Archive of Our Own ^beta

From his first step onto Japanese territory in two years, it becomes apparent that Kazuma has not moved on.

Because it’s one thing to read Ryuunosuke’s letters and listen to the facsimile of his voice in his head; it’s another entirely to hear the timbre of it formed around his name, shouted from across the dock. It’s one thing to look at him in the static, monochrome pictures he sends, and another entirely to see him, in an ocean blue kimono, moving and getting closer, with Kazuma’s most precious family heirloom still stationed at his hip. It’s one thing to wrap his arm around a pillow at night and pretend, and another entirely to catch Ryuunosuke in his arms and squeeze, to feel his weight with his own hands.

Ryuunosuke is laughing into Kazuma’s shoulder, the vibration coursing through Kazuma’s whole body. People are staring, they’re holding up traffic, and he doesn’t care. He’ll hug him as long as it takes to patch over the loneliness of the past four weeks at sea.

“You’re really here,” Ryuunosuke breathes, unbelievingly, when he finally pulls back. Hearing his mother tongue out loud for the first time in so long feels like a dunk in cool water on a sweltering day.

“I’m home,” Kazuma says.

“And your hair is so long,” he emphasizes, threading a hand through the locks at his nape in wonderment.

“And you look exactly the same,” Kazuma laughs, mussing up Ryuunosuke’s signature spikes.

There’s a block of blush-pink in his periphery. He tears his gaze away from Ryuunosuke to see the Mikotobas, wearing matching smiles, approaching at a much more reasonable pace than Ryuunosuke. Kazuma decides to throw propriety to the wind and sweeps Susato in for a similarly enthusiastic hug.

“Kazuma-sama!” she splutters when he pulls back, glancing around at the disembarking passengers to see if anyone caught their breach of conduct.

“I’m sorry, Susato,” Kazuma says, grinning, “but I’m simply too happy to see you to care about proper decorum.” He’d finally graduated to using her given name over the course of their correspondence.

“Oh...” Her eyes crinkle sweetly. “I’m so happy to see you too, Kazuma-sama.”

Professor Mikotoba receives a much more masculine mutual clap on the shoulder. “Your voyage went smoothly, I hope?”

“Oh, yes,” Kazuma laughs. “No cats, and no stowaways.”

“There really is so much to catch up on,” Susato says, clapping her hands together in delight. “But let’s get out of the way of these people, first. I’ve prepared a welcome feast for us to enjoy at home.”

Yuujin insists on carrying Kazuma’s trunk, and the four of them start to shuffle their way through the crowd and towards the city. It’s gorgeous in Japan this time of year – signature sakura blossoms lining the landscape, transforming the city into something out of a dream. Mountains tower over the horizon, peaks engulfed in purplish fog. There are numerous vendors just ashore, looking to capitalize on the morning rush of the ships coming to port; Kazuma inhales the scents of fried food and soy. He’s missed this terribly.

And Ryuunosuke is in lockstep right beside him, like he’d never left. Kazuma’s eye can’t help but be drawn to the ribbon still tied around the sheath of the sword, frayed and sun-bleached, but still fluttering valiantly in the wind.

“You,” he says, gesturing, “took care of that for me.”

“Hm? Oh!” Ryuunosuke’s hand comes to rest on Karuma’s hilt, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I promised, didn’t I? It never left my side.”

“I knew I could trust you with it.” Kazuma’s heart buzzes with warmth. “It means more to me than you could ever know.”

Ryuunosuke smiles. Then, timidly: “Do you want to take it back, now?”

He’d said he would, wouldn’t he? Once he’d faced his demons properly. And he’d done a lot of that in England – he wouldn’t be back here if he hadn’t.

But, he thinks, there is something intimidating about the sword. There is still much more to learn about himself, much more dirt to scrub clean. And there is a second, more indulgent reason: Ryuunosuke looks devastatingly handsome like that, with Kazuma’s soul at his side.

“Not yet,” he says. “Eventually, though.”

“Oh,” Ryuunosuke says, shoulders relaxing a little. “Alright.” He pauses to scratch bashfully at his cheek. “...Is it wrong to say I’m kind of happy you said that?”

Kazuma laughs. “Don’t get too dependent on it, now. What, are you going to fight me for custody when I do want it back?”

“Maybe,” Ryuunosuke jokes, cheeky. But the way keeps his hand wrapped around the pommel still, almost protectively, suggests there might be more truth to that than he’s saying aloud.

Ah. Kazuma’s heart skips a beat. He really hasn’t moved on at all.

—

There is still a room in the Mikotobas’ house for him, and it’s the one he unpacks his traveling trunk in. But there is also a room in Ryuunosuke’s. It’s a much less impressive dwelling, just a random property the previous owner was desperate to sell and Ryuunosuke happened to be able to afford with the meager earnings from his burgeoning law practice. An entrance, two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, a tiny washroom, and a roof over it all that has seen better days. It’s not the house that draws Kazuma, though, it’s who’s living in it. It’s like a picture out of their university days, staying up until the moon is high in the sky, too-comfortable on the living room floor and chatting endlessly about everything and nothing. After his fourth consecutive night of trudging back to the Mikotobas’ at early hours, Susato finally arrests Kazuma in the morning with her signature politely-exasperated smile and tells him she and her father won’t be offended if he just wants to live with Ryuunosuke.

So he asks, and Ryuunosuke acquiesces without hesitation, and that’s that. It just makes sense, anyway. Kazuma begins work as a prosecutor, and lawyers are still so scarce of a profession that it tracks that his office would be in the same building as Ryuunosuke’s. Kazuma brews coffee for the both of them in the morning; Ryuunosuke waits outside his office door at the end of the day so they can walk home together. It should feel like whiplash to go from seeing Ryuunosuke for zero hours a day to spending nearly every waking moment near him. Instead it’s just comfortable. Right.

It’s a blessing and a curse, though, because it’s impossible to hide from him. There’s the matter of his feelings, which he admitted to himself a long time ago fall far out of the range of platonic, although he’d long gotten used to choking them down in order to focus on his mission. With the ghosts of his past put to rest, his attraction reblossoms brighter, a perennial plant after a harsh winter. Especially because he gets to see Ryuunosuke in all the ways no one else does: puffy-eyed from sleep bright and early in the morning, hair damp from a visit to the public baths, arguing fervently that there’s a system to the explosion site he calls his bedroom, honest. It’s just intimate, all of it. Close enough that he could be tempted to pretend.

And then there’s the matter of his condition.

“...n’t make me kick you,” Ryuunosuke is saying, as he blearily opens his eyes to the world.

Oh. His first thought is that Ryuunosuke is close, hovering over Kazuma with brows furrowed like he’s some kind of specimen to dissect. His second thought, as Ryuunosuke makes a noise of relief and sits back on his knees, exposing the stream of sunlight from the window, is that it’s much, much too bright.

“Finally,” Ryuunosuke sighs. “Your dream must’ve been really interesting, Kazuma. I called your name like a dozen times.”

“What... time is it?” Kazuma mutters. The threat of a headache looms heavy at the back of his skull.

Ryuunosuke fishes out his pocketwatch. “Two... Two thirteen in the afternoon?”

“What?” Kazuma bolts upright, and yes, there’s the headache. He presses his palm against his forehead, immediately regretting it.

“This week must have really taken it out of you,” Ryuunosuke comments, seeming not nearly as concerned. “I thought you were a morning person.”

Sixteen hours of sleep, then. Two nights’ worth in one. And for what purpose? He hardly feels any better rested than he did yesterday; in fact, there’s an argument for feeling worse, between the head pain and the stiffness in his long-unused limbs.

Kazuma clutches at both of Ryuunosuke’s wrists to look him in the eyes. “From now on, Ryuunosuke, if I’m ever still sleeping past eleven, you need to wake me up.”

“Huh? A-Alright,” Ryuunosuke says, startled by the intensity in his voice. “I just didn’t want to disturb you if you were really that exhausted.”

Kazuma bites his tongue. He can’t say I wasn’t – that would let too much on. It’s fine. As long as Ryuunosuke keeps his word, he can suppress any future mini-comas. And his other physical symptoms can be masked with enough grit and willpower.

He knows he’ll have to tell him one day, and that day has to be soon. But he’s just not ready yet. Sue him if he wants to spend a little longer in paradise.

“There’s too much to do to lose this much time in the day,” he hedges instead.

“It’s Saturday, isn’t it? You can afford to be a little lazy.” Ryuunosuke smiles. “The shops won’t close for another few hours. If you can get ready now, there’s still a lot of day to be had.”

—

He makes it another week before he slips up again.

It’s a Sunday morning, and the humidity hangs in the air like an afterthought from last night’s rain. It’s Ryuunosuke’s turn to “cook breakfast,” which for both of them usually means nothing more elaborate than hastily scrambled eggs, random seasonal fruit, and overbrewed coffee. How easily they’ve fallen into such a routine. Kazuma tosses his hand through his bedhead a couple of times in a half-hearted attempt to make it lay flat as he enters the kitchen with a mumbled “good morning.”

“Hey,” Ryuunosuke greets. He’s made no such effort with his own hair, although it doesn’t make much of a difference for him. His white undershirt is a little rumpled under his kimono, evidence of it being carelessly left on the ground last night. “You’re up on time today.”

“Mmrgh,” Kazuma grumbles, settling himself at the table, and hooks a fingernail into the rind of his orange to peel it.

“Don’t sound too excited,” Ryuunosuke chuckles. Such a pretty sound. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Fine,” he says. “Had a pretty vivid dream, though.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.” Kazuma can almost slip back into it when he closes his eyes. “It was about... the study abroad.”

He remembers the letter. He dreams about the letter a lot. It’s always the same style, English cursive on crisp white paper, but the content of it gets more cruel and twisted every time. It becomes less about grief and more about anger. And alongside it, the newspaper cutting about the Professor and his execution. He remembers showing it to Judge Jigoku, the forecast of doom flashing across his face for a moment before he laughs it off as nothing more than a prank.

In his dream, he’s already made it to London. The cobblestone streets, the horse-drawn carriages, the fog. The looming presence of the British courthouses. In his dream, Ryuunosuke is there too, a walking paradox. Hey, don’t drag that, he says. Kazuma looks down to see he’d been scratching Karuma across the brickwork. He’s blunting the tip. If he walks any farther like that, he’ll eventually erode it down into nothing. And if he squints – it could be dirt, there, on the end, from the dragging. He has to believe it’s dirt, because –

“...Do you want to talk about it?” Ryuunosuke offers, an opportunity on a silver platter.

Kazuma stills. He’s running out of time. He’s never going to get a better chance than this. He needs to ask now or forever hold his peace.

His shoulders square, and he swallows around his trepidation, heart rate beginning to hasten. “...Yes. On that topic. I’ve actually... been meaning to ask a favor of you. For a while.”

Ryuunosuke stops pouring his coffee to glance headlong at him. “Yes?”

The words tumble out forceful and stilted, like his throat has evicted them from their lodgings there. “I want you to come with me. To London, that is.”

The following second of silence lasts years.

Ryuunosuke’s face is blank with confusion. “Sorry?”

Kazuma’s stomach drops. “I know it sounds crazy.”

“Well, it’s just –” Ryuunosuke crosses his arms. “You just came back to Japan. Are you really that eager to leave again so quickly?”

Now it’s Kazuma’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“And, I won’t lie, after how the last time turned out, I don’t think I’m eager to get back in your traveling trunk,” Ryuunosuke says with a chuckle.

What? Kazuma thinks. How could he already know what he was planning? What does he mean, ‘last time’? Unless – unless – Kazuma wracks his brain, trying to piece his shuffled thoughts together, like shreds of a ripped-up diary page. Yes, because he embraced Ryuunosuke on the dock a week ago, and that wasn’t because he was leaving, was it, because he’s still here. He must have been arriving – arriving from London, where his father... Where he...

“It,” Kazuma says feebly. “It was a joke.”

Ryuunosuke looks at him like he’s grown another head. “Um... good one?”

Right. Van Zieks. Gina. Sholmes and Iris. A year and a half he’d spent there, as a prosecutor, for God’s sake. How is it possible that the gap in his memory was that wide?

Maybe it’s just something about here, about Japan, about spring, Ryuunosuke. Nostalgic, almost. Dangerously so.

He shovels the rest of his breakfast into his mouth and leaves the house in a hurry.

—

It’s only when Kazuma is standing in the doorway to the law office, watching the rain come down in sheets, that he realizes his next mistake.

“You forgot your umbrella?” Ryuunosuke asks, incredulous and not in the least bit attempting to hide his glee.

Yes, he had. Even though he’d scolded Ryuunosuke for this exact blunder over and over in their university days. Even though he’d taken his time this morning ticking off his mental checklist of things to bring to work with him. It’s not the first time he’d been made keenly aware of his own absentmindedness recently, but it’s certainly the first time he’d been punished by the universe this hard for it.

“As if you have any leg to stand on,” Kazuma ripostes, nodding towards Ryuunosuke’s also-empty hand. “You’re not any better equipped than I am.”

Ryuunosuke grins. “That’s because I figure if I forget mine, you’ll be able to save me.”

“Is that all I am to you? Your head protection in case of rain?”

“Yep.”

“Well,” Kazuma sniffs, “look where that landed us.”

Ryuunosuke looks up, surveying the swirling, angry stormclouds, blanketing the sky down to the horizon line. “It’s not going to let up any time soon. We’re going to have to make a break for it.”

“Surely you’re not –” Kazuma starts, before a warm hand encircles his wrist and drags him into the onslaught of rain.

He’s soaked down to his skin in a matter of seconds. The frantic tromping of their shoes kicks mud and dislodged bits of grass up from the earth and onto their pants. The wind whips across Kazuma’s face like an open-palm slap – his shout of Ryuunosuke! gets lost in a peal of thunder – as his stamina is exhausted from the sprint, his breath labors, heart working overtime against his chest.

It’s miserable and freezing and messy and loud, and still there is the sear of heat at his wrist where their bodies are joined, still there is the flash of Ryuunosuke’s teeth when he looks back, the boyish, unfettered melody of his laughter over the drumbeat of rain, and Kazuma thinks he could chase that joy forever.

“You,” Kazuma finally wheezes as they stumble into their genkan, leaving mud streaked across the stone, “are insane.”

“Like you had any better ideas,” Ryuunosuke pants, bracing his hands on his thighs. “No one’s coming out to save us in this weather, and we couldn’t well have stuck it out at the office. At least this way, we have time to dry off before bed.”

Kazuma hates to admit it, but he doesn’t have a good counterargument to that, and Ryuunosuke grins at him like he knows as much.

“Take your things off here,” Kazuma says instead, wringing a river out of his kimono sleeves with a grimace. “We should at least try not to waterlog the floor.”

They set to work peeling off the damp layers of fabric – shoes, socks, coats, hats – and attempting to squeeze them dry to set aside. Realizing his undershirt is also beyond saving, Kazuma starts to unbutton that as well, only to pause as he hears Ryuunosuke let out a squeak of surprise.

“What are you doing?” Ryuunosuke manages, words coming higher and faster than usual.

Kazuma raises an eyebrow. “Getting dry?”

“I – Then I’ll grab the towels!” he exclaims, and patters wetly off into the house.

“Ah – hey,” Kazuma protests. He stares woefully at the droplets from Ryuunosuke’s still-dripping clothes pooling onto the tatami. So much for not waterlogging.

He continues to strip, ending up down to his underwear and shivering as Ryuunosuke hurriedly returns with an armful of towels, still looking frazzled and a bit red. He practically shoves them into Kazuma’s arms, and Kazuma lets out a small, amused “thank you” in return and begins to wipe the rainwater off of his torso.

Ryuunosuke seems to have recovered a bit, as he lets out a small laugh once he really takes in Kazuma’s appearance. “You look like a drowned cat.”

“Thanks, you too,” Kazuma says dryly.

“Here, let me,” Ryuunosuke offers, grinning, and takes one of the towels back to ruffle it through Kazuma’s mane of hair.

The rustle of cotton is loud and everywhere, and he squeezes his eyes shut so as to not get an eyeful of towel. Surely this isn’t effective drying technique – at the very least, it seems to be making a new kind of mess of his hair, strands sticking up wildly in every direction. When he opens his eyes again and sees the cheeky, fond glint in Ryuunosuke’s eyes, he starts to think that might have been the goal all along.

“Aren’t you handsome,” Ryuunosuke teases.

Kazuma’s mind knows the compliment is tongue-in-cheek. Kazuma’s heart does not. “Is that so,” he murmurs distractedly.

“Mhm,” Ryuunosuke hums, pressing the towel up against Kazuma’s ears with both hands, and the gesture is close enough to holding his face that Kazuma starts to think ‘preserving their friendship’ is a really, really boring idea.

He doesn’t realize what he’s doing until it’s already too late. The tip of Ryuunosuke’s nose is cold where it presses against Kazuma’s cheek, and he tastes like rainwater, and brown sugar syrup, and the regret of three-and-a-half years of pointless pining. The towels whump onto the floor; Kazuma slides his hands around Ryuunosuke’s neck to tilt his head just so; Ryuunosuke emits an aborted gasp into his mouth, and Kazuma comes to the sobering realization that he hadn’t even asked, hadn’t even considered Ryuunosuke’s wants, and with a Herculean effort peels himself off of him.

Ryuunosuke is apple-red, stammering out an “I – I –”, although Kazuma can barely hear him over the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears.

Kazuma should apologize. He should, and yet all he can do is pant softly, scan his eyes over the stain to Ryuunosuke’s cheeks, the slight sheen of his own saliva on his lips. Hanging on to every one of Ryuunosuke’s stuttered words with an obsessive, desperate hope.

“You?” he presses, breathless.

“I’m – you’re so –!” Ryuunosuke blusters, and a tiny, deep-seated part of Kazuma’s brain feels a sense of triumph at having rendered Ryuunosuke tongue-tied. “You idiot, Kazuma, always – just –” and then he cuts his own sentence there by dragging Kazuma in for another kiss.

It’s damp and clumsy and adrenaline-drunk. Kazuma returns the kiss double as fierce, pressing towards Ryuunosuke so hard that he’s forced to stumble blindly backwards, nearly tripping over their muddy shoes. His hands roam hungrily across Ryuunosuke’s skin, cupping his jaw, catching on his collar, slipping around his waist, whereas Ryuunosuke can only cling to Kazuma’s back like it’s a piece of driftwood in a raging current. Ryuunosuke’s back hits the hallway wall, knocking a gasp out of both of them as their teeth clack, and a flash of lightning illuminates the beautifully dazed expression Ryuunosuke is wearing for half of a breath before their mouths magnetize together again.

The thing is, he should be satisfied. He’s waited so long to act on his attraction that the mere fact of Ryuunosuke’s reciprocation should be enough. But it’s an addictive thing, to want. Every time he pulls away to catch his breath, there’s something – the look in his eyes, or just the sigh of his mouth – that leaves Kazuma no choice but to dive back in, like he could kiss him for the rest of time and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“Whoa,” Ryuunosuke breathes, blinking as a droplet of water falls from Kazuma’s bangs and hits his eyelid.

It’s the only coherent thing that’s been vocalized in the past five minutes, which is enough to snap Kazuma back into reality. Right – somehow they’ve ended up in Ryuunosuke’s room, somehow Kazuma is hovering over top of him on the futon that Ryuunosuke neglected as always to put away in the morning before work. And Kazuma is still dangerously close to being fully nude. Only now does the expected impulse to feel shy settle in.

“Sorry,” Kazuma exhales. “I didn’t – are you okay?”

“No, yes! I – I’m okay,” Ryuunosuke blurts, and then, muttered under his breath: “Just having all of my university fantasies come true.”

That startles a loud laugh out of Kazuma. “I was your university fantasy?”

“Agh, I –” Ryuunosuke smacks his palms over his face. Hasn’t worked on that habit whatsoever. Utterly endearing. “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he grumbles. “But if you must know, yes. How could you not be? You were so… larger than life, back then.”

Kazuma studies him, the flush to his nose, the dampness of his choppy bangs clinging to his hairline, the twitch to his eyelashes as he breaks eye contact, bashful. His heart feels so full he’s liable to burst. He swipes a finger across the trickle of rain on Ryuunosuke’s cheek.

“And now?” he asks, a low, fond rumble.

“Now?” Ryuunosuke smiles at him again, mischievous. “Now I think I can handle you.”

“I’m going to make you eat those words, Naruhodou Ryuunosuke,” Kazuma declares, surging downwards to kiss the laugh off of Ryuunosuke’s mouth, and everything is alright with the world, everything will always be alright.

—

It comes easy after that. There’s no sit-down conversation about it – just a shared, unspoken understanding, a shift in the direction of the wind. Ryuunosuke doesn’t blink when, a week later, Kazuma drags his futon from his own room and plops it down next to Ryuunosuke’s. Kazuma doesn’t tease when Ryuunosuke’s skinship becomes a little more common – just rests his head against Ryuunosuke’s on his shoulder, lets their fingers tangle together under the table.

They don’t tell anyone, either. There’s no one to tell, for Kazuma. (Discounting the Mikotobas, who, he has to admit with an inward cringe, probably know already.) Ryuunosuke’s family members, Kazuma knows, have considerably more conservative values – it wouldn’t be his place to say anything, and he reckons Ryuunosuke will opt not to anyway to avoid the fallout. So to the average onlooker, everything stays the same. They still call each other Ryuunosuke and Kazuma and partner; still bicker like schoolchildren; still go home to the same house, apparently for reasons no more complicated than financial convenience.

But then, at home, at night: they’ll let each other look when they change from their work clothes into their jinbei. They’ll lay side by side in their futons, and their toes will brush under the covers. It’ll be quiet until Ryuunosuke musters the courage to ask if Kazuma’s asleep, no, not yet. Ryuunosuke will gaze at him through the dark cover of night and blush, and Kazuma will take his cue. Nothing ever so reckless as that first stormy day; just the slow, warm press of lips, the gentle exploration of hands on bodies, a good luck charm for them to take into unconsciousness, like they might have a sweeter dream that way.

—

Kazuma steps into the Japanese Supreme Court courtroom like putting on a well-fitted suit. Prosecutor’s badge at his bicep, trial notes neatly stacked at his desk; he’s never been more sure that this was his calling in life. After having experienced a gauntlet of high-stakes trials at the Old Bailey, Japan’s courts seem comparatively juvenile. The judge is a wrinkled prune of a man; the opposing counsel, some random, bespectacled and underwhelming attorney with six months under his belt. And the defendant – the killer – stands behind the witness bench sweating, having just removed his gloves, with literal blood on his hands.

“What is the reason that this information is just now coming to light?” the judge asks, brows furrowed.

“I thought it would make me look worse,” the defendant mumbles, eyes shifting. “But I swear on my life that I just happened to slip while cutting vegetables – it’s not anything to do with this incident, I swear –”

Kazuma slams the side of his hand against the table, making the defendant jump. “A rather convenient story, isn’t it? However, there is a much more straightforward reason for the accused’s injury.” He snatches the crime scene photo up from the desk and displays it to the court. “We know that the defendant fired two shots: the first in the victim’s leg, and the second in the neck. We also observe that a pocket knife was left at the scene of the crime.” He starts to pace, posture straight as that of a military commander. “If the killer was holding a gun, he would have no need for a secondary weapon. Additionally, we observe blood spatter on the hands of the victim; not the pattern that one would expect if she had touched her own wounds. We can assume thusly: the first shot’s aim was thrown when the victim attempted to disarm her attacker with the knife, which is when the defendant sustained his hand injury. She was, unfortunately, unsuccessful, and having regained his grip, the accused fired the killing blow.”

The defendant trembles, eyes wide, as Kazuma stations himself once more at the bench, holding his head up proudly. “Well? Take a good look at the accused’s face, Your Excellency, and I think you’ll find which explanation is the truth.”

“Objection!” the defense counsel screeches. It’s the loudest one he’s thrown thus far. Kazuma is about to dismiss it mentally as another desperate grab at victory, another meaningless bluff, until he meets the eyes of the defense from across the courtroom.

His own self-satisfaction is mirrored in them.

“Your Excellency,” the defense starts, “unfortunately, the prosecution doesn’t seem to realize the hole he’s just driven himself into. If you’ll recall his earlier statements, you’ll remember that he earlier claimed that the first shot was fired through the tablecloth in order to ascertain the victim’s location. How, then, is it possible that the first shot was also a close-ranged melee in which the attacker was disarmed?”

Kazuma freezes. He... He did say that. His train of thought suddenly feels as though it’s lost one of its wheels and is veering off course.

“That’s true,” the judge muses. “Counsel, would you clarify which one of your statements you’re committing to?”

“The...” Kazuma swallows. His head hurts. “The prosecution made that claim before this relevant new information came to light. Obviously, now it’s clear that the two were involved in some kind of struggle before the victim’s death.”

“Is that so?” the defense sneers. “In which case, how do you explain the hole in the tablecloth?”

Kazuma’s chest starts to feel like it’s caving in on itself. The neatly-arranged notes on his desk read like gibberish to him. “That... that could have been from some unrelated incident.” It’s a terrible argument, and one he regrets as soon as he says it out loud.

“Oh, please! You mean to argue that in a high-class restaurant, the waitstaff would notice the gaping, charred hole in the tablecloth and choose not to replace it?”

“This –” His head hurts. He grits his teeth and lunges forward on the desk. “Whether the first shot was from a distance or close range is irrelevant. The fact is that the victim died from the second shot, one that could have been fired by no one other than the defendant.”

“Tell me, then, counsel, what reason the defendant had to stick around seven minutes after the second shot rang out?”

“The man was – was at the scene of a crime, and bleeding! He must have needed time to cover up the evidence!”

“Then he surely did a terrible job at it,” the attorney scoffs, “considering he left the body and the gun behind.” He slams the table as well – for effect, maybe, but probably as a mockery of Kazuma’s own courtroom habits. “The prosecution is attempting to distract you from the truth, Your Excellency. Consider this version of events: the true killer came into the restaurant and fired a shot through the tablecloth and into the victim’s leg. The killer then ducked under the table to deliver the final blow at close-range. Having heard the scream, the defendant rushed to the scene and confronted the killer. The killer attempted to shoot, but having run out of bullets, abandoned the firearm on the ground and used the victim’s knife to wound the defendant, incapacitating him temporarily. The killer then fled the scene. The defendant stayed for another seven minutes, attempting to stop his own and the victim’s bleeding, before finally leaving the scene to find help. How’s that for a straightforward story?”

Kazuma bites down hard on his lip to stifle a growl of frustration. There’s holes in that narrative, he knows it, but – his brain feels like it’s trying to slam unrelated facts together until something sticks. It shouldn’t be like this. The win was right there. Shouldn’t be this easy to throw him off his game – should be so obvious, what with that surprised-and-pleased expression that Kazuma wants to just smack off of the defendant’s face –

“The defense has a point,” the judge says. He levels a cold look at Kazuma. “Would the prosecution care to respond?”

“I...” It’s like there’s glue in his throat, words molasses-slow and sticky. “The...”

His head hurts. The world feels like it’s turning on its axis without him. He just needs a minute to cut through the fog. A minute to think.

“The... The prosecution requests a fifteen-minute recess.”

He thinks he hears the defense mutter coward as he staggers out of the courtroom, case notes hastily gathered under his arms.

“Kazuma-sama,” Susato greets him, once he’s in the lobby. She must have been taking care of some legal paperwork for one of Ryuunosuke’s cases, by the looks of it. “You’re back early. Is the trial already over?”

“Not yet,” Kazuma mumbles. “Recess.” He plants himself on one of the lobby benches and exhales, resting his throbbing forehead on his hand.

“Are you alright, Kazuma-sama?” Susato’s brows are furrowed in worry. “You... don’t look well.”

I’m fine. “I’m fine,” he grits out. “Just... need a minute. To think.”

Yes, he tries to convince himself, shuffling through the papers to stare at the photograph of the corpse. Think. His eyes travel over the dark, ugly stains pooling from her neck and leg. She’d fought for her life so bravely. He owes it to her to get her killer the punishment he deserves.

So the first shot had been fired from through the tablecloth – that much is clear. After she’d screamed, then, the killer... Could have moved in to close range to fire the second shot, and that could’ve been when she used the knife. And then... Kazuma closes his eyes, trying to block out the light that feels like it’s assaulting his brain. And then he’d stayed for seven minutes... why? What kind of killer would loiter without trying to hide evidence? This should be easy for you. Just think. Because... because...?

Think, he demands, but doing so feels like wading through a pool of sludge. All he can hold onto is this one burning thread of anxiety: You’re going to lose valedictorian. You’re going to lose the study tour.

“– zuma-sama. Kazuma-sama!”

Kazuma startles. “Susato?”

Her gaze is steely. “I apologize deeply for overstepping my bounds, but as your friend, and as your former judicial assistant, I cannot simply stand by and watch this. I’ve contacted my father to come assess your condition.”

Kazuma springs to his feet, trying to ignore the way his temples scream at him for the sudden movement. “You did what?”

“He will be here in ten minutes.”

“You –” Kazuma’s notes crinkle in his fist. “That is completely unnecessary! The recess – the recess is –”

“Over, Kazuma-sama.” She casts her gaze to the side. “It ended five minutes ago.”

“It –” He swallows around nothing. “It did?”

“I called your name many times to get your attention when the bailiff was ordering people back inside,” she murmurs. “But you wouldn’t look at me, and you were clutching your head like you were in pain. And you look much paler than usual.”

“I am fine,” Kazuma snarls, turning on his heel. “Thank you for your concern, Susato, but I’ll be returning to the courtroom now.”

“Kazuma-sama, I would really prefer not to throw you when you already seem to be in bad condition.” He can tell by the way her feet subtly shift into stance that she’s not joking.

He sinks back into his seat. “I’m fine,” he mutters, although it sounds more like a white flag now. “I just... needed some time...”

“There’s one more thing, Kazuma-sama...” Susato tugs on her sleeve. She does look apologetic this time. “I also contacted Naruhodou-san to accompany you.”

“Ah,” is all Kazuma can say to the sensation of his heart falling into his stomach.

“I think he would much prefer to be there to support you than hear about it from you later. And as his friend, and his current judicial assistant, I must act in his best interests.”

Kazuma slumps and squeezes his eyes shut again. So it’s over, now. This is where the dream ends and the nightmare begins.

—

“Let me know if there’s any pain.”

Yuujin’s blunt fingers come to press against Kazuma’s neck, making his way across it in a slow circle before moving up into his scalp. It’s a scene they’re performing only for Ryuunosuke’s benefit, who’s pacing back and forth across the room with fingernails cinched between his teeth. Kazuma knows there are no bruises on the surface – anything external he suffered has long healed over, leaving behind only a tiny patch of white, sinewy skin. He knows because he feels for the wound himself, often. Hopes that this time he’ll find it. Wants there to be something he can blame.

“It all feels the same,” Kazuma mutters when Yuujin’s fingers draw away.

“If you rotate your head in a circle like this,” Yuujin says, demonstrating, “is there any angle which is worse than others?”

“...No, not really.”

Ryuunosuke’s fingers retract as he sits in the chair next to Kazuma’s, looking at his neck intently, as if there’s something the two of them might have missed. Kazuma knows Ryuunosuke can’t help that his emotions are completely transparent, worry included – but it’s hard not to get annoyed by his hyperactivity. It mixes bitter with the dread that’s calcifying like stone in his stomach, the knowledge that this situation can only end one way: with the complete admission of his condition, and the complementary implication that he’s been keeping it secret from Ryuunosuke.

Yuujin pulls out his notebook, taps his finger on the butt of his pen. “And could you describe your symptoms to me?”

“Headaches and fatigue, mostly. Concentration issues. Memory loss. Vertigo. Time blindness.” Kazuma swallows, pointedly not looking towards Ryuunosuke on his left. “Mood swings. Nausea. Confusion.”

“Kazuma,” Ryuunosuke says, sounding crestfallen.

The professor nods stoically. “And how long has it been, now, since this started?”

The words feel leaden in his throat. “…Two years, and about six months.”

Ryuunosuke nearly leaps out of his seat. “Two years?!”

Yuujin startles, appearing awkward as he looks at Kazuma, then Ryuunosuke, then Kazuma again. He’d forgotten, perhaps, that Kazuma had asked to keep this information secret from Ryuunosuke when he’d mentioned his condition in their correspondence. Either that, or Kazuma had forgotten to ask him to do so in the first place. No matter now; it’s been long enough, and Ryuunosuke is too omnipresent in Kazuma’s life now to avoid the truth.

“Two years and…” Ryuunosuke blanches. “You’re not saying that…”

“Yes,” Yuujin says carefully. “The root of Kazuma’s symptoms seems to be from the severe concussion he suffered on the SS Burya.”

“I don’t believe this,” Ryuunosuke exhales, sinking back into his seat. “But – but you were cured! You didn’t have any of this when you were in London!”

“I did,” Kazuma says quietly. “I just was able to mask it, then. I had to, for the trial.” He rubs at his forearm. “And we didn’t exactly… talk much, before you left.”

“But still! There were letters, Kazuma, why didn’t you –”

“Ryuunosuke.” Kazuma drops his forehead into his hands. “Can we talk about this later, please?”

Ryuunosuke’s lips purse. With his emotions blocked by Kazuma, they redirect towards Yuujin, lunging towards him. “Is there nothing you can do? Medication, or – or surgery or something?”

Yuujin’s eyebrows set far into his face. “I’m afraid not anything lasting. Kazuma’s injuries are all internal at this point. The brain is the most delicate organ in the body, and one we know very little about – surgery would be extremely dangerous. I can prescribe painkillers for his migraines when needed, but for the neurological symptoms, we’ll just have to wait for the body to heal itself naturally.”

Ryuunosuke shrinks, a deflated balloon. “Oh...”

“As a prosecutor, and as an associate of mine, Kazuma had access to some of the finest minds in forensic medicine in Britain,” Yuujin explains. “If there was anything that could have been done, we would have already done it.”

“Then... Then how long?” He starts to chew on his nails again. “How long will it take for him to return to normal?”

Kazuma’s annoyance flares. “I’m not damaged goods, Ryuunosuke.”

He flinches. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“...The practitioner in Britain told me two to six months,” Kazuma grits out. “Clearly that was a lie.”

“It’s not an unreasonable prediction to make,” Yuujin muses. “But they may have been too optimistic about the severity of your concussion. Your symptoms have been improving though, yes?”

“Yes... that’s true.”

“Then, I think it’s not out of the question for you to make a full recovery.” Yuujin folds his arms in front of his chest. “But you should also be prepared for the slim possibility of this being a lifelong condition.”

Kazuma can feel the true length of forever stretching out in front of them in the ensuing hollow silence. In two or twenty or forty years, still sleeping upwards of fourteen hours a day, still dealing with pain splitting his head open, still struggling to organize his thoughts. Still forgetting, and forgetting, and forgetting, retreading the same steps ad nauseam. Like God is at his shoulder, mocking: This is what you get for cheating death.

“Don’t look so downcast, you two,” Yuujin tries. “It may or may not be curable, but it is still treatable. Your recovery from your complete amnesia in Britain was nothing short of a miracle. And it proves that your brain still has the functions it needs to heal.”

“Right,” Ryuunosuke mumbles.

The pages of the notebook flutter as Yuujin shuts it and tucks it into his pocket. “We’ll take it one day at a time. How are you feeling right now, Kazuma?”

“I –” He censors himself abruptly when he remembers what landed him here in the first place. “The trial. What’s going to happen?”

“I talked to the judge to get you medically excused for the remainder of the day. Tomorrow morning, I’ll come to check on you again and we can decide from there whether you’d like to continue as the prosecution.” There’s that disapproving look only a father can wear. “Don’t worry about the trial right now, Kazuma. Your health comes first. How are you feeling?”

“Just... tired, I guess.” God, but it itches to say it. He’d rather throw himself back into the courtroom for another eight hours than face the inevitable conversation waiting for him at home.

“Then go home and rest,” Yuujin says. “Naruhodou, I’m trusting you to monitor his condition for me.”

“Oh,” Ryuunosuke says, sounding a little far away. “A-Alright.”

—

It’s a long and far too quiet trek back to their lodgings.

Kazuma slides their front door closed, and the ambient noise of the neighborhood dims. When he turns around, Ryuunosuke is already looking at him, belongings abandoned on the floor, expression cycling rapidly between pity and frustration and sadness.

Might as well rip the bandage off now. “Don’t just stare, Ryuunosuke,” Kazuma sighs. “Spit it out.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ryuunosuke starts, voice small.

“It’s not because I didn’t trust you. Can we sit down for this? I’m really tired.”

Ryuunosuke nods, and they make their way to the cushions in the living room, where Kazuma’s knees nearly give under him as he attempts to gracefully sit down.

“It’s not because I didn’t trust you,” Kazuma repeats, once he’s stabilized. “Please believe me on that. I only kept it from you because there was nothing you could have done besides worry yourself sick.” He closes his eyes. “And as you heard, I expected for this to be over and done with within my first year in London. When that deadline came and went, it was already too late to say anything.”

Ryuunosuke fiddles with his kimono sleeves. “But Professor Mikotoba knew?”

“Only because he happens to be a medical expert,” Kazuma says. “He had some recommendations for me to try, doctors to see. It made sense.”

“I still... I still would’ve wanted to know,” Ryuunosuke mumbles.

“What would you have done? You were halfway across the world. You couldn’t well have dropped everything to come be my bedside nurse.”

“I know that! I know, I just...” He looks genuinely miserable, and the guilt squeezes at Kazuma’s heart. “You’ve been suffering all this time, and I never noticed. What a partner I am, huh?”

“It’s not your fault.” Kazuma’s the coward, anyway.

“...It was worse? Before this?”

“There were days in England where I wouldn’t get up until dinnertime,” Kazuma sighs. “Or I’d fall over from the dizziness, or the headaches would last for days on end. None of that is happening now. And my head feels much clearer than it did back then. But I still have symptoms – they’re just less frequent and intense nowadays.”

“Then... At breakfast, when you asked me to come to England with you. You’d really forgotten?”

Kazuma grimaces at the memory. “Yes. The memories around the study abroad are especially hazy.”

“Oh,” Ryuunosuke says, pillow-soft. “Oh.”

The conversation withers at that. It’s hard for Kazuma to look at the slump of Ryuunosuke’s shoulders and not feel responsible for the weight he’s unloaded onto them.

He chews awkwardly at his lip. “The last thing I want is to be a burden to you. So if you’d rather...”

“I don’t rather! I don’t –” Ryuunosuke springs upright in his seat. “You could never be a burden. And – and I understand about keeping it from me, now. Even if I wish I’d known. I just – I don’t know, I just –” Tears glimmer at the corners of his eyes.

Kazuma shifts his cushion closer, tries to dry them with the corner of his sleeve. “Stop that. I don’t have a terminal illness, you know. My life is just... more inconvenient, now. I’m not dying.”

“But you did.” Ryuunosuke’s voice is a tremulous whisper, and it’s only then that Kazuma realizes what the tears are for. The grief in them is well-worn. “You almost did. I just wanted to – to leave that behind – just wanted to pretend it was all a bad dream, but it keeps...”

“I know. But I’m here,” Kazuma reminds him gently.

“You’re here,” Ryuunosuke agrees.

They hold each other for a long time after that, convincing themselves.

—

The morning is better, but not enough so. Professor Mikotoba advises him gently to let this case be handed over to another prosecuting counsel, and Kazuma clings to it until the end like a child being robbed of their comfort toy. He knows deep down that if he continues he’ll only tangle his argument more, make more of a fool of himself. But the house is so quiet after Ryuunosuke leaves for his own work day, and Kazuma can’t help but fill the silence with his own mental self-flagellation.

The day the news of the verdict drops, he leaves the newspaper folded across the breakfast table.

Ryuunosuke is an accommodating partner. Too much so. He frets, he checks, and he treats Kazuma like a piece of heat-stressed glass. Kazuma eventually sighs and tells him his caring is bordering on insult, and to his credit, he apologizes and backs off. But his worry is still there – Kazuma can see it in the lines in his face, in the hesitance of his touch.

Because it’s different, now, isn’t it, no matter how much Kazuma wants to cling to normalcy. There will be days that are normal, where the ache will leave him alone. But sometimes he’ll wake from a fitful sleep, existing in some limbo between dreaming and awake. He’ll feel an unexplainable urgency in his blood, pulsing at his wrist. He’ll surgically extract himself from Ryuunosuke’s embrace and wander the house with a glass of water, trying to expend his restlessness on something, anything.

He’ll find Karuma on its stand. The blade will tell him where to go. When he unsheathes it, he’ll find that the tip is broken. The tip was broken last time, and it will be next time. But the discovery will bruise just as much as the first.

He will remember England, will remember the Professor trial, will remember that he’s in the house he calls home now. The thrum of his pulse will quiet when it realizes there is no longer need for secrets, for assassination plots, for revenge. It’s over now. It has been. But healing will feel like the relentless playback of a broken record, like a scab that you itch without reason until the wound reopens, again and again.

—

“Knock knock,” comes Ryuunosuke’s voice from the doorway alongside the rap of his knuckles.

Typically Kazuma would find it endearing; right now all he can feel is irritation crawling over his skin like ants. Ryuunosuke is undoubtedly here to try to drag him home, regardless of how he feels about it. He continues staring at his paperwork, hoping if he ignores him for long enough, he’ll go away.

“Kazuma?”

Kazuma grunts. “Yes?”

“It’s getting late. We’re the only ones left at the office right now. Are you ready to go home?”

Kazuma steeples his fingers at his forehead and huffs. “No, I’m not. You can go ahead without me.”

Ryuunosuke approaches his desk, scanning over the case files. “Is that the Ogata case again?”

“Yes. The trial’s tomorrow.” Please leave.

Ryuunosuke’s mouth twists into a disapproving frown. “Kazuma... You’ve been staying up until early hours working on this one all week. Don’t you think it’s time you gave it a rest?”

“I am not done with my notes yet.” He hates to admit it, but after a string of humiliating losses following his return to the Japan courts, he’s been forced to rely more and more on his pre-written case notes. And at the moment, he’s barely conjured enough of them to make it past opening statements.

“Yes, but... You look so exhausted. Surely you have enough here to make it in trial?”

Kazuma’s grip on his pen tightens, and his frustration boils over. “So you’re saying that just because her counsel is a little tired, my client deserves a half-baked prosecution? Is that the kind of new justice system you’ve been building here in Japan, Ryuunosuke?”

Ryuunosuke recoils, stung. “What? Why would you say that?”

“Because that’s what it sounds like.”

“I – I –” Ryuunosuke balls his fists at his sides. “Obviously that’s not what I meant! Do you really think you’ll be able to perform at your best if you’re falling over from exhaustion?”

“From exhaustion?” Kazuma bites. “Or because I banged my head too hard once and now I can’t think straight?”

“No! Why do you keep putting words in my mouth?!” Ryuunosuke’s face is a red cocktail of shock, anger, and embarrassment. Instead of it making him concerned, Kazuma finds himself wanting to drive the knife in deeper. Anything. Anything to render himself unpleasant enough to make Ryuunosuke finally leave him alone. It doesn’t have to mean anything as long as it hurts.

“I’m not putting words in your mouth, partner, I’m reading your actions. I know you think so. Everyone does. I don’t need someone to tell me my own limits or to chaperone me around.” He lets out a single acerbic ha. “I’ve made it pretty damn far without parents, I don’t need one now.”

“I’m just trying to help you,” Ryuunosuke exclaims desperately, and the volume of his voice causes Kazuma’s head to pulse with pain.

Kazuma rubs his hands at his temples, trying to soothe the ache. “Ryuunosuke, please. Don’t yell. You’re not helping. You’re just hurting me.”

Ryuunosuke makes a noise like a distressed animal. “I’m not – I’m trying –”

“Do you know how you could help me right now?” Kazuma spits, still not meeting his eyes. “Go home, and leave me the fuck alone for once.”

It’s pin-drop silent as the venom in Kazuma’s words sinks in. Kazuma shuffles through his case files again, feigning nonchalance. Then the shift of fabric as Ryuunosuke hoists his bag back onto his shoulder. A sniffle small enough to be lost in the wind.

“You can be a real asshole when you want to be, Kazuma,” Ryuunosuke says lowly.

Then there’s the stomping of shoes. The breeze of a door swinging fast on its hinges. But the slam never comes – just a small kerchunk of the latch catching. Decided to mind his volume, surely, for Kazuma’s headache.

As the heat of his anger starts to wane, Kazuma finds that between the fog in his head and the guilt beginning to ferment in his stomach, he’s unable to process anything of what he reads at all.

—

It’s eerily quiet on the way back, after Kazuma admits to himself that nothing else will get done tonight. No Ryuunosuke to talk his ear off, or respond to his jabs, or comment on the skyscape. Doubly offputting once he steps into their house without an okaeri to Kazuma’s echoing tadaima, setting his shoes neatly next to Ryuunosuke’s messily kicked-off ones.

Ryuunosuke is in bed, facing away from Kazuma’s futon. Pretending to be asleep, although he’s clearly a poor actor. Kazuma knows how Ryuunosuke sleeps, open-mouthed and limbs starfished across the futon – not like this, with the covers drawn up to his shoulders and silent.

“Ryuunosuke,” Kazuma calls quietly.

No response. To be expected.

The shame prickles hot at Kazuma’s neck, but he presses on, reciting the words carefully picked out in his mind during his walk back home. “You don’t have to look at me if you don’t want to, but I hope you don’t mind listening.”

Kazuma folds his legs behind him, plants his hands on the ground, and bows deeply until his forehead rests against the futon.

“I sincerely apologize for my behavior earlier. I let my frustration with the case get the better of me, and I said things to you that I absolutely did not mean.

“When I first got diagnosed in England, the... The doctor told me that I’d damaged a part of my brain that was responsible for emotional regulation, and as a result, my mood might be more unstable than usual. And I did find that to be true. I’ve tried my best to control the mood swings, but sometimes… I don’t even realize they’re happening until they’re over. But – regardless, that’s no excuse for the way I lashed out at you earlier. It was completely out of line. I’m sorry, and whatever you deem appropriate regarding us going forward, it’s justified and I understand.”

His eyes squeeze shut. The thought of losing Ryuunosuke, the only and best relationship he’s ever had, makes his stomach roil with terror. But he can’t fault him if he decides he’s had enough. If Kazuma is this quick to snap at Ryuunosuke without reason, with intent to hurt, he’s not worthy of calling himself his partner.

He can hear the shift of blankets as Ryuunosuke sits up, the burn of his gaze on his neck. There’s a prolonged moment of tense silence, and Kazuma braces himself for the worst.

“You can lift your head up now,” Ryuunosuke sighs.

Kazuma obeys, slowly, carefully, and meets Ryuunosuke’s eyes. There’s a furrow to his brow and a purse to his lips that clearly spells out that he’s still upset – but even so, he seems closer to apologizing himself rather than telling Kazuma off.

“I did think it was out of character for you,” he says, quiet. “But even then, I won’t say it didn’t hurt.”

Kazuma stares at his knees. “Yes, I... I know.”

“I know you’re going through a lot, and it would be wrong of me to hold that against you.” Ryuunosuke reaches out to tenderly squeeze at Kazuma’s wrist. “And I hate seeing you look so guilty. I forgive you, you know.”

“You...” Probably shouldn’t. “You don’t have to.”

“Well,” Ryuunosuke says indifferently, “I choose to.”

He cards a hand through the hair on the crown of Kazuma’s head, and Kazuma exhales, knocking his forehead against Ryuunosuke’s shoulder. What undeserved privilege, to still get this without earning it, fruit from an unwatered plant.

“I... just need to know,” Ryuunosuke starts, timidly. “Is it true that I’m not helping? Do I just get in the way?”

Another needle of guilt pierces Kazuma’s stomach. “No... no. That’s not true. You help me more than you could ever know. I don’t thank you enough for it.” He pauses to consider how to phrase his next words. “It’s only that sometimes I... I feel like I shouldn’t take your help. Like this is my problem, and I need to be dealing with it myself.”

“I see,” Ryuunosuke hums. “Well... I think that’s silly, to be frank with you.”

Kazuma huffs. “Silly?”

“I thought we both ended up in the legal profession because we agreed on this. That there’s no better feeling than being able to save someone in a desperate situation.” He smiles a little, moving his hand down to massage at Kazuma’s neck. “We’re all social creatures, humans. We help others, and we get helped. Like you helped me in that awful Supreme Court case with the Englishwoman. What kind of partner would I be if I simply stood by and let you suffer?”

“I suppose so,” Kazuma murmurs, feeling thoroughly humbled once again by Ryuunosuke’s simple wisdom.

“Right.” Ryuunosuke coaxes Kazuma’s head up so he can playfully bump his forehead against Kazuma’s. “We can talk more in the morning, if you’d like. But I did mean it when I said you look exhausted. Take your kimono off and come join me in bed.”

“Alright,” Kazuma agrees. He dips his head again in gratitude. “Thank you.”

“And stop being so formal,” Ryuunosuke reprimands him. “It’s weird.”

Kazuma snorts and pushes lightly at his shoulder. “What’s weird about it, you brat?”

“That’s better,” Ryuunosuke grins. He opens his arms in invitation, and as soon as Kazuma rids himself of his outer layers he falls into them, the balm of Ryuunosuke’s words allowing him to slip into sleep painlessly and immediately.

—

He wins the Ogata case by the skin of his teeth. It’s not a win by merit at all; no, the defendant’s guilt was obvious, the evidence overwhelming, and it’s just barely enough to outweigh Kazuma’s own clumsiness on the bench. Even as the plaintiff approaches him afterwards to thank him with teary eyes, he can only offer hollow congratulations. It feels like he is no longer a cog himself in the greater machine of Japanese justice, but getting crushed in between the teeth of them.

“But you won,” Ryuunosuke emphasizes. He’d caught up to Kazuma outside the courthouse in-between appointments, offering him a handful of cherries from the seller down the street.

“Just barely,” Kazuma sighs.

“You can’t expect yourself to be operating at one hundred percent all the time,” Ryuunosuke reasons. “You’re only human.”

“That’s not the point. I might get many chances to win cases, but my clients only get one. If I can’t get myself together, and I fail to prove the truth, I’m letting criminals walk back into society unpunished.” And how many nightmares has he had about that? He crossly spits a cherry pit into the grass. “This profession is not the kind that can tolerate inconsistent quality. That’s why I studied so rigorously in university, and why I chose to stay under Van Zieks’ tutelage for as long as I did.”

He rolls his final cherry between his pointer and thumb. “I think…” He swallows. “I think I’m tired.”

Ryuunosuke’s expression grows serious. He knows it’s not tired in the way that can be solved with a post-trial power nap; it’s tired in a way that weighs his bones down on a daily basis.

“How do you feel about taking on less cases?” Ryuunosuke asks tentatively.

He’s suggested it before, more than once, but Kazuma had always brushed him off with a justice waits for no one, arguing to himself that the extra difficulty in his work recently could be compensated for with more hours at the office, with tighter organization and stricter self-discipline. Coming out of this case, he’s forced to reconsider the offer. What favors is he doing to his clients if he runs himself into the ground?

“I think I feel okay about it,” Kazuma says, soft.

Relief and happiness flood Ryuunosuke’s face. He squeezes Kazuma’s shoulder. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

So he takes it slow. It’s difficult to reject clients in need; harder still to not feel like a complete parasite when Ryuunosuke comes home in his work clothes later than him with armfuls of groceries. He’s spent so much of his life swathing himself in ambition – aiming three steps higher than he can climb in hopes that it’ll make his legs longer. It’s hard to match up his vision of trailblazing justice with taking painkillers and exercising his neck in his room.

But then, just as well: things come a little easier. His win rate improves. His energy starts to return once his sleep schedule stabilizes. The migraines become fewer and farther in between. And on the days he does spend at home, he gets ample time to think. Think about the Professor and revenge and family ostracization; about what it means to be a prosecutor, about what he owes to the world; about his relationship with Ryuunosuke, the lives they could’ve led together and the life they will.

About himself, especially. He’d thought he’d spent plenty of time in Britain learning to make peace with his demons, practicing healing and forgiveness. But even then, he was always just charging forward – trying to prove to himself that he was, that he is a good person by carving a name for himself out of the British judiciary. It’s only as he sits in the quiet house, staring into space and nursing a cup of water, that he realizes that healing will entail making friends with himself. It’s hardest of all to enjoy his own company. But sure enough, day by day: a little kinder, a little easier.

—

“Kazuma-sama.”

Kazuma blinks, looking up from his cutting board towards the kitchen entrance. Now eighteen and with cascading hair tied up in neat, elaborate designs, Susato looks more woman than girl, a fact Kazuma still hasn’t wrapped his head around.

“Susato,” Kazuma greets. “You’re home early. Is Ryuunosuke not giving you enough to do?”

“Oh no,” Susato giggles, hiding her mouth demurely with a hand, “there’s always plenty to take care of at the office. It’s already 6:20, Kazuma-sama.”

“Ah.” Kazuma glances headlong at the kitchen clock, which seems to have sped itself up while he wasn’t paying attention. “Well, I suppose there’s no surprising you, then.”

“Oh, did I spoil the fun?”

“Not terribly. I’m making dinner as a thank-you to the professor for the laudanum,” Kazuma explains.

“How thoughtful of you.” Susato beams and stations herself at a cutting board, where she sets to work scaling the mackerel.

Kazuma plants his hands on his hips. “Did you miss the part where I said I’m making dinner?”

“Oh, I heard you,” she says serenely. “But I’m the type that feels restless if she doesn’t have something to do, you know.”

Kazuma chuckles, shaking his head. It’s a bit of a blow to the integrity of the gift, but he does have to admit that she’s leaps and bounds ahead of him in cooking skills. He finishes off chopping the leeks, setting them aside to exchange for carrots. For a moment, they’re both quiet as they focus, the sounds of knifework and smells of caramelization filling the kitchen as Kazuma starts to sauté the vegetables.

“Is it working, then?” Susato asks tentatively, once she’s fileted the fish. “The laudanum?”

“Yes, when it needs to,” Kazuma replies. “It’s not a long-term solution or anything, but it does reduce the pain on particularly bad days. But it does taste horrendous.”

Susato shudders. “Yes, I hear... It’s unfortunate that there isn’t a better alternative. I only hope that medical science improves enough in our lifetimes that you could see some permanent relief.”

“I do too,” Kazuma says, pushing the vegetables around the pan without much thought, “but for now, I’ll take what I can get.”

He can feel Susato’s eyes on him as he stirs, and looks up. “...What?”

“It’s nothing.” She clasps her hands together in front of her waist, smiling with pure sincerity. “Only that you seem to be in good spirits nowadays, Kazuma-sama. I’m very happy for you.”

“Is that so?” He takes the fish from her with a nod of gratitude and begins to season it.

“Yes.” Susato begins filling the kettle to put on a batch of tea. She opens her mouth, only to close it, seemingly hesitating on her next sentence’s phrasing. “...Truthfully, I worried when Naruhodou-san told me you were taking on less work. You’re like me, after all. Restless if he doesn’t have something to do.”

Kazuma chuckles and turns the mackerel. “That I am. And it is hard to sit around the house doing nothing. But I think I realized... my feelings have no power over the situation. It’s hard to remember it, sometimes, but I’d rather be sick and content than sick and miserable about it.”

“That’s a very mature way of thinking about it,” Susato muses.

Kazuma snorts. “I am twenty-six now, you know. It’s about time I grew up, I think.”

“Oh, yes, quite,” Susato says cheerfully, and it takes a few seconds for Kazuma to register the roundabout insult in that. He decides not to address it.

“Do these taste done to you?” he says instead, offering her a nibble of carrot.

“Mm, yes. You can take them off the heat now. Your cooking instincts have improved as well, Kazuma-sama.”

“Glad to hear it. Then everything’s set – we just need to take the mackerel outside to grill.”

“Oh, don’t forget to take your tea,” Susato pipes up, and hands him a squat ceramic cup.

Kazuma sips at it carefully, the steam blooming across his face. It’s just the right temperature and intensity. After enduring weeks of his and Ryuunosuke’s inconsistent brews, Susato’s tea skills truly seem like wizardry. He’s never been good at discerning flavor, but this one definitely seems outside of the typical Japanese palate. “It’s delicious. What blend is this? It must be new.”

Susato flushes up with joy. “I’m so happy you like it! I requested a custom blend especially from Iris. Let me see…” She leafs through the worn blue notebook she keeps stashed in her sleeve. “There’s chamomile for reducing inflammation, feverfew for the headaches, lavender to reduce anxiety and stress, and ginkgo leaves for cognitive improvement. And some other ingredients to round out the flavors. The Kazzy blend, she called it.”

Kazuma’s heart soars, touched by the thoughtfulness of the gift. “I’ll have to write her a thank-you later.” He sips again, and the tea’s warmth blooms from his throat out to his extremities. “I think it’s working already.”

—

The summer heat becomes punishing as July bleeds into August. It’s the first one Kazuma’s spent in Japan in three years, and he finds himself missing London and its comparatively temperate climate for the first time since he returned. The humidity is the kind that makes you feel like your skin is turning to slime. In the sunny afternoons, focusing on anything besides how uncomfortable he is becomes a challenge.

The silver lining: on days like these, Ryuunosuke is less inclined to do chores or go out on the town, and instead opts to join Kazuma in his nothing-doing. They lay with limbs splayed across the tatami, clad in their thinnest linen kimonos, listening to the cicadas screech outside. They haven’t said anything of substance in hours, just complaints about the heat and their typical banter, but still, just having Ryuunosuke in the room puts Kazuma at ease. Even if he’s currently contributing to Kazuma’s overheating problem by tossing his burning arm lazily across Kazuma’s torso like a log over a campfire.

“Get off,” Kazuma grumbles half-heartedly, and Ryuunosuke only hums in response. He doesn’t care enough to repeat himself.

Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t actually mean it. Because from this close he can study Ryuunosuke, and he’s infinitely more interesting than the ceiling. His eyes roll along the contour of his face, hitting the speed bump on the bridge of his nose. The feverish glow to his skin, the bead of sweat that travels down his collarbone. The slow blink of a cat who trusts you. The stupid tan line from his archery guard – what’s his reason for wearing that still, anyway?

There’s an ant crawling across his forearm. It must be ticklish, but Ryuunosuke doesn’t bat it away – even twists his arm to let it complete its journey more upright. It disappears between the valleys of his knuckles, and for a moment it looks as though it’ll successfully make it to the other side of Kazuma, until Ryuunosuke crooks his arm up to guide the insect onto Kazuma’s forehead.

Kazuma is not as kind, and flicks the bug off of him with a glare. Ryuunosuke chuckles through his nose. Such simple, childish joy. Kazuma wants to bottle it up like a firefly.

The interaction results in Ryuunosuke being turned towards him now, hand just barely brushing Kazuma’s fringe. He’d notice, now, if Kazuma continued to stare, and he does. The sharing of their body heat is nigh-unbearable, he thinks. It’s worst at his neck, where Ryuunosuke dips his head to plant a delicate kiss.

“Too hot for that,” Kazuma mumbles, even as his body shivers as if disagreeing.

“Then maybe you should take some layers off,” Ryuunosuke suggests, smiling against his skin, and it’s maddening in several ways.

“Layer. I have one layer,” Kazuma corrects flatly, “mmm –”

Ryuunosuke ignores him in favor of continuing his necking, unhurried and sweet, soft excepting the slightest blunt of teeth. When he starts to trail upwards, Kazuma becomes impatient and tugs Ryuunosuke’s hair up to kiss him properly on the mouth, sweat-salty.

“You’re in for it now, Naruhodou Ryuunosuke,” Kazuma mutters without drawing back, so that he can feel the way it pronounces against Ryuunosuke’s lips.

Ryuunosuke just laughs and kisses him again. God, but it’s warm. Wasn’t ever this bad last year, even in the poorly-ventilated Yumei dorms. Must be a record-setting summer.

There’s a cat-who-got-the-cream peek of Ryuunosuke’s tongue between the seam of his mouth when Kazuma topples him over, and that’s how Kazuma knows he’s been successfully baited. He is a deeply infuriating man. And a beautiful one. He pauses to take the sight of him in. Strange, how it makes his heart ache, like he might lose this at any second.

“Why’d you stop?” Ryuunosuke complains, tugging at his shoulder. “I miss you.”

“Maybe you don’t have to,” Kazuma says automatically.

Ryuunosuke blinks. “Huh?”

And maybe that tsunami wave of déjà vu is trying to tell him something. Maybe they’ve danced to this tune before, too many times to count. But when he reaches, he can’t find it; not concretely, anyway. Just hazy apparitions, iterations on the same scene: Ryuunosuke at breakfast, rubbing sleep from his eyes; Ryuunosuke laughing, limbs loose from alcohol; Ryuunosuke post-afternoon classes, with the sun hitting his eyes just right. The vague muscle memory of his stomach fluttering as he works up the courage. Surely they can’t all be dreams. Surely he must have already asked, but there’s always the non-zero chance he hasn’t. And if he hasn’t – and then he doesn’t –

So here is the question, or this repetition of it: “What if you came to London with me?”

Ryuunosuke doesn’t look surprised, or at least, not as much as he should be at such an outrageous proposal. Kazuma’s neck burns with embarrassment. He must have forgotten. He’s always forgetting. He waits for the correction.

But Ryuunosuke just beams, ear to ear, eyes becoming crescents, like there’s nothing else he’d rather be asked. And here is the answer, always and forever: “Yes. Of course I will.”

—

“Hey,” Ryuunosuke greets, haphazardly kicking his shoes off and leaving his bookbag on the steps. “What are you doing tonight?”

Kazuma glances at him from where he’s lying on a row of cushions in the living room, reading. He splays his book on his stomach. “Nothing important that I can think of.”

Ryuunosuke beams. “Well, great. Do you know what day it is?”

“...Thursday?”

“No!” He straightens and puts his hands on his hips triumphantly. “It’s our one hundred days!”

First week of August means one hundred days ago would have been... end of April, beginning of May. Kazuma has an inkling what this is about now, but he decides to play dumb. “One hundred days since... what? You know my memory’s not great.”

“Since, you know...!” It’s worth it to watch Ryuunosuke’s eyes flit about in embarrassment as he struggles to vocalize the encounter. “Since we got rained on coming home and...”

“And?”

It’s doubly worth it to watch it slowly dawn on Ryuunosuke that he doesn’t need to clarify as Kazuma’s smirk widens. “You,” he barks with an accusatory point, “are not allowed to use your amnesia against me!”

Kazuma quakes with laughter, the book getting jostled and sliding off of him and to the floor. “Ah, but I will. This thing” – he picks it up and waves it blithely in the air – “is not nearly entertaining enough for me.” He sits up more fully on the cushions. “I didn’t realize you kept track of that kind of thing, partner.”

“Oh, I don’t really,” Ryuunosuke mumbles meekly. “I just get bored sometimes at work and the only distraction I have is a calendar. But, um... if you can be ready in an hour or so, I have something planned.”

Kazuma raises an eyebrow. “Oh? What is it?”

The corners of Ryuunosuke’s lips are twitching with poorly-concealed excitement. “It’s a surprise.”

He sets off into the house to take care of “preparations,” and as Kazuma gets to his feet to dress himself for the date, he’s immediately reminded of why he was lying down in the first place. It’s a bad head day – the first in a week, and the worst in a while. He’s assaulted by a familiar bout of vertigo that forces him back to his knees. He blinks hard, lowers his head for a moment to compose himself, temples pulsing.

His teeth gnash together as he fights through the pain and disorientation. No. Not today. He’s earned it, dammit. They both have. So what if he has to walk a little slower, talk a little less? He refuses to let this stupid headache ruin his anniversary. Decisively, he staggers his way to the bedroom to make himself more presentable.

Thankfully, Ryuunosuke seems to be oblivious to his struggle, peering into the room with a “ready to go?” as dusk begins to paint the horizon lavender. Kazuma nods, feeling a little cheered already by Ryuunosuke’s infectious enthusiasm. They link their arms around each other as they step outside; a safe bet, considering the activity level of the neighborhood at this time of day.

They mundanely catch each other up on their days as they walk, headed towards the more commercialized district. Ryuunosuke’s arm eventually unhooks itself as they approach other evening wanderers; Kazuma mourns the loss, having secretly appreciated the extra stability. Ryuunosuke leads him through various turns and alleys, and as Kazuma’s surroundings gradually become more familiar, he starts to get the idea.

“A surprise, you say?” he ribs as they duck under the noren of their favorite gyuunabe restaurant. “Feels like a Thursday to me.”

“Har har. This part isn’t the surprise,” Ryuunosuke retorts.

“Curious.”

“Don’t get too excited. Table for two, please?”

They dine in a dark, cramped corner of the restaurant, just their usual hotpot and sides, although Kazuma passes up on the alcohol. Ryuunosuke is, thankfully, animated enough for the two of them, recounting some absurd story from his recent case investigation, and Kazuma gets by by nodding when appropriate. The headache is distracting, though – and only gets worse as the dinner rush starts to filter in, causing the noise around them to amplify. He stifles a sigh of frustration behind his napkin. Hopefully whatever surprise Ryuunosuke has planned takes place somewhere quiet.

“Are you going to eat that?” Ryuunosuke asks, gesturing towards a slab of meat that’s been languishing on Kazuma’s plate.

“Ah,” Kazuma says. It takes a moment to register he’s expected to respond. “No. You can have it.”

Ryuunosuke’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“What?”

“This is the first time I’ve ever stolen beef from you this easily,” Ryuunosuke says, suspicious. He takes the slice anyway and stuffs it crudely in his mouth. Jokingly: “Are you okay?”

Kazuma smiles halfheartedly and picks at his rice. “Ha. I’m just... not that hungry. Shouldn’t go to waste.”

It doesn’t seem to be convincing enough, because Ryuunosuke’s expression dampens at his response. “Hmm.”

Fuck. Kazuma suddenly feels like he’s terrible company. “You were saying about the gloves,” he prompts, trying to revive the mood.

Ryuunosuke seems a little caught off guard, but continues his rambling anyway, enough to get them to the end of dinner without further incident. He fishes out a handful of crumpled bills from his wallet to leave on the table and stands, stretching his legs. Kazuma follows suit, but then his ear rings, his balance tilts, and his hand shoots out to grab Ryuunosuke’s for stability.

Ryuunosuke flushes, eyes darting anxiously around at the patrons. “Um, Kazuma...”

Ah. Kazuma retracts himself, swallowing. “Sorry. I’ll wait until we’re outside.”

The two of them walk out. It’s refreshing at least to be in the night air and leave the din of the restaurant behind. Kazuma feels a spark of relief at the prospect of going home to turn in, until he remembers that the dinner wasn’t the surprise, and that there’s still much more evening to go. His body grows heavy at the thought.

But then, a few streets later, Ryuunosuke’s hand sneaks out to intertwine with Kazuma’s again. “There’s less people now,” he whispers, smiling shyly.

He’s so sweet. Kazuma doubles back on his commitment to enduring. “Ah. Yeah.”

“...Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine,” Kazuma insists, like if he says it firmly enough, it might become true. “Just lead the way.”

They make it a few more blocks, picking their way across the cobblestone, before Kazuma’s body betrays him again. It’s like someone is driving a hot needle into his brain, over and over. It hurts it hurts it hurts. His legs freeze in place, his free hand shooting up to clutch at his forehead as he sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek to stifle a groan.

“Kazuma,” Ryuunosuke says, stony serious. Kazuma realizes he’s been nearly crushing Ryuunosuke’s fingers between his own. “You’re obviously not well. Please tell me what’s going on.”

No, Kazuma’s brain answers petulantly. He stays silent.

“I’m not going to be mad at you,” Ryuunosuke adds, gentler.

He’s cornered now. No use trying to hide the truth from a lawyer, especially not this one.

So he swallows, the words feeling like acid on his tongue: “Feel dizzy. It’s been really bad all day.”

“Oh,” Ryuunosuke says quietly. His hand squeezes a little tighter. “Like, constantly, or coming and going?”

“Just... little spells. And my head,” Kazuma starts, weakly. Like it’s cleaving itself in two, but he’s not sure how to describe as much to Ryuunosuke.

“Are you nauseous?”

“...A little bit.”

“Okay,” Ryuunosuke murmurs. His gaze suddenly hardens. “I’m going to hail a rickshaw, okay?”

“But,” Kazuma protests, unconvincing in its tininess even to his own ears. He doesn’t want to admit defeat, not yet, even as the romantic glow of lantern light is quickly turning sickly. Thinks about that shy, giddy smile when Ryuunosuke told him he wanted to surprise him, slipping through his fingers like sand.

“No ifs, ands, and buts,” Ryuunosuke says firmly. “You’re clearly miserable. It’ll be most comfortable to rest at home until it passes.”

Until when, Kazuma thinks despondently.

He closes his eyes in surrender.

He can feel the tight pressure of Ryuunosuke’s hand as he’s loaded into the carriage, the rumble of his voice as he directs the driver to their address. His temples throb; there’s another wave of vertigo that has him swaying; all the while, the wheels clack over jagged stones that send the acid in his stomach splashing.

A particularly uneven road makes the rickshaw clatter with movement, and the nausea threatens at his throat.

“Fuck,” Kazuma groans, breath shallow.

He can hear Ryuunosuke hurriedly instructing the driver to be careful, his friend is sick. Then, closer, gently petting at his ear: “We’re almost there, okay? Hang in there.”

He’s still shaking when they disembark, like he’s brought the motion of the vehicle with him. Ryuunosuke has graduated from holding his hand to supporting his whole side. He unlatches and slides open the door with a thwack and removes his shoes, quickly setting to work removing Kazuma’s as well as Kazuma braces himself against the doorframe. It’s somewhat of a comfort to be in his own residence. At least if he stains or breaks something here, it’s his own things to clean up.

His vision swims again, as if someone’s pulled a rug from underneath him, and he stumbles into Ryuunosuke’s arms.

“Do you think you can make it to the bedroom?” Ryuunosuke whispers.

“...No, no, I...” Kazuma forces a deep breath. “Don’t want to move anymore, just...”

“Alright,” Ryuunosuke murmurs. He steadily lowers Kazuma to the floor. “Alright,” he echoes, as much of a reassurance as an agreement. “Will you be okay here for a second? I’m going to grab you some water.”

Kazuma nods, posture limp as a doll. To his own dismay, he adds: “And the bowl, please...”

Ryuunosuke nods gravely, scrambling to hurry to the kitchen.

The designated bowl is the least cherished one from their kitchen, unimpressive in its ornamentation but deep enough to serve its purpose. It’s the one they used the last time Kazuma was sick, and the time before that, and the time before that; a bowl that’s been thrown up in more times than it’s been eaten out of. Staring into the bottom of it, trembling hands braced against its sides, elicits an almost conditioned response in Kazuma. The nausea becomes eager, climbs like creeping ivy up his esophagus.

He hates this part most of all. When the room goes suffocatingly quiet, save for the labored working of his breath, the whisper of Ryuunosuke’s hand smoothing over the back of Kazuma’s shirt. When there is nothing else but the stranglehold of inevitability.

The clamminess of his hands suddenly intensifies, his gut tightens, and as Kazuma doubles over to expel their wonderful anniversary dinner into the bowl, he can’t help but think, finally.

He retches up the gyuunabe and the rice and eggs he had for breakfast and the persimmons he shared with Ryuunosuke last night. He retches until it’s yellow-clear and liquid, just water and stomach acid. He retches until nothing at all comes up anymore, and even some time after. He retches until he realizes it’s no longer retching, body heaving with sobs instead, until his tears, too, run dry.

He’s never been this empty. There’s nothing left of him inside. Just the relentless jackhammering of his brain on his skull, and the grim culmination of his sickness, on display for Ryuunosuke to see.

When he finally feels that the nausea is no longer threatening him, he slightly shoves the bowl away, trying to avoid the acrid smell. Ryuunosuke picks up on the gesture and moves it far out of range.

“I’ve got you,” Ryuunosuke is saying, gathering Kazuma against him, sweaty shirt and all, and Kazuma’s eyes prickle again.

“I hate this,” he murmurs, words scratchy against his overworked throat.

“I know.”

“I hate this, I –” His knuckles sting dully as he loses against the instinct to punch the ground. “I rest, I exercise, I eat well. I do everything right, it’s not fair.” He hates how childish it sounds, like he’s throwing a temper tantrum, but it’s true. “I’ve tried so hard to heal, so why is it – still –”

It’s been three years since he ‘died’ on that steamship. Two years since he helped convict his father’s killer in Britain. Two years of licking his wounds, of honing his craft, of forgiving himself. And a hundred days since he started building a home in the country he loves with his soulmate. He has everything he’s wanted out of life and then some. And still, and still, and still. Like his body has fossilized around his trauma, like it won’t let itself feel anything other than pain.

Ryuunosuke is quiet. He knows there isn’t much he can say to make it better.

“I just want it to end,” Kazuma chokes, voice wracked with despair. “And you shouldn’t have to – I’m such a mess.”

“Shouldn’t what? Take care of you?”

Kazuma sags. “I – I never wanted you to see me like this.”

Ryuunosuke brushes Kazuma’s bangs back from where they cling to his forehead. He smiles, a little sweet, teasing. “Kazuma, if what I liked about you was that you were perfect, I would have left you a long time ago.”

“Heh. Cheeky bastard,” Kazuma huffs, before quickly covering his mouth, realizing his breath must smell terrible.

“If you’d rather suffer in silence, then I’m sorry, but I can’t bring myself to let that happen. I realize that if even doctors can’t fix your head, then there’s even less that I can do. But if I can be there to catch you, or hold you, or grab the sick bowl, I will.” He chuckles. “It’s my floor too, you know.”

“Mmm.”

It’s quiet again as Kazuma settles against Ryuunosuke, blinking away his tears, letting him pet his hands over his shoulders and back. Ryuunosuke chews on his lip, the way he does when he’s lost in thought.

“You know what I think,” he starts softly, “when I wake up next to you every morning?”

“What’s that,” Kazuma asks.

“I feel like it’s a miracle,” Ryuunosuke says, so simply. “Like I can hardly believe it. That you’re alive, and on top of that, that I get to have you. Sometimes it still doesn’t feel real. Like I’m tempted to check.”

Kazuma’s heart twists. Even after all these years, even after learning and re-learning it was without a real target, Ryuunosuke’s grief still clings to him like a spiderweb. That acute hollowness to his voice when he talks about it is still so difficult to parse.

“Forgive me for being morbid, but,” Ryuunosuke exhales, “the point being: I already know what it’s like to have you dead. And it’s hundreds, thousands of times worse than having you sick and alive.”

Kazuma focuses on the little points of warmth where Ryuunosuke’s hands meet his body, on the steady rise and fall of his own chest. He’s not dead, not yet, even if his own body is trying to kill him. He’s still here, alive, and he will cling to life in all of its horribleness with white knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, stricken. “I – I want to be better for you. I want to be more than just not the worst case scenario for you.”

“You’re already doing the best you can with what your body is allowing you,” Ryuunosuke says gently. “That’s enough for me. And what did I just say? It’s not just ‘better than the worst case scenario.’ It’s thousands and millions times better.”

“I believe you said, ‘hundreds and thousands,’” Kazuma muses.

“Pedantic,” Ryuunosuke sniffs. “It’s not logically contradictory.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Is this your way of being ‘better for me’?” Ryuunosuke complains.

“No,” Kazuma rumbles, smiling. “I think I’m being just about the same.”

Ryuunosuke chuckles softly and coaxes the glass of water into Kazuma’s hands. “Drink. Slowly, though.”

The first trickle of water stings coming down Kazuma’s tract. It’s hard to fight the urge to just down the entire glass, to fill the hollow in his stomach with something, anything. He knows from experience that his system is still sensitive, that it won’t take kindly to being overwhelmed. So a little at a time it must be.

“After dinner,” Kazuma wonders quietly, “what did you want us to do?”

“Oh! Um,” Ryuunosuke fidgets at the hem of his shirt, flushing slightly. “I was thinking we could go to the hot springs, and then maybe wander around our old haunts on Yumei’s campus and stargaze before going home to, um,” he turns a darker shade of red, “relax.”

About as subtle as a brick to the face. Kazuma would laugh if he had the energy. “Ah,” he mumbles mournfully. “It sounds delightful.”

“We can still do it! It won’t be a surprise anymore, but we could do it tomorrow. If, well, you’re feeling better, that is.”

“Sure. We can see how I feel.” Kazuma takes another slow sip of water. “I heard it will be our one hundred and first day anniversary.”

“Cause for celebration, I’d say,” Ryuunosuke grins.

He sets to work toting the sick bowl to the kitchen to rinse and scrub clean while Kazuma gradually rehydrates himself. It’s a small victory that Kazuma’s able to keep it down. There’s still the occasional dizzy spell, and a consistent throb at his temples, but overpowering most of that now is a fatigue that almost convinces him to pass out right there on the entryway steps.

He’s jolted slightly awake by the damp, warm cloth Ryuunosuke presses to his forehead. “How are you feeling now? Up to moving yet?”

“Just tired now. I… I think I can make it to the bedroom, though.”

“Alright. Up we go.”

Ryuunosuke’s hand anchors him as Kazuma pulls himself to his feet. It’s warm. Steady, as he guides him towards their shared bedroom. It occurs to Kazuma that he spends quite a lot of time being led by this hand. Always waiting until Kazuma’s ready, but pulling him ever-forward nonetheless.

“Ryuu?” Kazuma murmurs.

Ryuunosuke glances over his shoulder at him. “Mm?”

As gentle as flower-fall: “I love you.”

He’d been holding those words close to his chest for so long. Hoping inspiration would strike, he supposes, at some theoretical, perfectly romantic moment in the future. When he watches the surprise in Ryuunosuke’s face morph into pure, unadulterated happiness, Kazuma wonders why he waited at all.

Over the past three months, Kazuma has said a lot of thank yous that have also meant I love you. It’s fitting, then, that his first I love you should mean thank you as well.

“I love you, too,” Ryuunosuke says, voice wobbling. “More than anything.” He tears his shiny gaze away from Kazuma’s face. “I’d kiss you if you didn’t just, y’know.”

This time Kazuma does laugh. “Yes, let me brush my teeth first.”

“Okay.” Ryuunosuke smiles and gives his hand a final squeeze. “I’ll be waiting.”