P A C I F I S T

There’s a look away at the question, brows furrowing, caught in an uncomfortable position. From speaking with Cain, he knows he knows Vincent (although not precisely to what extent), and he doesn’t want to get him in trouble. On the other hand, he doesn’t fully feel comfortable with lying to him. Evenhanded in most things, the young man settles for a compromise between the two – not lying precisely but not wording it in a way that would make it sound worse than it was. In retrospect, he’d think, after he spoke it, perhaps his straightforward delivery wasn’t the best choice, even though he does take the time to think it over –

Thinks it over during those careful ministrations, cool gel against stinging flesh, drawing a small breath in in discomfort at the slight pressure.

Thinks it over during the brief kiss and the way that he instinctively seems to lean into his touch, starved from affection for so very long, eyes soft and luminous.

Thinks it over as he accepts the open arms with open heart, folds himself in against him – against warm skin, face pressed into him a little, breathing in the scent of clean fabric and him, curling himself gratefully into that warmth, and letting his arms go around him in return.

For a moment, he just remains there – perfectly content – basking in the warmth and the quiet moment between them, that heat and ache in his chest growing hotter and hotter. He doesn’t understand why he feels this way, or how it could hurt to be happy, but he is. He is very happy.

“It isn’t Cain’s fault,” he murmurs softly against the fabric of his dressing gown. “Well, it was, but it was not really. They wanted him and got me to get to him because they saw us together once. They hurt me and sent a tape, and he came for me. Killed them all.”

  He continues to coat each burn with a medpack, the gel ought to soothe the blackened, raw parts of his skin but after that he lays beside him somewhat calmly, quietly. His expression has sobered entirely and any happiness seems to have extinguished, although he tries desperately to hide it. If he could go for a few weeks, preferably months, without Lawrence cropping up he’d be grateful. “No, Cain,” the name still felt foul on his tongue, it was a lie just as much as his own was, “Cain isn’t a good man.”

  “I—it’s not my place to talk, what you do with him is your own business. But be careful with him Matt.” He hated himself for it, the bite of jealousy that stung so plainly and sharply in his chest, cocooned and wrapped into concern for him that he can ignore it well enough. “I know you can look after yourself but he’s dangerous.” Soldier trained to kill, chipped even if that had been ripped out by his own hands, that had of course been the only reason Vincent was free. Lawrence needed him to escape, otherwise he’d still be out there. He didn’t think he’d have been so willing to assist Vince based upon his own kindness.

  Arms wrapped around him tight it’s easy to push it all from his mind, to focus devoutly on him but Vincent cannot push away that deliberate unease that has settled into his bones. “I’m glad you’re safe now,” that, at the end of the day was all that mattered. All he truly cared for. The marks would heal over eventually and perhaps, he could soothe the memories of the ordeal for him but he’s not sure—does he even have that kind of capability. Had he even left that much of a mark on Matteo.

After a moment, it is as of he realizes that Vincent isn’t planning to move any time soon and he wakes – stifles a yawn, opens sleepy eyes. There’s a twitch of smile at the warm smile granted to him, at the fact of where he is, despite the circles that are still heavy around his eyes. His hair is disheveled as he props himself up a little – dark hair curly even at this relatively short length, and he looks much more vulnerable, much more human the way he is now, no move to duck beneath sheets, just a tired gratefulness and curiosity at the mention of breakfast. He’s simply happy just because he’s still there – the novelty of a breakfast in bed is something that he wouldn’t have ever dreamt about.

“Good morning,” he mumbles softly, with another of those smiles, genuine. “I do not think I have ever had toast before, but I would like to try it.” There’s open mindedness there – he’s missed out on many things, breakfast being one of them. Never had it made for him as a child in his memory, apart from perhaps an applesauce tossed in his general direction, and never much had an interest in it after. He’s more than a little touched, and a little amused that Vincent’s puttering around in a dressing gown. It doesn’t do much to hide any of the lovebites, which just quietly amuses him further. Matteo doesn’t bother hiding his.

He warms further at the kiss to his forehead, and he reaches for him instinctively, wanting to kiss him a little more substantially, before his own expression changes. He looks at first a little – confused, and then a little crestfallen. It is not as if he hadn’t been affected by the kidnapping, or if he wasn’t in a certain amount of physical pain from it, or emotionally impacted – but he hasn’t thought of talking to Vincent about it. He seems burdened enough as it is, and he would rather make him happy than worried.

There’s a drop of that curly head, an almost thoughtless rub against one of the culprit tiny marks on his arm – hyperpigmented against pale skin. “You usually worry,” he informs him quietly, “and you’re a doctor, so you know what these are – you know they’re not life threatening.” There were possible side effects – he might have lost a few brain cells out of oxygen deprivation a few times when he continually lost consciousness, but he luckily had a great deal to spare. There’s a quizzical look on his face that is actually rather rare – that furrow in his brow a little deeper than usual, almost defensive. “Why does it matter? It was not my fault and my friend is all right.”

Friend – was probably the worse descriptor for what Cain was, as he doesn’t know him that well – but they’ve been friendly – apart from the whole ‘I almost died because of you’ bit. That, and despite decent intentions, he had essentially bought him at one point. Friend wasn’t a perfect word, but it was the best one he had in a limited vocabulary that had only four levels ‘friend, colleague, randomized human being, and enemy.’

He stops, and that quizzical look remains – concern in his own expression subtler than Vincent’s along with a distress not dissimilar to a blind man attempting to sight-read a bus schedule.

  “It matters because you matter…” Quiet sigh and without saying anything else he gently stretches out one marked arm so he can better examine the burn. “I’m sorry for worrying, but I can’t help it,” it was dreadfully easy to express just how much he cared, to whisper those words that seemed so insignificant in the grand scheme of things but would be far too soon. He didn’t want to scare him away. “Was it your friends fault?” Words carefully chosen because he is not a fool, Matteo had come to him before with injuries not of his own acquisition and what scared him, troubled him deeply, was that this was no different.

  With tender fingers he pressed the medpack onto one burn mark, it sealed perfectly around the small spot and began to release a healthy dose of cooling gel, to take away the residual edge of the burns, then another gel but this time to aid the healing. To protect the new skin beneath and form a protective barrier between it and the world. “I’m just...worried, I’m sorry.” He kisses him, chaste and sweet, a brief little press of lips against his before drawing back slowly. One hand cupping a pale cheek, thumb absently tracing inane patterns across high cheekbones. “I don’t like seeing you hurt…” That and he still couldn’t help but scorn himself for not trying harder to bring it up the day before.

  He begins to press another medpack onto the small mark that was mirrored onto his right arm, head dropped in careful concentration. The burns indeed weren’t life threatening themselves but they spoke of a wider much larger story that he could only guess at, but no matter how he looked at it the story didn’t look pleasant. He finishes fussing with the medpacks and leaves half a dozen more on the bedside table in-case more burns were to be found. “Come here,” he murmurs, as arms reach out to gently hold him, share his warmth that only seems to be amplified with the extra layer.

Jet stumbled out of the bar, almost tripping over the cracked curb and into the street. It was still lively at a quarter past two in the Old Downtown, boosters and hookers marketing their wares along the streets. Bums less (or more) fortunate than he curled up in the gutters and ignored the bustle around them, snoring softly. Neon signs and lights blinked and stuttered in the dark alleys, inviting late-night customers. For the third night in a row, Jet was inebriated beyond what was probably wise, the cheap whiskey keeping him warm despite the cool Night City air. Most importantly, it numbed everything. While the spirit flowed through his veins, he forgot about the sleepless nights, the constant worry after Riley, the persistent tingle that forced him to glance over his shoulder every five minutes or less in fear of hostile eyes. He was abruptly jostled to the side as someone darted past him, a red sequined purse in hand. A woman in black heels pursued him minutes later, yelling and cursing and sobbing. No-one stopped to help, and Jet watched numbly as the thief wove through the thin crowd, quickly gaining distance before disappearing around the block.

‘Is this what the world has been reduced to?’ he thought. ‘Chaos and crime reigning supreme.’ It didn’t matter whether you lived in West Hill and worked for the biggest companies in the corporate sector, or slummed it out in the dingiest part of the Old Downtown – corruption and disorder permeated everything. Whatever God had once created the world had long abandoned Night City to the murderers, the thieves, the corrupt, and the cruel. The only way to survive was to keep your head down, ignore the wrong, and scavenge what you could to live. If it could be called that.

He paused in front of another bar, the whiskey buzz already beginning to wear off in the cold. He’d been building up his tolerance frightfully quickly, and it probably should have suggested that he should stop, or at least slow down. Jet dug into his pockets and counted a few coins of change. He sighed and kept on walking. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice that he’d nearly run into someone until they said something.

“Sorry,” he muttered, glancing up. “M’sorry.” He suddenly noticed that they’d dropped something and cursed, kneeling to help pick it up. “Shit, I’m pretty clumsy tonight. S’one of those days, y’know?” His words and pathetic apologies still slurred together.

  The signs of age tarnished into the dark fabric, scruffy around the hem, but it reminded him of home. That and his well-loved beaten copy of the Iliad that’d travelled with him from London were all he had left. Tokens of another life that he couldn’t seem to let go. At the very least the coat kept him absurdly warm, unneeded on a warm summer’s evening like tonight, but nonetheless he couldn’t part from it. “Pardon me,” he spoke quietly as someone drifted into his path, the scent of whiskey strong enough that Vince nearly offered out a hand to steady him. It wasn’t until he stood that it sunk in why he was so familiar.

  “Jet?”

  They had met once, briefly, but Vincent had never been the type to forget a name or a face once he’d learnt one. “It’s fine, are you okay?” There’s a thread of concern to his voice that shows in the obvious way his brows knit together, takes the dropped object from Jet, a piece of medical equipment that he never leaves home without. It was reliant on a handheld, a little dated in that sense, but that was partially down to Vincent’s reluctance to be augmented. The notion of having technology crammed into him is a little frightening and he would like to keep well away from it.

  “I’m not sending you anywhere,” soft lips against his cheek, the taste of salt lingering on his lips as he pulls away, still close with one arm still holding him, just far enough so he could gaze into dark eyes. Warmth still shared between them. “Maybe to the shower but…si può rimanere qui finché vuoi.” Brush of callused warm finger tips against his forehead, moving dark sweat soaked hair back to place another soft kiss there. Beneath the soft affable manner he always portrayed was a lingering sadness. It was dark and heavy usually only reared its ugly head when he was alone. Drenched in self-doubt, but willingly clinging to the notion that this had meant something to the both of them. He put aside whatever it was that made his chest unbearably tight, focused on him, on curbing those tears, because if there was anything that unsettled him more it was seeing him upset.

  “La mia casa è vostra.”

“I really do like the place doc.” Nico said looking around again before nodding. “I’ve been in plenty of hospitals, clinics, and make shift med tents all over the world.” He said with a smile. “This has to be the one single place where I feel like a human. Everywhere else your just a number, or grunt, or some other way of making your less of a human.” Nico said with a small shrug. “Here I feel like…a close friend or family. Like your going to fix me, give me a pep talk tell me go get ‘em then send me out into the world with a lollipop.”

  Vince had long forgone the old med suits he’d worn in the scorpions, heavy, almost verging on armour itself. Didn’t dress in sharp formal suits either, just a shirt with a casual sweater thrown over the top. Gentle smiles, a little scruffy and with the inevitable five o’clock shadow. “Well there’s a pot of lollipops in the corner if you want one, stickers too,” there’s a quiet laugh that accompanies his words, another light hearted smile that just about reaches his eyes. “Been on both sides,” he gestures, although his turn on the gurney had been brief, an emergency he couldn’t explicitly avoid. “Would only ever want to treat you as I’d like to be treated.”