There is a banging noise inside your head, like something wants to get out. Your brain. Your brain wants to leave. It rattles your teeth. Who can blame it? It hasn't had a good time of it lately. Or… ever. But is it really the body's fault? Should it actually be your body who is furious with your brain for what it has forced it to do?
Your eyelids scrape themselves over your parched eyeballs. The noise is not inside your head. It is on the other side of the door. There is a bottle of Potent Pilsner in your hand, mostly empty. You hope that is why your pants are wet.
Your spine protests as you try to push yourself away from the wall you are slumped against. The bottle falls out of your hand.
The knocking continues. You hope it isn't the landlord again. Whoever it is, they are persistent.
Your head spins as you get unsteadily to your feet. There is a white-hot pain in your back. Your neck aches. As you take a step and hear the clink of one bottle into another, a vague memory blows through your brain like a fleeting breeze. There was an… agreement? A promise. Yeah.
Oh. Oh no.
You feel freezing cold, then boiling hot. You're suddenly covered in cold sweat and shivering.
You know who is behind that door and it is not good. Not good at all. Because despite your intentions it ended up like this.
It could have been good but you ruined it. How did this happen?
It's not your fault, you just needed a bit more time. Make a joke out of it.
The man at the door does not have a smile for you. There is a brief flicker of something as he meets your eyes. Relief?
"Kim, you're early."
"I'm not. There was a hold-up on the motorway. A fatality. We were stationary for almost two hours."
He looks tired. You want to tell him you're sorry and to pull him into your arms, telling him everything is all right now because you're together. Sorry about his journey. Sorry about you. Specifically now, and you know, just in general. You restrain yourself. Something tells you to stick to practical matters.
"Oh. How did you get in?"
"One of your neighbours let me in after you didn't answer the intercom."
"Oh, that thing's been broken since I moved in. Usually when people come over… what am I saying? Nobody usually comes…" You trail off, feeling too pathetic to even finish your sentence.
"Aren't you... going to invite me in?"
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry." You step to the side, and he walks past you into the apartment. "Welcome to my humble abode," you say, swaying despite your efforts to stand still.
"Humble is correct," Kim says, letting the door shut behind him. He lets the strap of his bag slip off his shoulder and drops it on the floor. For a few moments he looks around the room in stunned silence. "Harry, this is worse than your room in the Whirling-in-Rags. Was I wrong? Was that not just a particularly bad day?"
Kim is disappointed. Not just in what it would be very generous to call your small studio apartment. He is disappointed in you. He expected you to make more of an effort. Some effort.
You should explain. Quick. And make it good.
You know what the truth is, and it is too horrifying for words. Tell him anything but that.
You stifle a burp. "Sorry," you say. Once isn't enough. "Sorry. Was gonna tidy up, just needed a bit more time, but you were early."
The yellow sodium glow of the streetlights streaming in through the apartment's single window reflect in Kim's glasses, making it difficult to see his eyes. "We already established, I am not early."
You stare at him, swaying from side to side. You feel a bit sick.
Kim lets out a long exhale. You wonder if he is planning to leave. You wouldn't blame him if he did. He looks around. It is carnage. The bathroom door is open, and the only other door is off its hinges, revealing a disordered closet. "So where is your spare room? I expect there is a secret passage?"
You realise just in time that it is just hollow sarcasm and stop yourself from laughing. It might lift Kim's mood if you join in with something equally sarcastic, but your improvisational skills seem to have left you. "No."
"No?"
You gesture lamely. "The couch or the bed. You can choose."
Kim looks like he is being asked to choose between committing murder or walking off into the Pale.
"I'll try harder next time. Promise," you say, feeling beads of sweat forming on your forehead.
"Mm-hmm," Kim says. He doesn't sound convinced.
You can't bear it any longer. This is like a train crash in slow motion. You retreat into the bathroom. The ill-fitting door swings open again after you try to shut it. You close it and force the rusted bolt as far as you can. It holds. This was never an issue you had to think much about before, when you were alone.
You run the cold water and splash your face with it. What had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time was unfolding as a disaster. You had been overjoyed to offer Kim a place to stay a few nights a week closer to Precinct 41, so he didn't have to make the commute all the way to Jamrock every day. Even more so when Kim had agreed. You'd do anything to make Kim's life easier. And to get to spend more time with him outside of work. You'd been deliriously happy at the thought of that.
But the thought and reality bear no resemblance to each other. Already it has grown tense and awkward between you. It's a chillingly familiar feeling. You feel what you want slipping away. It is just inevitable, that you will lose everyone you want in your life?
You glance at yourself in the mirror. Your face is red and swollen, even more so than usual. You try to smooth your hair back with water, and can't decide whether that makes you look better or worse.
Kim is perched on the edge of the half-collapsed couch. He looks up at you. You wish you could see him smiling, happy. Perhaps he would have been okay with your terrible apartment if you'd cleaned and tidied it. If you'd made an effort with your appearance, or at least not drunkenly slept in your clothes during the day, perhaps he would have been happy to see you.
You wrestle with yourself, not wanting to give up, but also knowing it is futile. "I think I have some cash around here somewhere. Probably enough to get you a motel room," you mumble, looking at the floor.
Kim frowns. "I did not come here for a luxurious stay in exciting Jamrock."
"You didn't?"
"No. I came to stay with you."
Your heart hurts. If only you heard this before you'd messed everything up. Your lips tremble as you try to decide whether to smile or not. Don't. "And it's bad. I'm sorry, Kim, really I am. At least you don't have a long drive before your first day tomorrow, huh?" You sit down on the other end of the couch, knowing instinctively how to avoid the treacherous sinking zones.
"It's really not that far," Kim says dismissively.
"You said the commute was long." You have the sudden fear that Kim doesn't need you. Not for a place to stay. Not for anything.
Kim shakes his head. "It's doable," he says. "I wanted to see where you lived. And to not only to get to see you at work."
"Wait, you actually want to hang out outside of work?"
Kim's voice rises. "Are you saying you don't?"
You feel a smile tugging at your lips. "Of course I do."
Kim crosses his arms, wrapping them around himself. "I was looking forward to it. And now I don't even know if you want to see me."
His words pierce you to the core. Not only have you disappointed Kim, you've hurt him and made him feel unwelcome. What is wrong with you? Why do you do this to people?
"No, that's not…" You cast a glance around the room. "I know this looks bad, but that's not it at all. I did want to see you. I do."
Kim doesn't smile, but his expression softens a little. You both sit in silence for a while. From outside, the noise of traffic and distant shouts and screams trickle in.
You glance at Kim. A gloom has settled over him. "Harry, you're still drunk, aren't you?"
"It's Sunday." Your words come out harsher than you intend. Petulant. For a moment Kim reminds you of Jean. Dora. All the other people who have judged you for drinking.
"Have you considered taking up another hobby? One that is not so harmful for your health?"
You know Kim speaks out of concern for you. But it still feels like he is criticising you, judging you as a lesser person because of what you do. Maybe you deserve it. Maybe you should try harder, but is it possible for you? "I can explain."
"Can you?"
It is a good question. You're not sure if you can. What drove you to become so overwhelmed that only alcohol could help is so embarrassing that Kim will surely think less of you. Maybe you'd better tell him some dramatic lie instead.
You try to conceive of something in your head, but even vague concepts elude you. Kim regards you as you give chase to random thoughts, oblivious to his presence.
"Harry? Do you not want me to be here? Would you rather be alone?" The couch creaks as he shifts his weight, preparing to get up.
"No," you say. "No, no no no. I want you here, Kim. Please don't leave me."
Kim looks down at his clasped hands. "Maybe this was too soon."
You want to protest, tell him no, you're ready. Ready to accept him as a houseguest, and anything else he might wish to be. Part of your brain demands another drink at that thought. Is it really your fault that alcohol would make it easier to think about? "Maybe you're right," you admit miserably.
"I should have considered this. It was rude of me to impose on you."
You shake your head. "I offered. I want you here, I do. I want you here so much, I…"
Kim looks at you, waiting for you to continue.
Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. "I wanted… I wanted to impress you. But I got so nervous and overwhelmed I couldn't deal with it. So I had a drink." And then another...
"You wanted to impress me?" Kim repeats quietly.
You haven't, is one interpretation of his words. Another, more neutral one is simply, why?
"I wanted you to think I had my shit together." And other stuff, but please don't make me say it, you think. Your heart races.
"So the drinking was an act of self-sabotage."
You feel suddenly choked up. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not judging you. Just trying to understand," he says. "I... don't want to make you nervous."
"It's not your fault. You're important to me. It matters that I get this right. But I've failed, I know that," you say, hanging your head. "If you give me another chance, I'll try harder next time."
Kim casts his eyes over the room. He sighs, then reaches over and lays a hand on top of yours. You feel the soft leather of his glove wrap around you as he curls his fingers around your palm and strokes the back of your hand with his thumb. You look at him from the corner of your eye. Kind, patient, lovely Kim. The breath catches in your throat.
Kim shuffles closer to you. The couch creaks. Your heart leaps.
"Shit!" he says, falling into the sunken middle of the couch.
You feel intense shame for your broken couch. And also resentment towards it, for ruining a tender moment between you and Kim.
Kim extricates himself from the hole in the couch and goes over to the window, drawing the thin faded curtains, making a dissatisfied noise when they fail to meet in the middle.
You rub your forehead. A headache is starting. "Do you want something to eat?" you ask.
"What do you have?"
You think. You certainly don't remember adding anything to your kitchen cupboards in recent times. Kim would not appreciate being offered a beer. If there are even any left.
"I'm fine," he says before you can think of what to say in reply.
"I can get you some water."
He nods.
You find a glass with no chips and only a minimal amount of scratches. "The bed is yours," you say as you fill it.
Kim doesn't argue. "Okay. If you're sure," he says, knowing there is no socially acceptable way for you to take the offer back now. Your eyes meet as you give the glass of water to him. "Thank you. I think I will turn in soon. The journey was not pleasant."
You want to say something. You'd rather sit up and talk a while longer. But about what? It is not as if this evening has been full of your usual camaraderie. You just nod.
Sleeping on the couch is something you do on occasion, by accident when you are exhausted, or more drunk than you currently are. You can't get comfortable. The noise from the street and your neighbours bothers you more than usual. So does the light leaking in through the gap in the curtains.
The band of light highlights Kim's profile and the bare arm he has slung over the duvet. You can hear him breathing slowly in his sleep. You feel a vague longing as you stare at him. If you hadn't got drunk, could you now be snuggled up with him, his body curled around yours? No, that's a ridiculous thought. That's too much to hope for. But if you hadn't got drunk, maybe he'd want to stay with you again. You feel a twinge of pain in your chest. Kim had wanted to be with you outside of work. Now he's seen how you live, he might have changed his mind.
No. You can't lose him. Today is a loss, but you'll try harder tomorrow.
Kim turns over, and you quickly shut your eyes in case he wakes up and sees you watching him sleep.
