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Kim remembers the first time it has happened clearly. Even though it occurs on a day clouded with fog and doubt.
“See you in the morning, detective,” he says more out of habit than anything else.
As Kim turns around, he feels a ghost of a touch on his elbow.
He tilts his head, curiously, watching as Harry steps away from the porch of the fishing shack. “I'll take you to the Whirling-in-Rags,” he says, closing the door behind him.
Now Harry is in Kim's space again. It makes him both uneasy and comfortable, that paradoxical in between of the opposites.
“Why?” Kim asks, but quietly falls behind Harry's quicker pace.
“It’s a strange town.” Harry shrugs. “Barely a week here, and we've found two dead bodies.”
“I highly doubt that the other one is also a homicide.”
“Well, it could be.” Harry visibly hesitates, looking behind his shoulder at Kim. “People are already hostile as it is. Better be safe.”
Kim takes a note of Harry slowing his pace, to match him. His face is scrunched in a frown, though it is hard to fully decipher what it means in the barely lit space between them.
“What about you?” Kim asks, clasping his hands behind his back.
“I can take care of myself.”
Kim frowns. “Are you implying that I can't?”
It's nothing new. Kim is used to being underestimated – it’s something that follows him everywhere he goes, regardless of his remarkable achievements. Weak, frail, distant. Even though it's not said aloud, he knows exactly what most of his colleagues are thinking.
Something about Harry falling into the same category upsets Kim. It shouldn’t.
“No, shit–” Harry stops abruptly, slapping his face. It’s hard enough for the sound to echo around them. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Okay?” Kim feigns nonchalance. It’s a failure.
“No, lieutenant, I am dead serious.” Harry stands in front of him, looking into his face. Determined. Eager. “You’re the most competent person I have ever met in my life.”
Kim huffs a laugh. “Need I remind you about your memory problem?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Harry shakes his head. “I might not remember shit, but something tells me that you're still the most competent person I have ever met.”
Kim tries hard for the words to not affect him. Physically puffs out his chest, as if it will help.
It doesn't. Kim feels his whole chest contracting, breath stuttering somewhere in his throat.
The thoughts start crawling into his head. Stupid thoughts. Indulgent thoughts.
Maybe Harry's reasoning is far from professional. Maybe, he just cares–
Kim shuts it down, snapping his gaze toward the ground.
“Let’s hurry, then,” Kim says, now being the one ahead. “A sleep-deprived partner on duty is not a competent partner, after all.”
At that time, the world around them was disjoint enough not to dwell on the nature of Harry's concern.
*
The ritual slowly transfers itself into the unannounced grayness of Jamrock.
It's different from the grayness of Martinaise – it comes not from the thickness of fog and the heaviness of clouds, but more from the solid concrete and the buildings that make you feel small.
It sets something weird in Kim's chest. Both disgust and homesickness, a collapsing star.
Its own supernova.
“Adjusting well, lieutenant?”
Kim snaps up his head. His hand is still gripping the cold metal of a spoon, stirring his coffee.
“It's only the first day, detective.” Kim clears his throat, taking out the spoon and promptly rinsing it under the cold water. “Hard to tell.”
Harry hums, loud enough for Kim to hear it over the sound of running water.
Kim keeps his eyes steady on the cutlery in his hand. It’s smooth and shiny, but darkened into a dull shade of gold from the build up of caffeine. Kim wonders if people in the precinct ever wash it. If at some point, people just looked at it and gave up.
He closes the tap. Silence sets, and Kim hears someone laughing at the end of the corridor.
“Judit says I make you uncomfortable.”
Kim looks up, the spoon finally abandoned and tucked into an appropriate drawer near the sink. “I am afraid I don’t understand,” he expresses, sincerely.
He is not good at it. Not good with people. Maybe that is why he and Harry work so well together.
An unpredictable balance.
Harry tilts his head, leaning further into the counter. “She thinks there is tension.”
Kim blinks.
“Because of Jean.”
Ah.
Kim nods, raising his coffee to his lips.
The question of the partnership came in not unexpectedly, but as a consequence. Harry was, literally, at a new beginning, at a new page that he was eager to turn. Without his old partner, but with Kim.
The thought that has been pounding over and over in Kim's head. More effective than a built-in alarm in his clock, keeping him awake.
“He doesn’t hold a grudge over you, lieutenant,” Harry says. His voice is quiet, not at its usual frequency. “I know it might have seemed that way – with how it went down in Martinaise.”
Kim doesn't remember that much of how the last evening in Martinaise went down. Most of it narrows down to looking over his shoulder at Harry, his expression both sorrowful and content. Kim was still not sure that he would ever meet that man again.
“All good, officer,” Kim reassures him. “Emotions were running high, it's understandable.”
Harry looks him over, eyes narrowed. “Maybe you are a saint, Kim.”
Harry's eyes are big and wide as he says that, his prominent dimple making an appearance as he smiles at Kim.
Some people might call it charming. Handsome.
“Anyway,” Harry announces, swaying on his feet. “Let’s get home?”
Kim freezes. Arches a questioning eyebrow – the best self-defense that he has.
“I meant, your home, of course.” Harry blabbers in an obvious attempt to brush it off.
“I am quite sure I can get there on my own, detective,” Kim says, softly.
(He knows already how this evening will end up.)
“Come on, it's a tradition!” Harry groans, throwing his hands in the air. “Now that we are partners, we need those more than ever!”
Sometimes it scares him, how Harry knows exactly which part of Kim’s brain to appeal to. He knows that with good, rational reasoning, Kim gives in. It gives him an easy out.
An excuse to indulge without acknowledging the existence of it.
“Detective.” He sighs, pushing himself off the counter. “It’s quite odd to take you in my car to my house only for you to walk back to your apartment. Are you sure you don’t just want a ride home?”
Harry blushes. It’s quite easy to achieve. “The weather is nice enough to walk.” He shugs. “We could just walk.”
Kim lets himself smile. “Very well,” he says.
Harry, honest to god, beams.
The end of spring in Revachol is a weird phenomenon. The world is buoyant, but at the same time, a bit unbearable. The heat only lets up in the evening, but once it does, the city around them seems to breathe again.
One deep breath.
Kim breathes in. The air smells like apples and smoke.
Harry’s gaze is distracted, his head turned somewhere to the sea. He looks at the sea a lot lately. As most people who stare longingly at bodies of water, his gaze is wistful.
“You kept doing it, too, in Martinaise,” Kim says. He doesn’t mean to.
When Kim was sixteen, he could barely afford to spend money on cigarettes. Not long after that, he switched to rolling them himself – bought the tobacco and the rolling paper. He didn’t always remember to buy filters, though.
The cigarettes were absolutely disgusting – too bitter, exhaustingly heavy on his tongue. From now and then, he does miss that taste. How raw and authentic it was, compared to everything else.
That’s how he feels when he is with Harry. The filter is gone, and Kim forgot to buy it, again.
“Did what?” Harry asks, turning to him.
“Insisted on bringing me back to the Whirling.”
“They really didn’t like cops over there, you know.”
Kim huffs. “Yes, detective, I was aware.”
Harry stills for a second, watching Kim closely. He has this particular look on his face – eyes squinted, mouth in a tight line, barely blinking. Kim deciphers it as his thinking face. The one where the city talks to him, or at least pretends to.
“I am not sure I know–knew how to make nice things for people,” he says. “Can probably ask Jean about it, but it feels like it. I guess I just wanted to do something nice for someone who was there for me.” Harry’s eyes dart to the ground. “For you.”
Kim exhales. His fingers twitch in a sudden need for a cigarette. “I suppose it can be a tradition, then.” He tries to keep his voice stable, but it audibly shakes, picking up with the wind.
The sun sinks over the horizon and into the sea. The light beams through Harry’s eyes as they swell up with moisture.
Kim knows what they say about sensitive people: that they are weak. They wear their heart on their sleeve, not to show it off, but to share it with the world.
Kim doesn’t think Harry is weak. He thinks that crying and being able to let it out is an act of bravery, especially in front of someone whom he cares about.
Kim’s palm rises into the air, hovering over Harry’s shoulder. He stalls for a second, but then softly puts it there, patting gently. “Let’s go. I don’t want your walk home to be longer than it already is.”
Harry looks at his gloved hand and then back at Kim. Nods, wiping under his eyes. “Sorry, Kim. The view was too pretty.”
Kim knows that it wasn’t a lie. After all, the city always shows him what he needs to see.
*
“That man keeps following me!”
Kim watches, carefully, as Judit leaps onto the table, taking over her shoes. It’s way past nine in the evening, and the precinct is hollowed out. Barely lit, as if someone tucked it into the bed to sleep.
“Do you need help with that?” Kim asks, turning his attention back to the stack of papers on the table. “We can get you a warrant.”
Judit laughs. “No, lieutenant. Not like that.” He hears a tint of hesitation in her voice, contemplating. “I met someone, a few weeks ago.”
Kim hums in acknowledgement.
He used to insist that personal and professional don’t mix. He said that, in fact, explicitly to Harry’s face, back in Marinaise. He still believes it, but he also knows that he talks differently in precinct 41. He talks with Jean about laundry detergents, and with Judit about men, and with Harry about holes in the universe and alien creatures, and the meaning of life. It’s the kind of different that curls itself in the pocket dimension, somewhere deep in his heart, chest, gut. Once it’s ripped away, he knows it will leave a big, sinking hole.
“He is a good man,” Judit continues. “Charismatic. Charming. You know the type,” she looks at Kim meaningfully.
And he does know. He knows a dimple on a chin, a glint of sadness in gray eyes, a tentative smile on a tired face.
“But he is very insistent,” she says. “Sends me flowers and presents. Waits for me after work.”
Kim stirs in his place. “Is that meaningful? For someone to wait for you after work?” He asks.
Judit frowns. “It’s sweet.” She shrugs. “They used to call it courting, I think.”
The pen falls out of Kim’s hands, the sound echoing loudly in the room. “What if it’s not?” He mumbles, ducking under the table to get the pen back.
“Sorry?”
Kim looks up, and Judit blinks at him. “Nothing,” Kim shakes his head. “Do you know where the detective ran off?”
“He and Jean got a lead from the old cold case of theirs,” she replies. “I am surprised it’s been that long without reports of them killing each other.”
Kim chuckles, but instantly collects himself. Things have been– well, better. Not soaked in with as much animosity between the two.
“You’re good for him, lieutenant,” Judit says.
Somewhere, two kilometers away from the precinct, a bright red hat is hanging on the chair. Harry forgot it, a month into winter. Left it like this, on Kim’s table. Kim was meaning to return it. Every day, he looks at that damned hat, almost picking it up, but then putting it back where it was.
It’s comforting to have a piece of someone in his empty apartment.
“I am sorry, I overstepped.” The look on Judit’s face is filled with concern. She thinks she was out of line.
Kim should shut it down. “Why would you say that?” He asks instead.
Her eyes widen. Then she appraises a look on his face, and relaxes. “Well, you work well together. Jean and Harry do, too, but it’s in a dangerous way. Like oil and fire, bursts and explosions. You and he are more like–” she stops, looking at the ceiling, “– moon and the sea.”
Kim blinks, startled.
“The moon keeps the tides in order, keeps them steady. They keep each other safe. It’s a good way to be together.”
Somewhere, on the other side of the city, a detective looks at the moon. He looks at its reflection in the sea, and looks at the calming rhythm of waves as they hit the shore.
“I should go back to the paperwork,” Kim says, hoarse. Judit leaves him be.
The hour is close to eleven as the figure shuffles through the entrance of the precinct balcony.
Harry leans in over the railing. “Crazy day,” he says.
Kim takes a drag, staring at the moon. It’s a waning gibbous today. “Want to talk about it, detective?”
Harry laughs, dryly. “No,” he says. “Really, no.”
The corner of Kim’s mouth twitches. “You ready to go?” He asks.
Harry never forgets. Every shift, like a clock, he waits for him, and Kim waits for Harry in turn. They walk hand in hand to Kim’s apartment, and sometimes they drive. Kim makes a comment about how unwise it is for him to drive himself home and leaving Harry to walk back to his own apartment on foot.
In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter.
Winters in Jamrock are freezing and moist. They are full of regret and despair, full of hunger. The frost is unforgiving, leaving red marks all over Kim’s skin. The edges of his fingers are so cold that they threaten to fall off.
Kim nudges himself deeper into the collar of his jacket. Harry’s coat, on the other hand, is open, giving a view of his white shirt and electric green tie. He runs hot.
“If you’re keeping my hat at your home, the least you can do is wear it,” Harry says.
Kim closes his eyes. Of course, Harry knows. He wonders if the city whispers it into his ear.
“I don’t look good in hats.”
“That is not true.”
Kim gives him a look.
“Okay, you look a little ridiculous,” Harry admits. “But in an endearing way.”
For the first time, Kim is grateful for the cold and for masking his blushing ears.
Harry halts to a stop behind him. Kim turns, hands deep in his pocket. Harry steps closer, sliding the red scarf from his neck – the same patterned material as the red hat in Kim’s apartment. “Here,” he says, putting it over Kim’s neck and tying it in the front. “Now they are together.”
Like you and me, is left unsaid.
Harry’s eyes are a darker shade in this lighting. His pupils are blown, but not because of the alcohol or drugs. Kim watches as his gaze roams over his face, down to his lips, and back up to Kim’s sunken eyes. Harry’s cheeks are red, his hands still gripping at the front of the scarf, right above Kim’s chest.
Kim clears his throat, stepping away. He is too old to act like this, in the middle of the street, like a lovesick teenager.
He wonders if Harry can feel his heartbeat under the fingertips. Probably, yes.
“Good night,” Kim says, stepping away.
From the window, way up on the fourth floor, Kim sees Harry still smiling under the lamplight.
*
It’s the end of the shift when Kim gets hurt.
It’s not that bad. Ridiculous, even – someone trips him during the chase, and he hits his head hard, splashing onto the hot asphalt.
Harry holds his hand on the backseat as Jean drives Kim’s Kineema.
“Mild head injury,” Gottlieb says. “It might be a concussion, so I do suggest keeping him awake for a few hours.”
Kim watches, in amusement, as Harry flushes. He wonders what is whispering into his ear this time.
Summer air is bustling. The clouds gather as they walk, the streets fill up with laughing kids, and seagulls fly above their heads.
“I’ll be fine,” Kim insists as Harry helps him to the fourth floor. Kim feels guilty – Harry’s leg is still not fully recovered, and he is an additional weight on his body.
Harry grunts softly, but does not complain. As the door to Kim’s apartment opens, he stills before the porch, as if by force.
Kim raises an eyebrow at him. Harry was in his apartment on multiple occasions. Mostly, Harry invites him over to his, of course, but it’s still a chartered territory. Kim hopes that Harry gets the signals that he is always welcome here.
Harry shakes his head, stepping into the room. Places Kim on the couch, gently. Sets the kettle and makes them tea – the one with berries and hibiscus.
“What do you want to do?” Harry asks, sitting down.
The sleeves of his blue shirt are rolled up. He is experimenting with colours, recently, and Kim has to admit that it makes his gray eyes look even deeper. His forearms are thick, covered in a thin layer of hair, muscles contracting under the skin.
Kim ducks his head and blinks. “Don’t think it’s a board game kind of day,” he says. His head is still pounding with slight dizziness.
“We can listen to the radio,” Harry suggests. “Music might be too loud for you right now, though.”
Harry looks around, as if looking for new clues in the case. His gaze slides over the white mugs on the counters, a single painting on the wall, a small collection of board games that Harry brought over. Then it lands on the bookshelf.
His eyes light up. “I’ll read to you,” Harry says. Doesn’t even ask if Kim wants him to. There is no need.
Harry’s hand hovers over the weathered spines. He comes back with a book with a dark green cover, looking old but loved.
“The Romance is Me.” Kim grins. “It’s my favourite novella.”
“Sounds dramatic.” Harry scratches his chin and opens the book. The smell of dust and a hint of vanilla. It smells like tears and anger. “To the bloom of the apple tree,” he starts reading, lowering his voice. It rumbles deep in his chest and rolls over to Kim’s. “From the distant fog, the distant lakes of the mountain commune, the leaves are shuffling beneath the ground: it’s Maria. ”
Kim closes his eyes, settles into the couch, and pulls his leg up. No one has ever read to him aloud. He knows it’s what mothers do, to lull their children to sleep. Kim doesn’t know his mom, but wonders if she did that, too. Did she know that the sleep is not coming easily to him?
Kim drifts off to the sound of Harry’s voice, his head falling onto his shoulder.
“God,” Harry exhales.
Kim must have drifted off. “Khm?” He blinks through the dizziness.
“Did he just kill his mother?” Harry's voice is edged. Endearingly appalled.
“It’s a school curriculum, didn’t you read it?”
Harry winces. “I wasn't the most– studious, in school.” He flips the book over and then back to the front page. “That’s dark. Did they really make kids read that?”
Kim chuckles. His head is still resting on Harry's shoulder. The nape of his neck smells like sweat and apple tea. “I used to say it's my favourite book, so people take me seriously. Then read it again, at twenty-eight, and actually liked it.”
“The name is deceiving. I expected romance. A love story,” Harry flings his hands in the air.
“It’s a metaphor, detective,” Kim says. Nuzzles deeper into the crook of Harry's neck. “It’s a play on a romantic hero who is out of love with the system. It’s destined to end badly.”
Harry is a romantic hero, Kim thinks.
“I am a romantic hero,” Harry says, out loud.
Harry rejects the world even when the world welcomes him. Harry is in love with the city, and the city loves him back. He is broken, and fixed, and then broken again.
“Charismatic,” Kim says.
“Broken,” Harry echoes.
Somewhere, back in Martinaise, there is a vase in the Whirling-in-Rags. It was broken, then glued together over and over again. It used to be beautiful, but the cracks make it breathtaking. They make it impossible to look away from it.
“It’s late, you should stay over,” Kim offers, drifting back to sleep.
The last thing he sees is the fingertips over his cheeks.
*
Getting Kim home does not extend to strictly work.
The major crimes department is celebrating something today – Kim still is not sure if it’s an internal thing, or if something in particular happened.
The bar that they chose is under the ground, tucked away on the outskirts of the city. The one that is hidden enough from the public eye.
Kim doesn't drink, watching as Harry picks at the pickles served with the alcohol. He knows that Harry likes pickled tomatoes best, and doesn't like olives.
Kim sips on his drink, a cherry-flavored soda that has more coloring than cherries inside. It tastes like broken-down chemicals, overly sweet and palpable. Kim knows it paints his lips in a deep shade of red.
Harry tilts his head. “You don’t have to do it, Kim,” he says, glancing over Kim's glass.
“I don’t drink much, anyway,” Kim shrugs. Truth.
“But you drink, sometimes,” Harry counters, popping a pickle in his mouth.
His lips are salty, Kim thinks. He wonders if it mixes well with the cherry flavour.
Kim shakes his head – he has been zoning on Harry's lips for a while now.
As he snaps his gaze back, he sees that Harry is doing the same. It’s a whirlpool of thoughts in his head. Kim wonders if he only thinks about all the alcohol around or also about getting drunk on Kim's lips.
Kim's gut twists. He hasn't been under any influence today, but something in the air is making him dizzy.
The music quiets, and the air is pierced by Jean's laughter, smiling at something that Torson said. Harry looks at them wistfully, and Kim looks at Judit. She meets his eyes across the room, rolling them up in frustration.
Kim grins. They probably were running a somewhat bigoted joke again.
“I think I am done for today,” Kim announces. He does it not too loudly, in hopes of slipping away without really saying goodbye.
Judit waves back at him, and Jean gives him a curt nod, expression all serious and stern for a quick moment.
“I'll see you off,” Harry says, getting up.
He was sitting on a squeaky chair. It makes an atrocious sound every time it slides over linoleum that is most likely older than Kim.
It garners attention.
They behave like kids.
Someone makes a dick joke.
Kim mimics Judit and just rolls his eyes.
Jean kicks someone under the table.
The autumn air is pleasant and crisp. It’s in that weird limbo of chill and warmth, coaxing everyone into a tightly shaped cocoon.
The air smells like salt and apples. Kim wonders if Harry was born in Autumn. If he is Autumn.
“When were you born?” Harry asks.
Kim looks at him, confused. “Are you reading my mind?”
Harry cracks a half-smile. “In a manner of speaking.”
They walk over to the bay, towards the water. It's so dark that it blends into the night sky – a black hole.
“Winter,” Kim says. “Right in the middle.”
Tempered in frost and regret, his mother used to say. At least he thinks so.
“I was born in Spring,” Harry says.
“Fitting.” Equally as charming and dizzying.
Kim states ahead, at the moon. It’s a waxing crescent today. The sea is steady.
He darts his tongue out, swiping it over his lower lip, tasting the cherry. Kim is drunk on air.
When he looks up, Harry stares. Follows the movement of Kim's tongue with precision. His own one is picking out of the corner of his fuller lips.
“We should head back,” Kim says, abruptly.
Harry sets back into motion. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.”
The walk home is blissfully uneventful. Harry blabbers something about space and aeronautics, and the semantics of the poetry of the last century. Kim listens attentively.
“You could be a poet, Kim!” He exclaims in glee.
Kim huffs a laugh. Would he, now?
What would he even write about?
Apple blossom. Artificially flavoured soda, sticking to your tongue. The hope that soaks the waxing crescents.
Detectives with the heart worn on their sleeve.
*
It's early Spring when pieces fall into each other.
Harry has been sober for quite a while. Almost two years.
“Congratulations, Kitsuragi,” Jean throws over his shoulder. It sounds brisk but is sincere.
Kim looks confused, but doesn't say a single word.
They celebrate in the evening, before Harry takes him home. They get honeycakes and eat them by the bay. The vendor, a few streets away from there, sells fresh produce.
“I think I want to get into pickling,” Harry says. “My grandmother used to do that for us; we always had our shelves full.”
Kim doesn't know what his grandmother was making. He tried Seolite cuisine once – spicy, tangy, and fermented. He wondered if his grandmother was cooking it too.
“You should come in today,” Kim offers as they approach the building. He doesn’t know how something that looks that sad and gray can feel so comforting.
Then he looks into Harry's eyes, and it makes sense.
“Can I read to you, if I do?” Harry stops to face him, just at the entrance.
There are a few old ladies sitting on the decaying old bench nearby. The paint is dusty and crumbly, and their colorful headscarves shuffle as they lean to whisper something to each other.
For the first time, Kim doesn't care. “I pick a story this time,” he says.
The red scarf and the hat are still hanging over one of the chairs. Harry smiles as he sees them, but stays quiet.
“It feels like a milestone, but I don’t feel much,” Harry admits over the tea. “Mostly, I am scared.”
What if I fuck up again? hangs heavily in the air.
“It’s normal,” Kim shrugs. His tea is black today, no sugar. “And you should be proud.”
“I couldn't do it without you.”
He says it, just like that. Giving a piece of his soul away so easily.
Kim wants to do it, too. “I can be a good motivator, I've been told,” he shoots him a crooked smile.
It's not as sincere, but it’s the fucking best that Kim Kitsuragi has.
He picks a book for them to read. This time, it's a novel. Has three hundred and something pages. Means a long run, a new tradition.
Coming from Kim, it's a heart served on the platter.
“Tiger Trappers,” Harry reads. His eyes fill with excitement.
“It’s an adventure novel,” Kim explains. He stretches, and then puts his legs over the other side of the couch, head in Harry's lap. “Love, mystery, drama. I thought you would like it.”
Harry stares at the cover, speechless. “It’s perfect,” he whispers.
They read till Kim starts feeling neck pains and Harry's eyes are sore from the light.
Kim gets up. Today, out of all days, he feels reckless.
Maybe the city is whispering something to him.
With a quick motion, as graceful as he can manage, he climbs into Harry’s lap, knees bracketing his hips.
Harry blinks, mouth falling open.
Kim smiles sheepishly, snatching the book away and leaning over to carefully place it on the armrest. His eyes follow the hollow of Harry’s throat as he gulps.
“You should stay in today,” Kim says. Plasters his palm over Harry’s chest, dragging it to his sternum.
Harry looks dazed, pupils blown and dilated. His hand cups Kim's cheek, traces scars and dents scattered on his face. Gently.
As if he is handling porcelain.
“I won't break, Harry,” Kim whispers, breath dusting over his fingertips.
The hand drifts to his neck and pulls.
Harry reminds him of the sea. Kim can taste the salt on his lips, and faintly cherries. Was he drinking those cherry-flavored drinks on purpose, or is Kim imagining it's there, that Harry licks it off that autumn evening, when they leave?
Kim’s hands set on Harry's shoulders. He slides them over his sides, down to the hem of his shirt, slipping his fingers under it.
Harry laughs into his mouth, sucking in the air. “Your hands are cold,” he breathes out. His lips slide to the slope of his neck.
Kim’s hands roam, and roam, and roam. Charting the territory, exploring the soft path of hair and smooth skin, and tight muscles. He runs hot, but it doesn't burn. It fuels.
Somewhere, at the edge of the world, another star collapses. It whirls, and swirls, and blinds everything in its wake. It's destructive, hurling to its death. But it's stunningly beautiful.
Somewhere, in one of the buildings in Jamrock, two people laugh into each other’s mouths and know that they can die happy.