Chapter Text
"What is this 'heart'? If I tear open that chest of yours, will I see it there? If I smash open that skull of yours, will I see it there?" ~Ulquiorra ―Tite Kubo, Bleach
Too drunk to curse his inability to fit his key in the lock, Officer Marc Borgmann finally threw his shoulder against the door of his small apartment and stumbled inside. Angrily throwing his keys and wallet on the side table, they somehow landed on the floor instead. He managed a nearly unintelligible, "Fuck!" as the room tilted sideways when he bent to retrieve them.
With both hands and the wall to steady himself, he finally noticed an icy breeze reminding him the door is still open. Swaying on his feet, he stared at it with some confusion. After several tries, he managed to lock it closed. Then he scrubbed his hand through his hair, aimed himself at the living area, and staggered inside.
The apartment is small, with the odor of spoiled food wafting lazily through the musty air. The kitchenette revealed a sink full of half-eaten frozen meals with a formation of empty beer bottles standing at attention nearby. Marc wrinkles his nose, waves a hand at the mess, knocked over a few bottles and kept moving.
Three windows hold back the sun with dusty blankets nailed to their frames. The bathroom, a strictly utilitarian area, which any guest would enter at their peril. A single towel hangs crookedly from the shower stall. Across the room is a narrow closet where clean and pressed uniforms hang in precise order. The polished shoes and boots line up on the floor reside next to his riot gear. His sidearm, clean and oiled, hangs from a sturdy hook.
Barely out of his clothes, he fell into bed and pulled the pillow over his face to block out the motion of the spinning room. He had turned off his cell phone just before he blacked out; he's in no shape to cover an extra shift tonight, and he's off tomorrow. The guilt, the lonely ache that fills every corner of his wretched body, reached for him, torturing him with their siren song of 'if only' and 'what if.' Some nights he blacks out quickly. There are other nights when it hits him like a hammer blow. Bad nights when he hugs a pillow to his chest and weeps for what he's thrown away. Then morning comes, and thankfully it always comes. Sometimes he yearns for the blessed relief of a workday.
Tonight, he passed out curled into a fetal position hugging the second pillow. If he dreams, he doesn't remember when hours later, he rolled slowly to his side from a tangle of dirty sheets. After a brave effort at sitting up, he let his head sink into this hands. A groan echoed the throbbing pain in his head, and he squeezed his eyes to keep out the shards of sunlight.
Another stifled cry pushed him from the bed toward the bathroom. The well-muscled frame earned from endless hours of running and weightlifting is a sad and confusing contrast to the retching man with blood-shot eyes and gaunt cheeks. When the vomiting finally subsides, he rests his head on the toilet seat, panting with effort.
During the day, when he puts on a uniform, he is in control. If he never smiles? Well, no one expects a cop to smile. Professional, courageous, and detached, he is the perfect law enforcement officer. With a uniform and sidearm, he has an identity. Without that mask in place, the world is uncertain and the nights long and empty.
To hold back the darkness, he often works double shifts. Everyone knows Marc Borgmann is the one to call if you need someone to cover your shift. Known as the hardest working rookie in the department, he keeps going until he can no longer stay on his feet. Until he can fool himself into thinking he might fall asleep. Work is real, steady, and affirming—his life, uncertain, shadowy, and filled with unmet desires and shattered dreams.
A sob shook Marc's shoulders, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Once, his life was full of joy and anticipation. A small family and the selfless love of the woman who bore him a son. Parents who loved him and encouraged him and were delighted at the prospect of becoming grandparents. His father had told him many times to set goals with the promise of success. He'd followed his father's advice by planning his future complete with objectives and goals and pursued them faithfully until Kay. With his hands, he uprooted everything his parents had taught was important. Tore it apart and left it the dirt to die of neglect. For all the loss and pain he'd inflicted, he wasn't a better man from any of it. Nothing learned. Nothing gained. Everything was gone.
He pounded his fist on the toilet seat.
Genuinely lucky they hadn't fired him from the police force. He'd stopped the drugs because it was just a matter of time before they demanded a drug test, and random test or not, he'd have failed—no more drugs, not even the occasional cigarette. Drugs are part of his past, the glittering golden past that included Kay Engle. Smoking pot, giggling while they raided the refrigerator and made love on the kitchen floor after a midnight feast. Then crashing, gorged, and exhausted into bed in a tangle of arms and legs.
No more drugs, no more Kay.
Alcohol is different. Alcohol is safe. The alcohol burned and numbed and made him forget. And everyone drank, so it was easy to hide.
There are many things he can think about that don't haunt him. He knows his name, badge number, and the serial number of his service weapon. He's also a father, a cop, and he's a good cop. It's just that, obviously, he's awful with relationships. Hadn't he done all the right things? Accepted the pregnancy and supported her through it all.
At first, he'd been angry she'd allowed herself to get pregnant while he was in the middle of academy training. His life was stressful enough. Then, as her stomach grew and she began to glow with the inner fire of motherhood, his attitude changed, and besides, she'd always been so easy to love. The pregnancy brought them closer, and his heart swelled with pride and love whenever he touched her baby bump.
That was all over now, and every night he tortured himself with the guilt of his failures as a father and a man. A six-pack of beer does nothing to burn away the knowledge that far worse than hurting Bettina. He'd betrayed and humiliated her. A good father wouldn't behave this way, and he intended to be a good father to his son. His son… he has a son. Bettina begged him to stop drinking. Sometimes his hands shake so hard he's afraid to hold his little boy, and it breaks his heart. The child recognizes him now and frowns with disappointment when his father won't pick him up.
She's warned him twice about coming over drunk. If he comes over drunk to see the baby again, she won't let him in.
Emotionally brittle days spent moving precariously along the dying branches of his life—each branch about to break and dump him to the ground. The thought of going to a gay bar terrifies him now. I'm not gay, he screams, but no one listens. Only alcohol quiets the screaming, the guilt, and the isolation. At night, when he passes out, he's haunted by dreams of Kay filling him, branding him, and burning his flesh with need. Beard stubble on his thighs, warm, strong hands touching him in ways no woman ever could.
Those dreams woke him in a cold sweat and a mess to clean up. The answer? Simply will away his libido with beer and whiskey. He wasn't any good with women, and he didn't want a man. Then he'd fall back into a dead sleep, where Kay whispers in his ear, I love you. I want you… only you. I'm not sleeping with anyone else!
And what was he supposed to do with that statement, 'I'm not sleeping with anyone else.' He knew it for what it was, a promise, an expression of hope and trust. He'd torn it up and crushed it under his feet as he ran from the enchanting comfort of Kay's apartment. The only place where he felt he could relax and share himself.
No woman could love him the way Kay had. Women with their gentle, hesitant fingers and the shy expectation in their eyes. Kay teased him, alternately using his cock like a battering ram or stroking him to mindless joy. He loved Kay's rough, calloused hands on his body. But he wasn't gay. He shouldn't have allowed a man to touch him that way. It was wrong. It was dirty. It was mind-blowing. It was the most intense and gratifying experience of his life. Laying in bed with him, with no hesitation or anxiety at saying or doing the wrong thing. Just smiles and a profound sense of belonging.
The string of nameless, faceless women he slept with to prove he wasn't gay did nothing to quiet the dreams.
The women told him they loved him and fawned over his good looks. Whispered into his ear how much they wanted his baby and wanted to be his wife. They cooked for him and tried to take care of him. He always made them leave, and he was never nice about it. He had sex with them when he was almost too drunk to perform, but they never seemed to mind. By morning, hungover and disgusted, he hated the sight of them. He despised the hurt and confusion he saw in their eyes. That was his punishment, his payment for the crime of cruelty, and for what he'd done to Bettina and Kay.
The endless dark winter ends on a snowy night when he slips and stumbles over icy streets, looking for a bar. His weary eyes can't make out the words on the sign, but the lights are on, and he hears people inside. With a pounding head, his shaking hands pushed the door open. His mouth waters for the taste of whiskey on his tongue.
Lingering by the door like a ghost no longer welcome among the living, Marc tries to make sense of what he's seeing. A man with a friendly smile waved and beckoned him over. Wait, he thinks, this can't be a bar and turns to go. Walking toward him, the man extended his hand in greeting. With a profound sense of panic, Marc turned to leave. He knows there's another bar around the corner. But now, there are people behind him, and he's trapped. Anxiety rises, and his eyes search for the exit grow more frantic by the moment. Why are these people talking to him, smiling as if they know him?
Welcome, they say and try to guide him toward the chairs lined up in rows. No! He turns to flee, pushing at the smiling faces and extended hands.
No! Leave me alone.
Finally, he's at the door and rips it open; a winter blast knocks him back, blinding him with snow. He charged forward and ran straight into the arms of Kay Engle.
Kay grabbed his arms to stop his forward motion as Marc winds his fists into the lapels of Kay's jacket and blinks his eyes to focus. Time stops as they breathe into each other. Marc's lips open to receive the kiss he knows Kay will force on him. God, yes, please, because it all comes back to him. It's all still there, the hunger, the need, and the memory that Kay had once told him that he loved him.
"I don't know what love is. Don't you understand?" Marc forced out over buried emotions as if they were still having that final conversation. As if six months hadn't passed since they'd seen each other. Six months since Kay had vanished from his life. To silence him, Kay wrapped his arms around the man shuddering in his arms.
For Kay, the shock of running into Marc vanished, wiped away by the joy and surprise of having Marc's hard body pressed against his. Kay buried his nose against Marc's neck and found the evergreen scent of him, the coarse blond hair, and the familiar large hands twisted into his clothes. But something is wrong, something is different, and it's setting off alarms. Kay pulled back and tipped the other man's chin. What he held in his arms was not the man he knew six months ago. This stranger is thin, glassy-eyed, and trembling. There are no words he can say, no questions he might ask; he pushed Marc's head back against his shirt.
The other members file in, walking quietly around the two men. No one blinked an eye. They'd all been there.
"Marc! Do you even know where you are?"
"I thought... I thought it was a bar?"
"No, you idiot." The affectionate tone was so familiar to Marc he leaned toward it. "It's an AA Meeting."
"Why are you here?" Marc raised his head, and Kay saw the dead eyes, the hollow cheeks, and the dark circles again.
"My job…" Kay glanced away and finally answered in a harsh voice, "They said I had to come, or I couldn't be a cop anymore. You?"
"I don't know. Lights. People. I need a drink. Let me go…." Panic rose again in Marc's chest, choking him. Get away! His feet began to move. He shrugged Kay's arms away. He didn't deserve kindness from this man. Hadn't he done the same to Kay? Hurt him, betrayed him, and thrown him away just as he'd thrown Bettina's love away. He struggled against the very thing he wanted most. Hadn't he always wanted this? This thing he feared and would not name.
"Goddamn it, Marc. Talk to me. You can grant me a few seconds." Kay shoved him against the wall in fear more than anger. But the other words wouldn't come. It wasn't time for him to say how badly he missed him, how he thought about him, and worried. Wished they'd been able to say at least goodbye.
"I don't know where else to go," Marc shouted. Heads turned in their direction. Kay pulled him into the hallway. Tears slipped through Kay's fingers as he cradled Marc's face.
"If I'm killing myself, this is too slow… It's taking too long."
"Talk to me, Marc. Please."
Just like so many times before, he ran away to the safety of a glass of whiskey. When he reaches the bar, he hurries inside and waits while his heart pounds for the glass to appear in his hands. The glass warms his hands. The scent of peat soothes him, and the taste of the malt calm him down. The bartender pours him a second glass before he's finished the first. Marc nods his thanks and savors the single malt sliding down his throat.
"First time at the AA meeting?"
He looked up in surprise and realized he's not the first to escape the AA Meeting into this dark haven.
"Yeah," he shrugs his shoulders in resignation and drains the second glass.
Outside, with his hands stuffed into his pockets, Kay watches through the dirty window.
The winter storm buffeted Kay threatening to push him off his feet to get him moving and threatening to freeze him if he didn't get back to the meeting. Straining his eyes to see Marc through the heavily frosted glass windows, Kay watched him down three shots of whiskey in as many minutes. A churning rage built in his gut, which did nothing to wash away his broken heart still overflowing with guilt and shame. Marc, why are you still running, still in denial, and yet, hadn't he tried that too? It doesn't work. The nearly undeniable urge to smoke - fucking anything - gripped him by the throat. Goddammit, he cursed at both of their stupidity and headed back to the meeting.
Back inside the meeting room, his feet and hands are barely defrosted when it's his turn to speak. Sinking further into his coat didn't stop the group from turning around with their expectant friendly faces. His head swiveled toward the exit while his feet are already in motion. A hand appeared, stopping him with a firm grasp. He allowed himself to be lead to the podium amidst a sea of smiles and welcome. Hiding behind the podium offers him little protection.
How had he arrived at this point in his life, he asked himself to find the breath to speak. Not even thirty years old, and here he stood on the brink of throwing away a career and life. The love he might have called his own was already gone, lost and drowning in a sea of alcohol. His stomach flipped, forcing him to swallow bile. The faces blurred, and the room was silent.
"My…um." His hands curled into fists. "My name is Kay Engle, and I'm an addict." There, he'd said it. Now he could leave and do what? Join Marc at the bar, get drunk and struggle home with him through the snow? Yes! That's what he wanted. Struggling, laughing, and clinging to each other until they finally fell into bed, tearing at each other's clothes and enjoying a delightful way of warming up. Marc was just around the corner, within reach, just a few steps away.
To block out the other's voices, he gets back to a chair and sinks back into his coat. The consuming rage builds again. Against the hot sting of moisture, the vision of Marc drinking himself to death takes him away in a storm of guilt and grief. The exit beckons, and this time no one tries to stop him from leaving.