I started this fic ages ago and never finished it on another account so I figured I'd give it a go! Please leave reviews they're extremely helpful and motivating!

"P-Price…" Plump, scarred lips trembled as he attempted to speak.

"Soap, don't talk, just rest…" Price ordered, pressing against the younger soldier's chest; trying to maintain pressure on numerous wounds. How he hated multi-tasking. He only had so many bloody hands, but he'd willingly do anything for Soap.

"Price…" Soap ground out again, however, the weakness in his voice foreshadowed only the painful outcomes Price refused to acknowledge. Still, Price raised a brow, his delicate gaze softening as he at least acknowledged Soap's obvious plea for him to listen.

Price gave a nod, go on son, prompting Soap's hand to gravitate towards Price as though the man were a magnet.
The feeling of the other's hand tightening around his own was like instant pain release, unaware that his current grip had the potential to break bone due to the surges of pain flashing through him, lightening accompanying his storming mind. "Makarov… knows… Yuri…"

Absent, with the exception of frantic desperation as he inwardly begged Soap to continue drawing breathe, the words are sucked up as if by an unseen sponge, subconscious soaking them up while allowing Price to deal with the current situation. Thick eyebrows knitted together in a harsh frown as Soap declined, becoming limp. Disbelief, more than anything coursed through him. There was an element of betrayal, from his perspective. Soap had played himself out to be this hard bastard who could handle anything. But before Price lay the scene that proved all he thought he knew about Soap as a lie. As it turned out, the lad wasn't as indestructible as Price had mapped him out to be. He'd set himself up for this hurt, but there was no way he wanted to even consider breaking that down right now.

"Y-You… need to know…" The younger soldier muttered, trying to pull Price closer.

Obviously obeying, the older man leant in, so much so that he was almost on top of the wounded man. It wouldn't be the first time… This wasn't the time. "Need to know what?"

Slow. That wasn't even the word to describe it. Painfully slow. Agonising torture. Price waited patiently for as long as a man could when his partner was dying. "What do I need to know?"

In what Price deemed to be one of the most gentle, fragile whispers, Soap replied. "I…I'm sorry."

Surprised by the words, Price momentarily considered what Soap had to be sorry for. Had he done something? Had he said something?

The older man then felt something against his ear, something familiar. It was the wonderful, steamy, hot breath that belonged to Soap; caressing the soft skin that covered his lucky cheek. It could only mean one thing.

"I l-love…I lo-" MacTavish was interrupted, his internal systems shutting down causing him to wheeze. His breath was growing short and raspy, a clear sign of panic, his body instinctively shivering and shaking in the arms of his Captain.

Price whined, holding Soap closer; or as close as he could without injuring him further. "You love what? Who?"

Soap could only give a weak smile, ever the character even on his death bed, before it faded into a painful, sad, lonely frown. "I love…"the expression fell solid, like rock. The type of rock you knew would be lonely if it were alive. The type of rock that has been around for decades, having to watch its friends and family kicked around, thrown into the sea. His expression was one Price never wanted to see, never wanted to witness.

The younger soldier winced, lifting his gloved index finger to Price's chest, as if pointing at him. You.

Then, Soap coughed, allowing the darkness to truly take him as it swept over his mind like a chilled blanket. He'd always expected death to be a sweet release, silent and full of relief. Yet here he was, aching from the pain and regret, surrounded by the violent thundering of bloodthirsty guns. It was horrible.
Searing suffering right up until his final breath, he forces one last weak smile at Price before stilling, his chest unmoving, lips parted and eyes wide and staring, eerily vacant. The shaking had stopped, and the warm heat against Price's cheek faded to nothing. Soap's hand slipped from Price's grip and his arm hit the table with a thud.

"No…" Price uttered, gazing down at the lifeless body of his friend, dare he say, lover. "No… no, no, no, NO!"His voice suddenly raised, shaky and full of anguish."SOAP! NO!" Distraught, Price clutched at Soap's chest, pulling him up from the table and shaking him, as though trying to wake him from sleep.
Soap wasn't indestructible. None of those around him were. But he'd opened himself up to Soap. He connected with him. Soap meant more to him than he'd ever dared to express, and his mind was flooded with the sudden awareness that his friend was gone. The stop sign had been planted and Price would have to go on without him.

"Price! You have to go, now!" One of the men that had been watching the windows had now decided to appear, most definitely at the wrong time, placing a hand on the Captain's shoulder.

"Ge' off me!" Price snarled, shoving the man away from him.

He's gone. He's really gone.

Turning back to the unmoving body, he watched for a moment, trying to hold back the emotions that begged for release. Men don't cry. The other had been right though, Price did need to go if he wanted to survive. Soap wouldn't want him to just give up there and then, no matter how the exhaustion tried to barter with him. He pulled out the M1911 pistol that sat in his back holster, and slowly, carefully placed it on Soap's chest. A pistol full of many memories. Just above a heart so full of meaning.

No more.

"I'm sorry…" Price whispered, pulling his journal from one of his vest's pockets before lowering his head onto Soap's shoulder, pressing an unseen kiss on the dead man's ear. "I'm so sorry, Soap. I love you too."