on kim kitsuragi's eyesight and grief
(originally rambled on the SB discord)
so we know canonically kim's farsighted but there are some comments about him needing visual descriptions, struggling with both things nearby (footprints) and far away (the church through the binoculars)
when it's so all encompassing, it means the hyperopia has increased and it's often a symptom of glaucoma, which can get pretty bad if neglected. it makes me wonder how healthcare works under the Coalition govt, and if RCM officers have access to specialist medicine, honestly, the way Kim talks about funding and task distribution, it makes me think it's not actually common
i think the fact that he's literally depicted as composure, harry's awe at how cool kim is, even interactions where he pushes you to get your shit together paint the image of someone with a ridiculously high self control
arguably problematic, like someone who can't or doesn't know how to put down the walls and let anything in, or out
think that a young kim, understanding that his eyesight was getting worse, would seek refuge in that façade, refusing to relinquish control
plus of course, systemic racism, homophobia and juvie cop just adds to a delightful combo that ends with him being an absolute rock in the face of chaos
you can't let your guard down if you want to stay alive in Revachol, as it is
and life goes on, and his grasp on himself feels less and less protection and just How Things Are
the thing about glaucoma-induced sight loss, though, is that you don't notice it's happening
one day you just try to do something that you're so used to doing and you suddenly realize you can't, anymore
kim handles it, of course. there's no point in losing his shit over it. each year his prescription gets higher, his shooting scores get lower, and things fade out in the background. there's no time to mourn when you need to keep it together for the sake of your city.
he gets to martinaise expecting a run on the mill murder and comes out crumbling. harry as a miracle, the phasmid as a miracle, and the end of everything, also, in a way, a miracle. he gets home, concussed and exhausted and for the first time he allows himself to feel gratitude and loss. at least you got to see a giant stickbug. but it, too, shall pass.
omething shifts in him, maybe because when you are faced with the inevitable death of all you know and love, perhaps the only thing you can do is love while you can. it's not easy by any means, after 43 years of being a walking volumetric shit compressor.
i do think he ends up transferring to the 41st, and that when he says he likes the views better than in his GRIH office, he means it. he looks out of the window and he sees splotches of grey and orange every evening, hears bicycles zooming past. he misses seeing the buildings beyond a mass of concrete, but he feels the lives, he feels the kind hands of la Revacholière on his face and that is enough.
sunsets are easy, but not everything is.
in october '52, he fills in his last crossword. he doesn't know it will be his last, until the next day he sits at the kitchen table, opens the paper and realizes he can't even see the grid. he mourns that, as he always does, retroactively.
53 brings the suspension of his driver's license. on the day he gets the news, before he has to go to a cobwebbed office to get the watermarked card cut up, he calls Harry. it's 5 in the morning, and he is tired, and he still comes running. they drive alongside the coastal highway, from Jamrock to Martinaise, thrash seeping out of the windows in the darkness of a very early morning. he thinks about asking Harry to help him push the Kineema into the waters of Martinaise. Then he thinks about pollution, about feeling so empty that you'd drive your car off of a waterlock, and he discards the fantasy. Harry doesn't say anything, for once. Kim holds out a hand, and he takes it. He thinks about getting used to this and almost passes out.
I'd like to think Jean and him bond over horses, over crass jokes and lack of balance and being in love with Harry, though neither say it out loud.
Jean teaches him how to ride, and Harry straps a small speaker to the saddle and they call the mare Coupris. Kim laughs for the first time, openly, in months. After a lifetime of being different, understanding, deep in your bones, that different can be inequivocally good does really change a man.
ther times it's harder to hold onto that thought, of course. There are harder things to mourn, despite it all. The violence and loneliness of orientation and mobility. Internalizing that a cane can only get you so far. The stares. The loss of independence. He endures this as penitence, some vestigial Dolorianismus.
Walking down the harbor and realizing that you are lost, that you are lost in what was your home and muscle memory can't save you, and you look for the cranes to tell you where the gate is and all you see is endles butane staring back.
He's in Harry's apartment one Friday night, leaning in and kissing Harry. The bucket list of the apocalypse, complete. Here you are, Kitsuragi, you are a blind, gay cop of Seolite descent and you are blissfully at peace with the end of the universe.
en you pull back, and things ache again. They always will. This certainty solidifies as you look ahead and desperately wish you could see Harry's face, but you can't. You can't see him aging, you can't see him loving and some nights you are aware that you are forgetting how he looks.
He wonders how an instant can hold so much tenderness and sorrow, and if that is what the Phasmid felt, a grief for all humanity.
Thankfully, it's a dull ache. Your city loves you, your partner loves you, and the world is no lesser for any other sense.
At the edge of the world, Harry holds onto Kim
the Pale is slow and insidious, but also terribly kind
Harry forgets his face, too. The layouts of the streets, the colour of the sunset. He can't ride horses, cars, at the end of all things
Kim knows loss, and as they fade, he also knows love. Après le gris, le monde encore.
vaporwave
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