kynocx

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‣ Cyberpunk 2077

‣ Resident Evil

‣ Baldur's Gate 3

‣ Final Fantasy

⭑

You are sitting on the two mattresses that make up his bed, so low and flush with the floor, and you discreetly sink one of your hands into the sheets. Damn.

Tobacco, leather, alcohol, and a subtle aroma of coffee — from the morning, perhaps —.

His sheets are somewhat worn, and you know he hates spending money on things like that. Besides, there are several thick blankets scattered around; for some reason, you imagined he wasn't the type to bother making the bed before leaving the house.

There are clothes scattered here and there, and he hadn't even folded or put away the clean laundry; he had taken it out of the washing machine and left it on a chair in the small living room.

“You can use the shower if you want,” he says, walking away from the kitchen to grab a bottle of Bolshevik Vodka and take a swig. With it in his hand, he plops down on the sofa.

You see him point vaguely at a closed door next to the entrance.

You nod absently, you're exhausted, and you only react when the water begins to caress one of the open wounds on your body, on your shoulder.

You rummage through Johnny's things and your best option is some battered bandages, which you soon come out with, holding them in your hand. You can hardly do anything, you can't even reach the cut, and then he sees you; a strong mutt with wet hair that was bleeding like a piglet — it wasn't that bad — a corpse he was getting too close to, a groupie— you weren't — that he enjoyed occasionally throwing himself at...

He frowns as he pulls the bottle away from his lips, then shakes his head as he gets up from the furniture, seemingly with great effort.

“Wait,” he murmurs, and this time it's your brow that furrows in confusion.

You sit on the bed.

You're wearing the tank top you had on under your jacket, so it's decent enough to later mingle with the relatively clean intimacy of Johnny's sheets, but your pants are left in a corner, covered in dust, blood, and dirt. It doesn't matter, you're not going to sleep together tonight.

He stops to search through the things in the living room and emerges from under the sofa with a first aid kit in his hands.

He kneels beside you while you move to give him a better angle. Johnny moves the strap of your clothes with unfamiliar care and you feel the coolness of the silver caressing your skin; even that small sensation is enough to ease the pain of the wound.

Your breath catches for a second; your body was conditioned, but that night you wouldn't do anything. No sex, no romance.

“Don't move,” he murmurs, removing the makeshift covering you had put over your wound.

You glance sideways over your shoulder and see him, working on your body clumsily but carefully.

He puts in a few stitches after cleaning your wound; he seems to know what he's doing.

“Thank you.”

Silverhand says nothing, but he is as calm as a tame cat — or sedated, perhaps he was just very tired —.

He rolls over on the bed, letting himself fall carelessly onto the mattress. You only hear the sound of the Zippo before smelling the cigarette smoke. You lean over to look at him for a moment and then lie back on your side, turning your back on Johnny.

How had they ended up together on that mission? That was Thresh's doing. In any case, it had caused a stir, as they had had to step on an old abandoned branch of Helios, the corporation Cèline had worked for.

“It's going to come back to haunt you,” he says. “Those kinds of decisions always do.”

“I know,” you reply. “But there are some bills I'd rather pay myself.”

Johnny laughed bitterly.

“That's what everyone I knew who ended up buried said.”

“And yet you still do what you do.”

“Because I don't expect to come out clean,” he replied. “That's the difference.”

“No. The difference is that you punish yourself before anyone else does.”

Silence.

Johnny clenches his jaw.

“Don't psychoanalyze me, Cecè.”

“Then shut up.”

Johnny rubs his face.

“You shouldn't have stayed with me after this.”

“Why?”

“Because people like me make things worse.”

You don't respond immediately, the pillow under your head shielding you from the outside world and the passage of time. The sexagesimal system has no value to you; you didn't expect him to say that, and you can only sink deeper and deeper into the mattress. You've reached the floor, soon you'll break through it and merge with...

“People like you don't make things worse,” you say at last. “They just make visible what was already broken.”

Johnny lets out a short laugh.

“What a comfort.”

“It wasn't,” you say, turning partially to take one last look at him before tucking yourself in.

Tú estás sentada sobre los dos colchones que conforman su cama, tan baja y a ras del suelo, y hundes con disimulo una de tus manos en las sábanas. Joder.

Tabaco, cuero, alcohol y un sutil aromilla a café — de la mañana tal vez —.

Sus sábanas están algo desgastadas y sabes que le molesta gastar dinero en cosas como esa, además, hay varias mantas de pelo grueso desperdigadas; por alguna razón te imaginabas que no era del tipo que se preocupaba en acomodar la cama antes de salir de casa.

Hay ropa tirada por aquí y por allá, tampoco había doblado ni mucho menos guardado la ropa limpia; la había sacado de la lavadora y dejado sobre una silla en la reducida sala de estar.

— Puedes usar la ducha si quieres — dice él, alejándose de la cocina para agarrar por el camino una botella de Bolshevik Vodka y darle un trago. Con ella de la mano se dejó caer en el sofá

Lo ves señalar con un vago gesto una puerta cerrada junto a la entrada.

Asientes medio ida, estás jodidamente cansada y solo reaccionas cuando el agua comienza a acariciar una de las heridas abiertas de tu cuerpo, en el hombro.

Rebuscas un poco entre las cosas de Johnny y tu mejor optativa son unas vendas maltrechas, saliendo al poco con ellas sujetas con tu propia mano. Apenas puedes hacer nada, ni siquiera te es accesible el corte, y entonces él te ve; un chucho fuerte con el pelo mojado que sangraba como un cochinillo — no era tan grave —, una corpo-rata a la que se estaba acercando demasiado, una grupie — no lo eras — a la que disfrutaba de tirarse eventualmente...

Frunce el ceño mientras aparta el morro de la botella de sus labios, entonces niega con la cabeza mientras, haciendo lo que parece un gran esfuerzo, se levanta del mueble.

— Espera — murmura, y esta vez es tu ceño el que se frunce con confusión.

Te sientas en la cama.

Llevas la camiseta de tirantes que vestías bajo la chaqueta, así que es decente para entremezclarse más tarde con la intimidad relativamente pulcra de las sábanas de Johnny, pero tus pantalones se han quedado en una esquina, llenos de polvo, sange y suciedad. Da igual, hoy no vais a acostaros juntos.

Se para a buscar entre las cosas del salón y de bajo del sofá emerge con un botiquín entre las manos.

Se arrodilla a tu lado mientras que te mueves para darle un mejor ángulo, Johnny desplaza con desconocido cuidado el tirante de tu ropa y sientes el frescor de la plata acariciar tu piel; incluso esa pequeña sensación es capaz de suavizar el dolor de la herida.

Tu respiración se entrecorta por un segundo, tu cuerpo estaba condicionado, pero esa noche no haríais nada. Ni sexo ni romance.

— No te muevas — murmura, retirando la precaria cobertura que le habías dado a tu herida.

Asomas de soslayo tu mirada por encima de tus hombros y lo ves, trabajando en tu cuerpo con torpeza y cuidado.

Te pone unos puntos de aproximación después de haber limpiado tu herida, parece que sabe hacerlo.

— Gracias.

Silverhand no dice nada, pero está tranquilo como un gato manso — o sedado, tal vez estuviera simplemente muy cansado —.

Se remueve sobre la cama, dejándose caer sin cuidado sobre el colchón. Solo escuchas el sonido del zippo antes de oler el humo del cigarrillo, tú te asomas a mirarlo por un instante y después te recuestas de lado, dándole la espalda a Johnny.

¿Cómo habían terminado juntos en esa misión? Eso era cosa de Thresh. En cualquier caso había levantado ampollas, pues habían tenido que pisar una antigua sucursal abandonada de Helios, la corp para la que Cèline había trabajado.

— Te va a pasar factura — dice —. Ese tipo de decisiones siempre lo hace.

—Ya lo sé —contestas —. Pero hay facturas que prefiero pagar yo.

Johnny se ríe, amargamente.

— Eso decían todos los que conocí que acabaron enterrados.

— Y aun así sigues haciendo lo que haces.

— Porque no espero salir limpio — responde él —. Esa es la diferencia.

— No. La diferencia es que tú te castigas antes de que lo haga nadie más.

Silencio.

Johnny aprieta la mandíbula.

—No me psicoanalices, Cecè.

—Entonces cállate.

Johnny se frota la cara.

— No tendrías que haberte quedado conmigo después de esto.

— ¿Por qué?

— Porque la gente como yo empeora las cosas.

No respondes de inmediato, la almohada bajo tu cabeza te escuda del mundo exterior y el funcionamiento de su tiempo. El sistema sexagesimal no tiene valor en tu persona; no esperabas que dijera aquello y solo eres capaz de hundirte más y más en el colchón. Has llegado al suelo, pronto lo atravesarás y te fundirás con...

— La gente como tú no empeora nada — dices al final —. Solo hace visible lo que ya estaba roto.

Johnny suelta una carcajada breve.

— Qué consuelo.

— No lo era — te giraste parcialmente para lanzarle un último vistazo antes de arroparte.