Work Text:
She knows she will find him here, still in his office long after the bone-chill of a London night has descended. His silhouette is just about visible against the ornate window that looks out onto the street below, silvery grey in the encroaching darkness. Even shrouded in shadow his stature is immediately recognisable, just as it had been that fateful day amongst the ruins of the Great Exhibition: back pin-straight, chest rounded, arms folded and clasped behind him. Always commanding (but never demanding) respect. Similar to being in the presence of a much-revered military statute or beneath the stern gaze of a schoolmaster, just looking at him had one instinctively standing up a little straighter.
Susato does indeed find herself perfecting her posture upon coming to linger in the doorway. The instinct is, however, more a product of her upbringing than it is a desire for Kazuma to think well of her. Impressing him has long ceased to be a priority of hers.
“Hello, Kazuma… sama?”
Her greeting fills the cavernous room with sound. Despite her resolve she startles slightly at the reverberation, hands fluttering down to worry the sleeve of her kimono. At such a volume it is impossible for him to have missed the trip of her tongue before the honorific, a momentary hesitation. Part of her hopes he will say something, attempt to admonish her; he never would of course, but a quiet indignation itches under her skin like an infection, painful and wrong. It is the same sensation she feels by Naruhodo-san’s side in court, watching clients cringe beneath barrages of false accusation. Naruhodo-san had laughed at her when she’d described it, teasing that she must have some sort of allergic reaction to injustice and what an ideal condition that was for a judicial assistant to have. At the time she had laughed, too, but now she wonders for a wild moment whether it might actually be true.
Kazuma whirls to face her. If he did note her near-infraction it does not register in his features. There is no anger there, only mild surprise that clears almost immediately into a smile. “Judicial Assistant Mikotoba,” the delight in his greeting raises a lump in her throat. “What brings you here at such an hour?” Her eyes catch his in their surreptitious scan for anything amiss.
“Nothing ominous, I assure you,” she replies. Taking this as invitation to enter, she deftly steps around the melange of ostentatious furniture to come and stand before him. “I just… needed to speak with you about something.”
“Nothing ominous you say? In my experience conversations that are the most ominous tend to begin with some iteration of ‘we need to talk’”. He chuckles, only to swiftly fall silent when met with Susato’s characteristic polite stare.
“Right. You always were a stone critic.” With an indulgent shake of his head he sweeps past her and takes a seat at the polished desk that seems to swallow him whole. She wishes he hadn’t. It’s difficult to talk to him here, in the throes of such garish extravagance that is so at odds with the Kazuma she knows.
Or had known, perhaps.
“Susato-san?”
“My apologies.” Her response is instinctive and immediate. “Forgive my distraction. I have had… much on my mind as of late.”
For an instant his expression darkens, a cloud passing over the sun. “I can only imagine,” he murmurs. His mouth is obscured by his hands folded in front of his face but she can hear his teeth are gritted
She wonders if she has factored into any of his grave contemplations.
I can only imagine indeed.
“Kazuma-sama,” she begins, lifting her chin. “Forgive my forthright approach, but I must ask. If your intention was always to unearth the mystery of your father’s death, why did you ask Naruhodo-san to accompany you to Great Britain?”
Kazuma blinks, upended. “I…” he frowns. “Why do you ask?”
“You knew that involving him would put him at risk.” She tilts her head. “I want to understand why you went to all the trouble of bringing him when you knew it could end badly for both of you.”
“I, well…” he eyes her, understandably wary. This is all so unlike her, from the inscrutability of her expression to the imperious jut of her chin. This time it’s him who sits up a little straighter.
“I wanted to be honest with him,” he manages at last. “He was - is - my dearest friend and I… I wanted him to know who I was. To understand me.” His gaze softens as he begins the gentle slide into contemplation. “It was selfish of me, I admit. But the idea of the journey and what I might discover did not seem so daunting with him by my side.”
Pretty, pretty words. Nothing less could be expected of Kazuma. Susato wonders at what point in the intervening months he settled upon them as an explanation; looking before leaping is not his style, after all.
“And what of me?”
Kazuma’s eyes bulge for a heartbeat before he hastily recovers.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why did you allow me to come along?” she asks. The look she gives him is flat and determined, but the struggle to maintain her composure is betrayed by the tremor in her voice. “You must have known that prying further into the circumstances of your father’s death could potentially sour the already delicate relationship between Britain and Japan.” Her eyes tighten. “Did you consider what that might mean for me?”
“I…” Kazuma wavers. Susato waits with polite patience for an answer she already knows.
“I suppose… I didn’t think about it all that much,” he admits at last, the words tapering off in a sigh. “You were always just there. I just assumed-“
“At home I am still legally not allowed in a courtroom, Kazuma,” she cuts across him with icy precision, her voice rising. The indignation bubbles up and drips through clenched teeth, staining the words with a vitriol that sits bitter on her tongue. She is at a loath to interrupt – it is terribly impolite – but if she doesn’t speak now she fears she might scream and that would be far worse. “Did you not worry what it might mean for the future of Japanese women in law if it came to be that I’d been involved in exposing an international scandal at the heart of our supposed ally’s legal system?”
Kazuma bows his head. “I… did not,” he murmurs. When he lifts his gaze to hers again it is alight with anguish. “It did not occur to me. I-”
The rising roar in her ears drowns out his supplications. It has been a long time since she’s lost her temper, but the prickle of the back of her neck that tells her she is about to do something stupid has become no less familiar over time.The lake her martial arts instructor had told her to visualise is roiling, its upset waves lapping incessantly at her subconscious. It’s not fair to Kazuma, she knows that – he would never dream of putting her in the path of anything that might cause her harm. And, of course, he had a right to the truth of what became of Genshin Asogi. His father. Mostly, she envies him; how wonderful it would be, to be able to embark on a trip across the world without a shred of hesitation or consideration toward anything but your goal.
Singlemindedness is not a trait so easily afforded to her, to women. Her role is to keep her mind on the countless things no one else will.
She is so tired of being responsible for everyone but herself.
Her nails are digging into her palms. The dull, pulsing ache pulls her back to herself and she inhales in a gasp, as though escaping submersion. It is only then that she notices Kazuma has gotten to his feet and is holding his hands up in a placatory gesture.
“Susato-san?” his tone is wary. “Susato-san I’m so sorry, it’s-“
“Don’t,” she mumbles. The white-hot mist of rage has passed as quickly and dizzyingly as it descended. She reels, lightheaded, and catches herself on the desk. Kazuma reaches a hand out to steady her but she impatiently bats him away.
“I’m fine. It’s fine. I…” she shakes her head. “It’s not that that I want you to apologise for.”
“It’s not?” Kazuma asks. His teeth are resting gently on his bottom lip, poised to begin chewing in a nervous tic she’s not seen him exhibit since he was a boy. The sight of it warms her somewhat. Of course he doesn’t understand, how could he be expected to?
“No.” She closes her eyes. There was so much she had wanted to say but now the words swirl senselessly in her brain, as impossible to interpret as the colourful shapes that dance behind her lids.
“I just wish you’d told me,” she whispers. “About everything. I would have… I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I can’t say I wouldn’t have tried to stop you. But I wish you hadn’t lied. I should have been able to make an informed decision.”
When she opens her eyes, Kazuma’s head is bowed. His hair has fallen forward and exposes the paper-pale skin of his scalp, stark against his dark hair and startlingly vulnerable. She resists the urge to slip a finger beneath his chin and pull his face up – what is he thinking?
“I know it doesn’t mean much now, Susato-san,” he half-says, half-chokes, “but I never intended to hurt anybody. Not even Gregson.” When he lifts his gaze to hers again it is alight with anguish. “And especially not you.”
“But you did, Kazuma.”
He flinches, then droops, his posture crumpling like wilted parchment. “I… I know.” He presses his lips together. The tumult of his thoughts is plain to see in the troubled flicker of his eyes; she watches them chase one another, round and hopelessly round.
“Will you ever forgive me?” Kazuma breaks the silence in a whisper.
“You would need to apologise before I can do that.” The words come immediately and of their own accord. Unbeknownst to her they had been sitting patiently just behind her teeth, waiting. Their brusqueness startles them both; Kazuma takes an abrupt step backwards.
“Right. You’re right.” He pulls in a steadying breath and straightens to regard her with renewed conviction. “Susato-san… I’m sorry.” His voice thickens with emotion but he holds firm, his gaze unwavering. “I’m sorry for everything I put you through.”
Susato blinks back rapidly forming tears. She can’t cry, not yet.
“Kazuma-s-“ she catches herself. “Kazuma, thank you. I forgive you.”
The radiance of the relief that unfurls across his expression takes her off guard. He beams, his smile as wide and unabashed as that of a child’s. For a fleeting instant he is her brother again. She will take him in her arms and beg him to come home with her, where they can be a family. Her, Kazuma, Naruhodo-san and Father. They will all be together, where they belong.
And then as quickly as it had appeared, the smile is gone, and she is back between the unfeeling marble walls of the Prosecutor’s Office. Its current sole inhabitant, Prosecutor Asogi, stands before her, resplendent in his strange, white suit that even in the darkness makes her eyes ache.
No, the Kazuma she had known is dead and buried.
It’s time for her to leave.
“That is not all I came to talk to you about,” she continues, when he does not deign to speak. “I’ve made a decision.”
“Oh?”
“I’m going back to Japan.” Her resolve lends strength to her voice. The words are alive, solid things that squirm from her lips and settle between them. “I’m leaving with Naruhodo-san. My time here is done, I feel. I have learned much, and it is my wish to use this knowledge to improve the state of our legal system at home.”
For a long moment Kazuma is quiet. The room is unbearably still, even the swirling dust motes appearing stalled in anticipation. Susato is beginning to wonder whether she should repeat herself or shake him – take his pulse, perhaps - when he clears his throat and slowly comes around the desk to stand before her.
Susato opens her mouth to inquire after his welfare, only for him to take her in his arms and crush her to his chest. His muscular frame is hard as stone, so different to what she remembers. He has not held her like this since they were children; not since a time when their bodies were soft and rounded, unshaped by the world’s afflictions.
“Thank you for everything, Susato-san,” he whispers through a throat thick with emotion. “My sister. I would have been lost without you.”
A few tears escape her already brimming eyes. She wants desperately to reply, to tell him it is the same for her and that she could never have gotten to where she was without him, but she cannot lie. Not now. His hand in hers had always been a welcome companionship, never a guide.
It doesn’t make letting go any less difficult.
“I love you, my brother,” is what she responds with instead. Words she knows to be true, that she could swear and die by. “I’m glad I could see this through with you.”
When he pulls back to look at her his eyes are glassy with unshed tears as well. They grin ruefully at one another, a quiet, mutual acknowledgement of how foolish they must look, before Susato steps out of his embrace.
“I’ll be seeing you,” she whispers.
And then she turns and walks away, the echo of her footsteps a resounding finality. She can feel his gaze burn into her back, but she does not turn around and he does not call after her.
For the first time her solitude is a liberation. The hallway stretches into infinity before her, the darkness and its unknowableness alive with possibility.