Work Text:
The sun has nearly set by the time Harry struggles to turn the key in the lock of his front door—it’s always sticking, and someday he’s going to remember to replace it. There was a delay in the monorail line from Gran Couron to Central Jamrock due to ongoing construction, and it means Harry is 45 minutes later getting home than he normally is. He’s tired enough that it’s not until he’s popped open a bottle of beer and is standing in his kitchen staring out the side window that he sees that the lights are on next door. He blinks.
His previous neighbor, an old woman that lived alone with her cats, had passed away a few months ago and her adult children had cleared out the place quickly after that. The house had remained empty since then. Harry’s first thought is squatters, but when his gaze shifts to the front, he sees that there is a motor carriage parked diagonally on the scrubby patch of grass in front of the house.
Harry’s heart drops when he makes out the paint job. RCM. Either the cops are here to investigate a crime that happened in the empty house, or his new neighbor is a police officer. Neither option is comforting.
Harry tosses back the last of his beer and opens the fridge. He should have gotten takeout on the way home. He snags the container of leftover pasta that is probably past its prime and a second beer and settles on the couch.
A conversation he had with one of his students today is still rattling around in his head—the ‘if you don’t get yourself together, you won’t be able to get out’ type conversation that he always dreads having. He takes a long pull from his beer as he remembers the exact betrayed expression on her face. Mary is a good student, intelligent, but her home life is fraught and she sometimes takes out all of that pent-up energy on her surroundings. Small-time property defacing and graffito aren’t life-ruining in Revachol West, but Harry knows how easily small crimes can escalate. She hadn’t liked it, but Harry had to remind her what’s at stake.
It’s tough, toeing that line between friend and mentor. He’s been doing it for nearly 20 years and he’s still never sure he manages it.
After a sad dinner and a few chapters of a book he’s not sure he’s enjoying, Harry retreats to bed. The sheets are cold when he slides between them, and they stay cold until long after he falls asleep.
Harry is woken abruptly sometime later by a roar that shakes the walls of his house. For a moment he’s sure there’s a bulldozer laying into the brick, but he realizes he recognizes the noise. A motor carriage. He peers blearily at the clock on his nightstand. 5:30 AM. The roar goes on for a few moments before it retreats into the distance and all is silent again. Harry turns over and tries to get a little more sleep before he needs to leave for work, but finds himself staring at the wall instead. When he finally does crawl out of bed to face the day, his eyes sting with grogginess he’s unable to shake.
For a while, it’s only the roar of the motor carriage at odd hours of the day and night that alerts him to the presence of his new next-door neighbor. He hasn’t even met them, but he finds himself already disliking them. A police officer who feels the need to keep their motor carriage at home and fires it up at 5 AM in a residential neighborhood? No one else who lives here can even afford a motor carriage.
It’s not until two weeks after Harry first noticed the motor carriage that Harry finally runs into the cop. It’s late, after 10 at least, and Harry is sitting out on his front steps drinking a beer. It’s still too cold to be sitting outside for any extended period of time, but Harry can’t bear the quiet inside his house any longer.
He hears the roar of the carriage before he sees it and watches as it cruises down the street and pulls to a stop in front of the house next door. When the motor carriage clicks off, Harry’s ears ring in the silence.
The door opens and a man hops out. He’s thin, bespectacled, and wearing a bright orange bomber jacket. As he nears his porch and steps into the golden pool of the porch light, Harry gets a better look at him. He’s Seolite, and definitely RCM, judging by the patches on his jacket.
The man notices Harry a few moments later.
“Good evening,” he says, and his accent is pure Revachol. His expression is guarded, and Harry thinks that his posture looks a bit stiff. Wary.
“Evening,” Harry replies. “Most people around here use a bike,” he says, gesturing to the motor carriage that plinks as it cools on the dark lawn.
“I don’t own it,” the man replies, a touch defensively. “It’s property of the RCM.”
Harry hums and takes a pull of his beer. “Good way to let the neighborhood know just who you are, huh.”
It’s hard to tell the man’s expression from this distance, but the silence stretches between them for a moment too long. “Have a good evening, sir,” he repeats with a flat voice and then retreats into his house with a firm snick of a closing door.
Well then. Harry rolls his eyes and finishes his beer before deciding it’s far too cold to stay out on the porch any longer.
The engine wakes him up at odd hours for a few weeks, and each time, Harry imagines his neighbor’s stiff posture and flat expression. What is it with cops and thinking that everyone’s a threat until they aren’t? No wonder everyone dislikes them.
The next time Harry actually sees his neighbor, Harry is just getting home from the bar. It’s Thursday evening, and he knows he’s going to regret how much he had to drink when he gets up for work in the morning, but Harry couldn’t bear the thought of going home to his empty house sober. So here he is, struggling to get his front door open while the world tips and turns around him.
His keys slip from his fingers and clatter on the wood of the porch.
“Fuck!”
“Is everything alright?”
Harry wheels around, and there is his neighbor standing at the bottom of the stairs in front of his own house, peering at Harry through the dark.
“Everything’s groovy, officer,” Harry replies. Through the haze of alcohol, he’s aware that he’s slurring.
“Need a hand?” There’s something dry and unimpressed in the man’s voice, and it makes Harry’s skin crawl. He doesn’t need judgment from his neighbor on top of everything else wrong with his life.
“That’s actually the last thing I need.” Harry spins back around, crouches, and manages to snag his keys off the porch without falling on his face. He has to struggle to get the key in the lock, but it only takes a moment, and then he’s pushing the door open. He turns to throw a finger-gun at the cop, who peers at him from his own lawn, the porch light glinting off his glasses and obscuring his expression until Harry closes the door behind him.
Even with the amount of alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, Harry doesn’t fall asleep immediately. Instead, he tries to remember what the cop had been doing outside his house in the first place. Was he just standing out there? Spying on him? Harry can’t imagine any aspect of his life would interest an officer of the RCM. Harry doesn’t even find his life interesting, most days.
It’s probably narcissistic to think anything his neighbor does is because of him. Harry discards the thought and tries to sleep.
There is a span of a few weeks that are very busy at the school—the coming finals at Grand Couron High have every teacher frazzled, and Harry comes home each night tired enough that he has no energy to worry about his neighbor. He may only be a gym teacher, but the standardized fitness tests are annoying to organize and keep track of, and that’s not even taking into account the uninterested students who contemplate overthrowing him every time he announces what test they’ll be taking that day.
Harry has been a gym teacher for a long time and he’s not about to let a group of teenagers outsmart him. If he has to listen to the same damn pre-recorded fitness test four times a day, the students can take the meaningless tests once a year.
Once finals are over, Harry realizes that he hasn’t actually seen his neighbor in a few weeks. The lights inside the house remain off, and the roar of the motor carriage is absent. Harry only has his own insomnia to blame for not sleeping through the night, and he finds his frustration was better when it had direction. Hating his neighbor gave his home life a purpose. Harry knows it’s pathetic, but he won’t deny it.
Harry is beginning to wonder if his neighbor might have moved when he hears the roar of the motor carriage. Harry is sitting on his front porch steps, and he watches the motor carriage pull onto the neighboring front lawn and hears the engine click off. It’s early evening, and the orange light of the setting sun spills across the windshield of the MC, making it impossible to see inside. The MC gleams, more than most motor carriages Harry sees, and he realizes the cop must take good care of his machine. It’s a nicer motor carriage than most cops drive, that much Harry can tell.
A few long moments pass before the cop climbs out of it, and when he does, Harry immediately notices the shock of bruising across his cheekbones and the sling holding his right arm immobile across his chest.
He leans into his MC and digs around in the back before resurfacing with a duffel bag in his good hand. He seems to be struggling with only one hand free, and even from here, Harry can see the tension on his face from whatever pain he must be in. He closes the door and leans down to grab the bag. He stops halfway and throws his good hand out to catch himself on the side of the MC.
“Shit.”
Harry doesn’t even think, he just springs up from his spot on the steps and lurches towards the cop. “Let me get that.”
The cop turns and shoots him a wide-eyed look. “There’s no need—”
Harry leans down and grabs the handle of the bag. “Seems like you could use some help.”
He looks like he’s going to argue, but the fight visibly goes out of him and his shoulders slump slightly. “Fine.”
From this close, Harry can see the dark circles under his eyes. He must be around Harry’s age. Harry had thought him younger, but he can see now that even though the dark circles give him a boyish appearance, he’s got the crow's feet of someone in their forties at least.
Harry lifts the bag and marches his way towards the front door of the cop’s house. The bag is actually pretty heavy, and Harry is glad he offered to help. Harry is a master at lifting heavy things, and he also enjoys showing off. A few birds with one stone, here.
“You can leave it on the porch.”
“At least let me bring it inside for you,” Harry replies. “I bet whoever patched you up also told you not to strain yourself, huh?”
The cop frowns, but he unlocks his front door and steps inside, leaving it open so Harry can follow him in.
“I might worry you were looking for an excuse to get into my house to cause me bodily harm if I wasn’t so exhausted.”
The sardonic look on the cop’s face startles a laugh out of Harry. “Looks like someone beat me to it.” He sets the bag down and spares the room a quick once-over. It’s a lot neater than Harry’s place, almost to the point of being impersonal. There is a bookshelf on one side of the living room, full of books, but Harry is too far away to make out the titles. There isn’t much in the way of wall art or decor, and Harry doesn’t spot any photographs.
“Thank you.”
Harry turns back to the cop to see a small smile on his mouth. It’s tempered by exhaustion, but it appears genuine.
“Uh, of course.” Harry is suddenly uncomfortable, and he’s not sure why. His face feels hot. “Hey, I just realized I don’t even know your name.”
“Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi,” he replies and holds out his good hand.
Harry takes the left-handed handshake. “Harry Du Bois. Can I ask what happened to you?”
Kim takes his hand back and it hangs awkwardly by his side. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with his posture with one arm strapped to his chest. “I can’t disclose the specifics, but a case took a turn. Someone didn’t like RCM involvement and took the matter into his own hands.”
In the warm light of the lamps in the living room, the bruising on his face looks worse.
“Let me know if you need anything, alright?” Harry says, unsure of this new desire to help a man he had nothing but negative feelings towards less than an hour ago. “I’m right next door, and I know how awful it is to be injured when you live alone.”
“Do you have a dangerous job?” Kim asks.
Harry chuckles. “Oh, no. I’m a gym teacher. I got mugged a few years back, though.”
The corners of Kim’s mouth tighten. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it made for a sick story to tell my students.” He waves Kim off. “Anyways, I’ll let you get some rest. But really, just knock on my door if you need anything.”
Kim nods. “Thank you, Harry.
Kim doesn’t ask for Harry’s help during his convalescence, but Harry hadn’t really expected him to. Kim seems to be a bit of a hardass, and an independent one at that. From that point on, though, Kim gives Harry a friendly nod when they see each other, and Harry always returns it. It’s nice to be on decent terms with his neighbor, and other than the motor carriage, Kim is quiet and courteous, which is rare in Jamrock. The house on Harry’s other side is empty at the moment, but it used to be the home of a couple who had shouting arguments every evening, late into the night.
For a while, that’s all there is—the friendly acknowledgment and the sound of Kim’s motor carriage.
Harry’s moods come in waves. He could be doing just fine one week, and then something will happen—it doesn’t matter how small—and Harry will suddenly want nothing more than to find some gross bar and drink everything away. Today is one of those days. The trigger this time was news that a former student had passed away in an accident a few days prior. She had graduated four years ago and gone on to manage a restaurant in the city. Last Harry had heard, she was living with a long-term boyfriend and happy with her life.
No matter how many times he hears of the death of former students, it never gets any easier. Sometimes, his colleagues tell him he lets the world get to him too much, has never hardened himself to it, but Harry doesn’t know any other way to be. He can remember this girl in his class with her dark curly hair and over-lined eyes. She had never been that invested in any of Harry’s lessons until they organized a game of dodgeball. Then, she was as competitive as they got.
Harry resists the temptation of the bar and heads directly home instead. There, he turns his radio to a soap opera and tries to let the story drag him away from the awful churning in his chest. He doesn’t even bother trying to go to sleep—he knows that staring at the dark ceiling will only allow his thoughts to circle like vultures.
It's a quarter to one in the morning when he catches a flicker of light through the side window, and he stands up from the couch to investigate. There, silhouetted on the porch next door by the buzzing porch light, is Kim. He’s alone too, and there’s something pensive in his posture, something that calls to Harry.
Harry steps out into the cool night and sees Kim’s head turn at the sound of the door closing behind him. He doesn’t say anything, and that’s when Harry notices the smoke pouring from his lips.
“Good evening,” Kim says. The end of the cigarette in his hand glows cherry red in the darkness.
“A bit later than evening,” Harry replies.
Kim glances upwards at the sparkle of stars overhead and doesn’t respond.
Harry follows his gaze, and a little of the silence of the night settles into his skin. It’s peaceful out here, for Jamrock. The buzz of the city is muffled, and it makes their two lawns feel like they are in a bubble all their own.
“Do you smoke?” Kim asks after a few long moments. His voice is low and soft, and Harry imagines it curling through the air like the smoke from his cigarette.
“Here and there.”
Kim holds out his open pack.
Harry descends the steps of his porch and jogs the few paces to Kim’s. The boards creak under his feet as he joins Kim below the warm pool of his porch light. It’s a box of Astras—not Harry’s usual brand, but Harry isn’t about to turn down a free cigarette. He plucks one from the box and takes the lighter Kim hands him.
“Can’t sleep?” Harry asks after he’s taken a long, deep breath of the chestnut smoke and handed the lighter back to Kim.
“Didn’t even try,” Kim replies.
“Me either.”
Kim hums. “It doesn’t make sense, but sometimes it feels like I’m refusing to give my mind a chance to disappoint me.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Harry replies. “I didn’t feel like staring at the dark ceiling of my bedroom tonight.”
Kim doesn’t say anything right away, but the silence doesn’t feel strained. The nicotine buzzes through Harry’s bloodstream and eases some of the tension from his shoulders.
“You said you teach gym?” Kim asks.
“Over at Grand Couron High, yeah.”
“Have you been there a long time?”
“20 years.”
The corners of Kim’s mouth turn up at that. “I’m impressed. Being a teacher seems like it would be a sad, thankless job.”
“As if being a police officer in Jamrock isn’t?”
“Fair point.”
The evening is cool but not cold, and Kim has the sleeves of his bomber jacket pushed up to his elbows and the front unzipped. He looks unbelievably cool standing with his hip leaning against the railing, smoke trailing from the cigarette held between his fingers. Harry would never voice that thought aloud, but it clings. Kim is cool.
“You’re not wrong that it’s thankless,” Harry continues. “But if I can make my students’ days just a little brighter, if I can nudge one of them in the right direction, then I’ve done my job.”
“You sound like you make a great teacher.”
Harry shrugs. “I do my best.” Somewhere in the distance, a motor carriage blares its horn. “I’m assuming you’re with the Central Jamrock RCM?”
“Yes. Precinct 41. I just recently transferred there. I used to work at the precinct that polices the Greater Revachol Industrial Harbor.”
“Explains why you moved here.” He gestures to the house behind them. “Why the transfer?”
Kim takes a long drag of his cigarette before responding. “The 41st is understaffed and overworked. I met a few of the officers from the 41st in Martinaise and they recommended me to their captain. Our captains worked out a deal, and I agreed to the transfer.”
Martinaise. There had been something about it in the news. A strike, a murder, a shootout. Unrest bubbling to the surface in Revachol. Harry doesn’t know the specifics and he doesn’t want to.
“How are you finding Jamrock?”
“Exhausting. Exhilarating. Just the right combination to keep me from sleeping on nights like these.”
And he does look exhausted, even though he wears it well.
The conversation peters out and so eventually do their cigarettes. Kim wishes him a good night, and Harry retreats into his dark house. He finds that he feels a little less like he’s drowning, and sleep eventually comes to him.
“What are you doing?”
Harry squints up at the silhouette of his neighbor, backlit by the midday sun.
Summer has settled over Revachol finally, and with it, it brings the awful fug of humidity that squeezes their lungs and sits on their brows in a fine sheen of moisture. Harry can feel sweat dripping down his nose and soaking his t-shirt.
“I’m trying to tear down this fence,” Harry says.
The fence that separates Harry’s lawn from the sidewalk has been bent and rusting for as long as Harry has lived in this house, and he’s finally decided to do something about it. He’s been finding things to keep him occupied, things to keep the depths of his moods from dragging him under, and he can’t exactly exercise every free moment of his day. So, yard work it is.
“Why?” Kim asks, glancing at the twisted chaos of Harry’s progress. He’s managed to yank up most of the metal posts that are planted deep in the hard earth, but the last two have been giving him trouble.
“Because I’m tired of looking at it.” He wraps his hands around the post, plants a foot near the base of the thing, and tugs. It doesn’t budge. “Damn it.”
“Need help?”
Harry glances up at Kim, and Kim’s eyes snap to his face. There’s a weird expression on his face, but it clears quickly.
“Nah. I’ll figure it out,” Harry replies.
“Are you going to build a new fence?” Kim is standing over him with his hands clasped behind his back, expression curious, and Harry wonders what’s so interesting about his fence project. Surely Kim has more exciting things to think about.
Harry shakes his head. “You don’t have a fence. I don’t need one either. Shit’s just decorative.”
It’s uneven, anyway, and only separates his yard from the street. At one point, it must have surrounded his entire yard, but the years have not been kind to it. Harry is going to put the thing out of its misery.
“Let me know if you need an extra pair of hands,” Kim says before leaving Harry to his work and retreating into his house.
Harry uses a shovel to dig around the post until it’s much looser in the ground. Finally, he manages to tug it free.
He hears a clank and glances up to see Kim standing in front of his motor carriage, rag in hand. A metal bucket sits at his feet. He’s taken off his jacket and is wearing a white undershirt, and Harry’s brain stalls for a moment as Kim leans down to dip the rag in the bucket. Harry hasn’t ever seen Kim without the jacket.
Kim is thin but wiry. The bomber jacket makes him look bulkier than he actually is and obscures the cut of his arms. Something strange flutters in Harry’s chest and he turns back to his fence project before giving the feeling any time to stew.
As Harry pulls the last of the posts out of the ground and fills the holes with dirt, he feels Kim’s eyes on him. Every time he glances over, Kim is intent on cleaning his motor carriage, but once or twice their eyes meet, just enough for Harry to know that he’s not imagining things. Harry gets distracted with loading the metal pieces into the bin on the side of the road, a task that requires his full concentration, and when he glances back at Kim’s yard, Kim has disappeared inside.
Harry packs his tools away and stares at the results of his work. The front looks empty now, but not in a bad way. It’s cleaner. Open to possibility. Maybe Harry will get some bushes.
“All done?”
Harry glances back to see Kim standing on his porch. His arms are crossed and he looks like he’s appraising Harry’s work.
“All done.”
“Looks good.” Kim gives him a small smile.
“Thanks.”
Later, when Harry has showered and is lying on his couch, the image of Kim washing his motor carriage in his undershirt sticks with him. He’s not sure why, but he can’t seem to get rid of it. It dances behind his eyelids and refuses to let him be.
Maybe he’s just lonely and Kim is the closest person right now. Whatever it is, it makes his chest tight. He turns on the radio and lets disco roll over him, hoping that it will drive away whatever has gotten into him.
Harry remembers to check the mail one day and finds the mailbox stuffed full of at least a month worth of mail. He has to work to tug the mass free from the mailbox, and when he does, he almost fumbles it and sends it scattering across the pavement. Hugging the pile to his chest, Harry hurries up the lawn and into his house where he dumps the mail onto his kitchen counter.
He’s planning on leaving the mess for a Harry of another day, but something shiny catches his eye. A magazine? Harry isn’t subscribed to any magazines. He plucks it from between two bank notices and is greeted by a glossy picture of a motor carriage. A fast motor carriage, with a man dressed in a racing jumpsuit leaning against the hood. The body of the motor carriage gleams in the sun and the huge engine on the back is a finely-tuned monster.
Harry squints. A racing magazine? He flips it over and examines the address label.
Kim Kitsuragi, it reads.
He feels a smile spread on his face. Kim subscribes to a racing magazine and it was accidentally delivered to his house. The care that Kim pays to his machine makes more sense now. Kim is a torque dork.
Harry pokes through the mail and finds two other less exciting pieces of mail that belong to Kim. He tucks the envelopes into the front cover of the magazine and heads out his front door. Kim’s motor carriage is parked on the front lawn, which means he’s home. When Harry knocks on his front door, it takes Kim a few moments to answer, and when he does, he’s wearing a t-shirt and a pair of dark grey sweatpants. The words Harry was going to say die on his lips.
“Harry? What’s going on?”
Harry hurries to hand him the mail. “Looks like some of your mail was delivered to me.”
When Kim catches sight of the magazine, his hand darts out to snatch it from him. Harry is delighted to see that the tips of Kim’s ears are burning a bright, embarrassed red.
“I have no idea why that magazine has my name on it. Must be some sort of mistake.”
Harry’s grin widens. “TipTop fan, are you?”
Harry watches as Kim deliberates on keeping the lie or giving up. His expression drops. “I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I appreciate the competition and the innovation required to develop such fast machines.”
“Not just a TipTop fan. A torque dork.”
Kim’s jaw tightens.
“C’mon, Kim, there’s nothing wrong with that. Every man has their hobbies. I just didn’t expect it. I should have, though, considering how much attention you give your motor carriage.”
That seems to do the trick. The corners of Kim’s mouth tip up in a small smile. “It’s a nice motor carriage.”
“I’m no MC guy, but I can tell that much.”
Kim tucks the magazine under his arm. “Thank you for bringing this over.”
“Of course, Kim.”
The smile Kim gives him is small, but genuine.
School is off for a few weeks, which leaves Harry pacing the edges of his house like a caged tiger. He exercises as much as possible without injuring himself and tries to stay away from his liquor shelf, but it’s not easy. The days are long and simmering, and Harry feels something buzzing under his skin that he can’t quiet no matter how many miles he runs or how much weight he lifts. He tries reading, but he’s too restless to sit still for the time required to really get into anything.
Sometimes, Harry wonders if the only true peace he’ll find is past the pale, in his own death. Harry lays on the floor in his living room and stares at the slow circling of the ceiling fan and wonders whose lives would be impacted if he died and how quickly everything would go on without him. He covers his face with his hands and tries to toss that line of thinking away.
A knock sounds at his door.
He scrubs his hands down his face and sits up. He glances at the clock on the wall. 10 PM. He can’t think of anyone who’d come calling on him this late. He finger-combs his hair into a semblance of neatness and heads to the front door.
When he opens it a crack, he sees two people standing on his front porch—a man with a scruffy face and sandy-brown hair and a woman with a long, sympathetic face, her hair tucked back into a bun at the base of her neck.
“Can I help you?” Harry asks.
The man clears his throat. “Yes, um. We’re with the RCM.” His voice trails off into silence.
“Am I in trouble?” Harry asks with a frown.
The woman steps forward slightly. “No, sorry. I’m Patrol Officer Judit Minot, and this is Satellite Officer Jean Vicquemare. Do you know Kim Kitsuragi? We’re his colleagues.”
Dread immediately crawls through Harry’s veins. “We’re acquaintances. Did something happen to him?”
The motor carriage is not parked out front next door, and Harry can’t remember seeing Kim at all today.
The worry must be visible on his face because Minot hurries to reply. “No, no. But we came to check up on him,” Minot replies. “Today was… difficult.”
Vicquemare nods, still looking uncomfortable. Harry is beginning to think this was Minot’s idea and she dragged Vicquemare with her.
“I’ll keep an eye out for him,” Harry says. “But I wouldn’t know where to find him if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Minot sighs. “That’s enough. Thank you. I’m not sure we got your name?”
“Harry.”
“Thank you, Harry.”
The officers turn and leave his front porch. As they make their way down the path to the road, Vicquemare turns to Minot and mutters in a voice that Harry can just barely hear. “It’s a good thing Kitsuragi isn’t home because he’d have our balls in a vice for this.”
“Yours, maybe,” Minot replies.
The motor carriage sitting on the street is not as nice as the one Kim drives, and the engine is quieter as they pull away and leave the dark neighborhood behind them.
The night is clear and warm, and out here, the walls aren’t closing in around him. Harry sits down on the front steps and stares up at the stars. A few minutes later, he wishes he had brought a beer out with him. There’s a lighter in his pocket, but his cigarettes are on the kitchen counter.
He isn’t sure how much time has passed when he hears the telltale roar of Kim’s motor carriage and watches as it pulls to a stop on the lawn next door. When Kim hops out of the carriage, his pace towards the house is quick and he doesn’t look over towards Harry, doesn’t seem to notice he’s there.
“Hey, Kim.”
Kim grinds to a halt and stares at Harry with wide eyes.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
The surprise clears quickly from Kim’s face. “Hello, Harry.” His eyes flicker towards his house and then back to Harry. “Were you waiting for me?”
“No.” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. Kim’s eyebrows crawl upwards. “Okay. Maybe. It’s not like I was sleeping anyway.”
Kim frowns. “Why?”
“Well, I have insomnia—”
“No, why were you waiting for me? You know I work odd hours.”
Harry scratches the back of his neck. Does he or does he not rat out Kim’s colleagues?
Kim’s eyes narrow.
“I may have heard… that you had a tough day? I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
Kim crosses his arms and shoots a glance back down the street. “Who told you that?”
“Your colleagues came by to check on you.”
Kim conveys the exact energy of someone pinching the bridge of their nose unhappily without moving. “Who.”
“There was a woman with a long face and a man who looked like he'd gone about two years without sleep.”
Kim looks away, his jaw tightening. Harry has never seen him look this unhappy. “They have no business sharing my business with strangers.”
“Strangers? We’re not—”
“You might as well be.”
Harry watches Kim wind himself tighter and tighter and wonders what happened. Kim is the type of person who has everything under control, down to the way he reacts to any situation. His control is fraying right in front of Harry’s eyes.
“Jesus, Kim, they were just worried about you. They didn’t tell me anything. Say the word and I’ll go back inside and forget any of this happened. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t thrown yourself off a bridge or something.”
Kim stares at him for a long moment and then breathes a heavy sigh. “Are you headed to bed?”
“Don’t think I’d be able to sleep any better now than a few hours ago, so no.”
Kim makes his way across Harry’s lawn and takes a seat next to him on the steps. “Would you say 2 AM counts as the next day or is it an extension of the previous day?”
Harry frowns. “Why?”
Kim fishes around in his pocket and tugs out his pack of cigarettes. “I limit myself to one cigarette a day. I smoked earlier, before midnight. This will be my one for today.” He slides a cigarette free, sticks it between his lips, and fumbles in his pocket for a lighter. When he fails to locate it, Harry is already holding his own lighter up. Kim leans in, and Harry lights the end of the cigarette in Kim’s mouth. Harry’s heart beats in his ears.
“Using up that smoke early, then,” Harry says quietly.
Kim takes a long drag. “A problem for later.”
Harry feels the call of nicotine and envies Kim his smoke, but he doesn’t feel the need to pull out a cigarette of his own. Just sitting here next to Kim while he de-stresses is enough right now.
There is still a taut edge to the lines of Kim’s body, barely visible in the dim light coming from the streetlights and the moon. Something did happen today, something that shook Kim badly, and even if Kim prefers his colleagues didn’t worry about him, Harry is glad they said something. He’s glad to be here with Kim, who is leaning just slightly inwards, enough to make their shoulders brush.
Kim taps his cigarette on the side of the step. “You probably think I’m an unbearable asshole now,” he says without looking up.
“What?”
“My anger at my colleagues. At you.”
Harry breathes out a chuckle. “No, I don’t. That was tame compared to some of my shit. Back when I had people who’d do that for me.”
Kim looks over at him, finally, and the moonlight gleams on the edge of his glasses.
“It’s hard to be vulnerable enough to accept help from friends and colleagues,” Harry continues. “Might be even harder to convince yourself you need it.”
Kim is silent for a long moment before he replies. “I worked alone at my last precinct. I was fine. I don’t need them checking up on me like I’m some green-thumbed junior officer.”
Harry shrugs. “Just because you can handle it alone doesn’t mean you have to.”
Kim takes a last drag and stubs his cigarette out on the heel of his boot. “You speak from experience. I take it there are bad days as a gym teacher?”
Harry picks at the hem of his pants and organizes his thoughts. “You want to protect every student that comes through, but it’s impossible. You want to try to point them in the right direction, but in the end, you’re just another clueless adult among many in their lives.” Harry shrugs. “Sometimes it feels like running up a muddy hill. Fighting against lack of funding, fighting against teenage delinquency. Against useless parents. And once they leave, all bets are off. Hearing about former students’ deaths never gets any easier.”
“I have lost colleagues over the years. Seen many unnecessary deaths,” Kim replies. There is empathy in his voice. Smoking has made his posture looser, and his knee has come to rest against the side of Harry’s leg. Harry isn’t sure why, but he doesn’t move his leg away. Kim is still looking at him, and there’s something about his attention that makes Harry’s face hot. Kim’s knee presses more firmly into Harry’s leg, and again Harry doesn’t move.
“It makes you realize how fragile life really is,” Harry says. “Makes you wonder who would care if you died.”
Kim’s gaze flickers down to his mouth and Harry feels rooted in place. Kim is a magnet, pulling Harry in some unknown direction. Pulling Harry right to him. Harry feels himself leaning in without knowing why.
When Kim closes the short distance and kisses him, Harry’s mind goes completely blank. The flare of heat in his stomach burns bright. Kim’s mouth is a brand, and the gloved hand that comes up to cradle the side of Harry’s jaw anchors him.
When his brain finally catches up to him, he realizes with a shock of clarity that this is why his thoughts have spiraled around Kim so tightly. Harry hadn’t known, hadn’t even thought it possible.
He realizes that he’s kissing back, and his heart is threatening to beat right out of his chest. Kim’s tongue presses into the corner of Harry’s mouth, and Harry lets it fall open. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be devoured. Kim’s hand moves from his jaw to grip in Harry’s hair, and that sends another flare of heat through his stomach. Kim is kissing like he’s desperate, and it’s all Harry can do to keep up with him.
Before Harry can move his hands from where they’re resting awkwardly on top of his thighs, Kim pulls back abruptly. His mouth shines in the moonlight, wet from their kiss, and his eyes are wide.
“Shit,” he says, and his hands drop down to his sides. He stands up. “I’m sorry, Harry.”
And before Harry can kick his brain into gear and reply, Kim is hurrying off across his lawn and disappearing into his house.
Harry sits there a moment and tries to gather the fragments of his mind. Kim just kissed him with a sort of intensity that Harry felt all the way to his toes. Kim, his male cop neighbor who Harry had thought had a stick up his ass the first few weeks they knew each other. Harry, who up until now thought he was entirely straight. Homo-sexuality was something other people did. People Harry didn’t know.
Harry stands and runs a shaky hand through his hair. Part of him wants to chase after Kim and demand an explanation, maybe even kiss him again, but the more level-headed side of him knows that he needs time to process this. Besides, Harry doesn’t think Kim will answer the door if he knocks.
Sleep still does not find him that night, and Harry spends the hours staring at the ceiling and wondering exactly what’s gotten into him.
In the end, Harry thinks he handles the revelation quite well. So what if he happens to find one man attractive? He’s still the same athletic, macho, sideburn-wearing gym teacher that he was before. He just also enjoyed being kissed by his male neighbor and might want to do more than that with said neighbor. He’ll bench-press anyone who has a problem with it right out of town.
It’s a few days before he even considers confronting Kim, and in that time, they don’t run into each other. Kim is keeping late hours, and Harry decides it’s best not to linger on the front porch and wait for him like some sort of stalker-pervert.
On the sixth day after their little moonlight makeout sesh, Harry straps on a pair of running shoes and hits the pavement. It’s overcast today, but that doesn’t mean it’s not still hot. He’ll be sweating right through his vest by the end of his run. As always, it feels good to push his body and get his heart rate up. He’s not quite as fit as he used to be—he drinks too much to have a perfect form—but his body still carries him where he wants to go.
He does a three-mile circuit that brings him back to the neighborhood around late afternoon, just in time to see Kim climbing out of his motor carriage. Harry slows to a walk and makes his way up the street and down his front path.
“Hey, Kim,” he says past the heavy breaths he’s still sucking into his lungs. Maybe he pushed it a bit too hard. He sets his hands on his hips and tries to get his breathing under control.
Kim turns his way, and his gaze travels quickly down Harry’s front and back to his face. For the first time, Harry feels just how short his exercise shorts are.
“Hello, Harry.” Kim’s posture is stiff and his expression tight, and Harry gets the feeling Kim would rather be anywhere else.
“We should talk,” Harry says.
“If that’s what you want.”
“Yeah, that’s what I want. What do you want?”
Kim shakes his head and doesn’t respond.
Harry exhales. Looks like he’s going to have to do this himself. “There’s a little diner a few blocks away. Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.”
Harry nods once. “Great. Let me get a quick shower in and we can go. Fifteen minutes?”
There’s something hesitant in Kim’s eyes, but he nods.
“Groovy.”
When Harry makes it back outside feeling much fresher, Kim is sitting on his porch steps writing in a small blue notebook. The orange bomber jacket is nowhere to be seen, and the shirt he’s wearing is black. Harry tries not to let the change get to his head as he approaches Kim.
“Writing poetry?”
Kim looks up at him with an unimpressed expression. “If that’s what you want to pretend I’m writing, I won’t stop you.” His pen makes a few more short motions on the page and then he snaps the notebook closed and shoves it in his back pocket. “Where is this diner?” he asks as he stands.
“Just down the road. C’mon.”
Kim falls into step with him as Harry makes his way down the sidewalk, through the neighborhood.
“Have you met any of our other neighbors?” Kim asks after a few moments of silence.
“There’s an older couple that lives in that one,” Harry says, pointing at the house with the crumbling blue roof. “They’re pretty quiet, but they’ve brought me soup in the winter a few times.” A dog barks at them from the house with the chain-link fence as they pass. “I’ve only met the teenage son of the family that lives here. He’s still too young to be in my classes, but I should have him in a year or two.”
As Harry points to each house, Kim listens attentively.
“That house used to be a bunch of students. Not sure what happened to them.”
It’s begun raining lightly by the time Harry leads them down a sidestreet and up to the front entrance of the diner, the kind of rain that coats your hair and clothing in a layer of fine mist. Fry oil presses against their noses as they step through the door and into the dry interior of the diner.
“Harry-boy!”
Harry throws a finger-gun at the cook, who is leaning out of the kitchen to wave at him.
Harry smiles at the hostess—a girl in his upper-level gym class who he knows would be embarrassed if he acknowledged that—and leads Kim back to an empty booth tucked in the far corner.
“I take it you’re here a lot?” Kim asks.
“A bit too often for my cholesterol levels, probably, but who’s keeping track?”
Harry plucks a menu from the condiment stand and hands it to Kim. “I’d avoid any of the seafood, but the rest is fair game.”
After the waitress pours them each a cup of coffee and takes their orders, Kim crosses his arms and stares down into his cup of coffee. His shoulders are hunched slightly, making him look smaller. “I should apologize again for my behavior the other night. I was not in a good state of mind and I took advantage of your kindness.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“Regardless, I want to promise you that it won’t happen again.”
Kim still isn’t looking at him, and Harry knows crappy diner coffee can’t be that interesting.
“Listen, Kim. You caught me off guard, but only because apparently I’m clueless.”
At that, Kim does finally look up at him, his brow furrowed.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you’re attracted to me,” Harry continues.
Kim’s expression becomes mildly pained, but Harry can see the truth in his face.
“Well, surprise surprise, Kim, but I’m also attracted to you. That was news to me, but you did a great job of laying that right out at my feet, so thank you for that.”
Kim coughs. “You’re welcome?” The tips of his ears are red, and Harry feels a thrill at noticing this little tell.
“So, I suppose my question is: was that just a one-time, stress-induced mistake that you’d rather we bury, or would you be interested in something more?”
Kim looks away from him and across the diner. It’s just busy enough that the ambient noise gives them unexpected privacy, and Harry is grateful that their food is taking a little longer than usual. He can tell that they stand on shaky ground and that Kim does not enjoy this sort of emotional vulnerability.
“What do you mean by more?” Kim eventually asks, meeting Harry’s gaze again.
“I’m a bit out of my depth here, to be honest. I just know that I like you and think it’d be fun to see where it goes.”
Kim wraps his hands around the mug and takes a sip of the still-steaming coffee. His glasses fog momentarily before clearing. “You have never been in a relationship with a man,” he says quietly. It’s not a question.
“No. But there’s a first time for everything, and like I said, I like you.”
Kim taps his thumb against the ceramic of his coffee mug and it makes a dull sound. “You didn’t seem to be very fond of me when I moved in. Whether or not you like me personally, I am still a police officer, and I don’t plan to change that.”
Harry takes a sip of his own coffee and resists cringing at how hot it is on his tongue. He’s feeling restless, and nerves are making him jittery, but he’s also more clear-headed than he’s been in a while. He wants Kim to understand.
“When I was in my twenties, I entertained the idea of becoming a police officer. It didn’t stick, but sometimes I wonder where I might be if I had made that decision.”
Kim raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, waiting for Harry to make his point.
“Revachol needs someone to help protect people and keep the peace, and maybe the RCM doesn’t often do right by the citizens of Revachol, but I’d like to think that some officers are trying.”
“A surprisingly moderate opinion.”
Harry shrugs.
Kim still doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve seen the hours I keep. That won’t change either.”
Something tells Harry that Kim has been here before. There’s a wariness in his expression, a jadedness. Past partners have wanted more from him than he can give them. His job comes first.
“If I told you that doesn’t bother me, would you believe me?” Harry shakes his head and continues before Kim can respond. “All I’m suggesting is a test run. What’s the harm in seeing if we can find something good here?”
A corner of Kim’s mouth tips up in a smile. “So, like a date.”
“A date,” Harry agrees. He taps his fingers against the wood tabletop. “Hypothetically speaking, if a man took you to a somewhat crappy diner for a first date, would that be a deal-breaker?”
Kim’s smile widens at that. “I’d consider him taking me anywhere more expensive a deal-breaker.”
Harry feels warmth bloom in his chest, and he smiles back. Kim has decided to take the plunge with him, and the electric buzz that dances under his skin at the thought is addictive. “Wait until you try the food before you say that.”
Their food arrives not long after that, and it’s just as greasy as it always is, but Kim doesn’t seem to have a problem with that. He takes a bite of his sandwich with no hesitation and appears to enjoy it.
After a few moments of silence as they eat, Kim gives Harry a fond, curious look. “So, coach, what is the high school gym curriculum like in this decade? Any less grueling than it was when we were in school?”
Harry pouts. “Grueling?”
“You can’t think of any reason someone like me might have found gym class to be a chore?” His tone isn’t accusing, despite the words.
Of course Harry knows what Kim means. The lenses on Kim’s glasses are thick. They’re not a recent necessity. It makes Harry sad to think of a young Kim, thin, quiet, and bespectacled, dreading each and every gym class. “That shit doesn’t fly in my class. Every kid deserves a chance to learn that sports can be fun.”
Kim raises his eyebrows. “Is that so?”
“Any teacher worth anything can pick up on the social dynamics in their classes. We’re not miracle workers, but a teacher that says they can’t do anything about bullying is either themselves a bully, or careless.”
“Or just underpaid,” Kim replies. Under the table, Harry feels Kim’s foot come to rest against his ankle. “You’re a good teacher. I would have had a much better time had my teachers been like you.”
“I’m sorry they weren’t better. You deserved better,” Harry replies.
Kim gives him a small, grateful smile. Kim is over whatever happened back then—it was a long time ago–but he likes Harry sticking up for him.
Harry brings the mood up a little by talking about his curriculum, and Kim’s ankle remains pressed against his own under the table, a bright point of contact that feels warm even through Kim’s boot.
“Alright, here’s a question,” Harry says after he’s gone on long enough about high school gym. “What’s the weirdest case you’ve ever gotten?”
Kim chews on a chip and considers the question. “A few years ago, we got a call about an assault at a fairground. The RCM arrived at the scene to find a clown with a black eye, ranting and raving about, and I quote ‘that worthless bastard Dinky Winky.’”
It sounds even more ridiculous in Kim’s flat voice, and Harry laughs. “A clown fight?”
“When we started digging into the operations at this place trying to figure out where this Dinky Winky went, we discovered that the whole thing was a front for exotic animal smuggling. We had to shut the whole thing down, and unfortunately, also had to call on a few junior officers to help capture the three highly endangered monkeys that got loose.”
“Did they get them?”
“They did. But not before one of the officers sprained his ankle falling from a tree.”
Harry cackles, and Kim’s grin grows.
“That’s incredible.”
“Most cases aren’t amusing, but that one certainly was. I think there’s still a picture hanging in Precinct 57 of one of the officers leaning on the monkey cages.”
They go back and forth until long after their food has been cleared. After a while, Harry catches the hostess shooting looks at them, and he pulls out his wallet. “Let’s let someone else have our table,” he says, tossing down a few bills and standing.
Kim protests Harry paying, but Harry waves him off. “You can pay next time.”
Harry can feel Kim’s eyes on him as they step out into the warm night. The rain has stopped and a low fog blankets the streets as the night cools. Kim falls into step with him, and Harry wonders why it feels so easy.
As they walk, Harry finds he is reluctant for the night to end, and he wonders if Kim feels the same. For the first time in a long time, Harry feels a connection with someone who seems to like him back, and it makes him feel a little less alone.
“I haven’t had my cigarette for the day,” Kim says quietly when they get to their street. “Care to join me?”
Harry smiles. “I’d love to.”
The sun sheds its last weak orange rays over the horizon as Kim leads them up onto his porch. Harry fishes his own pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and Kim lends him his lighter. The porch light isn’t on, but they walked the whole way back from the diner in the near dark, and Harry’s eyes have adjusted to it. There is an intimacy that comes with standing in this darkness, shoulders brushing as they smoke.
Kim leans back against the banister. When he speaks, his voice is so quiet that Harry wouldn’t hear it at all if he wasn’t standing so close. “I haven’t done anything like this in a long time.”
The end of his cigarette glows brightly as he takes a deep inhale. Smoke pours from his lips.
“I haven’t either.”
Kim taps the end of his cigarette on the banister to clear the ash. He’s not looking up at Harry. “It’s… difficult for me to let myself open up to anyone. Sometimes I think I’ve forgotten how to.”
“Then why does it feel like I know you?”
Two men, one broad and one thin, stand on the edge of the world. They haven’t known each other long, but there is something that ties them together. Something unbreakable, even across time and space. The future is uncertain, but they’re together.
When Kim kisses him this time, Harry is ready for it. He stubs his cigarette out on the banister and slides a hand around the back of Kim’s neck.
Harry doesn’t know how he didn’t recognize this for exactly what it was. The fierce ache in his gut is unmistakable. It flares when Kim’s teeth scrape against his lower lip, and Harry uses his other hand to press against the small of Kim’s back and pull him closer. He’s lean and sturdy and everything that Harry had no idea he wanted.
“Come inside?” Kim asks against Harry’s mouth.
It’s even darker in Kim’s house with the blinds closed and the lamps off, but Kim navigates them to his bedroom easily. There is no clutter to trip them up like there would be in Harry’s house, and they make it to the bed without incident. Kim pushes Harry down to sit on the edge and steps in between Harry’s thighs. His kisses are less desperate than they were that first night, but he still does it with a sort of intensity that makes Harry’s head spin. This is the full brunt of Kim’s attention, and it’s laser-sharp.
Kim’s fingers find the buttons of Harry’s shirt and begin to work them open.
“I know how all of this works in theory,” Harry says as Kim’s mouth brushes across his cheek. “But you’re going to have to guide me.”
Harry can feel Kim’s smile against his neck when Kim kisses him there. “I know.”
Kim gets Harry’s shirt off and tosses it aside. He skims his hands over Harry’s shoulders with a warm look in his eyes and then shifts away from Harry so he can kneel in front of him. Harry’s stomach swoops in anticipation, but Kim’s fingers go to Harry’s shoelaces.
Watching Kim calmly remove his shoes makes his chest tight in a way he can't explain. Kim tilts a small smile up at him. “Green snakeskin?”
“They’re disco. Gotta wear them when I have a chance, because I can’t very well teach gym in these heels.”
“I like them,” Kim replies. He tugs the second shoe off Harry’s feet and sets it aside before standing. “Lay down on the bed,” he says as he sits next to Harry on the edge of the bed and begins removing his own boots.
Kim’s mattress is firm under Harry’s bare back, and the ceiling fan above their heads circles lazily. Harry wants to kick his pants off, but he also has a strange desire to follow Kim’s instructions. He spends all day giving instructions and he realizes that for once, it’s nice to follow them.
It only takes Kim a few moments to join Harry on the bed, and when he does, he straddles Harry’s hips. A slice of moonlight gleams on his glasses in the dark. When Harry slides his hands under Kim’s shirt to get at the warm skin of his back, Kim makes a pleased sound in his throat and glides his palms over the furred expanse of Harry’s chest. The way he lingers makes Harry think Kim likes this particular part of him.
“Your turn,” Harry says, tugging on the hem of Kim’s shirt.
Kim discards his shirt, and Harry has a moment to wonder how Kim did that so easily without knocking his glasses out of place before Kim leans down to kiss him again, and the thought flees Harry's mind. His hand makes its way up to Harry’s throat, and his fingertips brush Harry’s pulse point where it flutters like a bird trying to escape a net. Harry likes the idea of Kim counting his heartbeats and cataloging them like he would a crime scene. Here Harry is, laid below him, clue after clue for Kim to find, one by one.
Kim’s hands circle his biceps and squeeze. “Do you know how distracting you are?” he asks, looming over Harry with his brows furrowed.
“What?” Harry asks, brain fuzzy with arousal.
“Your biceps, and your outrageously short exercise shorts and those obnoxious vests.”
Harry blinks and then grins. “You were getting an eyeful.”
“I thought you were doing it on purpose at first,” Kim admits, expression going a touch sheepish. “But it turns out you just dress like that.”
“Well, now I’m definitely going to do it on purpose.”
“Of course you are.” Kim kisses him again, and Harry feels his smile against his mouth.
The body that Kim gradually reveals to him in the close darkness of his bedroom is thin but athletic. This is a man who spends his time on the move—sinewy thighs and toned arms give away Kim’s control over every aspect of his life. He can’t control how broad his shoulders are or how tall he is, but he can make this body work for him in every way that counts. Harry imagines Kim is capable of a quick burst of speed when he needs it. His body is a study in contrast to Harry’s, which is built for endurance, for strength.
There is a long, narrow scar that snakes above his hip, and Harry runs a curious thumb over the mark.
“A knife I was lucky didn’t hit somewhere vital,” Kim says, voice soft and breathy in the space between them.
It’s been a long time since Harry has shared his bed with anyone, long enough that he almost forgot how nice it feels to have someone else’s breath on his face, to feel the warmth of another body against his own. When Kim pins his hips to the bed with sharp fingers and takes Harry into his mouth, Harry is surprised at how intense it feels, after so long with only his own hand for company.
Kim doesn’t seem disappointed that Harry doesn’t last long—there is a smug expression that camps on his face when Harry pulls him in for a kiss.
Harry might not have experience with men, but it’s not difficult to figure out what Kim likes. He kisses the side of Kim’s neck and takes him in hand, enjoying the small breathy noises Kim gives him in exchange.
Later, Kim lays with his head resting on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry with his arm wrapped around Kim’s back, both of them staring up at the slow circling of the ceiling fan.
“Did you always want to be in the RCM?” Harry asks. It's a little warm to be pressed against each other like this, but Harry isn't going to ask Kim to move.
“No, not always.” He’s silent for a long moment before he continues. “But as I grew up, I realized I wanted to do something that mattered.” Harry can feel the shrug in his voice. “To me, the RCM was a way to help people, to help this city.”
“You love Revachol.”
“I do.”
After a few more quiet moments, Kim speaks again. “I have a confession to make.”
Harry makes an inquisitive noise, already halfway to a doze.
“You accused me of showing off, on that first night we met.”
“Did I?”
“You were referring to my MC.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, I was just being a dick.”
Kim props himself up on one elbow and looks down at him. “You were right.”
“Aw, Kim, c’mon,” Harry whines. “Please just forget I said anything.”
“I am vain when it comes to the Kineema. You were able to tell that about me within the first few weeks of living beside me.”
“Only because that thing is loud as shit. Please, just forget about it.”
Kim settles back down against Harry and Harry squeezes Kim’s side.
“Now that I know you, I think the way you care for your MC is endearing. I was just being an asshole who was convinced you were an asshole without even meeting you. I don’t think that anymore.”
Kim sighs, but Harry feels some of the tension go out of him. Eventually, Harry does doze off, comforted by Kim's weight against him.
Tomorrow, Harry will go into the school and begin prepping it for another year of unruly, uninterested students whose lives Harry can only hope to touch. Kim will face another grim day with Jamrock’s dark underbelly. Both of them will fight against the tide of something that seems to be coming closer and closer each day. And then, maybe, they will return to each other and find some solace in that.
Tonight, Harry warms Kim’s bed and wonders if Revachol might have finally given him something worth keeping.