Chapter Text
Harry drums his fingers against the table top, nervously. He glances up quickly, only to find Kim’s reassuring gaze and gentle half-smile. He tries to return it, weakly, as Kim reaches out – grabbing his hand to stop the tapping and stroking a thumb methodically over his knuckles. It should be soothing (it usually is) but this time, Harry simply finds that the nervous energy has transferred to his other hand where he’s now determinedly rubbing a hole through the paper napkin that came with his mocktail. Kim sighs with the kind of lightly amused exasperation that Harry has come to know excruciatingly well over the last few months.
“Harrier. What are you thinking?”
Around them, people are wandering into the modest-sized bar; greeting friends, grabbing drinks, and making their way towards a small stage in the back. Their small, two-top table doesn’t have the best view of the stage – not as compared to the folks right near the front, anyway – but it’s not terrible, either. They got here early, in fact, with the sole purpose of staking out this spot. After Harry’s injury in Martinaise, standing for long periods of time has become a test of physical endurance. Something to be powered through at work, when absolutely required – not something to take on willingly during a night out that’s supposed to be fun.
Right. This was supposed to be fun, Harry thinks to himself. Just spit it out and stop moping. You're ruining it.
“Kim.”
“Mmm?”
“Kim, I…I don’t think I should be here.”
Harry notices Kim’s eyes flick quickly back towards the rows of bottles behind the bartender. “Is it too much? Do you want to go?” Kim’s voice is soft, and the question is spoken without judgment. Harry thinks he might fall in love with him all over again.
“No, fuck, sorry, that’s not– not what I meant. I mean here . At this bar.”
This bar: one of Jamrock’s oldest, most beloved gay bars.
Kim just looks at him inquisitively, waiting for him to continue.
“I don’t think– I mean, I’m not really part of the underground.”
Harry isn’t sure exactly what he’s expecting, but it isn’t laughter. And yet, he can’t help but feel that familiar warmth in his lungs as Kim’s composure breaks and he lets out something embarrassingly like a snort.
“I already told you, ‘card carrying homo-sexual’ is just a turn of phrase. There’s no entry exam, Harrier – and honestly, even if there was, I think our behavior over the last few months would have ticked most of the boxes, anyway.” It’s dark in the bar, but Harry is pretty sure he can see the tips of Kim’s ears turn red – or maybe he just knows Kim well enough to guess that’s what’s happening. “Khm. So what’s this really about?”
“No, I know. But I still can’t help but feel like…like I’m not really part of this community. You belong here, Kim – you fit right in! You know just what to say and how to act, because you’ve been doing this since you were, I dunno, 16? For decades now.”
“Yes, I'm quite old. Thank you for pointing it out.” The ghost of a smirk on his face is just enough for Harry to catch the joke in Kim’s dry delivery (and reign in the impulse to go full Sorry Cop).
“Look, I'm just as old as you, you know that's not what I meant! But when you were in your 20s, when you were sneaking around and watching how you dressed and who you spoke to and how you acted…I wasn’t.” Harry lowers his voice to a dramatic whisper: “I was practically married to a woman, for Dei’s sake! I didn't figure my shit out until…long after. Hell, I’m still kind of figuring it out.”
Kim peers across the table through thick lenses, frowning. “Defining ourselves by our oppression is a horrible idea. Mistreatment is not a prerequisite for queerness.”
“But…still, it just feels like I'm co-opting a thing that's only half accurate. I'm in my 40s and I only just realized that I'm bi-sexual, because I just assumed everyone was a little bit gay. Like, who hasn’t imagined making out with Guillaume le Million right? I didn't know some guys just…literally never thought about other guys that way.”
“I'm afraid I won't be a good measuring stick on this front. I have, in fact, always thought about other men that way .” Harry knows that Kim is trying to use humor to keep him from spiraling. It's not exactly subtle, but it is appreciated.
“But realizing all that, conveniently, now? Because I fell in love with the most amazing person I'd ever seen who just happened to be a man…it just kinda feels like I skipped the 101 classes, ya know? Like I snuck in without paying the cover charge.”
Kim nods, thoughtfully. Then, without a word, he stands from his chair, leans across the small table, grabs Harry by the chin, and kisses him. This is decidedly un-Kim behavior – and it’s no quick, chaste kiss, either. Kim’s tongue runs across Harry's lips, demanding entry; something Harry eagerly grants with a low noise of arousal mixed with surprise. Kim's hand has slid around to the nape of Harry's neck, twisting into his long hair and holding him in place as Kim steps gracefully around the table and straddles Harry's lap. A wolf whistle returns Harry's attention back to their surroundings, and he pulls back from Kim to look around for the source. Most people don't really care; one young man walking by gives them a cheeky wink.
Harry looks up at Kim, fully expecting him to be blushing, clearing his throat, shifting away - he's so rarely one for public displays of affection. But instead, he finds himself fixed in place by Kim's piercing stare, the one he usually saves for uncooperative interview subjects.
“You're right. This place has been my home, my refuge, for decades. And you may be new here, but it's my joy to share it with you - for you to finally be able to come home, as well. I want you here, with me. You belong here. We belong here.”
It's not even a conscious decision for Harry to reach up and pull Kim's mouth back down to his. It just happens, inevitably, like the sunrise. I'm so lucky , he thinks for what has to be the millionth time. How did I get so lucky?
It’s clear that Harry would have been more than happy to continue making out in this dark corner of the bar like teenagers, but the lowering of the lights and hush of the crowd noise pulls Kim’s attention back to their surroundings. Harry makes a groan of disappointment as Kim slides back into his own chair. The fact that said chair has now, admittedly, been pulled around the side of the table to sit as close to Harry as possible is only slightly making up for the loss of Kim’s weight in Harry’s lap.
“Shh,” Kim whispers, the authority of the eyebrow silencing any further protest. “This is what we came for, remember?” His hand is entwined with Harry’s resting on the table, his head leaned on Harry’s shoulder. This much casual intimacy from Kim in one night is astounding; almost overwhelming. If I knew he would have felt this comfortable here, I would have made him bring me weeks ago.
But any further whirling thoughts are silenced by the swish of the stage curtains, revealing one of the most beautiful creatures Harry thinks he’s ever seen. A man steps towards the microphone at the front of the stage, heels clicking on the parquet floors. The long train of a sparking blue gown trails behind him. His chest hair peeks above the deep V of the neckline and the chestnut brown of his beard is set off by the bright red of his lipstick. Long white gloves only serve to highlight muscular biceps. Shoulder length hair has been curled and pinned to frame his face: sharply contoured and brightly blushed cheekbones, cerulean eyeshadow beneath high-arching thin eyebrows, and impossibly dark, impossibly long eyelashes. “ Hello, children of Revachol! Are you ready for a show tonight?”
When Kim sneaks a glance over at Harry, he’s so entranced that he misses one of Kim’s rare, true smiles.
On their walk back to the apartment, Harry is completely glowing as they discuss the drag show. Even Kim can’t refrain from grinning; they’re like two mirrors bouncing light back and forth between them. It brings Kim so much joy to get to share this world with Harry – even if Harry had seemed nervous at first. Kim would really like to go back to the bar together again sometime, but he wasn’t going to force Harry if he felt truly uncomfortable; he’s relieved to see that Harry’s brief moment of doubt earlier in the evening seems to have been temporary.
“Kim, that was amazing! Absolutely fuckin disco!”
“I thought you might enjoy it.”
“I had no idea! This happens every week?”
“Every Saturday night.”
Harry looks off into the distance, sounding wistful as he says “He was so beautiful. I didn’t know men could be beautiful like that. I mean – fuck, wait – not that you’re not absolutely gorgeous, Kim, you’re so handsome – but that was. That was different. He was beautiful like–“
“…like a woman?”
“Yes! But also, no? Not like a man or a woman, but like…a secret third thing! I’m gonna…I think I’m gonna have to think about this one for a while, fuck. 7 hours, at least. It’s like the feeling I get when I’m wearing that mesh tank top and those heeled boots, but times a hundred. No, times a thousand. ”
Kim pauses in their walk home for a moment, throwing off Harry’s rhythm and rambling as he brings them to a sudden halt. The yellow-tinged light of the sodium street lamps reflects off his glasses as he peers up at Harry, curiously. His voice is low enough that Harry has to really focus to hear him over the rush of passing motor carriages and general city noise.
“Would you…do you think you might want to try it? Wearing makeup?”
Harry can feel the blush creep up his cheeks as Kim’s words sink in. Kim watches Harry’s eyes drift a little as he considers.
That’s…wow. Do we? Harry closes his eyes for a minute, trying to imagine it. A flash of memory – a blond, apricot-scented woman twisting the base of a small, golden tube with fluted sides, touching up her usual rose-colored lipstick. The pain is still there, but it’s dulled – just a memory of pain, now. He remembers those same rose-colored lips: smiling, kissing, leaving marks on his shirt collars, wrapped around his cock. He swallows, thickly, opening his eyes to find his boyfriend still waiting, patiently. I could do that?
When Harry speaks, it feels rough and broken, like it crawled up from somewhere deep within him: “Yes. Yes, please.”
Kim simply nods, businesslike, before resuming their walk. “Very well. Then I think we should make a stop into Frittte on our way home.”