You are not able to get off the couch. Even with Kim's presence, depression has you glued to it.
"How is your hand?" Kim asks.
"It's fine."
Kim walks over to you and offers his hand. He's still wearing his gloves. He wants to take a look at your hand. Which would involve touching you. You should be into this. But it makes you feel small and stupid for punching the door. Reluctantly you reach out, letting him take you by the wrist. "The wound has scabbed over," he says, inspecting your knuckles. "You may get an infection. You should have let me bandage it earlier, but it is too for that late now."
You shrug, uncaring. You don't think he means to mollycoddle, but his fussing still irritates you. "I'll live," you say, tugging your hand out of his grip.
Kim folds his hands in close to his chest. He lowers his gaze, and you get the impression he is disappointed you brushed him off. Again, you feel the rift growing between you. What's more, you are struck by the sudden thought that this was a missed opportunity for connection. Kim taking care of you, and all you would have had to do was let him. Maybe all you have to do is show him you need him. But the desire not to be a burden to anyone runs deep.
Kim begins to pace the room. You don't know what to say. So much that you start to panic. What can you say? Kim, I'm sorry. I'll let you take care of me. No. That's terrible. If you had let him before, it would have been acceptable. But going back on what you said now would just come across as pathetic.
But it's Kim that breaks the silence. "You need to fix your couch. And look at that light fitting. What happened, did you try to hang something from there?"
You look up at the light fitting, hanging down from the ceiling. A crack in the plaster of the ceiling runs from it. Every time you look upwards in your apartment you are reminded of that day when you couldn't take it any more. One of those days when you couldn't take it any more. "Uh, yeah, something like that," you mumble.
"Ah. I see," Kim says. From the way he tenses up, you guess he understands what you mean. Quietly, he repeats, "I see."
You look away. After all you can't expect him to say or do anything to make things magically okay forever. Not even the incredible Kim Kitsuragi can save you from yourself.
"Hmm, we should have stopped for groceries on the way home," he says.
You put your hand to your forehead. "Shit. I should have remembered."
"It's okay. We can go now." Kim makes it sound so easy.
With considerable effort you force yourself to get to your feet before you can make any more excuses in your head or out loud. You forgot how much your body aches. You groan and rub your shoulder.
Kim looks at you in concern, but does not say anything. You feel a stab of pain in your chest and feel concerned that you might have put him off expressing care for you.
"Groceries!" you say, pointing towards the door.
It has been a while since you entered a supermarket with the intent to buy something for yourself that wasn't alcohol. You're not even sure what to buy, so you repeatedly ask Kim what he would like. You end up with rice and non-specified canned meat. Then Kim thinks about breakfast and adds a loaf of bread, butter, and a jar of coffee. Despite your initial panic, it is surprisingly nice to do a mundane thing such as food shopping with Kim. It is a thing domestic partners do together. That isn't what you are, of course, but for a short while you can pretend.
The two of you decide to cook rice and half of the canned meat for dinner. Or rather, Kim does. You try and fail several times to get the stove to light. It has been so long since you used it. In the end Kim resorts to lighting it with a match.
When the food is ready you both sit down on opposite sides of the couch and eat with mismatched plates and cutlery that you don't remember obtaining.
Kim offers to do the dishes, but you insist on doing them yourself. While you do this, without saying a word Kim starts to pick up things from the floor, throwing away obvious trash, and placing other items on the coffee table or other available surfaces.
"You don't have to do that. I was going to do it," you say, shaking the suds from your hands, then wiping your wet hands on your trousers.
"It's okay. I was only helping."
Seeing Kim tidy up for you prompts you to pick up a few things yourself.
Kim retrieves something that has fallen under the bed. You notice him looking at it for a bit too long. You look over his shoulder. He has found the photograph of your parents.
"You look like them," he says.
"Yeah."
"Are they… still around?"
"My mom is, my dad isn't."
"Mm-hmm. Is it just you or do you have siblings?"
"It's just me. They could barely afford the one kid."
Kim nods. "It's just me too," he says. "Well, I was the first. Who knows if there might have been more."
"Sorry. Do you remember them? Your folks."
Kim shakes his head. "I don't think so. There are… very vague memories sometimes, but I cannot be sure if they are real. I may have made them up. Some of the other kids in the orphanage had memories of their families and I wanted memories too. Very badly."
You reach out and lay a hand on Kim's arm. He looks at you, he still looks sad but his lips curl upwards for a moment. You're not sure if you should keep your hand there or immediately withdraw it, so you end up patting his arm awkwardly.
You look around the room, and your eyes settle on the record player. You go over to it and clear the assorted junk off the top of it. You do not know where the rest of your record collection is, but you find a disco single that was widely considered overplayed and annoying in its time, but you have always considered an underrated classic. You set it spinning and lower the needle.
The beat lifts the mood in the room. Kim smiles, even he recognises this song. You start to tap your foot. Then you start to shimmy your shoulders. It hurts, but music is an adequate pain reliever. You dance over to Kim, who watches you with an amused expression. You grin and hold out a hand to him. His eyes move to your hand, then back up to your face. He does not join you.
"Come on Kim, dance with me," you say.
"No."
"I know you dance. I've seen you dance."
"It was only that one time."
"Sorry but I just don't believe you have never danced before or since," you say, continuing to dance in front of him.
"Believe it, it's the truth," Kim says, maintaining a completely deadpan expression while telling this obvious lie.
"I, on the other hand, was born dancing."
"Of course you were."
The song ends, leaving only the whir of the record and the scrape of the needle. You go over and play it again, then dance across the room. Kim is still not moving, but he watching you while resting the elbow of one arm on his other, a hand half covering his smile.
"Ouch," you say as your leg starts to hurt. You stop and rub it.
"I think that's enough for one evening, Harry," Kim says.
You move your leg around experimentally. It still hurts. You shrug your shoulders and wince. Everything hurts.
"In light of your, uh, extra injuries, I suggest that tonight you take the bed and I will take the couch," Kim says.
You shake your head. "It's fine. You're the guest."
"It's not fine. Don't be a martyr."
"I can't make you sleep on that couch. Nobody should sleep on that thing."
"You're right," Kim says. He puts a finger to his mouth and looks upwards. "You know, the bed is big enough for both of us."
You open your mouth to say something, and it just stays open. You feel yourself flush. It's not like the thought hasn't occurred to you, but you would never have dared to actually suggest it.
"When I was at the orphanage, I often shared a mattress with others. The younger kids always did."
"That sounds nice and cosy," you say.
Kim sniggers. "You say that only because you weren't there."
"Was it terrible?"
"Oh, the worst," Kim says, but he's smiling at the memory. "Boys and girls kicking each other all night, by accident or deliberately. Always somebody having a nightmare. Fighting over the blankets. Sleepwalkers. And all of that was not so bad if nobody wet the bed."
"Oh. I hadn't thought about that," you say.
"What I mean to say is, how bad can it be for the two of us to share a bed?"
How bad can it be? you think. You don't think it would be bad at all. Sleeping next to Kim sounds really quite nice to you. Maybe a bit too nice. Risking serious danger of snuggling him in your sleep. And then what?
"So?" Kim prompts.
You nod before you can overthink it further.
The song has already ended again, and you go over to stop the record spinning. You suddenly realise how tired you are. You're not sure what time it is, but it is dark. Time seems to pass much quicker when you are with Kim. Since the very moment you met, any time you have been apart has dragged unbearably.
After some negotiation about who will sleep on which side, you both get ready for bed then settle down to sleep. It's much warmer in bed with Kim beside you. Sharing warmth is almost as nice as cuddling. Your eyes fall closed.
"Good night, detective. Harry," Kim murmurs beside you.
"Good night, Kim," you say, smiling in the dark. You feel warm and content and sleepy. And yet it takes a while for sleep to come. Beside you, you hear Kim breathing slowly and deeply. Eventually you drift off, but you wake up over and over, afraid that you might end up accidentally hitting Kim or rolling over to snuggle up to him without thinking.
In the morning, you intend to wake up before Kim, but he is already awake, staring up at the ceiling. When you stir, he glances over at you. You're tempted to stay in bed and enjoy this moment with him. But you remember your desire to make breakfast for him, and you get out of bed. It doesn't go exactly as your fantasy did, but the coffee isn't as awful as its price tag suggested, and Kim smiles and thanks you for breakfast. Finally, you are able to do something right.
Tuesday passes uneventfully, which is just as well. At Kim's insistence on keeping up with the paperwork, you write your reports from yesterday, then you go out and carry out a few minor investigations which mercifully do not include any dead bodies.
All too soon, the day is over. The whole day the thought that Kim will be going home has been at the back of your mind. He says goodbye to you in the office, but you follow him to where he parked the Kineema, and keep him talking even though it is clear he is tired and wants to leave.
"So they're letting you keep it?"
"Ha ha, very funny," Kim says. He frowns. "Wait, you aren't joking."
"So they aren't?"
"I, one of their highest ranking officers, leave them for another precinct. You expect they will let me take a 500,000 reál motor with me?"
"A parting gift?" You say, spreading your arms lamely.
He snorts. "No. They had a whip around and bought me a nicer bottle of aftershave than I would consider buying myself."
"I thought you smelled different," you say, taking this as an invitation to lean closer and sniff him. You're not knowledgeable enough about scents to distinguish individual notes, but it smells nice on him, especially mingled with his sweat. God, you could just lean a little closer and press your mouth and nose against the skin where his neck meets his shoulder and just… inhale. You imagine his reaction, letting out a heavy sigh and tilting his head to let you… no, you need to stop this. "Hmm, masculine," you say as you shake off the thought and drag yourself away.
Kim hasn't moved a muscle, and acts as if you haven't done anything odd. "So no, I must say goodbye to the Kineema. As a favour they are loaning it to me this week, after which I will be taking custody of one of your- our precinct's vehicles." He looks at the Kineema fondly, like an old friend. There's a sadness in his eyes.
You run a hand over the blue paintwork. "You'll miss it," you say.
He gives you a sad smile. "It's just a motor, detective." He's trying to put on a brave face.
But it's important to you, you don't say. Kim would rather not be encouraged to be overcome with emotion right now, so you just think it. When the time comes he'll let it go and mourn privately.
"I must be off," he says, and as he unlocks the door to the Kineema you search for something to say that will make him stay, even for a few moments longer. Before he gets into the motor carriage, he turns back to you. "Thank you for making my first few days at precinct 41 pleasant ones."
You blink. "It was nothing. Seriously, I didn't do anything special," you say, resting a hand on top of the motor's door.
Kim flashes you a smile. "You were there for me. Maybe that was all I needed."
You smile back, lost for words. Kim keeps eye contact with you as he pries your hand off of the door, then keeps hold of your hand for just a moment too long, before climbing into the driver's seat. The way he does it so deliberately suggests he knows that you are trying to keep him around for as long as you can. And perhaps that if he wasn't so tired, he would like to stay a while longer.
"See you tomorrow, detective," he says.
"See you tomorrow, Kim," you say, waving as he shuts the door and starts the engine. You stand and watch him go, until the red taillights of the Kineema disappear amongst those of the other motor carriages. Kim only stayed with you for two nights, but you miss him already. You swallow the lump in your throat and begin the walk home.
