Disco Disco (Party Party)

You have rules. A self-imposed set of instructions learned from a lifetime and every mistake you made (or 'mistake') has significantly more consequences than the people around you. It is incredibly important that you deviate from these rules as little as possible, but there are always exceptions.

You call Harry to talk frequently, but never too much. Commonly not two nights in a row, and never every single night of the week. You also don't keep him on the line too much, always hanging up right when you suspect the conversation starts to drag.

Which is why, you think, it is completely within the rules to tell Harry in person that you two will be working together in the future. That's an important enough reason to stop by, and he can see with his own eyes how Harry is - coping, now that he's back home.

Still, it gnawed at him. Whether it was plain nerves or his gut instinct telling him he was doing something wrong, was overstepping and making a mistake he desperately did not want to make, it sat like a brick in his stomach. The voice constantly trying to talk him out of it, telling him the worst case scenarios and how they would, without a doubt, have him bear the brunt of the consequences.

You quieted it down with rum and now it's the next morning afternoon SOMETIME the next day, your head is halfway in a toilet bowl, and you're not exactly sure where you are.

The rum doesn't taste much better the second time.

After a few more dry heaves it starts to feel like the end of it and you press your pounding, sweaty, way-too-old-to-be-making-these-mistakes face against the tiled bathroom wall. The coolness it provides is the only thing clearing your head enough to think. You also thank yourself for not turning on any lights.

Where are you?

An apartment, not yours, nor one that seems familiar.

You were drinking. A lot.

lost control

The last time you drank this much was-

You never drank this much, not even after Dom's death.

A few memories start to clear up from the night before. You press your face more into the tile, desperate for relieving sensation on your skin.

You were celebrating. . . something.

Vicquemare was there -

At least you remember smelling his cigarettes.

Straight tar rolled in cheap paper

You were hopeful. You remember having fun.

Walked out the front door and kept walking. In the direction of -

Oh god.

No, you changed your mind, that didn't happen-

This is Harry's bathroom.

If you could melt into the wall and never been seen again, you would. The realization makes sense as you start to absorb more of your surroundings - not much visually, considering your glasses are (most likely) in the room you just left and the bathroom is pitch dark. But details like the smell - a bit like stale, wet clothes layered with cigarette smoke. Snippets of memory seep in too as you come to your senses, small moments like you two laying on the floor at some point? You remember the feeling of salvia build up in your mouth and-

Aaaaaaand your head is back in the toilet. Surely you didn't vomit on his carpet last night if you still have stuff coming up, right? Your dignity has already taken several hits, you can only imagine the type of comments the guys back at work would make if they heard that you threw up on Harry's "freshly cleaned" carpet before he did.

Why did you do this?

The last two weeks were going far too easy for you and that voice in the back of your mind that craves started lashing out.

Unknowingly ingested absinthe and thought this was sincerely a good idea.

Last night, a tear in reality occurred without you knowing and you stepped into a world where you can just do your impulsive urges.

You are willing to admit that you are being a tad melodramatic. You then remind yourself that you're alone in a room, in the dark, with only your thoughts.

What the fuck were you thinking?

You don't need to break this one down into a list as it's a question you've asked yourself dozens of times before in your life. It's the whole point of having rules and a social script to follow because, frequently, when you're left floundering with people it always ends up being something like this. You get too eager, too close, way too fast and end up being a weird interaction the other person talks about for a while.

It's just. . .

It's Harry.

"The boredom is worse than anything, sometimes." Harry had said to you a couple of nights ago, voice crackling through the old receiver. Surprisingly quiet, you had to press it forcefully to your ear to really make it out.

He hadn't complained to you much during your calls. A painfully obvious mask of independence, a foolish amount of optimism about how much he is able to handle by himself. You never pushed back against it but, for some reason, this admittance of Something made you tense in anticipation.

"Sometimes it starts to feel like I never actually left this room." He laughs nervously without any humor. "Like I made up meeting you to cope with being stuck in this room. And if that's true then what about the things that I'm remembering?"

"You're remembering stuff?" You manually kept breathing at a steady pace. "That's good."

(What was that sound? Was that one of Harry's neighbors getting home?)

He let out a small, unsatisfied sound at that. "Yeah."

You wanted to ask what he's been doing to keep himself entertained, you wanted to ask if he's had any in-person visitors, you wanted to ask if he had reached out to them and, if he did, then why didn't he ask you-

"Are you real, Kim?" The pure desperation that leaked through the receiver made your heart lurch painfully. It's funny, you've asked yourself the same question about him numerous times by now.

"I'm real." Your hand gripped your knee. "You should view it has a fresh start, not a lot of those come by these days."

Harry laughed bitterly in your ear and it's that moment, the way that a ball of tension formed in your chest at that sound and you wanted, intensely, to reach out to him. It swirled in your gut like roiling water, dangerous, almost impossible to swallow and ignore.

Well, apparently, it wasn't 'almost' and now you've made a complete fool of yourself.

"How you feelin'- Woah! Okay!"

At the first hint of a new voice your body moved on its own, reaching over for the nearest object to you (an empty toilet paper roll) and hurled it in the direction of the newcomer.

It bounced harmlessly off of Harry's chest as he leans into the bathroom.

"Ow." You grimaced and put your pounding head back on the cool wall tile again. The pain had just started to subside after not moving a muscle and it's like the army marching directly on the back of your skull is back.

You hear some shuffling and plastic ruffling, then you feel something get placed by your feet. "Went down to the Frittte and got you a couple of things." Then various loud, bodily noises as he slowly lowers himself to sit on the ground right next to you.

Suddenly there is a warmth near your calf. You don't make a move to get closer or farther away.

Even the idea of opening your eyes, even without your glasses, even in the near dark of the bathroom, makes you nauseous. Without hesitation, you hear Harry take it upon himself to rustle around the plastic bag.

"Got a re-up on painkillers, 'been meaning to do that anyway, a few more of these pre-made meals that have been a lifesaver for me. Some ice cream." You could hear him emote with his eyebrows at that. "And I also saw this book in the checkout that I think you'd like. 'The Green Planet', sounds really bino-y. Affectionately!"

"Not even affectionately." You murmured half-heartily, unable to stop a small smile from growing on your face. Harry nudged your calf and you two fell silent.

"I should probably go put the ice cream in the freezer." And instantly you felt -

You felt -

"Harry," You said immediately in a normal volume but loud enough to make you wince at hearing your own voice. You were too busy trying to keep the gut-deep desperation inaudible. "What happened last night?"

What did I say? What did I do?

You opened your eyes finally, carefully, and see the blurry image of Harry sitting in front of you. He's close enough that you don't see a lot of details, but his head is tilted ever so slightly looking at you. It makes you want to reach out and scratch behind his ears.

"What do you remember?" His gruff voice is so gentle.

"Not much."

There's a pause as he waits for you to continue. You'd really rather avoid showing your hand too much.

"Well, there's nothing much to say, really." He left out a large gust of breath. "You showed up here, told me you killed a series of people in '31 and have been in hiding ever since, took off your pants and declared yourself King of The World."

"What? No I didn't." Even under threat of your life you'd never admit that, for a quarter of a single second, you believed him. You squinted and leaned back to get a better look at the shit-eating grin he was giving you, which proceeded to make him burst into laughter. "You're a terrible liar."

"Hey, I could be, who knows. I didn't try lie to you back in Martinaise."

"That can't possibly be true." You felt your ears get a bit warm and you cough.

He laughs. "I'm just fucking with you. Maybe. I was being sincere with 'who knows' 'cause I sure don't."

You laugh, barely wincing this time.

You don't know exactly how long you sat on the bathroom floor with Harry. At some point he told you that he called down to the precinct to inform them that you wouldn't be coming in, which you almost yelled at him for, but when he said that Vicquemare knew the protocol for new officers well enough that he already wiped him off of the schedule.

It probably should have comforted you, knowing that it wasn't entirely your influence for why you drank so much, but it didn't. Typical macho bro-y initiation aside, you could have (should have) had more control of yourself.

Harry kept talking. Eventually you let yourself relax and really start to believe that everything you anticipated would happen, how Harry would know how much of a freak and how uncool you really were and would take everything that happened in Martinaise back, wasn't coming. You didn't fuck up, the world isn't ending, there are no consequences for breaking the rules this time.

It's nice. You feel good. Harry never complained about his leg, as if he was also savoring spending time with you and doesn't want to break the spell. Neither of you moved to stop sharing contact.

This was something you had an inkling of before but now feel it solidified without question: Harry is your true blue, no professional titles to create distance, friend.

You've also come to terms with the fact that you are in lo-

No, actually. No you haven't.

love thinking about Kim barely treating his trauma and stressor disorder, thinking if he represses it (like everything else) it'll just go away (this has never worked for anything but he will continue to do this until he breaks). Love giving him really bad OCD and he's constantly checking things, has to make sure the motor carriage is locked at least three times, has to go down the same checklist every single morning and night or else he feels like he's not protected enough

love imagining his relationship with restraint reaching the precipice and he suffers cause he has to deny himself Everything. Control! Restraint! If he doesn't take too much then it can't be taken away from him later! He denies himself everything until he's desperate for anything to look forward to and it bleeds out (his pilot's uniform, the way that he doesn't eat at all during the day unless Harry pesters him enough, the way he can't let anyone know what music he actually likes)

In my mind he has chronic nightmares. He can't sleep with the window open. He hasn't cried in front of a person since he was twelve and the idea of eventually doing so in front of Harry is scarier than having a gun pointed at him. He tortures himself with repeating scenarios where he and Harry are in danger so he can think of a plan for how he will save Harry, but rarely/never himself.

Kim can't feel at home if he doesn't have food in the kitchen, even if it's a sleeve of crackers. He eats everything very very quickly - people have tried to jokingly ask if he even tasted it but he hates those jokes - and he almost always clears his plate completely. Sometimes he says that he feels like he concentrates better if he's starving.