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Cuno has a good feeling about tonight. The writing's been written on the wall like some edgy graffito for six days now, and Harry never makes it past eight when shit is bad. Shit is bad. He marks every sober day on the calendar with a big old permanent marker and poured out Cuno's stash - Cuno's! That he accumulated personally by cashing in bribes! His hard work liquor! - so he's going to be guilty as fuck when he finally breaks. Likely he'll buy Cuno a bunch without Cuno even having to complain about it.
Plus the weather has been all foggy and cold and shit for two days straight, no sun, no rain, no relenting, and that shit gets into Harry's brain like nothing else. Lotta grisly-ass murders happen in the fog.
Kuuno de Ruyter takes remedial classes - gonna get his GEM cert, which is a requirement for moving out of shitkid officer land and into lieutenancy, not that that's coming any time soon for Cuno, who walks an extremely precarious line between delinquent and lawman. If it weren't for Harry and his binoclard, Cuno would definitely be in lockup, not visiting the station every day to help file paperwork and be the little sneaky narc bitch, going undercover and shit, being told by his superiors to go ahead and snort speed if it'll help you blend in, we won't probe.
Anyway, Cuno is on his way home from one of those classes. It's been real boring shit today, maths and shit. He stops by the Frittte that's on the way home, buys two packs of cigarettes - legally, a fact that hasn't stopped disgusting him. He always wanted to be dead before 16, get off this shit ride of a world before he can foil his potential. He blames Harry for keeping him around these extra years. Harry makes him feel like maybe there is some big mystery worth sticking around for, and maybe Cuno has some big mystery inside of himself worth solving. One pack is for Harry, the other for Cuno, though Cuno has already mentally committed about four of his to the bino, who always buys his own cigarettes but is much nicer to Cuno if Cuno offers him smokes. While he's waiting for the Frittte girl to count his change - mulling over Lieutenant Kitsuragi, the 41st, Harry, fucking algebra shit - a funny feeling comes over Cuno, psychic-like.
Harry's most consistent advice to Cuno is to listen to that funny feeling, so Cuno acts the fucking psycho and just shuts his eyes right there, feeling the tension in the air and running up his spinal cord. The Insulindian Phasmid flashes before his eyes, the way it usually does when Cuno tries to get all mystic.
The city whispers, Danger. Or maybe Cuno's just got a hyperactive imagination, one that always assumes shit is about to go south and people will die. Well, it's Jamrock. That's pretty much always true.
What a ripoff. Harry gets whole-ass conversations with the world, with books, with mailboxes and gloves and pens and sometimes, when Cuno's too stupid to remember to not stare back at Harry, with Cuno's heart. Annoyed at the lack of specifics, Cuno takes his change and leaves the store by kicking the door, instead of opening it like a normal god damn human being. Cuno doesn't want to be normal. Or a human being, for that matter.
He strikes off into the fog, hand clasped around the cigarette packs in his left pocket, and heads for home. Danger my ass, he thinks. Cuno's the fucking danger in this city. Cuno has a switchblade in his right pocket which he keeps clenched in his other hand, just in case. He owns a gun, too, but nobody lets him take it anywhere and Harry confiscates it at random. So, whatever. Cuno doesn't need a fucking gun anyway. Cuno has killed people with less than his knife. Cuno is tough shit, he tells himself. He tells it to the world with his hunched shoulders and evil eye - Cuno is the evilest son of a bitch in this whole city -
- except his hand trembles so hard his keys rattle as he unlocks the apartment door. Danger, the city said, and didn't elaborate.
Right away he can smell that Harry broke. Is that all? Cuno wonders - was that the danger? Harry on a bender is dangerous, but mostly to himself and inanimate objects which have given him funny looks. On the kitchen counter is an empty bottle of wine, garbage from takeout, and a half-empty pack of smokes, plus a stack of four chocolate bars, one of which Cuno snatches up before heading into the cramped living area. His and Harry's apartment is a little shithole, with one bedroom, one bathroom, and a tiny balcony with two rickety chairs that Cuno and Harry spend most of their time on, smoking, talking, theorizing, watching the city chug along below them and around them. Years ago they cordoned off one corner of the living room with a huge curtain, and that's where Harry sleeps, even though it's his apartment. Cuno thinks it's pretty pathetic of him, but not like he's gonna say so when it means Cuno has a room to himself to shut into when he doesn't want to deal with Harry's bullshit.
Harry is sunk into the couch. Blaring music already, the dumb sad shit. There is blood, bright red and new on his white shirt and coat, neither of which he's bothered to remove. He is smoking and holding a pilsner. He lifts it in salute to Cuno.
Suddenly, Cuno is furious. "The fuck is this, little piggy? Should I call Kim? Let him know you're not going into work tomorrow because you're such a sad sack of shit? Can't even go one month?"
Harry, stupidly, looks relieved. "Would you? He should probably know what a sad sack of shit I am."
"Fuck you, I'm not calling your f*****y little partner for you," Cuno snaps. He hasn't said that word in months and it feels wrong in his mouth. Cuno is relieved Kim isn't here and can't look at him for that. "That's your fucking job and your fucking problem. Move over, you fat asshole. You better share."
Harry does both without a word. Cuno rips his eyes away from the bloodstains as he sits. It's Jamrock swaddled in fog. It's shit everywhere, and it's Harry's job to wade into it up to his eyeballs then drink himself to death trying to deal. Secretly - so much so that it's often a secret to himself - Cuno adores Harry, his tenacity and cheerfulness in the face of this fuck-up world, his unflappable determination, the way he's never afraid except when anyone with half a brain ought to be. He loves Harry more than anyone or anything, himself included. And he loves that Harry is an absolute fuckup, unabashed and loud about how shit it is to live in his brain. To tell the truth, Cuno was terrified the city was telling him Harry was dead. Anything else is a relief compared to that. The blood seems to be part of the danger, and some rando’s blood ain't shit to Cuno.
He takes the bottle from Harry and drinks from it, three long swallows to get him started. Harry just watches him, red-eyed and tired. Sad drunk Harry is the second worst drunk Harry, second only to speed-and-drinking Harry, who is violent and furious at the world. Sad drunk Harry should have his gun taken away. Sad drunk Harry will sometimes invite himself into Cuno's room and curl up on Cuno's bed, crushing Cuno against the wall, and cry. Sad drunk Harry makes stupid, but not fun, decisions. And he sings too much.
Cuno clears his throat. "Don't tell me you're gonna play that shit all night. I'll blow my fucking brains out."
Harry flinches. And, just like that, tears begin to leak out of his red-rimmed eyes. He hunches forward on the couch and starts to really get a good cry going, his great huge shoulders heaving with it.
God damn it, Cuno thinks. Maybe he should just blow his brains out, get it over with. Cuno puts a hand between Harry's shoulder blades, the way he's seen Lieutenant Kitsuragi do, the way Kim has done - exactly twice - to Cuno. It made Cuno love the lieutenant, or at least get why Harry does. Of course, that would be barking up an even more improbable tree than Harry. With Harry, Cuno's pretty sure he just needs one good drunk night and he can - well - he's getting ahead of himself. It’s not like he wants Harry to dick him while crying. Cuno's a freak but not that much of one.
Cuno still remembers, with perfect clarity, when he first realized he wanted to fuck Harry, instead of just seeing him as an ugly old (brilliant, miraculous) fucking weirdo. So, one of Harry's conditions for Cuno living with him was to join his stupid exercise regimen, which he sticks to even when he's hungover and sick as a dog. Cuno finds this quite perverse. Like seriously disturbing. They go for a run just about every morning after a quick stretch, then stretch again afterwards, taking their time on the cooldown. Harry directs Cuno's body - three, four, five - now the other arm - and sometimes helps Cuno hold different stretches. That was when it happened, during a cooldown, right there on Harry's floor.
It was this last summer. Hot as anything in the streets, so Cuno and Harry were both drenched in sweat and stinking like the pigs they are when Cuno sat down to stretch out his hamstrings. Harry's face was as red as it gets when he drinks, only he'd been sober for a couple of months at that point. He'd stopped reeking of alcohol when he sweated, just had the raw musk of his body coming off him. He took Cuno's skinny calf between his huge knobbed hands and rested Cuno's ankle against his shoulder, like he'd done hundreds of times before, and leaned in, making the back of Cuno's thigh burn and ache, just - looming over Cuno. Hands steady behind Cuno's knee. His body was still shining with sweat, and he was watching Cuno's face very carefully like he always did during stretches, looking for signs of pain. Harry was also counting, murmuring to himself rather than at Cuno, which made his chest rumble slightly against Cuno's leg.
Cuno's brain took in all that information and spat out: He should fuck me into the floor.
He then had to lie there like an idiot with his dick getting hard as anything just, right there, right where Harry could see it if he'd only quit looking at Cuno's face. Cuno had to let him set his leg down and grab his other leg, too.
It was the longest minute and a half of Cuno's life, and he's had some long ones.
Like this one.
Maybe that's not the best thing to recollect while Harry is losing his shit. But ever since, he's nursed a plan - wait for Harry to get drunk, then attempt to have sex with him. It's not his most sophisticated plan, alright, but in this case sophistication would be overkill. Cuno just has to catch Harry in the right mood, one where he's willing to live a little by trying out a nice slice of ass. Cuno has terrible multitudes inside of him, but he's grown into someone way out of Harry's league, looks-wise, all rakish and shit. And Harry's got a thing for scrawny guys. He's really losing out every day he isn't fucking Cuno, in Cuno's humble opinion.
Cuno's tried flirting with Harry when he's sober, but Harry turns into the world's dumbest rock and suddenly has no idea what basic concepts like, "nice ass, pig," mean. Drunk Harry, though - there's potential. Drunk Harry sometimes, very rarely, slips up and kisses Kim in front of Cuno, who always watches the event closely, like he's expecting a fucking pop quiz after. 1. Did Lieutenant Du Bois suck on Lieutenant Kitsuragi's bottom or top lip first? 2. What body parts did Harry grab (in anatomically accurate language)? 3. How angry did Ltn. Kitsuragi get, and what was the body language that gave it away? 4....
Anyway - when Harry isn't being a sad drunk, he's basically a party animal. Cuno is positive he can convince a drunk Harry to pin him to the floor and sling Cuno's ankles over his hairy shoulders. His string of bad luck in that matter hasn't deterred him in the slightest.
But Harry is still crying. Fucking fuck. What the fuck happened?
"Alright, coach, that's enough, you're embarrassing me," Cuno says. "The fuck's with all this weepy shit? What? Did someone actually blow their brains out? Go on, then, don't be shy, tell me what happened."
Harry struggles to compose himself. "I just...really love this song," he says, the fucking liar. He straightens up a little and wipes his face into the crook of his elbow. He must've forgotten about the blood splattered there, because a second later he registers it, and then he does stop crying. He stares numbly at the blood. Cuno still has his hand on Harry's back, so feels the tension rise under his palm, Harry's muscles all contracting in on themselves in a slow wave.
Cuno suppresses a shiver. "Okay, okay, jeez, sorry I dissed your favorite fucking song or whatever, play it a thousand fucking times tonight, see if I give a shit."
Harry looks at him numbly. "Uh...okay. Thanks. I don't actually need your permission."
"Maybe you do. Maybe I'm gonna write up a god damn sad shit song contract, with rules you'll immediately break because you’re a sad shit song addict, and then I’ll file a bunch of noise complaints, and then your pig friends at the precinct will have to come arrest you for being a noisy sad bastard." As Cuno talks - just blithely mouthing off, paying no real attention to the words - he scoots to the edge of the couch, so he can turn and face Harry. More specifically, Harry's bloodstained coat.
"That's not how anything works," Harry says, as Cuno gently rolls the coat off Harry's shoulders. He doesn't protest. He stares unsteadily as Cuno tosses the coat in a heap in the ground. "Not...any of that. Cuno...have you not been paying attention to any of what I've told you about policework?"
"Why should I? You're braindead. What do you know?" Cuno can work with shock. Harry is pliant. He doesn't even flinch when Cuno reaches for his tie to loosen it, just keeps gazing dully at Cuno. What the fuck happened? The coat was obscuring just how much blood got on Harry. The only reason Cuno isn't afraid that Harry is hurt is because the blood hasn't dripped or spread much outside of its initial burst. The spray and density of the blood makes Cuno suspect someone was shot - possibly stabbed in the throat - right in front of Harry. Full on bloodbath. He glances into Harry's face and frowns when he sees that Harry is back to crying, one slow teardrop at a time.
Danger, the city whispered.
"Is the bino dead?" Cuno asks, abruptly.
Harry shakes his head.
Okay. Okay, fine. Then whatever happened doesn't mean shit to Cuno. That is a source of power for him. He finishes loosening Harry's tie; it slides smooth off his neck. Cuno resists the urge to wrap the fabric between his palms. Cuno struggles to think. What makes Harry happy? Or, what will at least make him stop looking like a beaten dog?
"And? What about you? This isn't yours?" he asks, gesturing at the blood. He then moves to undo the top button, slowly, in case Harry is going to stop him.
He doesn't. It's actually pretty worrying. He shakes his head again. "A witness...just a kid."
Oh, fuck. Cuno hopes he means kid the way he uses it on Cuno, not like, kid-kid. If it was, Cuno really should call Lieutenant Kitsuragi. The fact that he isn't here must mean Harry was out there alone when this happened. Cuno doubts Harry checked back in at the station except to call in the body. Most likely he dragged himself to a liquor store and then straight home to decompress. The second and third buttons of his shirt are still sticky with drying blood. Danger.
"Poor fucker," Cuno says. "That's shit. But you're back. You're still breathing." He taps Harry's chest, then opens the fourth button. All done. Harry isn't wearing anything underneath; some of his chest hair is matted with blood, and there are wet red streaks on his belly as Cuno tugs the shirt off. Harry is breathing hard, probably trying not to cry again. "That's good, isn't it? So drink up. Fucking celebrate. Who gives a shit."
Where, Cuno wonders, is Harry's gun?
"Hang on," Cuno says. He goes to the bathroom - all he wanted was rags, but thank fucking god, there’s Harry's gun is on the sink. At least that mystery was easy to solve. Without thinking too hard about it, Cuno shoves it into their tiny towel cabinet, all the way in the back where Harry can't see it and be tempted, and then fishes out a couple of rags. He runs one under hot water, listening as he does to Harry crank up the music and stumble into the kitchen. Crack goes the next wine bottle, a fucking twist top, the cheapest shit Harry can stomach. Harry's footsteps stagger back through the apartment; the balcony door is thrown open in a creaking mess of sound. Okay. Balcony night. Fine.
Cuno wonders again if he should call Kim. Instead, he takes the two rags with him to the kitchen - grabs a fresh pilsner - then follows Harry onto the balcony. The daylight is totally gone, by now, and the surrounding fog is lit up in the unreal orange glow of Jamrock at night. Like a faraway wildfire. Cuno sets his pilsner and Harry's pack of cigarettes on the rickety table between the chairs and bends over Harry, who looks past him, out into the night. Cuno wipes Harry's bare chest clean, methodical-like. Can't even enjoy it, really. He's too anxious about Harry's gun, now, and weirded out by Harry's total lack of response to Cuno wiping blood off his chest in the first place. And it's fucking freezing out, between the fog and the night settling in; soon Harry is shivering in his chair.
When he's clean, Cuno goes back inside and pauses, dawdling in the living room, trying to think. He slings the dirty rags on top of the bloody coat - all a problem for him later. He won't touch the music, even though he hates this shit and some dance music would probably put Harry in a better mood. It might also make his mood worse. Harry needs to stay warm if he's going to be a nuisance on the balcony all night. And Cuno needs a fucking break.
He decides on grabbing a couple of Harry's blankets off his rat's nest of a bed. He steps back out onto the balcony as Harry takes a swig from the wine bottle. Unabashed, Cuno swings onto Harry's lap, bringing the blanket with him to wrap around them both. Harry grunts in surprise; Cuno takes advantage of his surprise to grab the wine bottle from Harry. He takes a drink and coughs. "That's fucking disgusting," he says. "Truly nasty. Like piss." He takes another drink. Harry sighs and sinks back into the chair. Eyes on the sky. He hugs Cuno, loosely.
"You feel it too, don't you?" Harry asks. "The coming of the end times. Hardcore death."
Cuno cringes and takes another drink, as big a gulp as he can handle. All at once the faint buzzing feel-good sensation of the alcohol hits his brain, crackling over his skull, and he slumps into Harry's hug. "That apocalypse shit again?" he says.
"It's here, Cuno. It happened a couple hours ago. People just haven't noticed, yet."
The timeline, as far as Cuno can suss it out, goes like this: Six days ago, Harry and Kim picked up a new case. Five days ago, they got into a bad argument, though neither of them have said dick about it to him. (Four days ago, Lieutenant Kitsuragi took Cuno on a long drive, Speedfreak-loud but not much talking, the lieutenant speeding and darting between cars, all relaxed back in his seat the whole time. Sometimes, the lieutenant is cool.) Four days ago - after the drive, in the middle of the night - Harry spiraled into a paranoid frenzy, apparently unprompted by drugs, which included him scrambling around the apartment to make a bug-out bag for the impending apocalypse and ranting until he was hoarse. (Two days ago, Lieutenant Kitsuragi took Cuno into the alleyway behind the station and asked him, Are you sure this is tenable, officer?) Yesterday, Harry crashed and slept; today, all hell has broken loose.
Cuno's pretty sure Harry's been sober the whole time until tonight, but that's just made the mania more frustrating to live with because he's had no idea when or how it might end. Well. It's ended, now, with the void opening up inside of Harry, sad music, sad red eyes watching Cuno get himself trashed on Harry's wine. And tomorrow, day seven, will apparently be the end of the world.
"Fuck it," he says, decisively. "What now?"
Harry shrugs. "Let it happen," he says. "What can you do to stop the universe itself?"
Even in normal-world conditions, everybody leaves, eventually. Everybody dies. Cuno's known that for as long as he's been thinking and he's pretty sure most people have, one way or another. Death on a grand scale is not all that different. This wastoid world deserves to burn down; let there be nothing left afterward except the seagulls and roaches. Cuno lifts the wine bottle one more time, examining it - he takes another deep drink. Yeah - he's drunk enough. He leans off of Harry, raises his arm as if in salute, and slugs the wine bottle off the balcony. It smashes magnificently on the street below. A neighbor shrieks in surprise, someone else cusses, then the world settles again.
Harry makes a sad noise. "I wasn't done with that," he says.
"Looks like you were, actually." Cuno grabs Harry's shoulders, steadying himself. He's actually going to fucking go for this. What is wrong with him? He thinks about where he'd like to go after this. Under the boardwalk at Martinaise, maybe, where he used to dig through the sand unearthing middling treasures. Where he and C crouched for hours, whispering, arguing, pontificating. But then C hurts too much to think about, so he focuses back on Harry.
"Cuno, don't," Harry says, quietly.
Cuno believes that Harry knows what Cuno is about to do. (Cuno is wrong. Harry is not thinking about sex at all.) He's got that deep look to his eyes, close to the heart of the universe. Cuno regrets choosing to sit on Harry, now, because that means Harry will feel it if he starts shaking, and he's so, so fucking tired, he's at the end of his rope; he just wants Harry to be right, for once, and for the sky to fall in on them and end this. "Why not?" Cuno says. "Go on. Give me one good reason."
"Kim," Harry says. No hesitation.
Anger flares in Cuno, familiar, powerful. He snatches a fistful of Harry's hair and yanks, exposing Harry's throat. "Fuck Kim," he snarls. "Is he here? Huh? If he came here, would he want anything to do with you and your ugly fucking shit-face? No. You disgust him when you're like this. He fuckin' reviles you." He shakes Harry's head for emphasis; Harry groans, leaning into it. His breath puffs hot and alcohol-sharp on Cuno's face. "But not me. I'm here. Nobody else. Every other fucking person is gone, Harry. Don't you get it? This is what you're left with."
Harry laughs, but not because he thinks any of this is funny, more like a defense mechanism. He's still got his hands on Cuno's back. When it comes down to it, he will not say no. Cuno knows this the same way Harry knows things, with absolute certainty, without needing to be told. There's no going back, but the thing is, Cuno doesn't want to go back. The past is all shit except for bugs and a yellow jacket. Harry says, "Cuno, that fucking hurts."
"The fuck should I care?" Cuno says. He twists his hand in Harry's hair - let it hurt - and pulls him by it into a kiss. Tension rolls through Harry's body like thunder. His hands tighten compulsively, digging into Cuno's back. Maybe he didn't think Cuno would really do it. Well, Cuno's fucking done it.
Cuno's expectations for Harry were pretty low, coming in. He figured Harry would be a shit lay, clueless and hasty and desperate, especially when drunk. Didn't matter much to Cuno. But - here's the crazy thing - Cuno was wrong. Harry is, for starters, a great kisser, once he's gotten over the shock of being kissed. That Cuno has to do one kiss at a time, unrelenting, using Harry's hair to keep him still. Bottom lip first, the way Harry does to Kim. His mustache tickles Cuno's lips on the second. Harry's started to accept the situation by the third kiss, this one evenly placed, and surges into it like he's starving on the fourth. His beard scratches Cuno's face and his breath is quick and hot.
Harry proceeds to kiss Cuno - the only word that comes to Cuno's mind is thoroughly, like he's taking notes, sucking and nibbling on every bit of Cuno's mouth and tongue. His hands remain firm on Cuno's body, but they start to wander, massaging as they go. One travels up Cuno's spine to cup the back of his neck. The other sets to work on the tight muscles in his back and sides. Harry begins to moan almost immediately. Like Cuno is a particularly tasty hangover burger and he has to let the chef in the other room know he's enjoying himself. Embarrassingly loud, really, but it's doing it for Cuno. The hand at Cuno's neck rubs circles there, deeper than Cuno would expect while kissing, demanding attention and keeping Cuno in place just as readily as Cuno's fist in his hair makes Harry stay put. It's like being at the center of a whirlpool, sucked inexorably closer to the bottom of the sea.
It completely throws Cuno off his game. For several long moments, all he can do is be kissed by Harry, clutching him and opening his eager mouth to Harry's. His dick is rubbing a little against Harry's belly, but even that is more because of Harry, his rough big hands kneading Cuno with enough strength to make him shift and squirm in his lap. The blankets are sliding off Cuno's shoulders, forgotten despite the chill outside.
They might've been stuck there forever, Cuno's insides all glowing and crackling like lightning, his brain shut the fuck off, if Harry's conscience didn't abruptly resurface. He pulls back with an obscene wet noise and blinks at Cuno. "What am I doing?" he says, his hands dropping. "The world is ending. I need to call Kim!" He tries to surge out of the chair.
Cuno shoves him down. It's a testament to Harry's inebriation that he has any luck with that at all. "Are you kidding me, you fucking pig? What, you can't get off without him here?" Cuno edges closer and angles his hips so his cock presses against Harry's. Cuno is hard. Harry isn't. Big surprise. "How about second best. Detective," Cuno says, switching to his imitation of Kim's voice - a trick that's made Harry laugh many times and Lieutenant Kitsuragi scowl twice as often. "Don't stop kissing Cuno." His Kim impression is spot-on, in Cuno’s opinion. The lieutenant disagrees. But he isn't here - he didn't see Harry's bloody clothes or his gun on the sink - he fucking abandoned Harry, tonight - so fuck him.
The effect of the voice on Harry isn't quite what Cuno was hoping for. His expression flips from panic to confusion to anger, then settles finally on that old void sadness. "Don't," he says. "Please don't."
Thing is, Cuno wants Harry's anger. He grabs Harry's shoulders to anchor himself and begins to rock his hips in a drumbeat rhythm, allegro, demanding. The friction of his pants almost makes it better, though he wouldn't say no to Harry changing that. "Why not?" he asks, still imitating Kim, though it's breathier than he's ever heard from the bino. "I thought you liked hi - "
Harry grabs him by the throat. "I said stop." It's almost enough to make Cuno come right then and there, and such a surprise that he goes very still. A second later, Harry registers what he's done and jerks his hand away. The hurt returns to his face, makes him pathetic again. "...I even said please," he says, his tone apologetic.
Cuno doesn't need him to apologize. Cuno needs him to do that again. But - worse - Cuno is scared of him doing it again. He doesn't really want to examine any of those feelings, now or ever. He runs his hands down Harry's chest and kisses him again, which is the simplest thing he knows he wants.
Harry doesn't need to be persuaded to kiss back, this time.
Cuno's throat is warm.
It strikes Cuno, as they kiss, how much he hates this. The noises he's making, the taste of wine and scratch of Harry's beard - and, too, the rickety chair - and the fog - and himself, and all the world. He feels trapped in his own body, as if he isn't really the actor at all, just some rube forced to watch some other person do this stupid fucking thing. It all feels like such a waste of time.
But Cuno sees things through.
Harry's hands thread through Cuno's hair; his calloused thumbs stroke little circles into Cuno's temples. "Don't," he groans, into Cuno's mouth. One hand strokes down Cuno's chest.
Cuno thinks, ah, he isn't talking to me. Keeps kissing, and pressing his body into Harry's until he doesn't really feel like a distinct person anymore.
The song loops, and Cuno thinks, fuck, when will it end? Where's the end of the fucking world, already?
Harry leans back. "Hey," he says, "it's cold out here. Let's go inside."
Cuno blinks. "Yeah, alright."
Frankly, it takes some doing. The alcohol has really hit Harry, now - he's overestimated himself in his upset, and he leans hard on Cuno. They drop together onto Harry's bed, and Cuno just lies there for a bit as the room wobbles. He doesn't want to be here, anymore. He sits up. Harry is covering his face in his hands, probably recovering from a much worse dizzy spell than Cuno's.
Cuno shuts his eyes. In his mind's eye, in perfect clarity, without trying, he sees what Harry's autopsy photograph will look like. It doesn't take a great leap of imagination. He's seen overdose deaths plenty, even before joining the RCM. Then his dad went and died from alcohol poisoning four months after Cuno saw the Insulindian Phasmid. It was the last good thing the asshole ever did for him.
Cuno had gone alone to identify the body, though in hindsight that seems strange. When he stepped out of the morgue into the sharp sea air of Martinaise, C had been standing there across the street, waiting for him. They had shared a cigarette and talked a little, friendly-like. At the end of the cigarette, she took his left hand in hers, a gesture that was almost kind. Then she put the cigarette out on his left wrist, and said, "Remember that, instead, you little bitch." It hadn’t superseded that last image of his dead, discolored father after all - but it had shown him that she could still love him in her own way, and was worth it for that alone.
He opens his eyes; Harry is looking at him with that vast sad gaze of his. All bloodshot. "Please, don't," he says. His fingers graze Cuno's wrist, very gently, the comforting brush more like long grass than human touch.
Cuno has no idea what Harry is asking of him, but he doesn't care anymore. He climbs out of the bed. He turns down the music - not off, because he doesn't want Harry to try to turn it back on - but he's going to go absolutely insane if he has to keep listening to it at full volume. The dimming of the music increases the claustrophobic feel of the room. It's much, much worse.
Danger, huh?
Cuno picks up the phone and dials Kim's number. It takes five rings for him to answer.
"Kim speaking."
Words fail Cuno, for a little too long. Kim says, after a beat, "Harry? What is the occasion?"
Cuno's brain can't really deal with the careful way Kim says that. He looks at the balcony, the untouched pack of cigarettes, the unopened pilsner. "Somebody died," Cuno says. "And he's not taking it well. I'm off."
"Cuno? Hold on. Don't hang up. Who died? When did this happen?"
"I don't know, and I don't fuckin' know. Harry was all covered in blood when I got back. Didn't tell me fuckall, why should he? Why should I ask, anyway? I'm not his goddamn babysitter. If you need me to babysit him you're gonna have to fuckin go through payroll first, you understand?" Cuno rubs his face, exhausted with himself. "I'm leaving. Gonna stay at a friend's house for the night. But he's saying the world ended and we're all gonna die and he...whatever, I just thought you should know." Cuno's hands are shaking but inside his emotions are all muted. "I'm off, so. Come here or don't."
"I'm on my way." Silence.
The song replays. Cuno goes to the bathroom and removes Harry's gun from the linen closet. He examines it, checks the chamber. There is only one bullet. Kim will want to see this for evidence. He resets the chamber and sets the gun back down on the sink.
Cuno's gun is in his room. He keeps it in his bedside table, loaded. He wears it when he goes undercover, because someone Cuno's age without a gun is dead weight in Jamrock, but both Kim and Jean have scolded him for bringing it to the precinct, so he doesn't usually carry it. This one has all its rounds. Cuno changes clothes. Slings on his holster, and puts the gun on under his jacket.
It takes Lieutenant Kitsuragi eleven minutes to drive to Harry's apartment at this time of night. Thirteen or fourteen when it's daytime. Cuno's burned about six of them.
Cuno goes to the balcony and stands there a while, keeping time by the song, watching Jamrock from Harry's balcony door. It really does look like it's on fire. But the apocalypse is late, again. Cuno turns without a word nine minutes after hanging up with Lieutenant Kitsuragi. He leaves the apartment, not bothering to lock it, though of course Kim has a spare key. He crosses the street, walking at a relaxed pace. He's in no hurry. Might as well enjoy the night.
The boardwalk at Martinaise. The yard behind the Whirling-in-Rags. The river, six blocks from here, or the quarry further down. Cuno's mind treads through these places while he lets his feet do their own kind of thinking. Cuno's right hand is clasped about his switchblade. The weight of his pistol jolts against his right side with every step. But he doesn't feel dangerous, now. There is no evil or good in him. He is just tired. He wants rest. To that end - to all ends - he walks.