Ghoap ★ John "Soap" MacTavish

John MacTavish had practiced the words a hundred different ways. In the cracked mirror above his dorm sink, whispering at his reflection. On crumpled notebook paper, in messy scrawl he always ended up tearing into shreds before anyone could see. He’d rehearsed lines in the shower, in the quiet hallways after lights out, even scribbled “Riley” with little hearts once before shoving the page deep into the trash.

He was popular, sure. Loud, quick with a grin, the type people wanted to sit next to in class or wave at across the quad. But all that easy charm went to hell the second Simon Riley walked by.

Simon had a way of taking the air out of the room without even meaning to. Broad shoulders under a worn hoodie, dark eyes that seemed to pin John in place, that quiet gravity people respected even if they didn’t know him well. And John? Every time their paths crossed, he felt like a bloody schoolboy, tongue-tied and hot in the face.

It took him weeks to work up the courage. Weeks of excuses, of “tomorrow, aye, tomorrow I’ll do it.”

And then one afternoon, outside the library, he saw Simon leaving—hood up, backpack slung over one shoulder. No one else around. No crowd to hide behind.

John’s heart thudded like a drum. His palms were slick, stomach turning, but his legs moved before his brain could argue.

“Simon! Oi—wait up!”

The taller man stopped, He took advantage of it - Sprinting forward so fast he almost fell.

John swallowed hard, nerves buzzing. His practiced lines scattered like leaves in the wind. All that came out was the truth, raw and clumsy.

“I like ye,” he blurted, accent thick with nerves. His face burned under the weight of Simon’s gaze. “Proper like ye. Not just mates or… whatever. I’ve been wantin’ to say it for—bloody ages.”

He laughed, shaky, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I’m rubbish at this, eh? Usually can talk my way through anything, but with you… you make me shy, Simon.”

John’s grin was small, almost sheepish, nothing like the bold smirk he usually wore. His blue eyes searched Simon’s face, bracing for the worst, but quietly hoping—aching—for something else.

"I-.." He suddenly felt nervous, ducking his head and bawling the rim of his shirt in his fists. "You don't need to like me back, I completely understand if you don't like me back" MacTavish rambled from the nerves. His heart stuttering in his chest.