Work Text:
Slit sat on the back of the Nux Car, listening to Nux work on the engine. He was thinking. He’d never thought so hard in his life, he was sure of it. He stared down at his hands, thinking of all the things they’d done. All the fights he and Nux had fought, with each other, with everyone else, with themselves. All the dirt he’d picked out of his fingernails, all the slammed hands in doors, all the accidentally punching metal when a bolt came loose.
He was as tough as they come, as chrome as they make ‘em, and Nux was no less. Just started off with a worse engine block, is all. Nux didn’t break down from wear and tear, he broke down from his own “individual” reasons. The Ace taught him what that meant. Nux’s engine would overheat every night, have him choking on air, but it wasn’t because they were pushing his RPM, it’s just the way his engine ran. Slit’s didn’t. Slit was fine, mostly. Slit wasn’t the one struggling, was the main point.
But since Slit’s engine was fine he shouldn’t complain. Real Warboys don’t complain, not even Nux, not even when he’s coughing up his throat. Nux trusted V8. He trusted that he’s a part of the Great Machine, and he trusted the firing order of V8’s plan, even though he was on a collision course with dying soft. So why couldn’t Slit believe that V8 cared for him too? Every part of a vehicle is important. Even if you’ve got a perfect V8 engine, the car won’t go anywhere without wheels. No traction, no momentum. It made perfect plain sense. Nux had preached to him that V8 cared for him, just as much as He cared for Nux. But Slit couldn’t believe it.
If V8 cared for him, why would he feel so alone? If he was part of the Great Machine, why did it make his skin crawl when people touched him? If the Great Machine was so great, why didn’t every other working part let him do what he needed to run properly? He’d sit with Nux in the Blood Shed while he got filled back up with blood, and Nux would lean on his shoulder, real gentle, real soft. It rattled his brain in a way he hadn’t experienced before.
Now, it made him feel all kindsa sick at first. His skin would crawl with little imaginary bugs, but part of him knew that Nux needed him to be soft when he was sick, so Slit would sit still for him. After a few midnight trips to the Blood Shed, Slit learned that he needed it too. He wanted Nux to get better. And he wanted him to do it leaning on his shoulder.
Passing Warboys would look at them like they were doing something wrong, and whisper to each other. Some “working parts” they were, Slit griped to himself. They would look at him like he was some kinda broken down shitbox with two flat tires, and he was anything but a shitbox. It made the imaginary bugs come back, worming into his skin through his scars, making him squirm, wanting to run away like a pup. The other’s mouths would hiss the words “soft” and “rust” and all the other worst things. They hated that he was soft with Nux. That he got to be soft with Nux. Like any good Warboy would, he hated himself for it too.
So Slit learned not to be gentle. He stopped letting Nux lean on his shoulder. He learned to let out all his needing by fighting. His headlocking arm around another Lancer’s neck almost felt like the arm he used to throw around Nux’s shoulders when he got cold. The fight ring was his chapel. Having someone’s teeth sunk into his shoulder mid-fight was almost what it was like when Nux used to press his lips to Slit’s skin when they couldn’t sleep. He tried to remember it hurting, and couldn’t.
Slit sat on the back of the Nux Car, listening to Nux work on the engine. He imagined they were driving, the wind on his face, all the car’s windows open so they could hear each other. He imagined the sand stinging his eyes, and closed them, listening to the rhythmic ticking of a socket wrench. Open, tighten, open, tighten, click, click, click, click. He opened his eyes again, still on the back of the car, not on the road, and still in the Citadel. He sighed, and flicked his knife out. Nux shifted on the ground underneath the car.
“Awh, that ain’t good,” he mumbled to himself. Slit caught himself smiling, and quickly looked up to make sure no one saw. They were all too busy worrying about themselves, screamy welding machines and hacksaws. He picked under his nails with the tip of the blade.
Last night, there had been another fight night. He had fought Nux, of course, because they usually do at least once every fight night. Nux had him pinned face down, and was twisting one of his arms way out of its socket, sitting on him to keep him still. Everyone was screaming. That was when Slit got that burst of crazy energy every fight, every time it would give him the strength to fight back after he stalled. But he couldn’t. He just laid there, Nux’s hands shoving him into the dirt, wailing on him. Slit just took the hits, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. He missed Nux, and he would take his hands however he was willing to give them; In fists, punches to the gut, or gently locking their fingers together in a lopsided V8. He tapped out for the first time in nearly a hundred days. Bastard.
The knife picking under his fingernail started spilling red, and he hissed in pain, flipping the knife closed, and sucking the blood out from under his nail. It tasted like rust. He was awful rusty. Rusty at making sense of tough things, and this whole “part of the Great Machine” thing. Couldn’t help Nux, couldn’t help himself. Kept on wanting more, more, more. Be more soft, be more crazy, be this, be that.
All he wanted to be was “individual”. It hadn’t made sense when the Ace first said it, but he was starting to get it. He wanted to make his own decisions, be a little soft sometimes, and a lot crazy other times. He wanted to care for Nux, and get it back, too. Nux was the only one who would care about him, and that was all he needed; to be individuals together.