Broken Dreams And Bloody Noses | Ghost x Soap

Feeling Right At Home

The two of them made their way back to their typical route, continuing to the waiting area for the bus stop. It was as dingy as usual, stamped down plastic cups littered the corners, grime coating every surface, accompanying other various amounts of piles of garbage. Soap looked around further, peeling his eyes from the stained sidewalk, laying them onto the buildings surrounding it. Any lights were off, spare the occasional room being lit by a night owl, and it was quiet.

Except for the buzz of the LED lights above, of course. The Scotsman still hasn't gotten used to that. Or the incessant hum of vehicles passing by his window. He'd had trouble when he'd first moved in, the occasional loud honk from the street startling him awake, nearly making him topple over from his bed and onto his hardwood flooring. Now, he reckoned he could sleep through a whole firework show. Not that he'd like to test that theory.

He found he very much preferred uninterrupted beauty sleep. As much as he could grasp, anyway.

He turned his head to Coach, peering up at him curiously. The man hadn't turned off down another path or kept walking ahead, but rather, was planted near Soap's side, an indifferent look settled upon the features that were visible. Soap raised a curious brow.

"You always follow strangers home, Coach?" Soap teased, his lips lifting.

The man huffed, "Makin' sure you're able to open the can."

Soap chuckled, shaking his head, eyeing the grocery bag currently hanging from the other man's arm. "Aye, ah sure do need the help," he jokes. All in all, he wouldn't mind the company.

The man grunted, not making eye contact and resolutely staring at the street as though it were personally responsible for the bus's absence. One of his hands was shoved in a pocket, the other hanging idly, clutching the bag like it was his lifeline. Despite the bad lighting, most likely due in-part to the black hood, Soap could see several scars jagging up across Coach's face. Some were silvered due to age, others were still pink and puffy, disrupting the otherwise smooth pale skin. The skin to scar ratio was almost alarming.

Though, Soap glanced back down at the man's hands. He s'posed it would make sense for him to have that many wounds. One doesn't get that boxing ability from just watching. The soreness from his earlier beat down beginning to creep into Soap's muscles could attest to that.

A nice warm bath practically beckoned to Soap, urging for him to succumb to the delicious piping hot water, along with his favorite scrub. He could almost feel the humidity from his imagination. Unfortunately, his apartment wasn't nice enough to divulge to him such pleasures, as it was only equipped with a medium sized shower. Soap scowled a bit at the thought.

He'd have to find someplace better, and hopefully soon.

It's just about a miracle his apartment hasn't been broken into yet, as it was common in his building. He'd seen his neighbors doors to know that was the truth. Splintered wood serving as evidence to doors being kicked in, or the mangle doorhandles, barely hanging on.

Did his building even pass health code regulations?

That was a worrying thought he could save for later and take up with his resident roaches. For now, he snapped back into reality, realizing that his bus was now coming to a rolling stop in front of him, the doors slamming open, rattling the windows in the aftermath.

He tucks the bundle of warmth just a bit tighter, and steps on, scanning his card and moving towards a seat. His tall shadow behind him, mimicking his movements.

He gently flops down, being careful not to jostle his little package, Coach sliding in next to him and setting the grocery bag on a cleaner patch of floor.