Archive of Our Own ^beta

I. GRANDIOSO 

The illusion of privacy comes hand in hand with the corner Daisuke has carved out for his own in the division. Offshore from the island of chairs in the centre of the room and away from the stubborn yet dependable partner he never expected to find. 

Detached by design. 

Here, Daisuke sits in a piece of self-made solitude. It’s hardly as poignant as it sounds.

After all, sometimes solitude is soothing - not quite the beast people paint it out to be. Serrated teeth are not gnawing into his skin and tearing him asunder, nor is the firm grip it has on him particularly overwhelming. 

He is not being clawed into despairing darkness and the shadows don’t cleave into his chest so deep in public. 

Daisuke likes to believe he is more resilient than that. 

More,  he has work to do and things that can’t be meddled with by others whose input would be unhelpful. The sinister things beneath his bones that refuse to find their rest will finally settle when all of this ends. 

Soon, perhaps. 

Sooner than expected. 

Increasing momentum at this stage in his investigation had not been planned. But in some respects, Haru’s driving persistence and sheer obstinate will to do good might have just influenced Daisuke to follow suit. 

The way Nakamoto Chousuke peers over with stern, sharpened eyes has not gone unnoticed. Duly noted each time. 

Perhaps retaliation isn’t proper, but Daisuke purposefully meets those looks head on, all whilst keeping the inevitable tense conversation that will have to ensue between them at arm’s length. 

He has other priorities. 

Reminders that the privacy he has here is nothing more than a fanciful illusion are unwanted. He’s aware. With a name like his, no doubt the sceptical murmurs are creeping out of hibernation and turbulent tides are turning once more. 

Unfortunately, when Kamei comes to loiter in his peripheral it becomes clear that the illusion is neither foolproof or fool-proof.  

Kamei would only have the audacity to walk over here and disrupt Daisuke’s work for two things: to ask a favour or to be a general nuisance. 

To be honest, it’s unclear which scenario will be the worst to deal with. All in all, this is something he could do without. Kamei continues to hover, his presence harder to overlook. 

“What is it?” Daisuke asks, the sharp bite of exasperation seeming to somehow go right over the man’s head. 

Well, most things do. It’s hardly a surprise. 

“These files need taking to the storeroom on the next floor.” 

Kamei dumps the box on the table. It’s filled to the brim with papers that seem haphazardly sorted. The eyeroll he receives goes unnoticed because Daisuke is not going to remove his glasses - that would take too much effort and he is in the middle of something. 

Flicking the file away with his wrist, Daisuke looks over the next thing HEUSC pulls up on the screen. For some reason, Kamei finds the action amusing. 

“You look really stupid when you do that, it makes me feel a little better about myself because you’re so… you know.” 

Ironic, how Kamei does a gesture with his hand far more outlandish than anything Daisuke has been doing up to this point. He definitely does not look like that and he is eternally grateful for it. 

Apparently, Daisuke is not going to be getting any peace. 

Tucking the glasses into his pocket, he casts his most unsavoury glare over towards this man. He’s been well and truly interrupted now. 

Kamei has promptly five seconds to make this good and remotely interesting or there will be some kind of repercussions. Something as tasteless as streaming those videos Kamei should not have on his work computer across the entire office, for instance.

A fitting punishment for this particular crime. Time is money, one might say. 

“Ugh, kind of feel like I’m getting the cold shoulder here…” Kamei sighs. “Can you please take the files?” 

“Remind me why you can’t take them?”

Daisuke has yet to hear a reason. 

Kamei sucks in his lip, looking the closest to fretful he’s ever been. 

“I’m waiting,” Daisuke probes, losing patience. 

“It’s the ghost!!” Kamei shrieks, loud enough to have everyone in the office turning towards them. 

Blinking slowly, Daisuke considers the words. 

“The ghost?” 

Undeterred, caught in whatever spooky tale that compels him to become such an embarrassment, Kamei continues. 

“Yes, the ghost! Rumour has it that she lives in that storeroom. It’s her favourite place.” 

“Mhm,” Saeki hums with enthusiasm. “Sometimes I leave snacks and when I go back to check…” 

Dramatically, Saeki cups her face with her hands and gasps. 

“They’re gone!” 

Most probably the ones responsible for stealing said snacks are rodents of some sort. Daisuke purses his lips. He doesn’t have the will to involve himself in this conversation. This is not his business and he can do without these distractions. 

Slipping his glasses back on, Daisuke tunes out the idle chit-chat as best he can. HEUSC follows his commands as he maps out the instructions with his hands. 

Upon first impressions, on the surface level, the MCPTF had seemed unexceptional and mundane beyond belief. For the most part, Daisuke had assumed the same of the people he has now come to call colleagues. 

After all, the reason for him being here has nothing to do with them and even less about actively caring for the things they do or why on earth they do them in the first place. 

But in the time that has passed, things he never factored into the equation have captured his attention. Saeki brings all kinds of snacks to the office, making it a personal mission to introduce Daisuke to the delights of sweets.

He fits into the group of misfits better than he initially expected. 

“And sometimes things in the storeroom, move around!” 

“They do,” Saeki concurs. 

“Last time I went in there, the piano-“ 

“Hey now. That’s enough. Ghosts aren’t real,” Haru interjects from across the room, rubbing his temple whilst burning holes with his eyes into the paperwork on the desk. 

Finally, someone with sense. 

It’s just a shame Daisuke can’t appreciate the respite because one word has taken hold of his attention and refuses to let go. His heart gives an erratic pulse, something too close to a tremble throws his motions out of sync. 

HEUSC closes the file, waits with surprising patience to redo the step. But Daisuke’s focus has been pulled so very far from the tangible realm. 

Should he dare speak, he’s not sure any sound would come out. Worse, should there be a sound it may betray him in the most unbecoming of ways.  

All of him turned to a stone that yearns to bleed. 

Piano. 

Kamei said piano. 

“Easy for you to say when you haven’t even been in that room before!” Kamei protests. 

Arms folded, Haru sighs. He isn’t prone to backing down when it comes to expressing his thoughts on something. Every belief, no matter how trivial, is rooted in a stubborn insistence. 

“It’s still true.” 

“Well - if you really think so then maybe you should be taking the files there!” 

Throwing each under the proverbial bus seems to be a theme around here. Daisuke just hopes it doesn’t extend further than that. 

He’s out of his seat before he realises what he’s doing. Glasses tucked back into his pocket, Daisuke picks up the files on the desk. 

“No need. I’ll take them.”  

“You sure changed your tune fast,” Haru says suspiciously, eyes narrowed and honed in on him. 

“Anything to get away from this fruitless conversation, Inspector.” 

For some reason, the words pluck a raw laugh out of the man. As quick as it surfaces, the fleeting amusement fades. Leaning back in his seat, Haru scoffs. 

Typical - that Haru press forwards before a comment can be made. Even if it would be a positive one. 

Haru has a very beautiful laugh. 

“Hurry up, then. We’ve got stuff to get on with here.” 

“Watch out for the ghost!!” Saeki stage-whispers as Daisuke heads out the door.

Should such a thing appear, Daisuke doubts it will startle him.

He’s quite used to being haunted. 

The storeroom is nothing more than a hoarder’s paradise. Should anyone care enough to rummage through the boxes that almost completely block the doorway, Daisuke is certain there would be things no respected division would ever consider keeping. 

From where he’s stood, files stacked up in his arms, Daisuke has already spotted a myriad of odd objects that serve no purpose to solving crimes. 

Discarded board games, a collection of dusty CDs and a box devoted solely to ping pong balls are only the tip of this bizarre iceberg. 

And there at the back of the room, just as Kamei mentioned, is the unmistakable shape of a piano hidden beneath a dirty sheet. 

Music consumed by an unwanted shadow, how poetic and painfully familiar. In many respects, the piano had been his own place to hide. 

Once. 

Daisuke walks as fast as the heeled shoes allow him. Echoes of the clumsiness that had been squeezed out of him in his teenage years surfaces in his haste. 

When his shoulder hits the division’s very own landmark - the leaning tower of cardboard - Daisuke steadies himself. 

The last thing he wants is to crash into the work. It’s a mess, chaotic and disorganised. But it’s still theirs. 

Haru certainly won’t be too pleased, as much as he may smirk down at Daisuke splayed on the floor before offering out his hand. 

On second thoughts, perhaps staging a fall might have some benefits. Daisuke wouldn’t mind crashing into the comfort of that orbit, clasping Haru’s calloused fingers with his own, ruining the charged moment with a remark he should have kept to himself.

Eclipsed by a burnished gold moon.  

Haru is tactile with him nowadays, a playful elbow to the ribs and an arm swung easily around a shoulder when they’re at the end of another day. 

But their hands have yet to brush for longer than passing paperwork between each other or accidental fleeting moments. 

Daisuke thinks Haru might feel like a piano to touch if he had the chance. 

There’s a reticence that surrounds the action, a reverence that he cannot name or feels particularly ready to. He probably shouldn’t start this tune or play this melody. 

Love has been a melancholic thing that prefers to evade direct contact. Whilst he has people in his life that appear to like him and possibly even care quite profoundly, there is a place in his chest they can never reach. 

A hollowed heart. 

Sometimes, Daisuke thinks Haru is capable of not just soothing the wounds but building sturdy foundations on these ruins. 

Ridiculous, how that is both so frightening and fascinating. 

But it’s for the best that Daisuke keeps things the way they are. He shouldn’t attempt to change the status quo. Because only one touch could undo all the disciplined work he has done to bury it out of sight. 

Daisuke denies himself, denies Haru on his behalf. 

And yet amidst all of this, there’s a bruising ache for all of this and more. More than the shell he is reduced to, more than the vacancy holding him in its grasp. His fingers are tapping absently on the files, a sonata his muscles committed to memory. 

That’s all it takes. 

Daisuke goes to the piano. He tosses the files into a nearby box so abently it’s a wonder they stay clipped together. 

Even now, after so many years, he finds himself gravitated. 

Unlike most things in his life, he can find no price for a piano. 

Hands clasping the sheet, he tears it off to reveal a rather sorry excuse for an instrument. The branding etched onto the wood is weathered almost beyond recognition. There is no prestigious name to hoist it up into greatness, nor does its form have anything particularly magnificent about it. 

The piano is old, riddled with dust. It has certainly seen better days and been left to fend for itself in a room cluttered with junk the division has no use for. 

How and why it came to be in this building is a mystery in itself. 

He considers asking HEUSC for the history, but decides against it. The curiosity he has for the raggedy rickety piano overrides everything else. 

Whatever story it has to tell, there is only one way to hear it. 

Slipping on a glove, Daisuke runs a finger across the wood. His motion makes a clean distinct line which reveals a faded mahogany finish. As he opens the lid, he is met with more unkemptness. 

The keys are worn, yellowed with age. A few have lost their covering, chipped at the edges. The D above middle C appears loose enough to fall off if pressed with too much force. Daisuke has no doubts several of the keys would no longer sound when touched. 

The stool is unsteady as it creaks under his weight. Adjusting the height of it may well be the final push towards its untimely demise, and an unpleasant fall on his end. Daisuke refrains from making alterations. 

It’s far from excellence.

His hands skate across the keys, a barely-there caress. 

Chopin, Schubert, Schumann, Rachmaninoff. 

Countless other pieces from his rusted repertoire burn through his fingertips until they’re tingling and itching to play something. To play anything. 

Play, play, play, play for me won’t you Daisuke-

He doesn’t play. 

He won’t play again. 

Sooner than expected, it becomes a routine. 

Daisuke scours the division headquarters for something that needs filing away out of sight, he’ll conveniently take five extra minutes when smoking his cigar on the rooftop to pass the storeroom door and peer through it more longingly than he cares to admit. 

And finally, when sure he is alone and Haru’s scrutiny can no longer reach him, Daisuke unveils the piano. 

Each time, his fingers get closer to prying out a sound from the instrument. But he doesn’t play. Because he shouldn’t. 

The first time Daisuke pries a note out the piano is entirely by accident. His thumb leans too much on the groove between the black and white keys. Before he realises it, the weight sinks down. 

The release is sudden, resulting in an unclean and hasty strike of the hammer to string. 

It’s a jarring sound that blares right through him. The pensive silence he had found here is abruptly clawed away. In its place is a chilling relentless thing, chasing him out the door. 

Play, play, play. Won’t you play for me, Daisuke- 

He doesn’t run. He isn’t running. But Daisuke is more breathless than planned when reaching the division’s office. 

“What happened to you?” Haru asks, glancing up from the computer screen. “You look like you actually saw a ghost this time.” 

“Yikes, Katou!” Kamei shrieks. “Don’t even joke about such a thing. Can’t you see the man is traumatised by his paranormal encounter.“

Traumatised. 

It’s laughable, how on the money this man is for all the wrong reasons. 

“Sure...” Haru drawls, mercilessly ribbing into Kamei. “That’s definitely it.” 

Sinking down into his usual seat, Daisuke adjusts his tie. Perhaps it’s a mixture of emotional exhaustion and a desire to see Kamei squirm combined that leads him down a wayward path. 

Regardless, a distraction from his incompetence to face an alarming array of things in his past is more than welcomed.

“I did see the ghost.” 

The eruption of responses across the room are varied and all amusing. But the person who catches Daisuke’s attention the most is Haru. 

Of course. 

His jaw practically goes slack, dropping comically. Eyes blown wide in disbelief as he processes the words. 

Haru is perhaps the only one here who can call out Daisuke’s bluff. But should he do so, that leaves the paradox of this being a joke as the only remaining option. 

Haru cannot fathom that.

Heaven forbid the elusive Kambe Daisuke has a sense of humour. 

“You did?!” Saeki squeaks, head poking out from her computer. 

“I did.” 

“Was she pretty? How tall was she? What kind of type-” 

For this, Kamei gets a well deserved smack to the shoulder. 

Head tilted up in a challenge, Haru stares Daisuke down from across the room. The surprise has merged into suspicion. But Daisuke has no motive here, no angle. 

He’s simply indulging stupidity for what it is. 

Haru is never going to find what he thinks he will. For once, it really is not that deep. 

“You saw a ghost?”

Less of a question, more of a direct counterattack. 

“Yes.” 

No - of course not. 

Pause. Squint. Cue that cute thing Haru does when he scrunches up his face. 

“You saw a ghost?” he repeats, slowly. 

“Do keep up, Inspector.” 

“Ghosts aren’t real. They’re illusions.” 

“What does it take for something to be real to you?” 

Am I real to you, or am I an illusion? 

The question is more weighted than Daisuke intended. Part of him is curious for the genuine answer. Though he hopes Haru sees it as nothing more than a goading, trivial inquiry. 

That would be easier. 

Fortunately, Haru doesn’t miss a beat. He grips the table tight as he stands up in the heat of a passionate, predictable declaration. 

It’s quite a sight. Daisuke should probably rein in his smirk. 

“Proof. Evidence! These are all crucial to determining the outcome.”

Tapping his chin, Daisuke considers the words before meeting Haru’s eyes. Residing in them is an unmistakable gleam. 

He’s enjoying this. More than he’s supposed to. 

“I see… Continue.”

“Well - also! There’s never anything besides grainy photos and unreliable eyewitness accounts. So many are hoaxes and staged to deceive people. It’s despicable.” 

“That’s just what someone who’s jealous they’ve never seen a ghost says,” Kamei retorts.

Quite rudely, he has interrupted the flow of their conversation. Nobody asked for his input nor was it warranted. Yet he did it anyway. 

Some men have too much confidence for their own good. 

“I don’t care about the ghosts!” Haru hisses, hackles raised. “But I do care about justice.” 

Sometimes this man is so earnest it’s astounding he is not a parody. 

Eyes flitting back to Daisuke, Haru cocks his head to the door. The gleam is gone, the moment is lost, and it’s all Kamei’s fault. 

Unacceptable. 

“When you’re done hunting ghosts, we’ve got actual work to do.” 

The next time Daisuke goes to the storeroom, he is meticulous about the approach.

Careful. Calculated. A little chaos never hurt in moderation either.

In fact, this time nobody even knows he’s here. The division assumed he went back to the mansion hours ago. 

The plan is perfect. 

“HEUSC,” Daisuke says, reaching for his ear. “Activate fire alarm.” 

“Fire alarm: activated.” 

Now with everyone being escorted out the premises and on their way home to enjoy what remains of the evening, he can proceed. 

The chances of bumping into anybody would be extremely unlikely considering they should be heading toward the exit.

And yet. 

“Kambe-san.”

If Daisuke gives no reaction, maybe he can become as invisible as the ghost Kamei believes exists. 

Hoshino watches him, a mixture of intimidated and perplexed. Collecting himself as best he can, the first division officer continues.

“The fire alarm just went, so you should make your way down to the-“ 

Realisation hits then. Hoshino’s eyes dart wide. Sometimes, the first division strikes gold and has genuine competence it seems. Pity it’s over this and not a case he and Haru have swept up. 

Perhaps Daisuke had not been as subtle as he hoped to be. 

“Gees. Why am I not surprised this is your doing…” Hoshino sighs, an exasperated smile creeping up his face. “Do I even want to ask?” 

This leniency is not something Daisuke expects but he will gladly take it. Had Hoshino made a fuss, Daisuke could always resort to his backup plan. 

There’s a piano waiting for him. 

“It’s nothing of concern, I assure you.” 

Before Hoshino can question this further, Daisuke takes his leave. 

The storeroom is in sight as he rounds the next corner. Like all the times before, he makes it as far as sitting down at the piano. 

Hesitation crashes in, consuming him without permission. Fingers freeze in frame, the keys agonisingly out of reach. But this is not as hopeless as it seemed before. 

For there to be hesitation at all means Daisuke has set an intention. Whether he wants to admit it or not, it’s there. He knows it’s there, can feel it stewing in his gut. 

To play this piano. To hear it’s song and listen. 

That is his real intention. He may believe he won’t play, or that he shouldn’t.

But that doesn’t change the fact he wants to. More and more each day. This yearning only grows with every rebuttal. 

After all, the very thing holding him back is the thing bringing him here each time. To sit on the edge of his own insecurity, stare down at the pit of fear with fierceness. 

He pushes against the resistance, soaks in the tension of a tightly coiled spring, and releases. The force brings his hands a little closer to the keys, enough to brush against them. 

The sensation sends a shiver up his spine. 

Here, he doesn’t have to play to anyone. He doesn’t have to play for anyone. This is not a means to an end, nor is there an audience to pacify or please. 

This is just him and a weathered piano. 

Music doesn’t judge. It had always taken him kindly into its arms. Held, amidst swelling colours and tunes. 

As his fingers finally push the keys down, the sound opens up. A doorway into a home he had forgotten would always be inviting, a greeting from an old friend. 

Daisuke lingers in the aftermath of the first chord. The fire it stokes within him feels good, burning bright. Bold. Somewhere on the pyre it surrounds is that insecurity. That fear, and doubt. 

He coaxes another sound out of the piano. The elation is stronger this time. 

And for a moment, an intangible thing emerges on the edge of the horizon. A fleeting, hopeful mirage. Music bursts into his lungs until it is all he breathes and all he knows. 

Maybe, just maybe, this is all he has ever truly known. 

His fingers move in seamless tandem, no longer mechanical and methodically carving commands in the air to HEUSC - they’re dancing across the keys of an entirely different world. 

Eyes falling shut, Daisuke feels the tension in his shoulders release enough to finally snap. A bruised and a heavy heart won’t deter him from pursuing this further. 

He just never expected to find this here of all places, tucked into the corner of a rusty piano collecting dust.

And the fact he assumed this would go differently, that the piano would be unresponsive and unreceptive to him, seems absurd now. 

So much so it drags a breathless and rather hopeless laugh from his lips, ebbing down into a hum that rattles through his core.  

This is a tide that can never truly turn, no matter how far he has strayed. 

Of course. 

Chords crackle and crumble beneath his fingers, only to be moulded like clay into something entirely new. This is not just power in his palms, this is unyielding catharsis that finally gives more than it can take. 

Each crashing wave of sound surges high to its peak then bows gracefully for the entrance of another. That one replaces another. And another again.  

A cycle so far from the destructive tendencies plaguing the peripheral. 

The tighter he clamps his eyelids, the more Daisuke sees.

A memory he seldom indulges or entertains beyond the photograph on his bedside, containing a face he will never stop yearning to greet again yet never can. 

Between the rising crescendo of the melody, the rich colours splashing out from the harmony, the picture painted is nothing short of sacred. Her laughter rings amidst the high octaves, the warmth of her embrace oozing from the rumble of the lower notes.

No longer just an impression, nor a mere glimpse.  

Daisuke feels this with a biting clarity that is hard not to lose himself in completely. There’s a sting in the corners of his eyes he dares not blink away, breath hitching and pulse rocketing. This precious reverie is as fragile as it is fulfilling. 

For it to slip from his grasp now would be beyond devastating. 

So he plays. 

He plays wisps of melodies that belong to the past, from the grand recitals to the private meanderings. He plays without direction, without a score, without discipline - but not without a purpose.

All of him, returned to her.

II. ALLEGRO AGITATO

The illusion of control comes hand in hand with privilege. Though an unlimited amount of money does not equal autonomy, it feeds into fantasy and entices the ego. 

It keeps the belligerent freedom that piano brought out of him, the bold defiance and longing for change, muzzled. As a scion of the Kambe family, there’s a mantle he never asked for on his shoulders, a throne he wants nothing more than to relinquish. 

Falling into the casinos and clubs of Europe had been an escape funded by the very thing chaining him to this fate. 

Distracted by design. 

And if there is anywhere in the world that serves as a bitter reminder of the lack of control Daisuke really has over the many facets of his lonely empire, it is the place he has called home since childhood. He walks the corridors with confidence that isn’t feigned, but it is frayed. 

Today is different. 

His hands tingle in the aftermath of playing that piano, sparks ripple up his spine. There’s gleam in his eyes that has been absent for so long it’s hard to recognise anymore. But it’s there. 

“Daisuke-sama, welcome home!” Suzue chirps merrily as a greeting. 

Shrugging off his suit jacket, Daisuke nods in her direction. 

His mind is still far away, a place he hasn’t dared to entertain since he was a young boy. The old rickety piano howls out of tune through his ears, the keys scratch against his fingertips. 

He thinks of the chipped wood and rusted hinges, the squeaky pedal that gets stuck more than it actually does its job. 

The charm of it all is something he can keep with him wherever he goes. 

An arm loops around his, tugging him down the hallway. 

“Come on,” Suzue says brightly. “I have a surprise for you!!” 

Practically skipping, she hums a little on their journey. 

“You seem in good spirits,” he observes, heels clicking. 

“That’s because I am! As soon as I found out, I knew what had to be done. I just wish I could have made better arrangements!”

For the life of him, Daisuke is at a total loss. 

Part of him hopes it’s some kind of tranquilliser, so the private excitement he feels can be muted to something less intense and easier to ignore. Or perhaps another ingenious design of hers to use on a mission. 

Either way, he would take anything over the sight he’s met with in the study. 

All at once, his world comes to a grinding unpleasant halt. 

There, in the centre of the room, positioned meticulously to sit where the light falls best, is a piano. 

A white glossy finish adorns the body, the lid propped open and ready for the sound to resonate through the room. 

The piano is a thing of perfection, faultless. Of course it is. 

“Isn’t she grand? You know, there are only four of these models in the entire world. But I managed to reach a deal with them and got it brought here straight away. Now you can play outside of that cramped up little room in the division!”

It’s all the confirmation Daisuke doesn’t need or want. That even in the quietest moments, despite his discretion, not even this could be left alone.

Watched but never seen. 

Fists clenched, Daisuke can’t string together the words. He’s not sure he can even find them in the tumultuous resignation swelling inside him. 

Suzue means well, she really does. He tells himself this as much as he needs to hear it. 

She wants what is best for him and consistently tries to ensure her efforts are never wasted. But the emotion plucked from him at the sight of a pristine grand steinway piano is too raw and searing to get a grasp on. 

To be honest, it is nauseating. He is dizzy with it, vision blurring and hands trembling. 

I just wanted one thing, one thing to call my own without the Kambe legacy cheapening it with extravagance. Don’t you understand how I wanted this one thing to myself- 

No. Suzue wouldn’t understand because Daisuke hardly understands it himself.

All at once, he is trapped. 

Trapped in this room, in this mansion, in this name and in this life that has a firm unyielding grip upon him. Maybe he’s always been this way, like one of those rare butterflies caught in the glass house of a collector, where freedom and choice has been nothing but a cruel fallacy. 

Disguised in a green fabricated to be as natural as a forest. A fortune in abundance, an endless horizon that Daisuke wonders has the same curve as the earth or a rather perilous drop nobody told him about. 

It’s suffocating, the level to which his entire life is orchestrated behind closed doors. 

From the clothes he wears to the food he eats, the expectations thrust down his throat that he won’t claim. And amidst all that is a foreboding sense of secrecy, unspoken and painfully palpable, tucked out of reach.

Deliberate in their discretion, these shadows pirouette around him. 

At this stage, Daisuke isn’t sure why they haven’t just swallowed him completely whole yet. 

Daisuke does not like being unsure. 

The piano in this room aims to serve and please. Oozing luxury and finesse. That is the problem. He doesn’t need it and he certainly doesn’t want it. 

“Daisuke-sama?” 

Suzue’s voice is muffled to his ears, an indication he ought to regain some composure. A sharp breath that to most would go unnoticed balances him. 

Barely. 

This explosive outburst is a kind of ravenous wrath he refuses to unleash around her or let anybody see. So he moves with it. 

He’s storming out of the study, out of the mansion. 

And whilst on this occasion, he has both HEUSC and car keys to hand, slipping into the sudan and speeding off feels no less cathartic than getting to the edge of the estate by foot. 

In the distance, he thinks he can hear a piano playing a doleful song. 

Daisuke longs to go to the only place he thinks will make the breath catching in his lungs loosen enough to steady again. 

But he doesn’t. 

Not yet. 

There’s a paper bag in the passenger seat and he shuts HEUSC away into the glove compartment before making his way to the destination. 

Drinking whiskey at an old rickety piano. How utterly predictable. Pathetic to an extent, some would venture to say. It’s not a smoky, lavish nightclub and there is nobody fawning over his every whim and tending to him. There is no spotlight and a grand piano which he taps away at to adoring applause.

This is just him, that whimsical storeroom in the division and a broken piano without a home. 

All of them, in some senses, are united in this. Clinking the bottle to the bridge of the piano, Daisuke hums. 

Cheers are hardly in order, but he ought to toast to something before commiserating. 

Daisuke is not sure how much time passes. He doesn’t play a single note, fingers sit rigid upon the keys in such a way they won’t strike a sound. 

Remarkable, how fast a feeling can fade. How quick a high becomes a low. 

There’s a buzzing in his pocket rather than his head. Tugging the phone out, Daisuke sighs at the caller ID. Undoubtedly, he has a plethora of notifications. The phone rings a final time before he picks up. 

“What do you want?”

He sounds rude and hopes that Haru won’t begrudge him for it. A darker part of him hopes the man will, that this impulse to bite is the final straw that breaks it all apart.

It might be better that way. 

“Where the hell are you? Suzue just called me. She sounds worried.” 

Of course she did. 

“That doesn’t really concern you, Inspector,” Daisuke manages, syllables a little sloppier than he expected them to be. 

Well, that is what happens when one is halfway through a bottle without a partner. As much as he can hold his liquor, this is a destructive excess he thought he had purged out of his system in Europe years ago. 

“It does now my evening has been disrupted by your rich reality TV life.” 

Daisuke knows he should stop - think. But another quick swig feeds the fire blazing in his veins. Self-sabotage is a game he can play well at the worst of times. 

“Better than whatever low budget rerun you’re ascribed to, I’m sure.” 

“Gees, I don’t know why I’m even trying to help you when you’re like this.” 

“Then don’t.” 

“Believe me, I’ve considered it.” 

Of all things, those trivial words are the thing that makes Daisuke flinch. He probably doesn’t deserve Haru’s concern anyway, not when he’s clipped every response so harshly. Maybe this is the turning point, where he's pushed this man too far. 

The silence is weighed, uncomfortable. For a moment, Daisuke thinks Haru might have hung up. 

“But you can’t shake me that easy. So get off your high horse and tell me where the heck you are already.”

Suddenly, Daisuke feels less resigned about leaving the piano. Another place is calling him, it always has been. 

“On my way to you.” 

“Not if you’re planning to get in the fucking car. Come on - even you are better than that,” Haru snaps and seems immeasurably angry on Daisuke’s behalf. 

At this stage, Daisuke isn’t sure if he is but he wants to be. Setting the whiskey down, he frowns. He still has HEUSC in the car. He could get the funds needed. 

“I’ll take a taxi.”

“Good answer,” Haru huffs before hanging up. 

Daisuke wants to believe he didn’t fabricate the fondness he hears in that voice. 

III. ADAGIO CANTABILE

The illusion of strength is strengthened by solitude. Being alone grants independence, allows no chances for the flaws of others to permeate into plans. Keep the cards pressed close to his chest, always. 

Defence by design. 

Attributing value and worth to a person in numbers had - to Daisuke’s grim acceptance - been an unconscious habit of his. One Katou Haru had spotted and fought from the very start. 

Ignorance is bliss but it is also safety. Someone as headstrong as Haru, so compelled to do the right thing at any cost, would never leave the Kambe secrets alone. 

The cost could be high. 

Daisuke invests in the markets, in the programmes he wishes to fund - investing in people is a trickier business. Mostly because it has nothing to do with money. 

People are a different kind of connection, the kind that cannot be predicted the same way a market can. When there are losses, they cannot be remade. 

They’re simply gone. 

Haru cannot ever be gone. Unless he wants to. Maybe he wants to. Daisuke is pushing back on purpose. 

The road is dimly-lit as they arrive on the street, and it's clear the taxi driver has almost lost patience entirely with Daisuke’s relentless backseat driving. 

He tips thoroughly, as compensation. 

Money is a language that talks circles around almost all others. Daisuke learnt to speak it fluently from birth. And whilst he is certainly more aware of how sheltered his life has truly been, he remains dependent on it. 

Slipping out of the taxi, Daisuke climbs the apartment steps. 

When his head isn’t throbbing, clarity will eclipse this foolish surge of impulse that brought him to this part of the city. 

The door swings open after a single knock. Bright eyes meet Daisuke’s, searching for something that they are unlikely to find. After all, Daisuke has endured a lifetime of playing facades and entertaining a persona most seem to prefer. 

Not all of it is for show, just enough to ensure some pieces of him are never forsaken. 

In Haru’s case, Daisuke fears it’s too late and he has already been exposed. 

No words pass between them. Haru grumbles but it doesn’t sound like the words, more of an impression to fill the quiet draped over their sunken shoulders. 

“Come in then, Kambe,” Haru finally says. 

It’s been sometime since Haru has addressed him this way. But the small curve of those lips indicate this is a playful thing, more of a private joke than a lapse in familiarity. 

Strange, how that animosity Haru held for him has been moulded into something this fond and fierce. 

Daisuke melts into the doorway, though unfortunately his feet remain rooted to the spot. Like the pedal of that rickety old piano in the division, he is stuck. There’s a part of him that can’t be moved, despite the terrifying parts of him that are. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Haru quirks a brow. 

Daisuke can only imagine how utterly ridiculous he looks, more of an awkward statue erected from ruins than a man. 

“Hey,” Haru starts, voice dipping low and softening around the edges as he marches forwards. “You’re acting really weird. You’re not hurt or something, are you? I already told you last time! I don’t have a first aid kit...” 

Inspecting Daisuke’s head for any signs of injury, Haru floods his peripheral vision. All of him kaleidoscopes dangerously into the centre of everything.

Hands sweep over Daisuke’s face with intent, just shy of the tenderness he has yearned for. His head is cradled by a raw kindness he has seldom known.

He wants to be held by it. 

This is too much. 

Even if there is music in his veins and his heart sings - it cannot be for this. It’s a sharp cutting instinct, one Daisuke quietly begs to contain itself, but it doesn’t listen. It never does. 

Before he can process the motion, his hands clap around Haru’s wrist to push them away. 

They pry apart, as if lightning has struck the chasm between them. 

Daisuke is hurt. But not in the way Haru anticipates and it’s truly for the best he isn’t given a chance to consider this more. There’s every chance he will figure it out. 

Haru is smart. He sees more than he is supposed to. 

It’s always been this way. 

As the silence balloons, Daisuke wonders how fast he could make an escape. There’s no salvaging this. 

He will meet hard eyes and a harder shove back towards a life without Haru - and he may well deserve it. 

It comes as a surprise that what greets Daisuke is an expression he hasn’t seen before. Haru’s eyes aren’t raging and his mouth isn’t snarling. And all at once, he realises that pushing expectations upon a man this consistently good is his greatest oversight. 

Something close to a breathless laugh slips out of Haru. The cadence is more resigned than anything else, but Daisuke’s fate hinges on what follows. He doesn’t know the arrangement of this tune, how exactly these chords come together. 

”Stupid...” 

The door remains open as Haru walks away, leaving in his wake an intangible warmth. Daisuke doesn’t know what to make of that.

They fall into a comfortable rhythm once the door is clicked shut. 

Haru cooks. Daisuke attempts to help and this time there are no needless injuries. They eat at the table. Yet another tasty meal which must be another Katou family special because Haru seems particularly proud to collect up two empty bowls. 

And then he’s curled up in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants that don’t belong to him. Regardless, it’s comforting. 

“So what got you so worked up?” Haru probes, sliding a cup over in his direction full of liquid temptation. 

In one swift motion, Daisuke downs the contents. The burn down his throat that slithers deeper is both satisfying and unpleasant all at once. He pays it no mind. It’s welcomed, even. But as he goes to pour another, Haru reaches out to seize his wrist.

“Oi, Kambe.” 

The use of that name sharpens Daisuke’s attention which seems to be the intention. Loosening his grip, Haru smooths his thumb across the area of skin once squeezed tight. It’s mesmerising and Daisuke is frozen to the spot, his pulse rocketing. 

Part of him has the sense to hope at least Haru hasn’t noticed. Going by the frustrated pinch between those brows, the man is caught up in his own internal conflict. 

“Just - give me something at least,” Haru hisses with so much resignation it is startling. “You can’t drink everything away, you know.” 

Let me in. 

Of course he sees the walls, of course he’s the one battering down the gates with such ferocity it is staggering they are still standing at all. And Haru does all of this in that selfless brazen way he approaches every injustice. 

He won’t steal away secrets, only share them if permitted. To help. There are no ulterior motives in this navigation, no hunting for a reward. 

That revelation is dizzying, won’t ever be something Daisuke can truly process. Haru does this because he wants to and to say otherwise would be a poor judge of his remarkable character. 

Haru cares. 

Breath hitching, Daisuke prys back his wrist. 

“Tomorrow,” he says with a finality that shakes him to the core. “If you can wait a little longer.” 

Blinking in surprise, Haru watches him carefully. 

“You’re being serious.”

“Tomorrow.” 

Reaching for the bottle, Daisuke pours two glasses and clinks them gently together before taking a sip. The fact Haru is here means more than he can hope to articulate without making a mess of it all. 

Strange, how this surrender doesn’t feel like defeat.

IV. PRESTO CON BRIO

The illusion of resolution comes hand in hand with resistance. 

Defiant by design. 

There’s a burgeoning fear in Daisuke that perhaps what is budding between himself and Haru is doomed because of this. Never flowering, never blossoming. They push and pull out of tandem but they do it together nonetheless. 

Last night it had counted for something. 

Still, there is every chance the inevitable push will come to shove harder than they can take. The ways they won’t waver on their ideals, the lacking of complete compromise, the dangerous web Daisuke would be reeling this man into headfirst-

“Are you sure you’re going back just to change your suit?” Haru leers in the passenger seat, smug like he sees the flimsy excuse for what it is. 

He can believe what he wants. But Daisuke’s suit is crumpled and needs cleaning. 

“Yes.” 

“It doesn’t, maybe, have anything to do with reassuring Suzue after last night?” 

“No.” 

The hour of the morning is one Daisuke would rather never see in person again. Sunsets over sunrise, any day. But this way, they have time to go to the mansion and still make it to the division.

At least the car had been transported from outside the division to the road outside Haru’s place. With the aid of Suzue, Daisuke assumes. He appreciates the thoughtful gesture - explaining why it had been there to Haru would be difficult. 

“Are you sure?” Haru asks. 

He’s testing Daisuke’s patience and tolerance all at once - both of which are short right now. 

“Yes.” 

“Heh. I don’t believe you.” 

“My actions aren’t determined by your belief in me.” 

“Don’t twist my words!” Haru quips, arms folded. 

He frowns as he shifts in his seat to gaze out the window, but that there’s no heat behind the words. Good. This just means Haru is annoyed at a situation, not Daisuke directly. 

A rarity. 

“Just because I don’t believe you right now doesn't mean I don’t have faith in you. You must know by now that I do.”

Grip on the steering wheel tightening, Daisuke moves the clutch up a gear and prepares to propel them through the Kambe estate faster. It would careen them away from whatever on earth Haru is trying to do here and be a good distraction to what it’s doing to his own heart. 

“I see,” Daisuke manages, barely. 

The drive to the mansion is quiet. Daisuke wallows in a raging insecurity that only surfaces in the presence of Haru. It remains a paradox. This simple man who lives by simple ideals has made everything so complicated. 

Nothing will be the same again. 

Feelings were not on the agenda when returning to Japan, not of this kind. And yet, here they are. Plain as day.

There’s an opening hare, an obvious one. The atmosphere has mellowed to something welcoming. Daisuke has the words coiled up in his mouth but doesn’t dare speak them.   

Slapping a hand over his face, Haru groans. He slumps down in the seat. Despite the dramatics it’s more revealing than Haru seems to think it is, because it proves he had been waiting for something in the silence. 

“Gees. You’re hopeless.” 

Lips twitching, Daisuke steers the car into the drive. This thing they do is easy to slip back into. It’s surprisingly kind of Haru to change the direction of their conversation and not just leave him floundering awkward and unsure of things. 

“I thought you said you believed in me, Inspector. What changed?”

“That’s not -! Oi!” Haru pulls back his hand, ears flushed pink and eyes blazing. “You better not keep bringing this up.” 

Daisuke gets out of the parked car, smirking. 

“I would ask you to have some faith in me, but I already know you do.” 

“Argh! I swear, I’m never saying anything nice about you again!” Haru spits but there’s a quirk to the edge of his mouth that he can’t quite get to behave itself. 

Maybe he’s having too much fun with this too. 

Perhaps it’s wrong to take this opening over the more sincere one, but he does it anyway. They’re quite good at this. Haru is hot on his heels as he walks up the mansion steps. 

As expected, Suzue is standing at the doors. There are lines beneath her eyes she hasn’t tried to conceal. Her weariness melts into relief at the sight of the pair of them.

I’m sorry for my actions in making you worry, he doesn’t say. 

I’m sorry for not respecting your boundaries and privacy, she doesn’t say in return. 

No words are exchanged, because he and Suzue have always been rather good at leaving things unspoken and picking up on the cues just fine when it comes down to it.

Meeting her eyes, Daisuke nods firmly. She seems to understand what resides behind the gesture if the smile creeping over her face is anything to go by. 

“He ‘forgot’ his suit, even though he’s wearing one,” Haru remarks in a tone so close to fond amusement even Suzue seems unsure how to handle it. 

There’s no need for Haru to accompany the words with an air-quote, everybody present can hear his incredulity and the poor joke. 

Of all things, Suzue stifles a laugh into her palm. 

So it appears Daisuke might just be the punchline. Unacceptable. Arms folded, he turns to the traitors. 

“I’m going to get changed. I’ll be back shortly.” 

If he walks slower into the mansion than necessary it’s definitely not because he is eavesdropping. 

That’s ridiculous. 

“Tch - honestly!” Haru sighs, again in that strange tone that makes Daisuke’s skin tingle. “Why the heck can’t he just use his words properly when he speaks? He must’ve had some stupidly expensive education! It’s infuriating.” 

He sounds more endeared than exasperated and that’s something Daisuke isn’t quite sure how to deal with. 

“I’m glad that he has you by his side for a partner, Katou-sama.” Pause. “You’re good for him.” 

One day, Suzue will mind her own business. Until that day, Daisuke remains on guard and clearing up any resulting situations, like Haru’s inevitable flagrant denial and loud outburst-

“I’d like to think so.” 

Oh. 

If Daisuke trips on a step that doesn’t exist into the mansion, resulting in a loud crash that exposes him and cannot possibly be ignored, well. 

It’s just a good thing he can sprint to the master bedroom before anyone comes looking to see what the commotion is. 

Stealth: unlimited. 

Fortunately, Haru saves his interrogation tactics for another day on their drive to the division. They do not speak of the blunders outside the Kambe mansion. Nor do they expose the two glaringly obvious facts: 

Daisuke heard those words - he was supposed to hear them. 

Not much gets past Haru’s stubborn desire to live by blistering honesty. For better or worse. Nonetheless, Daisuke has talents of his own. He is privy, for example, to the furtive and subtle glances being cast his way throughout the journey. 

Since childhood, he’s made it a priority to know when there are eyes on him. From the reflection in the black marble of the piano, he could spy all sorts of things whilst using music as both his ruse and refuge. 

It’s only when they reach a red light that Haru chooses to speak up. 

“What you said last night,” Haru starts without preamble. “Did you mean it?”

How poetic of him, a metaphorical cornering, though if he really felt the need Daisuke could command HEUSC to redirect the signals in the city to benefit his situation. 

Just this once, talking is probably the better option. 

Part of Daisuke is itching to throw it all to the wind, to unravel and allow himself to place the budding trust in Haru that he desperately wants to. 

A vulnerable admission: Yes, I did. 

Yet another more practiced part of him is already strategising how to create a rift between them, selecting the words that would sting enough to bruise and leave their relationship splintering. 

Daisuke is not particularly proud that the latter is more appealing, even now. Trauma isn’t a logical beast, it feeds on something more potent and harder to uproot or disprove - a therapist once said to a stone-faced teenager hellbent on raising his grief up out from under his skin until it hurt again. It never really stopped hurting.  

Perhaps that is true. Daisuke didn’t stay for the whole session, or attend another. So he never found out if he believed it. 

Belief. 

Such an intangible powerful thing. And the thought Haru has so openly placed his own in Daisuke’s palms remains staggering. 

“What do you think, Inspector?”

Arms folded, Haru scowls. 

“Answering with another question is not as clever as you think it is.” 

“I’m not trying to be clever.” 

“Good,” Haru huffs. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Try as he might, Daisuke simply cannot leave that bait unhooked. 

“Excuse me?” 

Rolling his eyes, Haru ploughs on with a tirade that seems to have no real relevance to the topic. He’s frustrated, but he’s channeling that into another direction. Daisuke can’t fathom why. 

“I can’t believe this is the suit you decided to wear. It’s exactly the same as the last one. Don’t you have any other clothes?”

“Rich coming from the man who has probably worn the same jacket most of his adult life.” 

Or not rich at all, in fact. 

“There’s nothing wrong with being frugal. You should try it sometime.” 

No, he will not. 

But that aside, Daisuke can no longer ignore the thing Haru is pointedly striving to in a way that has become agonising. 

“Why aren’t you insisting on an answer?” 

Shifting in his seat, Haru averts his gaze out the window. 

“You already gave one to me. I understand that can’t have been easy even for you. It’s probably unfair to make you say it again today.” 

Haru is wrong. Because what is unspeakably unfair is the harrowing realisation in Daisuke’s gut that acceptance isn’t always interchangeable with action. 

Words are just words, if they need to be. 

There, in the quiet hanging between them sits his resigned acknowledgement. 

I really wanted to mean it. 

That afternoon, Daisuke slips into obscurity and goes to the piano to play out those words. 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. 

They’re unbearably empty. 

He wonders if, somehow, Haru heard them all along. 

A week passes, and Haru seems to have begrudgingly come to terms with a wretched truth that they are not on the same path. He doesn’t seem to like it, or even believe it. But yet still he stands by it. Simply because that is the only option Daisuke has left for him at this stage. 

Distance by design. 

“You can’t go on like this, Daisuke-sama,” Suzue had implored over dinner one evening. 

Her eyes had been sharp as they held his gaze. One of the only people capable of speaking without reserve when things get dire. 

“I am not the only person on your side, it’s about time you acknowledged that.”  

As usual, she had been right. 

Now, as Daisuke watches Haru organise the files Kamei has scattered over his desk, the uncomfortable feeling of being seen and known - of trusting wholeheartedly - is not evaded. He embraces it so he can erase it. 

Haru catches his eyes, a flicker of something far too close to hope gleaming there before he turns away. 

Well. 

It’s a good thing Daisuke is ready to hold himself accountable and give more than an inch. 

Better by his side. Stronger as a unit. Safer in close range. 

This vulnerability does not have to be a weakness. Daisuke doesn’t want it to be. So then suddenly, despite logic and reason, it isn’t. 

He stands from his seat. With more force than he intends to. His chair falls backwards, clumsy and graceless. The whole office might have their eyes on him. But it doesn’t matter. 

What matters is that Haru remains in his orbit, that he chooses to stay, that he grasps the importance of his presence, that he understands Daisuke has sacrificed his own foolish selfish pride to get to this point and he would do it again without question. 

Haru deserves this piece of sincerity - they are both deserving. 

“Come with me,” Daisuke says, a light tremble to his voice. 

Before anyone else can have ideas of following and being the nosy eavesdroppers Daisuke knows they can be, he strides down the hallway. At a pace more ferocious and fierce than planned. As if the destination could slip out of reach any moment.

It certainly feels that urgent. 

Familiar footsteps follow behind him. Tailing closer and closer until the pair of them walk side by side. Just as it should be. 

“Where are we going?” Haru asks, petulant. “Is it to do with a case? Oi - Kambe. Talk to me. You’re freaking me out a little here - and stop walking so damn fast!” 

Daisuke heeds none of these words, prying open the door to the storeroom that harbours one of his most recent secrets. 

“Ohoho, I get it.” 

The playful grin stretching over Haru’s lips tells Daisuke that no, he does not get it at all. 

Leaning against the doorway, Haru raises his eyebrows. This is the closest to smug he has been for some time. Then comes the accusatory finger prod, right to the chest. 

“You’re afraid of the ghost! That’s why you asked me to come with you.” 

Waving a hand dismissively in the air, Haru marches forwards with an arrogant air that is so unbecoming and needlessly exaggerated. 

“Relax, Kambe. With me at your side, you’ll have nothing to worry about in this room.” 

Eyes narrowed, Daisuke watches his partner saunter further into the room. 

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.” 

That brings him to an abrupt standstill. Haru averts his gaze, almost seeming embarrassed. 

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs, pink blooming over the tips of his ears. “But if you do - then, I guess I can play along to make you feel more at ease getting your work done here or whatever.”

It’s utterly ridiculous how endearing that is, how much it makes Daisuke’s pulse soar. Unbelievable. Nothing about that deserves to have such a profound impact. The fact it does is most unfortunate.

“I didn’t bring you here to hunt ghosts, Inspector. Or to work.”  

Dragging a worn chair out from the dishevelled junk surrounding them, Daisuke gestures. The cushion has deteriorated but it shouldn’t be too far from the meagre comforts Haru allows himself. 

He’s met with confusion. Arms folded, Daisuke purses his lips. The longer they linger the more chances he has to fold. 

“Sit.” 

For some absurd reason, Haru does just that. There is reluctance, but he takes the seat nonetheless. 

Steeling himself, Daisuke walks towards the piano and pulls the sheet off to reveal its dull unremarkable form. Haru remains quiet, watching carefully as Daisuke takes his place on the stool. 

This performance is not rehearsed or practiced. In fact, it’s hardly a performance at all. Delusions of grandeur, big brazen demonstrations of his wealth are nowhere in sight. 

Fingers tracing the keys with reverence, Daisuke inhales sharply. 

He can do this.  

He wants to do this. 

The path his fingers trace across the piano aren’t where he expected this to go. His right hand maps out a bright melody, the left sweeping in with a constant accompaniment. 

He’s never heard this tune before, but he knows it. He wants to know it better. He wants to let go of this prickly resistance to make a perilous jump. 

Falling wouldn’t be so hard if Haru was waiting for his landing. Or perhaps they fall together, bracing for impact but doing it anyway because the leaps you take for others are done in good faith. 

Much like himself and Haru, the two parts of this unravelling piece work in tandem. On paper they may look out of place. But these kinds of things aren’t always logical or explained with theory. 

Some things are just because they are. Some people meet just because they do, without the universe scheming. 

And some hearts are tethered together, simply because they are. 

Daisuke has never heard this tune before, but he knows it. 

The unparalleled force that is Katou Haru. 

Between the notes he hears the indignant huffs, the teasing quips, the firm insistence. He sees the pained expression that comes when trembling hands clasp around a gun, the grit determination to do the right thing, the way a face hardens in rage and softens in concern. 

It’s all laid bare, exposed in a way that leaves Daisuke achingly vulnerable. 

He keeps playing. He plays until the final wisps of gold are fading and the melody has voiced everything it dares to. Speaking it all into existence. 

Admiration, respect, trust. 

Daisuke swallows around the uncomfortable lump in his throat as silence becomes a heavy foreboding thing. 

“What was that?” Haru asks, leaning over the piano. 

Somewhere throughout the music, he must’ve gotten up out of his seat to inch closer. 

There’s a teasing lilt to his smile but the gleam in his eyes alarms Daisuke. It makes him think that maybe, just maybe, he has revealed too much. 

Curling his fingers away from the keys, Daisuke levels him with one of his most misguided looks. The well-practiced one he knows is impossible to discern anything from. 

“You’re a detective, how about you take a guess?” 

Haru taps his chin thoughtfully, animated even over a mystery of this calibre. It’s no wonder he takes charades so seriously, according to Kamei. Whilst most things that come out of that man’s mouth can hardly be trusted at face value and total nonsense, that statement is perhaps a pearl of rare wisdom. 

“Mozart or something?” 

That draws a laugh out of Daisuke, unhinged and raw. Bless Haru and his earnest, simple ways. Whilst it’s easy to see how the tune could be classical in nature, it is the furthest thing from a prolific tune many households would know. 

In the absence of a smirk, Daisuke hopes Haru doesn’t take his amusement the wrong way or liken it to mockery. 

For a moment, the man hovering by the piano stiffens up defensively. Daisuke clears his throat, laughter sputtering in an awkward way that seems to shoo away the accusing words burning on Haru’s tongue. 

In the hush that blossoms between them, Daisuke strengthens his resolve. With a shaky breath, his fingers dip back to the comfort of the piano. And he speaks an unsung melody into existence. 

Okay. Alright. 

Maybe he has to fold, and maybe that isn’t a terrible thing. 

“...You.”

“What?”

“It’s you, Inspector.” 

Haru’s eyes widen, and the tension in his form doesn’t lessen. The sharp whip of panic is a loose canon in Daisuke’s veins, thrumming and pulsating through him without mercy.

But if he’s made a mistake, then he ought to make it boldly. 

Before he can haul himself back into a disciplined man who should know better, the words careen out. Finally. No finesse, no real direction. 

Pure unrefined truth. 

“At least, I thought this would be you in music form. It’s what I hear. When I am with you, this is how I think you sound. Of course, it’s only my perspective on the matter and I haven’t played for many years so there is a lot left to be desired in the execution, I understand. But I-"

The force that brings the words to a halt is not a rough tug forwards by his suit, though Daisuke admits it has been quite some time since that level of disdain swirled from Haru. Nor is it a plea to stop talking and to get over himself. 

It’s the sensation of Haru’s lips crashing into his with an unyielding desperation that makes the entire room spin. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Daisuke finds himself melting into everything Haru gives with ease. He barely has the chance to reciprocate when there’s an abrupt loss of contact. 

There’s a frustrated expression on Haru’s face, crumpling his brow and pushing his mouth into a shape Daisuke doesn’t like. It’s not very kissable. 

Gaze averted, Haru sucks in a breath. 

“I - sorry.”

Ah. 

The anguished pang in Daisuke’s chest hurts too much. Haru is apologising. People do that when they make mistakes, which has to mean he regrets this. All of a sudden, bolting out the room seems quite appealing. 

Haru’s next words keep Daisuke rooted to the spot. 

“That was rude, I really should’ve asked first before doing that. Damn this.” 

Devolving into mumbling, pacing agitatedly, Haru fists a hand into his dishevelled hair. Daisuke blinks slowly at the sight. It doesn’t make sense. 

“If you wish, we can forget this happened.” 

“What?” Haru asks, palpable confusion bringing him to a standstill. “No, no I - hey, why the hell would you think I want that?”

Well, for starters, Daisuke has noticed a distinct lack of kissing which had just started to become a very nice experience.

“As you can see, I am not complaining about your spontaneity.” 

“That’s not the point. It’s the principle.” 

Of course, Haru is going to take this moment and spin it into a morality class. 

“Are you perhaps having a midlife crisis?” 

That would be terrible, the man is barely pushing thirty. 

“Of course not! I mean, you just come out of nowhere with-" Haru gestures by throwing his hands out wide towards the piano. “With all that crazy stuff and I just messed it up by charging in.”

“Well,” Daisuke remakes with a smirk. “At least you have some degree of self-awareness.” 

Charging in is what Haru often does best. 

“Okay - that’s it. You don’t get to talk anymore, you’ve said more than enough!” Haru spits but the crinkles around his eyes lift it all into mirth. 

“Let me have some shot at paying this back, Kambe.” 

The syllables of his words split and crack as laughter bubbles through. It’s a lovely sound. 

Nudging Daisuke, Haru props himself on the edge of the piano stool beside him. 

“Look. I can tell you don’t find it easy to let people in, so this must have been a big deal just to get to this point. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting anything from you - I still don’t. But whatever it is you’re facing, whatever reason you really came here, I believe we can face it together. You don’t have to bear it alone.” 

Well. 

That is not what Daisuke had prepared to hear. It’s so much more. The blazing sincerity is almost overwhelming. But the thought of Haru being involved in his private investigation frightens him enough to send a part of him spiralling.

Seeming to notice the shift in Daisuke’s demeanour, Haru reaches for his hands and squeezes tight. 

“We don’t have to do this right now. Just don’t forget I’m your partner.” 

Your partner. Yours.

“A touching speech Inspector,” Daisuke remarks in hopes to move them back to the weightless euphoria of earlier. “We all know you’re a pillar of justice and an unbearably good person. Let’s get back to what we should be doing.” 

If he sounds a little petulant, lips pouted and eyes narrowed, so be it. Sulking might be unattractive but Daisuke isn’t going to pretend about this. He is tired of talking. 

Rolling his eyes, Haru smiles fondly. He inches closer, hands sliding up the suit to settle on shoulders. 

“Hm… remind me what that is again?”

“Gladly.” 

Their lips meet once more. Haru’s kisses are firm and insistent, turning slower and more languid as Daisuke refuses to rush. He’s waited for this. They both have. Indulgence isn’t a bad thing. He wants to spend time pouring all of this into Haru’s mouth until it reaches his heart. 

That may surprise Haru, but they’ll have other opportunities to get swept into carnal desire. Now, the biting tenderness is absolutely everything. Daisuke wants it to bruise, to never be enough and yet leave every fibre of his being singing. 

The slow slide of lips is tantalising in its own right. 

Haru’s hands reach up to cradle Daisuke’s face. His next kiss is chaste. And then he’s pulling back, thumb stroking absent circles down a pale neck. 

“We can’t be here for much longer you know,” Haru grumbles against skin. “We have work to get on with.” 

Trust Katou Haru to be his own party-crasher. Ever the agent bound to his duty. Daisuke will have to take matters into his own hands. 

“How much?” 

Haru meets Daisuke’s eyes, wary. 

“If you’re talking about money right now I swear-“ 

“No,” Daisuke tugs Haru closer, mouth grazing his ear. “I mean time. How much time will you give me?” 

For some reason unbeknownst to Daisuke, it’s these words that have Haru’s face blooming red as opposed to the unfolding intimacy. The grin that slips over his face is shaky. 

“Five minutes,” Haru says. 

What Daisuke hears is entirely different. It has him surging forwards to affirm it further. Devoted by design. 

Despite the uncertainty of what the future will bring, Daisuke thinks that yes - he can agree to this. 

Five minutes now, a lifetime later.