Archive of Our Own

The snow has stopped completely by the time Kim Kitsuragi has fully transferred to Precinct 41. It’s warm outside. Days are getting longer, it’s sunnier in overall gloomy and sullen Revachol.

C-Wing is not a wing, it’s more like a couple of feathers, really. There’s you, Jude, Trant fucking… No, he backpedalled out of being a part of your unit. Right. So there’s you, Jude, Harry and Kim fucking Kitsuragi. *The* Kim Kitsuragi. Of 57th, formerly. He’s been getting to know you. That’s really nice of him, you think. You seriously considered that he wouldn’t want to talk to you after witnessing the absolute shitshow that has been happening between you and Harry prior to his transfer.

You were pretty sure of what he probably thought back in Martinaise  – what a bunch of lunatics, these guys! What am I getting myself into?

Instead, in harsh and unwelcoming reality, Kim Kitsuragi offered to shake your hand and quietly said: “Pleasure to meet you, Satellite-Officer Vicquemare, sir.”

You didn’t think much of it at the time. The guy must be pretty polite. You’re Harry’s partner, after all. Anyone who’s been putting up with Harry’s bullshit for three years deserves a polite “sir”. At least until you really get to know them.

That, and Kitsuragi is a reserved person. He wouldn’t outrightly tell anyone he hates them. So, you don’t get your hopes up.

It's the fifth of May and the time is 12:32. You come out of the precinct to sit on the stairs and light up a cigarette, when suddenly, a figure appears beside you, hands clasped behind his back.

“Kitsuragi.” you breathe, putting a cigarette in your mouth. Your brows furrow, just in case. What if he’s here for business?

“Officer Vicquemare,” Kitsuragi nods, eyes squinting in the sun. “Good day.”

“We’ll see about that.” you answer, taking a long drag. “Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

“Yes, actually. Good eye.” The lieutenant is not smiling. You tense up, just a little – your free hand holds you by your forearm in a half-hug. 

“Is it about Harry?” you interject, almost by instinct. You don’t have the time to be embarrassed by it, because Kitsuragi immediately says:

“No.”

Your shoulders sag. You can’t place the feeling – it’s either confusion or relief. Maybe a mix of both.

“Then…?”

“I wanted to talk about you.”

The uneasy feeling is back, like a tidal wave. 

You? You?

“What is there to talk about?” you blurt out before thinking.

The lieutenant takes his time to answer, dark eyes fixed on something in the distance. You follow his gaze curiously – nothing but numerous buildings up ahead, tattered and torn in explosions from the time the Revolution still raged within the city.

You weren’t even born when the Revolution took everything away and never gave it back. It ate at the city, gnawed at its streets and ground its teeth. 

There was nothing left a long time before you even opened your eyes for the first time.

“I’m going to be partnering up with Harrier. Would that be okay with you?”

You blink once. Twice. 

There’s a lonely horn of a motorcarriage howling somewhere two streets from here.

Them? Partnering up? It was bound to happen. But, well, isn’t it a little too… Quick?

Harry and Kitsuragi spent a week in Martinaise. It was a necessity for them to work together – given Harry’s apocalyptic hangover and even more apocalyptic amnesia. Which you didn’t even believe in at first. 

Harry was always fucking with you. Always. He played you like a fool. He never wanted to get better, he never wanted for *anything* to be there at all.

You want to think he was never anything before Kim Kitsuragi came into his life, but that would still be you, not him.

He was – he is – still a genius. An extraordinary detective, a brilliant mind. The worst person you have ever met, besides yourself.

Kitsuragi actually made him better. Made him smile. Made him laugh. All Harry does these days is throws sad glances in your direction and sighs.

It makes you happy, their partnership. It makes you sick to your stomach.

So, you take a quick breath as the cigarette withers away between your fingers and say:

“It’s alright.”

Kitsuragi seems genuinely confused by your reaction. He definitely expected something stentonian. Bitter. 

You are bitter, but not for a reason he could ever understand. You hope he won't ever understand.

“Captain Pryce said that if we were to partner up, it would put me and Harry on probation period, so he could see if we really are able to work together as partners. But I only asked about it as a formality, I wanted to see if you actually…”

“Yes. Yeah. I appreciate it, lieutenant. And I think it’s the start of a great partnership.” you turn to look Kitsuragi in the eyes. He still appears to be a little bit bewildered at your contentment. “I hope it all goes well.”

You mean it. Harry used to be a piece of work. He’s sober now, and if anything, his ramblings have gotten longer. 

It's okay. They have years and years of brilliant investigations and inside jokes and long night shifts ahead of them.

The thought makes you beam. 

“You're certain?” Kitsuragi presses. Did he pick up the *can-opening* from Shitkid?  “It seems like you didn't even think it over.”

You wonder if he thinks you're acting on a whim. It's an impulse to let go once the rope is getting too thin, so thin it's no use burning your hands trying to hold it.

The cigarette stings your index and middle finger – you forgot to take another drag.

Something inside you brews and boils, a slow simmering thing. You don't like this conversation. 

“It's been a long time coming. About time Harry dropped this ass. You've seen the way we talk? I'm sick of this.”

Kitsuragi seems to consider this, his brows furrowing. You notice he didn't even smoke the whole time you talked. Didn't even take the cigarette out of his pocket. Odd. 

“And you would be.. content if Harry *dropped this ass*?”

The way he repeats your phrase makes the corners of your mouth twitch. 

“Yeah. No use wallowing in it now. Everything that happens from now on – it's for the better. I'm gonna head back and ask Jude if she wants to partner up with me… and if she wants two sugars in her coffee. So, there's that.” you give the lieutenant an awkward half-smile as you turn away. “Good day.”

You don't hear Kitsuragi say it back, leaving him deep in thought as you hastily run up the stairs. Hardly having opened the door, you remember the cigarette butt pinched between your fingers. You curse and throw it into the bin, rubbing your burnt hand.

That's okay, you tell yourself. Because, oh, well — because nobody cares about all of this so much but you. They should give you a medal for caring too much. Maybe even give you a pat on the back, if that wouldn't be too generous. 

Kim Kitsuragi was polite enough to ask you something that he already decided on doing. Not because he *cares* — just a formality. You can't just end someone's partnership without asking if that's okay with both parties. So, Kitsuragi is a smart guy. You appreciate that.

Inside, Judit welcomes you with a warm smile, case files clutched to her chest. You smile back, if a little sadly.

“Everything alright?” she asks, a common Judit-thing. She asks everyone that. It's her ‘how’s your day’. 

You remember to relax your eyebrows, index finger rubbing a spot between them. 

“Yeah. I talked to Kitsuragi. He told me he and Harry are gonna be partners soon.”

Judit seems to be taken aback. That's strange.. Why is *she* so surprised? If anything, she was really nervous about you and Harry's reconciliation. You make her uncomfortable barking at Harry like you always do. Isn't it for the better?

“And you agreed on that?”

“Hm? Of course. Fucking *finally*. Shitkid can look after himself at long last. Let's see if he can change his own diapers now.”

“Jean, c’mon..”

You look at her, gaze attentive. She puts the case files down on the table. You notice a small badge lying on the cold surface.

It's Joseph Mills’. He was killed three months ago.

That would be so inconsiderate of you to ask her to be your partner after all of that.

So, you swallow the question down.

“Alright, whatever. You wanna get some coffee?”

Judit perks up, happy to change the topic.

“Sure! Where are we going?”

“Hm.. You remember that one café, like, a block away from here?”

“Les Montres?”

“Yup. Three espressos and a small pastry on their way to my heart.”

“Three..? Your heart's gonna stop before you down the second cup.”

“No it isn't. Betting on four.”

“Oh, come on!”

Judit slaps you on the forearm as she storms outside. Her auburn hair glows in the sun, like melted honey. 

“Two espressos.”

“One flat white, more likely. I fucking hate espresso.” she comments.

“Okay. One espresso and a flat white.”

“Why are you so insistent on putting unfiltered coffee in your system? It's gross.”

“Makes me feel alive.” 

“How? It's so bitter.”

“Life isn't easy. It is pretty bitter.”

“You're so dramatic..” you poke her in the arm. “Hey! I'm right.”

You snicker. 

Judit is such a good person. She's so kind. Kind – and patient. You wouldn't want to burden her with your bullshit. She has enough problems on her shoulders already. That, and… You want to keep her safe.

You come into Pryce's office and declare you'll be working alone from now on.

______________________

You buy Drouins on your way home. It's been raining all evening - your shoes are soaking wet, leather squeaking with every step you take. You forgot your umbrella at the precinct. It's still bright enough outside, albeit a little foggy. Your watch says 17:34 PM. Twenty minutes and your lock will be clicking open, the key rotating counter-clockwise. 

You shiver, lonely droplets having made their way through your uniform straight to your pallid skin. You're still wired from scary amounts of coffee you and Jude have consumed in the past couple of hours. 

You think of her – again. The way her shoulders shake when she laughs. 

Sometimes you imagine her being dead. Like you imagine Harry being dead. You wonder if soon you'll start seeing Kim Kitsuragi’s corpse in your dreams as well.

You never had a partner die on you. Before, well… Before Martinaise. There was this brash and loud boy, named Emil Ferriet, who you had been partners with for good two years. He then transferred to 32nd, and you, in return, went to 41st. You had never heard from each other again. Emil may as well think you are dead, like you sometimes think of him. 

Then there was Rada, and Rada was an odd one. You were sort of dating. Maybe you weren’t, because it sure didn't feel like it. She kissed you goodbye and you felt nothing. She told her friends – that's my boyfriend, his name is Jean, – and you wondered who this Jean guy is and why her voice has tinges of kind warmth when she says this name.

Jean-Jean, Rada sometimes said, aren't you gonna say it back? 

What exactly, you asked her, every single time, like a sprawling idiot, or a clockwork parrot.

In the end, you didn't love her the way she did. You just wanted to hold her close. It wasn't enough for her. She needed you to caress her cheek and say something you don't quite believe in. You didn't love her *that* way. You don't think you ever loved someone that way.

All Rada felt was regret. You did too, but you still didn't understand. She once asked you if you were actually not into women at all.

No, you said dumbly. I love women. I love men too. I have no interest in touching anyone the way lovers do. I just want everyone to be safe. I just want to feel safe myself. 

You didn't need that romantic, over-the-top melodramatic garbage. Maybe it was this Major Depressive Disorder you had gotten diagnosed with a few years ago. In any other way, you didn't care. 

You made Rada cry when you told her all of this. About how you loved her, of course you did – but not the way she ever needed you to. You thought of being brutally murdered by her mother. You thought of your mangled corpse and Rada, standing over it. Maybe this way she could forgive you for those two years of her life, irreparably ruined.

Well, what do you know? 

Your hair is plastered to your forehead, making you look like a sad raven chick. You sniffle and shake your head, sprinkling some of the droplets around you. You hope you won't get sick.

____________________

You slept through your alarm. It's 7:32 AM. You set it to 7:25 every evening. There's seemingly no use in waking up so early: you live a walking distance from the precinct. 

Harry once asked you if you do anything of importance in that hour before work starts. You scrubbed at your beard and honestly answered that you kind of just sit with yourself in complete silence.

You inherited this flat from your mother. The wallpaper is all chipped away, off-white layers exposing ugly bits of grey concrete. Your walls look like a myriad of moth wings, all cocooned on top of each other. 

There's a bloodstained handkerchief somewhere in your drawer next to the bed. You never got around to washing it. 

Your gums bleed when you brush your teeth. You never cared about doing something about it. 

The pipes are rightfully eaten away by rust. Sometimes the water flowing down the drain is bright orange. When you dragged Harry into the tub one time in ‘50, the water was a murky brown.

‘You’re such a grimy motherfucker,’ you told him then.

Harry just wiped the blood from a gaping wound on his shoulder and flashed you a smile, this manic crooked thing.

‘They call me The Jamrock Psycho. Blood and sand is my camo.’

‘Blood and sand? Like the drink?’ you asked, handing him a small piece of soap.

‘*Exactly* like the drink. And, uh, do you happen to have any bandages for The Jamrock Psycho, by the way?’

You sighed, rummaging through a cabinet next to the tub. 

His wet clothes stuck to his body like a second skin. 

‘Here. Have fun. Don't drown.’ you retorted.

‘Thanks.’

You took it as genuine gratitude. 

The water still runs brown sometimes. You’ve been having really intense nosebleeds lately. Gottlieb told you it's probably from stress. Or overwork. Or having your nose broken and reset three or four times in the past. Or any substances you used to take. Go figure. 

You still have a full puck of pyrholidon in your cabinet. Sometimes you take it in your hand, giving it a little shake. The pills happily glisten in the bathroom light.

You smoke right after brushing your teeth, as if it makes up for your morning dental care. You smoke two more cigarettes on your way to work. When you enter the bullpen, a couple of bright red droplets land onto your hand.

There's an uncomfortable beat, people inside staring directly at you. It's a human instinct - to turn to the sound of someone entering. Since you all are cops, you're especially jumpy. So, now everyone is looking at you and your bloody nose.

Harry is standing not too far away from you, biting a pen’s end. He frowns slightly and walks up to you. 

Instinctively, your shoulders tense. 

“Ah, crap. Here.” He fishes a small handkerchief from his pocket. You take it, pressing to your nostrils. It smells of tobacco, now mixed with iron.

“Thanks,” you mutter. “Forgot mine at home.”

Just like you've forgotten your umbrella the other day. Are you also developing retrograde amnesia? Better not. You don't want to turn into another Harry.

Even if you want to, sometimes.

Harry looks at you from head to toe one more time and steps aside. 

The nosebleed doesn't stop even after five long minutes of your frantic nose-plugging. Harry's handkerchief is all ruined now, a bright beetroot color blooming into the white textile.

“Maybe you should go to Gottlieb?” Harry asks, frowning again as he takes in your shaky complexion. “I swear you've gotten two shades paler since it started.”

“I'm not dying of a nosebleed, Shitkid.” 

“Okay. Don't bleed then.”

“Good advice.” 

It takes two more minutes and a single Judit to make the nosebleed stop. Jude is smart enough to tell you to stop tipping your head downwards. 

You walk away to wash the handkerchief in the sink, feeling Harry's gaze on your back.

You hand it back to him, avoiding his eyes.

He makes an odd sound, as if struck, forcing you to shoot a quick glance at him.

Harry looks sad. Too sad for a man receiving a wet handkerchief from his former partner.

“What?” you ask, slight annoyance evident in your tone.

You don't like him looking at you like that. You don't like him looking at you at all.

“I, uh…” Harry looks startled from his own voice. “I heard you work alone now?”

There it is. Does he feel guilty because of that? For leaving you alone?

“Yes. What about it?”

“You’re not with Judit? Why?” 

Your teeth clench so hard your jaw hurts.

“Not your business.”

Harry shifts weight from one foot to another, eyes sharp on you. He looks irritated.

“It is, actually. I'm your superior. I need to know why.”

That tears something violent out of you, and you take two angry steps back, hands curled into fists at your sides.

“Since when do you get to act all high and mighty? Huh!? You think if I don't get to clean piss and shit after you anymore you can order me around now!?”

This seems to enrage Harry even more. He opens his mouth, breathing in sharp, erratic gasps. 

Just like before, you see an animal in front of you. A wild beast. You take another step back, circling around one of the tables.

“I do. And I *order* you to not get yourself killed.”

You exhale, the wind instantly knocked out of your lungs.

“What? Since… Since when do you even care about *that*?” You know it's a losing game. You really, really do. Still, you want to rub it in. “Or will it just look bad on your record?”

You immediately shut your mouth when you see Harry's features soften. He looks.. Different from what you’ve expected. His anger has vanished away, being replaced with something you can't quite understand.  He continues playing into your narrative, although selecting his words carefully now.

“Yes. Any dead cop is a bad mark on the record.” An ugly, forgotten file in the archives. You can find ‘Mills’ somewhere in the lined up boxes. “But I'm not talking about that.”

“Then *what* are you even talking about, you fucking lunatic?”

“This! I'm talking about *this*! Why can't we even talk normally anymore!?” Harry sounds almost.. Sad? You shake your head, shrugging the thought away. “I.. Kim talked to you about our partnership. And I thought it really was okay with you! But, but…”

“But what? You were *scared* to talk to me? You pissed your pants at the mere thought of talking to me? Is that what this is?” You feel like you're riling yourself up on purpose, gears in your head shifting into familiar alignment. It feels *normal* to argue like this. You wonder if the same wave of familiarity washes over Harry, too.

Probably not.

“Because you would never *want* to talk to me! Don't you understand? So I never try. And I….” Harry pauses to scrub at his face. He runs his hand across the worry lines, smoothing them out. A small self-pacifying act. “And I want to talk to you. Really, Jean. Can we just talk?”

His voice, so quiet now, makes your blood boil. Harry doesn't get to talk to you like that. Not when your knuckles still remember the way his nose broke under your fist. Not when you still remember the howl with which Harry recoiled, looking at you like a caged dog.

Fuck off, he growled. Get lost forever. You fucking parasite. You're cramping my style anyways.

And you did fuck off, for good.

Now, you blink at him, face contorted in some mix of emotions you can't put your finger on. You want to punch him in the face. And hold him by his shoulders and shake. And smoke.

Instead, you spit on the floor and turn away to storm outside, when a large hand grabs you by the forearm. 

It takes exactly 0.5 seconds for you to turn back at him and raise your free arm to strike, only for it to be clasped in Harry's grip too.

Panic rises in your throat. You feel trapped. You thrash in his hold, eyes wide open, pale irises constricting, your body shaking like a leaf. You meant to punch him, you wanted to, but not like this, never like this again. Not when he's looking at you with that deep, sad guilt in his eyes.

You feel like you're gonna throw up.

“Fuck, fuck!” you rasp out in short, fast gasps. “Let go, let go, get the fuck off me, you piece of shit!” 

Harry seems to be terrified of your reaction and loosens his hold altogether, hands raised, a careful step back. He looks at you like at a rabid dog, with how thoroughly he watches your face.

“I'm not touching you anymore… See? I'm not.” Then, a belated: “I'm sorry.”

You laugh, a hoarse, hysterical string of short barks. 

“You're *sorry*? Shut… Shut the fuck up.” you hug yourself with both of your arms, the ground below tilts slightly. Your nose feels plugged again, and then, expectedly, you feel the blood trickle down your chin.

It *is* from stress, then. Good to know. 

“Jean, really, I'm…”

“Leave it. I'm not discussing this with you anymore. You don't get to ask me with whom I'm partnering or *not* partnering up.” you wipe the blood with the back of your hand. “Alright, partner?”

Harry avoids your gaze, his grey-green eyes suddenly so far away. 

“Alright. Partner.”

You sniffle, feeling the blood flow into your throat, as you leave Harry standing there on his own.

Blood drips down your fingers as you try to stem the bleeding, to no avail. You cough wetly, shutting the door behind you.

Motherfucker.

____________

You give Judit her kebab. It looks greasy, but it’s better than nothing.

She looks sad. It’s cloudy today. Low expectancy of rain, although the humidity is pretty high.

“Is something bothering you?” you ask carefully.

Judit flashes you a quick downturned smile. She looks like she’s been crying.

“You remember the time Manon told me she hates my guts?”

“Yeah?”

Jude’s oldest daughter has always been too blunt for her own good. You were even accused of your demeanor being rubbed off on her once.

“Today she actually said she loves me.” Judit looks away for a second. Her voice trembles slightly. “She never said that to me before. Never.”

You smile in sympathy, putting a hand on her back.

“I told you she’ll come around.” You exhale through your nose. “Because you’re a good mom.”

And because kids are hard sometimes. Manon told you that you’re “so rude she won’t ever talk to you again” and next time you visited she ran up to give you a hug.

You think you should visit again sometime. The thought terrifies you for some reason.

“Do you want to come over? This weekend, for example.” Judit says, voicing your thoughts.

You think it over, taking a small bite of your kebab. You’re not really hungry, you realize. You think some more while you chew.

“Maybe. If it’s okay with you.”

“I asked you first, you dumbass.” She elbows you in the side. You grumble something incoherent, taking another small bite. “Saturday sounds good?”

“Uh-huh.” You’re less and less sure you want to come. 

Saturday comes and you sleep through your alarm again. The shrill ringing of your phone makes you crawl out of your bed.

“Yes?” You murmur sleepily.

“Jean! Hey. You didn’t forget you’re visiting us today, are you?” Judit sounds happy. You hear her kids chatter in the crackling static.

You turn away to yawn. “It’s pretty early for that, isn’t it?”

You can almost see Jude’s eyebrows crease. “No. It’s 12 PM.”

What. What? 

Your eyes dart around, finding your clock. It’s 12:08 PM, to be precise. 

You never oversleep. You didn’t even take your sedatives the evening before.

“Shit. Sorry.”

“You can still come over, if you want to.”

You really don’t.

“Sure,” You say simply. “Let me at least put my pants on.”

“You better do. It’s chilly outside today.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” You scrub at your face. “See you in a few.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” You hang up.

You brush your teeth and spit the blood down the drain. You check your eyes in the mirror, as if you were a suspect with a head trauma.

You seem fine, if a little tired.

You don’t have a nosebleed this morning. Maybe you just had enough sleep, is all. You hope so.

_______________

“Uncle Jean!”

The second you step foot into Judit’s apartment two pairs of hands circle around your waist. Judit's youngest daughter, Lucille, is standing on her tiptoes to be able to embrace you, and Manon tucks her head into the crease of your shirt - she's tall enough to give you an almost-grown-up kind of hug.

You always hunch slightly to hug them back. 

“For the last time, it's just *Jean*. You make me feel like an old man…” You rub at your temple as soon as your hands are free.

You smile at Jude, who's been observing you three this whole time. 

“Sorry I'm late. Don't know why I overslept.”

“It's okay. You always look like you're about to keel over, so I thought it's nice for you to sleep long enough to not hear your abysmal alarm.”

“It's a normal fu- hecking alarm, what are you on about..”

Judit purses her lips, hiding a smile.

“What?” You look at her in quiet terror. “Is *hecking* also a bad word?”

“I mean, yes. But I think I've heard Manon say words even worse than *heck* already, so…”

You and the oldest daughter share a quick glance to one another.

“I didn't teach her anything.” You say hurriedly.

“Yes!” Manon beams. “I know my own damn curse words!”

You decide it's better to change the topic unless you want to be accused of anything else that Manon does. 

Judit leads you into the small kitchen. There's a hot coffee pot in the middle of a dinner table. She likely brewed it in the morning at first, but when you didn't come on time she had to brew a fresh portion.

“Where's Alain?” Your index finger taps on the rim of the cup, making a satisfying clink.

“Out for work. He'll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Hm. He works on Saturdays now too?”

“You know how it is..” Jude sighs. “Our job doesn't pay enough. And having two kids, well…”

You hold a cup in your hand a little too tightly while Jude pours coffee in it.

“Maybe I could help,” You offer, “I live alone and I only need money for cigs and sometimes I remember to pay the water bill, so.”

Judit gives you an odd look.

“Are you serious? I'm not taking any money from you. I just told you our job pays like shit–”

“Woah! Language, Jude. Kids are in the other room.”

“Anyway,” She ignores your joke completely, “Alain is good-for-nothing already. Good thing he works at all. So, that's a no.”

She doesn't mean all of that, about her husband. You know she loves him to death. You suppose it's normal to be a little bit irritated with each other when you've known each other for too long.

It's the firm edge in her voice that makes you uneasy. Like it annoys her it's *you* offering to help. 

“I didn't mean to assume you can't handle it on your own, Jude–”

“I know.” There's a soft warmth in her tone again. Her shoulders relax. She looked like she was about to tell you to leave just now. “I just don't need–”

Your help? Because she's a capable woman? Or because…

“Are you afraid I'm gonna go bankrupt or something?” You attempt to joke again.

“No. I'm afraid you're trying to force your help on me.”

You're left with your mouth open. The coffee in your cup stands on the table, forgotten. 

Your thoughts go back to Harry, then back to Jude, in one quick flutter of your eyelashes.

“I'm not–”

“Okay then. Just… Take care of yourself, okay?” She looks at you, taking a careful sip. Her hazel eyes shimmer with something tremulous. “I'm… I'm worried for you sometimes.”

You swallow thickly, staring at the dark liquid before you. 

“I am. Taking care.”

“I believe you. It's just sometimes you say something that makes me worried. Giving your money to us? Really? Have you *seen* yourself?”

Your wrists look a little thinner than a few weeks before. You thought it's because of you working out more these days.

Judit always sees right through you, and that's probably what made you scared to visit her. 

Apart from just wanting to sleep a little bit more today.

But… Maybe you shouldn’t have come at all. 

You don’t know why, but suddenly you feel too uneasy to be here at all.

Judit watches you as you stand up from your seat.

“I think I should go,” You declare, “Sorry for being late again, I think I just–”

“Wait! Wait, what do you mean? Did I say something wrong? Jean?”

You avoid looking at her as you turn away. You feel her hand on your back, gentle. Probing you. 

“I’m fine,” You say insistently. “Tell the kids I love them.” You rub at your nose, sniffling. You feel it getting stuffy.

Judit circles around you and touches you again, this time giving your forearm a pat.

“Hey,” She starts, “..Oh. You have a nosebleed again? Let me grab a towel.”

You look at your blood-smeared fingers. Your hands shake. You feel a slight tremor wracking through your whole body.

 It feels disgusting, to be so vulnerable in front of her. She cares so much. She cares so much for someone who's long beyond saving.

“Do you think it's because of your insomnia?” Jude asks, pressing a towel into your hands. “Maybe it's from your new medication?”

You hum, chewing on the inner side of your cheek while you wait for the bleeding to stop.

You agreed with yourself that it's probably from exhaustion. So, let it be that.

“Yeah. Probably just because I sleep like shit. I haven't… Had any meds lately.” You say the last part reluctantly, in quiet foretaste of Jude getting upset.

“Why?” is all she asks, not unkindly. 

You feel stupid. You don't want to make her sad.

“Just thought I'd quit. Since I have, uh, some problems regulating the dosage anyways.”

Judit squeezes your arm, just a little bit. She sighs - a light breeze, one quick gust of wind. 

You think of slapping her hand away. Instead, you bow your head slightly and shift the weight onto another leg, leaning into the touch. 

“You idiot,” there's no heat in her voice, just timid concern evening the sharp lines of her tone, “You're not supposed to tilt your head. The blood rushes quicker to your nose this way.”

Despite her words, she takes a small step towards you and pulls you into a hug. It's awkward as you're still holding the towel to your nose, but you manage to throw an arm around her shoulders anyways. She's a little bit higher than you, which gives her an advantage in tucking you in her hold. You give in easily, even if everything inside you screams to pull away. 

Every time she embraces you it feels like warm spring rain and forgiveness. You feel like if you were a better person in a better world you could have deserved to be held like that.

You feel her breath on your neck, featherlight. You think of how she has a habit of fondling your shoulders when she hugs you. You started to mirror these little careful motions of her recently. You smile despite yourself, feeling her hand caress your back.

 You stay like that for a while until Jude finally pulls away, looking surprised for some reason.

“You're trembling,” She says it like a question. “Are you ill?”

Before you can object she presses her hand to your forehead, eyebrows raised when she feels that nothing’s out of sorts.

“Maybe *it is* from overwork, I don't know. You worry too much.” 

“With you I worry just the right amount,” She points out. “That's odd. I guess you not taking your meds lines up with this. Do you feel bad anywhere else?”

“What is this, an interrogation?”

“Of sorts.”

You scoff.

“I think I've been meaning to head home and hopefully get some more sleep, but…”

“But you're stuck with me now. I'm gonna tell Manon you left because you made me sad. She's never gonna forgive you for that.”

“A bit manipulative there,” You click your tongue. “Okay.” You think for a moment. “Uh.. I sweat a lot.”

“Huh. Sounds like textbook withdrawal to me. That's awful.”

“And what's your prescription, then?”

“I don't know, get back on meds?”

You bark out a laugh. God. That's ironic, because…

Your hands still feel the weight of the pyrholidon tin from your bathroom cabinet. The icy cold of cheap metal under your fingers. You recall it's the only form of ‘medication’ you have left at home. 

“I don't think that's happening anytime soon. I need to live through this, then my shrink will allow me to get back on them. At least I think this is how it works..”

“You think?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

You spare a quick glance at Judit. She stands propped against the kitchenette, hands clasped together. She seems deep in thought. 

She isn't like you. She knows when to take a step back. She also knows about your ‘self-medication’ problems. 

To accept her into your life means sentencing her to worry about you forever. You catch her every stare. You take every cup of coffee she brings you. You know she's got your back, always, always.

When you didn't suggest you and her becoming partners, she understood everything herself. You still go on some cases together. Every lunchtime you ask her if she's busy. 

To become her partner means locking her up in your orbit, and… You can't do this to her. 

Then again, pushing her away led you to standing here in her kitchen, listening to her kids squabble. You were never good at pushing people away, were you?

“Hope it passes soon. You look dead on your feet,” Judit presses her lips in a thin line, “Do you want to eat something? Maybe it'll help.”

You want to remind her you were leaving, but her brown eyes burrow holes into you, so you sit back down.

“Sure. What's on the menu today?”

___________________________

You go to the precinct’s roof to smoke so often you almost know every smoking officer by name. 

It's the twenty-seventh of October and you haven't had a single nosebleed in four months. You think it's all getting better.

Lieutenant Kitsuragi asked you to refer to him as just ‘Kim’ the other day. You were a little bit surprised at the request.

It's starting to get chilly in the afternoon but you refuse to change out of your autumn clothes. The weather report on the radio informed you next week it's going to start snowing. 

Revachol is funny like that – the snow will certainly fall, but it will probably melt in two days. You have lived here all your life, you should know the cataclysmic nature of this godforsaken city.

You light up a cigarette and put your hands on the railing. The city stretches below, motorcarriages honking, people arguing. 

You exhale and immediately cough into your elbow, having inhaled the smoke too fast. 

When your eyes blink back to the city below, you see a gloved hand on the railing join yours, just a few centimetres apart.

“Jean.” The voice states. You look up and see Lieutenant Kitsuragi nod at you.

It's odd hearing your name being said in his voice. It has always been “Officer” or “Satellite-officer Vicquemare”, or just “Vicquemare” on good days. This newfound relationship you have – a first name basis – feels odd to you. Someone like Kitsuragi shouldn't ask to call them something more simple. You're still readjusting.

“Kits-” There it is. You immediately feel embarrassed, rubbing the back of your neck. “Kim. Hello.” 

You glance at him and see a playful spark in his eyes. He clasps his hands behind his back and sighs softly.

“How has your day been?” 

You don't really know. The days have been blurring together recently. 

“It's fine. Yours?”

“Pretty good.”

You lapse into silence. At first you were confused by seeing.. - Kim, you remind yourself, - on the roof multiple times a day without a cigarette in his hand. Later on you realised he smokes only once a day, he spends the rest of the smoke breaks having a word with someone. That's surprisingly nice of him, you note. You didn't consider Kim a talkative type until recently.

He isn't exactly *talkative*, the word you're looking for is observant. He's always there, watching other officers. Asking them mundane questions. 

He's also asking you mundane questions, but they're a good-natured kind of mundane.

You still answer them automatically, as you always do. No matter the day. You think Kim knows that. 

He lights up a cigarette, his hands quick to fish out the lighter. You know he smokes his one a day in the evenings.

“Any good cases recently?” His tone is unwavering. What he really wants to say is, *talk to me*. He just wants to chat about anything it seems. You can humor him, just this once.

“Yeah, actually. Got called up to take a look at a murder-suicide case. A package deal, these two bastards. Apparently one friend invited another to his place to drink, then shot him square in the chest, looked at him writhing in pain and shot himself in the head. Guess he wasn't very happy with this friend of his,” You're not smiling. “Mother of the shooter asked me if I can close the case post-factum, but I told her we haven't localised from whom her son had bought the gun, so I said no. Should've seen it. Walls smeared with blood.”

You're kind of jealous, you don't add. Something in the back of your mind tells you to not find out the source of the gun. Harry would call this a hunch. 

You think the gun is the mother's, actually. She would have shot herself just like her son did, had you not confiscated the gun. Grief has an annoying string of consequential deaths. You understand. 

If you tell her you think that the gun is hers she will find another way to end her life. The guilt - you knowing of her guilt - would be too much. But, you're not sure you're right on that hunch. Maybe you should look into it. Or not look into it at all. You don't really care.

“Hm.” is all Kim answers with. He's silent for a long minute, then says: “Awful stuff. Odd things make people take the lives of their friends and themselves.”

“This is Revachol. Odd things are a given.” you notice. 

“That much is true. But, ah, that shooter – why do you think he did it?”

You absentmindedly bite at your fingernail.

“Oh, you know. Just friends’ stuff. Sometimes you know someone long enough you just wanna… Shoot their face off.”

Kim hums, seemingly not convinced.

“Did you ask around? Have they known each other for a while?”

“Oh, yeah! Childhood friends, the dude’s mother told me. You know it's bad when your childhood friend wants you dead.” You switch to biting your other fingernail. You forget Chester told you this habit makes you look like a wee boy. 

“Well, apparently they wanted to buy a motorcarriage together, or something. Were piss drunk while negotiating splitting the pay as well. So the way I imagine this,” you make a finger-gun and point to your chest, 

“This tall fucker told his friend, ‘You’re not getting any fuckin’ money from me! Fuck off!’ Then - bam! His beloved childhood friend's body is on the ground. The wound is gruesome, he shot point blank, and with a shotgun, mind you. Must have hurt like hell. So this guy hunches to assess the damage - which is ‘fucking dying’ levels of spiralling out of control - gets his hands covered in blood a little, thinks, oh shit. Then,” the improvised finger-gun is pointed to the underside of your chin now, 

“Bam!: Act Two. The final one, for sure. Blew half of his fucking skull off. Insane shit. So, there's that.”

You're almost proud of your improvised show-off. Embarrassment gnaws at you just a tiny little bit, you think you *really* look like a little kid showing his new toy to the older guy in the yard.

But Kim doesn't look amused. The lenses of his glasses glimmer with something else. There's an emotion you can't quite identify. Something like.. Fondness? 

“That's… Good. Very good. You seem to, hm, practice that finger-gun pointing a lot.” you can almost swear Kim is *this* close to smiling.

It stings you suddenly. That's what's up. This little story of yours - it made you look like Harry in his eyes. 

You try to not let the disdain bloom onto your face as you falter a bit. Your bravado has calmed down to the right amount of spunk.

“But, whatever. That's not a hard case, or anything. Just fascinating how people go and kill each other over the money. Dumb stuff.” 

“Sure,” He turns away to take a drag of his cigarette, but you can still hear a smile in his voice. “Let it be that. Still, good work.” 

If things were a bit different, he would probably say ‘good work, kid’. Or, ‘ nice going!’ That would be condescending. But maybe, just maybe - he has some respect for you. You're more than just a kid to him, you're someone who kept his partner alive until Kim could take the baton from you. That, and… The way he specifically asked you to call him Kim.

You don't know what to think, so you resort to gnaw on your third finger.

Kim is silent for another moment. He flicks the soot off the cigarette.

“You’re not smoking,” he suddenly states. “Want one from my pack?”

The suggestion makes you smile in amusement. That's a really strange way to connect with the guy who curses his partner to hell and back, you think. You search for an answer in Kim’s eyes and only find quiet tiredness in them. He tilts the pack of Astras slightly your way and looks at you.

You wonder what's this all about. You snatch the cigarette quickly, it slips from the place it was comfortably nested with its twin little soldiers in a box. 

“Thanks.” 

You still watch Kim's features while you take the lighter from him and flick it a couple of times. You can almost feel him relaxed in your company.

Maybe it's the way you don't spit and snarl as you usually do. Or the murder-suicide case itself. Something between you two shifted, and you didn't even see that coming. 

The lieutenant looks at you again, puts the cigarette out on the ashtray and says:

“Good talk, detective. Hope this evening treats you well.”

Oh, it was definitely about the case. Of course. Kim  loves  his job. You do too, but for completely different reasons. You imagine mutilated corpses as yourself and sometimes, as your fingers brush against the sullen skin, you desperately wish to feel a pulse.

If only there was someone you could still save. 

Kim gives you a reassuring pat on the back and walks out, leaving you in the quiet cacophony of the street below once again. 

You press your hands on the railing and exhale. No-one would even know if you slipped. It's too far up, and… And, it's getting late. You should go back to the bullpen and wrap things up.

______________________

You're dozing off at your desk when you hear heavy footsteps. They sound like they're heading your way. Your head jerks up as you hastily rub at your eyes. 

The bulky figure in front of you is no other but Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor Du Bois.

He gets sad when you call him that. ‘Shitkid’ makes him beam, for some unknown reason.

“What do you want?” You say tiredly. 

Harry looks startled by your tone, like he always does when you speak to him. That's a running theme for you two, to get jumpy seeing each other in close proximity. Half a year has passed, too. Maybe it doesn't ever get better, but no use in thinking about that now.

“Oh! Here. Wait.” Harry takes something from his desk, and you squint - scissors? - and runs a hand through his hair in one swift motion. He finds his unlucky winner, a single white hair in his otherwise dark chestnut sea of waves, and snips it off. You watch him in confusion.

He walks back to you, holds out his hands. As expected, a single white wavy hair lies in them.

“A gift,” he proclaims. “For you.”

You think if it's him or you who's gone completely insane as you wordlessly pick the hair up and put it on top or your head.

“Thank you. You're being kind.” you say flatly. 

Harry looks at you, lips pursed, and bursts into laughter. You give in and let a short chuckle escape your throat.

This is the motherfucker you knew. Not that.. Sad, apologetic, guilty sad sack of shit that's been following you for months now. 

For a minute, you can close your eyes and think it's gonna be okay.

“Alright, you stupid fuck,” you continue, “Is this all you wanted to show me?”

“No!” Harry puffs his chest proudly. “Also, this.”

“Please don't tell me it's another of your fucking old man hairs.”

“No! No. Look.” His hand dives into his breast pocket and he hands you a single tattered Drouin cigarette. 

“Fucking hell, did you put it through the wringer? I wonder how the tobacco isn't spilling out of it.” You roll the stick between your fingers, inspecting it as if it were a corpse. “Looks torn as shit. But it's not wet or anything, I think I can still light it up.” you hum and add, for some reason: “It's kinda like you.”

Harry recoils at that remark.

“What, you're gonna set me on fire too?”

“We'll see. But I meant the part about looking like shit and still somehow functioning.”

Your former partner snorts at that.

“Very poetic. Thank you, Vic.”

“At your service.”

You lapse into silence, Harry still standing next to your desk, and you pocket the cigarette and stare back at him.

“What, you're not done yet? Gracing me with your generous gifts *and* towering over me like that for no fucking reason. I'm truly blessed today.”

Harry looks hurt all of a sudden. He takes in a short inhale, a wispy thing.

“I… I mean. There's something I wanted to tell you. Uh…”

“Spit it out then,” you bark. You didn't even mean to sound so harsh, it makes Harry wring his hands together nervously. 

You wonder what the old Harry would say. ‘Ah, I beat another civilian up, can you help with the paperwork?’ or ‘I didn't mean to punch you so hard. You started it, but at least I didn't break your nose’ or ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I snuggled up some speed from the evidence locker, so…’

Instead, Harry flicks his tongue, opens his mouth, closes it. Thinks it over. Opens his mouth for the second time and says:

“I've been having weird dreams about you lately.” 

You stare at him blankly, having not expected this at all.

What?

“Okay.” is all you say. Nonetheless, Harry presses on.

“You're.. You've been dying in my dreams all the time recently, so I thought..”

Your upper lip worries in annoyance. You feel disgusted by the way his voice shakes a little when he says that.

The sad sack of shit is back. All the mirth from before has vanished from your head completely, leaving you with resentful confusion.

“Thought what? Thought you'd check if I still have a pulse? Okay, mister Bleeding Heart.” you spit. “Anything else?”

Harry doesn't look back at you, not really. 

“I just thought I should check if you're okay. You know, my mind, sometimes it.. It blows things out of proportion, but one dream is accidental, but several is..”

“Several means you're a fucking sap,” you conclude. You try to sound authoritative, but you bet Harry picks up the way your eyes dart around and you bite your lip. You need to walk away, right now. Something roots you into place.

Of course you can't move, not really, when he starts the conversation with cheering you up and ends it with trying to can-open you. Of course. You feel sick. He caught you off-guard just to palpate you when you're not careful. Taking your skin and peeling it back, like a rotten tangerine.

Manipulative bastard. You should have seen this coming.

“Maybe it does. I just wanted to say I'm.. I'm glad you're okay.” He leans in to pat you on your shoulder, but decides against it last second. 

You pick on your beard. It's… kind of nice of him, you're scared to admit. To check on you.

There he is, looking like a sad dog. You hate it, but you also understand. You don't want to sneer at him, or kick him in the shin, or tell him to fuck off. Okay, that last part is not entirely true. The thing is, it's bearable. You can tolerate bearable.

“We're not partners anymore, you know,” you mutter lamely. “You don't have to say all this shit.”

Harry's breath hitches in his throat.

“I know. But I feel like I do need to. To say *all this shit*, I mean.” 

“Police check?” 

He chuckles softly, humourless.

“Yes. Police check.”

You feel the weight of the Drouin cigarette in your pocket when you head out.

________________________

The pipes burst because of the cold. You have no heat in your flat. It feels like your luck has run out and hardly winter has started, but you feel happy. It's a nice day, and it's going to be a nice day after. 

The crooks squabble outside of your window. You wonder what they're so upset about.

You take out the pen from the cup on your dinner table and walk to the calendar pinned next to your bed. Your hand hovers over large numbers etched in black ink. 

Twenty, twenty one, twenty two. Let it be twenty-third. 

You circle the date and glare at it for a good minute. It doesn't bite, the twenty-third. You like the way the number sounds. It sounds young.

You think of yourself being twenty three. You saw a person die for the first time. You changed your friend circle from your snarky classmates to tired and sarcastic police officers. Everyone called you some form of ‘kid’. You remember an older officer calling you ‘a small crawly centipede’ and you almost punched him. 

You love thinking in numbers. It makes you feel in control. Today is eighteenth of November and you have three months till your birthday. You wonder if Harry remembers to at least congratulate you. You wonder if Harry remembers you'll be turning thirty-five. 

You love joking ‘people don't live that long!’ every time it's your birthday again. People really don't. Especially people like you. This time it's different. You hope so.

You have one-two-three-four-five days till the twenty-third. You tap your finger on the date and cheap thin paper of the calendar rustles from the touch. 

You bring every blanket from your closet to lay on top of each other so you don't freeze to death. You still think of a pyrholidon tin in your bathroom sometimes. Speed used to make your system forget how cold it was outside. Maybe, if they don't fix the pipes, you should try popping a couple of pills sometime. 

For now, you visit Jude's and stay a bit longer just because it feels much warmer to drink coffee in a heated flat.

You still don't stay long enough for Judit's comfort, always eager to leave. You're aware that Jude isn't too happy of your jumpiness. You've known each other for almost a year now, long night shifts and coffee breaks that feel even longer.

She still doesn't have a partner. You can guess she also doesn't want to lose anyone again. So, you two stay put, and it's not awkward. She tells you about bloated corpses when you eat and every single time you tell her you're gonna throw up. 

You kicked one of the blankets in your sleep off and it woke you up. It's 7:00 AM. You have an hour and a half till your shift starts. 

You still have time. You can make this right.

If you think of trying to make this right, you're really gonna throw up. Instead of thinking about it, you brew some coffee.

You head outside at 7:23 AM, having decided to take a little detour down the street.

Your boots crunch in the snow as you try not to trip. The snow is fresh, it has been falling in large puffy flecks all night. It's slippery, too – your right boot does this little squeaky sound when it presses against the icy road. Probably something has stuck on it. 

You walk to the bridge. 

Esperanse is beautiful in this weather. You don't like calling things “beautiful” just for the sake of it, but the way the water below slowly wavers mesmerizes you. It's fully embedded in ice by the shore, leaving the middle of the river naked and murky. The flow is slow in this spot. 

You wonder how you didn't get infected with anything when you swam there in your teenage years. Although, maybe you did, because nobody really thinks of Esperanse as beautiful but you. Or, maybe Harry.

Pfft. Harry. Of course.

You sweep the snow off the railing as you look down. The water below is silent. 

About two hours till the sun rises. It's still dark, but the light refracts from the snow, thus making the visibility a bit better.

In two and a half hours it's going to start snowing again. In a little less than an hour, Revachol Citizens Militia will burst into motion, officers chattering, yelling at each other, radio will crackle and receive and deliver panicky messages.

The precinct will come to life. You will feel alive again.

For now, you just stare at the water and count your breaths. 

____________________

“And then.. I will take the kids to Ozonne. Or Mirova. Somewhere nice.”

You lean forward, propping your chin up with one hand. 

Jude is so happy today. You're happy too. It's a special day.

Every time winter comes the captain allows you to pick your days of obligatory leave. 

The sun is a shy guest in Revachol. Sometimes it peeks out just for a day or two – then goes into hiding. Now it caresses your hands when you click your automatic pen against the desk, mirthful rays haloing Judit’s tired face. 

The bullpen of Precinct 41 is quiet, unnaturally so. It’s almost the end of the dayshift.

“Oh yeah?” you tune in. “That’s nice.”

“What about you?” Judit asks as she folds arms on her chest. She’s smiling.

You hum.

“I don’t know, really. I don’t want anything specific. I’ll just… Go outside more often. For a stroll. I love walking in the evenings.”

You don’t want to admit you don’t really know what to do with yourself outside of work. You feel like a small sheep in a rush to catch up with the herd. Maybe not a sheep. Something like a horse. Yeah, a horse sounds good. 

Judit sighs. She looks outside - the windows are tainted with frosted patterns. It’s only going to get colder from now on.

“I’m thinking of March. Or April.”

“You’re not going in summer? Summer’s the best if you’re visiting Ozonne, for example.”

“I don’t really like the heat… I want to go somewhere where it’s warm, not burning my skin.” Jude sighs again, seemingly submerged in dreams of a quiet, sunny place far away from Revachol. Wherever it is.

You love her spirituality in this aspect. She dreams big, but not too grand. Something like controlled calmness that you’ve always associated with her. It’s an interesting thing - to seek out the facets of someone’s demeanor in such mundane things. You think it’s silly that Jude wants you to know *why* she wants to go to Ozonne. It matters, of course it matters. It’s a question of whether she’s happy or not. And she is, of course she is. 

“I see.” you smile. You’re smiling a lot today.

The clock says 16:57 AM. It’s almost time. 

You shake Judit’s hand goodbye in such simple reverence it makes her a bit uneasy.

“What’s up with you today? You seem…”

“High off life? Yeah. Maybe it’s because it’s sunny today. I don’t know.” you feel electricity buzz through your fingers. You think of the snow outside. 

You think of Jude.

“I’m glad we’re friends.” you add all of a sudden. That makes Judit suck in a baffled breath.

“No, really, Jean, what’s the–”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. I just realized I never told you that.” and you smile at her again, sincerely. 

She looks like she wants to carry this conversation out properly, but you’re already taking your coat off the hanger. 

“I’m glad, too. I’m just, this is… Why are you in such a rush?” her voice is careful.

“It’s nothing. I just have to run some errands.” you snicker for some reason. She shouldn’t worry, though.

You feel her looking at you, so you turn to look back. There’s something unwavering in her complexion. She has her left hand worrying in the short mop of hair. 

“Jude,” you say softly as she purses her lips. “I’m just happy, that’s all. I promise.” then, a hushed little:
“See you.”

You know she wants to say something else. She *will* say something else, so before she gets a chance to do that, you give her a salute and close the door behind you.

See you, as in, she will be there at 8:30 AM. Again.

And you will… You will be just fine.

The snow is less crunchy today. The temperature has risen overnight, only for the half-melted ice to get sturdier after it dropped again.

The newspaper did say it was going to get colder, so you don’t worry about the snow melting altogether too much. Some of it will be left in the morning. That’s good.

You feel okay as you think of your flat as a safe, freezing haven.

_____________________________________________________________

It’s way colder back home than you expected. You find yourself sleeping in your uniform for a couple of hours after coming back from work. It's no use getting undressed while it's so cold, and… You just want the uniform to stay on.

It's 2:36 AM. You’re still filled with the warm sentiment of resignation as you shake the sleepiness off.

The yellowish tint of your old wallpaper seems to shift towards a shade that looks more blue, or green, or something in between that.

You kick the blankets off and head straight to the kitchen. You watch the clock’s hands jump in excitement with each passing second. 

You put the kettle onto the burner. Strike a match, squint as the blue tongues of fire light up the stove. You wait until the water boils and take the coffee tin out.

You’ve run out of sugar two months ago and it made you cut it off completely. Sometimes you pour some sugar into your coffee when you and Jude are at some café. 

You sit for a while, sipping at your coffee, before getting up with a mug in hand.

You watch the tendons on your legs stretch and constrict as you head to your only room. You give the calendar on the wall a quick glance. 

It is the twenty-third now, since it's past midnight. Just like you imagined it in your dreams lately.

You outstretch your left hand to shut the blinders. It’s eerily dark now.

You know why you’re here. It’s time. This is it. This is it.

You expect your nose to immediately start bleeding when you take the pyrholidon tin out and open the lid. Pyrholidon doesn’t work like that, it doesn’t make you sick from just looking at it. You fear it might.

You swear its purple liquidy hue glows in the dark. 

You recall the sleepless nights, the vomit, the psychosis, Harry’s terror-stricken face - and it almost makes you put the tin back on the shelf. Instead, you take one pill and roll it between your fingers. You see the liquid pulse inside of the pill, microscopic bubbles welling up from the motion.

You swam in the Esperanse in your youth, remember? And pyrholidon was made to treat radiation sickness. Who knows, maybe consuming so much of it *actually* prevented you from developing any. It’s not so bad.

It wouldn’t hurt, you decide. Three pills go down your throat, washed down with a large swig of your coffee.

You just need something more. It’s not so bad, you’re not actually doing this.

No, you’re not actually doing this the right way.

Dei, you can’t even spell it out for yourself. 

You scoff to the empty room.

You're going to…  

You squat down when your hands shake and jostle the tin, a couple of pills falling down to the floor. When you stand back up, you blink slowly from the sudden head rush.

Wait. While they haven't kicked in yet, are you… Are you forgetting something?

You rub at your face and stare at the blank wall in front of you.

Pills, coffee, pills, the twenty-third, coffee. Right. Esperanse. You just thought a couple of pills would take the edge off until you actually get your boots on.

You blink rapidly. Has the room always been so big? 

You stumble forward, fingers feeling for the wallpaper's texture. It's grating. In the dim discoloration of the walls around you a figure stands, swaying side to side. 

You swallow, forcing yourself to focus. That's.. That's a mirror, this long, jagged thing you have in your hallway. A man is looking back.

Your palms meet the glass-like surface, with a tenderness of a mother embracing her child. You look intensely, one finger stretching the lower eyelid of your left eye down. Your pupils look dilated, two small full stops on a blank paper of two pale irises.

You're getting carried away. Three pills is nothing. Did you put the tin in your breast pocket?

You recall you used to pop five or seven pills at once. Made you *see* things for what they really were. You recall the tremors after you quit cold turkey. The nosebleeds, too. This was after Martinaise.

Now “after Martinaise” is outstretched in morbid disproportion. It goes on and on and on and…

Another three pills are washed down with your coffee. It's getting cold. *You're* getting… Warmer, or so it seems.

You feel for your pulse on instinct, fingers tapping against the inner side of your wrist. You lose count almost immediately. 

You need to sit down, as the space before you starts to sound so harsh. You feel like you're hearing something that tells you to stop. Maybe it's coming from the inside of your skull, of that, you're not sure.

You blink and you're in the kitchen again. You place the cup down with a clink. There's something you're missing again, a stupid fucking idiot you are. 

It's *death*. That's what's coming. You need to stop putting those pills in your system like you're having a day off. You have to get serious about it. You sit down, then shoot right up. You sit down for the second time, hands scrambling for the tin once again.

No. Esperanse. No. What are you doing? Dumbass. You don't need all of this. Just stand up and, … And walk to the phone.

There's no *death* in the receiver. You can swear you feel the dying synapses dart around inside your head. You need to actually *call* someone. Anyone. Not for a good reason or anything, just, just…. Just to hear someone's voice. Really.

The walls are closing in on you when you feel for the phone. The receiver is heavy in your hand. You stare at it, then your gaze shifts lazily to the numbers. They mix between each other, they're black, then white, then grey.

You need to call Judit. You absolutely *must not* call Judit. She's sleeping and you will startle her. She's never seen or heard you this zoned out. 

The other option sends a phantom itch to your knuckles. You don't want to call anyone. You don't need this right now. 

Your throat clenches and your heart flutters inside of your chest, a caged little bird. You don't think you have full control of your fingers when you dial the number, slowly, each and every digit shifting and clinking into place. You've done it numerous times, this particular combination of buttons etched into your brain, and somehow the way you're able to do it automatically given the state you're in makes you terrified.

The dial tone startles you. It drags on for a long time, you feel like an eternity has passed. Or ten seconds. Or fifteen. Long, nasal beeps.

You move your hand to hang up when the line comes to life, then, a hoarse voice covered by static says a single:

“Hello?”

Your breath hitches in your throat. Why did you call? You're so stupid. Hang up. Hang up right now and put your coat on. Walk away.

The sound you make is between a sharp gasp and a cough. You regret having made any noise, because the voice on the other end of the line immediately recognises you, *somehow*.

Oh, you know how. 

“Jean?” Harry sounds sleepy. You hear a quiet shuffle as he probably rubs his eyes to shake the slumber off. 

You try to make your tongue move in your mouth, but it gets stuck behind the tight cage of your teeth. Instead, you noisily inhale through your nose and dig your nails into the hand holding the phone. 

You're breathing too fast, way too fast for someone standing in their hallway idly. Cold sweat creeps its way down your neck. You need to sit down, but you can't, fingers glued together so as to not drop the phone. 

The silence probably stretches for too long - when Harry speaks up again, there's a twinge of anxiety in his tone.

“Hey, you there?” followed by hastily added: “Talk to me. Come on.”

You remember to blink, and your mouth unties the knot it was tangled into. Shame burns in your gut suddenly and you nearly drop the phone. 

He *knows* something is wrong. He's trying to coerce you into telling him why you called . Sorry, but you're about to be can-opened. Don't let him do this, never again, never ever again as soon as this conversation is over.

The floor underneath your feet doesn't feel solid enough to keep you upright.

You need to say something safe to him. Something that keeps his guard down.

“Joking… Sorry. Joking.” Your features are slow to merge into anything at all. You feel like your whole face moves through thick, murky tar.

You belatedly realize you didn't tell any joke to assure him you're not serious. You haven't said anything in the first place till now. 

Congratulations. You fucked up. 

“Jean please,” there's desperation creeping into Harry's voice that nestles itself in your skull, the ache almost pleasant. “I know you took something. What did you take? How much?” 

You can almost hear him start tugging his clothes on. You need to tell him to stop, to go back to sleep.

“I'm sorry I called…I won't bother you anymore.” You take a cautious step back, staring at the handset like a barrel of a gun pointed at your temple. “I'm going out. I'm fine. Goodnight.” 

“Don't go anywhere!” Harry cries, a frantic command, “Stay where you are. Please stay. I'm gonna be there in ten minutes tops, can you hold on for a little longer?”

You can't. You know you can't. You're already eyeing your door, unsteady on your feet. You wonder if you can even make it down the stairs. Maybe you've overdone it on the pyrholidon. 

“Don't worry,” you gasp. “I won't be long.. Promise.” 

You've promised twice today, unsure if you can keep them every time the words leave your mouth. You can't keep doing this. You need to go, for real now. 

Hang up, for the love of everything that's not dead or dying. For the love of everything that's ultimately not you. 

You hear Harry yell a desperate string of curses when your hand fails to slot the phone back into the cradle the first time. You try two more times, but your hand keeps disobeying you, so you give it up, the cord hanging loosely parallel to the wall.

 There's still a lot of noise, seemingly everywhere. You contemplate if you're just hearing things.

You waddle to the door, hands automatically finding the keys in your coat pocket. Your fingers brush against the peephole.

You shouldn't go anywhere. It's late. Harry said he's going to be here soon. You can still go back to bed and sleep it off.

You can't. Your shoulder connects with the wall and you lean into it heavily, fiddling with the lock. Harry can have your keys if he wants to, once you're done. 

Harry also needs to mind his own fucking business.

It's his fault, or, honestly, it has always been all your fault from the start. 

It flatters you, his worry. You don't think you matter that much to be worried about. These pills certainly don't think you deserve to even stand on your own two legs right now.

You don't remember walking down the stairs at all, but then a gust of wind hits your face and you find yourself standing amidst the wide pale nothingness.

It's not cold, and that very thought forces a giggle out of you. It's finally warm again. A spring came, you think, even if the snow is still white and antagonistic under your feet. You don't feel it, you can't hear it crunch under your feet.

It's the spring of the best decisions in your life. You want to laugh as your legs carry you down the street in weightless anticipation.

This is it, this is it, *this is it*. Your chest heaves as you step onto the bridge. You ran all the way down here and this short exercise has made you dizzy. The water below, the sky, the shoreline split into separate blinking images, colliding with the shapes and colors weeping into each other. 

Your hands find the railing, and it's the first time you feel something in a while. The cold stings you in a swift flash of pain, and you let go with a hiss. You forgot your gloves at home. 

Your vision narrows down to the dark and welcoming sea of waves. Translucent glazing of the water swirls and swims as far as your eyes can see.

You take a small step forward. 

You need to do this, there’s no turning back now.

You grip the inside of your sleeves as you place your hands on the railing again. You need to be careful. You step over, elbows now locked behind your back to have a firm hold on the jagged pieces of rebar holding the bridge together.

It’s not too far up. The thing is, you used to jump off the bridge as a kid on the lower side. It was fun, this tempting feeling of your breath escaping your lungs as your body connects with the water. This was in June, or July, or whenever the water was warm enough to swim. And on different bridges as well, at the river head.

You close your eyes. Exhale slowly. Inhale. Exhale again. Your every breath leaves a small puff of vapour dancing in the air.

You feel dizzy. Looking down makes your stomach churn.

You readjust your grip, and the only things left are the water below and your ragged breathing.

Let go. Free your hands from the railing – and fall.

You can’t. Flashes of bloated corpses go through your head, the large, roaring motor of oblivion sputters and coughs inside your ribcage.

You need to let go, but it’s going to be so ugly. Your body will immediately lock up from the cold, and you won’t be able to breathe, and….

It’s not any warmer at home, but maybe Harry already got there. You wonder if the heating system works at Harry’s flat. You could go to his place, if he lets you. Your relationship is still shaky, or so you think, but maybe eventually you will reconcile.

But that’s a problem that needs a lot of time worth thinking over. You don’t have time at all. You need to either let go or sleep it off.

This is stupid. You are stupid. No one wants to fish your corpse out later on, you’ll just be wasting someone’s time. You should go back and be a man about it.

Maybe you can just go home and empty your pyrholidon tin. This, at least, will make you oblivious to your weighing of risks. There’ll be no risk of someone stumbling across your body as well, just you in the comfort of your home, so…

Okay. You just need to step over the railing again, the same way you did it a couple of minutes ago. You need to remember to move your legs, this should be easy. You turn to the side slightly, letting go with one arm to raise one leg up, then something under your right boot shifts slightly, you hear the ice-covered metal squeak beside you as you feel your legs scramble for balance, and–

You slip. The only thing that warns you of your downfall is your terrified, cut-off yelp.

This is the second thing you feel tonight. You feel the pain shatter inside you as your body connects with the water. You hear the ice break, the sound ear-splitting.

You sober up for one horrifying second, face scrunched up, engulfed in freezing flames licking at your hands, neck, legs, water seeping through your coat. Instinctively, you try to take a breath – and fail. Your body tenses up, stiffens completely, as you feel your insides seize up.

This time this is really it. Pain flares up inside of your lungs, but not for long - you’re already going numb.

This won’t be long, you hope. You try to imagine something warm as your neurons panic and fire up in futile attempts to keep you conscious.

And you can’t. And that’s okay.

You don’t feel anything anymore as your vision darkens completely.

______________________________

You’re pretty sure you’re dreaming. It’s a lazy, stretchy kind of a dream, where nothing happens. You can’t move your arms. A kaleidoscope turns, its colored small glassy fragments reflecting in the light.

You think you hear something, but you’re not sure of the source yet. You feel the calm, heavy blanket of exhaustion wrap over you.

There’s something welling up in your ribcage, just right where your ribs connect with the skin, you think. It pushes hard, time and time again. That’s a strange thing to be dreaming about.

It perplexes you, the feeling that someone is trying to squeeze your lungs out of your body. If you could move your face, you’d frown at that.

You’re floating, unaware of anything that could ever try and harm you in a way that makes you feel again. You’re numb, so impossibly numb, there’s only this odd feeling of your body being tampered with.

The question hangs itself around your heavy-lidded eyes – are you dead?

It doesn’t *exactly* feel like it, given everything you think, everything you see is still in the gentle hands of a dream. Do people dream when they die? You can’t possibly know that. No one, in fact, knows that much.

You still feel the pushing. Again, again and again. It aggravates you, bubbling up the desire to tell whoever is doing it to get the fuck off and let you sleep. Or die. Or both of those things.

Suddenly, you feel the pressure in your core build up, and the invisible sky above tears itself in two. You hear something. It’s persistent. It comes in rapid, shattering waves.

You hear crying. No, not that. You hear wailing, loud, hysterical. Who are they so torn up about?

You can’t move to look and you can’t blink to see, so you strain yourself enough to hear:

“Don’t  do this to me, fuck, fuck…! Please don’t die, please, don’t you fucking dare…”

It’s Harry’s voice, you realize. What is he doing here? 

Why is he crying?

Before you can think of anything else, your body suddenly tenses up. You take a long, impossibly drawn out hoarse gasp – and choke.

Harry’s hands are quick to help you on your side as you keep inhaling helplessly, like a fish out of the water. Liquid trickles from your mouth, you heave again and again. When the bout finally stops, you’re being propped up by the very same hands as you feel Harry’s palm on your numb cheek.

You blink slowly, eyes half-lidded, seeing only jagged features of Harry’s face. 

You want to hug him, to tell him to please stop crying, but you’re too busy fighting with your ragged throat to catch your breath. 

It’s only when you feel his hands cup your cheeks again you catch a glimpse of something of substance - you see how the fabric of the navy-blue jacket moves unnaturally slowly when Harry raises his arms, and your tired brain draws a simple logical conclusion.

It’s wet. Is it because of you?

You don’t have it in you to think it through, because the next thing you know you’re being lifted in Harry’s arms. His hands shake when one of his arms grips you around the shoulders.

You think Harry is saying something again, soft and reassuringly, as unconsciousness pulls harshly at you. You clench your teeth weakly, stubbornly trying to make out the words. 

This is awful. You’re awful. He didn’t sleep at all because of you, probably. It’s getting harder to force yourself to breathe though, so you finally give in, nesting your face in the crook of Harry’s neck.

You still don’t feel a thing. That must be concerning. You don’t have the energy to care about it as you drift away mindlessly.

_____________________________________________

You wake up in a room that faintly smells of smoke and sterile bandages. This is how you would describe it, at least.

Alertness is a tough order to your mind though, as your vision swims in and out as you try to probe your way through the thick curtain of wooziness.

Your head is killing you, invisible nails digging deep under your skull. 

The first thing you notice is a long diagonal crack in the ceiling. Small patches of paint have come off at its edges, making it look like a fuzzy irritated lighting strike. You don’t remember this crack at all.

The second thing you notice is that *everything hurts*. This is a great change from feeling numb, although not ideal at all. You feel your muscles tense and it sends a fresh wave of pain down your spine.

You groan through clenched teeth, softly, so as to not draw anyone’s attention to your predicament.

This little noise you made seems to have made a certain someone perk up, contrary to your prayers, but you don’t see the perpetrator yet. Somehow you just *know* he’s here.

Oh, and that long crack in the ceiling? You know why it confused you so much. You don’t have it in your room. When you lie down and look up, all you can see is pale specs of small fissures throughout your bedroom’s ceiling, not whatever this is. 

You sigh in despondency. You’re getting tired of not knowing things. This odd state you’re in, it tampers with your ability to rationalize. 

The third thing you want to know is the quantity of blankets laying on top of you, because it’s a lot more than the quantity you’re used to. It presses on your body, pinning you down to the mattress, and it sends a weak signal of panic through your nervous system.

What even happened in the first place? The night was a blur. You *think* it’s early in the morning right now, because it just can’t be night forever. You wouldn’t allow it to be.

Okay, rewind. You went back home from work, had a nap, woke up and it was around 2 AM, then took the pyrholidon cap from the cabinet…

You stop your train of thought until it decides to go off the rails. That’s enough. Waking up swaddled in blankets is a usual circumstance for you these days, alas you didn’t wake up in your room this time.

It’s still dark, as you take in the interior of the room, every object bathed in timid cinereous shade.

There are two framed pictures on the walls, a single wardrobe across the room with its doors flung open, clothes scattered across the shelves. There’s a nightstand to your left, a small basin and a couple of crumpled rags lay on top of it. The water is clear, albeit a bit turbid.

Your psyche tries to piece the picture together, but the pieces keep getting rearranged, as if they were made of paper and your every exhale scatters them around.

This room is familiar. It doesn’t make you feel unsafe, somehow. No one took you somewhere you wouldn't recognise. That's a comforting thought.

You need to try and move, though. Your chest hurts every time you take a breath, so you should probably check on that first. You remember to regain control of your right arm, wiggling the fingers a bit. It feels heavy. You drag it under the blankets slowly, and something catches in the fabric. The motion is draining you out fast, and you haven't even brought the arm from under the blankets. 

This is humiliating, it must be. Although.. You think there seems to be an additional weight on your arm as you futilely try and drag it out. 

It finally crosses your mind to tilt your head down to actually look at the pile of blankets smothering your frame.

There's a heavy weight on your stomach which you haven't registered yet, and this weight’s… back is rising and deflating slowly, arms outstretched in what seems to be the most uncomfortable nap in the history of mankind. 

You trace the body's remains to find out the legs are hanging from the bedframe freely, making the person laying face down look insanely stupid. 

The body, this huge overbearing chunk of life, is snoring softly. That's Harry, but you didn't want to admit that. 

He looks like he dozed off not so long ago, this little bit of his features peeking out alert and animated with each breath he takes. So this means your scuffling around will probably make him–

Harry's hands grip onto the fabric, he exhales sharply through his nose, his eyes fly open and he jolts awake so suddenly your teeth clatter together in surprise.

“Shit!” he exclaims to himself, you assume, “Did I fucking fall asleep? Fuck!”

His eyes immediately turn to you, and his sleep-stricken face contorts with worry. “Jea–”

You barely open your mouth to speak as cough ripples out of you, chest hurting even more with every jolting gasp you make. 

Harry lunges forward to turn you to your side, a seemingly practiced motion. You shiver under his touch, your coughs become torn and wet. He picks one of the rags up to smooth it over the corners of your mouth, you not even realizing there’s water trickling down your jaw.

“You idiot, don’t try to speak. Your throat probably hurts like a bitch right now.”

It does, but he doesn’t need to be a smartass about it. You want to point that out, but it makes you cough even more.

Harry tugs the blankets halfway off to help you sit upright, holding you by the elbows. You look down and spot the reason your arm caught up when you tried to drag it out - it’s covered in bandages up to the shoulder.

As if hearing your thoughts, Harry mutters:

“As far as I’ve checked, it’s just bruised. Same with your back. You fell and it connected with the water, well, with the ice at first, but thankfully ice is thinner to the middle of the river, so it–” he cuts himself off on purpose. He’s afraid he’s gonna spiral into rambling about it if he lets himself speak.

The river. Right. You and your adventures to the bridge while being higher than a kite. You’d find it kind of funny in retrospect, if shame didn’t gnaw its teeth at your throat.

You see Harry’s eyes are red, and you’re smart enough to know it’s not just from not getting enough sleep. Dei, there’s a lot to unpack there.

You’re being kept upright by Harry’s firm hands only, you weigh him down like a sinking anchor. You’re still shivering, your whole body shaking violently. Harry’s palms are warm on your skin though, even if your mind itches and scratches at you to get away.

The same happened with Jude, remember? You think you’re just not used to being held like this. Your skin doesn’t know gentleness is something that you may get used to.

“Thank fuck you started shivering,” Harry notes.

“I… I wasn’t..?” you try, barely a whisper.

Something in Harry seems to shift after hearing you talk, and he scoffs softly, arms wrapping around your cold frame.

“Dumbass, I told you not to speak. Shut up.” There's no heat in his voice at that remark as he rubs your back in careful circles, as to not jostle you too much. You lean into his touch unconsciously, the warmth he radiates calming your sore muscles down.

“You shut up.” you whisper again, and that strain forces a couple of coughs out of you.

You can almost swear you feel Harry smile, his fuzzy cheek resting on the crown of your head. 

“I actually need to get up and make some warm compresses for you,” he says, and you wonder why he tells you that like you’re to blame that he hasn’t done it yet, “But Kim told me that embracing someone who’s freezing helps more. So I, uh.” 

You huff, instead of saying you what? out loud.

Harry scoffs again, fidgeting to get his legs under the blankets. *Your* blankets, meant to cover *you*, not him. If he already robbed you of your personal space, it doesn’t mean he can steal your blankets as well.

As you open your mouth to protest in your whisper-like manner, Harry remembers something and turns to the nightstand to grab a glass from it, one hand still holding you to his chest. He lifts your head up slightly, gently cupping your cheek as he helps you drink.

You feel so helpless. You wanted to snatch the glass from him, because you’re not that incapacitated to not be able to actually drink without someone’s help, but the way your whole body refuses to let you move on your own accord is probably why Harry handles you like a newborn fawn.

It’s enormously embarrassing, or should be, but you’re too tired to battle with that. You just frown slightly, to let Harry know you haven’t gotten soft on him yet.

Harry seems to pick up on that, and his nose wrinkles a bit in a soundless giggle. The bastard.

“Come on. Move your ass.” he warns before dragging you under the blankets with him. Your indignant squawk is drowned by the blankets being pulled on you as you’re shoved unceremoniously into Harry’s impossibly vice grip. Like you’re going to actually slip away if he lets go.

Your teeth chatter. You try to settle yourself into a more comfortable position, hiding your face in Harry’s collarbone. You’re not doing it purposefully, it’s not your fault it’s a very warm spot. Harry’s warm overall, but it’s only logical for you to seek out the most helpful source of heat. 

“Do you have a.. a fever, or something?” You mutter sleepily, voice sounding more clear now. The water helped your abused throat just a bit.

“Why is that?” Harry rumbles in confusion. His voice rattles through your core as he talks.

“You’re like a, a fucking furnace.”

“No. You think that because you’re a fucking icicle.”

You cringe, and your arm finds his back as you press your palm against it. It’s unnaturally warm to your touch, almost hot. This can’t be true.

“Fuck you.” you sputter, voice still hushed. “Have fun hugging a corpse.”

Harry’s body turns rigid at that, and you bite your tongue. Far too soon for that. You regret the bit immediately as he sniffles wetly. 

Oh, fuck. 

If a couple of tears land and trickle down your face, you don’t comment on it. If you were to guess, you’d think Harry is actively trying to prevent himself from fully breaking down to not aggravate your aching body further. You know the way Harry cries – a crumbling, overwhelming thing, like the world is coming down on him. You’d never think he would actually cry like that *because of you*.

You still remember faintly the way your ears picked up on his sobs as your system was slowly regaining control of your blood circulation. 

The thought terrifies you.

“I thought you were dead,” Harry sobs into your hair, and your lips tremble at that, “I knew you were gonna… And I wasn’t there… And when I came to the bridge, I couldn’t even see you-”

Keep him from spiraling further. For the love of god. He can’t blame himself for this.

“C’mon, c’mon now, it’s ov-”

“And when I dragged you out, you weren’t breathing, no pulse, nothing,” your stiff hand finds Harry's hair and you thread your fingers through it gently, as much as your achy joints allow you to, “You were so cold…”

“I’m here,” you smile faintly as you feel Harry scoot a little closer, as if he *still* thought you were going to disappear somewhere from his deathly grip. “Sorry I scared you. You know, in the end I wasn’t even going to–”

“I know.” Harry interrupts, breathing deep in an attempt to control his sobbing, “But you still did. I’m not gonna yell at you about it right now, because-... Because I think you’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Then you’re gonna yell at me later alright.”

“You can yell at me too,” He admits, “I can take it. Stop being a fucking snowman and then we’ll talk.”

You exhale softly. This is a good wager.

“Deal. Now please stop crying, I’m actually gonna freeze to death if you keep soaking me with your tears.”

“I will strangle you. Right now.”

“Okay.” you comply. Harry laughs shakily at that. 

Eventually you hear Harry’s breathing even out as your eyes slip closed. You’re a bit afraid of waking up disoriented again, but this time you at least have someone to grasp onto if things go wrong.

That, and… You don’t really hate the situation you’re in. You can argue that Harry is actually taking advantage of your fragile state to hug you all he wants, but you don’t hate that fact either. Maybe, just maybe, you can get used to this.

Maybe you can allow yourself to think things can actually get better.

You dream of Esperanse and purple thick liquid flowing through its course. 

_______________________________________________________________

There are three things you find out once you wake up again.

First, is that Harry really called Kim after he brought you home.

Second, is that Kim rummaged out a couple of days off for you two through the captain.

And third, is that Kim *knows* what you did and you are *fucked*.

You’re sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed with a cup in your hands. It’s 9:07 AM, November twenty-third. Six hours after your estimated time of death. Well, and un-death, if you can call it that.

You’re still shaking, so Harry crawled out of bed and made you some tea. Even if it didn’t help with the tremors, it definitely did wonders for your throat. It’s still grating to talk, more so holler, but you aren’t planning on yelling anytime soon, hopefully. Then again, it’s Harry’s flat you’re stuck in. 

Harry changed you into some of his clothes while you were out, your uniform soaked through and in dire need of thorough cleaning. That can wait. Harry’s shirt hangs around you like a cloud, too big on you even with your build. In other words, you look dumb.

Harry looks even dumber when he sits on the bed next to you groaning like an old man, his side pressing into yours slightly.

“Ugh, fucking hell,” you complain, hands gripping the cup tightly, “I wonder when this fucking ends.”

“What exactly?”

You free one hand from the cup and show him your trembling hand.

“I’m so cold. Did your pipes burst too?”

Harry arches an eyebrow at that.

“No. Is there no heat at your place?”

“Hasn’t been any for a week or so.”

“Good thing I couldn’t find the keys to your place when you called. I actually have one, found it later in my kitchenette.”

You hum at that. You hope it doesn’t mean Harry will use this newfound ability to open your door to burst into your place no questions asked. Although, given the situation it took for him to find the key, oh well.

You tilt your head to rub at your temple.

“Do you think Kim told Jude already? Fuck, fucking shit… I’m so fucked.” Harry shakes his head, bewildered.

“Why are you fucked though? I think Kim didn’t tell Pryce what *actually* happened, he wouldn’t. Probably made something up. Like, you fell into the river by accident, which is true.”

Your mouth twists in disgust.

“By *what* fucking accident? 3 AM diving lessons?”

“Maybe it was for a case.”

“What *fucking*... You know what, nevermind.” You're silent for a good five seconds. You clench your teeth and add, quietly: “Thanks, by the way.”

You glance at Harry, and he looks like he’s about to either crush you in a bear hug or strangle you to death. You deserve the latter, though.

“Don’t do that again,” Harry finally chokes out, “I was literally about to kick your door down, when I realized you weren’t even there. That was fucking scary.”

You sigh.

“I know. Thank fuck my door is still intact then.”

“Thank fuck *you’re* still intact. Jean.” Harry worries with his hands. “I know you’re mad I told Kim. I was so panicked that I realised what I said after the words left my mouth. Sorry. I don’t think he thinks you’re a stupid piece of shit, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

You open your mouth and close it immediately. God, you forgot how insane it feels to not have any thoughts  to yourself. You know it’s Harry, and it’s just what he does, and it still takes you off-guard.

“Okay. Good to know. But Jude is gonna chop my head clean off. I will never hear the end of it.”

“Not like I will let you off the hook either though… Because.” He bolts upright, and you recoil at his sudden change of posture. “What the *actual shit* was that, Jean!?” 

There we go. As he promised. His eyes are wild, searching something within you, some sort of logical answer. His hands ball up in the front of his sweatshirt uselessly, as if he was trying to cover himself up, to shield himself from the emotions bubbling up in his chest. 

“You- you had the fucking audacity to tell me you were going outside, alone, all that being properly high off your ass, and you expected me to not do anything about it!? What the fuck did you say to me!? *Goodnight*? That was a good fucking night alright!”

Harry’s voice borders on hysterical, and you just let him have it, head hanging low. You know what comes next, you’ve seen it a million times. It’s going to hurt like it’s the first. 

Then comes the regret, the sincerity that makes your lungs ache.

“I’m… I’m so grateful you decided to call me. This means, at least to me, that you still trust me enough. Even after everything that I did. I know you regretted it the moment you heard me speak, and you were just about to go and hang up. You didn’t. I’m so fucking glad you didn’t. I wouldn’t be able to piece it together without you, I think, because just hearing you like that…” Harry hides his face in his hands, and you place the cup on the floor to pat him on the leg. You feel your eyes burn, and your hand shoots up to rub at them. “And, and I think I understand *why* you did it, but at the same time – I don’t know. I don’t know a thing about you anymore. Not because I don’t remember, but because you don’t let me know.”

Your breath hitches at that, making you shake even more.

“You took my best friend away,” you whisper, and Harry finally looks at you.

“And you tried to take away mine.”

Your insides clench, your chest hurts so much it makes you double over and Harry catches you so you don’t slip off the bed.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp as you’re pulled across Harry’s chest, warmth coating you gently, “I’m so fucking sorry… I tried to do the same you did to me, and you didn’t…. You don’t deserve that, I’m so-”

“Cut the crap,” Harry murmurs, brushing your tears away. His calloused hand scrapes against your scarred cheek slightly. “I drove you away. Of course you did the same. As I said, I’m just.. I’m glad you trusted me. Even if you still hate me.”

“You killed him,” you sob like a little kid. “You killed him and I wanted to die with him, too. But you’re still here, so I figured it wasn’t fair. Even if I realized it last fucking minute. Harry…”

He coos softly, his eyes glistening.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry I did this to you. I don’t know… I can’t even imagine how it would have been if I didn’t *know* it was the fucking Esperanse. Of course it was. You sentimental asshole..”

“Shut up. You love the river as much as I do.”

“And I hate the way I love it. You’re really gonna get radiation sickness if you keep trying to touch the bottom of that goddamned river.”

You laugh, sniffling in quick small breaths.

“I mean… This is why I took pyrholidon prior to feeling out the water. Didn’t want to grow a third arm or something.” Harry huffs at that.

“I have the key to your fucking place. I *will* apply police force to snatch that fucking cap away from you.”

“Hope it doesn’t tempt you when you will. I should be there at the raid, just in case.”

“Sure you will. When they fix your fucking pipes.”

You scrub at your face and bark out another laugh.

“Someone actually needs to issue a complaint about that. I think everyone kind of forgot our whole tenement is freezing their asses off.”

“Sucks to suck, then.”

“It’s easy for you to say that. It feels warmer here.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

You lapse into silence, interrupted only by your quiet sniffling.

You feel awful. Everything from the past few days has crashed down on you. You’re cold, and embarrassment pools hot into your stomach, and your joints hurt like hell. All of this, *and* you’re stuck in Harry’s flat for an indefinite amount of time, because you just know you don’t have it in you to even waddle to the front door. Who fucking knew drowning hurts so much? Once again, not many people live to tell the tale.

Good thing you know someone with supra-natural abilities, or whatever he calls them, to just *know* when someone is drowning.

“You reek of algae and whatnot,” Harry notes when he finally lets go of you, helping you back into bed. “One more minute down there and I would have turned into a fish myself. At least I shower.”

You grumble from under the blankets at that.

“Fuck you mean *at least you shower*? You used to smell like a bag of shit, not that long ago, too.”

“Alright, well, and I don’t have that unique Esperanse fragrance to me right now, so. What can you say?”

“That I can’t fucking shower?”

“Yup.”

“You piece of shit, will you fuck off? That sitting on the bed for ten minutes drained the life out of me.”

Harry picks at his beard.

“What I was getting at is that you can shower here later if you want to. Not like we’re in a hurry.”

“Okay. Thank you, I guess.”

“Aaand you can steal my coffee, but I don’t think coffee is good for someone with hypothermia. Kim told me to give you tea at max. And you can steal more of my blankets…”

“Maybe I should steal your paycheck as well? Sir Generosity. Saying fuck-all…” 

The joke seems to have flown right over his head.

“Maybe you should. You know, I have no idea why it reads ‘Satellite-Officer’ on your badge. Shouldn’t you be, like… A lieutenant or something? I mean *technically* you are, but it still ties you to me, as if you’re still my Satellite, but *technically*...”

“Technically I can stand up and beat the shit out of you right now.”

“You shouldn’t,” Harry says in faux-worry, “I’m afraid I will fucking destroy you. I have the upper hand, by not diving in that godforsaken Esperanse in the middle of the night.”

“What the hell!? Didn’t you dive in as well to drag me out? How are *you* not freezing right now?”

“Oh, well, you know, I wasn’t there for as long as you were. Besides,” he leans to the side to give you an odd look, “My body can regulate my temperature just fine. You know, your self-medication *helped* you with that.”

“God, will you stop pestering me like a doting mother? I’m sleeping.” As to signal that, you turn your back on him, tucking your face into the blankets.

“You’re still shaking though,” Harry notices, “And I don’t wanna sleep anymore. I want to actually *do* things.”

Your eyebrows fly up.

“Why are you saying this like it’s my problem you’re bored?”

“Because it is. Stop sleeping and get better.”

“It’s like, ten in the morning, will you at least let me have a good morning nap?”

“No. Because I’m gonna boil some water and do the most boring thing on the planet.”

“What, drinking coffee?”

“Making compresses for your sorry ass.”

You scowl. “Oh my god, you’re such a dramatic…”

Hardly you finish the sentence before Harry’s out the door. And, frankly, you’re out like a light in no time as well.

_____________________________________________________________

You’re starting to hate the cold, and you think that’s cruel as an avid winter enjoyer. They really should give you a promotion once you live through this hell.

First things first, if you were about to die again, you wouldn’t, under no circumstances, choose that fucking river. Secondly, you don’t think you’re so eager to die at all, since all of your brain power is situated around keeping you upright these days.

With that in mind, you howl like a dying animal when a snowball lands on your back.

Harry snickers, then yells a loud and earth-shattering “oh shit!” when you gather all your mind to lunge the biggest snowball Harry’s eyes have ever seen.

“You’re playing a dangerous fucking game!” you shout at him, gloved hands already submerged in the snow while Harry tries to recover from the bomb that landed on him, “Also, this isn’t fair.” you add, like an offended five year-old.

“What isn’t fair!? The fucking snow got under my shirt- Oh! Ooh!” He clutches at his chest, like he’s just been shot point-blank. “I’m dying!”

You roll your eyes so far back into your head you’re worried you’re actually gonna faint.

“Good riddance, then.” You tug at your sleeve to check your wristwatch. “We're gonna be late if you die.”

“Who fucking cares about that! Also, you're never late. You're a boring fucking guy. Always on time.”

You exhale patiently.

“We're not eighth-graders to be late just *for the fun of it*. People are dying.”

“Yeah, people like me, for example! Ooh,” he breathes on his hands, which are red from being in the snow for too long. You have no idea why this man recites the Communist Manifesto by heart and forgets where he puts his gloves, “It's over for me. Vicquemare, a word. I need to tell them that–”

You didn't let him finish outlining his will as another atomically big snowball hits him in the shoulder. 

You laugh, a sincere, happy string of giggles. 

“We really should go though,” you brush some of the snow from your bad arm as Harry runs up to you, hands still rubbing together. 

“Uh huh. But you actually have a good reason to be late. No one will say a thing.”

You let out a long sigh. Your watch says 8:24 AM. You have five minutes to run to the precinct, but it’s not like you’re actually going to–

“Come on!” Harry gives your side a hard shove as he starts running, boots crunching in the snow. “Last to clock in is a big bitch!”

“Are you seriou- ah, fuck it.”

You make it to the front doors in three and a half minutes, and Harry argues that *you* are a big bitch, which is not true in any sense of the word.

____________________________________________________________________________

It’s eerily quiet in the bullpen. It’s not immediately bad, or so you think.

You keep reassuring yourself that nothing is out of sorts and you just weaned from being here. 

These “two days off” Kim wagered consequently turned into a week. Your chest still hurts, but the rest is more manageable at least.

You know what’s wrong, because it’s not like you make for a big unit. If something happens, *everyone* knows it. Chester and Mack peek inside or your wing way too often, but even they noticed that no one is in the mood today. It left you and Harry fiddling with case files and reading and re-reading a week old reports, just to catch up. 

After a solid twenty minutes you realize that Kim is just being careful around you. That’s understandable. You don’t know if you can take having a talk with him right now. And, to be honest, not like you want to.

Kim is polite enough to wish you a nice day and see himself out to rummage through archive files.

Jude, on the other hand… You’re pretty sure Jude is avoiding you. Or so you think.

You flick yourself lightly on the forehead and sigh. That needs to be dealt with, lest you go insane.

You poke her in the arm when she passes your desk. She turns to you, face unreadable.

The way she looks at you makes you consider *not* bothering her right now. But, the feeling quickly hides itself with the way her eyebrows pinch together. Yeah, no. You should talk.

“You wanna smoke? My treat. Meet me on the roof.” You say curtly. You see a ghost of Judit’s smile at that. You know she doesn’t smoke. It’s some kind of a ritual at this point. Easier to say “let’s smoke” than to suggest you two have a deep and thorough talk. Because, well, you don’t *do* feelings. This is the RCM. You smoke and call each other assholes.

Much to your surprise, Judit takes a cigarette from your hands. You watch idly as she fiddles with your lighter.

“You need to kind of take a drag while you’re lighting it, so it catches.” you help. You give her a bewildered frown when she immediately coughs into her elbow. That’s bound to happen when you’re not used to smoking, it just gnaws at you that she decided to smoke in the first place.

“Ugh. Dei.” she mutters, holding a cigarette between two fingers. The way she holds it is a little awkward, but you’re not some kind of lung cancer expert to comment on that.

  You’re silent for a long moment, your own cigarette withering away slowly.

At long last, Judit speaks up, and your tired muscles tense.

“Why did you do that?” A simple question. Five syllables. It makes you grind your teeth.

“I don’t know.” You answer honestly. “Sometimes I just feel like-”

“All the time,” she corrects. “You feel like this all the time. And you told me you’d talk to your doctors.”

You feel like you’re going to bite through the inside of your cheek.

“Yes. I remember that.”

Jude turns to you, and you watch how her posture shifts slightly to match yours. One arm folded against the other which still holds the cigarette.

“You didn’t even call me,” she presses on. “You were out for a week. Not a single call. I know about this only because of Kim. I’m not even mad Harry didn’t call me, because you probably traumatized him to all hell. So.”

“I was scared you were gonna kill me.” you think for a moment and add a hushed little: “Sorry.”

It takes a lot of self-control for her not to actually lunge at you, it seems. Instead, she takes a long drag of her cigarette, too long. You wince.

“You know, you’re not supposed to smoke it way up to the filter, it’s nast- Ow!” your teachings are quickly aborted once she blows a huge puff of smoke in your face. Okay, you kind of deserved this one.

“Don’t lecture me like I’m a little girl.” Her voice is stern. It makes you falter a bit. Yeah, she’s rightfully mad at you. If she disappeared for a week and you only knew about her well(more like unwell)-being through someone else, that would drive you crazy.

“I understand if you don’t want to talk to me anymore, really, it’s just..”

“I want you to be my partner.”

You blink once. Twice. You almost forgot there’s still a cigarette in your hand and you take a quick drag before it burns your fingers.

“What?” you say dumbly. Then, the second, even more perplexed: “What?”

Judit presses her lips in a sad little line. 

“Just so we can watch each other’s backs. I was getting sick of talking to civilians on my own. You know I’m patient, but sometimes it gets the best of me.”

What you’re hearing is downright insane. You go and try to kill yourself and all she asks of you is to manage civilian control. You know it’s more than that, but it still takes you off-guard.

“And you probably need someone to rush into the shootout head-on,” you say helpfully, “And teach you how to *properly* clean your gun.” Judit scrunches her face.

“I need someone to know when to shut their goddamn mouth and listen to me when I talk,” she retorts. “And usually you’re one of the few men in this precinct who do so.”

“Alright. What about shitty coffee across the street? That’s not worth it while having me as your partner.”

“You’re very wrong, actually. It’s the best thing ever.” She suddenly beams at the thought. “Speaking of which… Turns out Chester hates coffee. So, it was kind of sad when I asked him to buy some with me.”

“He’s so fucking juvenile. How can you hate coffee?”

“People have preferences, it’s not what I meant..”

“Okay, okay.” You put your cigarette out and clasp your hands together. “Then, should we go and break the news to Pryce? The paperwork is gonna be madness, I tell you. Shit-ton of it. But maybe I’ll finally get that promotion, so it's kind of worth it.”

You finally notice she’s been watching your hands this whole time. The second your hands fly up so you can fold them on your chest like usual, she actually - honest to god - lunges at you. You hardly let out a bewildered ‘oof’, your chest getting squeezed so hard you can swear you feel your soul leave your body.

“Fucking- shit- are you actually trying to kill me?” You choke out, wrapping your hands around Judit’s shoulders carefully. 

“Yes. I’m actually trying to,” She admits. 

“No, but really, let go… Just a little bit. My chest fucking hurts.”

“Mine hurts too when I look at you, but I’m not saying anything.” Despite that remark she eases her hold on you. You caress her back carefully when she sniffles, one single quiet inhale.

“I’m sorry, really, Jude. I was a dick to you.” 

“You were.”

“And even if I feel like this again, I will… Try to not actually go through with it.”

She laughs wetly at that.

“Wow. Thank you so much. But if you don’t have your new prescriptions by tomorrow, I’m not responsible for what I’m gonna do.”

“Tomorrow!? I can’t possibly book an appointment so fast! That, and. I meant to call them today.”

“Really? And if I hear ‘I promise’ from you right now, just like you told me that evening, I swear to Dolores fucking Dei..”

“I know, I know! I won’t say it. God…” You hide your face in the folds of her uniform. “I feel like I owe an apology to every single person on this fucking Elysium these days.”

“Manon started asking after you. She asks me when you’re coming next every now and then.”

“As I was saying..”

You stay like that for what feels like an eternity, until Judit pulls away, rubbing at her eyes. She spares you a glance, looking you from head to toe, and hunches slightly, pressing a half-folded palm to your forehead, shifting to your cheek for one quick moment. You flinch, but only slightly.

“You motherfucker,” she concludes, “Alive and well.”

“Alive and well.” you agree. You purse your lips and avert your gaze, suddenly shy. “We really should go to Pryce though. If you’re… Sure about that. And it’s not a momentary decision.”

This earns a weak punch to your arm. 

“I told you already. If I’m being honest, I was just… Scared. Of losing you like that. Now I see that I kind of kept you at arms length. So, we’re even.”

Your face contorts. Something in your chest feels lighter.

“Alright. Then, should we go?”

She smiles brightly, eyes still red-rimmed.

“Of course.”


___________________________________________


You bump into Kim on your way from Pryce’s office. There’s something small in the reflection of his glasses. Like an emotion. Or a quiet request. You know what he’s going to say before the words leave his mouth.

“Should we talk?” He suggests. 

“We should.”

You gesture him to go outside. There’s a lot of detours today. This is what you get for scaring the shit out of everyone.

You sit on the stairs, rustling through your pockets for a cigarette and not finding any. Okay. You can give your  lungs a small rest for this one conversation.

Kim’s face is unreadable when he takes his notebook out and writes something in it. Closes it and turns to you.

“So, I hope you’re doing well.” You gnaw at your lip. 

“Yeah. I am. Thank you, for… Everything, really. I heard you told Harry what to do when.. You know.”

“When you attempted suicide, yes.” His straightforwardness makes your skin crawl. Everyone avoids saying this word – *suicide*. Saying it out loud makes it feel too real for something that feels like a slow, passing dream.

You force yourself to look at Kim in an attempt to find out his position towards your little stunt. He only frowns slightly, writing something down again. He’s a very closed-off person, you remind yourself patiently. It doesn’t mean he resents you for doing what you did, even if you think it’s true.

Sometimes you wish you were like him. Instead, every emotion is painted widely across your face, even if you so much as try to cover it with your snarky remarks. 

“Yeah. Thanks again.” You blurt out. “And… It sucks that Harry probably woke you up that night. Must have been awful.”

Kim’s eyes lock on you, making you terrifyingly uneasy.

“Is this what you’re concerned about? I’m pretty sure RCM officers are prone to cut their sleeping hours, be it an emergency or something else.”

“No, I mean, well… It’s *Harry* we’re talking about.”

“What about him?” A lot, you don’t say. But also, you’re derailing this conversation pretty fast. You better fix that.

“Nothing! Nothing. I just hope it wasn’t too much of a bother to you, uh… Kim.”

You’ve gone and done it, you made Kim stare at you in sheer surprise. You watch Kim’s pupils constrict, eyeing you carefully.

“Harry was absolutely hysterical when he called me. He told me he managed to restart your heart and you were semi-conscious when he did so, which is a very good sign, but you were completely still, even after being dried out and redressed.” You fold your hands on your chest, looking away, as Kim continues to list the details of the incident like he was describing a cadaver. “I even managed to drive to Harry’s place just to calm him down, because drowning victims tend to look dead even after having been revived, but he was inconsolable. And after *all of this* the only thing you’re worried about if you were *too much of a bother*?”

This… Was a lot, just now. You squirm under Kim’s gaze as it burns holes into you. You need to say something. Preferably not about ruining his night.

“Honestly, I just thought…”

“No. None of that.” He says curtly. “I know you will try to apologize for that, but that’s unnecessary in my opinion. *A lot* of RCM officers feel the way you do.” His tone softens. “A lot of people feel the way you do.”

And I’m so grateful you decided to call Harry, you finish mentally in his stead.

“What I’m getting at is, you shouldn’t be alone. When I joined the 41st, Harry explicitly told me you have this thing, *camaraderie*. Not many units possess the same fraternité. This is why I tried to get on good terms with you, hopefully in quick success,” You think of how you always feel like he looks down on you and want to bash your head in for that thought, “So we could *at least* be on good terms. Maybe, later on, we could become friends.”

You swallow thickly. Is *that* why he always asked you those warm-sounding mundane questions? Not just because you’re his colleague? You are so stupid.

“I am so stupid,” you feel like this thought deserves to be said out loud. “I thought I was just a dumb loud kid to you.” Okay, too sincere, but you’ve been having a lot of *deep* conversations today. So, fuck it.

Kim blinks at you and readjusts his glasses.

“You never were. I always thought of you as an astoundingly experienced officer. What’s all that all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know. Forget it. Moving on,” you say too quickly, hands diving into pockets in an automatic search for a cig. Did you misplace your pack somewhere? This sucks so much.

“Khm. Anyways. I think I just wanted to give you this.” His fingers grip the edge of a paper in his notebook and he tears a narrow strip from it in one quick motion. He hands it to you – a ten-digit number. “Just in case. I realized you don’t have my home number.” He spares you a small smile. 

…Woah, is all that emerges in your head. Apparently it takes a dying man to make Kim Kitsuragi smile. Duly noted. 

You take the small piece of paper and inspect it – small round letters, a light neat cursive. Somehow both bulky and gentle.

“Thank you. I’ll give you a call so you will know it’s me. Does your telephone have a, uh…”

“Call recording? No, does yours?”

“...No. Just thought I’d ask. Then here,” you gesture to his notebook and you tentatively take the pen from his hands. Your writing is clumsy compared to his, but surprisingly coherent. You tap the pen’s end on the paper twice – an odd habit of yours – and hand it back to him.

“That does it. You can call me anyway,” he assures, “Anytime. Because you shouldn’t be alone with your thoughts, you know. This kind of mentality kills people.”

His gaze is observant on you, and it makes you look away, rubbing the back of your neck. He’s way too deadpan for your comfort, but if you were to actually *become friends* as he said, you would need to really get used to it. You bet having a straightforward person in your close circle does wonders on a person’s mental health. At least Harry started looking way healthier since the start of his partnership with Kim, and that’s saying something.

In other words – he’s no enemy to you. And he doesn’t think any less of you, even after your *suicide attempt*. You still feel antsy around him, but this feeling will rule itself out, you suppose.

“I know I told you that twice already, but really. *Thank you.* You’re being very kind to me, Kim.”

“I hope you’ll allow yourself to be kind to yourself the same way I’m kind to you, then. Good talk, Jean.”

You smile shyly when he outstretches his hand to you. You give it a firm shake.

“Good talk indeed. Well then, I meant to ask you about this one report…”

______________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________

On the third day of your grand return home you realize nobody actually cares about the goddamn pipes. You yelled at a couple of people from the control room and they just shook their heads. In the end, you are left with your small freezing cold flat and the same yellowish-green-blue wallpaper on your walls.

It feels like a casket, you realize. A cold, emotionless grave. It makes you think of your mother. A single lamp in your kitchen is crinkling quietly when you turn it on.

You actually got the prescriptions, and it’s the same medication you took a half a year ago. The dosage is higher, though. It makes you queasy, and you dimly think of it as a good thing, since you can buy less food and save more money.

What you feel like these days is unbearably lonely, and it’s something you’re disgusted to admit to yourself. You know it’s probably because of the meds, but you wish you didn’t drag your feet to perform simple tasks.

You hunch at the kitchen table, clinking a single half-full cup of coffee with your fingernail. 

You hate it, but you feel the cavity in your chest eat you from the inside. You hate to feel this way – again. You wish it stopped on its own. Instead, the feeling pins you down, and you feel like you don’t even have the energy to stand up and shut the blinders for the night.

You wonder if it’s going to be like this forever, coming in waves. You hope not. You swallow, feeling the nausea roll in your gut, when you take a deep breath and think of a small ti–

You hear your door being unlocked, which makes you jump up like a scared cat. What the actual fuck?

Your hands immediately fly to your belt on sheer instinct, you hurriedly try to remember where your gun is and why it’s not on the table with you, like it should be.

Your paranoid thought train stops in its tracks when you see a shaggy head peek through the door.

“Hello.” It says, a bit sheepishly.

You let out a shaky exhale. Then you inhale, long and drawn-out, before releasing all the air in your lungs in the most powerful yell your neighbours have ever heard.

“What the ACTUAL FUCK, Du Bois!!??”

Harry scurries into the hallway, hands in the air. There’s a yellow Frittte bag dangling around his left wrist.

“Shh, shh! Fucking hell, I swear I went deaf just now!” He fiddles with his snow-covered boots, ignoring the fact that he wasn’t given any permission to go inside, “Sorry! I thought you might like some company.”

“You *thought*!? You could- could have at least fucking called, not barge in!” You take deep breaths, making it look like it’s from your excessive yelling, not because the fucker actually scared you, “I really need to confiscate that fucking key from you. God fucking shit.”

Harry ignores you, going straight to your bathroom. He opens your cabinet door and takes the pyrholidon tin, pocketing it. He didn’t even need to search for it, he actually just *knew* where you keep it. That’s fucking scary.

“That’s what I meant to do.” he proclaims, turning to you as you still stand dumbfounded in your hallway. He thinks for a moment. “I don’t think you have anything else in your flat, apart from your meds, so I guess the police raid is over. Also, check out my new coat.” He dusts his coattails off, the coat itself a disgusting bright-orange. He gives it a little twirl, as if he was in an evening dress.

You stare at him. Then stare at him some more, mouth slack.

“You are a fucking psychopath, and this is who I call my best friend.” You say, mostly to yourself. Harry represses a smile and takes his coat off, hanging it next to the door. This orange abomination is a stark contrast to your black and white outwear. He still didn’t even ask if he could stay.

“Anyways, do you have any spare blankets? It’s fucking cold here. I can take the couch, or- If you *don’t* want me to take your couch, I can just sleep on the floor.”

You’re starting to wonder if you actually *did* invite him and forgot about it. You feel like you’re going completely and clinically insane, and your medication isn’t to blame for that.

“Okay, yeah. Sure. Okay.” you mumble. “Who the… Who the *fuck* told you you could have a *fucking* sleepover at my place!?”

“Inland E- Me. I did. You know, just had a hunch that you’re sad is all. You’re really mad at me, so that’s a nice change from being sad.”

“Brilliant logic. *Thank you* for fucking my evening.”

Harry pays you no mind, already rummaging through your closet and taking some old blankets out.

“I can sleep on the floor. You know, I remember your bathroom vividly, for some reason. And not so long ago I just remembered that I was sitting there - right there -” he points to the floor of your bedroom, “With this huge fucking wound in my shoulder. Like, someone sliced me, or something. And you were in my place, taking some rags out from the closet or something, and you told me that I can take the floor. And I told you that I’m not some kind of a dog, at which you went and dragged me to the bathroom.”

You smile despite yourself as you sit on the floor next to Harry, who’s looking your blankets over in some kind of quiet wonder.

“You were blackout drunk. Like, properly knocked out. You called yourself  The Jamrock Psycho when I managed to get you into the tub. No idea how you came up with that shit. Then again, you had *a lot* of Commodore Red. I had just a couple of swigs, because it was kind of easier to handle you this way.”

“That was an awful fuckin’ night.”

“Yeah, it was.” Harry folds the blanket on his lap carefully. “Remember when I tried to jump out of your window?”

You clench your teeth, but laugh, surprising yourself.

“I think that was the moment my neighbours stopped filing noise complaints altogether. They just realised the only sane thing they can do is move the fuck out of this tenement.”

“That, *and* you tore my disco blazer trying to drag me off the window sill.”

“That’s what I get for saving your fuckin’ life.”

“I was drunk that time too. And the time after that one…”

You sigh.

“Of course you were. It’s the only way you could have ever managed the shit that was happening to you.”

“No. I see that now. I had you, and I realised I never properly thanked you for that, so. Thank you.” Harry smiles, all teeth, giving your shoulder a little shake.

You gave up on the idea you both were going to get any better after a year of your partnership. You thought you were destined to fall, grasping each other’s wrists.

You thought that for a long, long time. You thought that for the last half a year. Last month, too. 

And you finally allow yourself, not for a split second, not for a single moment of sincerity, to think you *can*. You can. He can, too. 

You will make it right. The way you saved him, the way he saved you.

“Okay. I won’t let you take the floor, though. It’s fucking cold. And, you’re not a dog. You’re a fucking *hound*. Fierce and ferocious. Alright, partner?”

Harry presses his shoulder into your side.

“Alright, partner.”