Disco Bingo, Baby!
Well, I'm still not ready to get to work on my Yuldetide story, although I maybe kinda-sort have the faint beginnings of an idea for it.
Instead, I decided to do one more bingo ficlet, rather than waiting to double up with Multifandom Tropefest for it. And it seemed like fun to do all five of them in the same fandom this time. Although it is, perhaps, also a little amusing, considering that I didn't even know this fandom existed when I got this bingo card. Mind you, I still don't feel like I've even remotely begun exploring the fic potential of these characters. At all. But there's always room for another little post-canon character piece, anyway, right?
And with that, I have finally finished my Round 20 Bingo! Huzzah!
Title: Borrow My Authority When Your Volition Fails
Fandom: Disco Elysium
Characters/Pairings: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi (implied established relationship)
Summary: When Kim comes home, Harry is sitting at their tiny kitchen table. There is a bottle in front of him.
Rating/Warnings: Teen. Warning for depictions of alcoholism.
Length: ~1000 words
Author's Note: Written for Gen Prompt Bingo, for the prompt "Drunkeness and Inebriation," which I'm using for my wild card square.
Borrow My Authority When Your Volition Fails
When Kim comes home, Harry is sitting at their tiny kitchen table. There is a bottle in front of him.
Commodore Red.
Did he break the promise he made last time and purchase it, or did he find it in some abandoned building or hidden container? Most likely it's the latter. Harry does at least try to keep his promises, but the Jamrock Shuffle is an addiction in its own right.
At least he hasn't opened it yet. He has one hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle and is staring at it as if it's talking to him. Which very possibly it is.
"What are you doing?" The question is flat. Rhetorical. Kim knows perfectly well what he's doing. He's done it twice this year already. At least this time Kim hasn't found him already passed out in danger of choking on his own vomit.
"Does it matter?" says Harry, not looking up from the bottle.
"Yes," says Kim. "It does." It very much does. It matters to Harry's well-being. It matters to the precinct. It matters to him.
He doesn't need to say that. Harry knows. Or he should.
"No, Kim, it really, really doesn't. Communism is dead. The world is shit. The end is coming. And I can't fix any of it." His voice is quiet, rough. Sometimes, when he has moments like these, he gets loud. Quiet is worse.
"That," says Kim, "does not matter. Not to the question of whether you should drink." Did something happen today, he wonders, some mistake or remark or secondhand tragedy, or is it simply the cumulative weight of existence that has him crumbling again? Winter is always difficult for Harry, too, and this winter even Kim can sense something disturbing in the air. Revachol is tense, unsettled. The potential for violence -- more violence, worse violence -- is palpable on the streets, ready to burst forth with the spring. She's scared, Harry said to him, a few weeks ago. Revachol is scared, and I don't know how to help her. He did not mean it metaphorically.
The clothes probably aren't helping, either. Kim does not understand the psychology behind the effect of Harry's clothes on his mood, but he does notice patterns. He has taken notes. And those fingerless gloves Harry's wearing now will perhaps be suffering an unfortunate accident very soon.
"Look at me," Harry says, gesturing at himself with the hand not wrapped around the bottle. "I don't deserve to be sober."
Kim does look at him. Harry looks... damaged. He has since the day Kim met him. But looks aren't everything. Kim has known motor carriages like Harry. Battered and dented, with misaligned steering and shattered headlights, but inside: a beautiful well-made engine, still capable of powerful performance despite years of neglect. Such vehicles deserve to be restored. "Don't be stupid," he says.
"And I want it," says Harry. "You don't... you don't understand what it's like. In here." He smacks himself on the head, hard enough that he must be causing himself more pain. "They don't shut up. They never shut up, and they're as fucked as I am, because they're me. And right now, that red one's winning. 'Drink it,' he says. 'It'll make you feel better.' And you know what's really fucked up about that? I know he's lying. It won't make me feel better. But I don't care. It'll make me feel less, and that's good enough. Well, not good. But you know what I mean."
Kim takes a step forward, and another, until he is standing beside Harry. He rests a hand flat against the tabletop.
"I'm going to drink this," Harry says, and moves to open the bottle.
"No," Kim says. "You're not." He says it in his most unyielding voice, the one he uses not to declare things true, but to make them true. He tries not to invoke it too often, lest it lose its effectiveness, but if ever there was a time for it, it's now.
Harry trembles. He whimpers a little, and bites his lip, and he lowers his hand from the bottle.
"Good," says Kim, and takes it from him. He lets his voice go quieter. Gentler. "That's good, Harry. Thank you."
Harry looks at him. His eyes are large, and moist, and Kim doesn't know what that expression in them is. Fear? Resentment? Gratitude? Love? "Okay," he says. "Okay, yeah, Kim. Okay."
It isn't really okay. Because Harry isn't wrong. The world is shit. But that is not an excuse. You still do the damn maintenance on your vehicle. You don't let it drive around falling apart and looking like no one loves it.
Kim pours the alcohol down the drain. Then he begins making coffee. He'll need to stay awake tonight, to watch over Harry. He has a familiar routine for this by now, and it always starts with coffee.
"Give the voices in your head a message for me, would you?" he says as he sets a cup down in front of Harry. Black with sugar, the way he likes it. "Tell them that from now on, no matter what happens, all of them will be answering to me."
Harry blinks at him. Then he tilts his head a little, thinking. His eyes go unfocused for a long moment.
Kim takes his own cup and sits down across from him. Whatever's going on in Harry's mind now, he allows it time to happen.
Harry's gaze focuses on Kim's face again. His lips twitch beneath his mustache, in the faint beginnings of a smile.
"Well?" says Kim, and sips his coffee.
"Yeah," he says. "I think we can live with that."
It isn't good enough, Kim knows. Not unless Harry makes the effort, too. Probably not even then, if one dispassionately considers the statistics. But just because something is improbable, that doesn't mean it can't happen. It was the man in front of him who taught him that.
"See that you do," he says. And he takes Harry's hand, and, for both of them, he believes.
This entry was originally posted at https://astrogirl.dreamwidth.org/1014909.html. Comment here or there, whichever you like.
Instead, I decided to do one more bingo ficlet, rather than waiting to double up with Multifandom Tropefest for it. And it seemed like fun to do all five of them in the same fandom this time. Although it is, perhaps, also a little amusing, considering that I didn't even know this fandom existed when I got this bingo card. Mind you, I still don't feel like I've even remotely begun exploring the fic potential of these characters. At all. But there's always room for another little post-canon character piece, anyway, right?
And with that, I have finally finished my Round 20 Bingo! Huzzah!
Title: Borrow My Authority When Your Volition Fails
Fandom: Disco Elysium
Characters/Pairings: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi (implied established relationship)
Summary: When Kim comes home, Harry is sitting at their tiny kitchen table. There is a bottle in front of him.
Rating/Warnings: Teen. Warning for depictions of alcoholism.
Length: ~1000 words
Author's Note: Written for Gen Prompt Bingo, for the prompt "Drunkeness and Inebriation," which I'm using for my wild card square.
Borrow My Authority When Your Volition Fails
When Kim comes home, Harry is sitting at their tiny kitchen table. There is a bottle in front of him.
Commodore Red.
Did he break the promise he made last time and purchase it, or did he find it in some abandoned building or hidden container? Most likely it's the latter. Harry does at least try to keep his promises, but the Jamrock Shuffle is an addiction in its own right.
At least he hasn't opened it yet. He has one hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle and is staring at it as if it's talking to him. Which very possibly it is.
"What are you doing?" The question is flat. Rhetorical. Kim knows perfectly well what he's doing. He's done it twice this year already. At least this time Kim hasn't found him already passed out in danger of choking on his own vomit.
"Does it matter?" says Harry, not looking up from the bottle.
"Yes," says Kim. "It does." It very much does. It matters to Harry's well-being. It matters to the precinct. It matters to him.
He doesn't need to say that. Harry knows. Or he should.
"No, Kim, it really, really doesn't. Communism is dead. The world is shit. The end is coming. And I can't fix any of it." His voice is quiet, rough. Sometimes, when he has moments like these, he gets loud. Quiet is worse.
"That," says Kim, "does not matter. Not to the question of whether you should drink." Did something happen today, he wonders, some mistake or remark or secondhand tragedy, or is it simply the cumulative weight of existence that has him crumbling again? Winter is always difficult for Harry, too, and this winter even Kim can sense something disturbing in the air. Revachol is tense, unsettled. The potential for violence -- more violence, worse violence -- is palpable on the streets, ready to burst forth with the spring. She's scared, Harry said to him, a few weeks ago. Revachol is scared, and I don't know how to help her. He did not mean it metaphorically.
The clothes probably aren't helping, either. Kim does not understand the psychology behind the effect of Harry's clothes on his mood, but he does notice patterns. He has taken notes. And those fingerless gloves Harry's wearing now will perhaps be suffering an unfortunate accident very soon.
"Look at me," Harry says, gesturing at himself with the hand not wrapped around the bottle. "I don't deserve to be sober."
Kim does look at him. Harry looks... damaged. He has since the day Kim met him. But looks aren't everything. Kim has known motor carriages like Harry. Battered and dented, with misaligned steering and shattered headlights, but inside: a beautiful well-made engine, still capable of powerful performance despite years of neglect. Such vehicles deserve to be restored. "Don't be stupid," he says.
"And I want it," says Harry. "You don't... you don't understand what it's like. In here." He smacks himself on the head, hard enough that he must be causing himself more pain. "They don't shut up. They never shut up, and they're as fucked as I am, because they're me. And right now, that red one's winning. 'Drink it,' he says. 'It'll make you feel better.' And you know what's really fucked up about that? I know he's lying. It won't make me feel better. But I don't care. It'll make me feel less, and that's good enough. Well, not good. But you know what I mean."
Kim takes a step forward, and another, until he is standing beside Harry. He rests a hand flat against the tabletop.
"I'm going to drink this," Harry says, and moves to open the bottle.
"No," Kim says. "You're not." He says it in his most unyielding voice, the one he uses not to declare things true, but to make them true. He tries not to invoke it too often, lest it lose its effectiveness, but if ever there was a time for it, it's now.
Harry trembles. He whimpers a little, and bites his lip, and he lowers his hand from the bottle.
"Good," says Kim, and takes it from him. He lets his voice go quieter. Gentler. "That's good, Harry. Thank you."
Harry looks at him. His eyes are large, and moist, and Kim doesn't know what that expression in them is. Fear? Resentment? Gratitude? Love? "Okay," he says. "Okay, yeah, Kim. Okay."
It isn't really okay. Because Harry isn't wrong. The world is shit. But that is not an excuse. You still do the damn maintenance on your vehicle. You don't let it drive around falling apart and looking like no one loves it.
Kim pours the alcohol down the drain. Then he begins making coffee. He'll need to stay awake tonight, to watch over Harry. He has a familiar routine for this by now, and it always starts with coffee.
"Give the voices in your head a message for me, would you?" he says as he sets a cup down in front of Harry. Black with sugar, the way he likes it. "Tell them that from now on, no matter what happens, all of them will be answering to me."
Harry blinks at him. Then he tilts his head a little, thinking. His eyes go unfocused for a long moment.
Kim takes his own cup and sits down across from him. Whatever's going on in Harry's mind now, he allows it time to happen.
Harry's gaze focuses on Kim's face again. His lips twitch beneath his mustache, in the faint beginnings of a smile.
"Well?" says Kim, and sips his coffee.
"Yeah," he says. "I think we can live with that."
It isn't good enough, Kim knows. Not unless Harry makes the effort, too. Probably not even then, if one dispassionately considers the statistics. But just because something is improbable, that doesn't mean it can't happen. It was the man in front of him who taught him that.
"See that you do," he says. And he takes Harry's hand, and, for both of them, he believes.
This entry was originally posted at https://astrogirl.dreamwidth.org/1014909.html. Comment here or there, whichever you like.