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Ryuunosuke can’t explain it. There’s nothing different about this morning than any other—there’s the familiar rustling of Kazuma in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, and the smell of fish grilling as Ryuunosuke steps into the main room of their flat. But his eyes are drawn to Karuma, curved elegantly on its stand in its usual place of honour, and, inexplicably, he knows that something is wrong.
It’s just a sneaking feeling. Nothing more than an unfounded suspicion. He glances towards the kitchen and then shuffles closer to Karuma, leaning down to peer at the scabbard. The lacquer gleams in the morning light, the rich black melding into hints of amber. Beautiful, he can’t help but think. But he’s not here to appreciate; he crouches further, hugging his knees, and follows the trail of the hachimaki down to the floor. The ends have folded over each other in that casual, breezy way that might occur after being lifted and returned into place. Perhaps by someone who isn’t nearly as observant as Ryuunosuke, and who might not think to be as careful.
He quickly stands, even as his fingers itch to fix it.
“Kazuma,” he says, walking into the kitchen. Kazuma has his back to him, hovering over the fish as a pot of soup simmers to the side.
“Mm?”
“I noticed something this morning.”
“Oh?” He sounds amused. He’s in a good mood. Circumstantial, possibly, but Ryuunosuke can’t discount it.
“Something that was out of place.”
Kazuma pauses, a finger tapping at his hip. “Was it my clothes? I thought I’d put them away after training.”
Ryuunosuke knows the way Kazuma lies. He adopts a certain inflection, a deliberate nonchalance that betrays itself in the stiff square of his shoulders. Ryuunosuke is intimately familiar with this dance that they do, of catching Kazuma as he sidesteps around issues of work habits and skipped lunches and whether or not he set the laundry out to dry. Which is why he is certain that, right now, in this moment, Kazuma Asougi—his best friend, his partner, the man who shares his home and his bed and his soul—is being utterly, earnestly, honest.
He’s not even thinking about it, Ryuunosuke realises. Interesting.
“No, no, you did,” he says, and adjusts his approach. “How was it, by the way? Your training.”
Kazuma shrugs. “As it is every morning. Would you care to join me and find out, next time?”
Ryuunosuke is nearly tempted until he remembers the abhorrent hour that Kazuma awakens, and grimaces. “No thanks.”
Kazuma glances at him, the corners of his mouth quirked in a smile that softens the edges of his eyes, and somehow, he still doesn’t realise what Ryuunosuke is trying to get at.
But that smile sweeps away Ryuunosuke’s last bastion of resolve, and he allows himself to be guided back into the living room to enjoy breakfast. Kazuma warns Ryuunosuke against burning his mouth and then promptly inhales half his portion, hissing through the pain like the hypocrite he is. Ryuunosuke steals the last of Kazuma’s pickles, to which Kazuma downs the rest of the tea, and before Ryuunosuke can retaliate Kazuma is already up and changed into his courtroom attire.
“See you in court,” Kazuma says, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. He throws on his jacket and is out the door, leaving Ryuunosuke alone to contemplate Karuma once again.
He frowns at the shape of it, at the drooping hachimaki and the roping along the hilt. The feeling is still there, that insistent wrongness. Could he be imagining it? The state of the hachimaki was indicative of tampering, but that didn’t necessarily mean Kazuma used it for training. Perhaps he had only been admiring it, feeling its familiar weight in his hands before returning it, undrawn, to its proper place.
Well. There’s another possible way to find out.
Muttering a hasty apology, Ryuunosuke lifts Karuma from its stand and slowly pulls it from its scabbard. And there, caught on the edge of the blade, is a sliver of something thin and pale. Straw, from a training dummy. The kind that occasionally sticks to the folds of Kazuma’s hakama, and which Ryuunosuke has plucked, more than once, from his own suits.
The bastard, he thinks, and plots his reprisal.
Kazuma almost doesn’t catch it, at first. It’s such a nostalgic sight—Ryuunosuke, across the courtroom, with Karuma by his side—that he’s nearly forgotten why it feels nostalgic to begin with.
But the implications strike him mid-trial, after dodging yet another roadblock courtesy of the defence, and he spends the rest of the session stumbling through his arguments in a distracted haze.
Ryuunosuke broke their agreement. The agreement they’ve kept for nearly a year now, enacted precisely because they couldn’t decide who had a right to Karuma on any given day of the week. An agreement to treasure its presence, to never touch it, much less flaunt it around in court before the opposite party. Irrespective of how captivated said party might be.
He slides into the defendant’s lobby as soon as the trial ends, eyes gliding past Susato to pin to the steadfast sight of his dearly beloved partner.
“Ryuunosuke.”
“Kazuma,” his dearly beloved partner replies, and Kazuma recognises that cagey tone of voice and that sharp glint in his eyes. He’s been waiting for this.
“Quite a display you’ve put on for me today,” says Kazuma. “What, pray tell, is that accessory you’re wearing?”
“This?” Ryuunosuke makes a show of looking down, very intentionally patting the sword at his side. “It’s Karuma, of course.”
A straight answer. Well. If a spar is what he wants, who is Kazuma to refuse him?
“And you’ve so flagrantly broken our agreement because…”
“I wasn’t the one to break it,” Ryuunosuke counters. Suddenly, all of those probing questions from the morning fall into place, along with the recollection of how his training had gone and exactly what he had practised with, and Kazuma realises far too late that he’s made a terrible mistake.
“Ryuunosuke,” he begins. He needs to be careful with how he words this, because now he knows that Ryuunosuke knows, and, objectively, Kazuma looks like the complete prat in this situation. “You can’t go throwing around such baseless accusations.”
“So you’re asking for evidence?” Ryuunosuke raises a brow, tossing his hand over Karuma’s hilt, and oh, that’s a vicious blow. “I know you used it for your training this morning, Kazuma. There’s no point denying it now.”
“I’m just saying that, hypothetically, if I had taken Karuma for such an activity as training, you might need something a little more substantial to prove just cause. And presently, you’re the one wearing it, which is rather more damning.”
“Alright then. Susato-san, would you—”
“No,” she says.
“Okay,” says Ryuunosuke, turning back towards Kazuma. “Looks like you only have me to appeal your case to.”
“And you’ll be fully impartial, I’m sure.”
“This is an extenuating circumstance,” Ryuunosuke continues. “I promised to protect Karuma from harm, and am only acting in its best interests.”
Kazuma scoffs. “And you know the sword’s best interests, do you?”
“As its designated custodian for the past few years, I would say yes.”
“Nevermind that I’ve owned it for over ten—”
“And gave it to me, of your own volition—”
“—or that it harbours my soul—”
“Which I don’t remember returning, by the way.”
“And you intend to protect it from, what? From me?”
“You broke my soul—”
“Oh, so it’s your soul now—”
“Our soul,” Ryuunosuke amends shortly. “And my point still stands. Until you can prove yourself responsible, I’ll be keeping it by my side.”
Like I’m some petulant child, Kazuma thinks, and schools his expression before it turns into a pout.
Ryuunosuke lifts his chin. Kazuma stands firm. They’re at an impasse. “Susato—”
“Leave me out of this, please,” she says, throwing up a hand.
“Fine.” Kazuma crosses his arms over his chest, levelling Ryuunosuke with what he hopes is not a childish sulk. “We’ll settle this later. Prepare yourself, Ryuunosuke.”
The matter is not settled later.
Kazuma knows firsthand how stubborn Ryuunosuke can be. It’s endearing, most times, in the case of pedantic naming conventions for household items and upstart prosecutors who think they stand half a chance. But dinner has been cooked and cleaned, baths taken and futon arranged, and Ryuunosuke still has not relinquished Karuma.
“Ryuunosuke,” he says, looking down at his dearly beloved partner. “You can’t sleep with the sword.”
“I can,” Ryuunosuke replies, “if it will keep you from taking it again.”
Kazuma sighs and skirts around Ryuunosuke’s feet, falling to the mattress with a huff.
“Might I remind you, once again, that you still haven’t presented any evidence that I—”
“The hachimaki,” Ryuunosuke interrupts. “I noticed it was different from how I usually arrange it. Maybe next time you’ll remember to put it away correctly.”
“There was never a first time,” Kazuma retorts, as if the charade isn’t already moot by now. He glowers into the darkness, intent on putting the argument to rest for the time being, but something about Ryuunosuke’s wording sticks oddly in his mind. How I usually arrange it…
“Wait. You—”
“What?” says Ryuunosuke, and he sounds defensive. A little too defensive.
“You’ve been sneaking off with my sword too, haven’t you?”
There’s no movement from Ryuunosuke’s half of the futon. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
But Kazuma has him now. He flips onto his side, smirking at the stiff profile of Ryuunosuke’s face as he stares very firmly at the ceiling. “Ryuunosuke Naruhodou, you absolute liar.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Ryuunosuke repeats, carefully, and any advantage Kazuma might have had begins to crumble under that stony fortitude, “when you say ‘your sword.’”
“Quibbling is unflattering, Ryuunosuke.”
“Only on you.”
“Apologies, then. I should clarify. My family’s sword.”
“Ohh,” Ryuunosuke intones. “The one you gave to me?”
“And the one you’ve brought to bed with you, yes,” Kazuma says with a laugh. “Now, under penalty of perjury, have you or have you not been sneaking off with my family’s sword, the great Karuma?”
“Of course I haven’t. I’m not like you,” Ryuunosuke scoffs. And then, more abashed, he mumbles, “I’ve only been holding it, every once in a while.”
“HA!”
“But at least I’m not practising with it!”
“Who would believe it—Ryuunosuke Naruhodou, a liar and a hypocrite,” Kazuma goes on, ignoring him. “Oh how the mighty fall.”
Ryuunosuke merely grumbles in response. Kazuma watches his silhouette, imagining the indignant flush spreading up his cheeks, and can’t help but exhale a soft huff of laughter.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Kazuma says, still grinning. And then: “It’s sweet.”
“...Sweet.”
“Your excuses,” he clarifies. “You don’t have to hide how much you love my soul, you know.”
“I told you, it’s—”
“Our soul,” Kazuma murmurs. “Even better.”
Ryuunosuke is quiet at that. Something unspools the tight coil of his spine, and Kazuma feels him shrink under the covers.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “for breaking our agreement first. And for blaming you for it. I just—” He pauses, releasing a breath in a long sigh. “I love it. What it’s been through. What it stands for.” How I’ve cared for it, Kazuma hears, in the silence between his words. In the way that he cradles Karuma at his side, hardly moving. Kazuma can imagine the ritual of it, now—Ryuunosuke, lifting the sword with gentle hands, never removing it from its scabbard, setting it back just as reverently and smoothing the hachimaki into perfectly presented ribbons. He takes his own breath and swallows the lump in his throat.
“I’m sorry too. For betraying your trust.” This morning, or yesterday, or many years ago—what difference does it make to the heart, shattered like steel? Mended, but forever changed?
“No, I—I should trust you with it by now. It’s been, what, three years? And rationally I know you’re an expert swordsman, I know you wouldn’t do anything rash, but—”
You don’t have to say it, Kazuma thinks. His own heart aches along its faultlines. “I don’t mind, really. I’d rather you keep it if it makes you happier.”
“But that’s not fair to you, is it? Because you’re right, it’s not really mine, it’s never really been mine, and if you can’t have it then isn’t it only just that I shouldn’t, as well?”
“Well,” Kazuma says, bumping his forehead into Ryuunosuke’s cheek, “now we’re back to where we started.”
Ryuunosuke sighs. His hand inches out between them, searching for Kazuma’s and entwining their fingers. It’s an awkward angle, what with Ryuunosuke still laying stiff around the sword, but the gesture is enough to make Kazuma’s heart swell.
“Please, keep it,” he says. “You’re right, I gave it to you for a reason. And it’s always looked more stunning on you, in any case.”
Ryuunosuke lets out a startled laugh. “That’s a lie. You just don’t know how you look when…” He trails off, caught by a passing thought. “What if… we switched off,” he suggests. “Take Karuma on different days of the week, or something.”
“Ooh, a schedule,” Kazuma teases. “How thrilling.”
That earns him a sharp nudge to the ribs, at which he laughs and nuzzles into Ryuunosuke’s neck.
“In all honesty, I would like that,” he admits. “I’ve missed it.”
“I know,” says Ryuunosuke, and the fondness in his voice is enough to knock the breath from Kazuma’s chest.
Our soul, he marvels. His for Ryuunosuke, and Ryuunosuke’s for him. Theirs, together, tested and reforged in the crucible of the courtroom. His heart yearns for it at his side, to draw strength from its presence in the same way he’s seen Ryuunosuke do for him in the past—over and over, in the heat of a trial and in casual conversation and in the quiet contentment of an evening stroll, when he never realised Kazuma was looking. And, more selfishly, there’s some part of him that needs to remember the precise weight of it in his hands, to feel that fierce joy that only surfaces when wielding Karuma. But sharing a soul promises a new kind of joy, and if there’s one thing Kazuma is willing to compromise for it’s Ryuunosuke.
“I promise not to train with it, either.”
“Not yet, at least,” Ryuunosuke concedes, and Kazuma feels a warm glow at the prospect of someday.
“Of course,” he says, squeezing Ryuunosuke’s hand, and is rewarded with a squeeze in return. “Not yet.”