Archive of Our Own ^beta

Two years.

It's supposed to be easier by now, or at least that's what hes been told. So why's it still so fucking raw? Walking to an unmarked "grave" he made once he heard the news.

How the Arasaka raid went south, Johnny gone and an apologetic Rogue finding the only person who still gave a damn about the bastard. Kerry. Fuck, everything went to hell. The music stopped, the isolated started.

Nancy tried helping, tracking down the ratty motel he holed up in and bringing him food. Telling him she's there, a shoulder to lean on so he isn't in this alone.

"You don't fucking get it," words shouted with venom, hate that made her back off. Kerry didn't want help, he didn't want pity and he didn't want people pretending they knew how he fucking felt, how in one night he got everything ripped from him.

A friend, a band member, a... Not a lover. But someone he longed for dearly, that he clung to like a loyal dog who's owner tried to leave on a street corner. No matter how often he was hurt, always crawling back trying to hold on for those moments that felt better than the best.

How was he supposed to think they understood?

But even then, no matter how many drugs he took, barrels to his head and standing alone on rooftops he... Couldn't do it. Like there was a nagging, grating voice in the back of his head calling him weak for wanting to try. "A cowards way out." A voice that sounded too much like Johnny's.

It always felt bittersweet, the fucker who left him alone in this state being the only thing to keep him here. Those silent nights hearing Johnny's last words to him on repeat, "Not your band, not your noise. Do your own thing." Some shit like that, the words blur every day. It scares Kerry, wondering if one day he'd forget Johnny's voice.

And those days dragged slowly into weeks, months, a year then two. He put up a makeshift grave right after the death but hasn't visited since. Feels wrong knowing there isn't even a body there. Just a small box under the ground with one of Johnny's shirts and a guitar pick.

Kerry practically has to drag himself out of the car. One he klept back then with Johnny. It's shitty, but drives. Hardly...

He can feel his chest tighten as he looks at the worn cross he forced into the ground, an uneven "Johnny" scrawled into it and on top a few stone he put there just in case the cross disappeared.

No words come to him once he reaches it, bouquet of yellow acacia, adder's tongue, adonis, aloe and asclepias clutched in his hands before he drops it onto the dirt.

Slumping down beside it, he pulls out a cigarette and lights it up taking a deep drag before blowing it out.

"Funny, huh? Never smoked this brand before. Hell, wasn't too much of a smoker before." He trails off, a lump in his throat before he forces himself to keep going, "these ones smell like ya'. Sounds stupid, doesn't it? Guess you were right. I am fucking desperate."

A self deprecating laugh falls from him, taking another hit and letting the synth-tabacco burn his throat. "Those flowers... Went to some flower shop. Run down, 'bout to close. Chick in there said some shit about flowers and their meanings. Said this one was... Made for me."

He shakes his head at that one, smirking some as he glances at the grave, "dunno what these ones mean. Probably don't wanna. You wouldn't wanna listen to me drone about flowers anyways."

Silence follows, long and heavy as he let's tears streak down his face and brings the cigarette back to his lips. He struggles to inhale it as steady, blowing it out as a sob escapes him. He's never cried like this, the kind where your whole body shakes with the pain. Throat feeling raw and blocked, choked sounds leaving him that sound more like an animal.

His knees pull to his chest, head resting on them as he wraps his arms around himself cigarette loosely between two fingers. His chest hurts in a way he despises, Johnny has no fucking right to make him hurt this bad. Not after everything, all the fights and words said in anger that left deep wounds on his soul.

But it seems not even in death will he escape Johnny's presence. So he lets himself cry, until he can hardly breathe. Chest heaving while trying to catch his breath and force something out but he can't.

He just can't.

He falls onto his back, staring up at the little stars you can see in Night City. For a moment, he can breathe. Focusing up on the sky, where time seems so small and like everything could last if only he tried hard enough.

Letting his face fall to the side, his hand reaches to softly touch the base of the cross. "You were supposed to make it out alive. Fuckin' said you would. Even if you... You left you were gonna at least come say something, anything, to me. Promised."

Another sob.

"Promises never really ment shit to you though, did they?" Kerry can't remember a damn promise the now dead rocker boy ever kept. It makes him feel like a fucking fool for believing in that last one. He's always been a fool for Johnny, to the bitter end.

He rolls over, feeling the dirt under his body and the chill of the air against his skin. Feels nice. Like after a long show, leaving the too hit venue and getting that sweet breath of fresh air in his lungs.

The cigarette is long forgotten, burnt out somewhere beside him and gone. At least from his mind.

"Their calling you a terrorist. Maybe their right. I mean... You used a nuke." He chuckles at that, small smile lacing his lips. "Always had a flare for dramatics."

His hand softly traces the dirt, a cruel mimicry of how one would trace shapes into their lovers skin. "'member when you shot up that venue? No one got hurt but... God did we argue. Was so pissed at you. Never was allowed back there."

A long sigh falls from him. He feels stupid. Talking to the air, but... For once he feels less alone than he has been for ages. Talking to an empty plot in the earth rather than a living person.

"Tried to end it all, few times." The admission falls out before he can truly stop it. "But every time I heard you berating me. Can't ever leave me in peace? Or maybe I've finally lost it... Probably the latter considering I'm talking to you still."

He wants to stand, say a goodbye and walk back to the car and leave. He can't. Not yet, not when he swears he can feel Johnny beside him. Listening, quiet and unjudging for once.

"Lost to the explosion. That's what your input told me. Rogue? I dunno..." Laying back, he turns his eyes back to the stars. "Killed me. Knowing I couldn't... Bury you? Give you... Something. Something better than this..."

His throat feels tight again, like a hang choking out any air he had to speak. And when he does, it's hardly a rasp, "Probably wouldn't want better anyways. Pessimist you were. But..."

A weak, almost silent whimper leaves him. Forcing himself to a sit he pulls out the "mood stabilizers" some sketchy gonk sold to him and opens the bottle.

"I can't Johnny... I'm so fucking tired... Tired of waking up alone... Motel to motel, calling your number just for no response... Can't..." A cry falls from his lips.

He pours pills into his hand before shoving them into his mouth. But as he tries to swallow, it feels as if someone forces the pills back out and he vomits. Clutching his stomach, hazey eyes watching the mess of stomach acid and pills on the floor he screams.

Standing, he rips the cross up and snaps it before falling onto the grave still yelling in devastation, "Why can't you just let me fucking die?! You selfish son of a bitch, you fucking left me! Left me to clean up your God damned mess again, like always! So now I'm here and picking up all the pieces to some fucked up puzzle!"

His forehead falls against the dirt, a mix of tears and snot covering his nose and the earth beneath him.

"I can't believe this shit! I can't believe you! I-I didn't even get to say... I never got to tell you..!" A small gasp for air. "I fucking loved you, you gonk! I still do, so fucking much it hurts! Feels like my damn heart is trying to claw its way out every day just to find you! How the hell am I supposed to live with this?!"

His tone is almost begging, pleading for Johnny to answer. To tell him it'll get better, even tell him to man the fuck up and move on. Anything. But it doesn't come.

Cause Johnny's gone.

His desperate gasps for air slow down, gentle panting and whimpers leaving him as he collapses right there onto the burial.

"Please..."

The stench of vomit, Night City air and his own stench from months of not being able to drag his ass to a shower fills his senses. "It's... Not fair you took so much of me with when you died..."

It's all he has to say now. How it's not fair, how angry he is and the begging to go into the ground next. To not have to face this shit without... Him.

God... Johnny... Just the slight remembrance of why he was even crying brings on another wave of hurt. Johnny's fucking gone. Really fine. Not some sick, twisted joke. He's not going to wake up to a hangover and a groggy Silverhand bitching beside him.

It's finally settled in how real this whole thing is. But instead of sadness it brings an odd feeling of... Calm. A mix of acceptance and an odd numb feeling in him as he stands.

He picks up what's left of the cross and plants it back into the dirt before taking the cigarette box from his pocket and dropping it. "Take them. They... Always did fit you better.

Turning around he wanders back to the car, getting in and hands settling onto the wheel. He let's his eyes stick to the grave for a few more minutes before starting the ignition and pulling away.

Maybe he can start trying again. For Johnny's sake. And the urge to prove he can, that he doesn't need Johnny anymore, even if his heart disagrees.

Tomorrow is a new day, and he has no time to fear the reaper.