but his voice wavered, pleading.

“Simon wouldn’t… he wouldn’t do it on purpose.”

“On purpose?” Angus’s voice rose, sharp. “Are you telling me someone accidentally leaves the marks of their hands on your neck?”

He took a deep breath, trying to contain himself, but his eyes burned with rage and disbelief.

“Johnny, this isn’t an accident.”

The tears were already flowing again, silent, desperate. The boy shook his head, repeating like a mantra:

“You don’t understand… you don’t understand… It was an accident! He didn’t mean to, I swear!”

“There’s nothing to understand, Johnny!” Angus stepped closer, but the voice that had carried hardness now broke with pain. “Son, look at me. This… this is violence. Do you think I’m going to stand by while someone puts my boy’s life at risk?”

Johnny squeezed his eyes shut, pressing himself further against the wall. “He loves me…” he whispered. “He loves me, da. I ken he does.”

“He loves you?” The man spoke in disappointment.

“So it’s true, isn’t it? You’re with him…” The man sighed, his tone dropping. It was no longer anger, but the sigh of someone who had finally accepted what was right before his eyes.

“I knew he was interested in you… and I knew you felt the same. But I wasn’t sure anything concrete was happening. Or maybe I just didn’t want to see.”

“He… he has problems. He’s been through a lot during his time in the army. But he’s a good person, dad… you have no idea how much he’s made me happy.”

Angus closed his eyes for a moment, running a hand over his face, as if trying to strip away the rage before it overflowed. When he looked back at his son, his own eyes were filled with tears.

“He made you happy?” His voice was low now, heavy with pain. “And what’s that on your throat? Does it look like a happy memory to you?”

Johnny collapsed, covering his face with his hands, sobbing. His whole body shook. And still, in the midst of his crying, he repeated between gasps:

“He didn’t mean to… he didn’t mean to… he didn’t mean to… I swear, dad! He snapped, there was a movie on the TV an-and—”

Angus stood frozen, watching his son fall apart before him. A massive knot formed in his throat. He felt the urgency to act, to protect, to rip Simon out of his boy’s life for good. But at the same time… he saw how Johnny defended him, as if willing to burn alongside him just to keep Simon standing. And that broke Angus in a way no rage could sustain. Angus approached slowly, almost as if he were afraid to touch his son and break him further. His eyes lingered on the marks with cruel slowness, and when he spoke, his voice came deep, choked, more sorrowful than angry.

“He… put his hands on my son.” He said it to himself.

Johnny shivered at hearing it aloud, as if the truth had finally materialized in full. His throat tightened, and the tears he had still tried to hold back finally poured out. Angus didn’t look away, not out of indifference, but because he seemed unable to accept what he was seeing.

“Dad…” Johnny tried to begin, but his voice failed.

Angus inhaled deeply, shaking his head, as if speaking more to himself than to his son.

“I know you won’t stop seeing him. Not even if I forbid it.”

“Believe me… I wish I could end it once and for all.” There was a heavy silence before the final words. “But I know you. And if I tried… you’d only push me further away.”

That confession fell between them raw, real, unadorned. Angus no longer hid it: it wasn’t just rage, it was helplessness. He wanted to protect his son, but he knew that, somehow, Johnny would choose Simon above all. Johnny wiped his face with the back of his hand, shrinking under his father’s realization. There was pain, shame, and a stubborn defense still trapped in his throat. Angus then lifted his gaze, his tone hardening, though not losing its hidden tenderness.

“Johnny… I won’t let this slide. Not even if you beg. I promised I would always protect you. I can’t stop you, but I can do what is within my power.”
Johnny, still on the floor, lifted his tear-filled eyes, listening to what his father had to say.

“Simon Riley will no longer be welcome in our shop. Nor in this house, son.” The words were spoken with a weight that left no room for argument. “I won’t allow a man who hurts my son to be near the place where he should feel safe.”

Johnny sobbed, trying to breathe, but he seemed even smaller under that verdict. It was as if his heart had been split into two halves that could never fit together again: his love for Simon and his love for his father. Angus extended his hand, but didn’t touch his shoulder right away—he only held it close, as a gesture of waiting, of permission.

“Just promise me one thing, Johnny.” His voice dropped, heavy with gravity. “Don’t shut me out, okay? Stop hiding things from me. If he ever does anything again… anything at all, Johnny, no matter how small, you tell me. Do we have an agreement?”

Johnny lifted his gaze, his eyes watery and red, and the confession left him in a whisper:

“Okay, dad…”

Angus closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, and when he answered, his voice was broken, but carried an attempt to offer safety and comfort:

“Now come here. I don’t want to see my son like this. Get up. Come help me in the kitchen.”

 

__________

The morning at the bakery followed its usual rhythm: the steady hum of the mixer in the background, the muffled sound of water boiling for coffee, the warm scent of bread fresh out of the oven filling the air like a soft blanket. Angus was behind the counter, where Johnny usually stood. Meanwhile, the boy was arranging trays of pastries in the kitchen with almost forced concentration — as if keeping himself busy could silence the echoes of the night before. But every time his hand brushed against his neck, still covered by the light scarf, the weight of the conversation with his father returned, cruel and unrelenting.
The bell above the door jingled softly. Johnny’s eyes widened instantly, a sharp pang of hope and fear slicing through his chest. He knew exactly who it could be.
The voice followed soon after, deep and firm. Confirming the boy’s fear.

“Good morning. Is Johnny here?”

It was Simon.

“Riley.” Angus’s gravelly voice echoed from behind the counter. There was no warmth in it, only a sharp, cutting weight.

Johnny froze. His entire body stiffened, and he held his breath as he edged closer to the crack of the door separating the kitchen from the shop. He could see only the side of his father, standing firm behind the counter, arms crossed, and Simon’s figure on the other side. Realizing the recklessness of what he was doing, he immediately pulled away from the door, terrified of being seen.

“I came to see Johnny. Did he leave early?”

“Last night… when Johnny came home, there were marks on his neck. Handprints.” His father’s voice was steady, but weighed down by bitter exhaustion. “He tried to hide them with a scarf, but I saw. I confronted my son about it.”

Johnny’s knees nearly buckled. His hands began to shake. He knew exactly where this inevitable conversation was headed.
Angus sighed, audibly, a tired sound that carried through the door.

“You did that, Simon Riley.”

Silence followed. Johnny imagined Simon’s face on the other side: perhaps tense, perhaps controlled, with that hard expression he wore when bothered. But Angus left no room for explanations.

“And honestly… don’t bother trying to explain why. I don’t care what reason you think justifies putting your hands on my son like that, or the words you used to convince him it was fine.”

Johnny bit his lips hard, the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth. He wanted to run out, open the door, intervene, scream that Simon wasn’t a monster, that he never meant to hurt him. But he knew it would only make everything worse if he tried.

“I just want to make it clear,” Angus went on, calm as if pronouncing a sentence, “that you are no longer allowed at MacTavish’s Cottage. Nor near my house. You won’t have access to any place Johnny goes to. I don’t want a place that should bring my son safety to be tainted this way.”

Johnny dared another glance through the crack. Simon stood still, eyes fixed on the man before him. His clenched jaw betrayed the urge to respond, though he held back. At last, he spoke, his voice low, edged with frustration:

“With all due respect… Johnny is an adult. He does what he wants.”

“I know he is. But I also know what I can stop within my reach.” His hand tapped lightly on the counter, restrained but firm.

“Johnny may be an adult, but he’s still my son. And do you think I’ll just give up on him?”

Simon didn’t respond immediately. Even from a distance, Johnny felt his breathing quicken. It was as if he could sense the tension in the air, the invisible clash between the two men.

Finally, Angus broke the silence with a cold, definitive tone:

“Leave this place, Mr. Riley. I don’t want you in this establishment again.”

Simon didn’t answer. The silence only deepened Johnny’s anxiety. Then footsteps, the man turning on his heels toward the door. The bell rang again as he opened it, the soft sound echoing through the bakery like a wound reopening. For Johnny, it was the signal that the confrontation between his father and his lover was over.

Johnny walked over to the chair his father used to keep beside the oven, a seat worn down by heat and use, already carrying the mark of time in the wood. He let his body collapse there, as if all his strength had abandoned him at once. The flour covering his fingers stained his trousers and, when he ran a hand across his face, it left white streaks on his already tired skin. The gesture brought no relief — it only emphasized how tense he still was from what he had just heard, from the weight of those words spoken in front of Simon, from the silence that followed.
The oven gave off a faint crackle, and the smell of warm bread filled the air, but none of it comforted him. It was as if the place that had always given him safety had turned into something strange, a space where tension still echoed in every corner. The rest of the day dragged on with an almost cruel slowness.

After Simon left, Johnny tried to keep himself busy — refilling trays, wiping down already clean surfaces, fiddling with utensils for no real reason. Some time later, Angus came into the kitchen. His face still held its sternness, but his voice came out gentler:

“Want to switch with me, son? Stay at the counter for a while, I’ll take care of things back here.”

Johnny shook his head immediately.

“I’d rather stay back here.” His voice was muffled, almost a plea not to be seen.

Angus studied him for a few seconds but didn’t insist. He just nodded and went back to work, respecting his son’s silence.
When late afternoon arrived, Angus, as usual, left the bakery earlier. He always reserved that time for mass at St. Barbara’s Cathedral. Johnny followed him with his eyes as his father adjusted his coat and disappeared through the door, carrying with him the same rigidity that never seemed to leave his body.
The distant bell of the cathedral tolled once, echoing through the city’s wet streets.

Johnny stayed alone in the kitchen, seated, letting the silence fill the space that had once been occupied by the clatter of routine. He had heard, from a client a few days earlier, that a new priest had been sent by the archdiocese to replace Donald. The mere name carried with it a wave of memories, though not as paralyzing as before. Johnny took a deep breath. It wasn’t right to feel relieved at someone’s death — and he knew that. But the feeling was there, raw and unavoidable. There was something liberating in being able to walk the streets without the constant fear of running into the man who had hurt him so deeply, leaving scars that never faded from skin or memory.

And yet, the relief came paired with another unease.

Because now he had Simon.

A relationship. The word still felt strange, drenched in happiness but carrying the weight of a responsibility Johnny would have to face with his own demons from the past. That was why fear couldn’t last forever. Johnny trusted Simon. He trusted him completely, more than he trusted anyone else. Trusted him enough to strip down before him, not just clothes but defenses. Trusted him enough to give over his body, his vulnerability. And still… something didn’t yield.

The fear.

He knew it wasn’t fear of Simon — not really. It was fear of the act itself, fear of what it represented, of what it evoked. Though they had never gone as far as penetration, the times he and Simon got more intimate, his body trembled not with pleasure but with a painful aftertaste. Sex had never been a light discovery for him. It had never been a choice. Never tenderness.

His first time happened when he was eleven. And nothing could change the fact that it had been violence.

That thought haunted him like a constant shadow. Sometimes, even lying beside Simon, he found himself thrown back into that past, trapped in a memory that never faded. As if every gesture of affection was pierced by a ghost. Johnny brought his hands back to his face, trying to find some peace. But it was no use. The oven crackled in the background, indifferent. The chair groaned under his weight. And he, alone, still didn’t know how to break free from the invisible chains binding him.

 

Night had fallen completely over Ullapool, the silence of the street broken only by the distant sound of the sea crashing against the rocks. The bakery was wrapped in shadows, and Johnny, as always, was the last to leave. He walked through the halls, turning off the lights one by one until the kitchen was dark, leaving only the comforting smell of baked bread lingering in the air, mingling with the sea breeze that slipped in through the cracks of the door. Before leaving, he stopped by the main entrance.

The bell above the sign jingled softly as Johnny flipped it from “Open” to “Closed.” The wood of the door groaned when he tried to lock it, sticking as it always did when the dampness punished the hinges. He had to force it a little harder, muttering under his breath, until he finally heard the final click of the lock. Outside, a thin drizzle had begun to fall, typical of the city’s evenings. The air smelled of rain, cold and heavy, soaked with mist.
Johnny adjusted his coat over his shoulders, but as he slipped the key into his pocket, a shiver ran down his spine. He had the sudden sensation of being watched. He froze. His heart sped up in his chest. His eyes swept across the deserted street — the shut windows, a few lights glowing in the distance, the reflections of puddles shining under the lamplight. Most of the townsfolk were at mass or already seated at dinner, leaving the streets eerily silent.

He drew in a deep breath, trying to convince himself it was only his own anxiety. Even so, he avoided looking directly at the narrow alley beside the bakery. Passing by it in the dark had never brought him comfort. And it was precisely then, when his steps faltered, that a shadow peeled away from the wall. Johnny recoiled at once, his heart skipping a beat. A tall figure in a dark coat emerged suddenly, knocking the breath from him for a moment. His stomach twisted in terror — until his eyes adjusted to the gloom and recognized the features hidden under the hood.

“Simon…” he murmured, caught between fright and relief.

But he didn’t have time to say more. Simon closed the distance with sudden intensity, grabbing him by the waist and crushing his mouth against Johnny’s. The kiss was heavy with desire, urgent, as if he had waited hours just for that contact. Johnny, still caught in the shock, remained tense for a few moments, his heartbeat erratic not only from passion but from the scare moments earlier. Gradually, his body surrendered, letting itself be led by the heat of Simon’s touch. When the kiss broke, Johnny leaned his forehead against his chest, gasping.

“Don’t do that again…” His voice trembled. “I mean it, Simon — I thought it could be someone else.”

Simon sighed, raising a hand to lightly stroke his hair.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He still held Johnny firmly by the waist, as if afraid he might slip away. The streets were deserted at that hour; only the drizzle on the ground and the whisper of the wind filled the space between them. There was no fear of being seen by a neighbor.

“I was worried…” Simon admitted, his deep voice low. “You didn’t answer my messages, didn’t pick up my calls.”

Johnny lifted his gaze to him, his expression tired, though not angry.

“You know I can’t use my phone during work. My father never liked it… thinks it’s unhygienic.” His tone was light, but honest. “It’s been that way since I was a teenager.”
Simon closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a breath as if trying to contain some inner weight.

“I know. It’s just… I overthought things. Your father’s talk with me this morning wasn’t exactly good.” He paused, eyes locked on Johnny’s.

“As you must know…” the older man added wearily.

Johnny bit his lower lip, looking away.

“I know. I heard everything.” The confession came out almost a whisper.
The wind carried a chill with it, and Simon tightened his hold, as though to shield him from the cold. His voice returned steady, though tinged with vulnerability.

“By the way… I was waiting for you in that alley because I didn’t know if Angus was still around. Not that I care what he thinks of me… but I didn’t want to stress you more.”

Johnny finally looked up at him, exhaling deeply, the night air cutting into his lungs like a sting. His shoulders sagged, and he buried his face against Simon’s chest, hiding there, as if he wanted to disappear inside the warmth of his rain-soaked coat. The familiar smell of tobacco and leather brought him a strange sense of safety, but the knot in his throat refused to loosen.

“I’m sorry…” he murmured, his voice muffled against Simon’s shirt. “I tried to explain to my father what happened. I swear I did… but… it didn’t do much good.”

Simon stayed still for a few moments, his gaze fixed beyond Johnny’s shoulders, staring into the emptiness of the street. His fingers trembled as they traced along the boy’s back, pressing him close, almost possessively.

“He thinks I’m abusive with you, doesn’t he?” The question came low, as if Simon were spitting out something that corroded him inside.

Johnny hesitated, but eventually just nodded, still hiding his face, unable to meet his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, alright?” Johnny tried to ease the tension, raising his gaze slowly. “We’ll get through this. I know my father can be a bit stubborn… but… eventually, he’ll accept it.”

Simon let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. It was bitter. His brown eyes caught the glow of the nearest lamp, and something shadowy stirred within them.

“Accept…” he repeated, as though the word were too strange to fit in his mouth.“Angus MacTavish will never accept me. And I don’t blame him. If I had seen those marks on the neck of my own son… I’d probably think the same.”

Johnny swallowed hard, his hands clutching Simon’s coat tighter.

“He just doesn’t understand yet.”

Simon lowered his forehead until it touched Johnny’s, eyes squeezed shut. His breathing came out heavy, loaded with frustration.

“But you understand… don’t you?” His voice now was almost a desperate plea, muffled by the rain.

Johnny nodded quickly, urgently, as if fearing that silence might be mistaken for doubt.

“I do, Simon. I do.”

For an instant, the weight seemed to lift. Simon pulled him in tighter, as if that promise alone was enough to hold him together. But Johnny, deep down, knew that acceptance would never be enough to erase the disappointed look in Angus’s eyes. Simon tilted Johnny’s chin gently, his calloused fingertips tracing his skin with a tenderness almost unexpected from such large hands. The touch made Johnny close his eyes for a moment, as though anchoring himself to that fleeting calm.

“I want to propose something…” Simon said quietly, almost conspiratorial.

“It’s good, it’ll make you happy.” Johnny opened his eyes slowly, his brows rising in a mix of curiosity and caution.

“Hm?”

“My former superior, John Price. Remember him?”

Johnny blinked, surprised.

“Captain Price?”

Simon nodded, his gaze darkening slightly as if the memory carried conflicting feelings. Johnny remembered well the stories Simon had told about that man: deep respect, but also a thread of resentment hard to shake. Price had been the one to decide on his forced retirement — yet he had also been the one who rescued him on the road near Kursk, when Simon had wandered alone, wounded, trying to escape hell.

“This week he’ll be here in Scotland,” Simon continued, squaring his shoulders as though saying the captain’s name instinctively brought back his military posture. “He decided to spend a day in Ullapool. A quick visit, nothing major… just for old times’ sake.”

Johnny’s smile was immediate, sincere.

“That’s really good, Si. I’m happy for you. It’s nice to meet old friends again.”

And it was true: Johnny missed his own, the few friends who had drifted away as life took different turns. His joy wasn’t just for Simon, but also for the thought of seeing him reconnect with someone who, even in a turbulent past, had mattered.
Simon drew a deep breath, his eyes softening.

“So… I’d like you to be there when he visits me. It would mean a lot for him to meet you.

Johnny’s eyes widened with pure enthusiasm, glowing like candlelight.

“Seriously?!”

“Of course.” Simon laughed, deep and genuine. “Who else would I want by my side? Will you give me the honor of your presence?”

Johnny couldn’t contain his joy. He threw himself back into Simon’s arms, nearly knocking the tall man over.

“Yes! Yes!” He repeated like a child receiving the most unexpected gift.

Simon held him tight, chuckling low at his burst of energy, and for a few moments the tension between them seemed to melt away. But then, his expression shifted. The laughter faded, giving way to a restrained seriousness. He pulled back just enough to meet Johnny’s eyes, his hand still resting warm and steady on his nape.

“There’s only one problem, Johnny…” he began in a graver, almost hesitant tone. “I hope you’ll understand.”

Johnny’s smile faltered.

“What is it?”

Simon sighed, wetting his lips before speaking.

“Price is an old-fashioned man. He’s spent his whole life inside the military. And the military can be… rather hostile to people like us.” He averted his eyes, for a moment staring past Johnny. “No one in Task Force 141 ever knew about my sexuality. And I want it to stay that way.”

Johnny stayed quiet for a while, watching him. There was no anger in his gaze, only understanding. He knew that fear well, because he carried it too.

“Please… don’t be upset,” Simon added, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable.

Johnny lifted a hand to Simon’s chest, feeling the heavy rhythm of his heart. His expression was tender, even if there was a hint of melancholy in his eyes.

“It’s alright, Simon. I understand.” He forced a small smile. “It’s not like anyone besides my father knows about my sexuality in this town anyway.”

Simon let out his breath slowly, as though that answer had lightened part of his burden. He pulled Johnny closer, arms wrapping around him tightly — not suffocating, but protective, as if shielding him from all the judgment the world could hurl at them.

That night Simon offered to drive him home, silent through Ullapool’s damp streets. The drizzle still fell, fine and silver over the rooftops, and the sound of the tires on wet asphalt filled the spaces between their words. Johnny reclined in his seat, his head lightly resting against the cold glass of the window, his eyes lost in the line of streetlamps passing by. Simon, though silent, kept sneaking glances at him. In his eyes was a strange mix of guilt and tenderness — as though he still blamed himself for the marks on Johnny’s neck, yet wanted nothing more than for him to feel safe, to belong beside him. When he parked in front of the house, Simon turned off the engine but didn’t speak right away. He let the silence hang for a few seconds, the rain filling the air. Then, he leaned over and brushed a strand of Johnny’s hair away from his face.

“You’re home now.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “It’s going to be alright.”

Johnny nodded, a shy smile appearing on his lips. There was no anger in him. On the contrary, the bitter memory of Simon’s hands on his neck seemed to dissolve under the care he was showing now. Johnny opened the door, and before leaving, leaned in to give him a brief but tender kiss.

“Good night, Si.”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

Johnny stepped inside with light steps, closing the door behind him. Angus was probably still at mass, given the time, and that brought a fleeting sense of security. No arguments, no confrontations. Just the silence of the house, ready to receive him. That night, Johnny slept with a relief he hadn’t felt in a long time. The pain of what had happened — Simon’s heavy hands on his neck, his father’s hurtful look, the firm words that had echoed in the bakery’s warmth — was slowly drowned out by a brighter flame: the joy of finally being introduced to an important part of Simon’s life. He felt part of something greater, more than just the boy from the bakery, more than the kid hiding traumas beneath his skin. The simple fact that Simon wanted him to meet Captain Price brought him pride. Johnny knew how important that man had been to Simon, and being included in that intimate circle was like being entrusted with a sacred piece of his past.

Lying in bed, the faint smell of rain drifting in through the half-open window, Johnny allowed himself to smile alone, clutching his pillow.

For the first time in a long while, he fell asleep with a full heart. He was happy. Happy because, despite everything, he had Simon. Happy because soon he would meet the legendary Captain Price. Happy because, even with scars, there was still room to believe he could build something beautiful alongside the one he loved.

Chapter Text

Simon couldn’t deny it, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. He was nervous about Price coming to his house. There had been a tight knot in his stomach since he got the news, an uncomfortable sensation mixing anxiety, suppressed anger, and a strange nostalgia.

After Johnny left that night for his own place, after the incident Simon preferred to forget, he found himself alone in the silence of his home. The emptiness felt heavier than usual, as if every room echoed with memories he’d rather bury. He went to the kitchen cabinet, where he kept condiments and a few bottles of alcohol. He opened the door, stared at the rows for a few seconds, and, without thinking too much, grabbed a bottle of vodka. He wasn’t used to drinking alone. Most of the time, he opened that bottle only on lighter nights, after a few messy kisses with Johnny, when the heat between them begged for a sip to prolong the moment. The memory pulled a tired half-smile from him. He liked how Johnny, little by little, was beginning to allow himself to be vulnerable at his side—the way he let his guard down, offering him pieces of himself no one else had access to. It was a kind of silent, precious trust. But the memory soon carried a sharp sting. Johnny had forgiven him for what happened… Simon knew that. The boy tried not to hold grudges, tried to move on. Still, nothing lessened the crushing weight of guilt. The image of his hands around Johnny’s throat appeared like a ghost every time he closed his eyes.

Simon Riley had never been taught to take care of anything, much less anyone. His life had been shaped to destroy, to survive, to obey. To care, to protect, to love… those were foreign skills, like rusty tools he’d never had the chance to learn how to use. And it hurt.

He was halfway through his glass when the phone vibrated on the table. He shot up, heart racing, hoping to see Johnny’s name on the screen. Maybe the boy missed him, maybe he wanted to talk a bit more before bed. Simon wanted to believe that.But no.

The name glowing on the screen was another—one carrying weight and bitter memories. John Price.Simon scoffed, running a hand over his face for a moment. Of all times, that man had to call now? Still, he answered, his voice deep and dragged by alcohol.

“What is it, Price?”

On the other end, the firm, unmistakable voice replied:

“Just calling to check in, Simon. It’s been a while since we talked. Wanted to know how you’re doing.”

“Well… nothing exactly new has happened,” Simon muttered, taking a sip before adding, drier this time. “Not sure what you expected to hear.”

There was a short pause, almost imperceptible, before the next question came:

“Are you drunk?”

Simon let out a humorless laugh.

“And if I am?”

“Not my business,” Price answered calmly, though there was something in his voice, a poorly disguised concern. “I just wanted to know how you’re doing… you know, Simon.”
Simon frowned, irritation already rising.

“Just say it, Price. I’m not a fucking oracle.”

The captain took a deep breath, and his voice came heavier, more serious:

“When we were in the army, you used to have… a lot of mood swings. And some… episodes. I wanted to know if you’re handling that well in civilian life. I know it’s not easy. You joined at nineteen, lived your whole life in it… of course it’d be hard to adapt.”

The words fell like acid. Simon gripped the glass tightly, his knuckles whitening. Bloody bastard. He hated when Price touched those wounds, as if he still had the right to question him.

“Listen, Price,” he said, his voice dripping venom, “I’m already in some isolated corner of the world, far from everything. It’s not your responsibility what happens outside the Task Force. I’m out, aren’t I? So what the fuck’s the problem?”

The silence on the other end lasted a few seconds. When Price spoke again, his tone had changed. It wasn’t the captain’s voice anymore—it was the man’s.

“That’s not what this is about, Simon. I’m not talking to you as your superior. I’m talking as John Price. Just like I imagine I’m not talking to Ghost right now.”

Simon stayed still for a few moments, staring at his empty glass. The anger still burned, but there was also a bitter recognition in those words. Price was right. He wasn’t Ghost here. He was just Simon Riley, a broken man desperately trying to learn how to be something more than a shadow.

He lowered his shoulders, letting out a deep sigh.

“Alright… you’re right. I was being unpleasant.”

The words came low, almost a murmur. Simon felt like he was talking to someone who, despite everything, still cared. He let his guard down.Simon stayed silent for a few seconds, spinning the empty glass between his fingers, as if that was enough to keep his restless hands busy. The sound of Price’s breathing on the other end felt louder than usual, steady, firm, as it had always been. The breath of a man used to waiting, used to bearing heavy silences without faltering.

“You know…” Simon began, his voice slurred by drink but still controlled. “When I left the army, I thought it’d be simpler. That all I had to do was take off the uniform and that was it. Done. But it doesn’t end, does it?”

Price stayed quiet, letting him talk.

“I still wake up as if I’m in the field. Sometimes I smell smoke before I even open my eyes. Sometimes, if the silence lasts too long, I hear gunfire in my head. And…”

Simon stopped, pressing the glass hard against the table, eyes fixed on nothing.

“Out here… it’s all more confusing.”

There was a long pause. Price cleared his throat before responding:

“That’s how it is for all of us, Simon. You’re not the only one. I have nights that feel endless too. But you’ve got to find something to hold onto. Something to keep your mind busy. A routine, an… anchor.”

Simon scoffed, a dry laugh slipping from his throat.

“You and your anchor speeches, huh? I remember hearing the same thing in Kursk, when we were stuck in that damned winter and you kept trying to hold the team together.”

“And it worked,” Price shot back.

“We wouldn’t have made it back otherwise.”

Simon bit his lip, irritated by the simple fact he had to admit Price was right. And he was. Many times, only that man’s stubbornness had kept them alive.

“I wonder if I ever really escaped that place. Even after all these years, so much of what happened in that frozen hell is still alive.” Simon muttered, voice lower now.

“Sometimes the past and the present blur. It’s hard to tell them apart.”

“Don’t you have something that helps you keep your head in the present?” Price asked gently.

Simon fell silent for a moment, staring at the nearly empty vodka bottle. The alcohol burned in his gut, loosening brakes he usually kept tightly shut.

“There’s someone…” slipped out, almost without him realizing.

Price’s voice lifted in surprise.

“Someone?”

Simon ran a hand over his face, annoyed at himself for letting that slip. But it was too late, and the drink made him speak before thinking.

“A guy here. John Mactavish. The baker’s son. He’s… stubborn, talks too much. But… he manages to remind me there’s still life outside all this. He’s a good friend.”

On the other end, Price’s silence lasted longer than usual. Simon was already expecting some dry comment, some irony, maybe even a disguised reprimand. But when the captain’s voice finally came, it was oddly neutral, almost cautious.

“Seems like he’s important to you.”

Simon drew a deep breath, his heart beating faster than he’d like to admit. He didn’t want to give Price room to pry where he shouldn’t.

“It’s nothing. Just… someone who reminds me I can be human once in a while.”

There was a faint sound of assent on the other end.

“I see. Just… surprised me. You were never much of a social person, Simon.”

“Yeah.” Simon spoke low. “Guess even I’m surprised by it.”

Price’s voice returned, firm, but with that paternal undertone Simon hated and, at the same time, in hard moments, had helped him.

“I’m in Scotland this week. Wanted to know if I can pay you a visit. Catch up. It’d be good to see each other again.”

Simon stayed quiet for a few seconds. The weight of those words wasn’t light. A visit from Price wasn’t something trivial. He took a deep breath, staring at the empty glass in his hand, rigid fingers gripping it.
“Of course you can, Price.”

“Good.” The captain’s voice sounded almost satisfied, though Simon still heard the faint echo of caution in it.

“Because, to be honest, you didn’t exactly seem happy the last time we saw each other.”

Simon bit the corner of his lip hard, as if that could hold back the flood of thoughts. The last time. The stuffy office, the discharge papers on the desk. Price standing, face stern, explaining like Simon was a problem to be solved.

“You can’t continue, Riley. You’re unstable. A risk.”

Unstable. A risk. Words that had haunted him since.

There was no way Price could blame him now—not after dumping early retirement on his shoulders without even giving him a say. Simon had never forgiven that. And yet, part of him knew Price carried that weight too.

“It’ll be good,” Simon finally replied, his voice low, almost automatic.

On the other end, Price said goodbye, straightforward as always. The click of the ended call sounded too loud in the silence of the house. Simon stood there, the phone still in his hand, as if he wasn’t sure whether to let go. Only after a few seconds did he move, leaning against the counter to pour himself another glass of vodka. The liquid burned down his throat fast, as if it could erase the traces of the conversation. But it didn’t.

Price’s words echoed inside him, mixing with the lingering discomfort of the slip he’d made. Someone. A guy. Johnny.
Simon squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten. Price was too observant, too calculating. He always noticed the cracks, always read between the lines. And Simon knew it had sounded strange, the way he spoke about Johnny. Luckily, the vodka was there, dulling the unease, building a thick layer of indifference over the worry. Easier to think Price didn’t care, that he had more urgent matters to focus on, that he wouldn’t dwell on a stray sentence. Simon raised his glass, staring at the distorted reflection of light at the bottom of the liquid.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, before downing another gulp.

But even under the haze of alcohol, the shadow of unease remained.

And somewhere inside him, the bitter expectation: Price would come. And when that happened, Simon’s past and present would inevitably collide.

 

___________

 

Simon was sitting on the couch, his broad body sinking into the cushions, while Johnny rested beside him, his head leaning on Simon’s shoulder. The boy kept focused on his sketchbook, a gift Angus had given him years ago that had become almost an extension of his hands. The pages were filled with doodles, faces, loose shapes, but now Johnny was working on a bird. His lines were quick and precise, full of motion, as if trying to trap on paper the flight that couldn’t be contained.Simon watched in silence, with quiet pride. He leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to his boyfriend’s hair, the soft touch contrasting with the rigidity of his fingers marked by war. He liked Johnny’s mohawk, though sometimes he teased him on purpose, provoking Johnny by saying it looked ridiculous. The truth, however, was that he loved the irreverence of that haircut, something that perfectly matched the boy’s untamed nature.

Johnny wore a scarf wrapped around his neck, even indoors. The fabric hid the marks—now lighter, faded to yellow and purple hues, like old bruises. Still, they were there, far too visible for Simon’s liking. He felt a cowardly relief seeing Johnny wear the scarf. He would never have the courage to ask him to cover the injuries. The shame and weight of guilt still crushed his chest whenever he remembered. But deep down, it was selfish: the disguise soothed him. It would prevent curious looks, awkward questions, and most of all, Price’s scrutinizing eyes. Simon broke the silence, his voice deep but calm:

“He might seem a little intimidating at first. But you’ll see he’s actually pretty sociable… especially with civilians.”

Johnny lifted his eyes from the sketchbook, raising his eyebrows with a hint of humor. Johnny chuckled softly, the sound muffled against the scarf.

“I don’t mind, Si. It’s not like you were the friendliest person when we first met.”

Simon raised his head, frowning slightly, though his eyes held a playful glint.

“Did I treat you that badly?”

“I’m just being dramatic,” Johnny replied, closing the sketchbook and resting it on his lap. “You treated me well. You just didn’t let it show right away.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. Simon slowly ran his hand across Johnny’s shoulders, feeling him relax against him. It was in moments like this that he remembered why he still tried, despite the ghosts that haunted him. Johnny brought him a sense of humanity he thought he had lost.

Suddenly, the sound of an engine cutting off outside broke the mood. A car parked in front of the house. Simon felt his heart beat heavier, his body tense on instinct, as if every muscle were being summoned back to the battlefield. Johnny straightened, a little anxious, and both glanced toward the door almost at the same time. Seconds later, the doorbell rang. The sound echoed through the room, simple but heavy. The waiting was over. Simon drew a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs. His fingers clenched into a fist on his thigh before he stood. He knew he had no real reason to be nervous—after all, it was just a visit—but Price wasn’t “just” anyone. He was the living reminder of an entire life, of wars, of orders, of choices that had shaped Simon into the man he was. Johnny watched in silence, noticing the quiet tension settling across his boyfriend’s broad shoulders. The man adjusted the collar of his dark shirt and walked to the door. When he opened it, John Price was there. The captain looked exactly as Simon remembered him months ago, though time had left subtle marks: his beard a little more gray. He wore a thick wool coat, typical for the Scottish cold, and carried in his eyes that steady, analytical look that seemed to pierce through any façade. But there was also a flicker of human warmth, discreet, that made his presence both comforting and oppressive.

“Simon,” Price said, with a restrained smile, his raspy voice heavy with familiarity. “How long has it been, eh? It’s good to see you.”
Simon answered with equal firmness, extending his hand to his former superior.

“Captain.”

The handshake was strong, as if both were testing each other’s solidity. For a moment, Simon felt himself back in that other world, receiving orders, being molded under military discipline. But he soon pulled back, stepping aside to let him in.

“I told you, here I’m just John Price. No need to call me that.”

Price crossed the threshold, his presence filling the room. The smell of tobacco clinging to his coat mixed with the faint aroma of coffee that still lingered in the air. His eyes wandered across the space, silently taking inventory of the simple house, until they landed on Johnny. The boy stood almost immediately, nervously adjusting the scarf around his neck. He set the sketchbook aside and took a few steps forward, extending his hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain John Price. I’m Johnny. John MacTavish.”

Price studied him discreetly but shook his hand firmly, without aggression. Years of army habit showed in the brusqueness of the gesture, though there was a certain care too.

“John MacTavish, huh? The pleasure’s mine, lad. I’m glad Simon’s made a friend here.” His eyes glinted with a touch of irony. “As you probably know, he’s not exactly the most… sociable type.”

Johnny chuckled softly, breaking into a smile.

“I’ve noticed. But he gets better with time.”

Simon shot Johnny a sidelong glance, promising payback later. Price, in turn, let a brief smile slip before sitting in the armchair Simon indicated with a gesture. The conversation flowed surprisingly casually, almost comfortably. Simon remained watchful, steering the talk away from memories that could weigh too much. He didn’t want their violent past laid bare in front of Johnny. Not yet. Price seemed to understand that attempt, or perhaps simply respected the moment. He spoke in a calm voice, telling anecdotes that mixed the harshness of military life with trivial details. He spoke of cold nights in improvised bases, of the inedible taste of rations, of the time a recruit fell asleep during watch and was woken with a bucket of freezing water. Johnny listened wide-eyed, leaning forward more with each detail, like a curious student before a teacher.

From time to time, he broke in with innocent questions that lightened the weight of the narrative:

“So did you guys sleep… in beds? Or just on the floor?”

“What happens if someone refuses to obey an order?”

“Is it true you marched for miles in the same boots until they almost fell apart?”

Price answered without mocking, though the amused sparkle in his eyes was clear. Johnny asked as if trying to map a strange, distant, almost fictional world—and Simon, deep down, felt relieved. It was better this way: a softer version of military life, told like an adventure story and not as a burden. At one pause, Simon straightened in his chair.

“There are two hunting rifles in my attic. I keep my weapons up there. I thought we could hunt in the nearby forest.”

Price raised his brows, intrigued.

“Good idea. Should be fun. How long’s it been since you practiced your aim?”

Simon gave a half-smile.

“On moving targets? A while. I went hunting once in the woods with Johnny. He came along, but didn’t shoot. Other than that, I usually blow up some bottles out front. Keeps my hand steady enough.”

Johnny couldn’t resist chiming in:

“I tried twice with the bottles!” he said, his face lighting at the memory. “It was amazing, I was so happy when I hit one!”

Price let out a contained laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re quite the talker, aren’t you?” he said, his voice laced with irony but without malice. “I’m surprised Simon keeps you around.”

Simon only huffed and stood.

“I’ll get the rifles.”

He climbed firmly up to the attic. The weak light from the small window lit up old boxes, some covered in dust. Simon pulled out the wooden crate where he kept the rifles, taking them out carefully. The familiar weight in his hands brought back memories he would rather bury. He knew Price wanted more than just a game of hunting. This was an excuse. A pretext. Price surely expected to talk about things Johnny shouldn’t hear. When Simon came back down, carrying the two rifles in his arms, he found Johnny almost at the edge of the couch, eyes shining like a boy about to get a new toy.

“Can I shoot too?” he asked eagerly.

“Of course not,” Simon replied, dry but not harsh.

Johnny deflated a little, but Price stepped in, his voice deep yet patient:

“He’s right, lad. A moving target is much harder to hit than a bottle. The chance of missing is high, and a rifle isn’t a slingshot. It’s a lethal weapon. You need calm, discipline, and experience.”

Johnny lowered his gaze to the floor, fidgeting with his fingers, almost embarrassed. But Price continued, softer now:

“There’s no shame in it. Every soldier starts by missing. I believe before Simon, you’d never held a gun in your life.”

Johnny nodded slowly, understanding. Simon, silent, watched. There was an almost cruel relief in him: no matter how much Johnny insisted, Price was right. Better to keep him away from it. Better he stayed in the world of innocence, while Simon and Price dealt with what truly needed to be said in the woods. Simon handed one rifle to Price, feeling the familiar weight pass into the captain’s hand. Then he adjusted his own backpack, where he had carefully packed the ammunition, organized in compartments just as he used to in service. The motion was almost automatic, as if his body still remembered a discipline his mind tried to forget.

“I’ll go with Price to hunt for a bit. We’ll be back in an hour or two,” he said, turning to Johnny. His voice was firm, but there was softness there, a tone only noticeable to someone who knew him.

“Try to keep yourself busy with something, hm? Why don’t you finish the drawing you were working on?”

Johnny lifted his face, narrowing his eyes in a mock-offended gesture.

“It’s cruel of you to tell me to draw while you go have fun shooting.”

The comment made Price let out a brief laugh, almost surprised. It was rare for someone to tease Simon like that, especially with such ease.

“I’ll draw, yes. And if I finish before you get back, I’ll put on some random movie. You two have fun.”

Johnny smiled, and that smile, simple and sincere, lit something in Simon. He wished he could return it openly, but Price’s presence in the room kept him restrained, contained, as if back under the rigid regime of service. He only nodded, keeping to himself the urge to touch Johnny’s face before leaving. Minutes later, Simon and Price walked through the damp fog toward the forest. The typical northern Scottish weather surrounded them: biting cold, dense mist, and a thin drizzle that never seemed to stop, only fade and return. The soaked ground softened beneath their boots, releasing that unmistakable scent of moss and mud. They stopped under some old trees. Simon set down his backpack, opening it to begin fitting the ammunition into the rifle. The metallic clicks of the pieces echoed faintly through the silence of the woods. Price mirrored the action with the natural ease of someone who had done it countless times.

“The boy’s pretty outgoing, isn’t he?” Price said, his deep voice breaking the silence.

“You told me on the phone he helps you stay in the present. I’m glad for you, Simon.”

Simon drew a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the barrel of his rifle as he loaded it.

“He’s a good person… much better than I could ever be.”

A brief silence fell. The wind stirred the damp leaves, and Price let out a long sigh, as if exhaling something he had carried for a long time.

“How’s Gaz?” Simon asked, his voice lower, almost swallowed by the wet air.

Price rested the rifle against his leg, staring at him.

“He went back to service after some surgeries. But not as an operator. Now he’s in logistics and investigation.”

Simon swallowed hard, a sharp knot cutting through his chest.

“I hope he’s better.” Price nodded slowly.

“He’s recovering. But… Simon, you do understand why I had to pull you out, don’t you?”

Simon turned his eyes away, staring into the woods ahead. He didn’t answer right away, and that seemed to give Price permission to continue.

“I could tolerate your violence against targets. I won’t lie, you crossed the line more than once. I ignored it because I knew it wasn’t just blind rage. Since Kursk, you’d changed. Anyone would, after what you went through there. It was inevitable.” Price’s voice grew heavier, loaded with memory. “But looking away didn’t mean the problem stopped existing. I knew sooner or later, it would explode.”

 

The images of his last mission came back with brutal force in Simon’s mind. Belarus. The icy cold cutting through his gloves, the makeshift base, and the evacuation order he simply refused to follow… And by ignoring it, he brought consequences. There were still a few Russian soldiers left from the clash. They should have left the base immediately, since enemy reinforcements would soon arrive. But those voices… that language… that environment dragged Simon violently back into his past. He ignored Price, charging after them with that insane fury burning inside. Gaz reluctantly followed him. Unlike Ghost, Gaz never gave the Captain cause for concern on the field. He was an excellent soldier — always loyal, always disciplined, Price’s right hand.

But that day, reason was too far gone. Simon remembered only the flash — the grenade that landed too close, thrown by an enemy hiding behind crates.

He managed to dodge in time. But Gaz… Gaz wasn’t fast enough. The blast tore half the sky apart, the smell of gunpowder and burnt flesh filling the air. Simon remembered the scream, the flames consuming his friend’s body. Half his skin was destroyed, scars that would never disappear.

Simon closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breath.

“I should have seen it… I should have stopped it.”

Price nodded slowly. His tone held no anger, only an unbearable weight.

“I knew it would end that way. I just didn’t know when.”

The silence that followed was not light. It hung between them like the fog itself, dense, impossible to ignore.

"That… that was too much, Simon."

Price’s voice came out firm, but it wasn’t only hardness; there was also a trace of sorrow there.

"I couldn’t put anyone else at risk. You weren’t in the right state of mind to keep that position."

Simon kept his eyes fixed on the damp ground, his fingers adjusting the stock of the rifle as if they needed something solid to hold onto. His answer came low, almost a whisper swallowed by the fog.

"I understand."

And it was true. He understood. He didn’t need Price to repeat it. That verdict had echoed inside him for years, reverberating in every silence, in every restless night. He knew he had crossed the line, knew he had lost control—and deep down, he knew he could lose it again. That was the part that terrified him most. His chest tightened as he remembered what had happened days ago. Johnny. The last person in the world he would ever raise his hand against, and yet… it happened. Not consciously, not with intent, but it happened. The memory burned like searing iron. If he was capable of that, then how far could he go? The fear wasn’t of Price, nor of the past. The fear was of himself. Price broke the silence after a few seconds that seemed far too long. His voice now sounded different: lower, almost intimate, as if it were a confession.

"But it’s the first time I’ve seen you happy in a long time, you know?" He paused, searching Simon’s eyes. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this."

The words hit Simon like an unexpected shot. Happy. The word sounded strange, almost misplaced when applied to him. And yet… Johnny came to mind, with his easy smile, his dramatic jokes, and that stubborn way of pulling something out of Simon that the whole world had never managed: tenderness. Maybe Price was right. Maybe, despite all the fear, he was, for the first time in decades, feeling something close to that.

"That boy… Johnny, isn’t it?" The question came calmly, but heavy with intent. "I saw the way he looked at you when I walked in. That wasn’t just politeness. He cares about you."

Simon felt his whole body stiffen, as if the weight of the rifle doubled. For a second, he thought of denying it or changing the subject, but Price always had that look that cut through any facade. A commander knew when a soldier was lying.

"It’s just…" Simon cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully. "It’s just someone who showed up at the right time."

There was a brief silence. The sound of light drizzle on the leaves filled the space between them until Price spoke again, in a gentler tone.

"That’s a good thing, Simon. More than you think. It’s not usually easy to find someone like that after everything we’ve been through." His steady eyes returned to study him. "But tell me… does he know about your… issues? I mean… truly know?"

"He knows enough" Simon finally answered, curtly.

Simon was adjusting the rifle stock against his shoulder when he noticed Price’s gaze lingering on him. The captain seemed to choose his words carefully, as if stepping on a minefield.

"You know, Riley…" he began slowly. "When you went to fetch the weapons, I spent some time alone talking to the boy. Johnny."

Simon only grunted in reply, focusing on the safety catch of the rifle.

"I noticed some marks on his neck. Bruises, I’d say. I didn’t want to ask at the time, it wasn’t the right moment. But now…" Price tilted his head slightly, watching the man beside him. "Did something happen? An accident?"

Simon froze for a moment, his finger stilled over the empty trigger. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the patter of drizzle on the leaves. He drew in a deep breath through his nose, trying to mask the tension growing in his chest.

"It was nothing, Price," he finally replied, his voice low and firm. "The kid’s clumsy. Always tripping, bumping into things."

Price didn’t look away, his beard damp from the mist, his eyes assessing as if this were a silent interrogation. Simon knew he hadn’t believed him.

"I see…" he murmured. "It just didn’t look like a stumble. But I won’t interfere if you say it’s under control. I just don’t want to see you repeat old mistakes, Simon. Especially with someone who clearly cares about you."

 

"If something gets out of control…" Price’s voice sounded grave, measured, with that typical seriousness of someone weighing every word. "I want you to tell me, Simon. I’m not asking as your old captain, but as your friend. I don’t want bad things to happen if I can prevent them."

Simon kept his eyes fixed on the rifle’s sight, as if the damp wood of the forest could offer him some answer. There was something uncomfortable in that request—not in the words themselves, but because Price seemed to see through him, as if he had noticed the crack beneath the mask.

"Alright. I’ll do that," he answered, his voice dry but steady.

Easy words. Easier than admitting the truth.

Bad things had already happened. A man was dead. Samuel O’Byrne lay seven feet underground, his body reduced to a charred husk by flames. Simon felt no remorse. No guilt. What he had done wasn’t impulse, it was choice. Revenge. Samuel deserved the fate he got, and if necessary, Simon would do it again. Without hesitation.

The memory brought with it a shadow that nearly closed in on his mind, but it was broken by a sharp sound, a crack. Price’s shot. A bird dropped from a branch, falling onto the wet leaves. The captain lowered his rifle with a half-satisfied smile.

"Well… looks like I got one," he said simply.
Simon drew a deep breath, locking the storm inside himself.

"Let’s head back," he muttered, glancing at the darkening sky. "It’s starting to get late."

The return was silent, the fog denser now, carrying with it the smell of wet earth. Simon was satisfied. Price hadn’t dragged the past into something destructive, and Johnny… Johnny seemed happy to meet him. That warmed him inside. He wanted the boy to feel part of his life, and he did—enough to be the link between the present and that heavy past.

When they entered the house, the scene that awaited them was almost too domestic for the world Simon knew. Johnny was lying on the couch, sketchbook open on his chest. The unfinished lines of a drawing betrayed that he had fought off boredom until sleep finally claimed him.Simon stopped for a moment, just watching. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the scarf slipping to the side, the soft light of the lamp outlining his sleeping face. Adorable.

Price left shortly after, and Simon walked him to the door. The man got into his car, gave a brief wave, and drove off, disappearing down the damp road. Simon lingered at the threshold for a moment, watching the red lights fade into the distance. Despite everything, he was glad to see him. Anger still burned when he thought of the forced retirement, but deep down, he knew Price had been right. He wouldn’t have lasted much longer in that world. He might not have survived it. Fortunately, fate had given him another path. He had never believed in fate—always thought the idea too sentimental for a hardened soldier. But now… looking inside the house, at the boy asleep on the couch, he could only think that maybe there was something beyond chaos and chance. Simon approached in silence, lowering himself at Johnny’s side. He pressed a chaste kiss to his temple, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath his lips. Johnny shifted slightly, opening his eyes just enough to recognize him.

"You came back…" he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

Simon lost himself for a moment in those blue eyes. They were like glass blades and, at the same time, like deep lakes—fragile and vast. They shone with the same intensity as the stars that lit the summer sky, the very same he had so often ignored during his nights of watch in the desert or the snow. Now, though, he couldn’t ignore them.

The ice of years of solitude and blood was slowly melting, cracked open by the discreet warmth of that presence at his side. Johnny didn’t need to say anything. He just existed—and that existence, so simple and so pure, was enough to give meaning to a man who had long believed himself condemned to emptiness.

 

Johnny was the opposite of the world Simon knew. Where war had taught brutality, he brought tenderness. Where the silence of graves marked the nights in the field, Johnny laughed, filling every hollow with life. Where the weight of discipline broke men, Johnny created, drawing birds that would never be caged, turning lines into freedom.

 

"I always come back."

Johnny gave a small smile, his eyes already closing again, surrendered to the complete trust that only love can grant.

Chapter Text

Those rough hands, steeped in the scent of incense and candle wax, were forever imprinted in his memory. Johnny could still feel them, like a phantom touch that sometimes seemed to return, even years later, even when he tried to convince himself he had left it all behind. The body forgot, but the soul did not. He had been just a boy when it all began. Father Donald had grown close to him, the man was sweet and attentive with the children of the church, winning the affection of many around him, and it was no different with Johnny. And that was why it hurt so much more—he truly trusted Samuel O'Byrne... The world, which until then had been full of vivid colors, faded into shades of gray; there was no longer any comfort in the sound of the cathedral bells. There was no longer any beauty in the stained glass windows, which for the other faithful seemed to depict divine glory, but for him were nothing more than decorated windows of a prison. It hadn’t happened just once. It was countless times. A cycle of violence and fear that repeated itself like a macabre ritual inside what should have been a temple of faith and shelter.

 

Johnny did not blame his father. Angus only wanted the best for his son. With his heart torn apart by the death of his wife, he believed that bringing the boy closer to God would be a way to heal him, to strengthen his faith, to help him find a greater purpose in the midst of the pain of loss.

 

The man could not have imagined the hell he was handing over to his son by blindly trusting the church. And Johnny knew that. That was why he never held a grudge. The resentment, the hatred, the shame — all of it turned against himself and sometimes... even against the God he had, for so long, begged in vain. Ironically, that attempt at reconnection almost made him break away completely from any belief. Every time the priest forced him to do things he didn’t want to, every time he humiliated him, every time he made him feel smaller than dust, Johnny clung to prayers like someone clutching a branch in the middle of a rushing current.

Johnny remembered vividly one of his first prayers — perhaps the very first that had truly been born from the depths of his soul. Still little, on his knees before the altar, he had shut his eyes tightly, as if pressing his eyelids together was the key to being heard.

He didn’t ask for toys, he didn’t ask for a long life, he didn’t even ask for the mother who had gone. He only asked, with the trembling voice of a child, that God send him an angel. A strong angel, who could protect him from everything that hurt him. An angel who would take him from Father Donald’s filthy hands, an angel who would carry him away from the pain, to a place where no one could ever hurt him again. It was a simple, pure, desperate request. He believed, back then, that heaven was full of attentive ears. He believed that if he prayed enough, if he was sincere enough, an answer would come. Maybe the next day, maybe a month later, but it would come.

But the answer never came.

The boy waited, night after night, staring at the stars through the small bedroom window, trying to imagine which of them might be the home of the angel who would come to save him. Sometimes he thought he heard a whisper in the wind, other times he clung to the beating wings of a bird as if it were a sign. But the days passed, and nothing changed.

 

The angel never came.

 

Johnny grew up and grew tired of waiting.

 

"It's all right, Johnny. We can try again."

 

Simon’s voice was low, almost a whisper, filled with a patience Johnny still didn’t fully understand. It was a deep tone, firm, yet so tender that it seemed impossible it could come from a man like him — a battle-hardened soldier who had seen so much blood. For a moment, the boy’s thoughts scattered, as though he’d been pulled out of his own head and forced to face the present.

He lifted his eyes, meeting Simon’s. They were brown, deep, but not harsh; there was in them an unexpected warmth, a softness made even more evident by the golden-blond lashes framed under the dim lamplight. Johnny didn’t quite know how to explain it, but every time he lost himself in those eyes he felt the world could stop there — and nothing else would matter. Simon was beautiful, but not only in the strong body, the face marked by the scars of life, the broad shoulders that carried so much. He was beautiful in what Johnny saw beyond the surface, in the man who had learned to be more than the violence he knew. To Johnny, Simon was beautiful inside and out — a refuge he had never imagined he would have.

A chaste kiss touched his temple, soft as a silent seal of promise. Johnny sighed and let himself fall against Simon’s broad chest, welcoming himself into that embrace as though it were his only fortress. The steady sound of his heartbeat filled the silence, and that firm rhythm seemed capable of calming the storm that always rose inside him at such moments. Simon’s fingers, rough yet incredibly gentle, brushed aside a few strands of mohawk stuck to his damp forehead. A small, almost ordinary gesture — yet for Johnny it carried immense weight. It was affection. It was patience. It was the certainty that Simon would never treat him as something too fragile, but neither would he let him break alone.

"Sorry I couldn’t do it again..." Johnny’s voice came out low, choked, almost a whisper laced with shame. His chest ached, compressed by the guilt gnawing at his insides.

"I’m not with you for that, Johnny." Simon replied without hesitation, his voice firm and serene like a rock in the sea. "Don’t apologize. We’ll do things in your time."

That sentence, spoken with such conviction, tightened Johnny’s heart. It hurt to hear it — not because he doubted Simon’s love, but because his own fragility was such a heavy burden to bear. He felt small, frustrated, for still not being able to give himself completely. He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. He wanted to touch Simon without fear, without his mind being dragged into the dark corners of his childhood. But every time the moment came, his body betrayed him. Involuntary tremors overtook him, his breath grew short, and memories he fought to bury resurfaced, merciless. It was as if the shadow of the past clung always to his skin, refusing to let him be free.Simon noticed when the boy’s body trembled in his arms, trying to shrink, trying to vanish. So he drew him closer, wrapping him in an almost total embrace, as if raising invisible walls against the world.

"Listen to me, Johnny…" His deep voice dropped even lower, hoarse, as if it were a secret shared between only the two of them. "I’ll never pressure you. Never. What we have doesn’t depend on that. It’s not what I want from you."

Tears burned Johnny’s eyes, stubborn, refusing to fall. He stayed silent, feeling the words echo inside him like something he longed to believe, but which his guilt kept insisting on contradicting.

"I want you the way you feel safe," Simon continued, slowly caressing the back of his neck. "If it’s just staying like this, lying on my chest, that’s already enough. Do you understand? It’s more than I could ever dream of having."

"It’s just... hard," Johnny managed to murmur, his voice breaking. "I wish I could give that to you."

"Don’t pressure yourself." Simon didn’t waver, his voice steady even as his touch remained tender. "When the right time comes, you’ll feel comfortable enough. Until then... I’ll be here."

Johnny squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip. He remembered well the day Simon had learned more than he’d ever wanted to. Since the beginning of their relationship, Simon had been understanding of his limitations. He knew. Johnny was sure he knew.
That rainy day, when Father Donald appeared at the Mactavish family bakery under the excuse of buying bread, Johnny felt the world spin. The lascivious look he received cut through his skin like a blade. But, almost like divine intervention, Simon — still just a friend then — walked through the door, and at once Donald had to gather up his mask of sanctity.

Johnny remembered how he held back the tears until he no longer could, running to his room after the priest left. That was the day he broke. He tried to hold it in, but the tears were stronger than his will. He confessed, between sobs, that the priest made him feel disgusted with himself. He didn’t give all the details, he couldn’t; but that was enough. Simon, attentive, put the pieces together.

And that, though it was a relief to finally not be alone, also filled him with shame. It was as if part of his soul had been exposed, and Johnny didn’t know how to handle it.

"Si... I want to tell you something."

Johnny’s voice came low, almost suffocated, as though each syllable had to fight its way through an invisible barrier inside him.

"I'm listening."

Simon didn’t move. He simply stayed there, steady, like a silent anchor awaiting the storm. Johnny swallowed hard. His eyelids trembled, as if every blink were a battle against tears forcing their way in. The silence surrounding them was heavy, dense, thick with expectation and fear. Simon maintained his silent comfort, as though he knew that any interruption — even a misplaced gesture — might make Johnny fall silent again. So he waited, attentive, motionless, with the patience of one who understands that a heart can shatter if pressed before its time.

"Father Donald... he... he..."

The sentence died in the air, broken, unfinished.

Simon tilted his head slightly, his brown eyes fixed on the boy before him. There was no shock, no impatience. Only steadiness and a calm that felt like an invitation to go on.

"I know, Johnny."

Johnny’s chest rose unevenly, as if even breathing were a painful effort.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Simon’s voice was deep, yet gentle, without a trace of judgment. "You don’t have to open up if you don’t want to."

"I do." The answer came trembling, but there was a spark of resolve in it.

"I’ve never talked to anyone about it before... and... I think you deserve to know."

Simon only nodded, encouraging him with that solid silence, the kind that doesn’t smother but sustains.

"He wasn’t a good person. In fact, he was far from it..." Johnny ran his hand through his hair, digging his fingers hard, as though trying to rip out the thoughts burning in his skull.

"He made me do a lot of horrible things. Humiliating things. Things I... hated." The word spat out, laced with venom. "I hated all of it. I hated him."

His voice faltered, but he didn’t stop. The words now came in waves — hesitant, yet unstoppable.

"This went on for years, Simon. Years. I was so afraid. I was so young... it was too easy for him to manipulate me. He knew exactly what to say, what to do... and I... I had nowhere to run."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was suffocating, like a room with no windows. But unlike before, Johnny wasn’t alone in it. Simon remained there, eyes steady, firm, but not intrusive, like someone extending a hand without forcing the other to take it.

"I was so scared... I couldn’t take it anymore."

Johnny shut his eyes. The memory pulsed behind his eyelids, cruel and vivid. Still, the words escaped, like an inevitable exorcism.

"I prayed every night for it to end. I begged God to send someone, anyone, to take me away. But no one came. No one ever came. And in the end..." His voice cracked, nearly vanishing, until it reformed into a bitter whisper.

"In the end, I just learned to accept it."

A choked sigh slipped out. Then he opened his eyes, and for an instant, seemed afraid to face Simon. But when he finally lifted his gaze, he found the brown eyes steady, unyielding, like a promise that wouldn’t break.

"Until one day... one day it got really bad. R-really! Really!" The tears surged back with force.

"That was my limit. I-I couldn’t take it anymore, I k-knew it."

Simon closed his eyes briefly, as though absorbing the weight of it and turning it to stone to carry in his own chest. Then his hand — large, rough, but steady — settled on Johnny’s shoulder. The touch had neither haste nor pity. Only certainty.

"It wasn’t your fault." His voice sounded like granite — deep, unwavering, undeniable. "None of it was your fault, Johnny."

The boy faltered, his body trembling. The tears, once trapped, finally spilled, sliding silently down his cheeks. And for the first time, even submerged in the horror of memory, Johnny didn’t feel alone inside it.

"I spoke with my father, said I didn’t want to go to Saint Barbara’s Cathedral anymore... it caused a lot of arguments, he’s a very religious man. But in the end he agreed." Johnny sighed. "I didn’t want to tell him the real reason, I didn’t have the courage. I was afraid of what he’d think of me."

The tears fell, first one, then another, until they became a silent stream Johnny no longer had the strength to hold back. He lifted his hand to his face as if to hide, but Simon didn’t allow it. With a firm yet calm gesture, he pushed his hand away and held it between his own. Johnny faltered, his lips parting as though to apologize even for crying.

"Father Donald... w-when he learned I wasn’t going to church anymore, he came to my house."

Johnny’s voice was trembling, each syllable caught in his throat. His shoulders hunched, as though the memory were a physical weight.

"He told my father I was behaving strangely around some boys... boys who were altar boys like me." The boy paused, swallowing hard. "He said I had confessed it to him. Which was true i really told him that... but years ago."

Johnny’s hands clutched the fabric of his pants, knuckles whitening.

"He tried to convince my father to take me back to church. Said I needed to get closer to God... to stop those thoughts."

A brief, sad smile curved Johnny’s lips — but there was no joy in it. It was a tired gesture, a bitter irony.

"My father said that was my choice."
Simon leaned forward slightly.

"Did Angus handle it well?"

Johnny took a deep breath, staring at the floor. "He definitely wasn’t happy. My father is... extremely Catholic. For him, faith is in everything. But..." his eyes brimmed, and his voice faltered for a moment, "he loves me. And that, for him, is more important."

A brief, heavy silence followed. Johnny then lifted his eyes, his expression etched with dismay.

"But that didn’t bring me peace, you know?"
Simon stayed quiet, only listening.

"I spent all those years giving in to his threats because I was terrified of what my father would think. Afraid that if he found out I liked people of the same sex, he wouldn’t look at me the same way again." His voice wavered between anger and sorrow.

Johnny drew a long breath, his hand running through his hair as if trying to tear the memory out by the root.

"When, in truth, that never would’ve been a problem. Angus never would’ve turned his back on me. I suffered for nothing..."

The words dropped like stones into a silent lake. Simon, steady, let them echo without interruption.

"You don’t need to be ashamed," he murmured at last, his deep voice lacking harshness — carrying only the gravity of an unquestionable truth. "You can cry here. With me."

And it was enough.

Johnny’s body gave in, collapsing forward until he found Simon’s broad chest. There, curled against him, he seemed smaller than he was — as though all the years of pain, silence, and fear concentrated in that instant, forcing his soul to bow. The sobs came first restrained, then short, almost childlike, until they grew into a weeping that sounded like the shattering of something ancient. Something that had been hidden in silence for far too long.
Simon wrapped his arm around his back, not with the fragile gentleness of someone afraid to break him, but with the firmness of one who supports. His hand rose slowly to his nape, stroking the damp hair of tears and sweat. He said nothing. There was no need for words. Johnny’s heart raced, erratic, as if trying to escape his own skin. Simon felt it against his chest, and with each uneven beat, each ragged breath, he only held him tighter.

"You’re not less of anything," Simon said at last, in a low whisper, almost swallowed by the silence. "Not less of a man. Not less worthy."

Johnny shut his eyes tightly, as though those words were a blade — painful for being new, nearly impossible to believe. Still, he didn’t pull away. He stayed, anchored there.

Little by little, the sobbing lost its violence. It became only quiet tremors, spaced hiccups against Simon’s chest. Time ceased to matter. Minutes or hours, it made no difference. All that remained was the muffled sound of Johnny’s breathing and the firm, unwavering presence of Simon. When at last he lifted his face, the blue eyes were red, still brimming. But something had changed. It wasn’t lightness yet — it couldn’t be — but it was no longer only darkness. Simon raised his hand and touched his face. His thumbs wiped away the tears with slow, unhurried movements, like an intimate ritual. It was more than cleaning the skin — it was as if he wiped away invisible marks, old scars etched beyond flesh.

"You don’t have to carry this alone anymore," he said.

"I always be by your side Johnny. Always."

Johnny looked at him, silent. His gaze still wavered between disbelief and hope, but for the first time... it seemed possible to believe. Simon said nothing more. He only pulled him closer, wrapping him in both arms until Johnny’s trembling body was fully sheltered against his. His broad chest served as support, firm and warm, as if it could bear all the weight Johnny had carried since childhood. At first, the boy still sobbed, his breath caught in painful spasms. But soon the steady, deep sound of Simon’s heartbeat began to fill the silence. Thump... thump... thump. A safe, unshakable rhythm, as if speaking in a secret language: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Johnny shut his eyes, and each beat seemed to dissolve some of the tension bound in his muscles. As though his body itself recognized that, finally, there was no threat. No judging eyes. No claws waiting to wound him. Only Simon’s heartbeat, steady, reminding him he was alive, that there was a tomorrow. A long sigh slipped from his lips, almost a moan of relief. His hands, once clenched in fists, loosened, resting his fingers against Simon’s bare chest, feeling the warmth, feeling the vibration of that life that welcomed him. Hope arrived quietly, almost shy, like a beam of light piercing through a crack after years of darkness. For the first time, Johnny dared believe he might not be destined to carry his pain forever. His eyes grew heavy, still damp, but now tired. He fought sleep for a few moments, perhaps fearing he’d lose that shelter if he gave in. But exhaustion won — and Simon did not let go. Simon held him firm, protected, like a safe harbor.

And so Johnny surrendered. He pressed his face against the chest that cradled him and let himself be lulled by the heartbeat, each one louder than his fears. Slowly, his body relaxed, his breath steadied, and the whole world faded away. He fell asleep there, sheltered in Simon’s heart.

 

______________

 

"I'm so happy to be spending a few days with you!"

 

Johnny said cheerfully as he dragged his backpack down the hallway of Simon's house. When he reached his boyfriend's bedroom, he unceremoniously dropped the backpack onto the double bed, a soft thud echoing through the mattress, and then threw himself on top of it, chuckling softly as he sank into the firm mattress that still held Simon's scent. It wasn't uncommon for them to sleep together; in fact, Johnny had slept in that bed even before the two men had started their relationship. That night, Johnny had had too much to drink and ended up falling asleep on the living room sofa; Simon had carried him up the stairs and laid him down in his own bed. The younger man still remembered with butterflies in his stomach when he woke up in Simon Riley's bed.

"I'm glad too, Sweetheart." The deep voice was warm, and Simon's gaze softened seeing him so at ease there, in the space that was once his alone. Johnny rested his chin on his arms, which were crossed on the bed, staring at him with a playful glint in his blue eyes.

"Don't get too used to it, I might decide to stay longer..."

Simon arched an eyebrow, a half-smile appearing beneath the invisible mask of toughness he always wore. "Would that be a problem?"

"Not for me," Johnny replied, giving a small laugh before rolling onto his side and lying down properly.

"Maybe for you, if I start occupying half your closet."

Simon just shook his head, laughing through his nose, and went to the wardrobe. His movements were slow, almost hesitant, as if he were searching for something that required more than just opening a door. He bent down, moving aside some articles of clothing until he reached a small metal box at the back. The object was slightly rusty, the metal marked by time, and when Simon lifted it, a faint noise sounded from within, as if it carried memories that stirred upon being awakened.
Johnny rose up curiously,propping himself on his elbows.

"What's that?"

Simon sat down next to him on the bed, the box resting in his large hands. For a moment, he didn't answer. He opened the lid slowly, revealing a pair of dog tags, simple, but laden with history. The metal reflected the soft light of the room, worn but still intact.

"These... were yours?" Johnny asked in a low voice, as if he were before something sacred.

"Yes." Simon sighed, his eyes fixed on the tags. "It was my dog tag from when I served in the army. I spent years with them around my neck. They're very important to me."

Johnny reached out carefully, almost afraid to touch them.

"It's beautiful, Simon. You must be very proud of it."

Simon, however, didn't take them back. On the contrary: he took Johnny's hand and placed the dog tags in his palm, closing his fingers around the cold metal.

"I want you to have them."

Johnny blinked, confused, his heart racing in an almost frantic rhythm.

"You... you're serious?" His voice trembled.
"I-I don't know what to say!"A nervous and incredulous smile spread across his face, illuminating it completely.

"You don't need to say anything," Simon replied simply, but his brown eyes shone with a rare intensity.

"Just keep them safe. Take good care of them. They are a part of me... I wanted you to have them for that reason."

Simon's gaze softened.

"As long as you have them, I'll always be with you."

The words hit Johnny deep, as if a huge, yet sweet, weight had been placed in his hands. He stared at the dog tags, feeling the cold metal gradually warm against his skin, and realized that this wasn't just a gift. It was trust. It was love. It was the handing over of a part of Simon's soul.

Unable to contain the impulse, Johnny launched himself at him, wrapping him in a tight hug, his chest pressed against Simon's. The kiss that followed was intense, passionate, loaded with everything words couldn't say. Johnny squeezed the metal tighter between his fingers, while his other hand gripped Simon's neck, as if afraid the moment might escape. When they finally pulled apart, Johnny rested his forehead against Simon's, his eyes glistening with emotion.

"I'll take care of them, Si. I promise. Always."

Johnny was still in Simon's arms, the taste of their recent kiss throbbing on his lips. His heart was beating fast, not just from the intensity of what he'd felt, but also from the courage beginning to take shape within him. His fingers slid over Simon's scarred jaw and stayed there, as if he wanted to memorize every feature, every hard line softened by the room's faint light.

"Simon..." his voice came out low, almost trembling, but filled with decision. "I want to try."

The man frowned slightly but didn't look away.

"Are you sure, Johnny?" The question was asked calmly, gravely, like an invitation and not an obstacle. "It doesn't have to be now if you don't want to. I gave you the dog tags because I wanted to, not for you to give me something in return."

Johnny swallowed dryly and nodded, his blue eyes shining with a mix of nervousness and desire. "I want this... I really trust you."

"I'm ready, Si."

Simon took a deep breath, as if he wanted to keep that moment forever. Then he leaned in again, reclaiming the kiss—this time slower, deeper. Their lips met with contained urgency, making space for their tongues to touch gently. Johnny moaned softly, feeling a shiver run down his spine. Simon's large hands went up to the hem of his shirt, exploring the skin of his waist, his abdomen. The contrast of the touch—firm and careful—made Johnny shudder. In a calm movement, Simon pulled the garment up, and the boy raised his arms, letting him undress him. The shirt fell forgotten on the floor. Johnny felt the cold air of the room against his skin, but the heat of Simon's hands soon replaced any discomfort. He ran his palm over the boy's collarbone, slowly descending his chest, until it stopped over the rapidly beating heart.

"You're trembling..." he murmured.

"I'm just a little anxious... but it's good." Johnny replied, smiling nervously.
Simon returned it with a soft kiss on his forehead,before leaning in again and brushing his lips against his neck. Each touch left a burning trail: wet kisses along the curve of his jaw, light nips on the sensitive skin below his ear. Johnny gasped, surrendering to the sensation, his hands tangling in Simon's blond hair. The kisses traveled down his bare chest, and Johnny felt the weight of his breath against his skin. Simon paused now and then to caress with his fingers, patiently exploring every line of his body. His tongue traced gentle paths over the skin, descending his abdomen, making the muscles contract involuntarily.

"Simon..." the name came out in a whisper laden with desire.

The man lifted his brown eyes, meeting his boyfriend's glistening blue ones.

"If you feel any discomfort, you tell me. Understood?"

"Yeah... i got it," Johnny replied, firm this time.

Simon smiled faintly before returning to what he was doing. His fingers explored the boy's waist, sliding inside the waistband of his pants. He pulled them down slowly, along with his boxers, exposing the sensitive skin of his thighs. Johnny blushed deeply, partially covering his face with his arm, but he didn't pull away.

"You don't need to hide," Simon murmured, kissing his hip. "You're beautiful."

Simon took off his own shirt, revealing his muscular physique, shaped by years of intense training. The kisses descended even further, slow, reverent, as if every inch of Johnny was sacred. The boy's body arched in response, torn between shyness and pleasure. With every new touch, every new caress, it was as if Simon was erasing some of the old shadows that weighed on him.
Johnny was no longer thinking about fear.He only felt—and for the first time, he felt safe enough to surrender to it.

The cold of the room mixed with the heat growing under his skin, and every gesture from Simon made him feel as if the world had stopped right there, inside that bedroom.

Simon kissed him slowly, descending his chest, as if he had all the time in the world. His lips lingered on his nipples, nibbling lightly before sucking, and Johnny let out a low moan, his breath becoming uneven. His fingers tangled in the man's blond hair, pulling lightly, as if he never wanted him to stop.

"Si..." he whispered, his mouth agape, like a request he didn't know how to formulate.

The man looked up, maintaining eye contact as he let his tongue play over the sensitive skin of his abdomen.

"Relax, sweetheart. Tonight, it's all about you."

Those words made Johnny's heart beat even faster. He took a deep breath, trying to surrender to that promise.

Simon's large hands explored every curve of his waist, sliding down to his thighs. His firm fingers squeezed the flesh lightly, moving up and down in a provocative rhythm. Johnny arched his back when one of them gently grazed the line of his groin, teasing him without rush.

"Your skin is sensitive, it turns red easily," Simon murmured, almost amused, before placing slow kisses there, on the sensitive skin at the top of his thigh. "I love that about you."

Johnny bit his lower lip, trying to hold back a moan that escaped anyway. It was vulnerable, it was raw, but it was the first time he allowed himself to be seen like this, completely surrendered. And before Johnny could speak, his mouth was already there, kissing him with devotion. First light, exploratory kisses, descending his thighs and rising again, until his tongue dared to slowly circle the head, provoking a violent shiver that made Johnny release a hoarse moan.

"Ah, Simon..."

The man smiled against the sensitive skin and then took his entire length into his mouth. The wet heat, the pressure of the suction, and the slow rhythm were too much for Johnny, who arched his back and gripped the sheets tightly. His hips tried to rise, but Simon held his waist firmly, controlling his movements, keeping him at the pace he wanted. Every slow thrust of his mouth was accompanied by the sliding of his tongue, careful, exploring every detail. It was more than pleasure—it was care, it was surrender. Johnny felt it in every second, in every gesture.
The moans grew louder,broken, his breath short as if he were about to lose air. "I... I'm not going to last..." he murmured through clenched teeth, his eyes shut.

Simon stopped for a moment, rising to his level, and kissed him again, deeply, letting Johnny taste himself on his lips.

"Hold on a little longer.The best part hasn't come yet. I want you to enjoy everything," he murmured against his lips. "I want to hear you lose yourself."

His hand replaced his mouth,firm and slow, while his other arm held him against his broad chest. Johnny moaned softly, muffled by the kiss, his entire body vibrating with pleasure. Every caress seemed studied, meant to memorize his reactions, as if Simon intended to know every detail of him—and to love him in all of them.

Johnny felt like he was floating, as if the weight of memories was being lightened by the present touch. For the first time, pleasure and safety were in the same place, in the same body, in the same man.

 

Simon brings his right hand to Johnny’s face, brushing his thumb over his lower lip and then using the same finger to part his jaw.

"Open your mouth for me. Yeah, just like that."

The man slips two fingers into the younger man's mouth."Suck them for me, need them nice and wet so it doesn't hurt."

Johnny lets out a moan that's both embarrassed and aroused at those words and begins to suck on Simon's fingers.

Simon never took his eyes off him. Johnny's lips were still wet, parted, when he slowly pulled his fingers from his mouth, leaving a string of saliva glistening between the skin and the boy's tongue.

"Perfect..." Simon murmured, his voice deep, laden with heat.

Johnny gasped, eager, his blue eyes half-closed as if seeking courage within his own desire.
Simon guided his hand to his hip,holding him firmly, and with the other, slid his hand between his thighs. Johnny spread his legs hesitantly but without resistance. His body said what his mouth didn't need to. The touch was gentle—a careful, almost exploratory glide. Johnny shuddered, his breath catching in his throat.

"Relax for me, Johnny…" Simon asked, kissing his neck, sucking the skin until it was red.

The first finger pressed, slowly, until it entered. Johnny moaned low, a sound mixing nervousness and pleasure. His hips moved back instinctively, seeking more, even though his muscles still trembled.

"Is this okay?" Simon asked, his lips brushing his ear.
Johnny just nodded,biting his lip, his hand gripping the sheet.

Simon didn't rush.He moved his finger in and out at a slow pace, letting his body get used to it, until the sound of every breath seemed to beg for more. Then, he added the second finger, already wet with Johnny's saliva, and brought it along, forcing entry calmly, opening the boy's body little by little.

Johnny moaned loudly this time, arching his back. “Ah—Si…!”

“Shhh…”Simon kissed him on the mouth, muffling the sound, invading his lips with the same firm patience he used in his touches.

The two fingers slid deep, stretching, exploring. Simon knew what he was looking for, and when he found the right spot, Johnny nearly screamed against his mouth, his whole body shuddering.

“That’s it, baby… feel that… it’s all yours…”

His movements became firmer,each thrust of his fingers drawing louder moans. Johnny was no longer holding back, his hips moved against Simon's hand, wanting more, asking without words.
The man pulled his face back,his dark eyes fixed on him, and whispered with a smile:

“Ready for me?”

Johnny, still panting, didn't hesitate this time. “I want you, Si… now.”

Simon slowly withdrew his fingers, watching the way his body seemed to call him back. Then, he positioned himself between his legs, rubbing his hard length against Johnny's sensitive skin, but not entering yet.

“Last chance to say no.”

Johnny held his face with both hands, pulling him into a burning kiss, and answered against his mouth:

“I want to. I want you inside me.”

Simon closed his eyes for a moment,as if he needed to hold onto his own control. Then, he guided himself with his hand, pressing the head against the prepared entrance, and began to penetrate him slowly, inch by inch, until he felt him completely around him.

The moan that escaped Johnny's throat was half pain, half ecstasy. Johnny’s body clenched the instant Simon was fully inside him. The air left his lungs in a muffled groan, his head thrown back against the pillow. The sensation was too intense, filling him in a way that hurt and yet set every nerve on fire. Simon remained still for a few seconds, breathing deeply against his neck. He kissed his damp skin, slowly and patiently, until he felt the boy's muscles begin to yield under the warmth of their intimacy.

“Look at me, Johnny…” Simon asked, his voice rough.

Johnny opened his eyes slowly, still glistening from the effort of bearing the invasion. Simon firmly held his wrists, bringing his hands to the mattress above his head. He intertwined their fingers.

Then he kissed him. A deep kiss that stole his breath, that said without words "I love you."

As the kiss intensified, Simon began to move. First slowly, withdrawing almost completely and returning with a slow, cadenced thrust. Johnny's body reacted immediately, a moan vibrating in his throat, his hips arching as if instinctively seeking contact.

“That’s it… relax… let me take care of you…” Simon murmured between kisses, each word mixed with the wet sound of their lips.

The rhythm grew little by little. The firmer friction made Johnny lose control of his own voice—stuttered moans, quick breaths, a silent plea for more. His fingers tightened around Simon's, as if that connection was the only thing keeping him in the world while pleasure took over. Simon increased the pace, each thrust deeper than the last, drawing sighs and moans that filled the room. His forehead pressed to Johnny's, eyes closed, he seemed to be fighting his own desire not to lose control too soon.

“You feel that? Only you can have me like this…” he whispered against his mouth before kissing him again, forcefully.

Johnny moaned loudly, his voice breaking, his legs tightening around Simon's waist, pulling him closer, deeper. Each thrust took them deeper into each other—not just their bodies, but something more intimate, more essential. It was more than sex.

Simon's rhythm became more intense, but never too rushed—it was a measured cadence, calculated so that each thrust was felt completely. Johnny was no longer trembling from fear: now it was tremors of pleasure that shook his body with every new thrust that drew louder and louder sighs from him.

“Simon… ah, Si…” Johnny gasped, his body arching under his, his mouth slightly open. His glistening eyes were no longer from pain, but from a pleasure so overwhelming it seemed impossible to contain. Simon didn't pull away. With every thrust, he kept Johnny's hands firmly by his head, fingers intertwined, and sealed his mouth in a hot, wet, deep kiss. The sound of moans mixed with that of kisses, the clash of bodies, the gentle creak of the bed.

“That’s it… see, sweetheart? Just pleasure… nothing else. Just you and me.” Simon's voice came out hoarse, broken by heavy breathing.

Johnny moaned louder, as if those words had opened his body even more. He felt filled, but not invaded. He felt possessed, but not violated. It was different from anything he had known before. Every movement from Simon was a promise, every kiss a silent vow: you are safe here. The pleasure was growing too fast. Simon adjusted his hips, changing the angle, and Johnny let out a hoarse cry, his back arching violently.

“Yes—! Oh, God, there…!”

His body pulsed, every nerve fiber igniting like liquid fire running through his veins. There was no more fear, no more memory of pain. Just that warm, overwhelming wave growing inside him, ready to overflow.
Simon increased the pace,pressing deep, kissing every moan that escaped. His breath was heavy against Johnny's mouth, sweat dripping down his temple, his whole body vibrating with the urgency of pleasure.

“Come for me, Johnny… I want to feel you…” he murmured, buried to the hilt inside him.

And it was as if Johnny's body obeyed immediately. A sob escaped his throat before breaking into loud, uncontrolled moans as orgasm ripped through him. It came on strong, hot, pulled from within as if it were liberation. His body clenched around Simon, pulsing, shaken by spasms of pleasure that made him scream his name. Simon couldn't resist any longer. Feeling Johnny tighten around him, lost in his own climax, he gave in too, burying himself deep one last time before exploding inside him with a deep groan, muffled against the boy's mouth. The room was filled with the sound of panting breaths, moans that became long sighs, bodies still shuddering with the last spasms of climax. Simon didn't pull away immediately. He stayed inside him, holding him, his forehead against his, their fingers still intertwined. Johnny,panting, opened his glistening blue eyes. For the first time, there was no shame or pain in them. Just a silent certainty: he had finally felt what sex without violence was like. What pleasure without fear was.

“I love you, Si…” he whispered, still trembling, a small smile escaping amid tears of pleasure.

Simon kissed him again, gently, almost chastely this time.

“I love you more, Johnny..."

Johnny felt his heart warmed in a way he had never experienced before. As if, little by little, all the pain that had once corroded him was being dissolved, carried away, leaving in its place only a strange but deeply welcoming calm. There were no more tears. There was no room for shadows. All that remained was the comforting warmth of Simon's chest under his cheek, firm and steady, like an anchor. He now had someone. Not just someone by his side, but a boyfriend. Someone he truly loved, without fear, and with whom he could dream of building a future. Life—for the first time in a long time—seemed good, seemed possible, like those childhood nights when he would cling to the stars and silently pray for a better tomorrow. The difference was that now, it was no longer just a distant dream. It was there. It was happening.

As Johnny let himself be lulled by the rhythm of Simon's heartbeat, Simon too was lost in deep thought. For so long, he had believed that his hope had been buried forever in that frozen hell of Kursk, amid snow and silence, amid war and scars that never seemed to close.

And yet, now he looked at the loved one resting on his chest—so fragile, yet so strong. Johnny's light weight against him brought a feeling Simon never imagined he would know again. Love. It wasn't something he had planned. In fact, it was something he believed was beyond his reach, like a gift reserved for others, never for himself. He hadn't desired it… until he met Johnny. And now, the idea of living without this boy by his side seemed impossible. Unimaginable.

Simon slowly ran his hand through his hair, as if silently reinforcing a promise that would never need to be said aloud. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could love something without destroying it. Maybe he could, finally, love without breaking.

Johnny, his eyes heavy and eyelids slowly drooping, felt sleepiness arrive like a calm, slow tide, enveloping his body and mind. It was a different kind of rest—not the exhaustion that so often made him pass out from tiredness, but a gentle, comforting stupor, as if he had been rocked by invisible hands. And, in this space between wakefulness and dream, old memories surfaced, bringing with them the distant echo of a pain that seemed both near and remote.

He remembered the childhood nights he spent awake, curled up on the hard bed in the cold room, crying softly so no one would hear. The pillow was his accomplice, always wet, always silent. He prayed with innocent fervor, pouring out all the faith that could fit in a small, still naive heart, believing that heaven was attentive to his pleas. He asked for safety. He asked for affection. He asked for someone to come and take him away. It wasn't an elaborate request, but a desperate one. A child shouldn't have to beg for such a thing—and yet, he begged, night after night, as if insistence could finally convince God to send him an angel.

Now, years later, snuggled against Simon's warm, firm chest, feeling the steady beat of a heart that didn't fail, Johnny found himself remembering that old prayer. Of the kneeling boy, with clasped hands and tearful eyes, asking for the impossible. And he realized that, somehow, that plea had been answered.

The angel he had cried out for was there.

But Simon wasn't an angel. He didn't have golden wings, he didn't radiate purity. On the contrary: he carried scars, shadows, and sins of his own. A body marked by wars, a soul shaped by pains that Johnny might never come to know in their entirety. And yet, for Johnny, none of that mattered. Because it was Simon who protected him now, who held him firmly, who loved him with the patience he never believed he deserved. And perhaps that's what made it all even more real. Angels are distant, unattainable. Simon, however, was human and was there, of flesh, bone, and heart.

Johnny closed his eyes completely, allowing himself to relax the last remaining thread of tension in his body. A small, almost imperceptible smile was born on his lips, as if he had finally found a piece of the heaven he had always sought.

Chapter Text

It was late afternoon, and the bluish light of the overcast day struggled to pierce through the heavy curtains of the living room, casting a soft, almost melancholic glow over the space. Johnny lay with his head resting on Simon’s lap, his mohawk disheveled under the older man’s fingers, which stroked it with an almost reverent patience. The muffled sound of some forgettable movie—a cheap comedy with forced laughter and disposable dialogue—hummed from the television, but neither of them was truly paying attention. The screen flickered in shades of blue and red, casting intermittent shadows across the worn wooden walls, marked by time and the stories that place held.

Outside, the rain fell with fierce persistence, unlike the light drizzle that usually lulled the afternoons in that forgotten little town. It was a thick storm, with gusts of wind that rattled the windows and bent the trees in the yard as if they were begging for mercy. The raindrops pounded the roof in a chaotic rhythm, a drumming that seemed to echo the restless pulse of Johnny’s heart. The wind howled softly, carrying the scent of wet earth that seeped through the cracks of the house. There was no going out. Not that Simon minded.

He loved these days. He loved how the rain forced them to stay there, confined in the cozy warmth of the living room, with Johnny so close that Simon could feel the light weight of his breathing against his skin. Angus, Johnny’s father, was still in Glasgow for work and wouldn’t be back for two days. In the meantime, Johnny was staying at Simon’s house—a decision Angus had accepted reluctantly, but with no alternative. During the week, Johnny spent his mornings and afternoons at the family bakery, manning the counter, kneading bread, and dealing with the regular customers who always asked about his father. Simon, for his part, made a point of picking the boy up at the end of each shift, parking his old pickup truck on the narrow street and waiting with a patience he didn’t even know he possessed. He wouldn’t mind spending the whole day at the bakery, helping Johnny count change or clean trays, but he respected Angus’s request: Simon wasn’t to set foot in the establishment. Not after the incident.

That day still weighed heavily on Simon’s memory, a scar he carried with a mix of guilt and relief. It had been an accident—a moment of carelessness, a fight that had escalated too quickly, and Simon’s hands, so used to protecting, had hurt Johnny. The purple marks on the boy’s neck, a cruel reminder of what he’d done for a week, had finally faded. Simon still felt a pang in his chest when he thought about it, but now, looking at Johnny with his skin clear and his eyes half-closed under the gentle caress in his hair, he could breathe a little easier. The relief, however, was never complete. Not when he knew the deeper marks, the ones that couldn’t be seen, were still there.

The past few days had been a bittersweet mix of closeness and discovery. Since the first time they’d been together—a day Simon held in his memory as the most vivid of his life—something had shifted between them. Simon had had lovers before, men and women, fleeting relationships and even a few that promised more than they delivered. But with Johnny, it was different. It was as if, for the first time, he’d found someone who made him want to slow down, to observe, to feel every detail. Johnny’s soft skin, the hesitant then confident sounds escaping his throat, the glint in his blue eyes that held a mix of curiosity and vulnerability—all of it had etched in Simon a happiness he didn’t know could exist. That day, with its moments of surrender and discovery, had been like opening a door to a place he never wanted to leave.

Since then, they’d given themselves to each other nearly every day, with an urgency that blended desire and need. Johnny, little by little, was starting to let go, to explore, to learn. Simon felt a quiet pride in guiding him, in watching the boy allow himself to feel pleasure, even if sometimes it came with a shyness that betrayed his past. Because, despite the growing connection between them, there were moments when Simon noticed the weight Johnny carried. He saw it in how the boy, even in their most intimate moments, seemed more focused on pleasing him than on letting himself enjoy. It was an almost unconscious reflex, an echo of years of abuse that still shaped his gestures, his hesitations. Simon saw it in the small details: the way Johnny sometimes averted his gaze, as if afraid of being judged, or how his shoulders tensed when something reminded him of things he didn’t say out loud.

And then, like a sharp knife, the memory of Father Donald’s words cut through Simon’s thoughts. He could hear that voice again, cold and venomous, spoken minutes before the man was reduced to ashes:

“Your precious Johnny’s mind is buried in this altar. And it always will be. Every time he cries, it’s me. Every time he trembles in your arms, it’s me he feels. I was the one who opened that body first.”

The words were a cruel truth, a poison that seeped into the quiet moments. Simon clenched his jaw, his fingers stroking Johnny’s hair with more gentleness than ever, as if he could erase those invisible marks with his touch. He knew Johnny’s mind still returned to that altar, to the weight of the past Father Donald had carved into him. But Simon also knew he would do anything—anything—to turn that trauma into nothing more than a distant memory, an echo with no power over the boy. He couldn’t undo what had happened, but he could be there, every day, offering Johnny the space to rebuild who he was.

Johnny stirred lightly, pulling Simon from his thoughts. The boy looked up, his face relaxed but with a trace of unease that never fully disappeared.

“Is it still raining hard?” he asked, his voice hoarse from spending the entire afternoon in silence.

“I wanted to walk in the forest with you.”

Simon let out a low chuckle, the warm, familiar sound filling the space between them.

“We could, but you’d better be ready to swim.”

Johnny rolled his eyes, but a crooked smile crept onto his face.

“Very funny, Simon.”

He lifted himself from the older man’s lap, the movement slow, almost hesitant, as if he wanted to prolong the contact. Then he leaned forward and kissed him. It was a soft kiss at first, a gentle touch that carried the promise of something more. But soon the heat grew, and Johnny trailed his lips down Simon’s neck, his warm breath against the older man’s skin.

Simon let out a low sigh, his fingers sliding into Johnny’s hair. He tugged the mohawk lightly, just enough to draw a cheeky smile from the boy, a smile that mixed shyness and boldness in a way that made Simon’s heart race. For a moment, the sound of the rain, the silly movie on the TV, the weight of the past—all of it vanished. It was just the two of them, the heat of their bodies, the brush of their lips, the certainty that, in that moment, nothing else mattered.

But even in that moment, Simon couldn’t ignore the slight tremor in Johnny’s hands, the way he sometimes hesitated, as if seeking permission to let himself feel. Simon cupped the boy’s face with both hands, his thumbs tracing gentle lines over his cheeks.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “It’s okay. Just… let it happen.”

Johnny looked at him, his eyes shimmering with something that mixed desire and vulnerability. He didn’t respond, but leaned in again, his lips meeting Simon’s with an urgency that said more than words could. The rain outside thickened, the wind howled, but inside the living room, the world seemed suspended, as if time had decided to give them a reprieve. Simon pulled Johnny closer, their bodies aligning on the couch.

 

The old couch creaked under their weight, the rough fabric brushing against their skin as Simon pulled Johnny by the hair, his fingers firmly tangled in the messy mohawk. He tilted the boy’s head back with a slow, almost deliberate movement, exposing the vulnerable curve of his neck. Johnny’s skin was warm under Simon’s lips, which started with soft kisses, barely grazing, before his tongue slid out, tracing a slow, teasing line along the collarbone. Johnny let out a low moan, almost inaudible, a sound that seemed to escape against his will, caught between desire and the shyness that still made him hesitate. The sound vibrated against Simon’s mouth, who couldn’t hold back a light, husky laugh as he continued kissing, his lips now firmer, exploring the skin with a mix of tenderness and boldness.

Simon raised his hand and, with a quick but controlled motion, gave a firm slap to Johnny’s thigh over his worn jeans. The sharp sound cut through the silence of the room, and Johnny let out a short gasp, his eyes widening for a moment before narrowing into an expression that mixed surprise and something deeper, something he didn’t yet know how to name. Simon watched every reaction closely, his dark eyes fixed on the boy’s face, catching the slight tremble of his lips, the way his cheeks flushed a rosy hue that made the faint freckles stand out like tiny constellations. He found it beautiful.

“Am I imagining things, or do you actually like it a bit rough?”

Simon asked, his deep voice laced with a teasing tone but carrying a hint of care. He tilted his head, a crooked smile forming on his face as he watched Johnny wrestle with embarrassment. The boy looked away for a moment, his fingers gripping the couch fabric as if anchoring himself. The flush on his cheeks deepened.

“You’re an idiot,” Johnny muttered, his voice low but with a trace of a smile that betrayed his attempt to seem offended. Simon leaned closer, the heat of Johnny’s body mingling with his own, the faint scent of soap and something uniquely Johnny filling the space between them.

“Maybe,” Simon replied, his tone still playful but softening as he traced the curve of Johnny’s jaw with his thumb.

“But let’s take it slow, alright? That kind of thing… you’ll figure it out with time. For now, just vanilla for you, kid.”

He leaned in, brushing his nose against Johnny’s ear, his warm breath sending a visible shiver through the boy.

Johnny let out a sigh, his chest rising and falling as he tried to find the words.

“I… I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice hesitant, almost a whisper. He looked at Simon, his blue eyes shining with a mix of vulnerability and desire.

“Sometimes I want to… I don’t know, try things. But…” He stopped, his face turning to the side, as if the weight of finishing the sentence was too much.

Simon didn’t push him. He knew Johnny well enough to understand when silence spoke louder than words. Instead, he slid his hand from Johnny’s jaw to the nape of his neck, his fingers gently massaging the base, where tension seemed to knot like invisible threads. He could feel the stiffness in Johnny’s muscles, the way his body seemed to fight itself, torn between the desire to surrender and the fear of losing himself.

Simon leaned in again, his lips brushing Johnny’s forehead in a gesture so tender it contrasted with the slap from moments before.

“You don’t need to know everything now,” he said, his voice low, almost a murmur against the boy’s skin. “We’ll go at your pace. Always.”

Johnny leaned forward, his forehead resting on Simon’s shoulder as if seeking a safe harbor. The scent of Simon—a mix of wood, sweat, and something indefinably comforting—enveloped him, and for a moment, the weight in his chest seemed lighter.

“You make it sound so easy,” Johnny murmured, his voice muffled against the fabric of Simon’s shirt.

“It’s not easy,” Simon replied honestly, his fingers continuing to trace slow circles on the back of Johnny’s neck. “But we make it work.”

 

Dusk settled slowly, the late afternoon light giving way to a dense gray that blended with the veil of rain outside. Simon rose from the couch, the fabric creaking under his weight, and looked at Johnny, who remained nestled, his body relaxed but with a trace of laziness in his eyes.

“I’ve got to run to the store,” Simon said, his voice low but firm, carrying a domesticity he’d never imagined craving so much.

“It’s getting dark, and I’ll make dinner for us soon. But we’re missing a few things. Wanna come, or would you rather stay here?”

Johnny lifted his gaze, his blue eyes catching the faint light slipping through the gaps in the heavy curtain. He turned to the window, as if he could see through the thick fabric, where the rain continued to fall with an insistence that seemed intent on erasing the world. For a moment, he seemed to consider the idea, his fingers lightly tapping the arm of the couch—a habit Simon recognized as a sign of disguised restlessness. But then Johnny sank deeper into the upholstery, pulling a cushion to his chest.

“You know what? I think I’ll just stay here,” he said, his voice light but tinged with exhaustion. “Feeling kinda lazy now."

Simon smiled, a small but genuine smile that softened the hard lines of his face.

“Alright,” he replied, leaning forward. “I’ll grab that strawberry ice cream you like while I’m at it.”

He bent down, his lips brushing Johnny’s temple in a quick but tender kiss, full of a gentleness that seemed to contrast with the strength of his calloused hands. Johnny closed his eyes for a moment, as if absorbing the gesture, and Simon felt a pang in his chest—a mix of warmth and responsibility that made him want to protect that moment forever.

"I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry,” Simon said, straightening up. He grabbed the keys to the pickup truck from the wooden stand by the television, the cold metal against his fingers. Before turning to the door, he cast one last look at Johnny, now lying on his side on the couch, one leg bent and his face partially hidden by the cushion. The sight was so simple, so ordinary, it almost hurt in its perfection. The domesticity of that scene—Johnny at ease in his home, the muffled sound of the silly movie on the TV, the drumming of the rain outside—was something Simon had never imagined wanting, but now felt as essential as the air he breathed.

He opened the door, the damp wind from outside rushing into the room with a cold gust that carried the smell of wet earth. Driving in heavy rain had never been an issue for Simon. He’d faced cutting hail on mountain roads, blizzards that reduced visibility to zero, even sandstorms that swallowed the horizon during desert operations. There was something almost comical in the irony that his greatest weather challenge now was a thick rain and dense fog, all to buy spaghetti and make a homemade dinner to please his boyfriend. The pickup truck rumbled softly as he maneuvered down the narrow road, the headlights cutting through the curtain of water, the windshield wipers working at a frantic pace that seemed to match the rhythm of his thoughts.

At the store, the fluorescent light was almost harsh compared to the dimness outside. Simon moved quickly through the aisles, the cart squeaking against the shiny floor. He grabbed pasta, a jar of tomato sauce, garlic, fresh basil—he wanted to make something simple but warm for the night. Last but not least, he went to the freezer and picked up the strawberry ice cream, Johnny’s favorite. He smiled, imagining the boy opening the carton with that childlike enthusiasm that sometimes surfaced, as if the world could be reduced to something as pure as a spoonful of sweetness.

When he returned home, the night had already swallowed the sky, the horizon now a pitch-black expanse punctuated only by the occasional flash of distant lightning. The rain had lightened but was still persistent, dripping from the trees and forming puddles on the gravel path to the door. Simon stepped inside, the grocery bag swinging in his hand, the chill of the rain still clinging to his leather jacket. The living room was as he’d left it, with the television murmuring the same silly movie, but the couch was empty. The cushion Johnny had been holding now lay askew, as if he’d gotten up in a hurry.

“Johnny?” Simon called, his voice echoing in the silence of the house. He set the bag down near the door and walked to the television, turning it off with a click that felt too loud in the stillness. Then he heard it—a low, halting sound coming from upstairs. Sobs. Not loud, not dramatic, but fragile, as if someone were trying to stifle them and failing.

Simon’s heart froze. He climbed the stairs quickly, the wooden handrail creaking under his grip. The sound of the sobs grew clearer, sharper, and he realized, with a pang in his chest, that they were coming from the room he’d turned into an office. That room, tucked away in a corner of the house, was where he’d spent months planning every detail of Samuel O’Byrne’s—Father Donald’s—downfall, the monster who had stolen so much from Johnny. Simon had been meticulous: he’d burned the diocese’s documents, torn up the notes, erased the spreadsheets that covered the walls like a map of his obsession. A day after eliminating O’Byrne, he’d cleaned everything, convinced nothing remained. Nothing. So why was Johnny crying?

He opened the office door, the creak of the hinge slicing through the air like an accusation. The dim light of a desk lamp cast long shadows across the wooden floor, and there, curled up against the wall, was Johnny. His legs were drawn up, his arms wrapped around his knees, looking smaller and more fragile than Simon had ever seen him. His trembling hands clutched a few photos stapled to yellowed papers, and his blue eyes, now red and glistening with tears, streamed silently down his pale face. Simon recognized the photos instantly, and the weight of guilt crashed over him like a wave.

They were photos of Johnny, taken between the ages of 12 and 15, when he served as an altar boy at St. Barbara’s Cathedral. In one, he held a hymnal, his face serious but with a trace of innocence that hurt to look at. Simon had kept them, unable to destroy them as he had the rest. They weren’t like the tapes or the photo O’Byrne kept as a trophy, objects Simon had burned with cold rage. These photos were different—they were fragments of Johnny, of the man he loved, of a life that, despite everything, still belonged to him. They’d been in the desk drawer, along with the laptop, where Simon never imagined Johnny would find them. But the drawer was open, the laptop charger carelessly tossed on the desk. Johnny had probably been looking for something trivial and, instead, found a piece of his past he was fighting to forget.

“I don’t understand,” Johnny said, his voice trembling, wounded, as if each word were torn from a deep, painful place. He lifted his eyes, the blue almost dulled by the tears. “Why… why do you have these?”

Simon felt his throat close up.

“I can explain,” he said, but the words sounded frail, inadequate. He took a step forward but stopped when he saw Johnny shrink further, his hands gripping the papers tightly, as if afraid they might come to life.

“Were you stalking me?” Johnny’s voice, fragile and sharp, echoed in the silence of the office, heavy with a pain that seemed to tear through the air. It was more than a question—it was an accusation, a plea for Simon to say something that would make this moment make sense.

Simon felt the ground shift beneath him, the weight of guilt and desperation rising in his throat like bile.

“No, Johnny, no!” he said, his voice louder than intended, almost pleading, a tone he rarely let slip. He leaned forward, his hands raised as if to hold the air between them, to contain the pain he saw in Johnny’s eyes. “I would never do that to you. Never. Listen to me, please. I wasn’t stalking you, I swear. I… I did this for you. All of this was for you.”

Johnny shook his head, his fingers gripping the papers so tightly that they crumpled under his nails. The tears kept falling, dripping onto the wooden floor, and his breathing was uneven, as if he were fighting to stay in control.

“For me?” he repeated, his voice trembling, with a trace of bitterness. “You wrote down the years I was at St. Barbara’s. You… you knew about the tapes. How, Simon? I never told you about that. Only he knew. Only he.”

The name of Father Donald—Samuel O’Byrne—wasn’t spoken, but it hung in the air like a poisonous shadow, suffocating the space between them.

Simon felt his chest tighten further, the desperation growing like a wave he couldn’t contain. He crawled closer, still on his knees, the floor creaking under his weight.

“Johnny, let me explain,” he pleaded, his voice now hoarse, heavy with an urgency he couldn’t disguise. “I didn’t do this to hurt you. I wasn’t spying on you. I needed to know who he was. What he did. Not just to you, but everything. I needed to make sure he could never get near you again. Or anyone else. The photos… the photos were you. I couldn’t burn them. I couldn’t erase you."

“I want to go home, Simon. Just… let me go home.”

The words hit Simon like a punch. He felt the air leave his lungs, the world around him shrinking until it was just Johnny, curled up against the wall, asking to escape.

“Johnny, please,” Simon said, his voice almost a whisper now, but heavy with a desperation he couldn’t contain.

“Don’t go. Not now. Let me explain. I did things you’d never approve of, but it was for your sake, I swear. Everything I did… it was all for you. I…” He hesitated, his jaw clenched, his eyes locked on Johnny’s. Then the words came, heavy, as if torn from a place he kept locked away.

“I killed him, Johnny. I killed Father Donald.”

The sound of the rain outside, now a soft murmur, seemed distant, as if the outside world had dissolved, leaving only the echo of Simon’s words: "I killed him, Johnny. For you." Johnny, still curled up against the wall, his legs drawn up and his trembling hands clutching the crumpled papers, lifted his eyes, the blue almost faded by the red of his tears. The shock on his face was palpable, his lips parted as if trying to breathe air that had suddenly become too thick.

“You… you killed him?” Johnny repeated, his voice a trembling thread, almost inaudible, as if the words were too fragile to bear the weight of their meaning. The photos and papers slipped from his hands, falling to the wooden floor with a light, almost insignificant sound that echoed in the silence of the room like thunder. He pulled his legs tighter against his chest, his shoulders shaking, his body curled as if he wanted to disappear.

Simon, still kneeling on the floor, felt his chest tighten, his heart beating too fast, as if it might explode. The guilt, the desperation, and the love he felt for Johnny swirled in a current that pulled him under, but he couldn’t stop now. He couldn’t let Johnny sink into that fear, that pain. He crawled closer, his calloused hands reaching for Johnny’s shoulders, holding him firmly but carefully, as if afraid the boy might shatter under his touch.

“Johnny, listen to me,” he said, his voice hoarse, heavy with an intensity he couldn’t contain. “I did it because I love you. Because I needed to protect you. He was a monster, Johnny. He hurt you, stole things from you that you never should’ve lost. I couldn’t let him go on. I couldn’t let him touch you again, not in your head, not in your nightmares. I did it for you.”

Johnny shuddered under Simon’s hands, his eyes wide, shining with fresh tears. There was something new there, beyond the hurt and confusion—fear. A raw, visceral fear that seemed to grow with every word Simon spoke. He shook his head, the movement quick, almost frantic, as if trying to push away the reality of what he’d just heard.

“You… you killed him,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “You killed someone, Simon. Because of me.”

He tried to pull away, his shoulders twisting under Simon’s grip, but the older man’s hands didn’t yield.

“I want to go home,” Johnny said, his voice rising, now tinged with panic. “Let me go home, Simon. Please.”

But Simon, overtaken by a desperation he couldn’t control, reacted before he could think. He held Johnny tighter, his hands sliding from the boy’s shoulders to his wrists, and with a quick movement, pushed him to the floor. The impact was soft but firm, Johnny’s body hitting the floorboards with a muffled thud, the scattered photos around them like fallen leaves. Johnny gasped, the air escaping his lungs, his eyes wide with fear as Simon pinned his wrists against the wood, his body hovering over him—not to hurt, but to keep him from running.

“Johnny, please,” Simon pleaded, his voice now a hoarse, almost broken murmur, his eyes shining with a mix of desperation and love. “Don’t be afraid of me. I would never, ever hurt you. You have to believe me. Everything I did was for you.”

Johnny struggled, his wrists twisting under Simon’s grip, his chest heaving with rapid, uneven breaths.

“Simon, let me go!” he shouted, his voice thick with panic, his eyes now gleaming with fresh tears. “You’re scaring me! Let me go!”

The fear in his voice was raw, visceral, as if Simon’s touch, once a safe haven, now evoked memories he fought to bury. He tried to rise again, his feet slipping on the floor, but Simon didn’t relent, his fingers firm on Johnny’s wrists, his face close enough that he could feel the heat of his breath.

“I won’t hurt you,” Simon repeated, his voice trembling, as if trying to convince himself as much as Johnny. “I swear, Johnny. I love you.”

But the fear in Johnny’s eyes didn’t fade. He stopped struggling for a moment, his body still tense, his wrists still under Simon’s grip.

“I don’t want to stay here anymore,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but heavy with resolve.

Simon felt his heart tighten, Johnny’s words cutting deeper than anything. He wanted to let him go, to respect his request, but the fear of losing him—of letting Johnny carry that weight alone—was more than he could bear. Without saying a word, Simon stood, still holding Johnny’s wrists. He pulled the boy up carefully but with a determination that allowed no refusal, guiding him out of the office. Johnny stumbled, his body still trembling, trying to resist, but Simon’s strength was greater, not aggressive but unyielding.

"You’re not leaving,” Simon murmured, almost to himself, as he led Johnny down the narrow hallway, the sound of his boots echoing against the floorboards.

They reached Simon’s bedroom, the space where Johnny had been sleeping the past few days, where the scent of clean sheets and polished wood mingled with the familiar warmth that had once welcomed them. The bed, with its faded blue blanket, seemed strangely out of place now, a symbol of intimacy that clashed with the tension between them. Simon pushed Johnny toward the bed, releasing his wrists at the last moment, and the boy fell onto the mattress, the impact softened by the covers but still enough to draw a frightened gasp from his lips. Johnny curled up, his arms wrapping around himself, his wide eyes fixed on Simon, who stood with heavy breaths, his face marked by a mix of desperation and guilt.

“Johnny,” Simon said, his voice now softer but still heavy with emotion. He knelt beside the bed, his hands hovering in the air, hesitating to touch the boy again. “I know I scared you. I know I went too far. But I would never, ever hurt you. You’re everything to me. Everything I did was to keep you safe.” He paused, his eyes glistening with tears he refused to let fall. “Tell me what you need. Tell me how to fix this.”

Simon, standing beside the bed, felt his heart constrict, as if an invisible hand were squeezing it until nothing remained. The desperation consumed him, a current of love, guilt, and a deep fear of losing Johnny. He knelt at the edge of the mattress, his hands hovering, hesitant to touch the boy who seemed so fragile, so distant.

“Johnny, please,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse, almost broken, heavy with an urgency he couldn’t control. “Talk to me. Tell me what I can do to fix this. I don’t want to scare you. I would never hurt you. You have to believe me.” He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing lightly against Johnny’s arm, but the boy shrank further, his body tense as if the touch burned.

“I’m scared, Simon. I don’t like this. Stop, please…” Johnny murmured, his voice trembling, broken by sobs. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, but the tears kept falling, dripping onto the blanket. Simon leaned forward, his body casting a shadow over Johnny, who seemed even smaller against the headboard.

Johnny moved suddenly, his feet sliding across the mattress as he tried to get up, his body driven by an instinct to flee. His arms trembled as he reached for the edge of the bed, his hoodie catching on the blanket. But before he could fully rise, Simon reacted, desperation overtaking his movements. He grabbed Johnny’s wrists again, his calloused fingers gripping with a force that wasn’t aggressive but unyielding, and pulled the boy back, throwing him against the mattress with a swift motion. The impact was muffled by the covers, but Johnny gasped, the air escaping his lungs, his eyes wide with terror as he curled up, his body trembling.

“Stay still, Johnny, stop!” Simon exclaimed, his voice now a mix of pleading and frustration as he held Johnny’s wrists pinned against the mattress.

“Stop trying to run from me. I told you I won’t hurt you.” He was leaning over the boy, his face close, his eyes shining with an intensity that blended love and desperation.

Johnny struggled, his wrists twisting under Simon’s grip, his chest heaving with rapid, uneven breaths.

“Let me go, Simon!” he shouted, his voice thick with panic, tears falling faster now. “You’re scaring me! Let me go!” The fear in his eyes was visceral, as if Simon’s touch, once a refuge, now evoked memories of a past he fought to bury. He tried to pull his arms free, his feet kicking at the blanket, but Simon didn’t relent, his weight keeping Johnny pinned.

Simon took a deep breath, his heart pounding so hard it seemed to echo in the room. He knew he was going too far, that every move he made was pushing Johnny further into fear, but the thought of letting him go—of losing him to that abyss of pain—was unbearable. “I’m not letting you go until you listen to me,” he said, his voice low but firm, heavy with a determination bordering on desperation. He stood, still holding Johnny’s wrists, and with a swift motion, pulled the boy off the mattress, guiding him with controlled force. Johnny stumbled, his body trembling, trying to resist, but Simon was stronger, and the boy’s resistance seemed to wane with each step.

Simon released one of Johnny’s wrists for a moment, just long enough to yank open the wardrobe door with a tug. The old piece of furniture creaked, the smell of mothballs and wood escaping from within. He grabbed a leather belt hanging in the corner, the worn leather soft under his fingers, and before Johnny could react, Simon pushed him back onto the bed. The boy fell again, the impact muffled, but the panic in his eyes was now a living flame. Simon held Johnny’s wrists with one hand, using the other to loop the belt around them, tying them to the wooden headboard with quick, almost mechanical movements. The leather creaked as he tightened the knot, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to keep Johnny from breaking free.

“Simon, stop!” Johnny shouted, his voice broken, his body thrashing against the mattress. “What are you doing? Let me go! Please!” Tears streamed down his face, his pale cheeks glistening, his eyes wide with terror. He pulled at his wrists against the belt, the leather stretching but not giving, and each movement seemed to intensify the panic consuming him.

Simon, kneeling beside the bed, felt his chest tighten, his heart pounding so hard it seemed to echo in the silence of the room. He leaned forward, his calloused hands reaching for Johnny’s face, holding it with a tenderness bordering on obsession, his thumbs tracing gentle lines over the tear-streaked cheeks. His eyes, shining with an intensity that mixed devotion and anguish, locked onto Johnny’s, as if he could erase the panic with his touch.

“Johnny,” he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper, but heavy with an emotion he couldn’t contain. “You’re going to have to stay here for a while. Until you understand… I’m sorry, but this is how it has to be.”

Johnny shuddered under the touch, his eyes wide, the panic growing like a wave threatening to swallow him.

“No, no, no, please, Simon,” he pleaded, his voice trembling, broken by sobs. “I’m begging you. Don’t do this to me.” He pulled at his wrists against the belt, the leather creaking but not yielding, the movement making the mattress groan under his weight. “Untie me, Simon. Please. Let me go. My dad’s going to be so worried…”

Simon shook his head, his fingers still holding Johnny’s face, the touch gentle but firm, as if he feared the boy might vanish if he let go.

“No, Johnny,” he said, his voice soft but unyielding, heavy with a conviction that seemed weightier than the room itself. “I can’t untie you.”

Johnny shrank further, his body trembling, his wrists pulling futilely against the belt. Simon leaned closer, his face just inches from Johnny’s, the warmth of their breaths mingling

“I’ll take care of you,” he said, his voice tender. He stroked Johnny’s face, his thumbs wiping away the tears with a gentleness that contrasted with the firmness of the belt around the boy’s wrists.

“You’re staying here with me, I’ll take care of you. ”