O
Harry/Kim无差
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The Kineema was parked by the coastline. Waves crashed into rocks. Foams like spit landed on tar.
We should go somewhere safer, sheltered; said a voice in my head.
Too late, another voice interjected.
It's nice to die here, today, out in the storm, said a third. Isn't that what you've always wanted?
I sensed—rather than saw—clouds gathering overhead. Fat, dark, ominous. I knew. Couldn't have seen them if I tried, wouldn't risk it. Kim's fingers drummed a steady rhythm on the steering wheel. He was bothered, clearly by practical concerns. I wasn't. Drops of rain started to drip, then came in splashes, droves, violent. I was, too, anxious, but about something far less tangible than peeling paint and not having a decent place to sleep for the night.
Did you fight? Not really. We don't really fight. I let him down and he reproaches me, is all. Like the reproaching, if I'm honest.
Not a fight, then. But you're mad. At him? Not at him—because of him; at yourself. Why?
Because of the distance, Harry boy. You're too far apart even now. Look at you go all wide-eyed.
The first clap of thunder came down when I seized him, yanked him backwards. He tensed, ready to strike back for a split second, then thought better of it, offering little to no resistance. Indulging me, knowing I didn't have it in me to harm him. Could be tired, or curious. Might just be lenient when it rains. My sick blood hissed, unsated. Show him harm, show him how it's done. I must've had been an expert.
I pushed him down onto the leather of the backseat, cradled his face. Clenched his skull from the sides, blocked his hearing. I could crush him. He had on An Expression, beautifully impassive. He was waiting. Maybe if I carved out his eyes, picked through his brains, like I did with Lely, he would yield diamonds.
Rain was everywhere. Trickling down the windshield, down my spine. In my ears, in my brains, in my vein. Soaked into the headboard of the bed at a home I no longer own. In his eyes, in his breath, in his lungs. Nothing drowned it out. I breathed him in.
Lightning cut across his face, imprinting his features permanently on my meninges.
I asked him, desperately, what he could hear.
He spoke, lips curling into words in perfect coordination. His body never betrayed him, unlike mine did I. (I hoped it would one day be a rarely instead of a never.) His voice was faint, like he knew he would speak louder, so actively suppressed it.
Over the storm I could not hear him, so I bent closer.
"The storm," was what he said. "Just muted. Numbed."
That's it? I thought; I wanted to scream, to bellow at him. You should hear the sea; not this one, but others. Hear crushing waves; not these ones, but others. Hear of a future rising like bile, of a past like cut glass. Hear your heart flapping frantically, a half-blind caged reptile. 301 Selves talking back at you.
But I said nothing. He wouldn't understand.
I let go of him. And he let go of a breath, a sigh, almost, involuntarily held.
At this moment the storm chose to subside. My fingers went lax. Kim sat up, looked at me. I looked at him. Sunlight peeked out, grazed our chins. Residual rainfall died down slowly.
“We'll need to talk about this,” he said, surprisingly vague, “when we get back.”
“Do we?” I supplied.
He climbed back to the driver seat briskly—gracefully, even—like he was used to it, used to me. He wasn't.
He started the engine.
