Leave It In The Sun 03
CHAPTER THREE
PERCEPTION: The smell coming off these two big plates of pancakes is incredible. It’s permeated the entire apartment now.
CONCEPTUALIZATION: If only the lieutenant had any fresh strawberries or blueberries to top it off. Maybe chocolate shavings even. There are so many options, but none of them are available in this kitchen. You enjoy a good topping--
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yeah you do, buddy!
CONCEPTUALIZATION: --but it should still be pretty good with just plain old maple syrup.
“Harry?”
You turn to see Kim standing at the entryway to the kitchen and staring at you in astonishment.
“Kim! Good morning!” you say excitedly.
“What are you doing?” he asks, looking around at the mess.
“I’m in the middle of a case,” you inform him very seriously, and put a finger to your lips. “Shh, I’m deep undercover.”
He quirks an eyebrow and crosses his arms. “Ah yes, that’s why you’ve got flour all over your face and shirt. My apologies for blowing your cover. I know how hard it is to get in with this crowd.” He gestures to the spilled flour, melting butter, and egg shells.
“Not to worry, lieutenant. I’ve got all I need to crack the case by now anyway.” You hold up the now-empty milk carton and add, “I’ve milked ‘em for all they’re worth.”
He sighs and rubs his forehead.
EMPATHY: He hated that a lot. He still appreciates the breakfast, though.
“Sorry,” you say as you toss the milk carton in the trash.
“Keep workshopping that one, detective,” Kim says with a little smirk.
“Right,” you laugh. “Okay, c’mon, sit down!”
Kim allows you to usher him to the small dining table and sits as instructed. He’s too sleep deprived and amused by this turn of events to do otherwise.
“Your pancakes, sir,” you say as you set the plate down in front of Kim.
“Uh…thank you, detective,” he replies.
He picks up a fork and tentatively pokes at the huge stack of fluffy pancakes as if he still can’t quite believe they’re real and edible and made specifically for him by a man who was so drunk that he puked in Kim’s bathtub at least twice last night. He glances from the plate to you and back again, then shrugs and takes a bite.
“Holy shit,” he says, mouth still full of pancakes and politely hidden behind one hand. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
LOGIC: You didn’t either until you saw the ingredients and something clicked together in your brain.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: This is an old family recipe that’s been passed down to you. It includes a dash of lemon and cardamom that makes for a unique flavor profile. The lieutenant didn’t have any cardamom, but you substituted a bit of cinnamon and allspice and it seems to have turned out just fine.
YOU: Hang on, an old family recipe? Who passed it down to me?
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Most likely someone related to you.
YOU: Great. Well, are there any other recipes filed away?
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Maybe. It’s hard to say. You’ll just have to keep traveling around Revachol and picking up food items to see if one of them gives you a flash of inspiration.
YOU: Absolutely fucking useless, thanks.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Sorry. I could give you an overview of the history of cattle ranching and milk production in the Insulindian isola. Would that help?
YOU: It would not. Please don’t.
“What’s in this anyway?” Kim asks, interrupting your scrambled thoughts.
“I can’t believe you, Kim!” you exclaim with mock indignation. “Are you seriously asking me to just tell you what the secret recipe is?”
“Sorry, I--”
“Because I will,” you interrupt, jabbing a forkful of pancake in his direction for emphasis. A bit of syrup drips onto the table. “Lemon, cinnamon, allspice. Bam.” You grin and shove the fork in your mouth.
“I see,” he says, his gaze fixed on the little puddle of syrup. Then he looks up at you. “Where’d you learn all this?”
“No fucking idea,” you say, still chewing.
“Well in any case, thank you for a delicious breakfast.” As he cuts into the stack with his fork, he smiles at you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: DIRECT HIT! Oh God!
EMPATHY: He’s genuinely impressed.
…
After breakfast, Kim walks you back to your apartment to get dressed for work. You hadn’t exactly been planning on having a little sleepover, and there’s no way you can show up in the same vomit and sweat stained clothes you slept in.
Spending the morning with Kim was so unusually pleasant that you didn’t even remember the reason for it in the first place until now. Now you’re standing in the middle of your bedroom searching through the piles of clothes strewn across the floor for just one shirt without any obvious stains or weird smells.
LOGIC: You should hang your clothes up like a normal person. And wash them. This whole situation was so easily avoided and yet you walked right into it anyway.
HALF LIGHT: Fuck it, go to work naked.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Hell yeah!
EMPATHY: Jean would be so mad at you if you came to work naked again. So would Kim. Actually, nobody would be very impressed with that.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Unless…
CONCEPTUALIZATION: No, listen, I’m sure there’s a better solution to this problem.
PERCEPTION: Just figure one out quick. Please. Your nose is having an extremely bad time right now.
ENDURANCE: You can only sniff so many mystery stains before you throw up. Especially with a hangover.
Finally, you uncover something presentable--only a couple of stains in the pits and no foul smells, but it’s extremely wrinkled. For a moment you consider asking Kim if you can use his iron (he must own one, look at how he dresses!) but you’re going to be late to work as it is. You’ve never given a shit about that before and you still don’t, but…
EMPATHY: Kim does. And he’s waiting for you.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Mere meters away, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi is standing awkwardly in the center of the biggest mess this side of Jamrock Municipal Waste Disposal. He’s positioned himself near the only window in the room and gazes uneasily out at the city so he doesn’t have to look at his surroundings. He’s seen worse in the course of his job--much worse--but he feels embarrassed to be witness to this particular dump. It hits too close for comfort. The discarded alcohol bottles and drug paraphernalia, the cockroaches and moldy food… It all tells a story, and that story is a fucking tragedy that he’s already heard too many times.
He hates being in this filthy place, but what he hates more is that Harrier Du Bois lives here. Or does whatever passes for “living” for him at the moment.
…
“Hey Kim, I’m ready!”
The one sort of okay shirt you found is still incredibly wrinkled from being wadded up in the corner of the room, but if you button up your jacket, nobody can see that. Maybe the wrinkles will fall out as you wear it.
“How do I look?” you ask.
Kim looks you up and down and shrugs.
EMPATHY: He can’t find anything to compliment about your outfit, but realizes your fashion choices were made under duress.
“The eight-eyed teratorn tie, huh? It looks good on you,” he says finally, carefully choosing his phrasing.
EMPATHY: He doesn’t want to kick you while you’re down, but he also can’t bear to encourage this sort of stylistic choice you’re making. It would be a blow to his pride.
DRAMA: He’s not lying, though.
“Thanks,” you say, grinning at him. “Glad you’re on board the cryptid train now.”
“I am not,” he says. “The eight-eyed teratorn is simply the most entertaining and well-constructed myth I’ve encountered.”
“So you like it better than the Insulindian phasmid?”
“What? No, the phasmid is a real animal, the teratorn is fiction,” he says, waving his hand.
“You said the same thing about the phasmid a few weeks ago,” you tease.
He considers for a moment. “You’re right, detective. Hopefully the next confirmed cryptid will be the giant bird monster with mind control powers. Yes, that’s definitely the one we should hope to find.”
“I know you’re being sarcastic right now, Kim,” you say matter-of-factly, “but I’m into it.”
The only change in his expression comes from the almost imperceptible creases that form at the outside edges of his eyes. Then he nods curtly. “All right, enough cryptids. We don’t want to be late. Let’s go, detective.”
…
Your second day back at work isn’t much better than the first. The only improvement is that you don’t have to directly confront the consequences of your actions. Jean barely says a word to you, either. You spend the bulk of the morning working on various research projects, making phone calls, and processing paperwork.
HALF LIGHT: Busywork. Meaningless bullshit someone else should be doing. Someone below you. A lieutenant double-yefreitor shouldn’t be tasked with this crap.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Lose the ego. You’re a public servant. You do whatever currently needs to be done.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: It’s miserable being stuck behind a desk, though. It’s painful. You should be out there running and jumping and shuffling.
INLAND EMPIRE: But going out there means you might fuck up again. Irreversibly. You can’t fuck up in here. At least not as badly.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Am I the only one who remembers the gunshot wound? You would not be doing any running, jumping, or shuffling regardless.
ENDURANCE: It would be so much further along in the healing process if only you’d taken better care of it.
HALF LIGHT: Why start giving a shit now?
You sigh and drop the pen on your desk. Your hand is cramping.
…
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi is done for the day. It’s 5:00pm and he’s spent the majority of his shift filling out the last bits of paperwork for his transfer to the 41st so he can begin fieldwork ASAP. It’s monotonous, but he doesn’t find it boring. In fact, the repeating patterns of names and dates and boxes to check are relaxing. The soothing back and forth quiets his overworked, anxious mind and provides the space for a peaceful stillness to wash over him temporarily...
Unfortunately, that hard-won peace breaks immediately upon leaving his office. The hall outside echoes with the sounds of laughing and shouting coming from behind a nearby door left slightly ajar.
Officers Chester McLaine and Mack Torson are leaning against their desks and laughing uproariously. Lieutenant Harrier Du Bois is trying his best to ignore them and currently failing.
“Shut the fuck up already,” Harry grumbles.
“Aw, lemme guess, Captain Sober has a headache? Can’t imagine why,” says Chester.
“C’mon, Chester, at least he didn’t lose his fucking gun again,” snorts Mack. “Wait, you didn’t, did you? Holy shit, if you did--”
Suddenly, Harry scoots his chair backward, stands up, and slams his gun and badge onto the desk. Then, glowering at both men, he sits down again and returns to his paperwork.
“Whoa, man, chill!” says Chester. “We’re just fuckin’ around.”
“Yeah, just guys bein’ dudes,” Mack affirms, nodding.
“Go fuck around with someone else,” Harry growls, not looking up from the desk. “Fuck each other, I don’t care.”
Chester raises an eyebrow. Mack snickers.
“Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bench this morning,” Chester quips.
“What?” Harry looks up.
Mack grins. “I can’t believe blacking out in a public park didn’t help your uh,” he gestures, searching for the right word, “whole mental state, y’know?”
“Torson! McLaine!” Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare barks from across the room. “It’s five, your shift is over. Clock out and bully your coworkers on your own fucking time.”
The two men roll their eyes but do as commanded. Jean curses under his breath and turns away.
…
HALF LIGHT: Those stupid motherfuckers.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Kick their asses.
HALF LIGHT: They deserve it.
VOLITION: You’re in no condition to be kicking anyone’s ass, and you certainly shouldn’t be getting into physical confrontations with coworkers. Ignore them.
DRAMA: Surely there’s a more entertaining way to handle this anyway. Revenge is a dish best served cold, isn’t it?
VOLITION: Calm down. They’re talking shit, just like you’ve done to them. How many times now have you insinuated that Mack’s mother has performed sexual favors for money?
You’re in too much pain from too many sources--the hangover, whatever the hell you did while drunk, sleeping only several hours in a cramped bathtub. You just want to go home.
INLAND EMPIRE: What home? You don’t have a home. You have a tiny, poorly lit apartment and an old sagging mattress on a broken frame.
YOU: Fucking semantics. Whatever. I just want to not be here for a while.
You shove the unfinished paperwork into your desk drawer and grab your coat. You pull the office door shut behind you and suddenly you realize you’re not alone in the hall.
“Kim?”
For just a fraction of a second, you see an actual honest expression cross his face before he reins it in and stomps it down where it belongs.
EMPATHY: He’s startled. Embarrassed. Silently cursing himself for his recent decisions, including the one he’s making right now.
And then it’s gone, and he gives you a little nod in greeting.
INLAND EMPIRE: Maybe you were just imagining it.
“Good evening, detective,” he says.
HALF LIGHT: What is he doing here? What does he want from you? God, is he here to laugh at you too?
SUGGESTION: Relax, it’s just Kim. It’s Kim! You love that guy!
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Sure do!
YOU: What?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: What?
You shake your head a little in an attempt to clear it.
“Are you all right?” Kim asks.
“Never better,” you mumble. "Anyway, I was about to head home so..."
Kim observes you silently for a long moment before replying. “Yes. Me too.” He gives you a small, tight-lipped smile. “I won't keep you, then."
PERCEPTION: His smile is polite and distant. It doesn't reach his eyes, which are dull and tired and ringed with dark circles.
EMPATHY: Every muscle in his face has been conditioned to form a perfect mask. His guard is up, as it usually is, and all you can see of him is what he wants you to see.
He turns and walks away, and suddenly all you can think about is how strong his arm was around your waist last night and how fragile he looked asleep on the couch in the early morning and how lovely his real, earnest smile was when you were making stupid jokes at breakfast.
INLAND EMPIRE: How badly you want to do it all again tomorrow, and how your heart sinks knowing it won't happen ever again.
SUGGESTION: Don't let him leave yet!
"Kim, wait," you blurt out. It's quiet, but he stops and looks back at you, eyebrows slightly raised.
“W-what do you say we get together again tonight?” you stammer.
Kim makes a fun new kind of strangled choking sound you’ve never heard a human being make before.
RHETORIC: Don’t fucking say it like that. You do realize what it sounds like you’re implying, right?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Shut up, nerd. Don’t blow this for us.
“Uh, I mean… what I'm trying to say is,” you ramble, "thanks for taking care of my stupid drunk ass last night. A-and it was nice hanging out this morning."
"Detective..."
"And maybe it would be even nicer to do all that without, y'know, me blacking out and puking in your tub first?"
PERCEPTION: Kim's face is still somehow emotionless and unflinching under your assault of stupid, stupid words. If it weren't for the fact that his ears are growing redder by the second, you'd think he had no reaction at all.
“I’ll make breakfast again,” you offer, grinning. “Don’t worry, I can cook more than just pancakes. I can make waffles too!”
He just keeps staring at you.
HALF LIGHT: This was a mistake. Why did you think he’d want any of this? He doesn’t want your damn waffles. He doesn’t want you. All you’ve done is force him into the awkward position of having to reject you.
SUGGESTION: No, no, we can turn this around. Just keep saying things. If you say enough things, one of them is bound to help.
“There are other things I can do too, you know," you say.
SUGGESTION: Oops.
Kim suffers a small coughing fit. "You don't say."
"Like... uh... I could clean your apartment," you say, trying to think of something. "Organize your... bookshelf? Do your laundry?" Your voice grows smaller as it dawns on you how pathetic you sound, desperately begging for another little hit of human contact.
"That won't be necessary," he says quickly, stifling a chuckle. “Although, I can’t say no to waffles. Not if they’re half as good as your pancakes.”
DRAMA: He’s being honest, sire. He likes your pancakes.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He likes your cooking too.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Only a few meters away, three officers of the law are crowded around a closed--but most certainly not soundproofed--office door...
“Ugh, this is boring," says Chester McLaine.
"What's going on? What's he saying to him?" questions Mack Torson, furthest from the door.
Judit Minot crosses her arms and huffs a small sigh. "Please, I just want to go home. Could you move so I can open the door?"
Chester ignores her, his ear pressed against the wood.
"C'mon, what's he saying?" Mack repeats, nudging Chester aside so he can position himself better. Chester shoves him back.
"Nothing interesting, just--" Chester begins, then abruptly cuts himself off with a bark of laughter. He slaps a hand over his mouth to try to contain it. "Ho-o-oly fuck, is Mullen seriously trying to get in Kitsuragi's pants?"
"He's what?" Mack yelps. "Poor bastard lost his own dick in Martinaise, now he needs the new guy's."
"If you'll recall, Officer Du Bois reported that he was in fact in possession of his genitals at all times," Jules Pidieu says quietly from a desk near the back of the room.
Judit bites her lip and glances around nervously. She doesn't like anything about this situation in the slightest. The juvenile eavesdropping, the homophobic jokes that Mack and Chester begin to volley back and forth... It reinforces the nagging feeling of isolation that's been creeping up on her again recently. The cramped office in the old silk mill feels more like a high school locker room than the headquarters of law and justice in Jamrock. She can't help but wonder: Is this really what the RCM is supposed to be?
"Oh-ho-ho!" crows Chester. "They're goin' home together again!"
"Never woulda guessed...th-that Mullen was a...a..." Mack is overcome with a fit of giggles and abandons his sentence.
The evening entertainment now finished, the office begins to empty. First Judit, then Jules, then Chester and Mack.
Finally, Jean Vicquemare silently clears the broken remains of four or five pencils from his desk before he grabs his coat, turns off the light, and locks the door behind him as he leaves.
…
“I roll to seduce the ogre!”
“Harry, you can’t just seduce everything,” Kim sighs.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Bullshit. That’s quitter talk.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Why the fuck did you make a barbarian character if you weren’t going to be smashing any skulls?
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Too preoccupied with smashing other things.
“I throw aside my mighty battleaxe and hold my arms open wide for a hug,” you assert, looking Kim right in the eye.
Kim holds your gaze for a few seconds before giving up. “Alright, then. Roll.”
The dice clatter across the table. “Fifteen! Is that enough?”
Kim closes his eyes and sighs again.
“Unfortunately, yes,” he concedes. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Aw yeah, here we go.
“I say to the ogre, ‘oh jeez, dude, your hand looks so heavy! Do you need me to hold it for you?’” you say.
“The ogre rolls his eyes--”
“No he doesn’t, Kim, I rolled a fifteen!”
“--which is what ogres do when they’re highly aroused,” Kim finishes, his voice deadpan.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Score! At least you can roleplay getting laid tonight.
“He blushes and holds out his hand for you to take,” Kim continues, a little livelier now. “Roll a strength check for me, please.”
You roll the dice again. Snake eyes.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You poured all your points into strength and now they’re all fucking useless due to your shitty luck. Great.
“You take the ogre’s large hand and immediately drop it. Your arm muscles are far too weak to withstand its weight,” Kim narrates, grinning. “Your biceps have been cartoonishly stretched out like taffy. The ogre does not find this attractive.”
“What?! Come on! I’ve got like 15 strength points,” you protest.
“Sure, but you failed the roll,” Kim counters gleefully.
“You’re ruining my immersion here. Arms don’t do that.”
“Barbarians also generally don’t try to flirt with monsters they’re supposed to fight.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: He’s given in and decided to match you stupid for stupid. You brought this on yourself. The lieutenant was going to take this more or less seriously, but you didn’t let him.
EMPATHY: Look at him. He’s clearly having fun bullshitting you right back. Go with the flow.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Unrepentant spoilsport.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: But God he’s cute when he’s feeling smug, isn’t he?
“The ogre takes the treasure he had been guarding and leaves. You are now standing alone in the dungeon with your useless, flaccid arms hanging at your sides.”
“Alright, fine. Kim, how do I fix my arms?” you demand.
He pauses to think. He seems to be internally struggling with the creative decision to be made here.
RHETORIC: You’ve already fucked up the story pretty bad, what’s he so indecisive about?
“You’ve heard the residents of a local village whisper rumors of a skilled artificer-mage who lives in the forest,” Kim says after a moment. “Perhaps he can help you.”
“Great, I track him down and ask him for help.”
“The artificer-mage is hard to find, but you manage. You approach him as he sits in his study, reading a book about mechanics. He’s wearing a dark orange cloak covered in strange magical runes to fend off the chilly wind that blows through the ruined tower. He adjusts his glasses and looks up at you.”
RHETORIC: Hm. Sounds familiar.
“I ask him if he knows how to make my arms normal again.”
“He smirks and says, ‘perhaps.’ He shuts his book and walks over to inspect the damage.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh, now it’s getting interesting.
DRAMA: Surely he must know what you’re going to do next.
RHETORIC: Wait a second. Consider the--
“I seduce the artificer-mage,” you announce confidently.
Kim stares at you over his glasses for a few long seconds. “Roll.”
You pick up the dice in your suddenly shaky hands. Then they’re tumbling and skidding across the table and you’re watching anxiously as they finally land on…
“Nat twenty!” you whoop.
Kim’s face is frozen, expressionless. He looks up at the clock. “Well, this seems like a good stopping point for today. It’s getting late. Let’s continue this some other time, detective.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Coward.
EMPATHY: You’re probably not going to be continuing it some other time.
INLAND EMPIRE: It’s probably for the best.
You help Kim clean up the mess of paper and dice and put the box back on its designated shelf next to Wirral, Suzerainty, and a handful of others. Kim has a small but very nicely curated collection of tabletop RPGs and other board games.
PERCEPTION: There’s something else on the shelf that seems out of place, though.
You pick it up and examine it. It’s a videotape of a really cheesy-looking romance movie featuring a bland, floppy-haired young man and a doe-eyed young woman in a flowery dress. They stand there on the cover gazing at each other pathetically in the rain. At their feet is a haphazardly placed sticker that says PROPERTY of VIDEO REVACHOL. Why would Kim rent this? Granted, you haven’t seen a lot of movies in the past six or seven years, but you do know boring when you see it.
INLAND EMPIRE: Property of Video Revachol. You focus your attention on the boring heterosexuals on the cover in an attempt to distract yourself from the spiraling emotions that sticker stirs up.
“Kim, you’ve got bad taste in movies,” you say with a grin.
He stares at the cassette in your hand, wide-eyed. “That’s not--I mean--Officer Minot said it was--”
EMPATHY: Oh, he’s really panicking. You’ve never seen him this embarrassed. It’s… kind of uncomfortable, actually. Just be nice and let it go.
“Officer Minot? You mean Judit?” you ask. “She’s recommending movies to you now?”
“Uh, well, I mean,” he stammers awkwardly. “It just happened to come up in conversation.”
“So you guys are friends now, huh?” you say. Your voice sounds strange. Cracked and strangled.
INLAND EMPIRE: He’s making friends already. Friends who aren’t you. Friends who will tell him all the terrible things you’ve forgotten you’ve done. Friends who are nicer and more normal and better adjusted.
HALF LIGHT: He won’t need you for much longer.
VOLITION: You’re being unreasonable and you know it.
“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” he answers lightly. “I’d hesitate to call a person I’ve known for all of two days a friend per se, but I enjoy her company.”
“Cool. That’s cool,” you say, clearing your throat. “Glad you’re settling in well.”
“Mm. Is…everything alright, Harry?”
“Absolutely!” you say a little too enthusiastically. “Hey, so have you watched this schlock yet?”
“No, I picked it up after work last night and I haven’t had a chance to,” he answers.
“Maybe we could watch it now?” you suggest.
“You just said it sounds terrible.”
“Well, maybe I like things that are terrible. Maybe I like suffering and having a bad time.”
Kim nods. “Right. Well… fuck it, why not?” he says with a yawn. It looks like the sleep deprivation is catching up with him.
“You’re not too tired?” you ask.
“I’m fine,” he says curtly.
It’s not even 7:30pm yet. It doesn’t matter how tired he may or may not be, the bottom line is that he’s not about to admit defeat and go to bed early.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Plus, you’ve given him the opportunity to show off the old, battered television set he’s been fixing up.
It’s nearly 8 o’clock before Kim puts the tape in. He spends a good twenty minutes talking about the technical details of the television and how he got it working again.
“People throw out perfectly good machines all the time,” Kim says, shaking his head. “It’s wasteful.”
INTERFACING: Most people wouldn’t know where to begin repairing them. You certainly don’t.
“Not everyone’s as good with this stuff as you are, though,” you say.
“Ah, well,” he says, unable to keep a goofy little grin off his face, “it just takes a little research. It’s not that impressive.”
You’re feeling pretty impressed, though.
The movie is about as bad as you expected it to be, but also boring enough that you keep nodding off during it. You never quite fall asleep, though, because it seems like every time you start to hit that point, something fascinatingly stupid happens and grabs your attention just enough.
EMPATHY: Kim seems to be in a similar haze.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Though you are hunched over at opposite ends of the couch, you feel close to him at this moment. You are partners, brothers in arms in a struggle bigger than either of you. He will be with you until--
PERCEPTION: A soft snore comes from the other end of the couch.
EMPATHY: It’s understandable. He barely slept last night.
INLAND EMPIRE: Because of you.
Kim naps off and on throughout the rest of the movie, which drones on and on for the next hour and a half. The male lead leaves, then he comes back. Something about a war. Your eyes glaze over, until the climax where the couple finally admits their love and they share a passionate kiss.
“Oh come on,” you say, pointing at the screen. “That kiss fucking sucks!”
Kim wakes from his light sleep at the sound of your outrage. He blinks a few times, then analyzes the two figures on the screen awkwardly making out. “You're right, the actors don’t have much chemistry.”
“These idiots have been pining for each other the whole movie and then it’s just…” You trail off and begin moving your mouth like a dying fish, freshly caught, lips limp and wet. It’s super unattractive, and also an exact replica of what the man on screen is doing.
“Wow!” Kim bolts upright and stares at you in mock amazement. “Have you ever considered a career in acting?”
You snort. “Maybe I should. I could definitely kiss that chick way better.”
“Sure, detective,” Kim says placatingly.
HALF LIGHT: He doesn’t believe you!
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: There’s only one way to make him understand.
“Oh, is that sarcasm I hear?” you ask.
Kim arches an eyebrow as he looks at you appraisingly. “Forgive me, but… I’m guessing you’re a little…out of practice.”
HALF LIGHT: A challenge!
LOGIC: He’s not wrong, though.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Sure it’s been a while, but it’s like riding a bike, isn’t it? You don’t just forget how to do it. Now kiss the shit out of this bike.
“I’ve still got it, I assure you,” you say.
“Mhm.”
“Just trust me on this one,” you say, grinning. “Or…are you asking for a demonstration?”
EMPATHY: Now you’ve done it. You didn’t just push his boundaries a little here. You picked him up bodily and hurled him off Boundary Cliff and now he’s lying half-dead at the bottom.
AUTHORITY: He’s frozen. So mortified, so unable to process the situation that he forgets to even attempt to deploy the eyebrow tactic to make you behave.
EMPATHY: Maybe he doesn’t necessarily want you to behave.
PERCEPTION: His face is stony, a perfect mask, but his ears are bright red.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Fucking adorable.
He clears his throat. “Well convince me then, detective.”
DRAMA: He’s absolutely serious about it too. He’s calling your bluff, sire.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh is that what we’re saying this is? A bluff?
You scoot down the couch to get into smooching range. You clumsily place a hand on his cheek and tilt his face toward you. He says nothing, but does not resist the gentle movement. You can hear the breath catch in his chest at your touch.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: When you press your lips to his, it’s almost overwhelming. You didn’t expect this--you were supposed to be the one to sweep him off his feet, to make him nervous, to make him want. How did you end up getting swept away as well? His lips are so soft. Why are his lips so fucking soft? This is ridiculous.
You pull back, self-conscious suddenly, and return to your previous spot on the couch--a respectful, platonic distance from Kim’s side. He takes out a handkerchief, then takes off his glasses and idly rubs at the already perfectly clean lenses.
He spends a very long time cleaning his glasses, but when he finally slips them back on, his posture changes. Like he’s equipping armor.
“What, no tongue?” he says with a smirk.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh God. Is that what he wanted? You fucked up. You idiot. Now you’re going to get a bad grade in kissing.
COMPOSURE: So it wasn’t mind-blowingly good, so what? It’s fine. It was a perfectly acceptable kiss regardless.
“I, uh,” you stammer. “I got nervous. Sorry.”
Kim observes your embarrassment with obvious amusement.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: He’s back in control of the situation now. This is how it should be.
“Yes, well,” he says, abruptly looking away. “There’s always next time.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Score!
SAVOIR FAIRE: Just say something cool and funny now to seal the deal! Something impressive and interesting and sexy. Something perfect!
VOLITION: Don’t say anything. Your grip on emotional stability is so tenuous already. You need to just get out of this situation before you break entirely.
INLAND EMPIRE: Don’t let him see you break. Not again. Not because of this.
“Well, I’m going to have a cigarette,” Kim says abruptly. He does not invite you to join him.
You nod, afraid to open your mouth. He leaves without another word, and you take refuge under the blankets on the couch.
INLAND EMPIRE: You fucked up. You fucked everything up. You’re going to lose him now. You demanded too much and now you’ll be left with nothing at all.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: No, there was something there. A pulse of something electric and primal and beautiful. You felt it. He had to have felt it too.
INLAND EMPIRE: It doesn’t feel beautiful anymore, congealed into a sickening mass in the pit of your stomach.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: A mere few meters away, just outside the sliding glass door, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi stands in the cool night air smoking a cigarette and trying to slow his racing thoughts enough to analyze them. He flips open his notebook and scribbles down scraps of disconnected thoughts...
Soft and warm. Weird. Nice. Wildly inappropriate. Bad decision. Gay or just curious? Coworker. Why, why, why? Severe issues. Don’t get involved. He pauses, then crosses the last part out and replaces it with: Already too involved.
“God, what the hell was I thinking?” Kim mutters to himself. He exhales a mouthful of smoke.
He knows what he was thinking, though. He was thinking about how long it’d been since anyone had kissed him, how good it would feel to have a man’s hands and lips against him, how it would dull the ache inside him at least for a little while. But it didn’t. It made it so much worse.
...
The room is dark except for the flickering television. The shitty movie is still playing as you feign sleep and try not to think about how much easier things would be if you just ran out into the night to get absolutely wasted. How much easier it would be if you’d never met him, never felt the need to try to become better for him.
INLAND EMPIRE: How could you ever be so self-important as to think that you deserve anything better?
PERCEPTION: The sliding glass door squeaks open and shut again.
Kim’s back. And now he’s standing nearby, judging by the scent of smoke filling your nose and the quiet shifting of nylon close to your head. You keep your eyes squeezed shut under the blankets.
PERCEPTION: You can hear the muffled swell of music as the credits roll. Beneath it, you just barely make out a whispered “good night, detective.”
The television clicks off. The door to Kim’s bedroom closes. You’re alone with your thoughts again.