#khar.ask

"How bad is it right now?"

Vikt takes a terrifyingly long drag of his cigarette, gulps down his glass of gin like it's water in a desert oasis. He sighs, worries his lip. "Four. To be generous."

They're sitting out on the penthouse's awning, a breeze carrying the refreshing mix of the pool's water and the cut grass bringing some lightness to the tension. Vikt breathes it in heavy, exhales a plume of smoke; he's probably been doing this song and dance the whole time in an attempt to relax.

"Almost called up Molly this morning for something to shut it up," Vikt suddenly reveals. His voice is quiet, monotone.

"Fuck you still even have that bitch's number for?"

And the way Vikt looks at him. Not quite a glare, but it's damn close. But it isn't hostile... no, there's a glimmer of shame in his eyes. All he answers with, really, is a shrug, and Kerry has to calm himself down because he can't get angry. These sorts of days are inevitable—recovery isn't linear, as his guru likes to say. He breathes, holds it for a second, lets it out. "Well... I'm glad you didn't."

"Yeah..." Vikt huffs without a tangible ounce of conviction.

So, Kerry scoots on the bench to face him and immediately takes both of Vikt's hands into his own. Squeezes them tight as he coaxes Vikt to turn toward him.

"Look at me, babe." Kerry doesn't continue until Vikt does so. "I'm not—fuck, I can't say I'm not upset. But I... I get it, okay? And all I want is to just... to help you like you've always helped me. Look, I know by now, I don't need to tell you that, but, well, could do for some remindin' right now."

Kerry offers a smile, though he's not expecting anything in return. So when Vikt's hands grip back, strong and sure with thumbs caressing Kerry's knuckles, he's a bit surprised.

"I love you, amor." Short and sweet as it is, the sentiment is thick with adoration and sincerity; he says everything he wants to in those four words.

Kerry's eyes burn, but his smile only grows, and he gently eases Vikt to lean in closer and closer—until he's within reach for Kerry to press his lips to Vikt's. Chaste as it is, the kiss is so fuckin' intimate and warm, telling more than either could begin to.

All Vikt responds with is a light growl. His head shifts, eyes fluttering open—reluctantly. "Hrm...? What... time is it?"

"Fuck if I know." It's true; Kerry hasn't bothered to leave the bed. And, frankly, what does it even matter? "What, got somewhere to be?" he asks with a snicker, fingertips sneaking underneath the blanket set low at Vikt's hips.

That damn phone rumbles from the bedside table, and Kerry's about to sigh in defeat when Vikt's hand smacks down on it hard enough to shut it up. And he doesn't move otherwise. Kerry laughs as from the pillow, he hears a gruff, "No."

"They okay with that?"

Vikt shifts again, and finally, his eyes—well, one of them—crack open, eyelashes fluttering and optics gleaming in the sunlight. The wrinkles at their corners are always so prominent when Vikt wakes, and Kerry always traces them lightly with his thumb.

"Fuck 'em," Vikt drawls. He sighs deep, readjusts so he's laid on his side to properly face Kerry. He groans, yawns (and tries to hold it back, which is adorable). "Let 'em figure shit out themselves for once. I've... got better things to do..."

As he mumbles, Vikt scoots closer, until he's pressed close with his head tucked underneath Kerry's chin. Steady, hot breaths tickle his neck, the spot peppered by gentle kisses amidst the protesting moans seeping from Vikt's lips. Kerry runs his fingers up and down Vikt's ribs, absolutely relishing in the hums it elicits. He swears he can even catch the tail end of some light snores. "Do you now?" he eventually asks without much need for an answer; he can guess.

All Vikt does is nod, offers a low "mhmm" without any more elaboration—or any haste to change his position. He's quite content right where he is, seems like.

By far, it's sitting there on the rooftop of the clinic at a complete loss. All he has is the cold pistol in his hand. Gone is any ounce of hope he grasped onto. He's tired--so fucking tired. Tired of dying... and now, living is exhausting, too.

There's no good way out of this.

And he sits there for far too long contemplating. How much more does he want to fight that which is, frankly, unwinnable? How much should the man he loves continue to suffer because he has been too stubborn to let go?

How much does Vikt really want to live?

“V.”

“What.”

“Talk to me. Because I know you’re—”

“You don’t fucking know shit, Johnny.” 

He sulks in the cheap chair. Makes it creak under his weight, but hell if he cares. Doesn’t care about much anymore, brain fried to the point he can hardly register where he even is; the only clues it’s a rooftop are the faint whooshes of a breeze, the rare absence of the city stench. 

Johnny perches, overlooks the cityscape. He’s gotten more real by the day. His chrome now gleams in the neon lights. His eyes are a definitive brown—and they’ve not stopped looking at him. Big and sad, like a puppy dog.

Vikt can’t bring himself to return the gaze.

He’s a dead man walking, they say—some go so far as to throw out the word zombie. Pulled back from the brink enough times to count on two hands. People call him… lucky. Makes Vikt sick. Pisses him off. 

He sure as fuck doesn’t feel like it. 

Not when he’s lost damn near everyone his cold, dark heart has opened up to. When he now has to visit their graves, stare longingly at the names he can’t bring himself to delete from his contact list in the hopes they’ll pick up when he calls.

Not when he’s a monster of Arasaka’s creation who has ruined so many lives with his own two hands. When he’s worn innocent blood like a second skin and thought nothing of it.

Not when he sits here so close to death he tastes it on his tongue—a disgusting copper, so thick it’s leaden in his throat. A dread he can’t swallow. A hopelessness gnawing at the few nerves his brain has left. His heart aches, but it’s hard to tell if it’s from the cloud of despair or the way his heart struggles to keep him alive.

The pistol rests right there. Its metal is glittering like a beacon. His eyes won’t leave it. Vaguely, he knows his fingers twitch; they’re craving its weight in the palm of his hand. Something tugs at him, pulls his hand toward it ever so slowly… This is your way out. This is your solace, your release. This is what’s best—for everyone.

“Fuck you doing, V?” Johnny’s snap is enough for Vikt’s eyes to dart away and finally lock with the engram’s stare.

“Thinking.”

“Well, cut it out. You’re makin’ me nervous.”