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They make it to July due to, frankly, an absurd amount of stubbornness.
Kim chooses professionalism over passion diligently, the same way that he chooses to wake up at the same time every day, even on—especially on—his days off. He does his job with precision regardless of his personal condition, because he will be called every other thing under the sun but he will be damned before anyone calls him a sloppy detective. In the name of solving cases, Harry convinces Kim to do many unconventional things, but Kim swore when he joined the RCM that he would never sleep with his partner. To Kim, committing to a partner is committing until death. He has always felt that inviting romance or intimacy into the relationship would cheapen it, make his devotion mundane, animalistic. His love for his fellow officers is codified, refined. He will die for Harry. Or, Harry will die for him. That should be more than enough. To break this rule after everything for this dysfunctional man would be patently insane, on a level quite apart from keeping some flashy hubcaps or driving over the speed limit when the right song is on.
And yet. Yet. Sobriety is good for Harry, makes him sweat clean, clears his piercing eyes. It takes the edge out of his dark moods and lets his full brilliance shine through. Again and again he solves cases others might consider impossible, on a timeline that is inhuman; Kim never stops being amazed at his perceptiveness and knack for cracking people.
And yet. As the weather warms, Harry sheds his layers. Sometimes he starts the day dressed in his RCM uniform—a rare treat—but he always ends the day in a sweat-drenched t-shirt, or tanktop, or some mesh nightmare. He joins Kim in the precinct's gym every day and, when he does, wears shorts that show all too much of his powerful thighs. The sun makes his whole body turn pink; he forms ridiculous sunburns that become ridiculous tan lines which Kim wants to lick, dividing Harry's body with his tongue. Near the end of June he leans his bare knee against Kim's as Kim recalls a moment from his childhood, a body under a bridge. It is a story he has never told anyone. His childhood is of no interest to anyone, barely even so to Kim, but Harry listens raptly. By the end of it, they are sitting close enough that their thighs and arms are stuck wetly together; the points where they touch are overly warm and buzz lightly. Kim almost kisses him then, but stops himself, and spends days afterward wondering what possessed him to stop.
When they break—when Kim breaks—it's almost embarrassing why. It's just—Harry shows up to the precinct in bright red gym shorts, a white tanktop, a striped black and orange tie, and, for some reason, black boiadeiro boots. Kim spends all day jogging behind that outfit, watching the tie create a fine swatch of red on Harry's throat and sweat pool in the small of Harry's back. Near the end of the day, when the sun is setting but the heat of the day still shimmers in the air, Harry lights a cigarette. Kim's body feels cooked through, the muscles of his calves tight and humming with energy from all the running. The hair on Harry's shoulders and chest shines with sweat; he telegraphs sheer relief as he inhales, as if he is not drawing in smoke but kissing it out of the filter. Harry makes a low noise in his throat as the smoke hits his lungs.
Harry has taken shelter at the mouth of an alley; he is hidden, or well enough. Kim left his vest in the Kineema hours ago, a concession to the heat. Neither of them are wearing RCM insignia. Kim thinks, Fuck it, and steps forward. "Share," he says.
Harry opens his mouth. Smoke spills out in curls. His gray-green eyes flick to the cigarette: This?
"Yes," he says, and takes one more step forward, crowding Harry, now. Close enough that he can smell him, the sweat and smoke and musk of him, the aftershave that is nearly imperceptible after a long day. Kim folds his hands behind his back. Harry blinks. Kim should be embarrassed by the lack of surprise on Harry's face, but it is a relief, too. Harry takes a long, slow drag off the cigarette, then leans down and opens his mouth against Kim's. Exhales. Shares.
It isn't quite a kiss. It prickles down Kim's body, potent as a drug. Kim breathes in deep and holds it, then holds Harry's gaze. Harry does not break it to take his next drag. The nicotine rush is nothing compared to the electric hum of Harry's lips as he bends again, as he breathes into Kim.
"Your apartment's closer than mine," Harry says, after he has emptied his lungs into Kim's. "Can we go?"
"I'd rather finish the cigarette right here," Kim says.
Harry flushes. Kim licks his lips. But Harry's voice has brought him back to reality. He glances toward the street. It is not safe or appropriate to do this, here. He feels suddenly, luxuriously indecent. He takes a step back. "Let's go," he says.
It is a three minute walk back to the Kineema. A thirteen minute drive home, though who's counting? Harry finishes his cigarette without giving Kim any more, though he walks so close his shoes scrape the backs of Kim's boots and he sends smoke out in long streams over Kim's head, as if trying to lure him. It makes Kim want to laugh. He's beyond being lured; he's hooked. No—he's already been gutted and put on a spit over Harry's fire. Kim is hopeless. At Kim's apartment complex, Kim dares to grab Harry by the tie and lead him up the stairs, taking them two at a time. At his door, Harry makes a pathetic noise and leans his body up against Kim's back, showing off his hard cock against Kim's ass, tracing his hands up and down Kim's slim waist.
"It was the boots, wasn't it?" Harry mutters in his ear as Kim shoves open his door.
"Don't be ridiculous," Kim says.
"I can keep them on," he says.
"Please don't," Kim says, and, to keep Harry from arguing the matter—because, to Kim's horror, he is not entirely wrong about the boots—he kisses him against his apartment door. They don't talk after that except in gasped curses and half-sentences; their mouths become preoccupied. Kim presses his body into Harry's, as tight as he can go; Harry hooks a leg behind Kim's knee and wraps him in his arms, insistent, wanting everything at once. He is already hard, but then so is Kim, grinding into the soft parts of Harry's body. He wants to undo Harry entirely, strip him of his clothes and dignity and questions. He wants to fuck him until he's incoherent.
"Kim," Harry says, lifting his head. Kim lifts onto his toes, trying to chase his mouth, until he realizes Harry has something to say. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."
"Since the second day in Martinaise," Kim says. Harry blushes—there, finally, is his surprise, sending a gratifying rush straight to Kim's cock. So he was right. "But you've been a good boy," Kim says. "Very patient." He bites Harry's exposed throat; Harry's hips jerk against him and he gasps.
"Let me—let me light up," Harry says.
Nothing else could make Kim back away from Harry, and even that doesn't get him far. Harry fumbles with his pack of cigarettes and lighter. It can't help that Kim has not stopped massaging his hips and thighs and soft hairy belly, though not the straining length of Harry's cock. As soon as Harry's lit the cigarette Kim is on him again, greedy. He sets a pace between Harry's legs, quick snapping thrusts that make Harry knock into the door. They trade smoke and kisses in such rapid succession that Kim starts to get dizzy and has to slow down. His world has narrowed down to Harry's body, Harry's smoke-heavy breath, the rumbling noises that Harry cannot stop making.
Kim's orgasm hits him like a suckerpunch, as he's struggling to catch his breath, as one of Harry's huge hands scrapes up his skull to grab a fistful of his hair—pressure between his legs, pressure at his skull, pressure in his chest where his lungs have been replaced by light and smoke. He comes with an incoherent moan, his hips rocking unsteadily into Harry's. It's that which tips Harry over, too, one hand clenched tight in Kim's hair, the other digging into his back. The cigarette drops, forgotten, from his lips. His body goes still under Kim's as he comes, except for a rough trembling in his thighs and belly and the vulgar-loud moans that vibrate in his chest.
They lean against the door for a while after that, breathing hard. Harry's arms stay wrapped around Kim, who watches the cigarette burn itself out on the floor. It's a little sad. They could have gotten a few more drags off it.
Kim unsticks himself from Harry slowly, unwilling except he really must undress, now. But when he takes a step back, he's still dizzy; he staggers and barely catches himself on his counter.
"Fuck," Harry says. "That was fucking hot."
"You're damn right," Kim says. There is little point to composing himself again in front of Harry, but he does anyway, running a hand through his hair to smooth it down. He straightens off the counter and is relieved to find his legs can hold his weight again. "You're a very good kisser, Harry."
Harry shudders as if Kim hasn't simply complimented him but wrapped his mouth around his cock instead. "You're good at everything."
Kim smiles. He looks Harry up and down; he is utterly disheveled, pink and dripping sweat, his hair and muttonchops even more unruly than usual. "There's a fan in my room," he says. "I suggest we move in there. And for the love of god, Harry, take those off," he says, pointing to the boots.
"Too powerful, huh?" Harry says, grinning.
Isn't that something, Kim thinks, watching Harry bend forward to take them off. All this time, he thought he would feel ashamed for doing this, for letting Harry make an animal of him. Instead, he is light, and adrenaline, and excitement. He is in love. He can't stop smiling as he shucks off his clothes and crosses his apartment to his open bedroom door. "Hurry, now," he says, over his shoulder, and laughs when Harry scrambles to follow. "Bring the cigarettes."