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. ]
no subject
[ SUGGESTION - You should put some clothes on. Your current appearance would not endear the detective to your condition.
SAVOIR FAIRE - Slink into your room and grab your pants off the floor. They're a little stained around the lap but who cares? Most of your clothes are. Button up the shirt (though not *all* the way, exposed collar bone is always sexy) and slick back your hair with those achy sausage fingers.
THE MIRROR - The damage is bad. Face flushed, darkened puffy eyes, noticeable signs of dehydration and *partying*. You went all out last night and don't remember a spit of it.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Give us a smile!
THE MIRROR - The glass would shatter into a thousand pieces, if that were possible. Lucky for you that's not how mirrors work.
And then he slinks his feet, one, two, three, four, five large steps, to the door. He flexes his hands into fists and then out, trying to shake the nerves, and opens the door. ]
Hey buddy! [ Harry pushes himself up to the gap, blocking Kim from seeing the disaster that is his living space. ] How's it going? You never come around here!
[ It clicks right after he says it. Why *is* Kim here? He never comes here. ]
no subject
No, I don't, [ he says plainly, deciding not to mention the strain in his expression, the desperation in his eyes, the bid to cover up what is apparent. They both know it isn't working. This isn't the first time Harry has done this. Kim is certain that, not so long ago, Jean Vicquemare had been in precisely this position. But he is not Mr. Vicquemare. He is his own man. And hopefully that will be enough to help guide Harry to a different outcome. ] But I thought it was about time I fixed that.
[ He lifts the bag of food: a peace offering. ]
I brought food. I didn't think you'd have eaten yet. [ It's too late for breakfast. Getting too late for lunch, too. Still. ] May I come in?
no subject
Ahhh I don't think that's a good idea. [ Harry clears his throat, then clears it again, dried up and voice cracking. ] *You know* -- it's a mess. It's always a mess! You wouldn't be happy hanging out and eating in here.
How about we eat outside instead? There's a little square park nearby to hang out at! A park that is *not* a hazard to walk through.
no subject
It can't be worse than some of the places I've seen. [ Eyes magnified behind his thick lenses, it's easier to spot how they crinkle at the corners, concerned. ] I'd really prefer to eat inside, if that's all right. I'd like to speak in private.
no subject
AUTHORITY - This is a good thing. He can set you back on the path to glory and salvation.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY- He'll set you on the path to being a sad boring fuck wallowing in depression. Fuck that. ]
Hmmhmhm... ok. But remember, *you're* the one who demanded.
[ An accusatory preface before he gets any disappointed looks or lectures. He doesn't want to hear it! Kim was warned. Harry steps back and opens the door, allowing Kim entrance. He pauses before closing, confirming no one else came with him on surprise, and shuts it. Clothes are thrown around the living room haphazardly with no rhyme or reason, several plastic bags full of things he hasn't even taken out from shopping trips are nestled between the couch and a standing lamp, and the *artistic* arrangement of his fruits of labor in the drinking department is displayed across the entire coffee table.
Right, the coffee table. Kim has food. ]
I'll get the bottles. You can unpack the food in the kitchen.
[ The kitchen is, mercifully perhaps, spared from most of the chaos of the living room. It's too small to destroy with his presence anyway. The worst of it are unwashed dishes piled up in the sink, red sauces now goopy and sad across colorful ceramic plates. Even his dishware must have personality to it. ]
no subject
[ At least they're no longer pretending. Harry is not pretending he hasn't relapsed. And Kim isn't pretending that he didn't realize. He shouldn't have in the first place. He and Harry both know damn well that he's a better detective than that. But it had simply been... easier. While he waited. Perhaps he shouldn't have. He never knows how to deal with these things, no matter how much he projects the idea that he does.
He steps inside, and not a muscle in his face twitches as he takes in the state of things, clothes strewn about the room as though he had undressed as he stumbled in, clutter hogging every spare space in the already-small apartment, bottles stacked atop each other like a still life painting of misery. The Drunken Abode - Harry Du Bois, c. '51.
He doesn't say a word. He escapes to the kitchen and takes out the food, not that he's particularly looking forward to eating it. Kim's appetite is poor at the best of times, apt to skipping meals and eating for nourishment rather than pleasure, and there's little nourishment to be found here. He manages to find a couple of clean plates nonetheless and, after a moment's thought, rinses both the plates and the forks before placing them on the table, decidedly distrustful of Harry's ability to properly clean anything in this state. The food itself is still steaming hot, its fragrance covering up some of the musk in the room, the cook's hard work decidedly wasted on the two of them. ]
Okay. Come. Eat.
[ Intervention though this may be, he doubts that Harry has nourished himself properly in the past weeks. The food will help soak up some of the liquor still coursing through his system as well. He is not so foolish as to think it will make this go any more smoothly, but he'll rest easier knowing that Harry's not poisoning himself in several ways. ]
no subject
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Your stomach gurgles on command, and the saliva glands in your tongue activate. You want that food like you want to get fucked, and hard.
(Can we not associate sex with food?)
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - There are three needs in life. Water, food, and shooting cum out your dick. Remember that and you'll go far.
He grits his teeth and keeps collecting bottles off the table, clanking them into a few empty plastic bags from the shop. The shop he got the bottles at to begin with, back when they were full and ready to be sold to alcoholics like him. Do the clerks at the store think about what they are doing when they sell him it, or do they distance themselves? It's just a job, a dull one at that, and they aren't his mom. He considers this and puts his body on autopilot to keep cleaning until he's finished.
Then Kim commands him to eat.
AUTHORITY - And it *is* a command. You cannot question him.
He nods and walks up to the square dining table to sit. It's a two seater, chair staring down chair, and an uncomfortable one at that. Situated next to a square window to bring in the light of day. He *could* replace it with something a little nicer by now, but...
INLAND EMPIRE - Something about it is familiar. A very small place to eat your food. Alone.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - Maybe you could ask Aerith for some flowers to spruce it up? You did ask her to give your request to the Lieutenant after all.
His body sighs all together with the slump into the chair. He doesn't know what to say. Maybe if he's lucky, and he isn't but he would like to imagine he was, Kim won't say a word. They will eat and he will leave and that will be the end of it.
RHETORIC - Yeah, keep dreaming. ]
no subject
When Harry has eaten to Kim's satisfaction, he pauses, glancing pensively away from him, chasing a crumb clinging to the sparse hairs of his upper lip away with a brush of his thumb, lips thinning with tension, then relaxing again. He adjusts his glasses as though to remove and clean them, but immediately thinks better of it, knowing that they are as pristine as they were when he had arrived. He is simply procrastinating what he imagines to be a very unpleasant conversation, much as he had been procrastinating it since Harry had descended upon this downwards spiral. He looks Harry in the eye, a challenge, a mercy: forcing Harry to reckon with seeing himself through Kim's eyes, forcing him to acknowledge that he is still worth Kim looking at him. ]
...I imagine you know why I'm here, Harry, [ he says plainly. ] I've been concerned. About your relapse.
no subject
Now he has to talk to Kim instead of continuing to scarf it down. He finishes chewing at his bite, swallows, sips water, and slips out a content exhale. ]
Ok. You got me. [ He sniffs and wrinkles his nose, screwing his eyes shut and opening them again. How must he look to Kim right now? He could hardly look at himself in the mirror, but that's not new. ] I relapsed. Had a good run. Lasted... five months I think? Not too shabby all things considered.
[ He was drinking a tiny bit through his time here, cheap beer to get a light buzz and the occasional cheaper red wine he prefers. It was a form of control he told himself. If he could have a sip and not get plastered, then that must mean he can handle it. He could drink without overdoing it, he could smoke a little without going through a pack in a week, and he could be *normal*. Turns out he can't. ]
I know, I know -- you're disappointed in me. [ He cracks the slightest smirk. ] And it's not *just* because I fell off the wagon, right? That part... it was inevitable.
no subject
But Kim's feelings are hardly the important part here. Nobody's ever been guilted into successful sobriety. ]
I wasn't surprised, no, [ he says bluntly, pushing the matter of his own disappointment aside. ] Relapses during recovery are very, very normal. And after what this place has put you through...
[ The violence. The blood rain falling from above. Spectres of a life he barely remembers, haunting him. Even this little apartment, so far from home, temptations lying around every corner. He shakes his head humourlessly. ]
It would have been difficult for anyone in your position. [ Meal done, albeit barely eaten, he wipes his hands on a paper napkin, loosely intertwines his fingers atop the table between them. Quietly: ] Five months is nothing to sneeze at.
[ Maybe next time he'll get to eight. ]