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Chapter Text

sunset || ALLEGORY

“You ever heard of Sköll?” 

The question comes just as Kim inhales, the tip of his cigarette briefly igniting in a fiery orange before fading back to grey as it’s lowered to make way for a plume of smoke. Off in the distance, stretches of wispy clouds are illuminated from below by the setting sun, its own orange glow slowly surrendering to the darkening sky as night approaches. 

A sudden gust of wind sweeps past, clearing the air of chestnut and sending a chill through Kim’s body. He resists the urge to pull on the zipper of his jacket and instead glances at Harry. As expected, the man standing next to him looks entirely unbothered by the noticeable drop in temperature since they first stepped out onto the precinct balcony, despite leaving his blazer behind.

Extending his arm past the balcony edge, Kim gives the cigarette in between his fingers two small taps. “I don’t believe I have,” he replies, switching his gaze from Harry toward where he’s expecting the specks of ash to fall as they descend toward the pavement below.

“It’s from Ancient Katlan mythology,” Harry says, bringing his hands together as he leans his forearms against the railing. “He's a wolf that chases a goddess driving the chariot of the sun across the sky, day after day.”

“Not a particularly effective chase then.”

“Well, Sköll eventually catches up—and his brother, Hati, catches up to the moon that he'd been chasing at night. Both the sun and moon are then devoured...which marks the beginning of the end of the world.” The thought causes Harry to shift uneasily on his feet, but his gaze remains steadfast on the city that stretches out before the two of them.

“I suppose if the sun and moon did suddenly cease to exist one day,” Kim muses, “humanity interpreting it as a sign of the world ending would not be all that surprising.”

Harry says nothing, though his body ripples with a slight shiver—a movement so subtle Kim is surprised he caught it at all.

The wind, he realizes a few seconds later, is curiously absent.

“It’s a lot of pressure, isn’t it?” Harry asks suddenly.

Kim raises his eyebrows in question, unsure of how to respond. The ensuing silence prompts Harry to look over at him then away again, searching for the right words. 

“You know—having the entire existence of the world be dependent on you. No alternate path, no escape except to drive these chariots, day in day out. All of this,” Harry lifts one arm to sweep it up and over in a smooth arc, as if to chart the journey of the sun across the sky, “existing under the constant threat of annihilation.”

Kim takes a moment to consider this before saying, “Isn’t everyone resigned to march toward their own end from the moment they are born? It’s not like we all have much choice in the matter either.”

The long drag that Kim takes immediately after he finishes speaking does little to prevent the grip of regret from taking hold. A stream of smoke rushes out from within him, its unusual rapidity the only tell betraying his frustration. 

That was…probably not the right thing to say.

Existential reassurance, as it turns out, is not his strong suit. And why would it be? It’s not like Kim has ever had occasion to hold discussions like this with anyone else in his life. 

Upon this realization, something occurs to him. 

“I’d say there is an important difference between us and those gods, though.”

“...oh?”

“The sun and moon gods were both alone in their struggle to keep the world turning.” Kim looks over at Harry, schooling his own expression into something unreadable. “We, are not.” 

The words hang in the air and send Harry into a period of deep contemplation, a spirited debate no doubt unfolding inside his head.

After one last puff, Kim extinguishes the spent cigarette on the sole of his boot before tossing the butt away. He turns to face the door leading back into the halls of Precinct 41, and waits until Harry’s eyes come up meet his own.

“So. Shall we?”

Harry casts one final glance towards his beloved city before turning around to give Kim an answering smile. He then reaches out to swing the door open with gusto, its rusty hinges emitting a groan that echoes into the night air, and steps through without a word.

His new partner—one recently transferred lieutenant by the name of Kim Kitsuragi—follows closely behind.

✳ ✳ ✳

sunrise || FORBIDDEN

Maybe it’s the fact that the sun has just started to crest over the horizon, casting a picturesque glow over the streets of Jamrock, tiny murmurings of life starting to make itself known as the earliest risers begin their day. Golden light has begun spilling over the nooks and crannies of a neighbourhood that's long since been left to the dogs, rough edges blanketed by a temporary softness. On this day, dawn presents itself to Harry with a sense of delicate serenity that he rarely experiences. 

Harry does not usually get the privilege of experiencing the sunrise by choice. Tranquility is the last thing he feels when jolted awake by his recurring nightmares. Instead, he’s left with a deep ache in his chest and tears that won’t grant him the satisfaction of actually falling from his eyes. If he’s lucky, when the afterimage of his dream finally loses its razor-sharp clarity and his breathing has normalized, a restless sleep might come to claim him once more.

There are a myriad of words one could use to describe Harry—“lucky” does not tend to be one of them. 

Maybe it’s the fact that he gets to enjoy today’s sunrise not because he woke up suddenly in a cold sweat, but because he was already awake and has been for several hours.

He takes his eyes off the decrepit building situated diagonally across from the window he’s sitting in front of, and looks over at the sleeping figure next to him for what might be the hundredth time that hour.

Maybe it’s him.

By all accounts, Harry should be in a bad mood right now. When he found out that he’d been assigned to do an overnight stakeout, he arrived ready to rip his hair out by hour three. Part of him felt slighted—this was clearly a task unbefitting of a superstar cop such as himself. Keeping an eye on an abandoned building is amateur shit, a task that junior officers could have easily handled it. Does the rank of double-yefreitor mean nothing these days?!

(Moments later, another voice would helpfully remind him that the RCM wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice when it comes to staffing. Interest in joining the Bloody Murder Station is less than enthusiastic among new recruits.)

Between the disruption of his sleep, the particularly grim neighbourhood they’re in, and the extremely boring assignment, he should be having a pretty miserable time.

Yet he feels…

Lucky.  

—

The ability to look directly at Kim’s face for as long as he has, as many times as he has, makes Harry feel like he’s getting away with murder. There’s a strange churning in his stomach, feelings of fondness, trepidation, comfort, adrenaline, and gratitude all scrabbling for purchase in Harry’s mind. As well as a little bit of guilt.

Kim would probably prefer not to be stared at while he sleeps.  

Harry forces himself to look away and back out the window. The building across the street remains as still as it has been since the moment they arrived, back when the city was still shrouded in darkness. 

Lost in thought, his fingers start absent-mindedly drumming on the windowsill. When his brain finally takes notice of the noise being generated a few seconds later, his hand comes to an abrupt halt and he snaps his head over to his partner in alarm. Kim shows no acknowledgement of the disturbance and carries on sleeping, allowing Harry to relax and exhale a tiny sigh of relief.

His gaze, however, lingers. And lingers. And lingers. He finds it nearly impossible to resist the natural inclination to return to Kim, like a deprived houseplant plastering itself against the window to soak up every last bit of sun even as the leaves start to burn.

He thinks about the weight of what he’s seeing, the significance of the fact that he’s allowed to see what he’s seeing. Were Kim on this stakeout with any other officer, the cot would not have been used. Kim would offer it to whichever officer was present but insist on staying awake and alert himself, citing his preference for vigilance while on the job. He’d pack extra coffee and suffer the consequences later. He would spend the entire stakeout just as miraculously put-together as he is on any other regular work day, even as fatigue starts to settle deep into his bones. Ever the professional.

Right now though, he’s here with Harry. And right now, thanks to Harry’s earlier insistence, the lieutenant is actually asleep. “I got to nap a bit earlier, it’s only fair that you have a turn!” Harry had said, with several additional arguments on the tip of his tongue he'd been prepared to unleash if Kim continued to refuse. He’s distinctly aware that Kim himself could have deployed the eyebrow if he truly wanted to shut Harry down, but he chose not to. It’s a measure of the sheer amount of trust he has placed in Harry—to allow himself this indulgence, to be unguarded in the presence of another, if only for a little while. 

He truly trusts Harry. 

Even now, after everything that happened in Martinaise a few months ago, Harry is still humbled by it. There’s a certain sense of warmth that settles within him, and his heart sings at the connection they share—two birds connected by a single wire.

Upon studying his face once again, Harry realizes that the tension Kim had been holding between his eyebrows seems to have finally eased now that he's been asleep for some time. Kim looks younger without his glasses, even as the bags underneath his eyes appear more pronounced this way. The occasional twitch of his eyelids draws Harry toward the tiny shadows cast by his lashes, and the lack of eyewear reveals a small mole near the inner corner of Kim’s right eye.

It’s a delightful discovery. Downright sinful. It feels like forbidden knowledge—knowledge that Harry is desperate for more of.

He traces the perimeter of Kim’s lips with his eyes, eventually landing on the small gap made by his mouth hanging open ever-so-slightly as he slumbers. Harry stares into its depths, and the churning in his stomach intensifies.

In a different life, he isn’t sitting on a fold-up chair in an unoccupied apartment with torn wallpaper and committing Kim’s face to memory as if his life depended on it. In a different life, he’s lying next to Kim in a bed they share, the heat from their bodies intermingling underneath covers that Kim had stolen the majority of, and watching his face as it is slowly illuminated by the early morning sun. Harry's own face would be no more than a few inches away, close enough to feel Kim’s slow, even breath cascading gently across his skin, close enough to count each individual lash emerging from the edge of his closed eyelids, close enough to trace each and every line that make up his crow’s feet. When he can no longer resist the urge to touch, Harry would have the freedom to reach out and caress Kim’s cheekbone just to feel the warmth bleed into his hand, to brush his bottom lip just to feel its plumpness underneath the pad of his thumb. Kim would likely be roused even with the feather-light touch, and slowly blink his eyes open as he comes to. Maybe, upon seeing Harry’s adoring gaze, a sleepy smile would spread across his lips. Maybe he’d murmur good morning and maybe, just maybe, Harry would capture those very lips with his own.

A small, sudden groan startles Harry, violently returning him to the present moment and triggering a sharp inhale that immediately shoots saliva down the wrong pipe. His face grows several shades redder than usual as he turns away from Kim, desperately struggling not to cough and emitting a strangled, rather alien sound in its stead. It’s quieter than a cough would be—but not quite quiet enough.

“Harry…?” Kim’s voice is somewhat groggy as he awakens to see Harry gripping his throat with one hand while covering his mouth with the other.

As muffled as he can manage it, Harry clears his throat a few times in search of relief. When he collects himself enough to form words he forces out a “hi” in response, and flicks Kim a thumbs up as he turns back toward him with shiny eyes.

The concern on Kim’s face only grows at the sound of Harry’s strained voice, and he decides to push himself upright before grabbing his glasses from underneath the cot. He unfolds them carefully and slides the frames onto his face, then blinks a few times as he registers the scene in front of him. 

“Are you all right?”

“Never been better!” replies Harry instantly—the grimace on his face telling a completely different story.

Kim shoots him a deadpan look, before deducing that Harry is fine enough and shifting his attention to the view outside their window. “I’m assuming there’s nothing to report, then?”

Harry nods, resolutely squashing down the voice that’s currently berating him for not actually having a real answer to that question, on account of how little time he actually spent monitoring the area in the minutes leading up to Kim waking. He busies himself with swallowing repeatedly in lieu of elaborating, trying to douse the feeling of fire in his throat.

Kim then glances at his wristwatch. “Well, only another hour or so. We’ll be out of here soon.” 

Harry hums in acknowledgement, then turns around to fish out his canteen from the duffle bag sitting on the ground behind him. He takes a long swig of water, and closes his eyes momentarily. 

Behind his eyelids, a picture-perfect image of Kim’s lips remains. He tries not to think about how much he aches for what he can’t have.

Chapter Text

sunset || DICHOTOMY

Harry’s hand is manoeuvring around Kim's in shaky circles, a twirling bandage sealing up the bloody gash across the latter man's palm, when he hears, “A bit tighter, detective.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kim’s mouth tighten into a thin line bordering on a wince when he obliges wordlessly. Loud voices subject Harry—and Harry alone—to a barrage of harsh criticism, but he bites down on the urge to bemoan his own incompetence or apologise for it in excess. 

There is a job to do.

Layer after layer, white gauze works diligently to hide the crimson still blooming underneath. Kim gives a small nod once he’s satisfied with the dressing, and tests it out with a slight curl of his fingertips. Holding the end taut, Harry makes a cut down the length of the bandage then shakes off the flimsy scissors from his thick fingers, before carefully wrapping the two resulting strips back around Kim’s hand and wrist and tying it off. 

With almost shy hesitation, he lets go of Kim’s hand and takes a moment to glance up at his face. Blood has dried around the smaller slash across his right cheek, and there’s no mistaking the angry bruise forming on his forehead even as the setting sun begins to soften the hard edges of his face.

Harry moves on to the next step, transferring the bandage scissors from his lap into the first aid kit sat open next to him on the wooden bench they’re sharing. He picks out a disinfectant wipe from the pile of supplies and tears open the wrapper, lifting the moistened wipe toward Kim’s face to gently release the dried blood from his skin using small wiping motions. Harry’s other hand makes an aborted movement toward his jaw, and instead pivots to settle on Kim’s left shoulder for stability. 

Whether that’s for his own benefit or for Kim's is neither here nor there.

Kim’s cheek twitches at the sting of disinfectant but is otherwise unfazed, his breathing remaining even as he looks straight ahead past Harry’s shoulder. His brows are slightly knitted, mind seemingly elsewhere.

He looks frustrated.

Harry leans back when he finishes with his ministrations, lowering both hands and giving Kim’s face a final once-over. Inside Harry's mind there sits an awareness of more bruises scattered across Kim’s body hidden beneath layers of clothing, but all of the open wounds have been dealt with at least. It’s the best they can do for now.

“Thank you,” Kim says simply when their eyes meet, before slowly leaning back against the bench, letting some of the tension seep out of his body while still stifling a groan. “All this,” he blinks, gesturing minutely toward himself, “and the suspect still got away…” Harry hears a quick exhale pass through Kim’s nose, something of a self-deprecating scoff. “Probably on the other side of Revachol by now.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Harry says immediately, standing up to toss the crumpled up wipe into a nearby trash can. His brain—too occupied trying to erase various images of Kim meeting an untimely end—fails to offer anything better to say. Dramatic declarations about how he'd give up a hundred suspects if it meant that Kim came back to him alive catch in his throat, one after another. 

He swallows around the feeling. Kim wouldn't appreciate hearing that sentiment right now, even if it is terribly romantic in some ways. 

With the case being particularly time-sensitive, their decision to split up so they could cover more ground seemed like a great idea at the time. They were lucky the suspect turned out to be much more comfortable with evasion rather than the use of deadly force. Harry tries not to drown in “what ifs” even as his thoughts crowd with half-imagined worst case scenarios that he has to continually remind himself did not happen.  

Though he's certainly not unfamiliar with the fast reflexes of his partner, Harry remains thankful for them all the same. The broken bottle that the suspect grabbed mid-scuffle could’ve easily done far more damage had Kim not immediately stopped its path with his hand before knocking it out of his grip. He shudders to think of where they’d be had the jagged edges found a home in his stomach instead.

Lucky in some ways certainly, but not others. Of course this had to happen on the very day he purposely left his gloves at home, a small rip toward the bottom of the left thumb patiently waiting to be mended by Kim later that evening… 

The suspect, startled and finding Kim to be a tougher opponent than he’d anticipated, quickly shifted gears and turned their physical altercation into a chase instead. A couple of blocks later the exact getaway he needed appeared in the form of a barbed wire fence that he deftly scrambled over, clearly exhibiting the movement of someone who had done this before. By the time the suspect was within arm’s reach he’d already dropped down onto the other side, and Kim could do nothing but watch the young man disappear around a corner, blood streaming down the fingers of his now-busted hand and decorating the pavement below with pinpricks of red.

Just like that, the suspect was gone.

When Kim had caught up with Harry a few moments later, the first thing that registered in Harry’s vision was blood. Feeling his heart drop, his eyes went wide and darted rapidly across Kim’s body as he worried over the man, his own muscles tensing as a litany of curses and questions streamed out. After a bitten-off explanation from Kim and repeated confirmations that his injuries were in fact not life-threatening, the journey back to his Kineema for the first aid kit was largely silent. 

Kim is similarly quiet now. Upon noticing, Harry tears himself away from catastrophizing and tries for reassurance as he rejoins Kim on the bench. “We can still get him,” he tells Kim, then shrugs. “Stranger things have happened.”

The black-rimmed glasses sitting on Kim’s face catch the sun’s rays every so often, flashes of orange dancing in Harry’s vision whenever their movements align to reflect the light just so. “They have, haven’t they?” Kim murmurs in response, a single corner of his mouth rising in a wry smile.

The wind begins to pick up, threatening to carry pieces of the first aid kit away with it. Harry hurriedly shoves any loose items back into their case and clamps it shut. The next time he looks over, he finds Kim resting an elbow upon the top edge of the backrest, his uninjured arm hanging loose as he lets his head drop back a little. 

He looks exhausted.

The bench is situated in a rather open area, perfectly angled toward an unobstructed view of the setting sun against a sky streaked only with wispy cirrus clouds. As if a painter had used a dry brush along with a steady hand to apply broad strokes across the wide expanse, adding little flourishes here and there for flair while leaving enough white space for the sun to take centre stage. Harry had spotted the bench only a few steps away from where Kim parked, and suggested they make their way over after grabbing the kit under the guise of its surface being easier to work from.

In truth, he knew Kim had been worried about blood getting on the upholstery, though, given the circumstances it would’ve been something even Kim thought was a bit too vain to admit out loud. If he had caught on to the real reason Harry led him elsewhere to patch him up, he didn’t show it.

That this bench would ultimately give them the perfect spot to sit and enjoy the sunset…well, after the day they’ve had, it sure is nice to have something work out in their favour for once.

Kim allows his eyelids to drift shut against the warm glow of the sun’s rays that he’s currently being bathed in, the last of his adrenaline finally exiting his system. Within Harry's mind, a voice helpfully emerges to tell him that they’re now witnessing what is often referred to as “golden hour”, a time of day photographers particularly enjoy shooting in thanks to the soft, diffuse lighting. This is especially true when capturing portraits, the voice continues, because not only are imperfections blurred but the specific conditions of golden hour cast the subject in an especially dynamic, flattering light. 

He looks beautiful.

There’s a certain beauty to even the wounds on Kim’s face, Harry realises, stark as they may be as a reminder of the pain he’d recently experienced. Immediately after the thought surfaces, Harry feels a pang of guilt. Kim being hurt is an objectively bad thing.

But that’s just how things are, isn’t it? Beauty and horror—never too far from one another. You know that better than most. After all, once upon a time you gave everything to someone young and beautiful. Look at the horror that followed. A wellspring of pain that continues even now, six years and counting.

Yet from that pain erupted a new beginning. And perhaps, if you’re lucky, what follows will be something beautiful…

As shades of deep gold and orange continue to saturate the world around him, Harry can’t help but think of fire. What is existence if not fire, burning? Terrifying, chaotic, and unforgiving in its destructive qualities, as much as it is mesmerizing and exhilarating, the very source of warmth and light that is so essential to one’s survival. 

So long as one is actually around to accept it.

Harry watches Kim watch the sunset. The road he took to get to this very moment has been scorched beyond recognition, but he’s here now. From the ashes of his former self he emerged, haunted by choices he can’t remember, covered in scars he will never recover from, and marred by burns that will continue to sting for years to come—the very picture of ruin. 

Despite it all, Kim’s here now too.

The knowledge of his injuries still sits unpleasantly within Harry. But there’s a new appreciation for the marks he sees upon Kim’s face, the bandaged hand resting gently on his abdomen, slowly rising and falling with each and every breath Kim takes.

It means he survived. 

And so did you.

✳ ✳ ✳

sunrise || HEARTH

“You know, I was wondering why there were suddenly enough covers left for me to use.”

Kim huffs in mock offence, refusing to look up from his notebook even as his hand has since paused, the nib of his blue pen hovering over an unfinished word at the sudden interruption. “It’s a bit early for personal attacks, don’t you think?”

Warmth spreads across the inside of Kim’s chest like sweet honey at the sound of Harry’s laugh, a smile finding its way onto Kim’s face faster than he can blink. He puts his pen down, and finally raises his head to find Harry approaching the breakfast table that he himself has been sitting at for the last 20-some-odd minutes. Harry’s eyes are still squinting as they struggle to adjust to the brightness of the overhead kitchen light. At first, Kim assumes this to be the reason Harry manages to entirely miss the empty chair on his way over.

It turns out Harry had been intending to go toward something softer.

“Harry!” yelps Kim, as the larger man walks up behind him and leans down, wrapping his bare arms fully around Kim’s shoulders and allowing his weight to press into the back of Kim’s frame. Kim’s hands come to grip the edge of the table so as to hold himself upright as best as he can.

“Come back to bed,” a sleepy voice mumbles into the side of his head.

Warm. So warm. Kim, in his effort to not disturb Harry earlier when he once again woke from a nightmare in a cold sweat, had hurried out of their bedroom as quietly as he could after he’d given up trying to fall back asleep. It’s only after he felt the chill of the rest of their apartment waiting for him did he remember that he should have grabbed a long-sleeve on the way out. A mug of tea he had made for himself to make up for this oversight sits half-finished nearby, the heat having dissipated far sooner than he’d prefer.

Kim considers Harry's request. A familiar set of solid arms rapidly chasing away the cold that had settled into his skin certainly makes for a compelling case. Despite that, Kim smirks and wonders if Harry can do even better.

“Or what?”

For a few seconds there is no movement or sound except for Harry’s breathing, and Kim starts to believe the man had actually drifted off to sleep right on top of him. Then, at a speed he never would have expected out of a man who’d just woken up, Harry rotates the chair with Kim still in it so that he's directly facing Kim's profile. Both of Harry's arms quickly slot into position, one under Kim's knees and one supporting his back, and in no time at all he's lifted straight up and out of the chair. An undignified sound escapes Kim as he finds himself in a bridal carry, an arm flying around the back of Harry’s neck and the other hand gripping Harry’s t-shirt for dear life.

Kim, now inches from Harry’s face, stares at him wide-eyed with his mouth hanging open. He feels heat flood the tips of his ears and finds himself entirely too flustered to form a coherent sentence.

Harry, on the other hand, looks almost manic with glee and wastes no time in whisking Kim off to their bedroom. He lowers Kim onto the bed and just as Kim starts to sit up, drops face-first onto the bed to join Kim whilst draping an arm over his body, keeping the man horizontal and firmly locked in.

With his free hand, Harry gropes around the other side of the bed for the covers. He can only get as far as flinging the edges of it halfway across his body when he finds them, on account of having to swing his arm awkwardly behind his back, so he turns to lie on his side facing Kim. Curling his bottom arm around one of Kim’s, Harry lifts his other arm from where he'd been holding him and pulls the sheets over them both to properly tuck them in before resuming his arm's earlier position. Kim feels himself get tugged closer, their bodies pressing tightly against each other and sharing in each other's heat.

Now that he is fully nestled in against Harry, whatever fight that was left in his body quickly evaporates. Light from the rising sun is just starting to shine in through their window and Kim, in an act of defiance, closes his eyes to it. He’s almost certain he will not be falling asleep after all that had just happened, but miraculously, he can’t find it in himself to care. He simply smiles into Harry’s shoulder, and feels Harry’s comforting arms give him a squeeze in response. 

The sensation of cold that had plagued Kim from the moment he awoke becomes nothing more than a distant memory.