Archive of Our Own ^beta

This was a stuffy summer evening. A typical Jamrock summer, the stagnant air muffling the sun's heat, allowing its intensity to linger well into the approaching night.

The low pressure before the storm pressed against the skin, oppressive, making the suffocating restlessness inside even harder to alleviate under its grip.

Jean Vicquemare got off work on time for once. No crime scene soaked in blood and cadaverine, no elusive witnesses who appear and disappear with words left unsaid, no high-intensity Jamrock Shuffle—just mountains of paperwork, those reports that could always be put off until tomorrow or the day after, to kill his time.

He counted down the seconds, and the moment the official quitting time arrived, he shot up like a spring, grabbed his coat, and walked quickly through C-wing, which had just begun to flow with people after hours. He clocked out and went downstairs.

The bus stop not far from the old silk mill was old, radiating the residual heat of a day under the scorching sun. He stood there, his collar loosened, sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

He held a long, black umbrella in his hand, unopened. The sky hadn't started to rain yet, but clouds were already gathering in the distance.

The number 21 bus to his apartment arrived and stopped in front of him, but he didn't get on. He watched it leave instead. He stood at the stop for a long time, and finally boarded the bus heading for the western suburbs.

The window reflected his own blurry face, but he didn't look at it. He just thought: This route, I traveled this road three days ago, sitting in the precinct's Coupris 40, and I threw up next to a trash can halfway there.

He had never liked paperwork. It was tedious, and his mind easily wandered. Today had been a hard day.

Harry didn't like it either; Jean could hardly ever remember seeing him sit still in his chair filling out forms and writing reports without fidgeting and complaining loudly. It was better now, though, because Harry had Kim, who was good at paperwork, and he'd relearned what it meant to "work."

In the first week after Harry returned to the 41st, whenever he crumpled up a report, Kim would say, in that weary, restrained tone of his, "Detective, you really need to write this yourself this time."

And Harry, for once forgoing his exaggerated sighs, would mutter, "Alright, alright," and then, staring at the blank form as if it were an unsolvable puzzle, he'd ask, "What exactly am I supposed to write in these blanks?"

Anyway, the effort was commendable.

In the end, Kim would silently push his own report over, on the first line of Harry's blank form, lightly tapping his finger.

Back when Jean and Harry were partners, there was always a fair bit of mental sparring between them over who would write up the case reports.

When Harry was too drunk to hold a pen without trembling, Jean was unquestionably the one who handled the remaining work; when Harry was sober, he tried his best to do his duty, but occasionally, the detective would suggest they play rock-paper-scissors to decide whether the winner or the loser would write the report.

Jean could have refused, but out of childish competitiveness, to prove his dominance in the realm of rock-paper-scissors, he played along. Jean won some, lost some, but the opportunity to hone his writing skills always landed squarely on him.

He'd complained, cursed, and on overtime nights, staring at the blank "Case Analysis" section, he'd gritted his teeth and said, "I'm never playing rock-paper-scissors again."

But the next time, he played anyway. And wrote anyway.

He used to think it was just luck. A mischievous joke of probability. But every single time? Probability didn't work like that. When asked about this absurd win rate at rock-paper-scissors, Harry just smiled and said, "I know what you're going to throw, Vic."

Rock-paper-scissors was just one trivial thing among many strange occurrences. Once, in some factory warehouse, with a body lying between tall shelving units, Jean listened to Harry analyze the ballistic trajectory.

An inference was taking shape in Jean's mind, but Harry suddenly stopped mid-sentence and said, "Jean, your thinking is perfectly logical. It really wasn't homicide." He even hiccupped, smelling of alcohol.

"The vic's gun fell to the floor, the trigger caught on something, going off, and then bang—a simple accident."

Jean said nothing at the time, just asked with his eyes, How did you know what I was thinking? He even denied thinking in that direction himself. But Harry just shrugged and crouched back down to continue examining the body.

He'd never asked Harry how he did it. Maybe the answer wasn't mysterious at all, just some natural, unspoken understanding between two people who spent all their time together.

Still, Jean was willing to believe that Harry did, in some way, read his mind.

Did he ever hear just how badly I cursed him out in my head? Jean thought wryly, even though the things he said to Harry's face were already pretty unrestrained.

Sometimes this kind of unrestrainedness stepped to a degree that surprised even Jean himself—that he could say those things without a second thought, making Judit's brow furrow so deeply that she'd almost reprimand him to stop, ignoring the fact that he was her superior.

Part of Jean examined his own behavior, thinking he didn't need to act like someone with rage issues, getting so agitated whenever Harry came up, talking non-stop (God, he was diagnosed with depression, not bipolar); another part of him continued to fan the flames with clear conscience, believing it was all deserved by Harry, and deserved by himself.

For every minute Harry appeared in his field of vision, he was reminded for one minute:"Fuck off, you're cramping my style." It was all there—the sour stench of vomit thick with alcohol, pressed together with Harry's pathetic, goddamn body, weighing down on Jean's mentally and physically exhausted frame.

He'd think about how many times, goddamn how many times, he'd had to go to some no-name bar, or worse, some filthy alley where a body in plain sight wouldn't be reported for weeks, just to drag Harry back to his apartment, to keep him from dying on the street and wasting police resources.

A child was crying on the bus. Jean didn't turn his head. He just listened to the intermittent sobs, remembering a morning when Harry was lying on his desk, head covered by his jacket, making a similar sound. Not crying. Just the spasms of alcohol withdrawal. The hangnail on Jean's finger hurt. He wanted to tear it off, but finally curbed the impulse.

He thought these things were in the past. He told himself he'd moved on. But now, as the bus lurched westwards, a particular night surfaced on its own.

Jean had gotten another one of Harry's incoherent phone calls, the gist again being why did she leave me, same as always.

Jean himself had been drowning his sorrows in drink at the time, but for Harry's sake, he still pulled himself together, painstakingly extracted the bar's address from the drunk's rambling, or just knew instinctively which bar he'd be at today, and went to pick him up.

But Harry wasn't grateful. He was heavy, flailing on Jean's shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably, trying to start a fight, mumbling "I'm going to kill myself."

Jean, in the chaos of that night, half-drunk himself, gritted his teeth and endured the shoving. He fished the keys from Harry's pocket, opened the door, and dumped him onto the dark sofa.

He watched Harry writhe, mumble, vomit gracelessly—green bile dripping onto the floor, joining the long-dried liquor stains and empty bottles, ruining this apartment, ruining his dignity, his relationships, his life, everything he had. Most importantly, ruining Jean's trust.

Jean stood there, looking at him, and thought: Why the fuck am I still here? Why the fuck am I still doing this?

"If you're going to kill yourself," Jean panted, "I'll blow your fucking head off before you get the chance. And then I'll blow my own fucking brains out."

As an RCM officer, a homicide detective, he hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't known he would want to say that. But he did say it. Fucking depression.

Had he meant it? No. But in that moment, he meant every single word. He would have done it, set fire to this apartment right then and there, dragged Harry up and drowned him in the kitchen sink, thrown him out the window (though, admittedly, a challenge for his physical fitness), and so on—if Jean hadn't been so tired, so sane, knowing none of it was necessary. These thoughts were deeply troubling.

If Harry can read minds, he really should be careful.

Jean's stomach was unsettled—maybe motion sickness. He shouldn't keep dwelling on these memories; they were bad for his mental health.

But this next part was the point, wasn't it? That night, Harry was so high he was barely conscious, overdosed, flailing his limbs wildly, and he landed a solid punch right on Jean's face. It hurt. Heat spread instantly.

Jean was remarkably calm. He took another step forward, grabbed Harry by the tie around his neck, swung his arm, and hit him back with full force right across the face—a sharp, clean crack. When Jean let go, Harry's head lolled limply to the side, his lip split against his teeth, seeping red.

An eye for an eye, Jean thought.

At work the next day, Jean stared at Harry's swollen lips as he swallowed his first coffee of the morning. Harry greeted him, sporting a pair of party eyes, probably on amphetamines again.

"What happened to your lips?" Jean asked, licking his own.

"I don't know," Harry replied.

That was practically the epitome of their relationship. Jean, depressed and drained, carried the morning's anger, caffeine making him anxious. He felt guilty over Harry's injury, worried, and maybe with a flicker of satisfaction.

He waited for an accusation, something he could fight back against, proof that Harry was beyond saving, evidence that he had tried. Standing on the high ground of an argument with Harry brought him comfort, like a dose of Drouamine after the pain.

But nothing, came. Nothing at all. Harry had forgotten, forgotten the fresh wounds, his own and Jean's, forgotten all those fucking nights he could have choked on his own vomit at any moment. Harry had selfishly taken away Jean's worries, sorrows, anger, and even the brief relief that followed the discomfort, leaving him nothing. How dare he?

Even if Harry carefully filled the void with better, newer things—apologies, jokes that didn't go too far, coffee with milk brewed just for him, a harmonious office atmosphere, requests to start over, ten months of sobriety—Jean didn't want to forgive him.

He didn't dare forgive. He'd learned his lesson countless times: forgiveness meant compromise after compromise, deception after deception, disappointment after disappointment, eroding his peace of mind. He couldn't do this to himself anymore.

Besides, those things weren't Jean's. They weren't even Harry's.

They were no longer partners. No matter how Jean felt, no matter how he tried to refuse, he had to take everything Harry offered—starting over, moving on, letting bygones be bygones. Call it what you will. In short, forget the past, or else be labelled immature. That bastard version of Harry was already ancient history, to everyone else. Two years had passed.

He thought of a recently cleared desk, empty and wiped clean of dust, as if waiting for a new owner, or more like mourning its old one.

Everything was forever in the past.

The bus lurched to a stop; Jean pitched forward and then back in his seat. He lifted his head. On the window glass—his own face, eyes rimmed red. He'd forgotten he was on a bus.

He stood up, got off the bus, and continued on his way. He didn't want to keep wallowing in self-pity over old, unresolved grievances. He wiped his hand across his face, trying to wipe away the melancholy along with it.

He wasn't in a hurry. He walked with extreme slowness—not the unhurried pace of composure, but a kind of dawdling he knew all too well, an unfortunate byproduct of depression. In its severe form, it could prevent him from doing even the smallest daily tasks, like getting out of bed. He seemed to not really want to keep walking.

Am I really going? he asked himself, almost with a hint of alarm, suddenly feeling as though he'd lost his bearings.

Three days ago, he'd travelled this road in one of the precinct's last two Coupris 40s, the stifling air inside making him dizzy.

Bounced around helplessly in his seat, he kept bumping into Judit beside him. He muttering apologies constantly, forcing his scattered mind to focus, ignoring the powerful urge to vomit stuck in his throat.

Fuck, distract myself, quick. He turned his head, trying to focus on the scenery outside the window. But whether it was the car's speed or his state truly being that shitty, he couldn't make out anything—just blurry patches of colour crashing like a flood through his mind.

He forced his eyes up, turned his head to look at Kim in the driver's seat, his gaze landing on his right arm. A halogen watermark was neatly affixed to the navy patrol jacket, the stitching precise.

For once, the lieutenant wasn't wearing that bright orange bomber jacket, but the standard RCM uniform.

Anyone could see Kim's fondness for that bomber jacket; among the few pieces of personal clothing he'd watermarked, it was undoubtedly the one he wore most often—so often, in fact, that Kim only took it off in two situations: laundry day, or formal occasions.

Formal occasions. Jean bit down on those words. Something big had happened. Of course, it wasn't something good. It had been a long time since Jean had expected anything good to happen to the 41st—it was something bad, something that pushed the already struggling C-Wing special task force further towards its grave.

Maybe Harrier fucking Du Bois had finally earned himself a disciplinary hearing. In that case, Jean would of course dress up to witness the end of Harry's detective career—he imagined Kim would do the same.

Or maybe they had lost another officer, which would certainly require mourning. Not because they'd grown disappointed and flown off to shine somewhere they needn't deal with a drunk—but because they'd stopped: by gunshot, blunt force trauma, high-impact collision. Badge revoked. Permanently.

"Lieutenant Kitsuragi, could you stop for a moment?" Judit grabbed Jean's arm hastily and called to the front. "I think Jean's going to be sick!"

Yes, Jean had thrown up quite heartily back then, right next to that trash can around here. Now he felt like throwing up again. But he really had no reason to turn back now: he'd come all this way; turning back would render all his effort useless.

Sunk cost, it was always sunk cost, cutting off any chance for Jean to retreat.

Jean passed through the familiar iron gate. Its evenly spaced bars divided his view into thin slices, like a prison door separating two worlds, inside from out. His feet trod weakly on the gravel.

Then came the weary, rasping voice of the clerk at the lazareth: "Mr. Vicquemare, the important thing is to face it."

That's what the psychologist he'd finally managed to see had told him. What a useless thing to say.

What Jean had hoped for were pills as effective as antidepressants, taken with water to maintain a normal life, regardless of side effects. That peace filled with absence after taking his meds on time was still peace; he didn't care.

But face it? How was he supposed to face it? Unless he forgot he was facing it. Why was Harry the only one who got to have amnesia?

Sweat beaded on his back. The setting sun's heat was relentless, the dark clouds near the horizon clearly visible, like shadows. His feet didn't stop. Again, memories slipped back on their own to a few days prior.

A sweltering afternoon, the sunlight harsh and cruel. At that same place—that slightly greener, secluded spot he was now heading towards—many people had gathered. Almost all the faces from C-Wing were there.

Judit stood ramrod straight, her lips pressed tightly together. Trant kept adjusting his tie knot as if it were a noose. Mack and Chester had nothing to say, just stood in solemn silence. Captain Pryce's hat brim was pulled low, his expression unreadable. Kim stood a little apart, his posture as upright as ever, like a sculpture impervious to wind and rain.

The sun was merciless, baking everyone. Jean felt his shirt completely soaked through, plastered to his spine. He couldn't tell if it was sweat wrung out by the muggy heat, or cold sweat seeping from his very bones. Clammy, uncomfortable, as if he were slowly melting.

He glanced at every familiar face, saw sweat trickle down, saw everyone's skin glistening wet under the fierce sun, bearing the weight of this oppressive heat. Except—

"Jean."

Jean was caught completely off guard. His eyes moved up from the edge of that patch of earth—recently turned, its colour slightly different from the surrounding ground—past the khaki cargo pants, the bright orange bomber jacket, and met a pair of placid dark eyes behind lenses, wrapped in wisps of smoke.

"Kim." Jean wasn't sure what to say. He hadn't expected to see anyone here. He felt like an intruder, someone who had just shattered something incredibly fragile, something he wasn't meant to see. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"It's fine. This place doesn't belong to me, anyway." Kim was clearly surprised too; a complex expression flickered across his face, but before Jean could decipher it, it was swiftly concealed. He was again the imperturbable lieutenant. He was smoking his daily cigarette. "I was just leaving."

"No, you stay." Jean said, gesturing towards the glowing tip in Kim's fingers. He was sort of surprised by his own words. "At least finish that cigarette."

Kim halted his departing step.

Jean's hand slid into his own pocket, pulling out a pack of Astra cigarettes. He flipped the top open with his thumb, only to find it empty. He stuffed it back in, annoyed. He must have forgotten to buy more.

Kim seemed to notice. "I have one more." He drew a cigarette from an inner pocket of his jacket and offered it to Jean. Jean could see the corner of a light blue notebook protruding from the same pocket.

"Thanks." Jean held the cigarette between his fingers and reached for his lighter. "I thought you only smoked one cigarette a day, you know, only carried one with you."

Kim was silent for a moment. He seemed to hesitate. Then he spoke: "I do only smoke one."

He paused.

"That one wasn't meant for me."

Jean realized there was an opening there for a joke—"It was for me, then?" something like that. But he knew it wasn't. Not for Kim Kitsuragi.

He'd been at the 41st for two years now, and his address for most people was still the most formal rank and surname. He rarely engaged in the office's crude humour, distancing himself from the casual social atmosphere that permeated the precinct. His detachment undoubtedly made him emotionally inaccessible; that kind of joke wasn't suited for him. Such familiarity was beyond Jean.

Jean looked down at the cigarette Kim had given him. It had just been taken from Kim's pocket, the filter still clean, untouched by anyone's lips. Untouched by Harry's lips.

"For Harry?" Jean found his lighter, lit the cigarette, and took a deep drag. "So, he goes up to the roof every day just to bum a smoke from you?"

The lieutenant shook his head. "Not every day." Smoke rose from between his fingers, straight as a line. "I told him if he wanted to quit, he'd better stay away from things that might trigger the urge to smoke. Like, for instance, a colleague who's smoking."

"Besides, interrupting his work rhythm to come find me—that's something I didn't want either. But he insisted, and so his rooftop breather became part of his routine. To quit, he stopped buying cigarettes, and only occasionally borrows one from me when the craving hits." His gaze dropped, joining Jean's. "He pays me back with dinner, at that little diner near the precinct."

"The one with the pies he likes?" Jean tapped the ash off from his cigarette.

He caught the warm scent of grease, and felt the stiffness of the red-and-white checked tablecloths, that PVC crispness. Back when things were still good, when he was twenty-eight, still young, still looking forward to grabbing lunch with Harry.

He'd only been partnered with Harry for a month, but he'd known of Harry for a long time: the 41st's human can-opener, the specimen of performance evaluation, a living legend—older officers spoke of him with a complex sort of awe, like talking about a racehorse that might bolt at any moment but would always be the first to cross the finish line.

He'd transferred in during a Jamrock winter. People's warm breath fogged up the large windows. Jean was absentmindedly cutting into his cured meat. His knife hit the plate, but he was dividing Harry's rambling conversations into manageable, bite-sized pieces. Jean smiled, ate them up, and felt satisfied.

He didn't know back then what those lunches would later become.

Everything was good. At least, he thought so. He chose to ignore his new partner's beverage preferences at lunch: Potent Pilsner, or Commodore Red, drinks most people didn't order with a meal. But Harry wasn't most people, Jean figured. He certainly wasn't.

Back then, Major Crimes was a real Major Crimes unit. And Harry was a real Dick Mullen—that almost unreal superstar detective with ability bordering on myth.

Jean remembers those nights. Sitting side by side at their cluttered desks, going over the day's investigation, Harry would suddenly re-enact a witness's expression, a hesitation, a lie the witness themselves hadn't noticed. Jean would listen, pass him the next file, occasionally interject with "Then why would he lie?"—and watch Harry spring up, pacing the office, carried away by his own analysis.

Jean would think: This is my partner. This is us.

It was the golden age of Harry's career. Or, as he'd put it—the most "disco" years of his life. Even if it was the tail end.

Jean often heard Harry mention that word. The first time, during an overtime stint that stretched until dawn, Harry started talking, switching topics quickly as he always did, from the case to his personal interests: "You know, Jean, back in the '30s, Revachol was full of disco clubs everywhere. When the light ball spun, the whole world was nothing but coloured fragments."

He made an elegant finger gun at Jean, as if to shoot and shatter a non-existent disco ball, revealing those dazzling halos that existed only in his eyes. "You didn't have to think about anything, you just had to dance."

Back then, Jean didn't really understand what he was talking about. He was born during the long reconstruction period after the Revolution; when the new era arrived, he was still a child who needed an adult's company to go out.

And now the light balls were going out one by one, the once-thriving dance halls had changed hands. Jean only ever heard some disco tunes on the radio.

He'd never been to such a party, and wouldn't get another chance, until Harry turned off the lights, pulled out a radio, tuned it to Disco FM, the cheerful drumbeat pulsing, and reached out his hand to Jean.

"...What are you doing?"

"Inviting you to dance," Harry said.

Jean was stunned for two seconds.

"...What?"

"Dance," Harry repeated. "Everyone's gone from the office anyway."

"Are you serious?"

"We work these cases so hard, stay up till our eyes are bloodshot. Always the last ones out." Harry continued, matter-of-factly. "Don't you think we deserve a little bit of fun?"

Jean looked at him. Harry stood there, shirt rumpled and tucked into his slacks. He'd been working for thirty-two hours straight, his last proper meal was a cold sandwich yesterday lunchtime, and his eyes were shot with red.

And he was still inviting Jean to dance.

"I don't know how," Jean said.

"I'll teach you."

"I don't want to—"

"No, you do. Come on!"

Harry walked towards him, extending his hand further, waiting to be taken. Jean looked down at that hand—knuckles rough, old calluses on the palm, marks that clearly showed its owner had repeatedly honed it with a gun. When you go undercover, these are traits to give you away easily.

This is an RCM detective, Jean thought, and of course, so are you. You're partners.

Jean took it.

Harry began to move, slowly, and Jean followed clumsily. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing; the music made him want to move, but his hardware wouldn't allow it. He accidentally stepped on Harry twice, then tripped over himself and nearly fell, only to have Harry catch him by the arm just in time.

"Relax," Harry said, leaning in, his tone teasing. "Don't dance with your brain, man! The more you think, the heavier your body gets! Let your brain flow away like water, Vic! Dance with your body!"

"I don't have a body," Jean gritted through his teeth. "I only have this uncoordinated lump. "

"Then pretend you do."

"...If anyone ever sees me looking this stupid, I'll kill myself," Jean muttered, clinging tightly to Harry's shoulder.

A completely unrestrained smile spread across Harry's lips as he looked into Jean's eyes. Jean caught a glimpse of a vibrant grey-green within them.

He said: "In that case, I'd have no choice but to die with you, Vic!"

Jean wanted to kiss him badly then.

The song on the radio changed to something faster. Harry steadied Jean, let go of his hand, stepped back, and slid alone into that dance floor cluttered with desks. His moves weren't professional, far from graceful. But in that moment, there was something about Harry that made him seem to glow.

Jean remembered what he'd just said. Colored fragments. Spin the mirrorball, and the whole world was just colored fragments. He hadn't understood before. Now he did.

He took a step.

That step was still clumsy, his knees practically rigid, still out of control. But he took it. He couldn't find the beat, but he didn't stop. Harry, seeing him dance, let his smile blossom further into disco-style joy.

Jean didn't realize he was sweating, didn't notice the rain starting to fall outside the window, didn't feel time passing. Later that night he'd get soaked to the bone because he hadn't brought an umbrella and Harry had forgotten to refuel the Coupris. The next morning he'd wish the world would come to an end, too tired to keep his eyes open, caffeine flooding his bloodstream uselessly because he'd clocked out at two in the morning again, slept less than five hours, and part of the reason he'd stayed up was because he chose to fool around with Harry.

But at that moment, he didn't care. He just danced, aware only that the room was filled with a kind of light, different from the sun's harsh white—it was the state after a prism scattered light, it was colored. Like the road after an oil tanker passes in the rain. Like soap bubbles in sunlight. Like a rainbow. In the dark office, colors were like fragments, like birds, like streamers, flashing before his eyes. He saw champagne-colored decorations, golden glimmers. He was going to dance on this floor until the pale swallowed all humanity, swallowed him and Harry. It was all like a party he'd never been to but had always been waiting for. Happy, hazy, dizzying.

And his partner was the source of that light. That shining, glittering disco ball. He was the one who brought these coloured lights.

Jean returned to reality, suddenly realizing he was smiling. "I always see his takeout containers on his desk. He loves getting pie from that diner as a snack. Every time I pass his office, he calls out to me, trying to share his 'huge, delicious, needs-to-be-shared, you'll regret it if you don't have any' pie. When will he ever get it through his head that not everyone is waiting to be fed by him, and that when an adult says no, he shouldn't wheedle like he's coaxing a kid to eat!"

"He likes sharing food with people, probably because he's always so hungry himself. He doesn't want others to be as hungry as him." Kim smiled too. "Does he ever say things like 'for the sake of camaraderie' to you? Use that 'here comes the plane' trick to shove food into your mouth?"

"God, of course. He probably really thinks we're all just like those dogs in the Valley of the Dogs, needing to hunt, share the prey, contribute to the pack, using food as a bond." Jean rolled his eyes, amused. "Every time I have no idea what's going on in his head, but every time I end up eating things I didn't want to because of him, even though they usually taste pretty good. I feel like I was... forced into voluntary consent. You know that feeling?"

"I know," Kim agreed. "It's like that strange phenomenon: hold something out long enough, and some people will feel compelled to take it. Harry's very good at that trick, getting people to do things they normally wouldn't."

"He gets you to do that too?" Jean was surprised, because Kim didn't seem like the type to compromise and mess around with Harry.

Kim Kitsuragi was like a precision instrument, always operating at peak performance: calm, objective, efficient. Jean hadn't delved deep into how they worked together; those few glimpses in Martinaise were too superficial. In his mind's default setting, Harry was like a wild horse, reckless and charging, while Kim put the bridle on him.

"Oh, every single time." Kim gazed into the distance, a touch of wistfulness in his eyes. "I was surprised myself, actually."

Jean suddenly remembered a jacket Harry had confiscated: the one that said "Fuck the World" on it. Harry wore it to work, showing it off like a peacock displaying its feathers.

And Jean had to thoroughly trash his fashion sense: "How old are you? Sixteen? Still in your rebellious phase, Detective? You could go straight to D-wing's Juvenile Unit, as a suspect."

Harry retorted, "Hey! This is called style! Kim agrees with me too!" He wagged his finger triumphantly at Jean. "Kim has a matching one—cool as hell. He's even worn it!"

"No, the lieutenant does not have such a garment, nor has he ever worn it."Jean burst into a quick laugh, catching Kim watching the exchange from the corner of his eye, sipping his coffee innocently, trying too hard to look like he wasn't paying attention. "I'll bet you a hundred réal that if I ask him right now, he'll say the exact same thing."

"Oh, I'm not taking that bet." Harry deflated suddenly. "Kim would never admit he wore it!"

"That's because he never wore it in the first place, shitkid."

Well. Now Jean wasn't so sure.

Jean turned his head. Kim was looking at the patch of earth ahead, the one with the slightly darker colour, the grey-purple twilight sky reflected in his lenses.

Kim spoke. "Once, in a residential area on Boogie Street, we were doing door-to-door visits, investigating a homicide connected to gang smuggling."

"The power supply in that area was unstable. At one house, when I knocked and stated our business, the porch light didn't light up. There was no response from inside, complete silence—maybe no one was home. I told Harry we should come back another day, but he said, no, there's someone in there, and they're a key witness. Then he stepped past me, walked up to the door, and spoke directly to the peephole: 'Good evening, we're from the RCM. You're not in trouble, but we'd like to have a word with you. Also, your light's broken—need me to take a look?'"

As Kim said this, a slight curve appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"The door opened."

"The resident was an elderly man living alone," Kim continued. "He spent twenty minutes explaining to Harry that the light had been broken for two weeks. He couldn't reach it, and didn't know who to ask. Harry first unscrewed the bulb and looked at it. The filament was intact, which meant the problem was in the wiring."

"He opened the junction cover at the base of the light fixture. Inside, three screws secured the wires. Harry took the cover off, used my wire cutters to grip the frayed end of the wire, and gave it a gentle pull. The wire slipped right out from under the screw. He cut off the useless part, stripped the new copper, and wrapped it tight again. One by one, he tightened all three screws. Then he tilted his head and called for the old man to flip the switch. The light came on."

"The moment the light came on, the old man smiled with relief, the wrinkles around his eyes kind and warm. He let us into his home, no longer tense, and we got our first reliable witness for that case. He had watched the whole thing unfold from his window."

Jean was silent for a moment.

"So the point is, fixing the light."

"Yes. The point is, he didn't say 'Please cooperate with our investigation.' He just stepped forward and did something no one asked him to do, something that seemed unnecessary—and then the other person simply came out on their own. That's all."

The rain still hadn't fallen, but the air was thick with moisture. Jean took a drag from his cigarette. He couldn't taste a thing.

He had heard countless similar accounts from Harry—sharing those outrageous, "how the fuck did that even work" moments of cracking a case. Harry always told those stories with dramatic highs and lows, like a magician, aiming to stun his audience: See? A rabbit! Out of thin air! Pretty impressive, huh?

Kim didn't tell it like that. Kim told the story as something very small, very ordinary, almost not worth remembering—a fairly unremarkable bit of an investigation, utterly bland compared to the countless unsolved mysterious and puzzling cases in their manuals.

He could even bring it up when people from the precinct were drinking, bullshitting and telling juicy stories, using it to "kill the buzz." Kim would be happy to do that.

But that wasn't it. Jean could hear it.

Kim hadn't mentioned Mazda or Madre, let alone the condition of the body—in cases connected to gangs, the bodies were never in good shape, mostly gruesome, stomach-turning; and smuggling involved even more horrifying things—firearms, psychoactive substances, things far more memorable than a light that wouldn't turn on.

But Kim remembered Harry stepping past him, every word he'd said; the way he'd tilted his head to check when screwing the cover back on; the expression on the old man's face the moment the light was fixed, when it actually lit up.

These were the irrelevant parts of the case procedure, things that never made it into the black-and-white reports, part of Harry's countless 'stereo-investigations'. Digression, someone who didn't understand might say. But that wasn't how Kim saw it. He remembered, and he kept it somewhere safe inside him, maybe even somewhere special—a place he could find it anytime, could touch.

Suddenly, Jean realized something.

Kim Kitsuragi really, genuinely liked Harry.

Oh, no, this wasn't something Jean had just "suddenly" realized. It was really quite obvious. Otherwise, why would Harrier Du Bois—that complete mess, that Harry who could ruin everything—be able to make a lieutenant like this willingly transfer districts, come to the 41st precinct, and become, in a way, Harry's... caretaker?

Yes, caretaker. If it were those early days, when Jean, following his usual pattern, was still bitterly mocking Harry, he would have said: babysitter. Kim looked after Harry. This wasn't anything new, but Jean never ceased to marvel at the lieutenant's patience.

After transferring from the 57th, it wasn't really convenient for Kim to keep living at GRIH anymore; he needed to live closer, otherwise the commute would be a major hassle.

And Harry, obviously, had no desire to reclaim his old life. His assessment of his former apartment was: "When I stay there, I can feel death." So he desperately needed a new place too.

And so, Harry and Kim—two people both, as it happened, starting over—logically enough, became roommates. Kim and Harry would be together. 24/7. Jean admired Kim's nerve.

Kim was helping Harry, a shit-kid, sweep away the shit-like fragments of his past life, pick out the not-so-shitty parts from within, clean them up, and then fill his life with things that actually belonged to life, rather than shit.

It wouldn't last, Jean speculated. Projecting, probably. Kim was full of ambition, sure, just like he himself had been—morning jogs, carrot juice, even throwing a stupid little "Congratulations Harry on One Month Sobriety" party. He'd done it all.

Kim would be disappointed, because Harry couldn't change his nature; that's just how he was: his organism was composed of alcohol, he needed Speed, Pyrholidon, painkillers, sedatives—anything to get him high—because that blonde Her Innocence had already transformed him into another kind of creature, and that transformation was irreversible.

But that wasn't true. Jean could see it. Harry's condition was improving. His face no longer wore that dazed, post-substance expression. You could smell him and it wasn't the strong stench of alcohol and other assorted odors of decay, but soap—it smelled clean.

He was staying sober, staying off drugs, trying pretty damn hard to prevent relapse. Of course, that kind of thing was hard to avoid; Jean knew from the start it wouldn't be easy.

But Harry wouldn't completely fall apart because of it. He wouldn't tell Jean he was a piece of shit, that he was going to get worse, that he was going to kill himself, that he was going to end it all. He just accepted the failure and started over.

This was because of Kim. Jean was sure of it. He relied on Kim. Harry did what Kim told him to do, needed his encouragement, and he was actually driven by that encouragement, instead of falling on deaf ears. Like in the past.

Jean had seen it many times—in the hallway, Harry walking ahead, Kim half a step behind, but Harry was like an overlarge dog that didn't quite know where to put itself and so just went first, bounding ahead, but always having to look back to see where Kim was.

When Kim stopped to talk to someone, Harry would stand nearby and wait, not interrupting, not wandering off, just waiting. When Kim said, "Detective, we need to pull that file," Harry would go pull it, faster than Jean had ever seen him move.

And Kim, for his part, would relax around Harry too. Not obviously—Kim Kitsuragi never did anything obviously—but in tiny, almost imperceptible shifts: his voice would drop a little lower when he spoke; he'd allow Harry to sit on the edge of his desk, even though Harry posed a grave threat to his desktop tidiness and Kim was, well, a bit of a neat freak; he'd pause for three seconds after Harry told a truly terrible joke, say "That's not funny," but the corner of his mouth would honestly twitch upward.

Jean didn't know what he was supposed to feel about this.

He should feel relieved. He really should. Harry was getting better. This was something everyone, absolutely including Jean himself, had been waiting for, for far too long. The atmosphere at the 41st was improving. The hallways no longer had that tension, that sense of "what kind of shitstorm is Dick Mullen going to cause today."

And Judit was a good partner. Steady, responsible, with a quiet way of caring for people. When she and Jean took the same car for field duty, she'd crack the window open just a little to let the breeze in, because she knew Jean got carsick. Being with her, Jean felt comfortable.

These two years had flown by. Jean could feel hope again—that thing he'd thought had died for good six years ago.

But.

Jean realized he couldn't remember what happened during these two years. Not that he literally couldn't remember. He knew some things: a certain arrest, a certain case closure report, certain personnel changes. He knew they happened. But he didn't actively recall them.

What he could actively recall, without fail, was everything before '51.

'51. Martinaise. The Whirling-in-Rags lobby. Wearing that ridiculous wig and sunglasses, sitting in a chair, waiting for Harry to come down the stairs. He was nervous, and he didn't know why, because clearly Harry was the one who should have been nervous.

But apparently not that Harry. That Harry wasn't nervous at all. Because that Harry didn't remember him. That Harry looked at him with unfamiliar eyes and asked: Who are you?

From that moment on, Jean's memories had stopped there.

Anterograde amnesia, if you like.

God. He and Harrier Du Bois really were a perfect match. One couldn't remember the past. One couldn't remember the present.

Harry could deny his past, enjoy his privilege as an amnesiac, start over. He could stand beside Kim waiting for a nod, move into a new apartment, eat pies, play finger guns, do his Jamrock Shuffle. He could pack up his entire forty-three years and toss them into some corner he'd never visit, and tell himself: That wasn't mine. That was some other Harrier Du Bois's business. I'm starting over.

Jean didn't have that privilege.

Jean remembered every detail.

'47. That year was good. Harry said to Jean: "Vic, from now on, we're in this together." And held out his hand. Harry got promoted quickly that year. Faster than Jean could react. Human can opener. Star of the 41st. Clearance rate like a runaway Coupris, racing towards heights no one understood. Jean got promoted that year too. Satellite-Officer Vicquemare.

'48. That was the year Harry really started drinking. Or, the first year Jean knew he was really drinking. Harry disappeared for twenty-four hours. Jean searched all of Jamrock—every bar he didn't know about, every alley he didn't know about, every corner where someone might have collapsed—and finally found him in an abandoned shipping container down by the docks. He was curled up like a corpse. Surrounded by empty bottles. Looking at him, Jean just thought: This is the first time I've looked for him. It won't be the last.

'49. Harry overdosed. They resuscitated him for a day. Jean didn't sleep that night. He sat on a plastic chair in the hospital corridor, staring at the "Surgery in Progress" light. A nurse came out and told him "he made it." Jean stood up, walked to the stairwell, and threw up. Afterwards, he squatted down against the wall and realized he couldn't cry.

'50. Jean killed a man. Taken alone, that wasn't such a huge thing—Jean would rather draw first than end up dead on the ground himself. But what terrified Jean was that the man had been strangling Harry. In the back alley of a dive bar. Harry had dug too deep on an investigation. He was attacked, caught off guard, his breath cut off immediately, unable to call out. Jean was some distance behind Harry. By the time he caught up, he realized what was happening. Jean drew immediately. Bang. He didn't hit Harry.

'51. Harry wrecked a Coupris. Lost his gun. Lost his badge. Even lost himself. Jean heard it all over the radio switchboard. He was pissed off, really pissed off. But he knew Harry was still his partner, at least. So he hit on the road, not knowing that a Harry had already disappeared.

Why did he have so many bad memories?

Why was he the only one with so many bad memories?

Was he really such a masochist, that he only chose to remember these moments of pain?

Did Kim have memories like these?

Did Kim know about these things?

Jean turned his head, looking at Kim's profile. In the dusk, the fine lines around his eyes seemed deeper than they did during the day. Kim was still standing beside him, the cigarette between his fingers already burned down to the filter. They didn't speak.

Jean looked down at the cigarette in his own hand and realized it was almost gone too, and he couldn't remember taking more than a few puffs.

Suddenly, Jean wanted to ask Kim: Do you know what kind of person he really is?

Do you know that when he's dead drunk, he'll vomit all over your jacket? Do you know that after an overdose, he won't sleep for three days straight, and then he'll just collapse somewhere you'd never expect? Do you know how many people he's offended, how many cases he's screwed up, how many people he's completely disappointed?

Do you know that the cigarette you handed me just now—do you know who it was really meant for?

He didn't ask. Of course he wouldn't ask. It would be rude, unfair. He was just being too emotional.

But he knew the answer anyway.

Jean knew what Harry's apartment usually looked like, even though it had been a long time since he'd last visited. Not that it mattered—it would only be worse, never better. Empty bottles, stains, dust on the windowsills, mouldy leftovers in the fridge, crumpled sheets marked with stains that could have been sweat or something else.

The occupant was someone who had lost faith in life; you could read that message from every corner of his apartment. Stay in a place like that too long, and you'd start lowering your standards for cleanliness.

Kim had been to that apartment. Not once. Many times. Within the first two weeks of knowing Harry, at most.

Jean knew this because one time, passing Harry's desk, he'd seen him flipping through a booklet—a moving company's brochure. He'd folded the corner of one page. Harry looked up, met Jean's gaze, and said, "Kim says my place needs sorting out."

"He's absolutely right."

"He said he could help." Harry looked back down at the brochure, still flipping. "Coming over this weekend. We'll do it together."

"Mm. Good." Jean walked away. End of conversation.

He imagined the scene: Kim standing in Harry's apartment, that place piled high with garbage, wearing his jacket with the sleeves rolled up, holding a trash bag.

Silently, methodically, he'd sort things in his head: things to throw away, things to keep, things to clean. Then he'd tell Harry: "We'll start with the kitchen."

Jean imagined Kim scrubbing that greasy stovetop, opening the window to let the air in, putting the empty bottles into bags, tying them up, setting them by the door.

Jean wouldn't do those things. Or rather, maybe once he could have, but that feeling had long since faded. He couldn't.

Not because he didn't want Harry to get better. It was because the moment he walked in and saw the chaos that belonged to Harrier Du Bois, he would want to scream, to curse, to fall apart—it would rise up like stomach acid, unstoppable. Every disappointing night of the past few years would replay before his eyes, condensed into those empty bottles and those stains, turning Jean into a version of himself he didn't even recognize.

He kept raking over the past: This was from after he lost his badge in '51, this was from when he almost died in '50, this was from earlier, earlier, much earlier—things that happened long before Jean even knew him, things that shouldn't be laid at his door—Jean lying on his own apartment sofa, bottles all over the floor, letting the broken glass cut him open.

Did this have anything to do with Harry? Back then, wasn't Jean just managing files in the Archives, not even at the 41st yet? Yes, of course it did. Harry was the embodiment of all shitty things; everything bad was connected to him. What was one more thing on top of all that?

He looked at Harry like looking at a version of himself from a parallel world. If he hadn't pulled through, he had to admit, he would have been Harry—he would have been happy to drink with Harry until the world ended, get fucked up out of his mind, even kill themselves with the same gun, play some fucking Revacholian roulette.

He had touched Harry's service weapon, the Villiers 9mm belonging to the lieutenant yefreitor with an elegant inscription on the side: "Sunrise, Parabellum." Yes, that was the one. That beautiful little thing. With two cute bullets, it could stack their bodies together, send them tumbling off the end of the motorway south, erase their existence. So fucking romantic.

And Kim walked into that apartment and saw none of this. What he saw was a room that needed cleaning. A friend who needed care.

Even though he knew what kind of person Harry was. Or had been.

Kim must have heard the rumors, the "great" deeds of the 41st's very own Dick Mullen. He'd seen that Harry in Martinaise, the one who walked down from the Whirling-in-Rags and didn't remember who he was at all. Those crazy nonsense. Those unconventional investigation methods. Those uncontrollable, inappropriate instinctive urges.

But Kim stayed anyway.

Kim brought two cigarettes every day. When Harry screwed up, he said, "Everything will be alright." He walked into that apartment, rolled up his sleeves, and started with the kitchen.

Because beyond all that, Kim saw something else.

It was that rainy Martinaise again. The Whirling's heating was a bit too much; Jean's wig was starting to feel like a burden, making him sweat a little. There was a disco ball in the hotel lobby. It was the first time Jean had ever seen a real one.

Maybe this place used to be a dance hall; whoever took it over couldn't be bothered to change much, just plopped some tables down on the dance floor and called it a hotel lobby, never even took down the ball. Taking it down would cost money, and you'd have to fix the ceiling. Such an cost-saving decision.

That ball was lit—spinning endlessly. Shards of light, like scattered gold, moving, slow, stubborn, cyclical—turning the whole lobby into another world. A world that didn't have to be here.

He asked Judit beside him, "Do you know anything about disco? Ever been to a disco?"

Judit tilted her head, thinking. "Not really. It was a bit before my time. My mother went when she was young, but I never did. Still, this decoration is beautiful. It's like the whole lobby is inside a harmless firework." She smiled, looking up at the glittering ball. "What about you? Have you ever danced disco?"

Jean looked at those spots of light. They fell on the back of his hand, then moved away; fell on his knee, then moved away. Like something intangible he couldn't grasp: he'd experienced it, but he'd let it flow past him, because light wasn't meant to be captured in the first place.

The empty office, the song on the radio, Harry's hand reaching out to him, the four-four beat he could never quite follow—these were things that could only stay in memory, things that couldn't withstand being recreated. Jean was afraid that if he shared them, outside the protective filter of his consciousness, they'd spoil.

"No." He looked towards the bar, changing the subject. "Wonder why Garte turned the ball on."

Judit followed his gaze. "Maybe for Harry." She shrugged. "Looks like he's going to sing karaoke here."

Soon after, footsteps sounded at the entrance. Harry strode towards the bar, planted himself in front of Garte, loudly declared that today, he was singing, no arguments. Garte sighed helplessly, waved his hand, letting Harry do as he pleased.

Harry practically bounded towards the little stage, leaned into the mic, tested it, and suddenly showed a flicker of nervousness, an uncomfortable stage fright. What was up with this superstar detective? Jean sat up a little straighter. Though he was a bit miffed at Harry choosing to sing in the middle of a case, he had to admit, he was a little curious about Harry's music.

The melody began to play softly. Jean didn't know the song, only remembered the intro was long, slow, like it had something to say but hadn't figured out how to say it yet.

Harry started to sing, his voice very low, lower than his usual speaking voice, raspier, like someone else was singing. Jean couldn't make out the lyrics, but that wasn't the point. The point was the atmosphere, that moment of suspended time. He watched Harry, the light spots falling on his face. Beautiful. And then he noticed where Harry was looking.

His gaze was focused, shooting straight towards a spot in the middle of the lobby—where Kim Kitsuragi stood, in that bright orange bomber jacket, conspicuous, hands clasped behind his back, the toe of one foot lightly tapping in time with the music, smiling.

Harry was in his element now, a sad sack, a sea of blue melancholy filling him; he wouldn't smile back at a moment like this, but he'd definitely received the lieutenant's smile. So he kept looking at the lieutenant, even if the whole world were collapsing, exploding, burning in his ears right now, he wouldn't look away.

Under the spinning disco ball, there was a sad person, singing a sad song, looking at someone who made the sadness go away.

Jean didn't know how long he watched. Maybe the length of one song, maybe a century, long enough for another revolution, another Innocence, for time to leap forward into a future the past could no longer touch.

And then Harry said, I'd like to dedicate this song to my partner, Kim Kitsuragi.

This was the kind of memory Kim carried with him. The photo of the Insulindian Phasmid and Harry was pinned to the noticeboard above his desk. The surface was covered with small, Harry-esque objects, all tied to cases he and Harry had worked on together: seashells picked up near the GRIH coast, or tastefully artistic little trinkets dug up from souvenir shops.

Kim liked keeping these things within easy reach, just like the Motechnique A6 he kept inside his jacket. He cherished them. He treasured them. He needed to be able to touch them whenever he wanted, to connect to the memories, to feel a sense of comfort and warmth.

For him, these memories didn't risk going bad. Rather than fearing they might slowly change over time, Kim preferred to see them as something solid, something to anchor himself in the present. In other words, when Harry stood before him, the person he always saw was the one who had foolishly dedicated that song just for him.

But what did Jean see? He didn't dare think about it himself.

He thought: Kim really likes Harry.

He thought: That's pretty remarkable.

He thought: And I have nothing to do with it.

The bitterness of that fact sat in his mouth.

This bitterness wasn't sharp; it couldn't be transformed into anger. It wasn't something that would temporarily subside after a round of sarcastic remarks at Harry.

It was duller, like a bruise. You couldn't stitch it up, and there was no magic pill to make it better. You just had to wait for your immune system to handle it. Pressing on it hurt, but if you didn't touch it, you could pretend it wasn't there.

Jean had been pretending for a long time.

Not long after Harry first returned to the 41st, he'd stopped Jean in the hallway. His voice held a tentative care that Jean wasn't used to. "Jean, are you free tonight? Grab a bite to eat? There's something I want to talk to you about..."

"Can't you just tell me now?"

"No," Harry shook his head firmly. "This isn't something I can explain in the hallway."

Jean had wanted to refuse. He had plenty of reasons: work, exhaustion, not wanting to see Harry's face. But Harry pressed on, eagerly: "Just you and me. I think... I think we should have a meal."

When he said "we," he drew a circle in the air with his finger, encompassing them both.

Jean went.

Not because he wanted to, but because the word "we" coming from Harry's mouth made his heart beat strangely. Probably also because Jean had refused this person so many times, so many that even he was starting to feel the wall between them was one he'd built himself. He wanted to give Harry a chance. He wanted to give himself a chance to give Harry a chance.

The restaurant was near the station. Red and white checkered tablecloths, plastic-covered menus. Harry walked straight to a table by the window at the back, smiling brightly, as naturally as if he were a regular customer who'd never lost his memory.

Jean lagged a step behind, watching that smile. He thought: He remembers this spot. He doesn't remember me, but he remembers this damn table.

They sat down. The menu was a plastic booklet, edges curled from being flipped through too many times. Jean looked down, flipping through it, though he didn't need to. He knew what this place served, because a long time ago, he and Harry had come here far too many times.

"What are you getting?" Harry leaned over. He was still learning how to talk to Jean, like learning a foreign language he'd forgotten.

"Bacon sandwich," Jean said. "Black coffee."

Harry nodded, then paused. "What about the tater tots?" he asked.

Jean looked up. "What?"

"You... aren't you getting tater tots?" Harry frowned.

"Why would I?"

"I don't know..." he said. "It's just, there's a voice in my head that says—this is going to sound stupid—it says, that's, like, your favorite thing here. It says you really liked this place, because you and I sat at this spot, and back then... we were happy."

Back then.

Hearing those two words, Jean suddenly felt weak. His bones seemed to dissolve, leaving only flesh and skin slumped in the chair. He rarely came to this restaurant anymore, whether with anyone or alone, precisely to avoid this feeling of unease.

He opened his mouth to say something nasty, to cover his vulnerability. Something like, "What the fuck do you remember?" Or, "We were happy back then because you hadn't dragged me into hell yet." Or, "Don't use your goddamn voices to tell me what I like."

But he couldn't get the words out.

Because Harry was looking at him with an expression Jean couldn't handle. Like a dog that had once bitten you, now cautiously approaching, placing its wet nose in your palm, waiting for you to decide whether to pet it or push it away.

This was so rare. Harry Du Bois, the man kept pushing Jean away, telling to get lost, was now telling him, don't go, I want to make amends, I want you to be happy.

It sounded pathetic, but this was, truly, a gesture Jean had been waiting for, for a long time.

Jean sighed.

"Alright, alright," he said, his voice softer than he'd intended. "I know you're the one who wants them. Don't use those voices as an excuse. Order them. The tater tots."

Something lit up in Harry's face. Jean didn't know how to describe that kind of brightness—like an unstable lamp suddenly getting full voltage.

The food came. Bacon sandwich. Black coffee. Tater tots. Everything was the same as six years ago. Everything was different.

Jean ate a whole serving of tater tots by himself for the first time, because this Harry had ordered his own portion, instead of mooching off Jean's.

In the old days, Harry's arm would reach across the table, fork the last tot, wave it in front of Jean's face first, then shove it into his own mouth, grinning as he chewed. Jean remembered calling him "you bastard," and Harry retorting, "You're not losing anything, the ones you ate were the ones I let you have!"

He remembered thinking, back then, he really didn't feel like he was losing anything. He just thought, sitting here with Harry, listening to his rambling, watching his animated gestures, it was nice.

Six years ago, he did like tater tots. But that was six years ago. He didn't know when he'd started to not like fried food so much; too much grease upset his stomach. But he finished them anyway, pretending his stomach could still take it.

Then Harry put down his fork.

"Jean."

Jean looked up.

Harry wasn't looking at him. He was staring at his own hands, nervously clasped on the table, for so long Jean thought he might never speak.

"I... I don't know how to tell you this." His voice was very soft. This whole Harry seemed soft, like a feather about to float away, a mist dissipating after sunrise.

"I don't know what I did. I really don't remember. Anything before '51, I don't remember. You probably don't believe me, I understand that, but it's the truth." He paused, his throat moving. "But I know, I definitely wasn't a very good person in the past."

Jean said nothing. He felt something stirring in his chest, painful, yet also warm. He didn't know what it was.

"I asked around," Harry continued. "I asked Judit, I asked Mack, I asked... I asked a lot of people. Maybe it's not the best time to focus on personal stuff, but I couldn't help it. I wanted so badly to pick up some pieces of the past. I asked them, what kind of person was I? Tell me the truth."

Finally, he lifted his head and looked at Jean.

"They said I was a fucked-up disaster." The corner of his mouth twitched into a wry smile. "Not everyone put it so bluntly, but their expressions... I understood."

Jean looked into those eyes. Harry's eyes were still that grey-green, the same as six years ago. Some people couldn't name the eye color of a partner they'd lived with for thirty years; Jean clearly wasn't one of them.

He knew them too well. He'd looked into Harry's pupils countless times—to share a joy, a sign of understanding, an accusation, or to try and read a lie, a deception. Jean could see that something inside them was different. Before, there was always something burning in those eyes—alcohol, sorrow, mania, something else. Now they were quiet. A clearing after a wildfire.

"I hurt you," Harry said. A statement.

Jean didn't answer.

"I don't know how. I don't know how many times. I don't know how badly. There's so much I don't know—" His voice started to tremble. "But I know I hurt you. I know you—your curses, your dissatisfaction, your sadness—I get it. You've always been there—you've never—"

He couldn't go on. His eyes were rimmed red, his lips trembling. Jean thought: He's waiting for me to speak, so he knows which way to go.

But Jean didn't know what to say. God, he was lost too.

Harry wiped his eyes with his sleeve, then put his hands back on the table, trying to control the shaking.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me. I figure you're sick of hearing me say sorry anyway." His voice steadied a little, but Jean could hear the effort it took to suppress it. "I know forgiveness doesn't work like that. I just wanted you to know—"

He took a deep breath.

"I don't want... you to be unhappy. I don't want you to suffer because of me. I know what I owe you. I want to make it up to you. I'll spend every day I have left, paying back what I owe you. Even if you don't want it, I'll still pay."

"Because you're my partner."

Jean abruptly raised his hand and wiped it across his face. His hand was wet. He didn't know if he was crying or what; he just felt he needed to wipe, to appear normal.

He'd thought the word "partner" meant nothing to him anymore but a pile of bad debts, a stack of forms to fill out, a burden of responsibility to bear; but apparently, that wasn't true.

"Fuck," he said, voice hoarse.

Harry said nothing. He just sat there, waiting. Waiting for a "go on," a "whatever," or a "get the fuck out of here."

Jean looked down, pretending to study the empty plate that had held the tater tots. He thought: Six years ago, I liked these. For a while, I hated them. Now I don't know if I like them or not. Yeah, it's been a long time. Eating them today, it almost felt like rediscovering that first-time pleasure—but what about after?

Would he add them back to his diet, as a small indulgence? Could his stomach handle the recklessness? Would he grow to hate them again?

He sighed.

"You know my current partner is Judit, right?" he said, defensively, then immediately shook his head and let out a long sigh. "Forget I said that. Alright."

Harry blinked. "Wh—what?"

"I said alright." Jean moved his gaze from the empty plate to Harry's face. "I heard you. I forgive you. Just this once."

"But... just like that?" Harry's voice sounded floaty, disbelieving. "You—you don't need me to—do something?"

"And what do you want me to do?" Jean's voice came out harsher than he intended, but it was too late. "Break down in tears? Curse you out? Then we hug and cry like two idiots? Do I look like that kind of person?"

"Well, I guess not." Harry scratched the back of his head sheepishly.

"From now on, just do your goddamn police work properly, Harry. That'll satisfy me." Jean leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, appraising Harry.

"Of course. You have my word, Jean." Harry made a casual finger gun at him. He brightened up instantly.

"—Alright, I'll add one more thing: stop with the finger guns." Jean tried his best to look frosty.

"What? You can't be serious!"

"Never been more serious in my life."

After that, Harry continued his attempts at making amends.

Jean knew he was trying. It was obvious. Because Harry started showing up in places he shouldn't be—the coffee corner, hallway corners, the parking lot—anywhere Jean might be alone. He'd stand there, looking at Jean with an expression Jean couldn't define because he'd never seen it on him before, and then speak.

"Jean."

"Mm."

"Free tonight?"

"No."

"Tomorrow?"

"No."

"What about the weekend—"

"Harry." Jean interrupted him, coffee in hand, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Can you not do this?"

"Not do what?"

"Not... this." Jean made vague circles in the air with his free hand, meaning "this whole thing," then slapped his own forehead and closed his eyes. "Seriously? Don't you have any cases to solve besides this?"

"I just want to have a meal with you."

"I know."

"So why—"

"Having a meal alone with you is too depressing."

The words were out before he could stop them. They were too true. Too true for him to want anyone to know.

Harry stood there, like he'd been punched. More than hurt, he looked like he didn't know how to react. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he spoke.

"Then... what if Kim came along?"

Jean raised an eyebrow.

"Kim could join us." Harry rubbed his chin, thinking. "Three of us. Not just me. Would that—I mean, if you find it too depressing alone with me—would it be better with Kim there?"

Jean wanted to shout at him, "No, I don't want to be with Lieutenant Kitsuragi, I don't want to be with anyone, you asshole, I just want to be alone!"

But he couldn't.

Partly because Kim was fucking sitting at his desk not ten meters away, and he didn't want to sour that working relationship; partly because he knew that if he refused, Harry would just find another way, do something else, keep appearing in hallways, trying to make amends for things he didn't know how to fix. Jean felt tired.

But some things were unavoidable. Harry was that kind of person; when he decided to do something, he'd keep at it until you gave in.

"Fine." He took a sip of coffee.

"So—Friday?" Harry said eagerly. "Same place?"

"Whatever."

"Okay, Friday. Seven. I—I'll make a reservation. That same table. If you don't want that table, we can change—"

"Whatever."

Jean walked away with his coffee. He knew Harry was watching him. He pretended not to.

Friday. Next Friday. The Friday after that. Then Jean started making excuses not to go. Because, to sum up Jean's feelings during these dinners: he felt like a rock, sitting on the bank of a river, watching the water flow past.

If only he were a rock. A rock doesn't have a brain, can't feel jealousy—God, he realized it clearly: he was jealous of Kim.

Sometimes, in the middle of animatedly telling some story during dinner, Harry would suddenly freeze, self-doubt flickering in his eyes. Maybe one of those voices in his head told him something, made him shrink back, retreat into that collapsed ruin of a mind, picking up bloodied fragments.

In those moments, Kim would reach out, place a hand naturally on Harry's arm, quietly speak his name, and pull him back to reality. Jean would start to hate himself for noticing their intimacy, for feeling pain because of it. It made no sense. Kim was helping Harry, giving him the care he could, making him better. He'd told himself a thousand times, he should be grateful.

Maybe, what Jean envied was that Kim had something to give.

There was something whole and stable inside Kim Kitsuragi, something he didn't need to take from anyone else. So he could just sit there, listen, nod occasionally, place a hand on Harry. He didn't need to get anything from Harry. He didn't need Harry to get better in order for himself to feel better.

Jean never felt whole. When he met Harry, he was still at a stage where he needed guidance and support—professionally, personally. He'd been going through some difficult times; the fresh corpses in unfamiliar fieldwork gave him persistent insomnia.

Under that kind of high-pressure situation where he needed support, of course he felt he could turn to a detective ten years his senior, exceptionally capable—his partner—for help.

So he'd gotten too close to Harry. By the time he realized it, he was already completely entangled, unable to pull away, and in some ways, unwilling to. Harry's collapse became his collapse. Harry's sobriety became his sobriety. He couldn't maintain a self.

But Kim could.

Jean thought: This is the kind of person Harry needs.

Not someone like me. Someone like me would only rot alongside him.

"Jean."

The voice came from very far away. Jean blinked, and found himself still standing in front of that patch of freshly turned earth.

Kim was beside him, looking at him sidelong. That cigarette, the one that wasn't Jean's, had long since burned out. The filter was still pinched between his fingers, already cold. He hadn't thrown it away.

"You've been standing here a long time," Kim said.

"I was thinking—" Jean started, leaving the sentence hanging in the air.

Kim didn't press. He just stood there, waiting. Kim was the kind of person who waited. He could wait a long time. Could wait for someone to finish speaking. Could wait for a cigarette to burn out. Could wait for the rain to start, to wash everything away.

"I was thinking..." Jean murmured again. "I don't know. A lot of things."

"That's why I came here too." Kim nodded. "To think about things that would feel too luxurious to contemplate at any other time."

Suddenly, Jean wanted to ask a question. It had been circling in his mind since the first second he stood here, but he'd been afraid to ask. Now, suddenly, he dared. He had a feeling that if he didn't ask now, the question would fester inside him, tormenting him until there was nothing left.

"Kim."

Kim's eyes prompted him to continue.

"You..." Jean hesitated, desperately trying to formulate his words. He didn't know what words in Elysium could describe what he wanted to know. "That day... where were you?"

Kim looked at him. Those eyes behind the lenses were very calm.

"I mean—" Jean's hand tightened on the umbrella he held, knuckles turning white. "He—that day. Where were you?"

The question was too broad. To be more precise, he wasn't asking "where were you," but "why weren't you beside him." He'd been asking himself the same question, over and over, leaving him tossing and turning through the nights.

During those sleepless nights, he'd concluded that he and Harry were both the same kind of bastard, which was why he hadn't been there for Harry then.

But Kim wasn't. Despite projecting his own suspicions about Harry onto Kim, deep down, Jean was certain Kim could do what he couldn't. Protect Harry. Things like that.

Kim was silent for a long time. Jean started desperately wishing Kim would deflect his question with that impeccable politeness of his. Then he wouldn't have to know the answer, could keep standing here, keep pretending he'd just come to get rained on.

But Kim spoke.

"I was at the precinct." His voice was flat, like stating a fact he'd rather not state. "That afternoon, he said he wanted to go for a walk. I told him he could go ahead; I'd finish the report I was working on and head back."

"And then?"

Kim looked at the patch of slightly darker earth ahead.

"Then I finished the report and went back to the apartment." Emotionless, as if talking about something unrelated to him. "He wasn't there. I thought he was still out walking. I made dinner. Waited a while. Ate. Washed the dishes. Did the crossword."

He stopped.

"When the clock hit eight, I went to look for him."

He didn't say what he found. He didn't need to. Jean had already heard it once. Judit beside him, gripping his arm, her voice shaking, saying "Jean, we need to go to the hospital." His mind blank, he'd asked "Why," as if in a dream. Judit didn't speak. He looked into her eyes and knew.

"...You should give yourself a break, Jean," Kim said abruptly. "Take a few days off."

"No, no, Kim, you're already on leave. The 41st's work can't just be piled onto someone else."

"I'll be back on duty tomorrow. Talk to Captain Pryce, alright?" His tone was firm, allowing no argument.

"You haven't even taken two full weeks yet."

"I've never taken a full two weeks of this kind of leave." Kim shook his head.

"Never?" That was... Jean wanted to say, "You need time too," wanted to say, "You can't do this to yourself," but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. Because he suddenly realized something.

He was crying.

He raised his hand, wiped it across his face. His hand was wet. Not rain—it hadn't started yet. It was his tears.

He didn't know when they'd started. Maybe just now, while Kim was speaking. Maybe earlier, from the first second he'd stood before this patch of earth. Maybe from the moment he'd gotten on that bus heading west towards the suburbs. Maybe from long, long before that, during those nights he'd thought he'd finished crying, when in truth, he'd never finished at all.

He stood there, his hand frozen against his face, lost.

And then the sky began to rain.

Real rain. The rain that had been building all day, pent up all day, pouring down from Revachol's grey-purple clouds, carrying a piece of the city with it, her sulfur dioxide and her dust. It patted gently on Jean's shoulder, kissed his face, washed away his tears. This rain was too emotional.

Its sound was loud enough to drown out everything, to block out the world around him, making him feel like he could stand here and just let it soak him, without having to say anything, without having to think anything.

He didn't open the umbrella. He held it, letting the rain stream down from the top of his head. Cold. Not biting, but sobering. Letting him know he was still alive, still breathing, still in this world.

Even though someone was no longer in it.

Kim, of course, wasn't going to let him keep standing in the rain. He wasn't that kind of person. He opened his own umbrella, walked over to Jean, and held that shadow over his head.

The umbrella's canopy was black. Rain fell on it, sliding down the angled surface, making a dense, continuous sound. Jean stared at the edge of the umbrella, watching the droplets gather, then fall, landing on the gravel at his feet. The gravel had been dull grey before; washed by the rain, its color deepened. Each stone was distinct, as if freshly cleaned.

Rainwater seeped from the stones into the surrounding soil, turning the earth a richer, deeper shade. In a few days, when the sun shone again, this damp soil would slowly dry and crack, and then, in some unremarkable moment, new grass would sprout. But right now, it was just quietly wet, soft and yielding, accepting the rain's caress without reservation.

In those places the rain could never reach—beneath the soil, six feet down—the coffin lay. Nailed shut, sealed tight, buried deep. Rain could wet everything above—the soil, the stones, the people standing here, the one holding the umbrella—but it couldn't reach there.

Couldn't reach the body.

Jean's gaze lifted from that patch of earth, moving slowly, bit by bit, towards its far edge. There was a headstone there. Grey, not tall, freshly erected. Rain beat against it, streaming down the stone's grain, flowing over the carved lines, over the letters, over the numbers.

He saw the words.

Harrier Du Bois. '07 – '53. After life, death; after death—life again.

Jean stood there, Kim holding the umbrella beside him.

The rain kept falling.

Kept falling.

The sky would never clear again.