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31_days2012-07-17 04:22 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2012-07-17 04:22 pm
[July 17] [Crossover: Ace Attorney x FMA] With Eyes Completely Open, But Nervous All The Same
Title: With Eyes Completely Open, But Nervous All The Same
Day/Theme: July 17, 2012 "he told me many times 'I love you.'"
Series: Crossover - Fullmetal Alchemist x Ace Attorney (self-indulgent Liar-verse junk)
Character/Pairing: Kimblee/Machi
Rating: PG-13
1. Some Sunday Morning
One spring morning, Machi awoke to gentle rays of sunlight cascading across his face. It seemed like a sign that it would be a nice day. Kimblee was in the kitchen drinking coffee. He gestured to an elaborate display of flowers in a vase on the table. It was all reds and whites and yellows and greens. It hadn't been there the day before. "You have already been out," Machi noted.
"I wanted to buy a paper," Kimblee shrugged. He probably needed it for some scheme he was cooking up. "Do you like the flowers?"
"You love flowers, don't you?" Machi answered instead. These fresh-cut bouquets weren't cheap. He wouldn't spend his money that way, although Kimblee liked to. Machi was the one with an artist's profession, but Kimblee had an artist's desires.
"They brighten up the place. They look nice with you."
So he was going to prove just dodgy that morning, Machi thought. He went over with the intent of getting out a bowl and having some cereal, but Kimblee stopped him with a firm grip on his arm. "What is it?"
Kimblee let him go and bowed his head. "Won't you marry me?" he asked. His golden eyes flickered out to meet Machi's blue ones. From behind his back came a small ringing sound of metal striking the countertop. He was undoubtedly fiddling with a ring.
"You are crazy. All I am looking for is bowl of Corn Pops and you start with these questions. Let me eat my breakfast."
"Are you going to think about it?" Kimblee pressed in his sideways, weaselly way.
"I am not," Machi concluded the conversation and got out the milk.
2. Friday I'm in Love
Kimblee returned from a supposedly mysterious trip one May afternoon. Machi was pretty sure he had only been out visiting his parents. In any case, he came home with his bags bulging. "Here is the money to pay you back for covering my share of the rent this month, to cover my share of the rent for the next two months, and to pay you back for the clinic fees…with interest," he explained at length, presenting his companion with a check. "It's ready to be cashed as soon as you like."
"The old man's parents are still taking care of him," Machi smirked as he accepted the check.
"It's not like that," Kimblee sniffed. "I just reorganized my funds while I was away. My parents didn't send me any money they didn't already own me- I wouldn't be willing to accept it from them any other way." And, actually, Machi could buy that story because it matched nicely with Kimblee's pride as he knew it. "My mother really wants to meet you, you know."
"She does not think you are sleazy for living with a man twenty years younger?" He supposed there was some logic to Kimblee having a mother as morally disjointed as he was.
"She always hoped I would meet a girl someday and settle down. She would've liked grandkids. But she'll settle for whatever makes me happy. I showed her you picture. She says," Kimblee preemptively chuckled, anticipating Machi's response, "That you're 'adorable.'"
"I have not been age to be properly called 'adorable' for very long time now," he grumbled, though he didn't seem half as riled up about it as he might have been. "You are much like your mother?"
"No, I'm like my father. I have that cold personality."
"I always imagine he is tough parole officer or such and you rebel against his rule," Machi let out a dry chuckle of his own.
"He was in the clothing industry, actually. Nothing creative, strictly business." The 'nothing creative' aspect of this sounded about right. "Anyway, sit down and prepare for some unwrapping. I brought back lots of presents."
"How unnecessary. You are ridiculous," the younger man insisted, but allowed himself to be herded into the living room sort of area, taking a seat on the couch.
"Admit it! You appreciate that quality of mine. You, Machi, are a very serious young man," Kimblee tsked, sorting out his bundle of packages on top of the coffee table.
"You have warped sensibilities to be the way you are," Machi folded his hands and waited for some undoubtedly silly item to be pressed upon him.
"It is true that I've yet to meet anyone who thinks like me, but I believe I prefer to stand alone. Now, you can start with this," he put a package into Machi's hands and waited eagerly to watch him unwrap it.
It was a scarf, white and blue and sea green, made of silk or something that felt like it. There were five more gifts for him to follow, but also something for Detective Armstrong, Prosecutor Gavin, Mr. Justice, "Your dear mother," (Lamiroir, who would not be pleased with anything that came from Kimblee), Mr. McDougal (the mailman, and an old acquaintance of Kimblee's from the military), and Miss Rockbell (from the VA Hospital who specialized in prosthetics). It was a good indicator of who Kimblee liked- or at least desired the good will of.
"I do not feel comfortable accepting so many gifts," Machi protested feebly.
"I am not trying to buy your love," Kimblee insisted (and considering the amount of times Machi had to pay his way rather than vice versa, it was most likely true).
Machi gave up his resistance. The next package contained a set of four matched teacups; after that were a box of Borginian sweet potato cakes (Machi hadn't eaten those in years), a gold-colored (though not actually gold) tie pin with an amethyst (a real one) on it adding a splash of color, a straw boater hat similar to one Kimblee already owned, and, finally, an intimidating little black box, which Machi hesitated to open.
"Please, Kimblee urged him, on his knees, "Please do."
Inside was a golden ring (Kimblee offered no comment in regard to the material that it was made from)- there were lines along its side in some kind of design or showing that it was woven out of several pieces of metal braided together. It was a slim, delicate ring, no doubt perfectly measured to fit his hand.
"If we'd been married all this time we'd lived together, then the other five gifts could be considered anniversary presents." Machi wondered if his face showed his emotions (in which case he wouldn't mind having a mirror because he wasn't sure of all of them himself). Maybe not, as Kimblee didn't display any strong reaction to his response. "I know you don't much go out for the idea of love and all, but, Machi, I think you would be happy if you said yes. At least I don't see how it could make you less content than you are now. Please agree. Please marry me."
It was not a pleasant position to be put in. Machi closed the ring box and handed it back to Kimblee, though he had to push a bit to convince him to take it. "I do not need your gifts, Kimblee. You can have them all back. I will not marry you."
Kimblee bit his lip. He hated it when someone said "no" to him, perhaps more than the ordinary individual. "I already said I am not using gifts to purchase your love. I won't take them back. Keep them anyway."
"You are too kind," Machi replied without any warmth. He scooped up his new things and left, disappearing into his bedroom.
Kimblee curled his hands into fists and threw the black box down onto the ground alongside his knees. For the second time, Machi had turned down a proposal. After living together for five years, how could his request be premature? Machi, he imagined this meant, would never say yes.
3. Monday, Monday
Since having the ring made (Kimblee had designed it himself), he had taken to constantly carrying it around. He liked the weight of it in his pocket and the feel of the metal under his fingers. It was just that, he told himself, not some threadbare hope an opportunity would arise.
A nurse found the ring on him once while looking for proof of insurance. She did find an ID and Machi's number, but as far as health insurance went, there was nothing for her to find. Machi responded to phone call and his ability to cover any bills had already been established by the time Kimblee awoke.
"What's your name, sir?" the nurse dutifully quizzed her patient.
"Solf J. Kimblee."
"And the date."
"It's October first."
The year, the president, where he was…standard test questions fired away one after the other. Satisfied, the nurse moved on to other things, pouring Kimblee the glass of water he requested. "Are you going to propose to your boyfriend?" she asked in regard to the ring.
"How do you know I have a boyfriend?" the question provoked a spike in curiosity from the previously calm patient.
"He came by while you were still sleeping. A young guy like that's kind of a catch for someone your age, huh?" the nurse winked. She probably didn't have more than four or five years on Machi. "And you with no insurance!" (And presumably no money, Kimblee understood the implication that followed from that.) "There must be something really special about you, Mr. Kimblee."
"I hate to give away my secrets, but I am extremely charming," he grinned.
"Ha ha ha," the young nurse laughed, "You're really a sweet old man. I'm sure he'll say 'yes' when you ask him. He was pretty concerned about you. He sat and held you hand."
"Ah. You didn't ask him about his relationship with me, I imagine," Kimblee let out a wry breath of air.
"What's that?"
"He's embarrassed of me, you know. We've been together for five and a half years. …But, you see, I don't have any plans to propose soon. He's turned me down twice before."
"You poor guy! I think five and half years is enough to know what it would be like, and if he's hung around this long, he must love you too. Hey," she encouraged him, "Why don't you go on and ask him again? I bet, right now, he really appreciates you- he was worried, but you're going to be fine. I'm sure he'll say yes. …Third time's the charm, isn't it?"
For the nurse's sake, Kimblee agreed.
Looking forward to observing something romantic, she hung outside the door as Kimblee gave his best attempt at a third sincere offer. She was probably more let down than Kimblee was when Machi stormed out of the room. "He's got a little temper on him, doesn't he?"
"He's a firecracker, all right."
"Better luck next time, Mr. Kimblee," she patted his hand.
4. Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M.
They were tangled up in the sheets and Machi lay dozing in his arms. Kimblee lifted his free hand to wipe stale sweat from his brow. Machi had grown up a lot since they first met, but he was still young and golden and radiant. There was this pain Kimblee got in his chest when he was afforded the opportunity to take a long, unexamined look at Machi like this. He had said "I love you" many times before because it seemed, intellectually, the proper thing to say. Did this pain mean love for…for "real?" …Or should he be having his chest x-rayed?
Machi didn't seem to have nightmares as frequently anymore. In seven and a half years, plenty of things could change. They were comfortable together. They probably knew one another as well as they ever would.
"I'd be yours," Kimblee vowed to the pre-dawn silence, "If you'd be mine. Forever- for the rest of my life. I'd never look at anyone but you. …You don't need to worry about the love part."
Machi twitched slightly in his sleep, moving toward breaking the surface of the sea of dreams. Kimblee kissed his cheek. It was nice to share a bed together like this. Most of the time they slept apart.
Kimblee opened the top side drawer and fished out his ring. It seemed best not to leave it out where Machi could see it. Kimblee turned it around, examining the neatly woven design. He couldn't easily ask Machi his opinion of it, but he thought it was relatively lovely. Kimblee smiled to himself and, in a typical moment of reckless daring, decided to see, once and for all, how the ring would look. He slid it carefully onto Machi's tiny hand. It was a good fit. It looked just perfect. Kimblee sighed. If he just left it there, how long would it take for Machi to notice?
"Good morning."
"Aaah," Machi yawned, "Hello."
On second thought, perhaps it was cruel to make him wait. "I'd love it if you'd marry me. Nothing would have to change- it would be merely symbolic!"
"First thing in the morning? You are so much trouble." Machi looked at the ring, possibly longer than he'd ever examined it before. "I cannot do that, Kimblee."
"You can't," Kimblee replied softly, half statement, half question.
Machi took the ring off and pressed it into Kimblee's hand, "It is a very pretty ring."
Well, at least he had the opportunity to speak to that. "It was specially made. I designed it myself."
"I don't understand why you are a detective and all those things. …Really, you are an artist."
"Do you like me better as an artist?" Kimblee dared a bit of boldness in his defeat.
"Yes, but not enough to marry," Machi shot back, cheeky as ever.
"You're saving that for someone better." It was another half-question.
"No, I am not waiting. I will not ever marry, I think."
Kimblee was not sure how to respond to that.
5. Tuesday Afternoon
"You will be forty-seven," Machi declared, turning the calendar over to March. There was Kimblee's birthday, almost right in the middle of the month. One day later and he would have been fittingly situated at the so-called 'Ides of March.'
"Yes, I just get older and older."
"What would you like for your birthday?"
"To get married," Kimblee replied, blunt and simple over the newspaper.
"You want me to take you to Las Vegas and let you marry a cheap hooker?" Machi grinned back at his mild countenance.
"That would be so much easier, wouldn't it? But if I were willing to settle for that, I would have done so long ago. The only bridegroom that interests me is you."
"Technically you do not cut out brides," Machi continued to tease.
Kimblee took it all with good humor. Of course, it was when he was the most stoic that he appeared the oldest. His hairline had already receded about as far as it intended to go when they had met, but now his hair was fading gradually to gray. There were wrinkles beginning to punctuate his face. Machi would look at him and think that he seemed as if he should be someone's father. "I assumed they were understood."
"What is so terrible about staying unwed?"
"I would have no objection to the solitary life of a bachelor, but instead I live one step away from being married, never able to move an inch further."
"What is so wrong about that? These days there are lots of people like us. It's not like you are having children out of wedlock or something, old lady- even though that is not so strange either."
"The reason doesn't really matter, does it?"
"I guess not," Machi settled down at the table across from him, "I cannot think of a reason that would change my mind."
"I suppose I've always like that about you. You know what it is you want."
Machi hid his uncertainty behind a section of newspaper of his own. That wasn't half as true as he'd managed to convince Kimblee most of the time. …What did he want? Where did he hope he would be this time next year? By the time he was Kimblee's age? …And where did Kimblee, calmer and milder (with age, he assumed), fit into that? "If I get you a cake, what kind would you like?"
"I'm not sure. …Any kind with strawberries on it."
"Oh," the younger man urged, "You must have something more specific in mind than that."
"No, not really. I'd rather be surprised. I'll leave the rest up to you."
6. Thursday's Child
Machi always waited to do things until it was too late. This was one of those times. A really, really bad one of those times. One of the times he was never going to forgive himself for. Ten strange and terrible years he'd spent with Solf J. Kimblee, on and off. Ten mesmerizing, troubling, musical years.
And that was going to be it. Throughout that decade, Kimblee had been in and out of a thousand scrapes, but this was the one that had felled him. At two-oh-five a.m., he'd been crossing the street- leaving behind yet another of his typically mysterious stakeouts (to commit a crime or to unravel one?) to visit the nearest Seven Eleven. He probably intended to get some coffee (it was two in the morning, and, anyway, he loved coffee) and perhaps something to eat with it (he liked cheap doughnuts and green bananas and those terrible Charles V bars), and possibly even to awkwardly ask to borrow the phone (he must have been the only adult in Los Angeles who didn't carry a mobile phone) and call Machi's cellphone to leave a silent message that would be discovered the next morning instead of waking him up with a noisy call to the apartment (after the first time, he never forgot, but when he felt particularly sweet he chose the cellphone over the landline), but these things could only be speculated on.
A drunk driver careened around the corner. It was a hit and run. There were no onlookers. At least the clerk at Seven Eleven was brave enough to respond to horrible sound he heard despite being pretty much completely alone in the dead of the night. He made quick work of calling an ambulance. Kimblee was conscious when he (Jose Luis) knelt down on the ground beside him, but he couldn't speak.
He was unconscious in an ambulance soon enough (at least at that hour the roads were free of the nigh-endless bog of Los Angeles traffic) without speaking any last words to anyone.
Kimblee loved to talk. It was all Machi could ever do to convince him to shut up once and a while.
Sitting in the hospital, Machi told himself that Kimblee would have wanted to have a few carefully chosen last words. It was better than admitting to himself that he wanted some last words from the dying man. He squeezed Kimblee's hand tight. The silence was killing him.
Modern medicine meant he wasn't dead yet. It didn't mean he was going to wake up again.
It seemed to Machi like he had just gotten used to companionship. Now he was going to be alone again. And every time it got a little harder. Every time his heart was broken it mended a little worse.
He couldn't speak and coax Kimblee to awake- he knew this wouldn't work- but maybe by this point he had been in America too long. He'd seen more than enough cheesy movies and TV shows without ever trying. Nothing he could say would make a difference. It wouldn't even reach Kimblee in the first place. But he couldn't stop himself from saying things anyway. Painful things. Revealing things. More than he would usually ever say- maybe more than he could say in any other context.
"You are too important to me to leave me now. You were supposed to keep me worrying about you so I became old and gray first. You were going to keep saying you take care of me when really I take care of you. I was happy to be around you, Kimblee. More than that..." He didn't say this part much- it was too difficult. "I love you. Maybe I said no to you so many times before when you ask me to marry you because I want to ask myself."
How terrible. He was actually forced to hold back tears now. Machi had never considered himself much of the crying type. Kimblee cried a lot more than he did, even if those were only crocodile tears.
"Wake up, Kimblee," he urged as his throat grew tight with pain and sorrow. "Wake up and I will marry you."
That was the spot where Kimblee was supposed to squeeze his hand back and to laugh and to open his eyes. "Oh," he'd say, "And what kind of flowers will we have? Will we both wear white? I can invite Detective Armstrong?" But he didn't move or speak or anything.
Machi's tears began to overflow their banks. This wasn't some sappy made-for-TV movie. It was a black and white film noir, the sort Kimblee liked so much. Kimblee would die; he would be broken. There were no winners in life. Everyone lost sooner or later. The two of them were losing now.
"Wake up, Solf. Wake up!"
But it didn't matter what Machi said or how he cried. Kimblee slipped out of his life as quietly as he had entered.
Day/Theme: July 17, 2012 "he told me many times 'I love you.'"
Series: Crossover - Fullmetal Alchemist x Ace Attorney (self-indulgent Liar-verse junk)
Character/Pairing: Kimblee/Machi
Rating: PG-13
1. Some Sunday Morning
One spring morning, Machi awoke to gentle rays of sunlight cascading across his face. It seemed like a sign that it would be a nice day. Kimblee was in the kitchen drinking coffee. He gestured to an elaborate display of flowers in a vase on the table. It was all reds and whites and yellows and greens. It hadn't been there the day before. "You have already been out," Machi noted.
"I wanted to buy a paper," Kimblee shrugged. He probably needed it for some scheme he was cooking up. "Do you like the flowers?"
"You love flowers, don't you?" Machi answered instead. These fresh-cut bouquets weren't cheap. He wouldn't spend his money that way, although Kimblee liked to. Machi was the one with an artist's profession, but Kimblee had an artist's desires.
"They brighten up the place. They look nice with you."
So he was going to prove just dodgy that morning, Machi thought. He went over with the intent of getting out a bowl and having some cereal, but Kimblee stopped him with a firm grip on his arm. "What is it?"
Kimblee let him go and bowed his head. "Won't you marry me?" he asked. His golden eyes flickered out to meet Machi's blue ones. From behind his back came a small ringing sound of metal striking the countertop. He was undoubtedly fiddling with a ring.
"You are crazy. All I am looking for is bowl of Corn Pops and you start with these questions. Let me eat my breakfast."
"Are you going to think about it?" Kimblee pressed in his sideways, weaselly way.
"I am not," Machi concluded the conversation and got out the milk.
2. Friday I'm in Love
Kimblee returned from a supposedly mysterious trip one May afternoon. Machi was pretty sure he had only been out visiting his parents. In any case, he came home with his bags bulging. "Here is the money to pay you back for covering my share of the rent this month, to cover my share of the rent for the next two months, and to pay you back for the clinic fees…with interest," he explained at length, presenting his companion with a check. "It's ready to be cashed as soon as you like."
"The old man's parents are still taking care of him," Machi smirked as he accepted the check.
"It's not like that," Kimblee sniffed. "I just reorganized my funds while I was away. My parents didn't send me any money they didn't already own me- I wouldn't be willing to accept it from them any other way." And, actually, Machi could buy that story because it matched nicely with Kimblee's pride as he knew it. "My mother really wants to meet you, you know."
"She does not think you are sleazy for living with a man twenty years younger?" He supposed there was some logic to Kimblee having a mother as morally disjointed as he was.
"She always hoped I would meet a girl someday and settle down. She would've liked grandkids. But she'll settle for whatever makes me happy. I showed her you picture. She says," Kimblee preemptively chuckled, anticipating Machi's response, "That you're 'adorable.'"
"I have not been age to be properly called 'adorable' for very long time now," he grumbled, though he didn't seem half as riled up about it as he might have been. "You are much like your mother?"
"No, I'm like my father. I have that cold personality."
"I always imagine he is tough parole officer or such and you rebel against his rule," Machi let out a dry chuckle of his own.
"He was in the clothing industry, actually. Nothing creative, strictly business." The 'nothing creative' aspect of this sounded about right. "Anyway, sit down and prepare for some unwrapping. I brought back lots of presents."
"How unnecessary. You are ridiculous," the younger man insisted, but allowed himself to be herded into the living room sort of area, taking a seat on the couch.
"Admit it! You appreciate that quality of mine. You, Machi, are a very serious young man," Kimblee tsked, sorting out his bundle of packages on top of the coffee table.
"You have warped sensibilities to be the way you are," Machi folded his hands and waited for some undoubtedly silly item to be pressed upon him.
"It is true that I've yet to meet anyone who thinks like me, but I believe I prefer to stand alone. Now, you can start with this," he put a package into Machi's hands and waited eagerly to watch him unwrap it.
It was a scarf, white and blue and sea green, made of silk or something that felt like it. There were five more gifts for him to follow, but also something for Detective Armstrong, Prosecutor Gavin, Mr. Justice, "Your dear mother," (Lamiroir, who would not be pleased with anything that came from Kimblee), Mr. McDougal (the mailman, and an old acquaintance of Kimblee's from the military), and Miss Rockbell (from the VA Hospital who specialized in prosthetics). It was a good indicator of who Kimblee liked- or at least desired the good will of.
"I do not feel comfortable accepting so many gifts," Machi protested feebly.
"I am not trying to buy your love," Kimblee insisted (and considering the amount of times Machi had to pay his way rather than vice versa, it was most likely true).
Machi gave up his resistance. The next package contained a set of four matched teacups; after that were a box of Borginian sweet potato cakes (Machi hadn't eaten those in years), a gold-colored (though not actually gold) tie pin with an amethyst (a real one) on it adding a splash of color, a straw boater hat similar to one Kimblee already owned, and, finally, an intimidating little black box, which Machi hesitated to open.
"Please, Kimblee urged him, on his knees, "Please do."
Inside was a golden ring (Kimblee offered no comment in regard to the material that it was made from)- there were lines along its side in some kind of design or showing that it was woven out of several pieces of metal braided together. It was a slim, delicate ring, no doubt perfectly measured to fit his hand.
"If we'd been married all this time we'd lived together, then the other five gifts could be considered anniversary presents." Machi wondered if his face showed his emotions (in which case he wouldn't mind having a mirror because he wasn't sure of all of them himself). Maybe not, as Kimblee didn't display any strong reaction to his response. "I know you don't much go out for the idea of love and all, but, Machi, I think you would be happy if you said yes. At least I don't see how it could make you less content than you are now. Please agree. Please marry me."
It was not a pleasant position to be put in. Machi closed the ring box and handed it back to Kimblee, though he had to push a bit to convince him to take it. "I do not need your gifts, Kimblee. You can have them all back. I will not marry you."
Kimblee bit his lip. He hated it when someone said "no" to him, perhaps more than the ordinary individual. "I already said I am not using gifts to purchase your love. I won't take them back. Keep them anyway."
"You are too kind," Machi replied without any warmth. He scooped up his new things and left, disappearing into his bedroom.
Kimblee curled his hands into fists and threw the black box down onto the ground alongside his knees. For the second time, Machi had turned down a proposal. After living together for five years, how could his request be premature? Machi, he imagined this meant, would never say yes.
3. Monday, Monday
Since having the ring made (Kimblee had designed it himself), he had taken to constantly carrying it around. He liked the weight of it in his pocket and the feel of the metal under his fingers. It was just that, he told himself, not some threadbare hope an opportunity would arise.
A nurse found the ring on him once while looking for proof of insurance. She did find an ID and Machi's number, but as far as health insurance went, there was nothing for her to find. Machi responded to phone call and his ability to cover any bills had already been established by the time Kimblee awoke.
"What's your name, sir?" the nurse dutifully quizzed her patient.
"Solf J. Kimblee."
"And the date."
"It's October first."
The year, the president, where he was…standard test questions fired away one after the other. Satisfied, the nurse moved on to other things, pouring Kimblee the glass of water he requested. "Are you going to propose to your boyfriend?" she asked in regard to the ring.
"How do you know I have a boyfriend?" the question provoked a spike in curiosity from the previously calm patient.
"He came by while you were still sleeping. A young guy like that's kind of a catch for someone your age, huh?" the nurse winked. She probably didn't have more than four or five years on Machi. "And you with no insurance!" (And presumably no money, Kimblee understood the implication that followed from that.) "There must be something really special about you, Mr. Kimblee."
"I hate to give away my secrets, but I am extremely charming," he grinned.
"Ha ha ha," the young nurse laughed, "You're really a sweet old man. I'm sure he'll say 'yes' when you ask him. He was pretty concerned about you. He sat and held you hand."
"Ah. You didn't ask him about his relationship with me, I imagine," Kimblee let out a wry breath of air.
"What's that?"
"He's embarrassed of me, you know. We've been together for five and a half years. …But, you see, I don't have any plans to propose soon. He's turned me down twice before."
"You poor guy! I think five and half years is enough to know what it would be like, and if he's hung around this long, he must love you too. Hey," she encouraged him, "Why don't you go on and ask him again? I bet, right now, he really appreciates you- he was worried, but you're going to be fine. I'm sure he'll say yes. …Third time's the charm, isn't it?"
For the nurse's sake, Kimblee agreed.
Looking forward to observing something romantic, she hung outside the door as Kimblee gave his best attempt at a third sincere offer. She was probably more let down than Kimblee was when Machi stormed out of the room. "He's got a little temper on him, doesn't he?"
"He's a firecracker, all right."
"Better luck next time, Mr. Kimblee," she patted his hand.
4. Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M.
They were tangled up in the sheets and Machi lay dozing in his arms. Kimblee lifted his free hand to wipe stale sweat from his brow. Machi had grown up a lot since they first met, but he was still young and golden and radiant. There was this pain Kimblee got in his chest when he was afforded the opportunity to take a long, unexamined look at Machi like this. He had said "I love you" many times before because it seemed, intellectually, the proper thing to say. Did this pain mean love for…for "real?" …Or should he be having his chest x-rayed?
Machi didn't seem to have nightmares as frequently anymore. In seven and a half years, plenty of things could change. They were comfortable together. They probably knew one another as well as they ever would.
"I'd be yours," Kimblee vowed to the pre-dawn silence, "If you'd be mine. Forever- for the rest of my life. I'd never look at anyone but you. …You don't need to worry about the love part."
Machi twitched slightly in his sleep, moving toward breaking the surface of the sea of dreams. Kimblee kissed his cheek. It was nice to share a bed together like this. Most of the time they slept apart.
Kimblee opened the top side drawer and fished out his ring. It seemed best not to leave it out where Machi could see it. Kimblee turned it around, examining the neatly woven design. He couldn't easily ask Machi his opinion of it, but he thought it was relatively lovely. Kimblee smiled to himself and, in a typical moment of reckless daring, decided to see, once and for all, how the ring would look. He slid it carefully onto Machi's tiny hand. It was a good fit. It looked just perfect. Kimblee sighed. If he just left it there, how long would it take for Machi to notice?
"Good morning."
"Aaah," Machi yawned, "Hello."
On second thought, perhaps it was cruel to make him wait. "I'd love it if you'd marry me. Nothing would have to change- it would be merely symbolic!"
"First thing in the morning? You are so much trouble." Machi looked at the ring, possibly longer than he'd ever examined it before. "I cannot do that, Kimblee."
"You can't," Kimblee replied softly, half statement, half question.
Machi took the ring off and pressed it into Kimblee's hand, "It is a very pretty ring."
Well, at least he had the opportunity to speak to that. "It was specially made. I designed it myself."
"I don't understand why you are a detective and all those things. …Really, you are an artist."
"Do you like me better as an artist?" Kimblee dared a bit of boldness in his defeat.
"Yes, but not enough to marry," Machi shot back, cheeky as ever.
"You're saving that for someone better." It was another half-question.
"No, I am not waiting. I will not ever marry, I think."
Kimblee was not sure how to respond to that.
5. Tuesday Afternoon
"You will be forty-seven," Machi declared, turning the calendar over to March. There was Kimblee's birthday, almost right in the middle of the month. One day later and he would have been fittingly situated at the so-called 'Ides of March.'
"Yes, I just get older and older."
"What would you like for your birthday?"
"To get married," Kimblee replied, blunt and simple over the newspaper.
"You want me to take you to Las Vegas and let you marry a cheap hooker?" Machi grinned back at his mild countenance.
"That would be so much easier, wouldn't it? But if I were willing to settle for that, I would have done so long ago. The only bridegroom that interests me is you."
"Technically you do not cut out brides," Machi continued to tease.
Kimblee took it all with good humor. Of course, it was when he was the most stoic that he appeared the oldest. His hairline had already receded about as far as it intended to go when they had met, but now his hair was fading gradually to gray. There were wrinkles beginning to punctuate his face. Machi would look at him and think that he seemed as if he should be someone's father. "I assumed they were understood."
"What is so terrible about staying unwed?"
"I would have no objection to the solitary life of a bachelor, but instead I live one step away from being married, never able to move an inch further."
"What is so wrong about that? These days there are lots of people like us. It's not like you are having children out of wedlock or something, old lady- even though that is not so strange either."
"The reason doesn't really matter, does it?"
"I guess not," Machi settled down at the table across from him, "I cannot think of a reason that would change my mind."
"I suppose I've always like that about you. You know what it is you want."
Machi hid his uncertainty behind a section of newspaper of his own. That wasn't half as true as he'd managed to convince Kimblee most of the time. …What did he want? Where did he hope he would be this time next year? By the time he was Kimblee's age? …And where did Kimblee, calmer and milder (with age, he assumed), fit into that? "If I get you a cake, what kind would you like?"
"I'm not sure. …Any kind with strawberries on it."
"Oh," the younger man urged, "You must have something more specific in mind than that."
"No, not really. I'd rather be surprised. I'll leave the rest up to you."
6. Thursday's Child
Machi always waited to do things until it was too late. This was one of those times. A really, really bad one of those times. One of the times he was never going to forgive himself for. Ten strange and terrible years he'd spent with Solf J. Kimblee, on and off. Ten mesmerizing, troubling, musical years.
And that was going to be it. Throughout that decade, Kimblee had been in and out of a thousand scrapes, but this was the one that had felled him. At two-oh-five a.m., he'd been crossing the street- leaving behind yet another of his typically mysterious stakeouts (to commit a crime or to unravel one?) to visit the nearest Seven Eleven. He probably intended to get some coffee (it was two in the morning, and, anyway, he loved coffee) and perhaps something to eat with it (he liked cheap doughnuts and green bananas and those terrible Charles V bars), and possibly even to awkwardly ask to borrow the phone (he must have been the only adult in Los Angeles who didn't carry a mobile phone) and call Machi's cellphone to leave a silent message that would be discovered the next morning instead of waking him up with a noisy call to the apartment (after the first time, he never forgot, but when he felt particularly sweet he chose the cellphone over the landline), but these things could only be speculated on.
A drunk driver careened around the corner. It was a hit and run. There were no onlookers. At least the clerk at Seven Eleven was brave enough to respond to horrible sound he heard despite being pretty much completely alone in the dead of the night. He made quick work of calling an ambulance. Kimblee was conscious when he (Jose Luis) knelt down on the ground beside him, but he couldn't speak.
He was unconscious in an ambulance soon enough (at least at that hour the roads were free of the nigh-endless bog of Los Angeles traffic) without speaking any last words to anyone.
Kimblee loved to talk. It was all Machi could ever do to convince him to shut up once and a while.
Sitting in the hospital, Machi told himself that Kimblee would have wanted to have a few carefully chosen last words. It was better than admitting to himself that he wanted some last words from the dying man. He squeezed Kimblee's hand tight. The silence was killing him.
Modern medicine meant he wasn't dead yet. It didn't mean he was going to wake up again.
It seemed to Machi like he had just gotten used to companionship. Now he was going to be alone again. And every time it got a little harder. Every time his heart was broken it mended a little worse.
He couldn't speak and coax Kimblee to awake- he knew this wouldn't work- but maybe by this point he had been in America too long. He'd seen more than enough cheesy movies and TV shows without ever trying. Nothing he could say would make a difference. It wouldn't even reach Kimblee in the first place. But he couldn't stop himself from saying things anyway. Painful things. Revealing things. More than he would usually ever say- maybe more than he could say in any other context.
"You are too important to me to leave me now. You were supposed to keep me worrying about you so I became old and gray first. You were going to keep saying you take care of me when really I take care of you. I was happy to be around you, Kimblee. More than that..." He didn't say this part much- it was too difficult. "I love you. Maybe I said no to you so many times before when you ask me to marry you because I want to ask myself."
How terrible. He was actually forced to hold back tears now. Machi had never considered himself much of the crying type. Kimblee cried a lot more than he did, even if those were only crocodile tears.
"Wake up, Kimblee," he urged as his throat grew tight with pain and sorrow. "Wake up and I will marry you."
That was the spot where Kimblee was supposed to squeeze his hand back and to laugh and to open his eyes. "Oh," he'd say, "And what kind of flowers will we have? Will we both wear white? I can invite Detective Armstrong?" But he didn't move or speak or anything.
Machi's tears began to overflow their banks. This wasn't some sappy made-for-TV movie. It was a black and white film noir, the sort Kimblee liked so much. Kimblee would die; he would be broken. There were no winners in life. Everyone lost sooner or later. The two of them were losing now.
"Wake up, Solf. Wake up!"
But it didn't matter what Machi said or how he cried. Kimblee slipped out of his life as quietly as he had entered.