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It was a reflex, when Ryuuko had blinked awake at the crack of dawn, even though there was no sound of jujitsu drills to wake her. Reflex, when she had stepped out and purchased breakfast for the both of them. Reflex, when her shoulders now prick up at the sound of bedsheets shifting inside, feet alighting on the floor, a delicate yawn. If Ryuuko shivers, it’s from the outdoor chill. She keeps her gaze straight. The room is on the outskirts of Camden, overlooking an alleyway of restaurant backdoors and old lighted signs laced together with telephone wires. The city’s sounds seep in through the cracks, the honking of taxis and the chatter of high schoolers catching the early buses, the twilight fading as fast as it came.
Kasumi walks out onto the balcony, edging gingerly around the laundry rack and stepping over the empty cans on the floor. Ryuuko lets her eyes crawl up the pale bow-curve of her leg. She’s wearing a deceptively simple tank top and sleep shorts—ribbed seafoam-green cashmere and fine lace appliqués, soft and luxurious and expensive. Kasumi says she wears these because she’s from a good family. She’s very insistent on being from a good family, still. It’s not a topic Ryuuko knows much about.
She sits on the floor cushion next to Ryuuko and crosses her legs neatly, not an inch of her bone-china skin touching the white tile of the balcony’s paving. Her silver earrings glitter in the sunlight, catching Ryuuko’s eye; then Ryuuko looks at her face. Kasumi smiles, then yawns again, the line of her body stretching slow and sinuous.
“Good morning,” she says. Partner, she doesn’t. Ryuuko feels the word’s absence like a limb.
Ryuuko averts her eyes. “Doppio con panna and a croissant,” she says, voice hoarse from sleep. She nudges Kasumi’s food towards her.
“Thanks,” Kasumi says, reaching for the cardboard coffee cup. When she puts it back down, there’s a cool blue-red print on the lid. Lipstick at eight in the morning, right after waking up. Because she’s from a good family, Ryuuko. Kasumi roots around in her “vintage” (Ebay) purse—gum, tweezers, Tide pen—then pulls out a carton of chocolate-flavored Honeyroses and a dirty neon-green lighter. Ryuuko wrinkles her nose at her. “They’re herbal,” Kasumi starts, defensively.
“It’s not that. I just didn’t realize Van Zieks was such an influence on you.” It’s a bad joke, Ryuuko realizes, belatedly. A little too real, a little too mean. All of her jokes seem to land like that now.
Kasumi scowls at her, snatching her croissant away from Ryuuko’s side as if to affirm her own ownership of it. “He’s not. It’s just, you know—when in Rome.”
“Do as your boss does?”
“Fuck off, Ryuuko,” she says, elbowing Ryuuko’s shoulder, but there’s no venom in it, just the echo of a laugh. The kind of laugh they might’ve shared a year ago, before... well, for Ryuuko, there’s only one before. Kasumi’s hair caresses the side of Ryuuko’s arm. She keeps it very long, spends hours taking care of it. Because she’s from a—
Ryuuko gives her own not-laugh. “Fine, fine.” She won’t push the comparison. There’s only one before for Kasumi, too.
A click of the lighter, a plume of smoke curling up from Kasumi’s red mouth. They sit together in silence, watching the world continue to turn—stumbling drunks, salarymen, students. Not the comfortable silence they might’ve shared, once, but not hostile, either. A perfect detente. When the cigarette is burnt down to the filter, Kasumi moves to stub it out on the floor. Pauses; glances at Ryuuko’s shoulder.
A single breath. Then she puts it out on the tile.
Ryuuko has survived the first night.
A century ago—fifty years, even—Van Zieks might’ve been able to keep it a secret. But information gets out too easily, these days. News spreads too fast. Twelve hours after Barok Van Zieks is acquitted of all charges, Iris Wilson wakes up the daughter of a serial killer.
It’s pure fucking chaos outside the apartment door, reporters and protesters and policemen. The TV is on. Ryuuko sees a photograph of herself flash on the news—her LinkedIn portrait. Sholmes’ filtered Tiktok profile picture. Iris’ baby photos. Sholmes turns off the TV with one arm, rubs soothing circles into Iris’ back with the other, phone sandwiched between his shoulder and his ear. He’s talking to someone in a low, urgent voice. Van Zieks, she assumes. Iris’ blueberry muffin is untouched. She looks up at Ryuuko.
“Susie said she’s going to Mr. Barry’s house,” Iris says. Her voice is hoarse from crying, but she manages a watery little smile. “…Uncle Barry. Out the attic window—there’s a fire escape. I think she’s going to beat him up.”
Despite everything, Ryuuko snorts. “And you’re not going to warn the man in question?”
“Being punished for something will make him feel better,” Iris says, matter-of-factly. Children are more perceptive than people give them credit for; Iris is more perceptive than most.
Sholmes pauses, then, with a quick “one moment, my dear fellow,” and gives Ryuuko a pitying glance. “I’d suggest following the young lady. Out the window, if not to the vampire’s den. It seems our learned friend is experiencing similar problems.” As if on cue, there is a sharp banging on the apartment door. Iris cowers, and Sholmes cringes. “I’d suggest waiting out the storm somewhere else.”
“But—“
“I’ll be fine,” Iris interrupts, taking a deep breath. She gives Ryuuko a surprisingly steely-eyed look; Ryuuko is reminded that this is a ten year old who pays half her father’s rent. “You’ve done your part, Ruko— more than your part. Let us handle this.”
Neither of them are willing to take no for an answer. So Ryuuko goes. There’s one last address she knows she’ll be safe at, one last person she knows can keep a secret. One last person she doesn’t feel guilty about imposing on.
God knows Kasumi owes her at least this much.
“I don’t care how many fucking favors I owe you,” Kasumi grumbles. “You’re hogging the blanket.”
“Maybe don’t sleep right on the edge of the bed, then,” Ryuuko suggests. Because that’s the other thing: Kasumi owns three pairs of Jimmy Choo heels, but she does not own a spare futon, or a bedroll, or an actual couch. We can share, she had said nonchalantly. Like it wasn’t weird it all. Why would it be?
Kasumi kicks Ryuuko in the shin. Ryuuko scowls, grabs a pillow, and swings it at Kasumi’s head. Kasumi catches it, yanking it out of Ryuuko’s grip, always the stronger one. She sits up. “How mature of you.”
“If you’re so mature, give me my pillow back.”
Kasumi tosses it at Ryuuko’s face. Then she grabs it by its sides and presses down. Ryuuko flails, struggles to take a breath. Of course Kasumi’s just messing around, but—she almost killed a man, didn’t she. She said it herself. I really was going to do it, Ryuuko. And then Karuma snapped. Ryuuko survived the first night, but she may not survive the sec—
Kasumi yanks the pillow off. Ryuuko gasps for air. “Just kidding,” she says, flatly. “I’m not a killer, Ryuuko.” She’s straddling Ryuuko’s waist. Her breathing is deep and slow. Her cheeks are red, like she’s the one who was getting smothered. Ryuuko can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her pajamas.
Ryuuko swallows, heart racing. “I know.”
Kasumi’s hand traces down Ryuuko’s side. She leans over her. “You’re still my best friend,” Kasumi insists, like saying it will make it true. “I don’t want to kill you.” Even as her other hand slides to Ryuuko’s throat, even as it flexes. “I don’t want to kill you at all.” Even as she cups Ryuuko’s chin and slowly, hesitantly kisses her mouth.
For a short while, Ryuuko lets herself get lost. Because—in truth—she has always wanted Kasumi like this. But... no. Not like this, she thinks. Not this time, not this place, not these circumstances. Not this Kasumi.
Then Kasumi pulls away. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Ryuuko chides, desperately. Kasumi’s not the sensible one anymore. It’s Ryuuko who has to stay connected to reality.
“Why not? You’ve been ogling me like an old man for the past 24 hours.”
Ryuuko flushes. “It’s not—”
“Just sweat the fever out now,” Kasumi says. She has a strange look in her eye. Her thumb traces small circles against Ryuuko’s hipbone, too close to where Ryuuko really wants her to be touching. Her core aches. Her legs twitch against her will. “Then we never have to worry about it again.”
It makes perfect sense—it’s not a weird thing to do at all. Why would it be? Nothing between them has ever been normal. Ryuuko’s best friend is dead and gone; there’s nothing wrong with fucking it out with a stranger. No line has been crossed. Nothing has changed. Ryuuko has not been in love with this woman since she was twenty years old.
The tension leaves Ryuuko’s body, like a marionette with its strings cut. “Fine.”
“Good girl,” Kasumi mutters. Ryuuko’s traitorous heart skips a beat. Kasumi leans down again, hair framing Ryuuko’s face. The kiss is slower, hungrier, sweeter. Kasumi takes her time. When she mouths her way down Ryuuko’s neck, she leaves those same cool blue-red prints behind, like scars.
Kasumi doesn’t even bother undressing her, just shoves a bony hand down Ryuuko’s pants, fingers stroking through the thatch of hair there, then gently circling at her clit—but not actually touching her, not actually giving Ryuuko what she wants. She doesn’t say anything about how wet Ryuuko is, just raises an eyebrow. Ryuuko flushes redder.
Kasumi bends over Ryuuko’s neck again. This time, she bites. Ryuuko yelps. Kasumi giggles. For a moment, they’re just girls again.
Then Kasumi sinks a finger into Ryuuko’s cunt, stupid easy. Another finger, then curls them, hitting Ryuuko right where she likes it. Ryuuko doesn’t moan so much as squeak. Like a mouse. Kasumi’s thumb moves up to press hard against Ryuuko’s clit, and Ryuuko frantically ruts against it, trying to find a rhythm.
“Move your hips into it,” Kasumi mumbles. “Yeah—uh huh. Just like that.” Her hair conceals her face.
So Ryuuko rocks against her, lets the pressure build. Kasumi fucks these needy little gasps out of her, with every thrust of her hand, every press of her fingers. She tugs Ryuuko’s shirt up, sucks and licks at her breast. Her lipstick smears against Ryuuko’s nipple. “Good girl,” Kasumi says again, low and husky. Her breath tickles Ryuuko’s ear.
It's embarrassing, how easy it is. Just like that, Ryuuko comes all over her dead best friend’s lovely hands.
After her clothes are changed, after their hands are washed:
“Susato texted me,” Ryuuko mumbles.
Kasumi looks up from her textbook, all polite. Strangers again. “Mm?”
“She’s safe. Said it… took some trigonometry, what with the height difference, but she managed a Susato Takedown on the great Prosecutor Van Zieks.”
Kasumi grins, bright and lovely. Ryuuko’s stomach twists. “She’ll have to tell me all about it. Once everything is back to normal.”
“Back to normal,” Ryuuko echoes. “Yeah.”