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Haru wakes slowly.
Above him the ceiling’s white, lightly textured, shadows painted on it from the morning light filtering in through his curtains. The same ceiling he woke up to after the bank robbery, after his transfer to Modern Crimes, after the last time he saw Takei as his boss and the first time he saw Cho.
Not the same ceiling he woke up to after their deaths. He had gone without sleep for more than two days, then taken a bullet in the leg and fainted in Kambe Daisuke’s secret lair. After that, it had been the hospital.
His leg throbs at the memory. It’s still little more than a week since everything blew up. Since he took out Kambe’s assassin butler, since Kambe arrested his own grandmother. Since they took a trip together to visit his father’s institution, and ended up in each other’s arms on the beach.
And now? And now they’re both back in Tokyo, facing the reality of their situation. Colleagues, working together in an office that practically runs on gossip. Haru the senior in terms of age and experience; Kambe the senior in terms of wealth and influence. Haru with a still-healing bullet wound; Kambe with a still-healing heart. What a pair.
Haru groans and turns over in his bed, his sheets wrapping around him like a shroud. It’s been eight hours since he took any pain killers and his leg is killing him. He over-exerted it going to Sendai, pulling a stupid stunt of walking on a beach with crutches and needed to be hauled back to the car afterwards.
And today, the date circled in black on his calendar, is the funeral.
Haru buries his face in his hands. He’s not ready for this. He’s hardly had time to think about it, never mind process it. There’s never a good time to bury your colleagues, but he still feels raw from the loss of his mentor and his former boss, one a man who had guided him in the best way to be an upstanding cop, the other a man who had stood up for him and kept him on the Force despite his own self-destructive tendencies. He owes them both more than he could give. And they died for no other reason other than to keep the Kambe family’s dirty secrets.
He sits up slowly, pushing the clinging sheets away from his body. He feels tired, sore, and muddled. Yesterday is a whirlwind of emotions – uncertainty, pity, grief, joy, affection. He raises his fingers to his lips, the kiss still prominent in his mind. The feeling of Kambe’s solid, strong body against his, holding him while across the waves the sun set slowly. Stupidly romantic in retrospect, although at the time it had seemed more just like everyday scenery. Hard to focus on the romanticism in plain view of a care home.
Haru gets up slowly. His thigh is still bandaged, the incision scar larger than the bullet wound itself. It will take weeks of physio to get him back in shape for active duty, the muscle shredded first by the bullet and then by scalpel and forceps that removed it. He grabs one of his crutches and limps across the apartment to the bathroom where he washes his face and brushes his teeth. His skin is pale with a grey tinge – he looks half-dead. Great.
Kambe, as part of his effort to take care of the minor details in Haru’s life, like the unsuitability of his apartment for an invalid and his lack of groceries, has also provided a suit to wear to the funeral. Haru has a black suit, but it’s the one he wore everyday for years while working in Section One, and he doesn’t really want those memories today. He changes into the one Kambe provided, which is much better cut and looks stupidly good on him. He has no idea how much it cost, and doesn’t want to know. He can accept this one gift without looking at it too closely.
There’s natto and orange juice in the fridge and he has that for breakfast, simple and not requiring of any additional effort to prepare. He sits at his new dining table, fancy walnut with a lovely varnish and elegant chairs to match, and stares at the dark wood grain while he eats.
His mind is ricocheting between thoughts of Kambe – handsome, strong, holding him in his warm arms – and Takei and Cho. The whiplash is searing, painful, all guilt and gruesomeness. He can still remember the blood washed across the floor, the smell of it so thick, their corpses… He closes his eyes and grips his chopsticks tightly. He left them there to die. Men he trusted, men he respected. Men he could have saved. His lips twist, tight, and he pushes away the remains of his breakfast. Even the smell of it is sickening, now.
Haru shoves his chair out sharply and stands, turning so hard his leg screams in protest and it’s only by grabbing at the wall that he saves himself from falling. He limps through to his bed and sits on the mattress, head in his hands.
He’s still there half an hour later, when Kambe knocks on his door.
***
“Katou? I have a key…”
Haru swallows and looks up, trying to drag himself out of the well of gloom he’s fallen into. It clings to him like tar, thick and caustic. “Come in,” he says, clearing his throat. He stands, grabbing his crutches, and limps through into the main room.
Kambe Daisuke comes in looking, as always, absolutely perfect. His hair is a masterpiece, his suit is magnificent. His tie and his pocket square are subdued and beautiful. It’s irking how good he looks, especially now when Haru’s mind is full of death and grief and guilt. He doesn’t want to be distracted by Kambe looking handsome in beautiful tailoring. He wants to wallow.
“Everything okay?” asks Kambe, looking him up and down.
“It’s fine,” says Haru, his voice a little thick. He swallows. “Thanks for the suit.”
Kambe nods. “It fits well.”
It fits amazingly well, considering Haru’s never given him his measurements. He doesn’t really want to know how Kambe estimated his sizing so accurately. On any other occasion, he might be in a mood to enjoy Kambe appreciating him. But not now.
“Are we going?” he asks, picking up the two white goreizen envelopes, their white and black ribbon ties looped perfectly. After his salary cut following the incident at the embassy, pulling together the donations hadn’t been easy. But it’s not like he needs to eat meat every day.
Kambe looks at him for a moment, and Haru wonders if he’s going to ask whether he should be attending. Haru simply raises his eyebrows pointedly, and Kambe nods. “Alright. About yesterday…”
“Can we discuss it later? I just – I can’t. Not right now.”
Kambe nods again. “Then let’s go.”
Kambe watches him work his way out of the apartment and down the stairs on crutches, to where the black Rolls is waiting. He opens the door for himself but lets Kambe take the crutches to tuck away in the back, easing himself into the seat. His thigh’s already aching and he realises he forgot the painkillers again. He feels for them in his pocket, but of course he’s not wearing his coat. He sighs and leans his head back against the headrest. Great.
Kambe gets in and they pull out and head for the funeral hall, a large one across town that Katou’s been to before for a much more minor colleague’s funeral.
“You look tired,” says Kambe, as they drive.
“I hate this,” says Katou, staring out the window. “I mean – I hate saying goodbye. I hate that I couldn’t save them. They both did so much for me.” The lump’s back in his throat. “It’s my fault they’re dead.”
“It’s not,” says Kambe, immediately, firmly. “If anyone is to blame, it’s me. I was too cavalier with their lives, with the danger of the case.”
Haru closes his eyes. “It makes sense that you were too close to things. Me… I have no excuse. I let them down. And Hattori massacred them –” his voice breaks and he bites the words off, his jaw clacking shut.
“Don’t,” says Kambe. “You don’t help anyone by letting your imagination run away with you.”
“They were my friends,” snaps Haru, angry now. He turns to glare at Kambe. “They deserve to be remembered – they deserve me to at least acknowledge that I left them to be slaughtered.”
“Would you feel better if he had put a bullet between their eyes?” asks Kambe, his voice flat, emotionless.
“What the fuck kind of question is that? Show some goddamn sympathy – they died to solve this case. Cho-san knew, and he…”
Kambe nods. “And he decided, all on his own, to risk both their lives. Because he was too head-strong to retire without solving this case. Because he felt that resolving his curiosity was worth more than either of them.”
“That’s not true,” bites out Katou, his head pounding, his body tight. “Cho-san… Cho-san was the best cop I knew.”
“And he earned that title because he wouldn’t let things rest. Because he took everything too personally, let the cases get under his skin. I’m not saying he was a bad cop, Katou. I’m saying he didn’t know how to let go. And it killed him.”
“I don’t want to hear this. Not now. Not from you.” Haru, his hands fisted, turns back to stare out the window. His head is hot, his mouth dry. Fiery, furious.
They drive for a while in silence, Tokyo flashing by.
“I regret their deaths,” says Kambe, eventually.
“But you don’t value their lives,” replies Haru.
To that, there’s no reply.
***
They arrive at the hall and get out, Haru slow as hell on his crutches but Kambe refusing to go on ahead. Colleagues flood by to congratulate and commiserate. It’s well known that Haru was close to Cho, and had been Takei’s blue-eyed boy before things went south for him in Section One. By the time they make it to the registration table he’s been greeted by almost two dozen other officers and their families.
Police funerals always have a big turn-out.
Haru signs his name and greets the families – Cho’s daughter, half-estranged and looking uncertain in her black dress and pearls beside Takei’s red-eyed widow. Haru bows deeply to both of them and they return the gesture. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss,” he says, cold, formulaic. Then he’s being shuffled along, no time to say more and no more expected of him here.
They file past the offering table and he gives up his two envelopes, while beside him Kambe does the same. It’s funny, him a penniless cop and Kambe a billionaire dropping two identical envelopes into the boxes. He wonders how much Kambe’s contains. If the billionaire is trying to buy his way out of guilt, he suspects he’ll never know.
But no. Kambe is perfectly willing to splurge on anything that takes his fancy, but he can be a skinflint when he perceives someone else to be holding the tab. Likely as not, his envelope carries the same amount as Haru’s. Funny to achieve equality only in death.
Kambe presses his shoulder and he shuffles on, into the large hall set up with folding chairs. At the front, on the shiny wooden floor, is a long low alter with a kneeling priest setting out the usual articles, his drum on the floor beside him.
Haru needs access to his crutches and is very aware of just how ungainly he is, so he takes a seat at the back of the hall where he can lean them up against the wall. There are already dozens of cops here, the room a sea of black. Cho and Takei’s black-wreathed pictures are at the front of the hall – they’re official photographs, each looking pristine and cool as befits a long-time officer. Haru’s eyes drop to the ground.
The final mourners file in and then the families come in, taking their seats at the front. The Buddhist priest begins his chanting and Haru lets his mind drift to old times. Cho taking him with him on interrogations; Takei correcting his paperwork; Cho taking him out drinking; Takei congratulating him on an arrest. Their bodies, mangled, still dripping blood from their severed arteries. He flinches and digs his fingers into his thigh – the pain chases away the memories immediately. Beside him, Kambe shifts.
Slowly, the families begin the act of offering incense, and behind them the other guests begin as well in their separate burner. Haru is shaken from his grim memories and prompted to stand again – his thigh throbbing, his body cold and shaky. His mouth tastes gummy, his fingers a little numb. He and Kambe wait in line for what seems like hours before it’s their turn. Haru looks past the crowd of black – like crows, like ravens – at the pictures of Cho and Takei. All they wanted was to do their jobs, to stop crimes, to protect people. He tastes bitter acid at the back of his throat.
Haru reaches out and picks the makko incense up between his fingers, fine-grained and fragrant, bringing it to his forehead and then sprinkling it into the burner where it smokes. Beside him, Kambe does the same.
Haru’s feeling light-headed now, sweat sticking his shirt to his back. The priest is almost done reading the sutra, and instead of retaking their seats they file back and stand until he finishes. The families leave, the rest of the guests mingling. Officer after officer that Haru knows from the past comes by to say hello, to ask questions about the case. He and Kambe are notorious here, the two men who closed the case that killed Cho and Takei.
After not very long, the faces and names start to blur. Haru finds himself saying the same things over and over again, his tone empty. “It was really tragic.” “Yes, we arrested the culprit.” “It’s so devastating for their families.” He doesn’t mean the words, he doesn’t mean any of it. He’s cold and cracked, what little heat he has in his body slowly pouring out here in this fancy hall. People start talking about drinks, about going to a nearby bar. Haru’s incredibly thirsty and, when he looks around, he sees Kambe cornered by a flock of admirers some meters away, so he allows himself to be escorted out of the hall. He’s surrounded by a throng of officers who want the inside scoop. They hustle him across the street and into a bar, and the drinks start coming. Straight shochu, strong and stiff. Haru sucks it down, his throat dry and his head spinning. He lets them sit him down and ask their questions.
Between the light-headedness, the pain and the alcohol, he’s not really sure what he’s saying. He talks about finding Cho and Takei – about the bloodbath, the red handprints on the glass of Kambe’s secure cell, the crimson spray-patterns on the floor. He takes another drink and talks about Cho’s dedication, his drive to close this case. Another drink – Takei’s participation in the original file. Another drink – his arriving too late, both men already dead. Another drink.
“And what about Kambe? It was all his plan, wasn’t it? His house, his cell, his parents?”
Haru stares at the glass in front of him. “He just wanted justice,” he says, slowly. His head is spinning but the pain is distant now. He feels warm again, but it’s a strange kind of warmth – fragile, fickle. He has the sense that it might desert him at any moment. He drinks again to keep it close. “His family killed his mother ‘cause she was too smart. They killed Cho-san ‘cause he was too nosy. They killed Takei-san ‘cause he knew too much. So hungry, so dark… nothing but money ‘n greed…” his eyes slip out of focus as a dark shadow passes in front of him.
“Katou? Time to go,” says a familiar voice. He looks up – up, up, up – and sees dark eyes above him. He remembers this face, remembers it hovering above him. Remembers the agony in his leg, the fear, the grief.
“They’re dead, Kambe,” he says, quiet, and feels the tears trickle down.
“I know. Come on.” Warm hands loop beneath him, pull him up and swing his arm over a pair of broad shoulders. “Come on, Haru. Come on.”
Haru presses his face to Kambe’s shoulder – it smells of sandalwood and sunshine, scents he remembers, scents that calm him – and lets himself be taken away.
***
They drive somewhere; it’s a blur, Haru’s head spinning. There’s a sound like waves, like the seaside, and he remembers the warmth of the setting sun and the solidity of Kambe’s arms around him.
Eventually the sound disappears, cuts out suddenly as a button being pressed, and cool air brushes across his face. Haru blinks out of his stupor to find Kambe standing beside him. “Come on. Can you stand?”
His body feels distant, heavy. He pushes himself out of the car, his nerve-ends feeling blunt, insensitive, and nearly tumbles. Kambe catches him, his breath hot against Haru’s neck. “Apparently not,” he murmurs, and without further complaint lifts Haru into his arms.
“Whaa – but – nn – you’re strong…” his head rolls against Kambe’s shoulder as above the blue sky is replaced by white ceiling.
He’s carried to a bed – wide, Western – and put down. The mattress is soft but even that dull pressure against his hip makes him groan, turning away from it. Kambe pulls his shoes off, then looks at him. “You should sleep this off,” he says.
“Don’t wanna,” says Haru, who’s head is nothing but a whirlwind of sensation – pain / warmth / horror / grief / anticipation. He can’t make sense of them, and all he wants is for everything to stop. Just stop. He reaches out and catches Kambe’s hand. “Nn – stay. Pllllease.” He rolls and stiffens as his thigh flares, body tensing.
Kambe sits down on the bed beside him and reaches out, brushes cool fingers over his forehead. “Alright. Close your eyes. I’ll be here.”
Haru squeezes his hand. Still here. “Okay,” he says.
Sleep.
***
Haru wakes up with a throbbing headache and a mouth that feels like it’s been glued shut. He rolls and feels: new, clean sheets; cool, fresh air; no smell of tatami or spilled beer.
He’s not at home.
He opens his eyes. He’s in a big, white-walled room, in a large wood-framed posted bed. There’s a wide window; the world outside is silent, dark. Sitting next to him in a chair with a book resting on his lap, head back and mouth slightly open in sleep, is Kambe Daisuke.
Haru remembers: the car / the funeral / the bar.
“Fuck,” he says, sitting up. His head throbs, but in the grand scheme of things the hangover isn’t that bad. His leg hurts worse – over-exertion again.
“Oh, you’re awake.” Beside him Kambe sits up smoothly, as though he hadn’t also been sleeping.
Haru checks his watch – someone’s removed his suit jacket and left him in just his shirt, in addition to tucking him in – it’s almost midnight. “I slept all day?”
“You were fairly drunk. And more exhausted, I would say. You should take better care of yourself.”
Haru screws his palms into his eyes, groaning. “I didn’t mean to go on a drinking spree.”
“No, it just happened, I imagine,” says Kambe, dryly. Haru lifts his head and glances at him side-long. “Free drinks on the table, a nice welcoming pity party… why not?”
“Look, it wasn’t my choice, okay? The guys grabbed me, and I –”
“And you didn’t say no. Despite the fact that you’re not exactly the soul of discretion when drunk. Despite the fact that you’re on painkillers.”
Haru’s face tightens. “Which is it you’re pissed off about? That I spilled more than I should have? Well, I’m pissed off too. Those fuckers from Section Three served up bottomless shochu, and I was too groggy and too hurt not to take it, okay? I admit it – I lack restraint given the proper motivation. The reason I was in too much pain is because I forgot to take my pain meds yesterday and this morning. Not that I’m sure I know when you became my nurse,” he adds, sharply.
Kambe stares at him for several seconds, his face a cold, haughty veneer – one Haru is very familiar with. Then it cracks, and he lets his shoulders fall. Uncertainty peeps through, followed by compassion. “You haven’t been taking your pain meds?”
“Forgot ‘em.”
“Is that okay?”
“No. It hurts like a bitch,” says Haru.
The billionaire nods. “Excuse me,” he says, and stands. He walks across the room and steps out for a minute. He returns with a cup of tea and a glass of water on a tray.
“What are you, the hired help?” asks Haru, stuffing his pillow behind him to prop himself up. He takes the water first and drinks more than half of the tall glass. The pounding in his head recedes slightly.
“I should have stopped them dragging you away. You were practically a puddle by the time I showed up – who knows how much shochu they poured down your gullet.”
Haru closes his eyes, rubs the bridge of his nose. “To be fair, I poured it.”
“Aa. You did. But I believe you also weren’t in a balanced state of mind. They shouldn’t have pressured you.”
Haru snorts. “You know how cut-throat the Met’s gossip industry is. And I’m prime meat, right now. Besides, you’re right. I’m known for not being exactly the soul of discretion a few drinks in. I don’t blame them.”
“I do,” says Kambe. “You were hurt, and you were grieving, and all they wanted was to steal your most personal thoughts from you.” Kambe’s mouth is a thin line, his hands tense where they rest in his lap.
“That’s a little harsh.”
“It’s nothing like as harsh as I could be.” Kambe’s tone is matter-of-fact, and Haru has the distinct impression he’s spent the time between arriving at his house and Haru waking up considering his many, many options. “Or as harsh as I was, in my email to their section head,” he adds flatly.
Haru smiles, just a little. “You don’t have to worry about me, you know.”
“Quite clearly I do,” says Kambe.
There’s a knock on the door and he gets up to answer it. On the other side is a maid Haru’s never seen before, with a bottle of pills on a silver salver. He takes it and she bows and slips away. Kambe returns to his side and tosses him the bottle – codeine.
“That was fast.”
“Drone drop,” shrugs Kambe. Haru pops the lid and takes a couple, washing them down with water. He glances out the window at the dark night beyond.
By now, most likely Cho and Takei will have been cremated, their bones picked free from the ash of their remains by their families. Gone, fully gone. He draws his knees up beneath the covers, careful not to put any weight on his bad leg. “They’re really gone,” he says, eyes on the darkness.
“Mourn them, and then move on.”
“Words of wisdom and experience?” asks Haru. He can see the moon high above the dark trees, just a sliver of silver in a sky artificially brightened by light pollution.
“No. I never learned to move on. That’s why your friends are dead. That’s why you’ve got these,” he says, tapping the bottle of pills. “Learn from my mistakes.”
Haru turns back to him, head canted to one side. Kambe looks dark, unassailable. Unreachable.
Looks are deceiving. That’s one thing this man has taught him.
“I don’t blame you,” says Haru.
“No,” says Kambe, slowly. “But you blame yourself. The more you think about it, the more you remember it, the more you think you could have stopped it. Should have stopped it.”
Haru’s arms tighten around his raised legs. “That’s not…” he stops, unable to deny it in good faith. He looks down instead. “That’s different.”
“Is it? Why?”
“Because they meant something to me. They were important to me. For you… you could see them as resources, tools. For me… they were men I admired, I respected. I should have done more. I…” memories of crimson flash through his mind, the smell of copper, thick in his throat. His hands clench, his back curving like a saw.
“Katou. Haru. It’s not your fault.”
He shakes his head slowly. “I shouldn’t have listened. I should have gone back for them. If I’d stopped Hattori then, none of this would have happened. I could have saved them.”
Blood, smeared in long lines where they had kicked in their death spasms. Torn flesh, shredded skin. Haru shudders, turning away.
A warm hand reaches out and rests itself on his back. “You didn’t do this. You bear no guilt for their deaths. Chousuke was determined to chase this case to his grave. Takei was a corrupt cop. They were tied up too closely in it.”
Haru snaps his elbow out, catches Kambe’s hand and pushes it away, his eyes flashing. “You’re blaming them? You saw them, you saw – I –” his voice breaks, his chest sore from too much tension, his throat closing up. “They didn’t deserve that,” he whispers, unable to push out the words. “No one deserves that.” He closes his eyes on more tears.
Beside him, Kambe shifts. “If you can’t blame them,” he says, slowly, “then blame me. I set the trap, I kept you away. I left them alone and helpless. My family, my company, my butler. Murder in our name.”
Haru opens his eyes, tears heavy on his lashes. “Kambe. I don’t need to find someone to blame. That’s not what I need.”
“Then what?”
He smiles, his lips trembling with the force of the tears trying to escape him. “Not being alone would be a good start,” he says.
Kambe stares at him for a few moments. Then he leans down and unlaces his shoes, and slips off his jacket. “Shuffle over,” he says.
***
They lie in bed together while the moon rises over Tokyo, Haru dozy from the pain meds kicking in but still awake, Kambe silent and warm beside him.
It’s been a long time since he shared a bed with someone just to sleep. Haru hasn’t been in a long-term relationship in years, his last one falling through even before his disastrous exit from Section One. The feeling of another body in bed with him, the heat and the weight and the simple presence of it, is strange but also reassuring.
No. It’s reassuring because it’s Kambe, because he knows this man and despite all his fuckery, he trusts him. Kambe is an asshole, and pretentious as hell, and haughtier than a prince, but he’s also loyal and brave and compassionate.
“I looked up to them so much,” he says, staring at the dark ceiling, his words slightly slurred by exhaustion and codeine. “They were heroes t’me, y’know? Takei-san protected me, protected my job, even when all I wanted was to disappear. I’d be working as a waiter or a grocery store clerk if not for him. ‘N Cho-san… Cho-san was a legend. He could crack any case, he could make any witness talk. They were… nn… an ideal.”
Kambe says nothing, just listens. Haru knows he’s still awake by the sound of his breathing, but he welcomes the silence.
“’N then it turned out that Takei-san was the bent cop; he was the one who had your mother’s case shut down. And Cho-san… Cho-san knew who it was, they could’ve escaped, could’ve come back with back-up ‘n locked up Hattori. Instead…” He pulls his arms over his face, hides his eyes. “I respected them so much. I still do. I want to. But…”
“You’d rather blame yourself than them?” asks Kambe, quietly.
“How can I blame them? For that…” Blood on glass, on concrete, on skin. Horror, horror, horror. It’s blunted now, but he still remembers coming into the room and seeing the gruesome scene. Seeing the mangled bodies of men he cared for. “It feels awful. Like being a traitor. ‘S easier to make it my fault.”
Kambe rolls over onto his side and reaches out. Puts his arms around Haru, slowly, carefully, and pulls him in close. “It’s easier now, perhaps. But in a month, or three, or a year… you’ll come to hate yourself, and it will be for nothing.” His voice is low, his breath hot on Haru’s ear. “Resist the temptation to absolve them. You don’t owe them reverence. You owe them respect for who they truly were, flaws and all.”
Haru closes his eyes and nudges himself back closer to Kambe. Warmth at his back, and a steady heartbeat. It’s nice. “Y’r so high and mighty,” he whispers, but kindly.
“Katou? Haru?”
Haru finds his hand where it’s resting against his side, and gives it a squeeze. Then he closes his eyes, and lets sleep take him.
***
When he wakes up the next morning Kambe’s still sleeping beside him, his white shirt wrinkled, his mouth slightly open. His perfect hair is mussed, his cheeks a little pink with the heat of sleep. Adorable, and heart-warming.
Haru rolls over towards him and he blinks into the beginnings of wakefulness.
Haru leans in and kisses him on the mouth, Kambe startling, then reciprocating gently.
“Thanks,” he says, when they pull apart. “For being you. And reminding me how to be me.”
Kambe smiles, then kisses him again.
END