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Shuukichi thinks of himself as the normal one, which given his public profile as the Taiko Meijin, Japan’s most talented and attractive shogi player, says something about his siblings.
He used to think shearing himself of his family name, being adopted instead into the Haneda clan and formalizing his future as a shogi prodigy, had taken with it the murky associations of his parents and brother. That in joining a new family, he had left behind the constant watchfulness that came of growing up with spies for parents. Even when his adopted older brother Kouji died, he considered it a tragedy rather than a warning.
Well, he was younger then.
His mother and Shuuichi have always been tight-lipped about the Syndicate, although in death Shuuichi has begun to loosen up. Shuukichi doesn’t know much about them, other than that they were responsible for his father’s death, and Kouji’s, and Shuuichi’s false demise. It’s more than enough to tell him that they are the most dangerous group he could ever imagine.
And now, they’re after him.
Shuuichi informs him of this in his usual brusque style, by picking the lock to Shuuichi’s flat one evening while he’s in the middle of making Agedashi tofu, standing in the kitchen with his long cooking chopsticks in hand. At the sound of the front door swinging open he looks around, anticipating Yumi, and sees instead his brother with a duffle bag and an automatic pistol. Decidedly a let-down. “Nii-san?”
“We’ve got to go. Pack your things, now.” Shuuichi drops the duffle bag onto the floor of the tiny kitchen between them, then goes to peer out the window into the dark November night beyond.
Shuukichi spends exactly two seconds staring at the bag. Then he puts down the chopsticks, turns off the stove’s gas, and goes to pack some changes of clothes. “What’s happening?” he asks from his bedroom, as he tips undershirts into the duffle.
“Your name has been tied to mine. With the link to Haneda Kouji and your prominence as a genius at strategy, it’s too dangerous for you to stay here. We need to get you out until things cool down.”
Shuukichi pulls down a folded hakama, the cloth heavy in his hands. “You really think they’d come after me? For that?”
“I’m taking no risks,” replies Shuuichi. “Let’s go.”
Shuukichi grabs some items from the bathroom, zips up the duffle bag, turns off the TV which was playing in the background, and follows his brother out of the flat.
***
“So where are we going?”
They’re driving in a bland black sedan, a rental, while the streetlights flash by overhead. Shuukichi watches the harsh light pour over his brother’s aquiline face, green eyes sharp as always. He drives with his off-hand on the wheel, his left free. Since he was a boy, Shuuichi never devoted more energy to a task than necessary. But when he goes all-in, he goes all-in.
“I can’t take you to my place; the Syndicate has started sniffing around Kudou Shin’ichi and the professor. If I could ship you off abroad, I would. But I doubt you’d stand for that.”
“Certainly not,” says Shuukichi, voice pleasant but assured.
Shuuichi’s smile is lean as a razor. “No,” he murmurs. “Which is why I’m leaving you with someone who can keep you safe. Someone who keeps a low profile.”
“Oh?” says Shuukichi. But they’re already pulling up outside a square Beika tower. It’s not particularly luxurious, the building old and from the looks of it the flats small. Shuuichi parks, then heads up to the front door while Shuukichi grabs the duffel out of the back seat. When he arrives at the sliding glass door that gives entry to the building’s lobby and elevators, it’s pulling open. They pass inside to the elevators, where Shuuichi thumbs 5.
“He’s a bit acerbic, but I’m sure he’ll be willing to do me a favour,” rumbles his brother as the elevator comes to a stop. “Besides, you both like cooking. You’ll get along famously.” His brother’s smile is a little alarming. Shuuichi is easily amused, but the things that amuse him are rarely funny. Much more often, they’re fraught with peril.
At flat 504 Shuuichi stops and knocks. There’s a pause and then, with no noise from the inside that Shuukichi hears, the door opens silently. Inside is a blond man, a little shorter than his brother, with a rounder face that holds very bright eyes. He looks right at Shuuichi and says, in a flat voice, “Drop dead.”
“How nice to see you too, Furuya-kun. May we come in?”
He pushes past the blond man without waiting for an invitation, toeing off his shoes. Shuukichi bows and smiles. “Apologies for the intrusion. I’m Haneda Shuukichi.”
The blond man – Furuya? – looks at him briefly. “The Taiko Meijin,” he says, his voice higher than Shuuichi’s but with a similar intensity. “I’m honoured.”
He doesn’t sound honoured. He sounds pissed off.
Shuukichi trails in behind him as he turns to follow Shuuichi, his stocking feet quiet on the laminate floor. “Look here, you asshole. Don’t just come by unannounced for visits. I work at a café; I don’t run one out of my home.”
The inside of the flat is one large room with a bedroom partitioned off by a set of shoji, the space above separated by an intricate wood carving. There’s a low Japanese-style table and zaisu chairs, and a plump sofa and TV. The kitchen is small and impeccably clean. Shuuichi is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “This is my brother. Shuukichi.”
“The resemblance is uncanny,” says Furuya, dryly. “But I think someone neglected to inform me that we were at the stage of family introductions. Here I had thought we were closer to disembowelment at dawn.”
Shuukichi’s eyebrows rise slightly, but his brother appears not to notice this response. “He’s risen to the attention of the Syndicate. I want to keep him on ice for a couple of weeks.”
Furuya crosses his arms over his chest. “Dream on.”
“You would be a perfect. You’ve gone out of your way to make yourself above suspicion, and you’re ruthless when it comes to tradecraft.”
“Flattery will get you nothing but a knife in the gut. I’m not a babysitter, Akai.”
Shuuichi unfolds his arms and rests his palms on the edge of the counter behind him. “I’m sure we can come to some agreement in terms of remuneration.”
Furuya’s blue eyes are flinty. “I don’t want your money. And I don’t want your family here, crowding up my space. Why don’t you send him to Starling and Camel? I’m sure they’d take good care of him.” The man’s smile is small, cruel.
Shuuichi is calm, projecting patience. He can be patient until Judgement Day, if it means he’ll get his way, as Shuukichi knows to his cost. “Are you looking for an admission of trust? I do trust you, Furuya-kun. Even in our worst times, you always acted for the mission over yourself. Now… now we’re allies, aren’t we?”
“On sufferance, I’m agreeing to work with you. Don’t read into it, FBI. And don’t invite yourself over to beg for favours – it’s pathetic, and irritating.” He pushes past Shuuichi and steps into the kitchen, reaching into a cabinet and pulling out a bottle of shochu. “Look – you’ve driven me to drink,” he says, pointedly pouring out only one glass.
“Furuya-kun,” says Shuuichi, his voice low, raw. “He’s my brother. Please.”
Furuya drinks the shochu, his finger tapping against the smooth glass.
Shuukichi, from where he’s standing near the doorway, can feel the tension thick as smoke off a landfill, caustic, chemical. He has no idea what his brother’s past with this man is, but clearly it’s long and intense. Furuya seems to holding a grudge – perhaps more than one, perhaps even armfuls of them, judging by the way the muscle in his jaw is twitching.
Shuuichi does have a knack at getting under peoples’ skin.
What’s clear is that the blond man wants no part in helping out Shuuichi, more to the point wants no part in anything to do with Shuuichi. What’s equally clear is that he hasn’t tossed them out, and Shuukichi doesn’t think he’s the type to hold back out of politeness. And he can’t help but wonder what’s prompted that pause.
Furuya finishes drinking and lowers his glass. “One week,” he says, voice flat.
“One month,” counters Shuuichi.
“Are you kidding? One week and he cooks for himself.” Furuya puts the glass back down on the counter and glares.
“Three weeks, and he cooks for both of you.”
Shuukichi glances at his brother, wondering when his labour became fair game.
“One week, and nothing he cooks comes ready-bought.”
“Two weeks, and he cooks and cleans,” says Shuuichi.
Furuya sighs. “Deal.”
Shuukichin looks between the two of them, their eyes locked on each other like feral cats in an alley scrapping over a single fish bone. “Um…” he says.
Two pairs of eyes swivel to stare at him, the weight of their gaze more intense than anything he’s ever encountered in shogi. These men are some of the most dangerous people in Tokyo, and right now the air’s crackling with tension. “Maybe we should introduce ourselves?” he suggests, smiling.
“Meaning, will I introduce myself,” says Furuya. “We’ll all get along much better if we say what we mean,” he adds, rudely. “You can ignore everything Akai’s told you – I’m Amuro Tooru, and I work in a café. Anything else about me can and will get you killed, so forget you heard it.”
“And your relationship with my brother…?”
“Unimportant,” says Furuya/Amuro, at the same time as Shuuichi says, “On the upswing.”
Furuya (Shuukichi trusts his brother’s advice over this irascible blond man’s) slants a glare at Shuuichi. “It is not, you asshole. You’re lucky I don’t just toss the two of you out on the street. As it is, you’re putting me in serious danger. I hope you recognize that.”
Shuukichi blinks, uncomfortable. “I don’t want to put anyone in danger,” he says, raising his hands.
Furuya’s eyes are bright, intense. “You, shut up,” he says, pointing at Shuukichi. Then, turning his finger on Shuuichi: “You, start praying that this all works out, because if it doesn’t I will find you and end you.”
“Understood,” murmurs Shuuichi, with a smile.
“And stop grinning!”
***
Furuya kicks his brother out shortly afterwards. Although Shuuichi is by his nature a listener rather than a talker and often silent as a shadow, the space feels emptier with him gone. Furuya, returning from locking the door behind him, is muttering under his breath about no-good ingrates.
“I really didn’t mean to be an inconvenience, Amuro-san. If there’s anything I can do to reduce the burden on you, please feel free to suggest it,” says Shuukichi, his duffle bag still over his shoulder.
Furuya sighs and makes his way back to the kitchen. He pulls down another glass and pours out some more shochu, pushing the second glass at Shuukichi. “Look – I’ll say it plainly. Your brother and I are not on good terms. In fact, I nearly put a bullet in his brain last month, and I would have been glad to do it. Our history is long and complicated and I don’t plan to get into it. So just behave like a normal house guest, stay inside, don’t answer the phone, and we won’t have a problem. Got it?”
Shuukichi picks up the glass, appropriately cowed. “Got it,” he says, and takes a drink.
Furuya shows him where he can put his bag and lets him know he’ll be sleeping on the sofa. “Did you bring any electronics with you?”
“Just my phone.”
“Turn it off, and don’t turn it on again until you leave. I’ll get you a burner for emergencies. No computer use while you’re here – your activity online could be traced.”
“I do have commitments on my time,” says Shuukichi, frowning.
“Then you’d better hope your brother cancels them for you. You’re sure as hell not attending public events or doing TV interviews.”
Shuukichi looks down into his glass, clear liquid reflecting light from the overhead fixture. “I know how dangerous these people are, but –”
“You don’t,” interrupts Furuya, harshly. “You’re a civilian. Your fame won’t protect you, and your innocence sure as hell won’t. So just sit tight and do what I say, and we may all survive this.”
“Amuro-san…”
But Furuya is tossing the dregs of his shochu down his throat, then moving to put his glass down beside the sink, looking very plainly at Shuukichi. He sighs and finishes his drink, then comes over to start doing the washing up.
“Good,” says Amuro, and goes to find some blankets for him.
***
It’s a long night. The sofa is just a little too short for him to lie fully stretched out, and he keeps rolling over trying to find a way to angle his legs comfortably. In the other room he’s incredibly aware of Furuya’s complete silence, wonders if the man is awake and irritated, still. He seems like the kind to hold a grudge.
At six-thirty Furuya gets up, turning on the lights and padding through to the bathroom. Shuukichi, feeling fuzzy and dry-mouthed from poor sleep, gets up too. He folds up his blankets and puts them away neatly, ready to change and wash his face by the time Furuya emerges from the bathroom newly-shaved and with perfect hair. “Miso and tamagoyaki for breakfast,” he says as he passes Shuukichi, like a man placing an order at a diner. “I have to be out by 7:15.”
Shuukichi rushes in the bathroom then comes out, finding the ingredients in the fridge and hurriedly preparing the soup and sweet omelette slices while Furuya reads the paper on his phone. Shuukichi serves up the food and sits down at the table, feeling exhausted by the nervous pace. He’s rarely flustered but he’s feeling uncertain now, and uncomfortable. This man is doing him a favour, and is clearly not above judging his abilities.
He watches as Furuya takes a sip of the soup, considers, then nods. “You’re a good cook, Haneda-san.”
Shuukichi smiles, a little wearily. “Thanks. I’ve been living on my own for quite a while.”
“So have many men, but most rarely bother to learn decent skills in the kitchen,” says Furuya. It’s a general statement, but Shuukichi can hear the barb in it. Shuuichi, he knows, has never been much of a cook.
“Not everyone has as much time as I do.”
“That’s hardly an excuse,” says Furuya, picking up a slice of yellow egg with his chopstick and eating it all in a series of quick bites. He’s eating rapidly but neatly, making quick work of breakfast. Shuukichi doesn’t reply, so he continues a moment later. “I’ll be back this afternoon around four. There’s food in the fridge, you can make yourself lunch. You understand the rules?”
“Don’t go outside, don’t answer the phone, don’t use the internet.”
“Good. You can watch TV. Or,” he says, quickly drinking the remains of his soup, then standing, “I have some books you can read.” He goes into his bedroom and comes out with a short stack of light mystery fiction. “I work in a café, and also as an assistant to Mouri Kogorou,” he says, apparently feeling his choice in reading material requires explanation, before dumping the books on the table. “And now, I’m off. Please don’t do anything foolish while I’m gone.”
“I won’t,” says Shuukichi.
Two minutes later, Furuya is out the door and he’s alone in what is, almost certainly, an undercover agent’s flat. Shuukichi looks around, curious. Furuya didn’t forbid him to explore, didn’t seem concerned about it at all. Which tells him only that, if he were to look, he wouldn’t find anything of interest.
He cleans up breakfast instead, then washes the kitchen floors and counters with the morning news on. Then, bored and still dozy, he lies down on the sofa again to catch a little more sleep.
***
Furuya returns at four as promised with a couple of bags of groceries which he puts on the counter for Shuukichi to put away. “Here,” he adds, and tosses him a flip phone. “I’ve loaded in my number – you call me only in an emergency. Got it?”
“Got it,” says Shuukichi, putting some milk tea in the fridge. Furuya has assembled the ingredients for curry, so he gets started peeling the onion and carrots and chopping them. He’s made himself familiar with the kitchen, understanding that Furuya is clearly expecting him to know his place, and it’s no difficulty to get out the chopping board and paring knife. Furuya’s kitchen was extremely tidy even before Shuukichi cleaned up.
Half an hour later Furuya’s watching the evening news on TV while Shuukichi gets the rice started in the cooker, when the blond man’s phone rings. He mutes the TV and glances at it, then frowns. “What?” he says, picking up.
Shuukichi can’t make out the words from the other end, but the voice is familiar. Shuuichi.
“Yes, he’s still alive… No, I don’t know… I told you, I’m not a babysitter. He’s a grown man, he can entertain himself… No, that’s a terrible idea… Fuck off, FBI, he’ll see you in two weeks.” Furuya hangs up and tosses the phone onto the coffee table, brows dark.
Shuukichi turns back to stir the pot of curry. The steam rising fogs up his glasses, washing warmly over his face. He kills some time in the kitchen before coming back over to the living area and sitting down at the table rather than on the couch beside Furuya. “May I ask how you know my brother?” he says, his hands resting folded in his lap, as though he were waiting for his opponent to make a move.
“No,” says Furuya, without looking over. “You can’t. I’m not here for sharing and caring.”
“Apologies,” says Shuukichi, softly.
Furuya sighs. “It’s not important. It’s better for everyone if you don’t know anything about us. Our lives, our world… it’s nothing but shadow. And that’s fine, we accepted that. But even Akai wouldn’t want his brother drawn into it.”
“Amuro-san… yesterday you said I don’t know how dangerous these people are. But I do. They killed my father, they killed my adopted brother, and they almost killed Nii-san. Those are shadows that will never fade from my life. I’m the only one my brother has to lean on, now that he’s officially dead. I want to be here for him.”
Furuya turns to look at him, blue eyes hard, calculating. “People like Akai… people like me and Akai, we’ve learned not to lean on others. You’re offering kindness where none is necessary. We don’t need anyone else in our lives.” His voice is rough-edged, like ripped paper.
“Really? You’ve never wanted someone to rely on?”
Furuya doesn’t move, still as stone. “All the people I relied on are dead.”
There’s no pain, no sorrow in his tone. But Shuukichi can read it in every line of his body, in the tenseness of his form, in the clear-cut angle of his jaw. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“That’s what happens in this job, if you rely on people. So don’t try to take on that role for yourself. Stay in the sunlight, Haneda-san. It’s safer for you, there. And… and that will make Akai happier, too. He’s a cold bastard, and he’s not above cutting peoples’ hearts out and leaving them empty and broken. But I imagine he must have his feelings.” Furuya’s tone is cold, grudging, the voice of one making concessions he wishes he weren’t. But the words are weighty – whatever lies between him and Shuuichi is obviously intense, extreme. And even knowing that, he’s still considering Shuuichi’s perspective.
Interesting.
“He does,” says Shuukichi. “And you’re right, he’s often not good at expressing them. But he cares for others deeply. He just also cares about finishing this task.”
Furuya shrugs and turns back to the TV. “Don’t we all,” he says dryly. And that’s that.
***
After dinner they have a glass of shochu, then Furuya pulls out his laptop and starts tapping away at it. Shuukichi puts away the leftovers for tomorrow, then cleans up the kitchen again, carefully washing and drying everything and putting it away. Then he watches TV until it’s time for a bath and bed.
Furuya pauses on the way into his bedroom, taking his computer with him. “Thanks,” he says. “For the food.”
“You’re welcome, Amuro-san.”
And so to bed.
***
They settle into a routine over the next two days, Shuukichi rising just before Furuya to start breakfast. He tidies the flat and reads during the day, then starts preparing for dinner around the time that Furuya comes home. After the first couple of days don’t end in disaster, the blond man starts bringing home small desserts – Baumkuchen or chocolate mousse or Haagen-Dazs. Their relationship is mostly one of careful consideration, like two highly-ranked players being matched together for the first time, feeling out each other’s plays and strategies.
On Friday night – day four – Furuya brings home crème brulé and a bottle of scotch. “I’m off work tomorrow,” he says. “Well, some of my work.”
It doesn’t take a genius to know that Furuya is holding down more jobs than café waiter and amateur detective. Shuukichi simply says, “That’s nice,” and earns a smile for his prudence.
After dinner – boeuf bourguignon – they eat the rich creamy pudding out of glass cups and sit on the sofa, watching the news. Clearly Shuuichi has managed to get word out about his absence, because there haven’t been any news bulletins about Missing Shogi Star. Just the usual – politicians’ blunders, pop idol scandals, heartwarming stories about old people and pets. After the news come the variety shows, and Furuya leaves to work on his computer while Shuukichi turns down the volume out of politeness and a lack of genuine interest in celebrities playing word games.
Furuya breaks out the scotch around nine, pouring out two glasses and passing one to Shuukichi while he takes the other and sips at it slowly while he works.
Shuukichi doesn’t drink a lot of hard alcohol, and one glass is enough for him. But he notices Furuya fill his up a second, then a third time.
Ten o’clock passes, then eleven. The bottle of scotch is more than half empty before Furuya snaps his laptop’s lid shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Difficult work?” asks Shuukichi, who’s given up on TV and is reading a book.
“No more than usual. No more than everyday malice and stupidity. Every day…” he sighs.
“I’m sorry. That must be challenging.”
Furuya shrugs. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Nothing I didn’t sign up for.”
Shuukichi shuts his book and turns, sitting with his back against the armrest to face Furuya. “That probably doesn’t make it easier, though.”
“No. There are a lot of things that don’t make it easier. Including your brother.”
“I’m sure.”
“Are you?”
Shuukichi tilts his head to the side. “He’s my older brother, and I love him. I’d do anything for him – even disappear off the face of the earth and break my scheduled games without warning on nothing more than his word. I hope you realise that’s not a small thing for a professional player. But… he’s always been very driven, so driven he doesn’t notice the impacts of his actions on others. Or maybe he just believes it’s a necessary price to pay. Either way, I understand he isn’t an easy person to work with.”
“He must have been thrilling as a child,” says Furuya, dryly.
“He and my mother butted heads constantly. I was the peacemaker. I guess it’s a role I’ve continued to play.”
“And one he has, too. Only now instead of his mother, it’s whoever doesn’t roll over at the first sign of conflict.”
Shuukichi smiles, small but warm. “Somehow, Amuro-san, I don’t think you’re the type to roll over either.”
Furuya snorts. “No. I’ve always been the type to get into scraps at the drop of a hat. And Akai… Akai makes that easy. Sometimes I think he goes out of his way to make it easy. He has a gift of condescension; even when he acts in someone’s favour, he makes it seem like something he’s deigned to bestow. I hate that. I hate his smiles, and I hate his gifts.”
Shuukichi can’t help but wonder what, exactly, it is that Shuuichi gave Furuya. He knows enough to know that he can’t possibly ask. He also knows enough to know that whatever it is, it’s at the heart of this withering tension between them.
“He means well,” says Shuukichi.
Furuya looks over at him, his face drawn, his eyes shadowed, and Shuukichi suddenly sees how exhausted this man is. How much the toll of three jobs is taking on him. He wonders if Shuuichi sees it, if he knows.
But that’s foolish. If Shuukichi has recognized it, Shuuichi would have months ago.
“I don’t really care what his intentions are,” Furuya says.
Lie, thinks Shuukichi. “You two must go back quite a way, for you to feel so strongly.”
“We worked together. Did everything together. Then we didn’t. Now… now we’re allies, but not colleagues. That about sums it up.”
A nice simple story omitting all the pieces of interest, thinks Shuukichi while watching Furuya stand and take his glass into the kitchen. He barely seems tipsy, despite having drunk half the bottle himself.
“Were you close?” asks Shuukichi.
Furuya, on his way to the bedroom now, pauses at the door. “You could say that,” he says, and for an instant Shuukichi can see the effects of the alcohol as Furuya loses control of his expression. His face paints a stark picture: raw hurt, and raw need. They show for just a moment before disappearing. “Goodnight, Haneda-san.”
***
On Saturday Furuya is out most of the day doing his unspoken job. On Sunday, he asks Shuukichi if there’s anything he wants to entertain himself for the next week. Shuukichi makes a quick list of a few books – non-fiction histories to replace Furuya’s trashy mysteries with. “I suppose you wouldn’t want to play a few rounds of shogi?” he asks, smile carefully innocent.
Furuya gives him an old look. “I’m not foolish enough to think my grade-school boardgame prowess would allow me to challenge a national champion,” he replies, and takes the receipt with Shuukichi’s book list on the back. “I’ll get your books.”
Using a cookbook he found in Furuya’s kitchen, Shuukichi prepares French onion soup for lunch. It’s ready just before the blond man returns with a paper bag full of books, and a chestnut cake for dessert.
Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. Shuukichi is in the middle of ladling out the soup, and pauses. Furuya is suddenly beside him, reaching up into the back of a cupboard from which he produces an automatic pistol. He points Shuukichi to his bedroom and slips silently to the door.
There’s a pause during which Shuukichi waits, huddled behind the thin shoji, heart pounding. Then a quite mutter from the front entryway: “Fucking asshole.”
The door opens. “I told you not to come,” he says, and receives a quiet murmur in reply. Shuukichi, now with a fair idea of what’s happened, steps out from the bedroom.
A tall man with auburn hair and glasses comes in, following Furuya who’s clicking the safety back on the pistol. “I should shoot your ass just for being here,” he says, but instead of carrying out the threat tucks the gun back away where it came from.
“Nii-san?” says Shuukichi, looking at this unfamiliar man who’s received a very familiar welcome.
“Aa,” says the auburn-haired man in an unfamiliar voice. He reaches up beneath the high collar of his shirt and clicks something. “I thought I should check on you,” he says, in his usual voice. The angle of his eyes has been made even sharper with make-up, but Shuukichi can see now their familiar emerald glint.
“What, did you think I might have murdered him and hid the body under the floor? I’m not quite that cold,” says Furuya, turning back to face Shuuichi. “See? He’s perfectly fine. Now you can go on your merry way and leave us in peace.”
Shuuichi reaches down into the bag that’s sitting on the table and pulls out the books from inside, glancing at the titles. His smile is narrow, satisfied. Shuukichi can feel Furuya bristling beside him. But all Shuuichi says is, “I thought you might want an intel update.”
Furuya braces his hands against the counter behind him, his fingers hooked up beneath the overhang. “Oh?”
“So far, no further chatter on Shuukichi, and I haven’t noticed any suspicious traffic in his neighbourhood.”
Shuukichi blinks at the suggestion that his brother has been monitoring his flat. But then, of course he would.
“It’s early to say, but my concerns may have been overblown.”
“Great, so nice to see you proving a negative. I’m not really sure you had to come all the way here after I expressly told you not to to tell us so, but swell. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
Shuuichi looks over at him, and although the lines of his face are different the intensity in his gaze is still the same. Shuukichi sees Furuya straightening under it, becoming flintier. His hands stiffen on the counter.
“And that’s it, is it?”
“What else were you hoping for? A gold star? My gratitude? An invitation to lunch? Don’t be ridiculous. Go back to your computer screens and sniper rifles like the FBI dog you are.” There’s a bluster in Furuya’s tone that interests Shuukichi, his affect over-the-top, even for him. Like speaking into a megaphone, doubling the effect of his natural tone.
Shuuichi leans down and carefully replaces the books on the table. “It’s been two years since he died,” he says, looking at the books rather than the blond man. “You still can’t forgive me?” His voice is so low it’s close to breaking. Shuukichi watches it wash over Furuya, sees his eyes brighten, the subtle touch of colour in his cheeks.
“Two years since he died – two years you let me believe exactly what you wanted me to. How could I forgive that?” he replies, sharp and clean in contrast to Shuuichi’s roughness. Surgical precision over rawness. “If you want to play the great detective with your family, with your FBI colleagues, fine. Keep your secrets, keep your scars to yourself. I thought I deserved something more. But I was wrong, wasn’t I?”
Shuukichi holds himself absolutely still, silent, watching this scene play out. He senses grief, and anger, and something even stronger in the room. It feels like a space filled to saturation with old ghosts.
“You know my motives. If they weren’t enough… if my goodwill wasn’t enough, then I’m sorry.”
Furuya says absolutely nothing.
Shuuichi straightens and slips his hands into his pockets. “Then I’m sorry for intruding,” he says. He reaches up and presses the button on the device under his collar. “I’ll see you in a week, Shuukichi,” he says, his voice once again a stranger’s. And then he’s gone, slipping out of the flat like a shadow.
Furuya lets out a long, silent breath and seems to diminish, folding back against the countertop for support. Then, slowly, he peels himself away, shoulders rounded and back curved like an old man. “You’ll have to eat on your own, Haneda-san,” he says. “Suddenly, I’m not hungry.”
Furuya puts on his coat and gloves, takes his phone, and leaves the flat.
He doesn’t come back before Shuukichi goes to bed that night.
***
It’s late when he’s woken, the time of night when the darkness feels heaviest, the world outside the window shrouded in silence. There’s a bang, then a muffled curse from the entryway. Shuukichi sits up, heart in his throat, before he recognizes Furuya’s low voice, “Goddamn, fuck, you bastards, arg,” as he presumably takes his shoes and coat off in the dark. Shuukichi stands and switches on the light in the living room.
Furuya is revealed, his shirt untucked, his hair mussed by the night wind, his nose red from the cold. Now, Shuukichi can see, he is really and truly drunk, his eyes unfocused and his body ungainly instead of held in the precise perfection Shuukichi is used to seeing from him.
Shuukichi gets up, goes over to the kitchen, takes down a glass and pours out some water. “Drink this,” he says to Furuya. The man comes over slowly, his movements heavy but not uncontrolled, and takes it. He drains the glass, then leans forward to rest his forehead against the upper cabinet.
“Fuck,” he says.
“You should go to bed,” says Shuukichi.
“Nuh uh. ‘Cause that stupid bastard’ll haunt my goddamn dreams. ‘S like I killed a ghost. Creepy,” he says, voice harsh from too much alcohol.
Shuukichi stares at him, eyes closed and half-asleep standing in the kitchen. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Why don’t you come sit on the sofa then?”
Furuya turns to look at him. He stares for several long seconds, his thoughts impenetrable. Then: “You have his eyes. But you don’t stare… you don’t stare like he does.” He peels himself off the cabinet and takes a step towards the sofa. Shuukichi catches his arm and guides him over. Furuya dumps himself down onto its cushions, groaning. Shuukichi takes a seat in the nearer of the zaisu, watching him. “That asshole never stops staring. Those eyes… mm, they burn. They used to burn, above me…”
Shuukichi swallows.
“He took, and took, and took, and I gave. So much. An ocean of it, wrapped in blood and bruises. I broke every rule in the book for him.” Furuya rolls his head, staring up at the ceiling. “And he lied. He lied and burned everything to the ground, because he wanted to protect me. I don’t need g’damn protection. Not from Akai Shuuichi. He twisted every memory, every touch, every kiss… poured gasoline over them and lit the match. Consumed by fire… consumed… nn.” Furuya’s eyes drift closed. Shuukichi sits stilly, listening as his breathing evens out.
Sometime later he picks the blankets up off the floor where they fell, wraps himself in them, and lies down on the hard wood floor to sleep.
***
“Fuck.”
Shuukichi startles awake from an uncomfortable half-sleep, his body stiff and his back tender. He opens his eyes and sees Furuya sitting up on the sofa looking grey, his hair a mess and his eyes narrowed against the glare of morning sunlight. “What time is it?” He answers the question by looking at his own watch, then swears again and gets up. Only then does he seem to take on board Shuukichi sitting on the floor, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito. “Did you sleep there all night?” He’s rubbing his fingers against his temple, squinting against a headache.
“I didn’t want to intrude on your room.”
“You could have. Or you could just have woken me up.” He winces and softens his tone from accusatory to apologetic. “Sorry. That was shitty behaviour. Last night…”
“Already forgotten,” says Shuukichi, firmly. Furuya gives him an assessing look, then nods.
“I’ve got to go to work. I’m going to make coffee, then go. You can get out my futon and sleep in my room, if you want.” He shuffles into the kitchen and starts pulling out the things for coffee one-handed, the other still rubbing his temple. Shuukichi, feeling awkward about trying to insert himself into this hurried routine, instead just sits and watches while Furuya disappears into the bathroom, emerges shortly after looking spruced up but still grey, disappears to dress and then re-emerges to pour his coffee into a to-go cup.
“Take some acetaminophen,” he suggests, and Furuya pats his pockets.
“I’ll be back later. Sorry,” he says again, then heads out.
Shuukichi gets up and uses the bathroom too, then pours out the remains of the coffee for himself and sits down on the sofa.
He pulls out the flip phone Furuya gave him and, from memory, dials Shuuichi.
The phone is answered on the second ring. “Who’s calling?” It’s an unfamiliar voice, but he now knows that Shuuichi has a range of voices available to him, somehow.
“Haneda Shuukichi,” he says.
There’s a pause. Then, Shuuichi’s voice takes the line. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Well. Not with me. With your friend, maybe.”
“Meaning what?” Shuuichi’s voice is low, a little terse.
Shuukichi rests his cup of coffee on his thigh, watching the steam rise. “I don’t want to betray a confidence. And I don’t think I’m telling you anything you don’t know. You’re so… driven, Nii-san, and sometimes when you decide to protect others you also take away their agency. I think agency is very important for Furuya-san. Maybe the most important thing, for him. I don’t know if you two have tried to have a serious talk, but you should. These slings and arrows aren’t getting you anywhere.”
There’s a quiet sound from the phone – maybe a sigh, maybe just a passing snippet of background noise. “Furuya-kun and I don’t have an easy relationship,” he says. “I’m not sure we’re ready to sit down and talk yet.”
“Maybe not. But if he’s important to you, I think you should try. He is important to you, isn’t he?”
This time the pause is absolutely silent, before his brother responds, simply, “Yes.”
Shuukichi smiles. “Then I think you know what you have to do. How you do it’s up to you.”
“Your advice is appreciated,” says Shuuichi. “For now, let’s worry about you first. Is everything alright?”
“It’s fine,” says Shuukichi, his back aching and his head starting to feel the light press of a headache in the rear of his skull. “Everything’s fine.”
“Good,” says Shuuichi. “Keep it that way. I’ll see you in a few days.”
***
Furuya comes home after work looking much better and bringing a strawberry shortcake laden with berries and whipped cream tucked in the box of an expensive local bakery. Shuukichi can recognize an apology when he sees it. In recompense, they don’t say anything about his brother.
***
“Do you really think your syndicate would come after me? For nothing other than who I am?”
It’s two days later, the hour getting on towards bedtime. Dinner was eaten and cleared hours ago, and dessert was a light flan with caramel sauce. Furuya is sitting at the table, his laptop open and the white-blue light washing his face in stark tones. Shuukichi is sitting lengthwise on the sofa, back resting against the armrest, feet tucked up beneath him with a book on his lap.
Furuya looks up, thoughtful. “If they believed Akai to be alive, then yes, certainly, for no other reason than to blackmail or hurt him. With him supposedly dead, the risk is much lower, but some residual remains. You have ties to several people targeted – killed – by the Syndicate. They’re the kind of people who assess danger with a wide lens. You’re connected to their enemies, and highly intelligent, and possibly motivated by the deaths of your loved ones. It’s enough of a reason for Akai to be concerned. I don’t think he is overreacting. But… it also doesn’t surprise me that they’ve taken no action. The Syndicate has many priorities. You’re little more than an added extra.”
“Well, that’s good. Because as much as I enjoy your company, Amuro-san, I don’t really want to live on your sofa forever. And I think my girlfriend probably wouldn’t appreciate it, either.”
Furuya blinks, eyebrows rising. “You have a girlfriend?”
Shuukichi smiles, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “Yeah. Yumi-tan. She’s a police officer.”
For all that bringing Yumi into the conversation has heightened his shyness, he doesn’t miss Furuya’s eyes flashing. “A police officer? What section does she work for?”
“Oh – Traffic Patrol.”
Furuya’s sharpness fades and he nods. “Ah. That should be fine, then. The syndicate’s not concerned with parking tickets.”
“No. I imagine not.”
“Well, we’ll have to get you back in one piece for Yumi-san, then. Only a few days left, anyway.”
Shuukichi nods.
***
On the day before Shuukichi is to go back to his normal existence in his normal flat, with a bed and access to the internet, they make savoury crêpes for dinner. Furuya makes the crêpes with an expert hand, perfectly spreading them across the bottom of a frying pan and then peeling them out when they’re the nice, even colour of a latte. Shuukichi fills them with the thick soupy scallop and salmon filling he’s made and serves them up neatly onto the table.
“I have to say,” says Furuya as they sit down to eat, drinking Sauvignon Blanc from the grocery store, “you’ve been a surprisingly pleasant house guest, Haneda-san. And I know I haven’t been an exactly flawless host.”
Shuukichi gives him a warm smile. “You’ve been great, Amuro-san. I know it was an inconvenience. And on behalf of someone you’re not really wanting to put yourself out for, right now.”
They eat a few bites in silence, just the sounds of cutlery on porcelain. Furuya puts down his knife and fork and picks up his glass, staring into the wheat-pale liquid.
“How long did he wait?” asks Furuya, looking at the glass, rather than Shuukichi. “After Raiha, after the funeral. How long did he wait to tell you he was still alive.”
Shuukichi puts down his own cutlery and leans back, casual. “He didn’t tell me. I figured it out. After two, maybe three months? I left a notice for him online somewhere I thought he would see it, and he got in contact with me. He still hasn’t told my mother, or my sister.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Furuya’s voice is careful, inquiring rather than demanding.
“He’s trying to protect us. My family’s never been one for frank, honest conversations. We were raised to keep secrets, to know that sometimes they were the only way to keep us safe. We don’t begrudge that in others. And…”
“And?” asks Furuya.
“And I’m not sure Nii-san ever really realised that not everyone understands that. That to some people, keeping some secrets is the worst thing they could do. It’s been his default for his whole life, and he’s never learned to change it.”
Furuya’s smile is small, subtle. “An apology?” he asks.
“An explanation. What’s between you is between you. But I hope you know that there aren’t many people he cares strongly about. I can tell that you’re one.”
Furuya tilts the glass back and drinks deeply. “Your brother is loath to offer up his secrets. I’m loath to offer up my forgiveness. It’s not a recipe for success.”
“You’re a good chef, Amuro-san. I think you could make it work.”
Furuya gives one short bark of laughter. Then he picks up his cutlery. “Why don’t you tell me about Yumi-san,” he says.
Shuukichi lets him change the topic, rolling into some of his favourite stories about his strong, forceful, beautiful girlfriend.
After a while the starkness starts to fade from Furuya’s face and he becomes a happier, warmer person.
Shuukichi hopes that this more cheerful man isn’t someone incompatible with his brother.
***
They finish off the bottle between them that night before Furuya produces the shochu, and Shuukichi doesn’t feel he can say no to this send off. He has three rounds before turning into bed at midnight, drunk and groggy. Furuya promises to be off work early the next day to take him back to his flat in the afternoon.
The next morning he’s wakes up to a brutal headache and nausea, exhausted from the alcohol and the poor sleep. Furuya makes his own breakfast and leaves quietly, and Shuukichi falls back into a deep healing slumber.
He’s woken sometime later by a blaring noise, a kind of cicada-whine in his ears. He tries to swipe it away and coughs. He coughs again, and again, the air somehow thick, caustic.
Shuukichi opens his eyes to see that the flat is full of smoke. It’s hot, unnaturally hot for November, and he turns to look out the window as though that might offer up an answer – and in a way it does. Thick, black smoke is billowing up past the glass.
He sits up, head throbbing, and breaks into a fit of coughing. The air is full of smoke, the flat hazy, the fire alarm blaring. He can’t stop coughing now, and he falls onto his hands and knees and feels the floor hot to the touch. The smoke is getting thicker with each passing moment. He’s still cocooned in blankets, his body heavy as his lungs ache, and the effort of kicking the heavy covers off nearly floors him.
He has enough sense to know that he’s in bad shape, that the smoke is thickest in the kitchen and entryway, and that if there’s fire beneath him it’s probably licking up over the outside walkway that’s the only exit for this flat.
Shuukichi sweeps up the phone from the coffee table and half stumbles, half crawls into Furuya’s room. The air is slightly cleaner here – he can just manage to keep breathing. He flips the phone open and calls the only number saved in its memory.
“Amuro,” comes the answer, barely audible above the shrieking fire alarm.
Shuukichi tries to speak, and can only cough.
“Haneda-san? Haneda-san? Haneda?”
The phone falls out of his grasp, his hands clenched against the spasms rocking him. Shuukichi knows that smoke rises; already it’s pooling on the ceiling, floating there in a grey mist. He lies down and tries to shield his mouth. Tries to keep breathing.
Beneath him, the floor gets hotter and hotter. His lungs are on fire. He’s coughing again, coughing so hard he vomits, his body trying to turn itself inside out. He can feel the ash, the heat, the fire… fire… burning…
The shoji door rips open and a figure is standing in the dim light. Golden hair gleams. Then Shuukichi – coughing, hacking, nothing but a body fighting its last and best fight to keep breathing – is wrapped in a blanket and hauled upwards. The flat pulls past him, the proportions strange, darkening.
There’s a moment of pause in a dark tunnel, just an instant of hesitation.
Then, brighter than the sun, hotter than the stars, comes an inferno. Shuukichi tries to twist but he’s held tight as they run through the flames, fire all around them. The heat burns against his face, searing his skin as it surrounds him.
A moment later the fire is gone, disappeared as though it had never been. He’s dumped unceremoniously on the ground while someone beats at him, and all he can do is lie on the floor and retch and gasp, until his ears fill with white noise and his vision with static.
He’s nothing but dull, blunt sensations. Something hard under his spine. Something cold on his face. Movement, buckling, rippling, like being on the ocean. He’s still coughing, has been coughing forever, for all eternity, is nothing but an agony of convulsions.
Gradually, though, light and sense start filtering back in. Light overhead, flickering red and white, shadows against the sky. An awareness that he’s lying on his back with a mask over his face, breathing in pure oxygen.
He looks to the side and sees Furuya there, his clothes singed, his trousers melted and burned at the bottom. Shuukichi tries to speak, to say something – anything – but he can’t, is voiceless, and without further ado he’s loaded into the back of an ambulance.
“Good to go,” says a stranger’s voice, and daylight is blocked out. And they’re moving, again.
***
He’s unloaded and triaged through a busy space full of white rooms separated by hanging drapes. Something’s gone wrong with his vision and everything seems very washed out, the world painted in a palette of pastels. But his hearing is fine, and he can hear Furuya in the bay beside him being checked out for moderate burns to his legs and hands.
Shuukichi’s suffering from significant smoke inhalation, and after his exam he’s shipped upstairs and placed in a single room with an oxygen mask on. He has mild burns on his feet, not much worse than a sunburn. “You were lucky your friend thought to wrap you up,” the nurse tells him. “He must have a cool head.”
Furuya himself arrives half an hour later wearing loose hospital scrubs for trousers, his hands bandaged in white gauze. He looks otherwise unconcerned for himself, coming right over to Shuukichi. “How do you feel?”
Breathing is still difficult; every deep breath starts him coughing again, so he can only breath shallowly and has to concentrate on not hyperventilating. “I’ll live,” he says, briefly, all he can manage. “Thanks to you.”
Furuya opens his mouth to make some reply, and the door to the room shoots open. A tall man with auburn hair and glasses stalks in, his slightly rounded face tight, closed.
Shuukichi’s already watching Furuya, so he sees the moment shock flashes across his face, quickly replaced by neutrality.
“Oh, look who’s here,” says Furuya, but softly. Shuuichi, in his narrow-eyed disguise, comes to stop beside Furuya at the side of the bed.
“Police scanner said two fire victims were taken out of 504,” he says, his voice at least familiar if his face isn’t. “Are you alright?” he asks Shuukichi.
“’M okay. Just smoke. Amuro-san came home… ‘n saved me.”
Shuuichi turns to Furuya. “And you?”
“I’ve had worse.”
Shuuichi looks down the length of him, sharp green eyes flitting over the bandages and the scrub trousers. He reaches out and puts his hands on Furuya’s shoulders, and the blond man freezes, jaw tight, waiting to react. “Thank you,” says Shuuichi. “Thank you.”
Furuya steps back, brushing his hands off. “It was just an apartment fire. The woman below’s always been a careless cook.”
“You didn’t have to go in after him. But you did – after my brother, my responsibility. I know how you feel about me, Furuya-kun. I know I’m the last person you want to do favours for. So thank you.”
“Don’t be an ass. He’s more than just your brother; he doesn’t deserve to live or die based on your relationship. And besides, it’s my job.” He looks away, staring at the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
The room falls silent. Shuukichi is aware that his presence isn’t encouraging to their conversation; he’s equally aware that if these two don’t talk now there’s no telling when they may find themselves calm enough to actually smooth things over.
So he closes his eyes and lets his head roll to the side, for all appearances asleep.
“If you would tell me what you want, I would give it to you,” says his brother, his voice low. “I’ve given you apologies, I’ve given you thanks.”
“And you’ve practically made me beg for them,” spits back Furuya. “You’ve never understood me. Not before, and not now. And rather than trying to, you bluster along like a head-strong idiot and assume I’ll fall at your feet because your intentions are good. I don’t give a shit about your intentions. Your brother thinks it’s because you were raised that way, that you just don’t understand how to share your life with someone, but I don’t give a shit about that either. You could have learned. You could have tried.”
“Are you upset that I lied about Scotch’s death, or my own?”
“See? The fact that you even have to ask shows how screwed up you are.”
“I was only trying to protect you.”
“I don’t want your protection,” hisses Furuya, irate. “I want the man I trust with my life to be one who trusts me back. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Do you know what it felt like, thinking I’d been fucking Hiromitsu’s killer? And I did, because I was able to believe you were a murderer more easily than believe you’d lie to me. Our whole lives are a tangle of lies. I need the truth from you.”
There’s a shift in the atmosphere of the room, a pause before Shuuichi speaks. “You want the truth?” he says, voice rough as road rash. “The truth is that I’ve always kept a core of myself to myself, alone, protected. No one’s demanded more of me, ever. Until you.”
Shuukichi feels a little shiver run down his spine. He knows instinctively that his brother’s words are true. He’s given his all to his job, his mission. But never to any of the men and women who have passed through his life, brief and ultimately insubstantial.
Furuya is extremely substantial.
“All or nothing,” agrees Furuya.
There’s a soft sound, like Shuuichi running a hand through his hair, or perhaps smoothing down his shirt. “I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.”
Furuya’s voice is sarcastic. “Good plan, because that’s a sure-fire way to get yourself killed.”
“For you,” says Shuuichi, and then stops.
“For me?”
“All or nothing?”
“That’s the deal.”
There’s a long pause, and Shuukichi can feel the agony in the room – Furuya’s anticipation, Shuuichi’s hesitation, his own hope for these two men who have given so much and asked so little.
It’s broken by a soft sound of surrender: Shuuichi sighing. “Then I guess it has to be all.”
Shuukichi opens his eyes to see his brother kissing Furuya in the hospital room, Furuya’s bandaged hands resting on his shoulders, fingers twisted in the back of his shirt to hold him close.
Shuukichi smiles and closes his eyes again.
It’s several moments before they break apart. “Are you really kissing me in your brother’s hospital room?” asks Furuya, sounding breathless.
“He doesn’t mind. Do you, Shuukichi?”
Shuukichi opens his eyes and catches his brother’s knowing smile. “Not at all.”
“Assholes,” says Furuya, eyes narrow, pointing from one to the other. “You’re a family of assholes.”
“Would you have it any other way?”
“Yes,” says Furuya. “Almost any other way imaginable. For example –”
Shuuichi leans in and kisses him again, silencing the tirade.
END