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And then it’s done. Again. If just for a night, the world is safe; rode of nefarious and megalomanic evil; rode of viral contagion and the stench of death and decay perforating through empty, bloodied streets. If just for a night, Leon can sit still, he can plant his feet steadily on the ground and remain unmoving, on standby, until he’s called to action again. It’s the way it is. The way it always has been and the way it always will be. And if he isn't okay with it, then what is he?
It’s not as though he has any fucking choice, though, is it?
Not as though he could just tap out and return to the real world. How could he if there’s nothing to return to?
Should he feel good, that he’s achieved something, saved something, and made a difference rather than sit on his sorry ass drowning in liquid sorrow? He sure as hell doesn’t. If anything, he feels worse for it, worse for it all.
The first time, walking away into the sunset as the horrors were left behind him in smoke and flames, he hadn’t felt good, but he’d felt relieved, accomplished, revitalised. Gunpowder stained his fingertips and blood, sewer water and god knows what else sunk into his body skin deep, but he’d grit his teeth and put on a brave face. For a while, he could believe it, believe that this is what he wanted to be doing. Thrust into it with a naïve hero complex or not, this was what he was supposed to be doing. It’s why he joined the force after all, right, to save lives and whatever other fucking bullshit was peppered across recruitment posters.
But what else is he to do, cower and stroke his fragile ego? Whinge and whine at how unfair the world is? Dowse his pitiful existence in cheap booze and the stench of sweat?
God, he’s tried to take a fucking break, but look how that panned out.
Chris can go fuck himself for all Leon cares. Who is he to tell Leon what he wants and what he doesn't want? But, Leon scoffs dully, perhaps he should, because he’s becoming less and less sure of himself as the days drag on.
What does he want, after everything is said and done? After he’s exhausted the trigger and relinquished yet another city from the grasp of something slimy and flagitious. Does he want to do this all over again, fight the good fight and then bask in some facetious glory in the sick rays of a sunset or sunrise mellowing his torpid desire to cease to exist? Does he want it all to be over, for this government bullshit and conniving conglomerates to halt their confrontations and for derelict ashes of what were the only tangible things left behind?
Does what he wants even matter, in the grand scheme of things? He could be tying a noose around his neck and swallowing the barrel of his gun for all they care. He supposes he already is, to some fucked up degree. Supposes that not giving a shit about dying is the same as a mellow death wish.
That’s cool. Whatever you want to call it, Leon doesn’t care.
“How much longer can we keep going on like this,” he says redundantly. Chris retorts with Leon’s own words being used like spiky tendrils back at himself. He deserves it, he knows. But Chris smiles, and that can’t be too bad, right?
He’s mad at Chris. Mad at him in some fucked up jealous, yearning kind of way. Mad at him for how fucking together he appears to be, a truth hidden behind layers of bravado and heroism. Because Leon knows, he knows that Chris isn’t as peachy as he tells everyone he is, knows it better than most. But in a way that all makes it so much worse, Chris can manage to pretend, but Leon can’t even manage that.
Can’t even manage to look put together instead of some washed-out alcoholic.
But what the fuck, huh. Doesn’t matter as long as he gets the job done. Which it is.
He’s saved the fucking world. Feels great, doesn’t it?
They part ways, Chris, Rebecca and himself. It’s not the end of it, but he can get a break for a few hours before he’s dragged away once again to relay the events and relive the graphic shattering of bones and exploding of heads.
He checks himself into a motel; lets Rebecca know where he’s staying because she asked and Chris didn’t, all right? It’s hardly five-star, but who is Leon to give two shits? He takes a walk, and purchases some acetaminophen, because just in case: his arm is still aching like a bitch.
Emptiness is both calming and disconcerting; if something can be so antithetical simultaneously. He basks in being alone, without having anyone to remind him of how sorry he’s become, but the silence allows his mind to ruminate and he gets antsy, conjuring up scenarios of death and disillusionment.
Face to face with a mirror he reconciles with his worst enemy; himself. Ha, ha, what a fucking idiot, he thinks to himself. Self-centred prick, egocentric asshole. Spiteful, hateful bastard. But when, and if, he stares hard enough the face that stares back morphs into one he no longer recognises, and he’s back to being a scared young man, not yet a witness to crimes against morality. The man he locks eyes with is older but not chiselled or distinguished. He’s failed to grow into his looks, but instead, he’s unfittingly young, but undeniably sullied and tainted by the world.
He doesn’t look for very long.
And it’s in times like these that he lets his mind wander. After all, there’s nothing else left to do.
And he thinks of death, of decay, of the stench of decomposing bodies and wonders if he too will become unrecognisable upon death. If his skin will stretch and sink, his fat bloating and his eyes glazing over with sedated completion.
He’d kill himself before he becomes one of them.
He’d kill himself…
That’s usually where these thoughts end up. Something dark and decrepit like a desolate, dank cave. Because when Leon is alone, thoughts of an end draw nigh. Thoughts of his demise, his own lifeless body, pale and green, surfacing from the ocean’s depths. He’ll wash up on a beach, bloodied and rung dry. He won't gasp or scream, because life will be obsolete.
He doesn’t think of what he’ll leave behind, whether his friends will be sad or relieved. If it’s something predictable or surprising. Would people ask why, blame themselves for not seeing the obvious, or would they be able to say finally? Finally, the expected has happened and Leon, depressed, cynical Leon, has given up the ghost. Taken his own life and the pain that comes with it away.
Unsurprising, he finds himself grasping the bottle of Tylenol. The antithesis of a lifeline. The pills morph into worms and maggots before his eyes.
Today, though, the thoughts burn a little brighter, stab a little deeper, and plunge him into the sea a little further. But Leon does not gasp for air.
He succumbs.
A note seems unfitting. What would he say that isn't otherwise obvious? That’s he’s had it, that it’s all become too much. But is that even true? L'appel du vide, as the French call it. The thought of plunging from a high building, wondering what your guts would look like splayed across the tarmac, whether your intestines would spill or your head would explode. Of swerving into oncoming traffic, the car tumbling into flames and your body crushed by the weight of emotion. Of standing, desolately still in front of an oncoming train, thinking of everything and anything, waiting for the impact.
It never comes.
Because Leon’s been here before, contemplating dialogue with an unused bottle of pills. He’s been here before, the vivid imagery of a thousand deaths never coming to fruition in the forefront of his mind.
It never happens. He always backs out; takes the emergency exit; falls asleep with dreams of misery and pity, waiting for the next time he has a moment alone.
Well fuck that, burn your bridges and all that other shit. He’s tired of backing out on the only thing he’s ever been sure of. That death is the end and nothing lies beyond. All he desires in his peripheral is perpetual darkness, a nothingness so devoid of light, an all-encompassing feeling of finality, that this is done, that he doesn't have to put up a fight anymore. He’ll allow himself to feel unabridged and uninterrupted. Because Leon can’t wait for tomorrows, he can’t wait for something he doesn’t even know exists. How can he wait for something so untouchable, when the fingertips of death ghost pleasantly across his skin?
The bottle’s half-empty now.
That’s okay. His limbs feel sluggish and his eyes feel heavy. Sleeping seems nice right now. Hopefully, he won’t be there in the morning.
He wonders how, or if, he’ll be found. Whether his body would be left to sit in his misery and decomposition or whether Rebecca would come to check up on him as he'd expected her to do, whether she’d cry or whether she’d say nothing, laugh and leave. Wonder if they’d all be relieved. Like putting a dying dog down to sleep.
Sedated, he rests his head down on the scratchy motel pillow, but the weightlessness of his body feels like bliss to him. If he squeezes his eyes hard enough supernovas of static dance beneath his eyes like a perfect portrait of space; galaxies of sorrow and planets of pain — is that what awaits?
If this is death, Leon doesn’t mind.
Someone is knocking at his door.
Two thoughts cross Leon’s mind.
One, who the fuck is knocking at his door?
And two, it didn’t work.
The third comes some seconds later as he attempts to sit up, despite his best wishes, and it comes in the searing pain in his abdomen and the pounding in his head.
“Leon?” The hammering at his door shouts and, of course, it’s Chris.
Somehow, his limbs are even more sluggish than they were the night before. The bliss of melodrama has worn off and he’s left with pain both from the cocktail of pills and the fight from the day before. He searches for a t-shirt with his hands, scoffing at the fact he cares enough to not be practically naked when he should be a corpse, unresponsive and stiff.
But, he reaches the door on sluggish legs, jerking it open with a scowl. “What the fuck are you doing here Redfield?” He scowls, “First, you crash my vacation, now you crash my nap?”
Chris, always the professional, does not look impressed. “Sorry,” he says, still standing in the doorway. Leon decides it’s not worth the fight and gestures for him to come in. “Didn’t think you’d still be asleep.”
Leon frowns, “What time is it?”
“Half twelve.”
“Shit,” Leon grimaces, the pulsating in his head increasing.
Chris, always the prying asshole, notices. “Are you okay?”
He stumbles back onto the bed. “Fucking peachy.”
“Did you hit your head yesterday?” Chris asks, concerned, because of course he’s concerned. He’s here and he’s concerned and Leon should be dead, and Chris should be finding his fucking cadaver, not whatever this shit is.
He doesn’t know what’s worse; Chris finding his stiff body or Leon having to explain that he’s supposed to be dead.
“No,” Leon grits out, “I didn’t hit my head. It’s just a headache.” Chris looks unconvinced, and, well, Leon guesses he can’t blame him. “I suppose I have work to do,” he says after a pause.
Chris shakes his head, surprisingly, “No — no I took care of most of it, thought I’d bothered you enough,” he laughs sheepishly.
How chivalrous of him. “So what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to check up on you, ’s all.” Leon raises an eyebrow. Chris sighs, “Look, I know I was an asshole yesterday, but we needed you and I’m glad you came around.
As if they gave him a fucking choice, Leon grumbles bitterly.
“So you came here to be an asshole again?”
The reaction Leon wants isn’t coming; Chris is annoyingly calm. “No, I came to check if you were okay, which, you’re not.” He says it as if Leon’s suicide, shitty night is written across his forehead.
“What the fuck do you know, Redfield?” Leon shakily lowers himself to a sitting position on the mattress, unaware of how wobbly his legs had gotten until now. Chris gives him a look, but Leon makes a point of ignoring it.
Chris remains standing, and Leon notes the iciness in the air. “I don’t. You won’t let me.”
That makes Leon scoff, seriously, what the fuck. “Chris, just — fucking say your bit and leave,” he grits out, “please,” he adds unceremoniously.
For some reason, this causes Chris to smile. Fucker probably has a whole soliloquy planned.
“Wanna grab something to eat?” He asks.
“No,” Leon replies.
Chris’ smile widens, and Leon’s already planning his next attempt.
“Fuck, at least let me fuckin’ shower,” he mutters before he’s slamming the door to the crappy motel bathroom; idiotically small shower and cracking mirror mocking him as he steps inside. The running water distracts him somewhat from the tumultuous thoughts marauding inside his head. Fuck his fucking life, seriously.
He turns the temperature ice cold. The water pellets should feel like hot daggers against his battered skin, but strangely, he feels nothing. Not regret nor disappointment. Not some sort of sick realisation that his life isn't that bad after all nor the urge to jump out of the nearest window or draw his army knife against his skin. He doesn’t feel the need to drown in the shower water or relinquish himself of some stupid unshed tears.
He feels nothing.
It’s awful.
He should be dead right now. Gone. As though he’d never existed in the first place. His consciousness shattered to shrapnel and his body decomposing in a motel bed.
But he’s not. He’s painfully alive whilst Chris fucking Redfield waits on the other side of the door, all goofy smiles and irritating perseverance.
When he meekly opens the door, part of him hopes that Chris had run off, leaving Leon marinating in his self-pity. But of course, he sits, a pleasant smile pasted across his awfully patient face, upon the now made and tidied motel bed. The windows are open and a soft breeze fills the room, diluting the sticky feeling of sweat and tears from the floor and the ceiling. What's more, the half-emptied bottle of Tylenol sits pretty on the windowsill, lid tightly secured. Leon swallows thickly.
His words, whatever they were going to be, get stuck in his throat at the sight of Chris’ melancholy smile. It doesn't mean anything, Leon knows he hasn't exactly been the picture of mental stability for a while now, but the heavy feeling of anxiety settles on his chest nevertheless.
Suddenly, he feels stupid standing there in his muddied and bloodied leather jacket, the same mortification of Chris interrupting his depressed musing the day before. He wasn’t drunk, despite Chris and Rebecca’s insistence, and hadn’t even been drinking that much, but he likes to put something tangible to the intangible, something concrete to the abstract. He’ll play the part of the alcoholic fool if that can sedate the urges to end himself for even a mere moment. But, at the end, who is he kidding apart from himself? Anyone with a brain can tell he’s falling. And then there’s Chris, not all brawn and no brain despite common belief — Chris who’s sitting patiently, waiting for Leon to speak, on the same bed Leon had spent sleeping with a fantasy of death in the night prior.
But Chris doesn’t say anything, even though Leon knows he wants to. Because Chris isn’t stupid; he can put two and two together.
“You were treating me to breakfast?” He finally breaks the silence, hating the way his voice doesn't sound like his own.
Chris’ smile mellows, “It’s the afternoon, Kennedy.”
Leon doesn’t smile, but he allows the weight on his chest to lessen a fraction, “I said what I said, going back on the offer?”
And for Leon to be surprised when they end up at a café some blocks away from the shitty motel would be irrevocably idiotic, because here they sit on opposite sides of a mahogany wooden table, each nursing a mundane but much-needed cup of coffee. The sugar tastes bitter on Leon’s tongue, but it’s fine, he settles, because at least he’s feeling something at all. Some fresh air probably did his mind some good; the urge to plunge the nearest sharp object into his brain has dulled and the only self-destructive itch he has is quelled by sipping his coffee when it’s still a fraction too hot. The burning of his tongue isn’t exactly a replacement for permanent non-existence, but it will have to suffice for now.
The café is almost empty apart from a few equally looking tired people staring into laptop screens and sipping coffee like an IV. It quells Leon’s anxiety if, for a moment, they’re as alone as everyone else. The barista’s nonchalantly scrolling through her phone, equally unaware of the world too.
Chris speaks first, as Leon had expected. “Did you buy those pills last night?” It’s both open-ended and suffocating.
Leon doesn't trust his voice so he nods into his cup instead.
A staleness cloaks itself over the air.
“And you’re okay?” Chris asks.
“What are you getting at Chris?” His coffee tastes cold and the room suddenly feels too large.
There’s a small moment in time where Leon thinks Chris might drop it, when he too sips his drink and sighs a potent sigh, eyes averting to the window where condensation is beginning to cool to streaks of rain, but when his eyes meet Leon’s again, Leon recognises that he’s trapped.
“Don’t play the hero now.” He swallows his fear.
But Chris is a constant, and so he presses further. “I’m not,” he adjusts the coaster so that it’s perpendicular to the table, “I’m your friend.”
“Well, I appreciate the sentimentality.”
A reprise comes in an interruption. The barista appears, somewhat uncomfortably, with their food. Leon mumbles a thank you and quietens his thoughts with a mouthful of pancake.
“I care about you,” Chris says as if it could mean anything other.
Leon dislikes himself a fair amount, “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“What did you do after everything last night?” He phrases it as though it’s merely small talk.
Leon bites his tongue, ready to leave and drown himself in the nearest river. “I went to sleep.” The double-entendre is not intended.
“You know what it looks like?” Chris says, because it’s pure rhetoric, Leon isn’t supposed to be witty and asshole-ish.
But Leon's beginning to forego the ability to admit to himself that death would be preferable and this conversation ending amicably is improbable. “No, what does it look like, Redfield.”
Chris swallows and adjusts his plate. He hasn't taken a bite. When his words pounce, they bite. “It looks like you tried to kill yourself.”
In some alternative universe, Leon would deny the accusation with a confused chuckle, say how ridiculous the assumption is, and gesture brazenly at how obviously happy and content with his life he must be. But this isn’t some faraway universe where happiness comes in only pancakes and Chris, where living is bliss and the world is of harmony, if such a place exists at all. And because this isn’t anywhere as desirable as such, Leon’s throat dries up and his chest goes gooey and heavy. He could still deny the accusation, but it would be clumsy and unconvincing.
And sometimes Leon hates Chris for being so direct and blunt because it leaves him no time to think, no time to create some far-fetched excuse.
“What would it matter if I did,” he says, stupidly, shutting himself up with another bite of pancake, hating how sweet it tastes in comparison to his words. “It didn’t work, obviously.”
Chris sighs pensively, “That’s not what matters though, and you know that.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Why?” Chris asks.
Leon scoffs, “You’re not that stupid.” He wonders if he had the option to disintegrate into a black hole right now, he would still consider the easy way out.
Chris’ determination may become his downfall. “I want to know why, Leon.”
“What, you want me to tell you about how much I hate my life, how little I value my existence, how little you value my existence?” His spit tastes bitter.
And Chris, predictably, frowns. “You know that’s not true. Leon, I mean it when I say I care about you, you know that.” There’s a stark difference between knowing and believing.
Leon spins the spoon in his empty coffee cup and watches the reflections of the rain outside through it. He lets his hair fall into his eyes, unworried about anything but Chris’ next words, some façade of intimacy and compassion. Because whatever he says now, no matter how sincere the words may be, it won’t matter, won't change anything. Leon never expects anything more. And perhaps Leon never meant to die, perhaps he just wanted to put something to paper, express something unsaid and unfelt. That too matters little. And if only Chris knows, what little difference it all will make.
“Well, I’m alive, so what does it matter?” He says to the table.
“What matters is that you tried in the first place.”
“Look, Chris, just drop it, it’s not a big deal.”
Chris’ words come a lot later than expected. In fact, they don’t come at all. Leon looks up. He wishes he didn’t.
“It doesn’t matter,” Leon smiles.
“Would you still be saying that if you were dead?” Leon decides to take it laterally, as it’s intended this time. He fears that the answer is yes. “What would’ve happened if I hadn’t come today? Would you have tried again?”
“My life is not your responsibility, Chris.”
The rain becomes heavier, thrashing and collapsing against the thin glass windows of the café. “No, it’s not, but that doesn't mean I don't care if you live or die.”
“I could die at any moment.” They both know this.
Chris shakes his head. “That doesn't mean you have to up the chances.” And Leon swallows heavily again, his words losing their vigour each time he speaks. Truthfully, he feels tired, despite sleeping as much as he had. His body feels lethargic and his eyes sting with tiredness.
“I know.”
Angry eyebrows mellow and Chris sips the little that’s left of his coffee. Afterwards, he speaks, “I don’t want to leave you alone right now.” Leon’s not sure if he wants to be alone either.
“So don’t.” The smile could almost be genuine, it probably is.
“I’m not forgetting about this, Leon, this is important,” and behind the cynicism, Leon knows this to be true, so he nods, and Chris nods too.
“I hadn’t planned to,” he’s not all too sure why he says it.
“Yeah?” Chris asks.
“I don’t even know if I meant to.” If Leon wanted to be dead, he would be. He knows this.
“But you could’ve.”
“I could’ve.”
“Don’t do it again,” Chris says. Leon leans to paint lines in the window.
He presses his finger into the glass, “I can’t make promises like that.”
Chris tilts his head, “Humour me, then.”
“Fine.” He sullies the frowny face he’s drawn through the rain. His chest feels heavy as he says the words, “I won’t do it again.”
He doesn’t feel any less heavy as he sits in the passenger seat of Chris’ car. But his head’s stopped hurting, if he counts his privileges.
“I haven't properly apologised for yesterday,” Chris says as he closes the car door.
Leon sucks in a breath, “You don’t have to,” he cuts Chris’ retort off, “I mean it. All of this,” he gestures, “has nothing to do with anything about yesterday.” It’s only half-true, but Leon’s lost his ability to feign conviction.
“Still feel the need to say something,” Chris frowns, “what I said, it was rude.”
“And what I said wasn’t?”
Chris laughs breathily, “Maybe I deserve an apology too.”
“We’ve never been too great at being nice, have we?” Leon says.
“You’re nice enough,” Chris replies.
Leon can’t help but smile, “Thank you,” he grins somewhat incredulously. “Should I say you are too?”
Chris exhales shakily, “Leon.”
He nods.
“I’m glad you failed.”
Maybe he should smile and nod, repeat the sentiment sweetly and politely, but he can’t because it would be false and untrue. Instead, he closes his eyes and sighs. Chris starts the car; Leon keeps his eyes shut, and as Chris drives he lets the air swatting his face be the only thing he feels: he lets the swashing of the wind be the only thing he hears. He rests his head back, lets his arms relax, lets his head go numb and his heart plunge. He bats away the thoughts of swerving cars and collapsing bridges; the thoughts of loaded guns and emptied cartridges; the thoughts of flesh and blood and decay; thoughts of sweat and thoughts of tears. He lashes away at thoughts of death and thoughts of pain. He empties the recesses of his brain, lets the wind eat away at his synapses and brush the dust off of his nerves.
He doesn’t notice he’s crying until he opens his eyes and his vision is blurry, but Chris doesn't notice, so he smiles. Through teary lashes, Leon looks. At Chris. At the world. Flurries of green and grey flash by until they become an amalgamation of tears. But Leon smiles.
“Thank you, Chris,” he says, and Chris turns to look at him briefly before he returns his gaze to the road. He nods, eyes sad, but expression soft.
There’s a part of Leon that wonders if a death wish is normal for someone like him. If he could go his whole life not wanting the void to eat him whole. But right now, the time for existentialism and pondering is gone. All that matters is the wind on his face and the softness of Chris’ smile.