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Being shot in the leg and discovering a new species of insect was never going to be enough to stop you from sticking your swollen red nose right back into the bottle.
The first night back actually. You had a raucous good time. You met new people, and old friends, too. You even stayed clothed for almost all of it. It was a glorious return to form. Back to superstar copdom.
Just kidding. It was shit. When you returned to your apartment after losing your memory, most of your belongings had been cleared out by your fellow RCM officers. That included your cigarette burned futon, your cracked bookshelves, your withered cardboard box coffee tables, and months of trash bags, never taken out. Yeah, it was bad. Or so you heard. You never got to see the damage as your new new self.
The problem is, your fellow officers were not well-acquainted enough with your habits to dispose of your alcohol collection. They had the sense to trash your stash of pills prescribed to six different names. But there was a miscommunication about your primary vice.
You came back to a mountain of fresh, full amber bottles shimmering proudly right in the middle of your floor.
So on your first night back, you drank.
You wish you had a reason that-- maybe the pain of losing your memory, or the pain of remembering the ex-something, or maybe even the pain of losing your cum-stained couch-- drove you to drink.
Truthfully, you were just bored, and you did it without thinking.
The combination of painkillers and alcohol sent you to the moon after only one measly pilsner. In a giddy fog, you ran outside and began introducing yourself to your unsuspecting neighbors. Then you began moving their furniture around for them. Then you used one of their phones to call an old friend. One week old.
A click. “Detective? Did you need something?” The voice made you warm.
“Kim! You have to get down here. I’m meeting so many fantastic new people. Did you know most of my neighbors had already heard of me? From years ago? They want to meet you. Well, I think they do. I haven’t asked them yet, but they seem eager. I may have told them you’re a being of light sent here to criticize their furniture. Don’t let that get you nervous.”
Then you heard it. Soft and steady. A breath of preparation. “You’ve been drinking.”
Disappointment.
And you thought you were steeled to it. Vicquemare and Minot had certainly given you the impression this was every other night for you before the memory loss. Disappointing others is your modus operandi. It helps you keep your you in check, and keeps other people delightfully trapped in your life. It’s second nature to you. Or so you thought.
But hearing that familiar groove in the lieutenant’s voice made you realize something.
There was no way out before. Before you lost your memory. Surrounded by clinically depressed cops with no social skills and no will to live-- you had to drink to stay alive, to be great at your job (some times).
But a door has appeared. An orange door with a mailslot that looks suspiciously like an RCM halogen marker. Warm and steady. No obstacles in your path. You hear a voice in your head chide you. It can’t be for him, it must be for you. It doesn’t matter. You don’t give a shit.
The party is somewhere else.
And suddenly the bottle in your hand. Is just. Boring.
That night, you shuffled back to your room and began pouring out every last drop of alcohol into the sink. Bottle after bottle. Gone.
It was never going to be through rehabilitation.
This next part is a dark secret you haven’t admitted to anyone but yourself. But.
You haven’t had a drop to drink since.
--
It’s been weeks since the tribunal. You’re exhausted most days and braindead on painkillers the rest. But your leg is getting better. And a good thing, too, because you are quickly discovering disability leave for RCM officers is meager to nonexistent.
You need to get back to work. Gottlieb asks if he can visit you on Tuesday. You resign yourself to your verbal whipping and agree to a visit. Surely he can’t make things worse. And maybe he can clear you for some desk duty.
Tuesday arrives. Waiting for his arrival is agony.
Your brain lies sticky and caked in boredom.
Time moves in order, from left to right, in concentric circles. You watch each second pass by like a train pulling in and out of its stop. You grind your teeth to each second and watch patterns on the wood grain of your floor make the same backflips again and again.
I’ve got a fix for that, a familiar voice reminds you.
You think about all the bottles of speed you tossed. All the alcohol you dumped down in your pipes. You wonder if it’s still in there in the pipes, watching you from the walls. You’ve been relatively sober since that cosmic hole opened up in your memory in Martinaise. It hasn’t been pleasant, but you literally haven’t been arsed to self-destruct. Turns out painkillers really do kill pain. Including psychic pain.
That and the thought of hearing Lieutenant Kitsuragi, your new friend, disappointed in you again, soaks you to the bone with dread.
You remember you might still have some pyrholidon in your RCM jacket pocket. Fossilized by now. You reach out over your bed and dig in the pile of clothes on your floor. Your fingers touch cool smooth glass and you know you’ve found it.
Would it be too much to be tripping balls when the lazareth arrives? Should psychedelics be mixed with pain medication? Is this a sober thing to do? Will this affect Gottlieb’s medical examination? Will you still be cleared to return to work if you are tripping balls?
The pyrholidon wonders, too. It asks, is this a sober thing to do, my love? Do the grooves of my cap feel good on your fingers?
But as with every other self-destructive urge you’ve had since your one night bender, you lose steam and decide against it, setting the purple gem on the dining table.
The triumph of inaction yields no psychic rewards, however. You just, inexplicably, continue to exist.
Suddenly, the unmistakeable yowl of the twelve cylinder compression ignition engine of a Coupris Kineema. The sound rips across the air like lightning.
You realize with a start that Lieutenant Kitsuragi is here in Jamrock. Perhaps to see you. But why? Your thoughts race. You quickly shove all your clothes under your bed and out of sight.
This can’t be happening. This might imply that Martinaise was real. And so then Kim was real. Yes, you’ve thought about him, carnally, almost constantly, but it was just a memory, and you make those up all the time. Having the lieutenant at your home, confirming that not only was your week together real, but continues to produce contact, maybe even, friendship? That’s a betrayal of the senses. People leave you. They don’t come back.
No. Not this time. This one’s come back. Meet him.
In no time at all, a knock on the door. You barely register your attire- you’re in nothing but underwear as you rip open your front door.
From the dining table where you left it, the puck of pyrholidon chimes in: He’s here. And he’s beautiful.
Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi drove all the way from desolate GRIH to visit you, and he brought you groceries. And he’s trying not to smile.
“Surprise.”
Suddenly you’re hugging him, laughing, panting. You hear him gasp and laugh at being pressed against your hairy chest. You must smell like shit, but you don’t care. You definitely wouldn’t have touched him like this while you two were in Martinaise. And certainly not while you’re almost nude. How long have you been waiting for this? If you could smear him into you, you would. Cigarettes and motor oil and pine aftershave faded on cool skin scent mix in your nostrils and settle deep in your groin. It’s lovely.
“Holy shit. Where have you been all my life?” you sigh into his bomber jacket collar.
Way to come off way, way too strong, a voice chides.
No, it’s Kim. This is the appropriate response, another one defends.
You feel his smile against your shoulder. “Khm. Good to see you, too, detective. Excuse me. Your armpit is in my face.”
You pull back, but only a little. Out of all the people in the world, you like this one the best. He’s wonderful.
Kim pats your back, concentrating on keeping the groceries intact in your grip. He’s wearing a different bomber jacket, a black one without RCM halogen stickers. His hair is styled with slightly less product than usual- a soft, waxy black sweep on his head, his grays matte and at ease. Over his shoulder you can see the parked Kineema, and you imagine an off-duty Kim, speeding like salmon upstream through Jamrock traffic to come see you.
His eyes flick over to the pyrholidon on the table. You feel him stiffen in your arms. You thank yourself for being too damn lazy to trip balls today.
You tilt your head to the pyrholidon. “Don’t worry. You can take it with you, if you want. It’s unopened. Just found it today.”
Kim looks guilty at being discovered. “I shouldn’t have reacted so-- You’re an adult, detective. My apologies.”
“Sorry about the other night.”
“No. You have nothing to apologize for. Sobriety is a rocky journey with many attempts. I know that.”
You think about telling him the secret. What a good boy you’ve been. How you’re a bonafide sober chap. But instead, you bring his grocery bag to your kitchen and begin unpacking it. The lieutenant softens, his discomfort slowly replaced with pleasure at seeing you marvel at your bag of treats.
Fresh produce, mostly plums, and carrots, from the Industrial Harbour, and a pack of cigarettes. Not Astras. Centralis. Cheaper, more masculine and working class. Picked out especially for you.
Maybe he does think you’re cool.
Two lottery tickets peek out from beneath the pack. Green outlined letters. You Could Win Big! they say. You hold them up to Kim’s face.
“Satellite officer Vicquemare said you like these.”
You do. You had forgotten.
“I do.”
“You do. Okay then. Glad we cleared that up.” His eyes pass down to your bed of chest hair. Your belly hair. And then your… But it’s only a moment. “You should get dressed.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
“But my leg hurts. And I’m so tired.”
“Then I’m afraid my visit is at an end.”
You pull your legs through some jeans. You add a bright royal blue jumper to the fit, the words ‘bagari’ in white on the front.
You kinda wish it said ‘fagari’ on the front instead.
Kim looks you up and down. Then looks you in the eyes to show he approves. A barely perceptible nod. Your face warms briefly under his gaze.
You stand in your kitchen eating plums. Kim searches in your drawers for a paring knife, and begins cutting up one for himself, like a sensible, civilized person. Mocking you. In a huff, you hand him your half-eaten plum. He does exactly what you expect him to do, and he takes the plum, cocks an eyebrow at you, and begins cutting it up into little slices for you, like some kind of fruit cutting automaton. You eat your little baby plum slices like the little baby you are.
You catch up. About the Union buying up properties in GRIH and Martinaise, about a sudden lack of news coming from Madre, about the few signatures Kim is in town to collect to finalize his transfer to the 41st. He got them this morning, and now he has the rest of the day off.
Off-duty Kim. A new character. One that brings gifts.
Gottlieb’s visit was a ruse for Kim to come celebrate his transfer. He just wanted to surprise you with the news. You two are finally going to work together again.
A congratulatory aces high. Kim brings out a smile that immediately makes you understand what’s coming next. Aces low.
“How long do you think until we’re at the precinct?”
“For me, it will be a matter of weeks, but for you, who knows?” He gestures to your injured leg.
“I want it to be now.”
“I know.” Me too, he thinks.
You hand him a coin and one of the lottery tickets. He’s skeptical of the pleasures of lottery tickets, but a true believer in camraderie. There’s a flutter of excitement as the kitchen fills with the sound of two coins scratching on a kitchen counter top. Always that moment when you think you might win. Then disappointment. And again until the tickets are spent. The lieutenant tosses his ticket across the counter.
“Nothing.”
“Same here. I’m beginning to think I might not win big after all.”
“No. I suppose not.”
The lieutenant admits he hasn’t been smoking much lately. He stopped smoking out of boredom, and now not smoking is causing him boredom. You offer to break his streak with him.
He nods. “Mm. I would like that.”
While you speak, you notice Kim idly rotating the puck of pyrholidon in his gloved hand, admiring the deep purple color.
You get a strange feeling in your belly as a thought begins gestate.
You’re meeting a new man. One who thinks of you outside of work hours. Calls your coworkers in the dim light of the precinct to ask for gift suggestions. You feel the heat of a lead, inviting you to coax it out into the open. Questions present themselves in your mind’s tableau.
Are you like me? A lonely animal who only wants to fuck- with others, at others, and at yourself?Do you also get turned on at the thought of misbehaving?
“Have you ever tried pyrholidon?”
“No.” Before you can continue- “And I don’t intend to.”
You should, you think.
He looks at you, hearing your thought like a church bell. He puts down the pyrho. You give him a sheepish grin.
“I’m just saying, I’m not gonna use it, so help yourself to the pyrho if you change your mind.” You try to hide the hope in your voice.
For a moment, it looks like he’s really considering it. “Very considerate of you, officer. But I think I’d prefer to sniff some of your drouamine instead. Or do you have a candy bowl of cocaine for guests?”
“Oh… Only drouamine, but I’m running low.” You didn’t know you’d have a guest. Maybe you should have. “I could probably stick out the pain for the rest of tonight though, if you really want some?”
Kim huffs a quiet laugh, not looking at you. “I’ll spare you.”
Then he looks at you dangerously.
“Come on. Let’s break my streak.” Heat rises up your neck.
The lieutenant sits at your round dining table and takes out a pack of Astras. He shakes two out for the both of you. Then dangles them both between his lips and lights them at the same time. The lighter shuts with a satisfying clink, and he hands you the second cigarette from his mouth.
Like blowing you a kiss. So cool.
He didn’t have to do that, give you a cigarette that his mouth had been on. And he knows you think he looks cool when he smokes. He’s trying to play it up now that you’re together again.
He’s not letting the camaraderie you two built from Martinaise fade into middle class politeness. He wants to be close. You do, too.
You rise to go on the balcony, but Kim lingers by the table.
Thinking something over. Cigarette dangling between his forefingers, thumb flicking his ring finger anxiously.
Before you can quite register what’s happening, he picks up the puck of pyrho, pops the lid, smears a dollop on his finger, and swipes it on his gums. He slips the puck in his pocket, never to be seen again.
He lifts his eyes to look at you, daring you to comment on what he just did.
Fuck. That is hot.
He opens the front door and looks at you. You stare at him stupidly, transfixed. “Shall we?” He somehow leers at you without moving a single muscle in his face.
You shiver. The tableau emerges yet again.
Have I ruined you? Are you a drug addict now?
Does it turn you on to fuck at me like this?
That smile says yes.
“You changed your mind?” you breathe.
Kim shrugs. “I’m off duty.” That’s all the justification he needs. Then, soberly, he mutters. “Besides, I’m 43. I’m hardly going to make it a habit.”
“I like this. Impulsive Kim. Jamrock Kitsuragi. Boogie Street.”
“Don’t push it.”
Outside, you stand against the wall, hands heating up in your armpits, watching the lieutenant lean over the steel balcony, watching him watch the smoke battling with his breath in the cool afternoon air.
Ingesting the pyrholidon by the gums means it will hit his bloodstream within minutes.
Watching the pyrho creep up over him- watching time slow down for him and his senses slowly begin to fizzle- makes you feel high, too.
You could become addicted to watching Kim get high.
His breaths become shallow. His brow slowly becomes moist. He’s heating up, even on a day as cold as this.
He tries to not let it show, but he’s nervous on the comeup.
No matter. Your entire life has been one horrendous nervous comeup with flashes of relief inbetween. And you have some experience taking care of people when they’re tripping balls.
“Are my eyes yellow?” he asks. The main sign of pyrho intoxication. He sounds sober, but his nervousness betrays him.
“I can’t see. You have to turn to face me.”
He turns to you, mouth hanging slightly open. You hold him lightly by his temples, electric points of contact, steadying him as you study his expression.
He looks so vulnerable. You feel a little scandalized seeing him this way.
“Well, detective?”
“No. Your eyes are the same as they always are. Huh.” Brown and inky. Softer than usual.
His eyes never leave yours as he flicks his cigarette free of ash. “Maybe because I am Seolite. Probably. This stuff was probably not tested on someone like me.”
Your eyes wander down to his lips, and then back up to his eyes. Your breathing stops. Off-duty Kim swallows.
He exhales suddenly and breaks away from you. Unzipping his bomber jacket and taking an uncomfortably long drag from his cigarette. Just to show off his neck and the ripple his abs make in his undershirt.
He’s trying to torture you.
No. He’s just hot from the pyrho. And he’s trying to torture you.
Heightened feelings of connection and intimacy are common effects of hallucinogens like pyrholidon, you remind yourself. It’s temporary.
You’ve always thought the lieutenant was an attractive man- it’s not unreasonable that you feel the effects of that heightened intimacy, too.
The two of you want to be close. There’s always been this spark between you two, and now that you’re spending time outside of work hours, you’re testing the boundaries a little. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.
Just two RCM officers who met by accident, whose souls were always destined to find each other, who share a connection that can’t be explained in words. Nothing to see here.
“Ask me some questions,” he demands suddenly. He’s nervous. Wants to talk.
“Okay.”
Are you feeling this soul spark just now? Do you think about me the way I think about you?
No. You need to think of normal questions. Ethical questions. Like…
“What drugs have you tried?”
Kim raises an eyebrow at you.
“People who’ve never done drugs don’t just…” You run your finger over your gums in an imitation of what Kim did earlier.
That’s ‘I’m using every last molecule of drug dust on my coffee table because my dealer won’t be here for another hour’ type behavior, sire.
“Only stimulants. When I was much, much younger. Before my juvie work. I stopped because I realized I am prone to paranoia.”
Not difficult to believe.
“I did them because of a girl.” He sees you raise your eyebrows in surprise. “I knew I was interested in men at the time, but I was still dating women.”
He shrugs at the contradiction. Just how that time of his life was.
“We were out almost every night. She got me to try a lot of new things.”
“Disco.”
“There was some in there, yes.”
In the past, a young Kim stumbles out of a club, elbows linked with a blond girl with spiderweb eyeliner. They cackle at some wicked thing they’ve done to a shot girl inside. In the streetlamps, the girl notices a streak of pink along Kim’s upper lip. Magenta cocaine. A bump that didn’t quite make it. With no hesitation, she thumbs the powder off his mouth and rubs it on her gums to dispose of the evidence. They’re best friends. Next year she will sleep with a boy that she knows Kim is interested in, just to put him in his place. But for now, they are best friends.
Your heart aches thinking of how you’ll never meet this Kim.
“So, I’ve never done anything like this, anything…. psychedelic.”
“How’re you feeling about your first time?”
He considers this.
“This cigarette tastes extraordinary. That’s how I feel.”
He pauses, bringing his cigarette up to his lips again, then brings it back down without taking a drag. He’s losing track of time, you think. Doesn’t remember if he took a puff or didn’t.
A suspicion rises in you. “Do you see things moving? Colors? Patterns?”
“Yes. A little.”
“That’s normal.”
This is what you were missing all along. While you were avoiding sobriety, thinking there was nothing you were missing of importance, you could have been watching Kim getting high. Watching him think new thoughts. Feeling his feelings. All this time.
You’ve only just met the man.
And think of how much time you wasted without him.
You get an idea. A good one. You point past the guard railing. “How does the Kineema look?”
His eyes follow your hand, and you get to see surprise wash over his face when he spots the white and blue livery in your gray Jamrock lot through new eyes. For a moment he’s speechless. You watch his eyes obediently follow the lines of the Coupris, as though sculpting them.
“It looks good.” Overwhelming. Detailed. Incroyable. He’s not a poet. You read these words etched on his pupils.
“We should turn on the Kineema. While you’re feeling like this. Hear the sound.”
“Why?” He doesn’t know yet, you realize. Your grin must look positively demonic, because Kim begins to look worried. “Is it going to be different?”
“Maybe. Might be cool. No guarantees.”
Yes. Absolutely it will.
“Finish that up and we’ll go.” You gesture to his cigarette.
“Okay.” The faintest quirk of his lips.
You watch the lieutenant as he walks down the steps, and you realize he would look completely sober to anyone else. You witness his concentration, his eyes on his feet, one in front of the other, his effort. You think to tease him, knowing it would be cruel. You decide against it.
Your top priority is watching Kim’s face. His worry lines and his mustache elegantly framing his lips, parted from heat and concentration.
Luckily the lieutenant has no trouble remembering where his keys go. You hang out the passenger’s side door as Kim turns the key, presses HEAT, and then--
You watch the already overwhelming sound of the Kineema crash into the hallucinating lieutenant like a riptide.
You watch his pupils dilate as he crashes into what you can only imagine is a symphony of engine mouth sounds he’s never heard before. You wonder if the rumble of the MC feels as warm and creamy purple to him as it does to you. If the headlights ripple and sing chansons to him.
You put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He looks around, coming into himself. “I-I can’t drive right now.”
“No, you can’t,” you grin.
“I wish I could. It sounds so-- it feels so good. I can’t even describe it.”
But you can see it. In the way his eyes water, in the way his smile comes and goes, in the way his fingers twitch, you can see how overwhelmed he is. He gets to experience his Kineema, all power and beauty and rage, his right arm and his left, for the first time through a stranger’s eyes-- his eyes. Jamais vu.
And then all at once, the Kineema is shut off. The lights come off first, then the battery, and finally the engine cools down and stops growling once and for all. The lieutenant closes his eyes and pulls his keys from the ignition.
“Too much?”
“A little.” His voice shakes. So do his fingers. You remember he’s prone to paranoia when experiencing altered mind states. Don’t push him too far.
“Wanna step out? Get some air.”
“No. No. That’s all right. Just give me a moment.”
He catches your gaze out of the corner of his eye. He turns to you. White puffs of warm breath spill lazily from his lips.
God, he’s gorgeous.
Careful, buddy.
“Are you staring at me?” He’s genuinely not sure. “What is it?” he asks.
“Nothing. Just watching you. You look great,” you breathe, honestly.
He scoffs, and says nothing.
Just studies your expression. For falsehoods. He’s often disarmed by your candor. Especially when it comes to complimenting him, deferring to him. He wonders where the limits of your trust are. He doesn’t like to admit it, but bathing in your adoration makes him drunk. He waits eagerly for your next kindness and it embarrasses him.
I want to dip our souls together, you wish you could say.
Some times it feels like you already have. Drugs can be great that way.
Suddenly, he starts shivering. The pyrho high does not last long. 30 minutes tops. Even less time considering the small amount Kim took.
Your drug trip babysitter kicks in. “Here, you’re freezing. Let’s get back inside.”
You zip his jacket up for him. Pat his shoulders, thinking in your mad way it will get the blood pumping somehow.
You move to open the door to the motor carriage, and his hand on your wrist stops you. “Wait.”
His teeth click together lightly as the chemicals sputter out in his brain. It’s never pleasant, the come down.
He looks like he’s about to say something he’ll regret. He’s terrified. But he wants something from you. Only you.
“Could you… drive me around Jamrock?”
You freeze. You can’t have heard that right. “You want me… to drive the Kineema?” Your prized possession? Driven around by this idiot? Are you stupid?
“Mmhm.” He nods, shaking a little. “Just for a little bit.”
He knows this is a big ask. But he wants the ride out the rest of his short-lived high in the Kineema.
“I don’t want to get out just yet.”
“You got it.”
You’d be honored.
You quickly run to your flat and return with two of your heavier coats and a glass of water. The lieutenant sits curled in the corner of the motor carriage, knees up to his face, all aches and chills.
“Drink this.” He drinks it like it’s life. “All right.” You touch the white suede levers, enjoying the texture. You test the throttle and the clutch while the MC’s still off. Kim nods in approval behind his glass of water. He can see you’ve got it. Finally you turn the key and tap the pre-heater fuel gauge. The motor carriage rumbles to life once more.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Kim sigh in relief, maybe even pleasure. The hum of the engine rolls through his bones, soothes his aches for a moment.
You take his empty glass from his hands and set it in the glove compartment. Then you lay one of your coats across him- this one is a wool camel trenchcoat. He pulls his arms one by one through the oversized sleeves, wearing it like a blanket.
His eyes flutter closed as he smells the collar. Your face grows hot as you realize he’s smelling you.
“You warming up?”
He looks at you through the shudders and aches of the comedown, and his eyes dance with mirth. “Mmhm.”
“How do you want me to drive?”
“Slow,” he purrs. You melt.
So you do. You cruise. Interrupted only by the thuds of you switching gears. He leans his head against the window and watches the city go by. Block by block.
Soon this will be his home, too, you think. The street sweepers and the gum on the sidewalks and the steel beams and the rusted residents.
You point out the few landmarks you do recognize. The basketball courts. The chicken spot. The post office with the statue of two men looking at each other’s arses. Some times you think you have a story attached to a certain location, but as you run up to it, the details escape you.
The video rental store. Your stomach drops.
“…And there’s the video rental store I used to go to. Voyager Road.”
You don’t turn in. Just drive past. A man and a woman have an argument in front of the video store.
Kim watches your face.
You wonder what he sees there. You fear burdening him with whatever expression you’re making right now. So you turn to him to explain.
“Marvel Hill.” The place you can’t return to.
The lieutenant nods in recognition.
A familiar voice chimes in. The lieutenant is high. Why aren’t you?
A drink would be nice about now, wouldn’t it? You should kill yourself when you get the chance.
That’s what you’d really like to do, but the drinking is just a nice excuse to ease yourself there.
You get an idea. Not a good one this time. You can’t bear to look over at the passenger’s side. The words tumble stupidly out of you. “Is it all right if we make a quick stop? Just to a gas station.”
Yes. This is a good idea. He won’t know.
You fucking fool. He already does.
The lieutenant watches you with a steady gaze. Quiet, inky eyes watching you twitch.
He knows what you mean to do. That you mean to lie to him, turn into a convenience store, buy a case of pilsner, and then who knows what the next part of your plan was. Drink them all in the store and puke inside the Kineema? Hide the case under your shirt and pretend it teleported there? You didn’t think that far ahead.
He’s doing this on purpose. He’s making you feel like an idiot just for having a thought. An impulse. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be you.
Maybe if you killed yourself right now, he’d understand. Drive this whole thing off the road and show him what you really think of his pompous face and his precious Kineema.
The lieutenant has said nothing this whole time. Hands lightly folded over his stomach, he’s just been watching you.
And the self-destructive wave passes. It’s been like this since you met him, you realize. He doesn’t need to say a word. He simply remains steady, extant, and he brings you back.
You can’t keep the resentment from your voice. You wince at it. Kim doesn’t deserve this. “Nevermind. I was going to do something stupid.”
He isn’t phased by your bitterness. “Marvel Hill,” he answers.
All because you drove past Marvel Hill. Your voice softens. “Yeah. Sorry.”
You expect him to chide you, or tell you that this happens to everyone, that sobriety is a rocky journey, and that these feelings will pass.
But he’s in a strange mood. Dark thoughts from the come down, you realize. “We can burn the whole block down when we get a chance. Just need some mazut.” He smirks.
“Can you burn me instead? I think I might deserve it.”
“We can discuss it. It might not be practical. We might have to meet somewhere in the middle.”
“More compromises.”
“That’s life, Harry.”
“I’d rather die.”
“Mm.” He isn’t pleased that you said that, but he doesn’t mind either.
At some point you turn into the parking lot on the Jamrock waterfront. The turn comes automatically. A little outlook where people feed ducks and watch a wall of fog.
You’ve cried here before.
It’s empty today save for cormorants preening and seagulls dropping seashells on the pavement. Too cold, too bitter, too windy, and no visibility whatsoever. The perfect day.
You adjust the seats until you’re both reclining, watching the tide come in from the warmth of the Kineema. You and the lieutenant lay side by side, your combined breath filling the cabin of the motor carriage.
Kim turns to you and lifts one of his hands, forming a finger gun.
He points it straight at your forehead.
Don’t mind if I do. You turn to face him. Then close your eyes and lean into his touch. You should be familiar with the end of a barrel by now.
“Fuck, this is morbid, Kim. I’m sorry.”
“Yes. It is a bit morbid. I suppose I’m not in the greatest mood either. Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you totally sober now?”
“Mmhm. It was fun while it lasted.”
He’s probably in a similar mental state as you. Slingshotting from blissful pyrholidon to the opposite of all those good feelings of connection and wholeness- plunged into suicidal thoughts and loneliness. Doubts. Regrets. Questions. That makes two of you.
You press your forehead a little firmer into his gloved fingertip. You hear a quiet hum from the lieutenant.
And he shoots. And it casts a spell. A breath of relief.
A flutter of his fingers from your exit wound to the window. The dispassionate rumble of your executioner’s voice narrates your demise. “Splat. Brains all over my Kineema. I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I’ve made for you.”
You open your eyes, gazing at him in adoration.
Then the unthinkable happens. The lieutenant gets up in his seat and leans over your pliant body.
He places a single hand on your chest. The stations of breath. Mourning the loss of the you who once was. The one that hoped, the one that loved.
You look up at him, the edges of his face bathed in light. And your heart stops. You really have gone to the other plane.
“You know, I dreamt about this,” he murmurs. “About you dying. The day we first met.”
You remember telling Klaasje you dreamt about hanging from the tree in Lely’s place. You remember the lieutenant telling Klaasje, “Funny. I saw him, too.” You didn’t realize he meant you.
“Do you think it suits me?”
“Death? It suits everyone.”
He frowns. He had to consider that already. Holding your bleeding body in his arms. Not a pleasant memory.
“I much prefer you alive. Looking at me, just like you are now.”
You’re not quite sure what’s happening between you two. All you know is you want closeness with this man, whatever he’ll allow you. You know you haven’t had nightmares since you two encountered the Insulindian Phasmid. Something has been transforming inside you. Instead, waking dreams of chestnut smoke and rumbling masculine whispers in your ear, so vivid you could swear you were back in the church.
You realize it at the same time he does. The realization drags you to the bottom of the sea. He wants to kiss you.
The lieutenant rubs his hand across his face and through his graying hair. “I’m an old fool.” He looks at you wearily.
Seagulls soar against the sea wind and appear suspended in midair.
He knows he’s been acting different today. With you. Open, wanting, useless to the gravitational pull of whatever it is between you two. He hates himself for it. He told himself he’d be professional today. Instead he took psychedelics to impress you and now he’s considering making out with you in his motor carriage.
Something in his demeanor is amusingly familiar. A conflict seen many times before, you think. Different people from your past life.
He’s cursed with being attracted to men like you.
So be honest, a voice tells you. Tell him what’s been on your mind. He won’t punish you.
He’s been gentle with you at your worst. He’s a good man.
He’s not going to write you love poetry. Pay attention. He adores you. He let you drive his Kineema for god’s sake.
Tell him how you really feel.
You swallow. I love you. Is what you’d like to say.
But instead the following leaps over your teeth like a flight of stairs: “I think we were revolutionaries plotting together before the conflict erupted. In a past life. Or we served one of the Innocences together and we found each other again in this life.”
Sentimental bastard. What the fuck does that mean?
You push through it. “I don’t know how else to explain how this feels.” The arc of his nose and the dip of his cheekbones. “When I see you, I recognize you.” Traces of stubble on his chin. The frustrated cross of his brow. “When I don’t see you, I swim towards you.”
You’re everything.
Your face burns hot with fear. It hurts to say something true. That not only are you interested, but you might be smitten. Not only are you in love, but you might be in the midst of a cataclysmic event.
You watch the lieutenant’s face for a reaction. But your senses leave, your watchmen all fail you. All you see is a furrowed brow. Vague surprise. Thought.
Whited out with fog. There is no longer a world outside of this motor carriage.
“Hm.”
Behind him, gulls remain suspended in midair. Jamrock winds rush against the windows.
Then, wordless and purposeful, he takes off one of his gloves. A shock of creamy calloused fingers and bare wrist as he hovers over you. An inaudible gasp escapes you.
He takes one of your hands in his. He doesn’t look at your face. He looks at the back of your hand, whorls of hair. He traces crop circles through them with his fingertips. Your mouth is dry.
Pay attention. He adores you.
Honestly is all you’re capable of. “I’m obsessed with you.”
It earns you a smirk.
Finally, the lieutenant meets your eyes.
“Good.” Teasing you. He’s enjoying this. “I thought that might be the case.” You shiver.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Mmhm.”
You leap. You cup his face in both hands and press your lips together. His body sighs into your shape. You sway into him. A low hum transfers from his throat into yours. His bare fingers tangle in your sideburns and tug. You inhale his wonderful, masculine scent through your nostrils.
“I have to tell you something,” you gasp. “A secret.”
“Yes?” His forehead rests on yours.
“I haven’t had anything to drink, since, you know, that time I did. It’s a secret. I quit. Forever.”
“That’s good.” He’s completely underwhelmed. But you glow nonetheless. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Um.” Another kiss. “You said you used to date women. Does that mean you had sex with-” Another kiss. “-women, too?”
“Mmhm.” And men. That’s the important one, Du Bois. And another kiss.
“That’s so fucking cool. Did you eat pussy?”
A frown and an eyeroll. “Next question.” Of course. I have manners.
“Why did you take the pyrholidon?”
“Because I felt like it.” Because I’m an animal, like you.
“How long have you felt this way about me?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to admit it to myself.” Centuries.
You feel full. You didn’t know being with someone else didn’t have to hurt. You didn’t know you could retain good memories, not just bad ones.
“You’re real, you’re real,” you mutter a prayer as he sweeps you in another searing kiss.
(Tomorrow, you will realize Gottlieb already cleared you to return to work. He could care less whether you live or die. You will return to work at the precinct before Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s transfer. You will realize very quickly that this job, these people, are what made you drink in a past life.
You will leave work midday without a word and refuse to come back, resigning yourself to the life of a hobocop. Miraculously, you will not be fired. The 41st really is that desperate. Instead, your alternative arrangement will be finalized, and your assignments will be given to you exclusively via shortwave. You will continue field work on your own, and some times with Lieutenant Kitsuragi.
In your off hours, you will feed pigeons and collect misfits, shinkickers, and delinquents who adore you and call you a pedo. Eventually, Lieutenant Kitsuragi will leave his hole in GRIH and move in with you.
You will fuck and kiss him until the world ends.)