Work Text:
YOU: It happens in spring.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Late May, to be precise. Two months after your return from Martinaise.
YOU: It’s late, ten on a Friday evening, and you have put in a good week of work at the precinct. You’re sitting at your kitchen table barefoot and shirtless, listening to the radio with the Commodore. The windows are open - small and high casements in the living room and bedroom - but the apartment is small enough that the breeze comes through anyway, across your bare skin.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: It feels good.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: The city whispers to you through your nose. Car exhaust, smell of stale piss, fried food.
SHIVERS: All across the city are those seeking fresh air. A group of friends staggers down Boogie Street, arms around each other; an old man walks down the pier and thinks of someone he knew long ago; a girl throws rocks at another’s window and hisses her name.
PERCEPTION: The yellow glow of the overhead light illuminates the kitchen. The radio plays MIRRORBALL FM, but it plays it low, just a tickle at the edge of your hearing.
SUGGESTION: It itches at your bones, but your muscles remain loose and pliant as you take another drink.
VOLITION: You’ve been doing better on the drinking.
YOU: And yet sometimes -
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: *All* the time, funky-baby, let’s be honest -
YOU: - you want a drink. Something to celebrate.
RHETORIC: And what are we celebrating today?
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Spring.
ENDURANCE: Hard work.
INLAND EMPIRE: The city. The world.
VOLITION: Being alive. Still.
YOU: You toast your silent apartment and take a drink. The bottle is empty - all that remains is in your glass. And then -
PERCEPTION: Someone knocks on your door.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi stands before your door, head bowed slightly, feet spaced a little more than shoulder-width apart. He holds one hand behind his back, as if stopping himself from knocking again. He is very carefully not thinking of what you might be doing behind this door right now.
YOU: “Door’s open!”
PERDITION AND MAIN: The doorknob turns, and in walks Kim Kitsuragi, orange and familiar.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Detective. In this neighborhood?” With one sweep of his flashing glasses, he takes it all in - the kitchen table scattered with your ashtray, your empty bottle of wine, the radio, a stack of newspapers from ’45 you have been going through, so that you can, presumably, throw them out.
VISUAL CALCULUS: Somehow, the “keep” pile is getting larger than the “toss” pile.
YOU: You shrug, lazily. “I”m objectively the worst thing in this building.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm,” he says, and frowns briefly.
EMPATHY: The detective does not enjoy it when you’re self-deprecating.
YOU: “Have a seat!” you say, gesturing at the empty chair across from you.
KIM KITSURAGI: He doesn’t sit, instead, coming over to pick up your glass of wine. “Detective,” he says.
1) “I only had a little, I promise.”
2) “What are you, a cop?”
3) “I’m celebrating.”
YOU: “I’m celebrating.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Oh? What are you celebrating?”
YOU: “Being alive.”
KIM KITSURAGI: There is a pause. Then he raises the glass to his mouth and puts his lips right where yours had been just a few minutes before.
SUGGESTION: Ah, but for that glass -
SAVOIR FAIRE: Your mouth is hanging open.
AUTHORITY: Out of the audacity. The man stole your hard-bought Commodore!
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Out of lust. Your eyes are glazed over, Harry-boy -
KIM KITSURAGI: He tosses the whole thing back. He makes a face, rubbing his tongue over his teeth.
PERCEPTION: You see a wet flash of pink.
KIM KITSURAGI: “This is terrible, Harry.”
1) [Defend the Commodore. He is your one true friend in this world.]
2) “Yeah.”
YOU: “Yeah.”
KIM KITSURAGI: A noise that might be a huff of laughter. He goes over to the sink, fills the glass with water, and drinks it. You watch his back and shoulders as he does, the way his unzipped jacket rides up his waist. He fills the glass again and comes over to you.
INTERFACING: He puts a hand on your shoulder and leans down to set the glass on the table before you. You can feel the heat of his glove on your skin.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Drink,” he says.
AUTHORITY: You drink.
KIM KITSURAGI: He rounds the table, sits at the chair opposite you, and pulls a pack of Astras out of his pocket.
VOLITION: It’s early.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He’d like to have one. And he’d like to have one with you. It’s why he’s here, after all.
YOU: You scramble for your own pack, laying crumpled and half-crushed on the table, and wrestle one out, putting it between your lips.
KIM KITSURAGI: He leans back to light his cigarette, one leg crossed over the other knee. Leaned this way, back under the light above him -
PERCEPTION: His eyes go almost clear. A deep and rich brown, very nearly translucent.
INLAND EMPIRE: You can see all the way to the very bottom, to where Kim Kitsuragi is kept tightly locked away.
VISUAL CALCULUS: What do you see - ?
YOU: You make a noise, leaning forward, cigarette forgotten in your mouth.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim takes it as a request to light your cigarette for you. Something flashes over his face, then he leans forward and sparks his lighter. He looks at you expectantly.
YOU: You lean forward hurriedly, and, half-leaning on the table, touch your cigarette to the light, and breathe in. When you straighten up, he’s looking at you.
KIM KITSURAGI: “You have ashes. Here.” He gestures at his right tit.
YOU: You look down.
SAVOIR FAIRE: You’ve leaned in the ashtray, you oaf.
YOU: You brush the ashes off your bare skin and look up to find Kim watching you, cigarette held to the side, mouth parted. When he sees you looking, he raises an eyebrow and leans back. “Khm," he says, and returns his cigarette to his mouth.
YOU: “What are you doing here, Kim? I thought you were finishing something up in the 57th today.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He shifts in his chair. “I was. I stopped by the 41st to grab a case file I wanted to review this weekend.”
PERCEPTION: See the way his eyes meet yours steadily, the way he holds himself so perfectly still?
DRAMA: He’s *lying* to you.
YOU: “What case?”
KIM KITSURAGI: He says, smoothly, “THE CASE OF THE HEARTLESS DOG.”
DRAMA: Ooh, he’s good.
YOU: “That’s not what I think.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Oh? And what do you think, detective yefreitor?” A smirk.
SUGGESTION: You’re playing a game.
HALF LIGHT: Careful. Kim Kitsuragi *always* wins.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: 8 rounds of Suzerainty played - Kim: 7, you: 1.
RHETORIC: That’s because Kim is a cruel master.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Ooh, Harry. You have *no* idea…
RHETORIC: No, it’s because Kim studies and understands the rules of play.
YOU: “I think you wanted to see me.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He considers. Ashes his cigarette. “Okay. So I wanted to see you. What of it?”
1) “I think we should play Suzerainty.”
2) “I think we should kiss.”
3) “I wanted to see you too.”
4) “I think we should go out for a drink.”
YOU: “I wanted to see you too.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. I thought you might.” A twitch to the corner of his mouth, and then he looks away.
1) “I think we should play Suzerainty.”
2) “I think we should kiss.”
3) “I wanted to see you too.”
4) “I think we should go out for a drink.”
YOU: “I think we should kiss.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He stares at you for a long moment. Then very, very slowly, he leans forward and stubs out his half-smoked cigarette.
HALF LIGHT: Run.
REACTION SPEED: It’s too late. You should have already started running. You’re fucked, Harry.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Once. We do this once, and get this out of our systems, yes?” His eyes are very dark.
YOU: You nod, cigarette dangling in your hand.
KIM KITSURAGI: He stands.
REACTION SPEED: You hurry to put your cigarette in the ashtray, to stand up -
KIM KITSURAGI: He comes over to you, putting a hand on your shoulder, and pushes you back down.
AUTHORITY: You can feel his firm hand on your shoulder, his tight grip.
PERCEPTION: As Kim leans down, he is between you and the light, and in your alcohol-blurred vision, it flares into a halo -
KIM KITSURAGI: And he kisses you. His mouth is wet, and his lips are a little chapped, and they feel so, so good against your own.
PAIN THRESHOLD: His mustache prickles your upper lip.
PERCEPTION: He tastes like cheap wine and cigarettes.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Everything you’ve ever wanted in life.
KIM KITSURAGI: He brushes your tongue with his own once, twice, three times -
YOU: You whimper, struggling, trying to stand -
KIM KITSURAGI: And then he’s gone, standing before you in your kitchen, just out of your reach. He’s breathing hard. His eyes are very dark again, and his glasses are crooked, and his mouth is glistening.
COMPOSURE: He pulls himself back together. Straightening his glasses, wiping his mouth with a gloved hand.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Satisfied?”
1) “I don’t think it’s possible.”
2) “Yeah. All good. Thanks, pal!” [Shoot him with your finger guns.]
3) “Are *you* satisfied?”
REACTION SPEED: He is momentarily thrown off.
COMPOSURE: Just a little blip, and then he’s back.
ENDURANCE: But the damage is done.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Of course,” he says.
DRAMA: Holding himself perfectly still.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Now, detective, it is late.” He crosses to the door, then pauses, and looks back.
EMPATHY: The faint curve of a smile.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Don’t stay up too late.”
YOU: You watch him go, the door clicking carefully behind him, before slumping back in your chair like a lovesick girl.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Or a middle-aged drunken wreck who thinks about his coworker more often than he should.
YOU: That too.
PERCEPTION: From the street, you hear the growl of machinery.
INLAND EMPIRE: Your heart coming to life in your chest, your lungs aflutter.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: Enough noise to bring anyone back from the dead.
YOU: You hear Kim leave, the long low roar of the Kineema fading into a whine, and then falling behind the sounds of the city.
VOLITION: Everything good happens in the spring.
INLAND EMPIRE: But maybe if you’re very, very lucky, something good will happen in summer, too.