Kim Kitsuragi (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aceslow) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
jigokulogs2022-08-14 05:57 pm
aceslow) wrote in jigokulogs2022-08-14 05:57 pm
CLOSED ⬤ the smallest church in sussex
Who ⬤ Kim Kitsuragi & Harry Du Bois
What ⬤ An intervention.
When ⬤ Late August
Where ⬤ Harry's apartment
Content Warnings ⬤ Explicit discussion of alcohol and drug abuse & addiction, allusions to overdose deaths
[ Harry has relapsed.
This did not come as a surprise to Kim. To be frank, he had been expecting this to happen, hoping that it wouldn't. It's a natural part of the process, and for someone to decide to become sober and to remain sober from that point forward would be a marvel, unprecedented in Kim's breadth of experience. And his breadth of experience in this field is large, far larger than he would care to admit even to himself. Revachol is a city of addiction. Everyone knows it. It's simply what happens to places like Revachol, too poor to offer much in the way of entertainment beyond heading to the bar and drink, too impoverished for proper health care to attend to mental health needs or to the chronic pain and rattling illnesses people turn to illicit drugs to treat, filled with Vacholieres just trying to make it through to the next day. Or perhaps that is only Kim's perspective. He knows that his own life has been a peculiar one. He is, as ever, a watchful spectator.
He has watched the kids he grew up with age out of the system, set loose upon a city that had no place for them, no family, few friends, barely able to keep a roof over their head and searching for that next best thing. He has watched those in the Underground succumb to the same thing, cut loose from their bigoted families to form their own, but their own families gathered underneath the hush of night, in bars and in clubs, where a good time was synonymous with inebriation as they danced the night away, cut loose from their jobs once they were found out, turning to the bottle in the morning instead of in the evening. And then he had become an officer of the RCM. People joked that if you didn't drink to cope, you wouldn't come into work the next morning at all, swore that methamphetamines helped them stay alert during long hours and grisly cases. Kim believes that he himself has been spared this fate largely through luck and genetics, too rigid and controlled to enjoy inebriation, some quirk of his immune system poorly suited to handle so much as a couple of joints without slipping into unpleasant paranoia, the part of people's brains that light up with delirious joy somehow absent in his own. This is nonetheless the world that Kim has always been a part of. Nothing Harry does has the capacity to surprise him, not any more; he's seen his fair share of interventions, the we're worried about you, the stern demands to get it together, the recovery, the relapse, the meltdown. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. He has quietly put reál into many a funerary fund, has attended many a funeral, saddened but resigned. He has hoped in every instance that it will work, and hopes the same for Harry.
So no, he is not surprised. What he is - illogically so - is disappointed. He had sat on his hands, hoping beyond reason that perhaps Harry would come to him, fess up, ask for the help that Harry must know Kim would freely offer. If they were still partners on the police force, this would be easier. He could cloak all of this in the comfortable guise of professional concern. Get your shit together, he could have told him. Your actions are a reflection on me, on the RCM as an entity, on yourself as a police officer. But here, they are no such thing, no matter how many times Kim clarifies that Harry is his partner and that they are colleagues. Here, they are friends. Close enough friends for Harry to have reached to him, Kim had hoped, but sometimes closeness has very little to do with it. Being someone's friend is always harder for Kim. He doesn't have much practice. But it's clear that he needs to speak with Harry about it, whatever good it will do him. He has to. Harry's not getting any younger, and his heart... it is unpleasant to consider and there's nothing Kim can do about it, so he decides not to consider it any longer.
He's not sure if he's relieved or not that Officer Vicquemare is no longer here. He had been so insistent that this would happen, that Harry would disappoint him, and never seemed to factor in the fact that Kim already knew damn well that Harry was likely to relapse, and that his relapse would not be letting Kim down. It would be letting himself down. It would be nice to have an ally in this, Kim supposes, someone to confide in and to share the burden with, but a part of him knows that a shadow from Harry's past berating him would be of little use to him. Because really, is it any wonder? Harry has been torn from his home and thrown into, if not a literal hell, then a hell in and of itself, immersed in a society that flourishes on drugs and alcohol as a matter of course, encouraged to drink and be merry every way he turns, and then confronted with his worst nightmares, time and time again. It's honestly a wonder that it's taken this long.
Nonetheless, he has to take on the unpleasant task in front of him. He arranges to meet Harry at Harry's place - he's unwilling to hold it at his own, where he cannot simply walk out if things go sour - underneath the guise of a friendly lunch, his treat. He pauses just outside his door to compose himself. If this goes poorly, he tells himself, it's none of your business. He is not your responsibility. Only he can decide where to go from here. You offer your help, and nothing more. You've seen where giving all that you have to give has gotten you, Kitsuragi, and it did nobody any good. Nothing will be changed about the light.
He raps gloved knuckles against Harry's door in a familiar rhythm, rum pumpapum, takeout bag rustling where it hangs from his wrist, and waits. ]
What ⬤ An intervention.
When ⬤ Late August
Where ⬤ Harry's apartment
Content Warnings ⬤ Explicit discussion of alcohol and drug abuse & addiction, allusions to overdose deaths
[ Harry has relapsed.
This did not come as a surprise to Kim. To be frank, he had been expecting this to happen, hoping that it wouldn't. It's a natural part of the process, and for someone to decide to become sober and to remain sober from that point forward would be a marvel, unprecedented in Kim's breadth of experience. And his breadth of experience in this field is large, far larger than he would care to admit even to himself. Revachol is a city of addiction. Everyone knows it. It's simply what happens to places like Revachol, too poor to offer much in the way of entertainment beyond heading to the bar and drink, too impoverished for proper health care to attend to mental health needs or to the chronic pain and rattling illnesses people turn to illicit drugs to treat, filled with Vacholieres just trying to make it through to the next day. Or perhaps that is only Kim's perspective. He knows that his own life has been a peculiar one. He is, as ever, a watchful spectator.
He has watched the kids he grew up with age out of the system, set loose upon a city that had no place for them, no family, few friends, barely able to keep a roof over their head and searching for that next best thing. He has watched those in the Underground succumb to the same thing, cut loose from their bigoted families to form their own, but their own families gathered underneath the hush of night, in bars and in clubs, where a good time was synonymous with inebriation as they danced the night away, cut loose from their jobs once they were found out, turning to the bottle in the morning instead of in the evening. And then he had become an officer of the RCM. People joked that if you didn't drink to cope, you wouldn't come into work the next morning at all, swore that methamphetamines helped them stay alert during long hours and grisly cases. Kim believes that he himself has been spared this fate largely through luck and genetics, too rigid and controlled to enjoy inebriation, some quirk of his immune system poorly suited to handle so much as a couple of joints without slipping into unpleasant paranoia, the part of people's brains that light up with delirious joy somehow absent in his own. This is nonetheless the world that Kim has always been a part of. Nothing Harry does has the capacity to surprise him, not any more; he's seen his fair share of interventions, the we're worried about you, the stern demands to get it together, the recovery, the relapse, the meltdown. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. He has quietly put reál into many a funerary fund, has attended many a funeral, saddened but resigned. He has hoped in every instance that it will work, and hopes the same for Harry.
So no, he is not surprised. What he is - illogically so - is disappointed. He had sat on his hands, hoping beyond reason that perhaps Harry would come to him, fess up, ask for the help that Harry must know Kim would freely offer. If they were still partners on the police force, this would be easier. He could cloak all of this in the comfortable guise of professional concern. Get your shit together, he could have told him. Your actions are a reflection on me, on the RCM as an entity, on yourself as a police officer. But here, they are no such thing, no matter how many times Kim clarifies that Harry is his partner and that they are colleagues. Here, they are friends. Close enough friends for Harry to have reached to him, Kim had hoped, but sometimes closeness has very little to do with it. Being someone's friend is always harder for Kim. He doesn't have much practice. But it's clear that he needs to speak with Harry about it, whatever good it will do him. He has to. Harry's not getting any younger, and his heart... it is unpleasant to consider and there's nothing Kim can do about it, so he decides not to consider it any longer.
He's not sure if he's relieved or not that Officer Vicquemare is no longer here. He had been so insistent that this would happen, that Harry would disappoint him, and never seemed to factor in the fact that Kim already knew damn well that Harry was likely to relapse, and that his relapse would not be letting Kim down. It would be letting himself down. It would be nice to have an ally in this, Kim supposes, someone to confide in and to share the burden with, but a part of him knows that a shadow from Harry's past berating him would be of little use to him. Because really, is it any wonder? Harry has been torn from his home and thrown into, if not a literal hell, then a hell in and of itself, immersed in a society that flourishes on drugs and alcohol as a matter of course, encouraged to drink and be merry every way he turns, and then confronted with his worst nightmares, time and time again. It's honestly a wonder that it's taken this long.
Nonetheless, he has to take on the unpleasant task in front of him. He arranges to meet Harry at Harry's place - he's unwilling to hold it at his own, where he cannot simply walk out if things go sour - underneath the guise of a friendly lunch, his treat. He pauses just outside his door to compose himself. If this goes poorly, he tells himself, it's none of your business. He is not your responsibility. Only he can decide where to go from here. You offer your help, and nothing more. You've seen where giving all that you have to give has gotten you, Kitsuragi, and it did nobody any good. Nothing will be changed about the light.
He raps gloved knuckles against Harry's door in a familiar rhythm, rum pumpapum, takeout bag rustling where it hangs from his wrist, and waits. ]