Kerry lives the kind of life V dreams about. The infamy, the lifestyle, every late night filled with expensive drugs and alcohol and disposable people at a lavish venue. The supreme audacity of extreme wealth. Flashy. Loud. Unapologetically hedonistic. Of course V’s jealous. Not just of the money or fame, but of the sheer freedom to be as chaotic as you please and be celebrated for it.
Being with Kerry feels like stepping into a fever dream. A world of indulgence- limos, silk sheets, champagne that costs more than V made in a month back in Watson. For someone who clawed their way up from multiple gutters, being close to a man like that is dangerous. Addictive. Yeah, there’s a sugar-baby dynamic simmering beneath it all. But V also knows performance when they see it. Ego so curated it’s practically couture. They’re playing with someone just as broken but with a way bigger wallet.
Yeah, Kerry’s paying for the rides, the rooms, the high-end chrome, and everything else that comes with it- he’s the one who should be the trophy, yet for some reason he looks at V as if they’re the prize. Once the party ends, the music cuts out, the high comes down- the real Kerry, the man behind the noise, touches V like they’re the only authentic thing in a city built on posers and lies. V likes that. They’re used to being the weapon, the asset, the liability. Not the treasure.
If there’s another thing that V would say they like about Kerry, it’s how he turns pettiness into an art form. And if there’s something that V would say they dislike- well, the list is long. Having everything at your fingertips is fun, but the way Kerry tosses eddies like confetti can’t help but sting. Where Kerry wants to be seen, V sometimes wants to disappear. Endless theatrics. The contrasts start burning. And then there’s always Johnny.
V: Excuse me- Weren’t you the one who told Rogue not bangin’ Kerry was your one regret?
J: I’m into some weird shit, but this… ah whatever. Fuck it. Do what you want, crazy animals.
Kerry, tied up in Johnny’s grief, regrets, legacy. The ghost between the bedsheets, draped around the edges of Kerry’s life like secondhand smoke. It’s impossible for V not to think Kerry gets a hard on because he finally scored a version of Johnny, or another bad-boy close enough. All of the above doesn’t just create friction, it breeds resentment.
There are moments. Rarer ones. When Kerry talks about the spiritualism of music and the past like it's a religion. V listens, enamoured. That’s when the distance between them shrinks. But more often than not, there’s misunderstanding. V’s instinct whispers, he only likes the version of you that goes along with the narrative of the week.
Odds are? It’s one good tour. A lot of good fucks. And when it’s over they’ll both pretend it meant less than it did.
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