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Tonight it's sitting at a crisp eighty-fuckall degrees, practically boiling Johnny where he lays. The only window in the room has the blinds down, but he can feel the moon mocking him from high up, beaming lunar goodness down just to fuck with him. Just another notch on the long list of obstacles the universe throws at Johnny to keep him from his well-deserved rest.
It's always something new, too hot or the blankets are too scratchy, or Night City smells like garbage and sounds it too. And sure, maybe if he were anyone else, those excuses would be perfect, but as of now none of them are good enough for him. None of them make enough sense. He used to basically live in the desert, he's slept under cheaper, shittier fabrics, and if the stink of Night City bothered him this bad, he would've high-tailed it out decades ago.
The real issue is the silence, the deafening quiet.
Not that Night City is what's quiet, it's late enough that the shine from the moon splits the polluted fog like the red sea, damped only by the cacophony of neon lights streaming constant ads into the sky, clogging it up like the grotesque wastes of space that they are. It's way too late but there's still sound, always. Traffic jamming under towering skyscrapers, drunken yelling down the mega building hallways, some rerun of Watson Whore that a neighbor lets play at max volume, deaf bastard that he is. It's loud, obnoxiously so, but it doesn't help him, does fuck-all to banish the silence burrowed into the back of his skull.
It's a bizarre kind of quiet, one that's been dogging him since Mikoshi, at least. He'd been able to ignore it while looking for a way to get V back, but only just. Ironic how having him back makes it worse somehow, his presence burning up the edges of this gaping hole in his thoughts where he expects to turn and feel someone else's. It's like a torn seam, two pieces of cloth stitched together clumsily, then ripped apart; and sure, the pieces on their own were whole, technically, but that doesn't change that you can see the tattered edge, the needle holes where worn thread dangles. The seam where they were once connected.
Being in the same apartment helps, they're both on bedrest, by order of Vs ripper-- Victor or something, the guy fixing up a replacement for his old arm--and it feels better when he's got V in his sights, even despite the hole. Johnny can see him now, outside of mirrors and old memories, and he takes every opportunity to watch him. Doesn't always mean to, but he finds his gaze wandering, staring the merc down like he can somehow burn the after image into his eyelids, keep him there permanently. V’s not faring much better. He's clingy, though he's always been a touchy person, two steps from pulling complete strangers into bear hugs. Something about living your whole life around distant relatives just waiting to pinch your cheeks.
And maybe that's true but practically got his hands on Johnny every second. He'll rest his hand there on his shoulder like he expects Johnny to evaporate, squeezing it while they talk. Props his legs up on him like Johnny does to tables too, draping his legs over like he's part of the couch. Some mornings, while they're both fighting through the gloom of exhaustion, Vs thick palm rests just too close to the small of his back, guiding him to the coffee pot. When the caffeine settles, before either of them gather the stones to comment, V takes his hand away, leaving the patch where it once laid cold.
The feeling he gets when he can't see V is overwhelming, and he knows V feels it too. Vs ripper had shrugged, called it separation anxiety, but that felt stupid to Johnny, like the awful empty of his mind could be dismissed with breathing exercises and pills. The chick with the hair is more solemn, lends more weight to what she considers cleaving the bond between two souls. Johnny doesn't believe in that shit, not like V does, but he has to admit it's a way more appropriate explanation than goddamned "separation anxiety."
They can't stay together all the time though. They need freedom from each other, that's what the two of them agreed, which is exactly why Johnny's in the living room, tossing and turning on Vs junky couch. It's why V is in his bed, bundled up in at least three blankets despite the downright oppressive heat and humidity. It sends something warm bleeding through his chest, the thought of Night City's newest legend in his nest of pillows, the last bastion against hypothermia in temps that climb hotter than the human body.
It's funny, finally apart from each other and Johnny wants nothing more than to crawl back into Vs skin.
The heavy fog of exhaustion is doing wonders for his sense of clarity though. The sleepless nights, trapped somewhere between lucidity and the unconscious are wearing at his resolve, urging him to seek out V. It's made worse knowing he's dozing just a room away. That Johnny can just get up and touch him, crawl into those plasticy sheets and sleep better than he has in years. Knowing that the sound of Vs breathing and the click of the tmj in his poorly set jaw will banish the quiet in a way night city traffic could only dream of.
He drags his ganic hand across his face, grinding his palm into his bruised sockets, a half-assed attempt to rub away the dark circles that have made their home underneath. Fuck it, he thinks, and pushes himself off the couch.
It's a little embarrassing, but he's committed now, not willing to climb back into that mess of sheets with his tail between his legs. Funny too, almost. Like a funhouse mirror version of him and Kerry, way back. Shitty motels with water damage, exposed pipe and undiscovered species lurking in the sink drain. The cost and the cold were decent enough excuses then, back before either of them were willing to examine too closely why johnny slept better spooning his best friend. Before the level of shit that Johnny put out nightly surpassed even what Kerry tolerated from him.
He's not that young anymore, can't and won't pretend that shit away. And Vs apartment is better than any motel he's slept in, anyway, even if he'll never admit it out loud.
He pauses, hovering in the doorway. Feeling like a kid at his parents door, debating if the risk of rejection is worse than the nightmares plaguing him. Not that V would reject him, probably. He's not gonna let that happen, won't give him the chance to.
The door’s cracked slightly, and he can see a little sliver of light streaming through crooked blinds. It pools around Vs sides, bathing his form in color, reflecting off plastic-y sheets.
But V isn't sleeping, he's on his back, face up at the ceiling, clasped hands around his stomach like he's at an open casket funeral. His breathing is even, measured, and if it weren't for the low light illuminating his gaze, Johnny might even be tricked into thinking the merc was out. Night City adspace plays across his face and Johnny can almost watch them spark along his lashes, a private lightshow.
Johnny braces his hand against the door and pushes, fingers splayed across the wood, announcing his presence in the slow swing. It thunks hollow against the wall, and V sits up immediately, wordlessly. He makes no attempt to disguise his exhaustion; the slouch of his shoulders pulls his face out of the light. His hand twitches towards the lamp at his bedside for a second, before he returns it to his lap. Although Johnny can't make out his eyes, he can feel the mercs gaze on him.
For a second, he loses all train of thought. Any skeleton of the plan he had formed was pushed out, replaced by the here and now. He's usually good at thinking on his feet, but this has left him dry, gawking in the low light. He's thankful for it, knows that if V had splurged for night vision the thin veil of privacy the darkness provides would be obliterated, laid bare. Instead he works his jaw in the low light, trying to piece together what he might say; only just remembering to relax his ganic arm.
"Your couch feels like garbage, no idea how you'd think I could sleep on that shit."
There's a pause, the shuffling of sheets. The faint rustling is the only thing that cuts through the silence. It feels like an eternity before V finally answers, sounding a little lost.
"Yeah?"
Sure, it's a ridiculous complaint, ripped straight from his ass. The couch was thick, plush, and well lived in. Not like V had just found it on the side of the road one day and decided his guests could just suffer. It was the kind of couch you could just sink into, let the cushions swallow you whole.
V had a tendency to crash on any vertical surface, and that one in particular had been prepped to minimize the kind of pains that come from failing to make it to the nearest bed. It was decked out even more when it turned out Johnny’d be crashing here too. Had a fuckton of pillows and blankets and all that shit just to make sure he could sleep easy. V even gone the extra mile of pointing out his hoard in the fucking linen closet , just in case Johnny'd decided he wasn’t drowning in enough fabric.
And maybe V knows Johnny knows it's ridiculous, cause he's sitting there on his bed still, not saying a word. Mulling over what Johnny could possibly want him to do about it. There's the tell-tale shutter of his Kiroshis, briefly spiking an anxiety that maybe while he wasn't looking V did in fact chip some new night-vision. Just for the fuck of it.
V let him stand in the doorway a little longer, really making him feel like a gonk, before he finally gets it. Vs hands thump against the mattress, the way he usually beckons Nibbles, and the tone V speaks in is halting, almost nervous.
"I can uh....can make room in here if you want?"
He stands there for a good few seconds, thinking maybe he should say something about that. Maybe he should've told V to call him over like a human instead of a pet, but oddly enough he didn't feel like starting a fight, small as it would be. Besides, it was good knowing V was just as embarrassed, that he felt just as awkward about it, even if he couldn't see it on the mercs face.
He climbs into the bed without another word, and yeah he pushes V out of the way with a little more force than necessary, but V responded by putting his fucking ice block feet on his thigh instead, so maybe he should've pushed harder. He's taken over Vs spot now, soaking in the warmth of the sheets underneath, pleasant despite the humidity. Maybe V reads his mind, cause in the next second he feels the merc reach over him to switch on a fan. Shit, he could almost swoon.
The feeling of Vs back against his is a godsend; warm, solid and comforting. If he focuses, he can hear combat chrome humming beneath the surface. He wondered when he'd started to associate that sound with comfort, the mechanical whirrs and clicks filed away like the sound of a heartbeat, despite its inhumanity. Maybe it's cause he knows it's Vs chrome, specifically, and the ease he feels is the knowledge he's got him close by.
He did not take that comfort in his arm, never wanted to. The gears did not beat, they ground against eachother, cold save for the seam of chrome against his shoulder, where frazzled nerves burn with heat. His silver arm was his namesake, his cement shoes, a constant reminder of everything he'd never forget. Felt like he'd spent hours chipping away at the Arasaka logo, like somehow that'd help, a tiny revenge against the corporation that manufactured his own arm. They'd also taken it away, popped it off his corpse and dumped it who knows where while his body took up space in their basement. He wondered if someone still had it, some psychofan who shelled out thousands to display it on their dresser. He wasn't sure if he actually wanted to know.
Vs chrome wasn't obvious, he had a decent amount, but he kept it minimalist. Most nomads Johnny'd met didn't have much chipped, the odd first gen prosthetic paired with a personal link.
V had a lot more than that, but he kept it under wraps. The few visible lines of cyberware circling his cat-eye kiroshis. His fingers too, dipped in gunmetal grey silicone. More than the fingertips were chrome of course, V hadn't had actual ganic arms since he was a teenager--lost them somehow, been chipped with first gens till he finally made it to night city and raked in enough scratch for an upgrade.
The ones he had now had been dressed up, synth skin coated the outside along with realistic arm hair to mimic what he'd lost all those years ago. Just underneath though, titanium bones, hydraulics and pumps that peaked at hundreds of psi, cleanly meeting the seam of his actual ganic joints, and effortlessly blending into his thick arms.
V loved hidden chrome, subdermal armor and reinforced tendons. He'd clean out a scav hideout, and make his way out to the streets to blend in easily. Practically melted into the crowd despite the blood staining his shoes, the grit and gore that settles into the joints of his knuckles.
Learned it from Jackie, he'd said once, unprompted. Only thing that draws more attention than a lone nomad, is one that doesn't know how to keep his head down. It was easier to pass himself off as Jackie's choom from the gym than it was to walk around in a faded Bakkers vest. He didn't really worry about it now, didn't have to, not with every merc on the street knowing V could rip them apart like a twizzler.
He's good at faking Night City native, at least in his fashion sense. Between the flame-print hair and obnoxious pleather bodysuits, Johnny maintains he probably looked better in tarmac-rat chic than gym-rat neon vomit, but V just laughs it off. Says he likes the way he looks now just as well.
Vs best look is as his personal heater, of course. According to him he's always run hot, but that's gotta be a lie. The warmth coming off of his body is like a sunbeam, absorbed into the very core of his being from growing up in the badlands. They're only just barely touching, but Johnny already feels drunk off it, the feeling against his back more concentrated than any of the little touches they've shared. Like a hug on steroids.
He's almost out when he feels it, well on his way to dreamland while he considers the warm body beside him. Chrome fingertips slip over his side, jerking him awake. They pause, and Johnny keeps still, silently trying to goad V into getting closer. He's not sure where this is going, but he knows he wants more. After a second, V takes the hint, and those broad palms continue their journey around his middle, cupping the slight pouch of his stomach with one as his chest is brought flush to his back.
it's practically got johnny giddy, his hips are cradled by Vs, spooned up against him. It's not the same as being back in Vs head, but it feels right, feels damned close. The added rush of being able to actually feel him makes every touch lightning under his skin. Jesus, he's never been this happy to play little spoon in his goddamned life.
"Little handsy there, huh?"
It slips out in his tension, built up as V snuggled closer, burying his face in Johnny's neck. Like a subconscious attempt to ruin his own happiness. He's already pissed at himself, not sure how he'd get V to put his hands back on him and still preserve a little dignity. He can hear the tension in Vs jaw click as he considers it.
"You're taking too much space on the bed, Johnny. M'just trying to make more room."
It's as bold as the lie Johnny told earlier, and maybe that's why Johnny's mind lets him get away with it. He snorts, sighs as the hands skate up under his shirt to pull him close.
After a minute, they switch position, knowing neither can really sleep spooned up like this. Johnny rolls onto his back as V curls into his side, legs tangling gently. It's so much better than before.
He can feel his heart now, thumping against his side as V pillows his head against Johnny's shoulder. His fingers creep across Johnny's chest, and without thinking he brings his ganic hand up to meet Vs. Their fingers clasp without a thought, slotting into each other like they'd always meant to be. Neither of them say a word, they're too busy digging closer like they can finally merge, return to the status quo.
In the morning, neither of them are gonna be willing to bring it up. They'll pad around it silently, like it's something that can bite, but that's tomorrow's problem. Right now, all that matters is Vs head on his shoulder and Vs hand in his. As he slips easy into sleep he can only hope the two of them will shut up for long enough to do it again.