Chapter Text
Leon is so tired. He is so very tired of this endless cycle. Wake up, do work, get an assignment, get people killed, go home, ignore his injuries until he physically cannot, fix himself up (he refuses to go to medical), sleep (he doesn’t sleep) and eat (barely). If he’s being totally honest, he wants to die. He wants to take his pistol from where it rests on the coffee table in front of him and place it on his temple, or under his chin. He wants to pull the trigger.
But he doesn’t. Not because he is scared, he isn't and he would gladly welcome death. But because above all, he wants to suffer. No, that isn't quite right. He deserves to suffer.
That is exactly the reason why he’s sat on his couch. Bleeding from his forearm where he had taken his knife and slashed. Not deep enough to do real damage, but deep enough to sting for a couple of days. Because that is what he deserves, and more. He picks up the familiar bottle of whiskey next to him and downs the rest with a gulp. It somewhat numbs the emotional pain, but it's not enough. Sure, the world might be spinning a little, but he is fine. He has to be. Leon picks up a cigarette from the pack next to his gun on the coffee table and places it between his lips. He's not the type to smoke, but here he is. It had been burned into his brain that smoking was bad, he still remembers the way his father’s face had hardened when he had seen Leon at 8 years old holding a cigarette. Not smoking, just holding, it wasn't even lit. That day isn’t a pleasant memory in his head.
Then again, he has truly little good memories of his father, if at all. So, Leon picks up the lighter next to him. He stares at it; the memory of pressing it into Luis’s dead hands comes flooding back to him. Leon had barely walked five feet before turning and taking the lighter for himself. So, what if he's selfish?
Leon's thumb traces the indents on it before flicking it open and lighting the cigarette. He doesn’t smoke for the burn it leaves in his throat, or for the way smoke fills his lungs. He smokes to torture himself. To remind himself of the man he had failed to protect and left dead in the mines. Okay, maybe he enjoys the dullness the nicotine leaves in his body a little. Leon knows it is bad for him. But he doubts lung cancer will be the thing that kills him. So, fuck you, dear dad.
He'll most likely die to a BOW, or his own hand. He's not sure which he wants more. Leon doesn’t realize he’s crying before the tears hit the rusted lighter in his hand. He doesn’t bother wiping them away, he’s alone anyway. If his father were to see, he would probably get a scolding, maybe a beating. Boys don’t cry, and all that. But after all, dear dad is dead, so it doesn’t matter.
But then he hears a familiar voice. “Oye, cowboy. Those things will kill you, y’know?” And fucking of course he’s seeing ghosts again. Leon turns his head to look at Luis. He's standing there, in his jeans and his stupid fucking leather jacket. He coughs blood. The blood drips down his chin as he smiles at Leon. Who turns his head away.
It's not the first time he’s hallucinated Luis, and probably won’t be the last. That doesn’t stop him from breaking down. Every single fucking time he sees that stupid brown hair, the stupid leather jacket, those stupid gray eyes-, he cannot take it. He feels so much guilt, and it only grows every time he sees the ghost of the man he had begun so quickly to fall for.
Leon sobs quietly into the night air. His chest tightens with the guilt and hurt he feels. But also with anger towards himself. He hates himself; he realizes. In a fit of anger he takes the cigarette from between his lips and presses the lit tip against the back of his hand. It burns, it hurts, but he doesn’t pull away. The now dead cigarette falls onto the floor.
Leon breaths out, watching the circular mark starting to form beneath his knuckles. It helps, but not enough. So he picks up the combat knife next to him and presses it against his skin. He isn't dumb. He knows not to slit his wrists unless he's planning on bleeding out, and though he wants to; that isn't his plan today. He presses the blade against his skin, above his elbow and slits. He goes deeper this time, and the wound turns white before beginning to bleed. Leon swears he saw the layer of fat. He tosses the knife somewhere, he isn't sure where, and slumps on the couch.
He lets the tears threatening to slip from his eyes fall from his eyes onto his lap, it doesn’t matter. There are only ghosts here. Leon stands from the couch, stumbling as he makes his way to the bathroom. He bumps into the walls as he staggers, not that he cares. A few more bruises won't hurt him. He digs in the above-sink cabinet until he finds a bottle of melatonin. After unscrewing the lid, he pops a few into his mouth. He's not sure how many, two? Maybe three. Or four. He's not exactly concerned.
Leon stumbles back to the living room and collapses onto the couch. The melatonin mixing with alcohol probably won’t kill him. Then again, he kind of wants it to. Luis's ghost lingers above Leon, whispering things Leon doubts the real Luis would say. "I loved you, and you left me to die. Coward," Soon his eyes fall closed and he falls into a restless sleep. Restless, because Leon cannot remember the last time he slept through a whole night, or when he didn’t wake up from a nightmare in a cold sweat.