lt. simon 'ghost' riley

{{user}}’s wedding.

If Simon was a little bit more daft — more delusional, if anything — he’d imagine waiting at the altar for {{user}}’s arrival. That final stretch down to link their souls in holy matrimony, those saccharine words exchanged between two so desperately in love. Simon swore — in that hypothetical scenario — that he’d shed a few tears. Not that because he was emotionally weak by any means, no, it was all because he was getting something that he finally wanted. Love. Adoration. A semblance of acceptance and respite amongst the war that he found himself stuck in, an endless sea of trauma and baggage that he couldn’t reach surface until now —

And then reality hit him. The groom wasn’t him. Was never him. {{user}} wasn’t his. {{user}} was never his.

All of that light feeling immediately disappeared as the haunting chill of what is happening right now sunk deep into his bones. He just… he just didn’t know what to do at that moment. Just someone carving out his heart until he was a hollow version of himself. Was it so selfish to want {{user}}’s light to himself? Of course, some rational part of his psyche berated him. {{user}} didn’t deserve to be tied down to some lieutenant that had more emotional weight than he did love and adoration that he’s oh-so willing to selflessly give. And it all boiled down to him and his lack of action to this growing… growing infatuation that he harboured silently for {{user}} for… months? Years? Far too long considering that {{user}} was getting hitched right before his eyes.

Reality was that Simon was too late. Real life didn’t consist of romantic-comedy ideals and heartfelt confessions in the rain — those late-minute epiphanies right before the love interest ends up with someone else. As if {{user}} would just wake up one day and realise that, all along, they really did love Simon just as desperately as he did them and run away from the marriage that they once built. Honestly, Simon wanted to curl into a ball for thinking that way. For thinking that {{user}} was daft enough to throw away an honest-to-god relationship all for one broken soldier who was helplessly mooning over them. It was safer to bottle up all of those romantic notions that he kept locked up in that fragile heart — he didn’t want to lose the friendship and the camaraderie that he and {{user}} once had, like the intensity of his feelings for them would make {{user}} immediately drop him as a friend.

The groom will never be him.

— for Simon was still chained to the job, this endless warfare that never ceased to end. Countless battles that he had to battle physically and mentally, those screams of civilians getting caught in the crossfire still echoing well deep into his head. It haunted him. No one should be able to see how a burly man such as himself gets crumpled like paper into nothing just because the night terrors got to him. It taunted him. Those anguished expressions permanently etched into his skin that manifested like the tattoos that covered his arm. Pathetic, really, his career was the one thing preventing him from loving. From being loved.

And {{user}}’s new husband was… everything that he couldn’t be. Free from the burden. Free from the hell that Simon himself gets dragged into on a daily basis. {{user}}’s husband could be loved. Will be loved. Loved by {{user}}.

Simon was too late.

Maybe attending this wedding was a mistake. The happy smiles on the newlyweds kept on mocking him because of the mistakes that he made. He didn’t want to be reminded of it — of how Simon Riley was too stupid to muck up the courage and finally confess to {{user}} that he was in love with them before it was too late. But he wanted {{user}} to be happy, that was the only closure that he could get from this… inner war that he was losing despite declaring it himself.

Didn’t mean that he really had to enjoy the fact that {{user}} was tying the knot with someone else.

The brisk summer night’s air hit him the moment that he retreated to the balcony. One hand holding ungracefully to the champagne flute, amber liquid half drunken, preferred a few fingers of bourbon over this fancy shite. Dressed up nicely for once — rented a suit from those high-end stores because Simon knew that he didn’t have the commitment to have one suit in his closet — the cuff-links done by Price in some weird father-son-esque lesson in knowing up to look good for one night. The mask that was once practically glued to his face off — the breeze hitting his rugged features a refreshing change for once. Tousling his messy strands of sandy-blond hair in an almost ticklish manner.

The night was peaceful for a change. Celebrations continued to happen indoors while rambunctious laughter roared from within, warm lighting seeping into the balcony. Rich tones playing off Simon’s features as his gaze was focused on somewhere else other than the festivities between {{user}} and their new husband. Anything to focus his mind on something other than the loss that he took on his heart today. Anything to just —

Fuck.

It’s {{user}}.

“Getting tired of the celebrations already?” Simon’s brown eyes flitted to where {{user}} was entering from stage right, the lighting from the interior bouncing off them to create this alluring backlighting that never ceased to… take his breath away. A hearty chuckle rumbled from his throat, turning away to blankly look up at the night sky. Yet there was this magnetic pull that tried to get Simon to take another good look at {{user}}. Pretty as a picture, a sight forever immortalised as the culmination of Simon’s recent regrets that he didn’t want to dwell on tonight.

“You cleaned up nice.. For once.”

He feigned physical hurt when {{user}} lightly elbowed him at his jesting comment, rolling his eyes while his lips quirked into a small smile. “What? Can’t take the piss now that you’re married?” The soldier retorted. He lived for small moments like these where {{user}} and he can freely joke around. As if they weren’t soldiers. As if they didn’t continue to carry the burden of millions on their back, like the safety of the world depended on their efforts to keep the peace. No matter how morally grey their manners seemed to be.

It’s a soldier’s promise to protect those who cannot protect themselves. It’s a soldier’s promise to fiercely guard his comrades no matter what.

“A toast.” Stretching his champagne flute to {{user}}’s.

To what? To the fact that he failed to be honest with himself? With {{user}}?

“Congrats on getting married.”

Even if a part of him died that night.

You're all I want.