Leave It In The Sun 01
CHAPTER ONE
The sun is only just setting over the streets of Jamrock, drenched in rain and neon. The city stops to catch its breath in the intermission between day and night.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: And so do you. You could’ve sworn the nearest payphone was, y’know, nearer than this. Maybe that bone-shattering gunshot wound also isn’t quite as far along in the healing process as you thought either.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Brilliant claws of pain rake down your thigh as you lean against the payphone and try to center yourself.
You glance at the phone resting in its cradle, with some trepidation. Phone calls are always a bit… difficult for you. Especially these days.
SUGGESTION: You can still change your mind.
VOLITION: No. You came here for a reason.
SUGGESTION: Or… you could always just call her instead.
VOLITION: Focus.
You take a deep breath. The late spring air is turning chilly in the slowly setting sun. The rain drizzles lazily as it has all day, showing no sign of stopping. A handful of people are still--or already--out wandering downtown Jamrock, laughing and talking and hurrying home and running errands and entirely focused on just about anything in the world besides a washed up middle-aged man having a minor anxiety attack and moderate-to-severe hip pain next to a public phone at 6:04pm in the rain.
INLAND EMPIRE: The loneliness knocks the wind out of you. You thought you were used to it by now. It’s worse outside, around people.
DRAMA: The threadbare costume you created for yourself in the privacy of your dark, trash-strewn apartment doesn’t seem quite as convincing with an audience.
VOLITION: Stop the goddamn pity party and pick up the phone already.
The receiver is light in your hand as you fumble for change and the crumpled slip of paper you’ve had in your jeans pocket for the last two weeks or so. You slowly, deliberately dial the phone number written on it, as if some part of you is afraid that your fingers might just automatically fall into the patterns of her number instead.
VOLITION: They might. But you’re done hurting yourself.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Well, maybe not entirely. Yet. But you’re done hurting yourself with her for sure.
INLAND EMPIRE: You still feel like you deserve that pain. But it’s wrong to keep using her as the knife you gut yourself with. She deserves better, even if you might not.
LOGIC: In any case, this isn’t about her. It’s about you, and it’s about--
“Hello?” Kim’s voice is muffled and tinny through the old, worn copper wiring. He sounds tired, but you guess that’s not particularly surprising. You’ve been pretty damn tired too.
“Kim, hey, it’s uh, it’s me,” you reply awkwardly.
“Harry? Do you need something?”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: This is the first time you’ve called him since leaving Martinaise, despite carrying that little piece of paper around for the last two weeks. He’s thinking, “why now?”
“Yeah, no, I just happened to be downtown this evening,” you ramble, “and I thought...”
“You’re drunk,” he says. It is completely without judgment. A stated fact. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Harry Du Bois is drunk. “Where are you exactly? I’ll--”
“Wait, no!” you exclaim, a little too loudly. A nearby pigeon makes a mad dash in the opposite direction at the sound. “That’s not it! I swear I’m basically sober right now. Mostly.”
A long pause on the other end.
“All right,” he says plainly. “So what can I do for you?”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Make no mistake, he’s picking his battles here and gingerly stepping around that “mostly.”
EMPATHY: He’s just relieved it’s even that much.
COMPOSURE: How embarrassing.
VOLITION: Just start over. Your first sentence was garbage, but you know you’re under no obligation to continue it, right?
You take a deep breath, then try again.
“Well, it’s really more about what I can do for you,” you say smoothly, attempting to imbue the words with the spirit of 9mm finger guns and a playful grin. It’s so hard to convey finger guns over the phone, but by god you’ll try.
“You know that big motor carriage exhibition in town? It just so happens I’ve got two tickets to it.”
Another long pause. “You mean the one that ends today?”
“Yes,” you confirm.
“And are you aware that it is currently around six o’clock in the evening?”
“Is it? I mean, yes. Yes it is,” you say confidently. “I am aware of the passage of time.”
“And you waited until now to do this?” he asks.
EMPATHY: He sounds more amused than annoyed, though you definitely detect a bit of both.
“Uh,” you falter. “Look, it’s open until 8:00, so do you want to fucking go or not?”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: About half a kilometer away, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi is sitting in the kitchen of his new apartment, already in his pajamas and winding down for the evening. It’s a bit early for that, but he figures he should take the opportunity to rest before he tackles that mountain of backlogged cases he was promised upon making the move to Precinct 41.
Two weeks ago, he said goodbye to the strangest man he’d ever met. A man he found himself inexplicably drawn to in the week they spent together, and whom he thought about every day since. Wondering if he would take the lifeline Kim tried to throw to him, or if that little slip of paper would just end up forgotten at the bottom of a vomit-soaked trash can in some shitty bar. Wondering if the dawning trauma of everything that happened in Martinaise and the restlessness from sitting at home recovering from its aftermath would combine to pull him down into a dark place beyond Kim’s reach for good. Wondering and wondering to fill the silence. And now finally the silence is broken, but whatever this cry for help is, it is not the one Kim ever expected to receive.
But he knows one thing for sure: it is a cry for help.
“All right,” Kim says finally. He takes a sharp breath, then adds, “sounds good.”
The walk to his apartment takes a bit longer than you expected. It’s not that far from the downtown payphone, but you still wasted a good 20 minutes on the journey.
ENDURANCE: You are expecting too much of yourself too soon.
INLAND EMPIRE: It’s always one or the other with you, isn’t it? Too much or not enough.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Twenty minutes to walk a few blocks? Fucking pathetic. What kind of cop are you? Hell, what kind of gym teacher are you? Man up.
ENDURANCE: It’s a miracle that you’re still standing at all.
PERCEPTION: Beyond the apartment door, you can hear footsteps and soft humming.
You knock, and the door opens almost immediately.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Shit. You were hoping you’d have a few spare seconds to think of something really cool to say.
REACTION SPEED: C’mon, say something fun and upbeat to prove you’re not a depressed sack of shit who’s been spending the past two weeks drinking alone in the dark.
DRAMA: Showtime!
“Howdy, pardner,” you hear yourself say.
SAVOIR FAIRE: Finger guns! For God’s sake, don’t forget the finger guns. Without them, you just look like a goddamn lunatic.
You do the finger guns.
Kim does not seem particularly impressed as he slowly looks from your outstretched gun fingers to the twisted grimace that now wracks your face.
“Please, holster those things before coming inside,” he says humorlessly.
You blow the pretend, metaphorical smoke from each of your hot weapons before stuffing your hands in your pockets. As you do this, he watches with an appraising look.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: He’s wondering if this is regular weird or drunken breakdown weird. However, he is intimately familiar with your brand of stupid bullshit at this point and it doesn’t take long for him to place it in the former category.
“We should hit the road soon,” you comment as you peek curiously into his apartment.
“Hit the road,” Kim repeats with mild amusement, “in what?”
LOGIC: Oh. Right. The Kineema is property of Precinct 57. Not Kim Kitsuragi personally.
“Shit, yeah,” you concede. “But hey, if we call a taxi now--”
LOGIC: You’ll arrive just in time to immediately turn around and go home.
HALF LIGHT: You fucked up. You’re a fuck-up. Great job, idiot.
VOLITION: Try not drinking and blacking out all day next time.
LOGIC: Yes, but then…
“Fuck,” you inhale. “Fuckady-fuck-fuck. Shit. Goddammit.”
Kim waits patiently for you to catch up. You’re almost there.
“I should’ve called earlier, sorry,” you apologize. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
LOGIC: What is wrong with you is that you drank all last night, slept off a hangover most of the day today, and woke up in a daze about 45 minutes ago. But what’s done is done. No point in bringing that up now, right?
“Nor do I,” says the lieutenant with a small smile. “But whatever it is, I am no longer surprised by it, I assure you.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you repeat, leaning on the door frame pathetically, a congealed ooze of mental illness and embarrassment. “Sorry for bothering you in the first place. You’re always so nice to me, even when I’m a pain in the ass.”
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Which is to say constantly.
Kim says nothing. Just sighs almost imperceptibly.
EMPATHY: Your self deprecation is frustrating for him, and he does not know how to respond to it constructively and compassionately.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: He does think you’re a pain in the ass sometimes, but a pain worth dealing with.
INLAND EMPIRE: For reasons beyond your understanding.
“Why did you agree to go in the first place?” you sigh. “You’ve got a brain that actually works, you knew it wasn’t gonna happen. If you’re trying to make fun of me, then, well…”
You stop abruptly.
“That’s just fine, I guess. Good job, carry on.”
He adjusts his glasses and looks away. “I appreciated the intention,” he says finally, in a measured voice. “And since I hadn’t heard from you the past couple weeks…”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: ...He was afraid you wouldn’t bother trying again.
“Sorry,” you mumble. “I’ve been kind of busy. You know how it goes after cases like that.”
“I do,” he says. He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “you’re welcome to come in if you like.”
You hobble into Kim’s sparse kitchen and collapse on a dining room chair. It creaks ominously under the velocity of the assault.
“I’m glad we have an opportunity to catch up,” he says politely, pulling up the other chair and gazing at your pained expression from across the table. “Your injury is healing well, I assume?”
EMPATHY: It is obvious that he does not in fact assume this at all.
You shrug, still trying to get ahold of yourself and push back the ache swirling at the edges of your mind.
He watches you struggle for a moment, then gently says, “it will take time to heal, but it will heal.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: So please be patient and kind to yourself, is the silent plea left unsaid. It hangs in the air pitifully. You both know it’s there.
“Time hasn’t exactly been a good salve for me in general,” you mumble.
He’s silent for a while. Opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again.
“Harry,” he says finally. “What happened in Martinaise is not your burden to carry alone.”
“I thought you didn’t like personal issues, lieutenant,” you say.
“I don’t,” he says with a frown, “but this…”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: This is about me too, he thinks. As much as he hates to admit it. He doesn’t particularly like his own personal issues either. But the past two weeks were hard for him, and you didn’t make them any easier.
EMPATHY: He was worried about you, and--although he will never admit it to himself, let alone you--there’s a part of him that selfishly hoped you were worried about him too. At least a little.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: He’s used to this line of work, and so are you despite the holes in your memory, but it never gets any easier to deal with some things.
EMPATHY: There was so much death that day. It haunts you. And now as you sit in Kim’s kitchen, the alcohol slowly filtering from your blood and leaving behind the dregs of a headache, you realize it still haunts him too. You both added perforations you never wanted to make.
ENDURANCE: It’s too much. Your head swims and your entire body aches in the throes of repressed grief fighting its way to the surface of a sea of quickly evaporating Commodore Red.
INLAND EMPIRE: Warning! Trauma containment center has been breached! Evacuate the area immediately!
HALF LIGHT: You’re going to cry, aren’t you? You’re going to fucking cry. Right here in his kitchen. Why can’t you keep your shit together for more than five minutes straight?
You are entirely unable to keep the tears from rolling silently down your cheeks, unbidden.
INLAND EMPIRE: You don’t have it in you to really cry properly in a way that makes sense, like a normal person. Not anymore. The wires in your brain have been fried and the circuitry has been cut. Whichever one connected the “press here for sobbing catharsis” button to your tear ducts and your throat and your lungs became frayed beyond repair at some point. You’re not sure when or why or how.
ENDURANCE: But human beings cry. And despite everything inside you that’s broken and rotting, you are a human being. You can’t not be.
Kim’s standing next to you now, his hand resting comfortingly on your shoulder. He doesn’t say anything.
EMPATHY: That’s the point of this whole shoulder-touching business in the first place--your behavior has left him at a loss for words, yet he is compelled to offer something.
This goes on for the longest minute or two the world has ever seen. But finally, you’ve wrung it all out of yourself and the tears stop almost as abruptly as they began. His hand gives your shoulder a squeeze, then he sits back down in the chair opposite you, avoiding your eyes. He rummages in his pocket for something, then hands you a blue handkerchief.
“Where the hell do you keep all these?” you mumble as you reach for it. “Fuckin’... infinite handkerchiefs around here.”
“What can I say? I like to be prepared,” he says.
“For drunk idiots who throw up all over crime scenes and have mental breakdowns in your home?”
“Usually to clean my glasses,” he says flatly. “But at this point, I suppose it is fair to say that it’s also for your various crises as well.”
“Well, thank God one of us is prepared,” you say. “What would I do without you, Kim?”
He hesitates, a strange wistful expression tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t know. What did you do the past two weeks?”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: The words seem to fall from his lips almost by accident, like a sigh or a yawn. Immediately he regrets them.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t… That’s none of my concern,” he says quickly.
AUTHORITY: Who the hell does he think he is? You’re not a child who needs to be minded. You’re a grown-ass man who can sit alone in his apartment and get wasted if he fucking wants to. Assert yourself!
You hesitate, then decide to just answer honestly.
“Honestly? Drink, mostly,” you say, punctuating the sadness with the levity of a nice awkward laugh.
He just stares at you with a bleak expression.
EMPATHY: He’s so tired. So frustrated. So disappointed.
INLAND EMPIRE: Oh God! He’s disappointed in you? This is terrible. Anything but that, please!
“I thought I was doing better,” you say quietly. “Guess not.”
“You were,” Kim says kindly.
INLAND EMPIRE: Tequila Sunset hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it still will. Maybe it’s inevitable. Maybe when you took up that mantle, it was like some sort of alcoholic event horizon. Tequila Sunset is a black hole at the center of you, and it is inevitable. What other force in the universe could begin to exert as much gravitational pull?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: From the void we came, to the void we must return.
“Listen, this is not surprising,” Kim tells you. “It’s got to be harder now that you’re back in Jamrock.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s easy, baby. All your old favorite haunts are here. You know all the cheapest bars, the sketchiest parts of town with the purest amphetamines… You can’t remember the names of half of them anymore, but the muscles in your legs can trace the steps there perfectly. That shit’s burned into your body forever.
“Yeah.” You swallow hard. “Anyway, what about you? How’s Jamrock treating you?”
“Good so far,” he says. “I’ve actually only been here for a few days. G.R.I.H. wrap-up took longer than I expected.” He pauses and looks out the window. “But I’m glad to be here now.”
“Really,” you say with a laugh. “In this shithole?”
“It has its perks,” he says. “I’m looking forward to beginning work at Precinct 41.”
“You’re not working solo, are you?”
“For right now, yes I am,” he replies. “I’m fine with that. I’ve done it before.”
INLAND EMPIRE: The idea of sharing a workplace with him and yet not being at his side when he needs you… it makes you feel cold, lonely, somehow.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You have a duty to Jean. Jean is your partner.
SUGGESTION: Fuck it, just say it. You know what you want to say. Say it and get it over with.
“You should work with me,” you blurt out. “We were such a good team in Martinaise. We could keep those good times rolling!”
“I’m flattered, but,” he says, turning his head. “Satellite-Officer Vicquemare…”
“Doesn’t give a shit about me,” you say. “Fuck him.”
EMPATHY: That’s not exactly true. You know it’s not.
INLAND EMPIRE: But the truth is complicated. It’s easier to just boil it down to fuck that guy.
LOGIC: Jean is bad for you, and you’re bad for him. Or, you used to be. And has anything really changed? Are you really any different? Maybe it was just the change of scenery that fooled you into thinking otherwise.
INLAND EMPIRE: Same old Jamrock. Same old coworkers. Same old bad habits. Same old you.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Kim says delicately.
“Forget about him,” you push, suddenly more serious about this than you intended to be. “I can arrange this shit with Captain Pryce, and I can deal with Jean.”
“I… uh,” he mumbles. “I don’t know what to say.”
DRAMA: You’re in control of this show now. Pull an honest answer out of him, sire!
You point at him and narrow your eyes. “I know what you should say: what you feel in your heart!”
You pound one fist against your chest over your heart to drive home the point, then wince.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Please don’t do that.
You break the dramatic pose and lean back in your chair again with a shrug. “Or just tell me to fuck off. None of this wishy-washy noncommittal shit, though.”
He’s silent for a long time, watching and listening to the rain as it picks up outside. Then finally he gives you an apologetic smile and speaks.
“Harry,” he says kindly. “Fuck off.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Not now, and not like this. Please drop it.
EMPATHY: He’s not angry, he’s deflecting. This is by far the nicest way you’ve ever been told to fuck off. Don’t take it too hard.
“All right, all right,” you say. “Forget I said anything.”
You spend a while just making small-talk at Kim’s kitchen table. None of it means anything, but it’s nice. It’s a nice, good, human thing to do, sitting and chatting with him. Makes your “regular well-adjusted person” costume fit a little better. The rain begins to let up slightly in the fading sunset.
“You know, we could do something else if you like,” he says brightly. “Here in Jamrock, I mean.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yeah. Lots of stuff to do in Jamrock. Like speed and hard liquor. Or crying in the bathroom of a dive bar because you’re too fucked up on speed and liquor.
SUGGESTION: He probably wouldn’t go for that.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: There’s got to be somewhere else to go. Something else to do with him. Think. What do you want to do with him?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh buddy, are you sure you’re ready to open that can of worms?
The lieutenant watches you as you rub your temples in an effort to massage the awkward thoughts out of your terrible brain. Then he says, “you know what, don’t worry about it. It’s fine, we can just stay here.”
“Yeah, okay,” you say. “Sounds good.”
“I’m just going out on the balcony for a cigarette,” he informs you. “Feel free to--”
“I’ll come with you,” you interrupt.
The two of you step out onto the lieutenant’s rather small balcony. It’s still raining very lightly, but this is probably as good as the weather is going to get tonight. Good enough. There’s really not quite enough space for two adult men to comfortably lounge around out here, though. You try to make yourself as small as possible as you fumble in your pockets for a cigarette and lighter.
PERCEPTION: You hear the soft click of a lighter and smell smoke on the gentle evening breeze drifting over from your left.
“Fuck,” you grumble. “I forgot my light--”
You realize Kim is holding out his own lighter wordlessly, still gazing out at the city sprawling out below.
“Thanks,” you say.
He nods. He pockets the lighter again once you’re done with it, then leans on the railing and exhales smoke with a sigh.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Outwardly, he is silent and pensive. He almost seems anxious in a way. But in truth, he likes this. He’s enjoying standing out here in the rain and the dark and smoking his nightly cigarette by your side once more, just like that first night in Martinaise.
You rest your arms on the railing as well and try to map his sight line, but you can’t quite figure out what he might be looking at. Your arm presses against his in the cramped space, but he does not react.
“Pretty bitchin’ view here,” you comment. “Comparatively.”
“Mhm,” hums the lieutenant. “I suppose I got lucky.”
PERCEPTION: His hand dangles loosely over the edge of the railing. It’s a bit smaller than yours and much thinner, bonier. Sharp and angled like a marble sculpture.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: A work of art. Just like the rest of him.
SUGGESTION: Wonder what that hand would feel like in yours…?
“Everything all right, detective?” Kim asks, smoke escaping from his lips as he speaks. You realize that you’ve been staring at his hand for longer than is generally considered acceptable by polite society.
“Just spacing out a little I guess,” you mumble, averting your gaze.
“Par for the course with you,” the lieutenant chuckles.
VOLITION: Don’t make this too weird. Don’t think about that cigarette dangling loosely from his beautiful hands, or how soft his lips must be, or how nice it would be to just give up all pretense and embarrass yourself and hug him tightly right here on the balcony. Whatever you do, don’t think of any of those things.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Shit.
“Well, it’s getting late,” you say, stubbing out your half-finished cigarette in the nearby ashtray. “I should probably go.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. We’ve got work in the morning after all.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You do?
VOLITION: Just play it cool.
“Yes,” you say, nodding stoically. “Tomorrow is Monday. I am aware of this, and that is why I said that in the first place, and not for any other reason.”
SAVOIR FAIRE: Nailed it.
“Tomorrow is Tuesday,” Kim says flatly, his face expressionless.
“I know that!” you say defensively. “I was just testing you. Come on, Kim, you don’t think I’m really that stupid, do you?”
He starts to say something, then thinks better of it and instead takes a long drag before trying again.
“No, detective. I don’t think that,” he says quietly. Then he puts out the stub of his cigarette on the bottom of his boot and drops it in the ashtray.
The two of you head back into the apartment as the rain starts up again. You pull on your tarpaulin cloak in preparation for the long walk back home. But as you reach the front door, the lieutenant stops you.
“You know, you could just stay here if that would be easier,” he says abruptly, looking tense. “It’s late, and it’s raining, and…”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: ...And the route from here to your home features at least a dozen bars along the way.
EMPATHY: He’s worried you might not be able to resist the siren song of their garish neon signs and blaring dance music spilling out onto the streets like a red carpet unfurling.
“And your injury,” he adds quickly. “It was causing you some pain earlier, wasn’t it?”
HALF LIGHT: You don’t need his pity.
INLAND EMPIRE: Maybe you do. He knows you too well already.
EMPATHY: And, for whatever reason, cares about you a little too much. A terrible decision on his part, really.
“Yeah, good point. Plus your place is closer to work anyway,” you reply. “Thanks. Sorry to impose.”
He gives you a little nod. “It’s no trouble at all.”
Soon, you’re settled in on Kim’s couch under a small pile of blankets that still smell like artificial flowers, cloying and too sweet, freshly laundered.
He says good night and disappears into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. It’s strange somehow, lying here in his living room alone in the dark. Like you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be. Like sneaking into a museum after it closes.
PERCEPTION: In the hazy twilight of impending sleep, you notice a calendar on the wall across from you. You can just barely make it out in the dim light, and you realize something.
“Son of a bitch,” you shout, “tomorrow is Monday!”
Just before you retreat into the blanket nest you could swear you hear a muffled apology from the next room.