Work Text:
In the heart of Jamrock, a row of decrepit brick apartment complexes stood, all leaking from their roofs, with white walls turning black from spores and a severe lack of insulation. Some people were unfortunate enough to live in rooms with holes in the walls. Still, others were lucky enough to only get sick once or twice a year - an expensive place to live, Jamrock was, but it was all these people had; moving out would cost more than they could ever earn, and everyone knew that there was more Real there than somewhere like Martinaise. No one even thought about leaving Revachol - that was out of the question.
There seemed to be nothing but rain in this part of Revachol; motor carriages driving slower than usual to avoid slipping on the roads and into tents that homeless people had made to shelter themselves from the elements - a roof over their heads - or into children who had run outside because look, Mummy, it’s raining! Can I play in it like my friends are?! where street vendors kept their stalls open in the hopes that someone, anyone, would come and purchase something from them and a coalition official sat at a well-dressed dining table, watching the droplets fall to the ground as he took slow, drawn out sips from his coffee cup. It was not a very pleasant place to live, but those who lived there made do. It was home. A place to stay.
It had rained overnight.
A bucket sat under a leaking roof, collecting water until it overflowed in the occupant’s sleep, defeating the purpose.
More mould in the floorboards. An average occurrence in Jamrock housing.
An ochre hue crept its way into an apartment on the first floor of a complex at the very end of a main road, tip-toeing across discarded boxes and those that had not been unpacked yet; across delicate statutes, motor carriage pieces that had been placed on the kitchen counter until there was a place to store them - this place had a lot less storage than his last - a bookshelf filled almost entirely with blue, ring-bound notebooks, and came to a stop at a pair of thick glasses; the light refracting little rainbows across the wall, dimmed in the early morning darkness. The apartment was small, but it was as close to the 41st that he could get without being turned down by another landlord who cared more about the shape of his eyes or the joke they could make about the tint of his skin, and so, he ended up in a building that was thrice the price of the one he had just moved out of, the one close to the 57th, and most of the appliances needed repairing, but at least he had a roof over his head and plenty of blankets to wrap himself in in the cold, cold nights. Jamrock nights, strangely, were colder than those on the Harbour.
The shower was just running.
It had been running for the past thirteen minutes. Not too hot, not too cold, but warm enough for vapour to cling to the apartment’s stone cold walls. In almost an instant the sound of water stopped - a tap turned off not to be turned on once more until many hours later, twenty four, perhaps. The occupant, once emerged, patted his hand around the table he had strategically placed beside the door to the bathroom in search of his glasses; hyperopia getting the best of him. At last, the glasses were found. After what always felt like a million years of patting tables and cabinets and shuffling along the floor as carefully as he could in the hopes that one small step did not lead to shards in his feet and a broken pair of glasses with no backup. He really should invest in a pair of backup frames, but what good would they do if his current pair broke in the line of duty? What use would they be if they were far from his position at the time of breaking? And, besides, he would think, my script is bad enough that the lenses themselves are unlikely to shatter. With the thickness of them, that is.
But that was no matter for right now. He had found them.
The world was clear once more. Bright and brilliant, as grimey and soggy as this place he had come to love because it was where home was could be. It was home no matter how many times he was told to go back to where he came from - no matter how poorly he was treated here, he would likely be treated worse in Seol. He’d be chucked around by their rigid class structure, a mockery of the average Seolite man, a deviation from the societal norm just asking for a punishment just as bad as what he had experienced in Revachol. At least in Revachol, he could get called a slur or twenty a day, the foul mouth of children exposed to drug abuse at birth, and then go to bed; he didn’t ever want to think about why his Seolite grandparents left. Perhaps it was for the best.
Kim let out a sigh, thinking not of the politics of his heritage, but of how beautiful the apartment that Trant and Jean had just moved into was. Jean was, from what Kim could tell from the brief period in which he had worked with him, not particularly one to boast about his personal life. That was unless Judit was the one asking him. The two seemed to be rather close and had grown a fondness for each other over the years - a fling one summer and an attempt at dating until they realised that they were far better as friends, close, close friends. Work wife and husband, as they called each other - which Judit liked to say more than Jean did; Jean’s relationship with Trant became known to the Major Crimes Unit when she let it slip that the reason she wasn’t joining him for lunch one day was because he couldn’t take his work wife on a date with his boyfriend.
Kim found that the dynamic of the 41st starkly contrasted that of his old team back at the 57th. It was a nice change; and it never failed to baffle him how an overworked team who worked in the most stressful district across Revachol managed to keep their heads level and take a moment or two to have fun with each other.
Maybe it was Jean lightening up a little after becoming a stepfather to Mikael.
No, no, that wasn’t it. As much as everyone on the team thought it was, there was something else there.
Maybe that was just Harry’s management style. The style he seemingly reverted back to after sobering up and - to Jean’s horror - actually working on himself.
How could he forget that?
How could he forget the bright, bright light that followed him all the way home; the thoughts that were certainly unbecoming of a lieutenant to think of his partner, a colleague, a man of the law, that followed him all the way into the dark, coldness of his bedroom when the lights were off and moving around could do nothing to aid his sleep because all he could think of was the lieutenant double-yefreitor’s bicep girth.
But enough of that.
He shook his head once more, reaching for his outfit of choice for the day. Nothing too special and nothing too different to what he usually wore, a leather jacket instead of the usual orange aerostatic one was the only major difference. He’d grab that on his way out - for now, he was dressed in a loose, low V cut shirt and jeans; comfortable.
Perhaps he would work on his MC on this particular day? No, he’d have to drive all the way out to Jean and Trant’s before he could actually work on it and, while it was nice of them to offer their spacious parking lot to him in lieu of actual space in his own complex, it was a bit cumbersome. He’d work on it another day. A day when he actually felt like driving a long distance. Perhaps he would just give his darling Coupris Kineema a wax. It definitely needed one, especially after wiping the number 57 from its body and wheels.
Yeah. He would do that.
It was just when he was gearing to find where he had put the unpacked box of MC parts and tools that a knocking came about at the front door.
The radio that sat next to a half-completed book of crosswords on the bedside; its dials still set to a popular disco station and not to where it usually should sit at a frequency that Kim was sure he’d heard his neighbours who only listen to jazz at all hours of the day complaining about. Besides, he thought, jazz is lovely. It isn’t speed metal, though.
Continuous, continuous knocking.
Never, ever ending.
On and on and on to whatever song of a bygone era the one on the other side of the door had stuck in his head. A poppy song which was infectious enough to make anyone with a pulse groove to.
Take me home, take me home
Want to feel you close to me
Take me home, take me home
With you is where I wanna be
Kim shuffled along the floor until he made it to the door. He knew who it was on the other side, it was obvious enough with how hard the knocks were for they came from fists that did not know how rough they could be, but there was something within him that liked to delay opening the door. Once he got there, he tried to be as quiet as possible in order to listen to the knocks - it was obvious that the other was having a lot of fun with this.
Wrapped in your arms tonight
Just making love
Music and candlelight
Stars up above
A small smile made its way to Kim’s face; small enough for no one to notice, but warm enough for the tips of his ears to burn with affection. He knew the exact song that was stuck in Harry’s head - it was one that for some inexplicable reason reminded him of his time in Martinaise. Something something burning as bright as it did in the past, something something, a new beginning for me something something my volition fought against my electrochemistry and won something something I will be better, I promise, it’s all thanks to you, Kim, you’re why everything feels good again.
Harry’s rambling, to put it matter-of-factly, was incomprehensible, but Kim could pinpoint the crux of it even though he would likely never understand what exactly Harry felt when he heard that specific song. It was enough to bring a flutter of joy to Kim’s being.
Mid-knock, just to be an asshole, Kim opened the door.
Thankfully, by some miracle or another, Harry reacted fast enough to not bring his fist to Kim’s person. Instead, he opted to press his hand gently against the side of his face, cupping the shorter man’s cheek - a greeting the two of them had begun to practice from the very start of their relationship. A few gentle touches in private, away from the prying eyes of their coworkers, before one, two, three seconds passed, just enough time for Kim to reach to the back of Harry’s head and pull him down into a gentle, hungry kiss. Kissing Kim, to Harry, was nothing like it was with Dora, or at least from what he could recall. Their kisses were fiery, gentle at times but filled with an unspoken possessiveness, soft, soft, soft, starving and messy at times but oh so full of love.
They pulled apart. The taller of the two shifted his face into an expression of sorts - a genuine smile.
Jazz began to play next door.
Jazz reminded Harry of Kim. His love for whatever noise they played on Speedfreaks FM may have been what Kim liked, yes, but his soul, his aura, his body, his beautiful, beautiful, slender body, the way he was careful when he danced, the way he saved his wide smiles for only the most precious of moments, the smoothness of his beautiful nose - it all reminded him of jazz. Well, that and the fact that it seemed embedded in the walls of his home. Never mind that; he thought of how gorgeous he would look playing a double bass or a saxophone. Using those slender fingers to pluck at strings the way he does his heart strings or the way his lips would pucker around the reed not unlike –
Get your head out of the gutter, Harry-boy! You’re not here for that. Not yet.
But maybe it could be?
Don’t be ridiculous! He’s here for something much, much, much different. Being around Kim doesn’t necessarily mean that you can pull your schlong out.
Oh, yes, funky-baby, it does!
It absolutely does not.
Harry pressed a finger to the tip of Kim’s nose and made a little boop sound before he pulled away to lean against the doorframe like a teenage boy waiting for his girlfriend to close her locker door. Harry’s body seemed to make the doorframe small; Kim always made it look oversized with how twinkish his body was. Kim’s eyes scanned the other’s over and over until he had to meet his eyes again when he spoke, cutting his oogling short.
“Got any plans today?”
Kim’s eyebrow raised, not enough to be threatening but just enough to look mildly annoyed with the question, “As a matter of fact, yes. I was going to work on my Kineema.”
A groan came from the other as his body slowly deflated, dramatically falling into somewhat of a uttanasana in disbelief that - gasp - Kim Kitsuragi actually had plans!
“But you’re aaaaalways working on it!” He whined, “Come have some fun with me today!”
“I see you almost every day. Our relationship doesn’t require us to see each other every second of our lives.”
“But what if I wanted to?”
“Then that would be a problem. I’m going to work on my MC today, I’ve already decided that I don’t particularly want to go too far an-”
“Well it’s good that you don’t want to go very far because I have just the place!” If this were a written correspondence, this sentence would be followed by a smiley face.
Kim stayed silent, now crossing his arms across his chest in the hopes that standing his ground would at the very least make Harry change his mind and not go home but sit with him as he waxed his MC; provided a comfort of sorts that he never knew he needed until he started to like his partner’s - his boyfriend’s - presence no matter how obnoxiously loud he could get. Deep down he truly, truly loved every second spent with him.
Harry’s expression turned into a small pout after a few moments, “Oh come on, Kim! We get very little time to ourselves thanks to our jobs and all you do in your spare time is work on your motor carriage. Lighten up a little! Come have fun with me!” He did little jazz hands to emphasise the point.
It only took a short while but eventually something snapped within the lieutenant. His shoulders relaxed, a heavy sigh left his lips, a long blink to compose himself.
You are hopeless when it comes to this man, Kitsuragi.
He turned to grab his jacket and pulled it on with ease, “Oh, what the hell, let’s go.”
-
“Your carriage awaits, my lord,” Harry held his arms out to the Coupris Kineema, gesturing to the door. If the door was unlocked, he would open it and let him jump in first.
And he would be charmed, I’m sure, my liege!
But, alas, the door was locked and he had to make do with what he had. Kim didn’t react, he never did, but something within Harry’s mind told him that his ears were growing a little redder at every silly little romantic gesture he made - this was entertaining him. He was sure that Kim was stifling a laugh; he was just far too good at hiding it.
He’s realising why he’s in love with you, my liege. You make him laugh.
You, despite everything, are exactly what he has spent the past fourty three years looking for.
Just as Harry was about to hop into the driver’s seat, Kim pushed straight past him and made himself comfortable. Noticing the obvious, ridiculously obvious, pout on the other’s face he gestured to the back seat, “I am not letting you drive my RCM provided motor carriage to a place that I am not sure of,” He was firm in his stance and decided to give him no attention from that point, staring straight ahead into the parking lot. It was just as grotty as the complex itself; a place for drug dealing to kids and borderline assault with motor carriages.
It only took him a few moments of standing in his spot like a wounded toddler before he finally gave in. Kim was always hard to sway when it came to letting other people drive his Kineema, especially if Harry was the one asking, what with the knowledge Kim had regarding his own Coupris 40 and all. It was a tricky situation, for sure, but something within Harry’s mind made him believe that he could sit in that driver’s seat just this once but, of course, it backfired and there he was standing dumbfounded while the voices in his head argued over his next move.
It was a loud noise that pulled him out of his stupor; a splash of red that rattled his eardrums.
Research Chemicals
Got me bleeding from my ears
Research Chemicals
They make 'em better every year
Kim had turned the motor carriage on. The radio was on.
Harry was not a huge fan of the music Kim listened to and, in truth, he began to tune it out even just a little bit because in his words there is nothing danceable about this music! How am I supposed to bust it down groovy style to this? To which Kim’s response was You don’t. You mosh. There is something very unique about the music I listen to and I don’t think that you would ever understand it. However, at the end of the day, it was something that his boyfriend liked and that was fine - it just wasn’t his cup of tea, much like how Kim preferred to drink sauvignon blanc instead of a beer. Perhaps that is why they worked so well together; opposites attract.
Clambering into the passenger’s seat, Harry fumbled over thoughts and words as he figured out how exactly this was going to play out. Perhaps he could suggest giving him directions but not the location? There was a large part of him that just knew that Kim would say no and get out of the Kineema at the mere peep of his idea.
“So, detective,” It was always detective outside of the comfort of their apartments and never Harry, never Harrier, “Where are we going?”
He met eyes with Kim in the rear view mirror, a new installation, “Not telling.”
An eyebrow rose, this was going to get serious, “And how am I supposed to know where we are going? Do you just want to sit in my Kineema? It seems like you do.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, no! I just want to give you directions!”
Silence between the two.
Research Chemicals
Got me bleeding from my ears
Research Chemicals
They make 'em better every year man…
A moment to think over the prospect.
“Just trust me on this one,” Harry pleaded.
“Okay. Amuse me, detective,” There was a twinge of sarcasm in Kim’s voice as he began to pull out of the parking lot.
-
Kim quickly began to forget what he and Harry had talked about between directions and guesses of where they were going. A few guesses had Kim’s ears growing slightly pink but all were, to his relief, incorrect. Despite the forgetfulness, it was a rather pleasant drive. This was how it always was. This was the passage of time telling him that he was enjoying the time speaking to his dear Harrier. The most beautiful moments in life tend to be those that are not lived consciously after all and it is the ghost of those memories that pulls one towards another. Time spent with Harrier was time well spent. Despite how annoyed he was with him for whatever surprise awaited him at the end of the road, he was in a state where it was okay to let his guard down. He was safe.
He trusted the Lieutenant double-yefreitor.
He truly trusted him.
-
It began to rain again.
Neither of the two believed that the sun would ever shine on Jamrock again with how the weather had been in recent times. A fog soon covered the roads, leaving the slippery roads even harder to traverse, but nothing that Kim hadn’t driven in before - it’s not like it was the Pale or anything. The roads hadn’t iced over just yet, they were just wet. Dancing lights from streetlamps illuminated the puddles that formed in potholes and little cracks all across the roads turning it into a rather dangerous water park. The wind blew. A cold wind. Something told Kim that he should have dressed warmer, but there was a tiny piece of him that knew that Harry wasn’t going to propose they have a picnic somewhere - a rather large part of him felt like he actually was going to do that and god save him if that was actually the plan.
However, they soon drew nearer to a building that was slightly obscured by the fog, its neon lights blurring behind the thick mist. Stopping his motor carriage when Harry told him to, his thoughts darted through the millions of possibilities that this building could be… Until it hit him.
There is absolutely no way that he has actually gone and done it? His name in lights? Like he said he would back in Martinaise? Dear god he truly is ridiculous.
“I promise I didn’t put my name in lights….” Harry trailed off, the wide grin on his face making his explanation ten times less believable, “I didn’t put yours up there either,” He was swift in his motions as he then hopped out of the motor carriage and raced towards the nearest shelter.
And there he is, still grinning like an idiot with his stupid arm in the air and waving at me as if this is the most exciting thing that he has ever done.
It only took a few seconds more for Kim to follow suit. To shelter himself until he reached the veranda, he held his jacket over his head, cursing when a droplet or two splattered against his glasses. And then it finally hit him. Harry was looking much, much, much more disco than usual - a black button up with a larger than necessary collar with the first few buttons undone to expose his hairy chest, flared, beige pants adorned with a belt with an obnoxiously loud, golden buckle, heeled boots that would soon be taken off, two necklaces wrapped around his neck, a ring or two, and what appeared to be a black, faux fur coat that presently rested over his shoulders like a cape. It became evident that they were doing something that required him to dress up like that and that was often something that Kim would oppose which made sense as to why he didn’t tell him where they were going - but why on earth did he not notice his outfit? That was the most perplexing part of it all.
It’s because you were more excited to see him again. No matter what he suggested you would have said yes to regardless of how much you put up that facade. This person is the only one who you can let yourself go with, the one who taught you how to have fun and to do something other than your job for once in your life.
They began to walk and the closer they got, the more the lights came into focus.
A Rollerama.
Harry had brought him to a Rollerama. A roller disco. Did he not know that Kim had no idea how to skate in the first place? Why the hell would he bring him here?
As if on cue, Harry chimed in, “It’s one of the last ones in Revachol..” A tinge of sadness coloured his speech, “I don’t know how long it’ll be here for with how bad it's been doing, so I wanted to come with you before it closed. Y’know - I wanted to share something important to me with you.”
Oh, oh, oh how sweet this was.
It did not hit him until this exact moment, but Harry, despite his pestering and borderline forcing Kim to leave his home most days to go to something in line with his love for disco was likely due to how the genre and, subsequently, the community with it was failing. Never again would his darling Harrier experience the joy, the beauty, the essence of the music of his early years. While Kim had a few things that he loved and had easy access to, he still had a dream that he had to give up on. This was Harrier coming to terms with the fact that disco was dead. This was what Kim went through as a child crying to one of the workers at the orphanage when one of the bigger kids crushed his dreams of becoming a pilot and one of his model Revolutionary aerostatics. He always spoke of that time as a ten year old with such nonchalance, but every time he looked up at the aerostatics in the sky there was something that broke inside of him - there were no air brigades anymore, but the ships still flew; his dream was gone. Harrier’s love for disco reminded him of a better time, or at least that was how Kim understood it, perhaps he was finally grappling with the present? Or perhaps his life was good now?
All of this made Kim’s head hurt.
He gave a crooked smile once he’d gotten over the stabbing pain in his head, looking up at the taller man, “Let’s go then, Harrier.”
Harrier.
That. Felt really good.
You must have really gotten him with that one, boss.
Kim was used to Harry zoning out every now and then, and so he waited until he was done in his daze. He knew that this was all because he had called him by his given name. A rarity, especially in public.
One, two moments passed before Harry finally snapped out of it, reaching to grab the other’s hand before running back into the storm and towards the rollerama. Running through a battle towards the promise of something better, something dazzling and beautiful.
-
The rollerama was called Hell on Wheels; a poor choice for a name since it was anything but hell to the attendees, but a reference to one of the greatest disco songs of the past. There was so much to say about how the interior looked since everything changed rather quickly, but the thing that stuck out the most was a large, blinkling arrow shaped sign with the word THRILLS detailed onto it. It pointed to the dance floor which was littered with lights and the sparkling, dynamic effects caused by the reflections of light off of a disco ball which hung at the centre of the ceiling. Couples and singles skated to the beat of the music, most, surprisingly, around their age but there were a small handful of young people - those people gave Harry a little piece of hope; hope that disco will continue to live even if it is within a small community.
Two women skated with their hands entwined, their bodies moving almost in sync as if they were so in tune with each other. There was something about the way they moved, the way that the brunette’s knuckles turned white and the spatial awareness of prying eyes - a fear that they couldn’t do more than just hold hands on the dance floor - that made it obvious to people who were in the know know that they were more than friends. They met eyes with a mother tying her daughter’s laces, knowing that she would make a scene if they even moved an inch closer to each other - that was the state of being somewhat different in Revachol.
Harry, however, was determined to make a scene.
He wanted to have a good time with Kim; to show him that disco is much more than grooving to music. It was about feeling the music.
A warm glow passed over them both, a perfect contrast to the cool tones illuminating the rink at present and within three cycles of warm, cold, warm, cold, their skates were on. Beaming with light, Harry pulled Kim towards where people were permitted to skate. He looked like he had just seen the most beautiful thing on earth; a wide smile across his face, wide enough for his dimples to show through his mutton chops. Adorable. Twinkling lights guided them to a small clearing where Kim could take the time to balance himself without the risk of anyone crashing into them.
“Relax, it’s just like walking!” Harry called out, gliding effortlessly next to him. Kim, on the other hand, looked like a newborn foal determined to walk within the first second of being in the world. Harry even offered to hold his hands and guide him, but the shorter man slapped his hand away with an eyebrow raised - a raised eyebrow typically meant a big ‘fuck off’ in his body language - and so, he left him.
Harry struck a pose right out of a newspaper from the ‘20s. He looked so incredibly cool like that and Kim was barely able to stand up straight. Him in his stupidly perfect outfit looking perfectly in place while Kim looked like some punk rocker Harry had plucked off of the street on his way to a gig. It was impossible. Harry was impossible bringing him to this stupid place where he would inevitably fall on his face in front of a bunch of people who looked like they knew what they were doing - people who lived and breathed disco.
“You make this look far too easy, officer!” Kim spread his arms before taking a deep breath, focusing on balance, and shifted his weight so that he could stand normally, only to immediately lose his balance and tumble forward with flailing arms.
Surprisingly, he didn’t fall face first into the waxed floor. A set of arms quickly wrapped around him and brought him into an embrace; comforting. His partner had raced over to him as he would in the line of duty at the exact moment he noticed his balance begin to falter.
“You’re too stubborn to do this on your own - let me help,” And in one swift movement, Harry scooped Kim up into his arms and began to zoom around. It was terrifying. Kim felt his entire soul shatter, everyone would be looking at them with judgemental eyes and could tell that they were two men who were clearly more than friends and they were being intimate in a public space where they really shouldn’t and Kim wanted nothing more than to fly under the radar, to not bring attention to himself, but that, unfortunately, was not how Harry did things, and and and-
This movement felt like driving. Being on the open road with the entire world in front of him, music, lights, and the lingering scent of his boyfriend from many drives together engulfing his senses. It was fleeting, wonderfully fleeting. A moment where he could shut off his brain and let the vehicle do its thing - in this case, he would have to trust that Harry wasn’t going to drop him and turn him into a blundering fool.
Something about being in Harry’s strong arms made him feel at ease. Everything would be okay.
'Cause we're the party people night and day
Livin' crazy, that's the only way
So tonight, gotta leave that nine to five upon the shelf
And just enjoy yourself
They spun a few times which made Kim tense up, but nevertheless felt a childlike joy he never got to experience. Everything was too much - far too much. He was going to explode and there was the man of his dreams staring up at him as if he were a stained glass portrait of Dolores Dei and he was doing everything he could to resist the urge to kiss him.
And that failed.
Swiftly, without thinking, Kim bent down as best as he could to bring their faces together until their lips locked. The two of them smiled against each other’s lips, a small giggle coming from one of their throats but it was unclear to anyone who it came from - what mattered was that they were happy.
And then they skated off again, Harry not putting Kim down until he pretty much begged him to, threatening no kisses until the end of time. He was put down.
Something something I should bring Cuno here if he gets a chance to take a break from Juvie training something something something - Kim ignored every word relating to that child, but let Harry ramble as he guided him through the basics of roller skating.
It wasn’t until a few hours later that Kim was pulled into low dips and spins - ballroom dancing to disco music. No longer did he look like a foal, he looked like a natural, although not as good as his partner, but good enough to at least keep up with him; it was like running, it cleared his head and let him float, letting the wind take him wherever it wished.
A smile that only Harry would notice was painted in permanent ink on his face.
-
Harry’s home was not unlike Kim’s: cold, damp and wide enough for a person to take two steps before reaching the door. It was all he could afford with the pay that the RCM provided, a horrendous joke of a home, but, at the end of the day, it was a roof over his head, a place to rest, a place to stay.
A place to hide from the prying eyes of the city who watch you link hands with the Lieutenant. A place where you can share a cigarette next to the one window in the apartment that barely opens an inch.
Behind a rickety old bed akin to those in the old hospital in The Pox stood a bookshelf built into the wall. It was nowhere near full, but its contents were ever growing with old cassettes, vinyl, and books on all kinds of topics picked up on the streets of Martinaise. A book on Mazovian philosophy and its applications sat on its side on one of the empty shelves; between the covers laid hundreds of notes in the margins from points that he had pondered over or exchanges that he had with Mack and Chester who wanted nothing more than for Harry to not make their work political, or Nix who just wanted to heal a gunshot wound before he bled out.
But you are right, comrade. The more we fix the class war the Coalition has created and get people off of the streets, the less organised crime there will be. Do they not understand?
All in all, the apartment was, as they say, cozy. At this moment it was just Harry and Kim - Kim laid on his stomach under a couple of blankets on the bed that barely covered his nude form and held a cigarette between his two fingers. The lights were off to conserve power but the flood lights of aerostatics flying by every now and then would illuminate his slim body, highlighting the marks from the many times he had been harmed in the line of duty - stories, Harry called them - but in the times that no aerostatic flew overhead the embers of his cigarette reflected against his glasses and made him look like a cat caught by a flashlight in the middle of the night. Harry thought he looked the most beautiful in moments like these. But the cigarette, yes, the cigarette, he would lift it up to the other every now and then so he could take a drag. Harry, in between indirect kisses by the means of a cigarette, was in the middle of pulling on his pants, sporting a rather fresh bite mark on his left hip bone just high enough that he couldn’t cover it with his pants.
Kim snickered a little when he complained about it being in a slightly inconvenient spot.
They had returned from the roller disco an hour prior and had wanted nothing but to stay in each other’s presence, wrapped in the arms of the other while Kim’s glasses got pushed down and off of his nose; an embrace that led to one thing and then to another. Kim watched Harry as he moved, eyes glazed over with a sort of haze that only one person saw. It was a look of love and adoration.
It is love.
It is love.
It is love, sire.
It is love.
He loves you.
He loves you so much.
More than he loves being a Lieutenant of the RCM and more than he loves that silly radio station and doing crosswords before bed.
You are more than everything to him. You are, if I must be dramatic, all he really has - you are his family.
It was a look that he wished he could see in the absence of Kim’s glasses but knew that he would never see due to how bad his eyesight was - his eyes would be more likely to look frustrated that he couldn’t see his partner in full focus than that. A panic and a fear that one day he will never be able to see Harry even with his glasses. A fear of a rapid descent into blindness. Never mind that, though, he would fantasise over how beautiful Kim would look with that look on his face and his glasses resting elsewhere, a cigarette in his hand and messy hair. Well-fucked and ready for another day at the shit factory; the look of a man who would jump in front of a bullet to spare his life.
It would enter his dreams.
It would chase the hanging, bloated corpse of a bygone era away.