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To Ryunosuke, Love was an abstract concept to be observed from afar, shrouded behind thick, foggy glass. It existed in parallel to him—in the poetry and novels he read, in the giggling classmates’ conversations, in the theater plays he viewed—always swirling around him, never intersecting.
He never had any real inclination towards it nor quite understood it himself, but what he learned by osmosis was that Love was fundamentally different—a distinct feeling that could shatter the universe with its intensity. Other forms of love existed, but Love took precedence above all else and the rest, if need be, could be easily culled to make space for Love.
He and Kazuma would often share various literature with each other—Ryunosuke eager to show Kazuma a new piece he found with a poignant metaphor or flowy diction, Kazuma often opting for something narrative-focused or politically charged. But as time went on, Ryunosuke learned of Kazuma’s somewhat surprising penchant for popular romance novels (he remembers Kazuma’s frown after expressing his confusion about the realism of how the characters acted in a novel Kazuma all but shoved into his hands with a level of enthusiasm even unusual for him—“I don’t know, Kazuma, do people actually act like this?” “…Ryunosuke Naruhodo, your words wound me sometimes.”). While he appreciated the writing in many of them, the prevalent concepts found within were sometimes difficult to believe: the torturous pining, the constant questioning about the object of their affection’s feelings towards them—it seemed too daunting and exhausting to be worth it.
And while Ryunosuke’s connection with Kazuma had similarities with what he had read—the intense loyalty, the deep trust, the happiness felt deep within his chest—there was an immense comfortability to it all that said that it was not Love. No, Love was nervousness and butterflies and chills like stepping outside on a brisk morning—but this? This was tranquility and a full sense of security. It was in the lighthearted ribbing and quick-witted banter they engaged in, in the reinforced commitment to one another every time they called each other “partner,” it was in the reminders to eat when Kazuma would get sucked deep in concentration reading dense law textbooks and in turn reciprocated when Ryunosuke would become hyperfocused writing a paper, it was in the conversations that flowed with ease over their usual and frequent beef hotpot dinners, it was in the affectionate words of support between the two when maintaining their unshakeable belief in each other’s excellence and potential to rise to even greater heights.
When Asogi first cornered him after the speech competition with an intense fire in his eyes, Ryunosuke’s heart was racing, sure, but not because some handsome man was invading his personal space and leading to some untoward feelings stirring within him in an act of Love at First Sight, but because he feared for his life (“He carries around a katana every day to class! And he’s mad at me for beating him!” he had thought). When Asogi began accompanying him to class and they found commonalities between them, it wasn’t some profound gift from the universe divining them to meet. When Kazuma gets his tongue in knots over alliteration and his cheeks flush a deep crimson that rivals the color of the hachimaki wrapped around his forehead, it isn’t accompanied by soaring music and a sudden realization of being in Love—it is just yet another reminder of him being endearingly human despite all his seemingly unending accolades. When Kazuma drapes his arm around Ryunosuke’s shoulders and pulls him close, there is no sound of his heartbeat pounding in his head or thoughts racing, but quite the opposite: a reliable sense of comfort and peace—a welcome respite from the usual anxious ruminations, which was a blessing in Ryunosuke’s life not often felt.
When Kazuma risks his dream of studying abroad (where, as Ryunosuke would find out later, the stakes were much larger and the implications much more significant than he realizes at the time) to defend him in court, one could maybe describe it as some rose-tinted, sweeping romantic display of devotion, but to Ryunosuke, it felt more like a culmination of their deep bond—albeit, the extent to which Kazuma went and his absolute, steadfast belief in him still shakes his very core.
So, when Kazuma proposes the idea of Ryunosuke accompanying him on his foreign exchange trip to London and he eagerly accepts—the giddiness seeping into his bones despite the anxiety pitting deep in his stomach at the thought of so flippantly disobeying the law, despite the inherent danger in the way he would be snuck aboard via Kazuma’s suitcase, despite upending his current life in Japan—this feeling does not register as being Love, for it is merely just the obvious path to take. This is no big, ostentatious declaration of Love—to follow beside the person he cares about the most on his journey to achieving his dreams was simply a natural conclusion.
The idea of sharing a small space—of being a secret kept from everyone, even one’s accompanying foster sister—while on an ocean voyage halfway across the world together would be much too intimate and intense for someone in Love. Even though he’s buzzing with excitement, the nerves that follow aren’t due to the closeness, but for the fear of being caught in their scheme. A routine with Kazuma so near isn’t a cause for nervousness, but a quiet comfort on the tumultuous rhythm of the ocean waves. The only difficult thing about sharing meals was the hunger afterwards; the only difficulty about sharing the bed were the elbows accidentally jabbing at sides; the only difficulty about being a secret stowaway smuggled on board was being a secret stowaway smuggled on board—the discomfort of hiding in a cramped wardrobe and the held breaths each time someone else visited their cabin.
When Ryunosuke hears soft music permeating through the walls one night and bemoans the inability to join in on the ship’s entertainment activities, and Kazuma reaches out a hand for a dance in the privacy of their small room, it is not Love because it is filled with a serene sense of affection. And when—despite how talented Kazuma is at seemingly everything to a point where it still feels a bit shocking that he could be truly bad at something sometimes—his feet trip over Ryunosuke’s like how he trips over his words trying to perform a tongue twister, and they both crash onto the bed with a ferocious laughter, Kazuma asking to kiss him and Ryunosuke obliging is not Love, for it is but an inevitability of the deliberate choice to choose someone over and over and the accompanying fondness that results. And as they press their foreheads together afterwards, limbs wrapped around each other in a tight embrace, with wide smiles across their faces, Ryunosuke knows that this isn’t Love because Love could never feel as real and as enduring as this does.
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The death of someone you’re in Love with is earth-shattering and leaves an emptiness so great, its gravitational pull could collapse you from within. Take the poison, plunge the blade—there is no point to life without them. Kazuma’s death was devastating beyond belief—the guilt and the depression and the loneliness like a vice, clamping down on Ryunosuke’s very being just like the oppressive, cold walls of their once-shared ship cabin, the reminders of his passing inescapable—but he had to continue to live. He had to uphold Kazuma’s dream; he had to honor his memory in the only way he could. To do anything else, to wallow in sorrow and give up on life in some romanticized notion of co-dependent devotion, was a disservice—not just to Kazuma, but to Ryunosuke, too. Filling his footsteps was something hoisted onto him at first, but he was able to shape Kazuma’s dream into something distinctly his. To Love is to assimilate, to become one being in every facet of life—this was a rejection: to be positively influenced by another yet still remain a distinctly unique individual. And each time he held the weight of Karuma—the weight of Kazuma’s soul—with red hachimaki faithfully tied around it, it was like the familiar weight of Kazuma’s hand on his shoulder, silently supporting him as he lived and grew into the person he was meant to be.
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It was no surprise that Ryunosuke could recognize Kazuma through a disguise. He had known him too well, formed too strong of an emotional connection with him, to not be able to identify even the most minute details of how he held himself that not even a mask or heavy cloak could obstruct—the pristine posture and squared shoulders, the set of his jaw, the impressive rigidity of his seiza were all too familiar. It wasn’t the nebulous recognition of a soulmate in Love—like an incomplete half of a whole drawn to their missing piece—but a testament to the very intentional love and attention Ryunosuke showed Kazuma.
When Kazuma removes the mask and his suspicions are confirmed, the relief and utter joy washes over Ryunosuke like warm waves pulling his feet out from under him. And in this one instance, maybe he does empathize with the notion of Love, but in a way that seemed universal: the unadulterated happiness of seeing someone you care about alive and safe. The distinction was unimportant; the only thing that matters is the warmth of Kazuma’s body and his familiar, comforting scent when Ryunosuke (alongside Susato) pulls him into a crushing hug, confirming his presence before him.
And maybe Love would dictate a blind sense of loyalty, to follow someone to the deepest depths, no matter how dark and destructive it would be for both of them. But Ryunosuke loves Kazuma too much to watch him destroy himself as if he had no future ahead of him. And it would be disingenuous of Ryunosuke to allow himself to follow along the harrowing path of the person he loves with no repudiation. Maybe what he says in the heat of the moment is harsh—“I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for the truth.”—but it is necessary; the bluntness is required to pull Kazuma out of his desperate, vengeful stupor. To enable him as he stubbornly clings to an unsubstantiated claim was not only an affront to Ryunosuke’s resolve as a defense attorney and to his client, but it was a disservice to Kazuma himself. Ryunosuke was not taking this case as a means of Love—to hold Kazuma’s hand and dutifully stand beside him in order to reach the conclusion Kazuma wanted—but it was an act of love—to uncover the real truth so that Kazuma could finally get closure and heal. And so he does. And it hurts—it hurts to prune off the diseased branches of their relationship and to alter it forever. But despite it all, Kazuma trusted Ryunosuke enough—wanted Ryunosuke to be there specifically—to be completely vulnerable with him during the trial, to bare his soul to him at his lowest point, so Ryunosuke must reciprocate in kind. Their relationship is forever changed, but not irreparably so; the removal of dying branches allows for the growth of stronger, healthier ones to replace them. To dismantle the walls built around your heart and trust the other so profoundly to know they will treat even the messiest parts of you with the utmost patience and care—is that not love?
The guilt and self-hatred and pain from fresh trauma that grips into Kazuma after the trial is done should be easily fixed with the power of Love—just say “I Love you, most ardently” and things will return to how they were before, all problems will be effortlessly erased, and the future will be forever happy. But the reality is never that simple. It pains them both in their own ways for Ryunosuke to fight his fears, fueled by a newfound insecurity about his place in his best friend’s life, and reach out to a distant Kazuma—recoiling and lashing out like a wounded animal, afraid to let Ryunosuke get close. There’s the fear of rejection that screams within Ryunosuke to run, run just like how Kazuma is currently. No simple “I Love you” can fix this or turn back the clock to before this Pandora’s box was opened, but what would be lost out of fear of attempting the difficult was much too great.
The evidence leading up to this point indicated that Kazuma cares for Ryunosuke deeply, but the dark cloud of the past few days snakes its way into the recesses of Ryunosuke’s mind and leads him to question everything he knows. And while he had noticed the way Kazuma would often keep people at arm’s length, he had always been so open and warm with him that the distant coldness he shows him now is frightening. Ryunosuke had put his trust into Kazuma, but now that trust was faltering—he supposes, just like Kazuma’s trust in him did when deciding whether to tell him about the mission he was facing.
He thinks back to a novel he once borrowed from Kazuma during their halcyon school days and a line that had stuck out to him: “The stronger people’s feelings are, the more fiercely they react to betrayal.” Ryunosuke feels it now—he was betrayed by Kazuma, left out in the dark about his full intentions in coming to London, rebuffed by his stinging coldness towards him, devastated and bewildered by the idea that the person he loves would ever attack someone with the intent of murder—and the anxiety and anger pits in his stomach. And yet—and yet! Just like his feelings towards Nikolina Pavlova on that fateful day when he thought Kazuma was truly gone forever, he knows things are never as straightforward as they seem. And he’s angry and feels betrayed, yes, but he now knows intimately the pain of losing someone you love. Now that the facts are out in the open, he truly understands the traumatic, impossible situation Kazuma was in and the pain that still weighs heavy in his heart.
And he thinks back to his experiences as a lawyer, forever influenced by the people he had met. He had said Kazuma changed, but had he not, too? Kazuma had said as much, after all. So, was it truly fair for him to accuse Kazuma of putting up some false façade just because he showed a side of him he had never seen before?
There is a thin line between idealizing someone—to Love an idea of someone more than who they truly are—and genuinely loving them: is it idealization to view someone you are affectionate towards in the best light possible, to be impressed by and appreciate their strengths? Ryunosuke thought the world of and respected and admired Kazuma deeply, yes, but he wasn’t blind to his shortcomings—he fully recognized the passion that sometimes leaned towards aggression, the absolute faith in his abilities that bordered on overconfidence, the emotional impulsivity that often caught up with him. Maybe Love would flatten this situation: the person who you idealized never existed in the first place, the person they really turned out to be is not as appealing, there is no reconciling these two opposing selves—the end is inevitable. As aggravating as it could be at times, these qualities weren’t a signal of a person living a hidden double-life, it was just a part of what made Kazuma who he was, and Ryunosuke loved Kazuma—all of Kazuma—so, he found a way to love that side of him too.
Just like a jewel catching light, we only see clearly the facets of a person that are reflecting back to us; but those parts in the shadow are not some foreign, separate entities. The Kazuma he knew prior to the SS Burya incident and the one standing before him now aren’t two different people, they’re one in the same, impacted and molded by new experiences—just like how the once unconfident English major Ryunosuke and the current determined Defense Lawyer Ryunosuke are.
And he’s seen how grief drives people—he’s seen how it took hold of Olive Green and drove her to revenge, he’s seen how his own grief led him to change the entire trajectory of his life. So, when he puts himself into Kazuma’s shoes, would he have acted any differently? If the father he loved dearly was murdered, wrapped up in an international conspiracy, and he lost his beloved mother as a result as well—would it be realistic to not be affected by dredging it up again? If he was so desperate to find the truth, would he have done everything in his power to uncover it, no matter the consequences? (He already knows the answer to this one clearly—the playing of the music box disk and subsequent suspension of his license proof.) Even with the closest of confidants, would he be brave enough to admit to agreeing to an assassination mission—even if there was no intention of carrying it out—knowing full well how he would be seen by them moving forward?
Yes, Ryunosuke is angry and confused and frustrated about everything that transpired, but more than anything, he just feels a profound sadness. In the end, when Ryunosuke weighs it in his mind, the anger and disappointment he feels is dwarfed by how much he misses his best friend. So, Ryunosuke pushes up against the walls Kazuma has tried to build up in an attempt to protect himself. No simple “I Love you” will fix this, but communication and showing compassion and support will help soothe it, even just a little. So, Ryunosuke forces them to have the difficult conversation—no running—not because of a notion of Love where he can’t bear to live without him—he can, he already has—but because without him there, it would be a much paler existence.
The understanding of each other, and the relaxing of built-up tension, and the resolution that follows is not the result of a declaration of Love with a sudden kiss that magically fixes everything, but through the questions answered and the opportunity to express each other’s feelings—the chance to be mutually open and vulnerable and raw. And despite how difficult it is, Ryunosuke would never exchange it for a sanitized version of Love.
As difficult as it is to part from Kazuma, especially so soon after being reunited, they both acknowledge they have separate paths to walk for now—a chance to independently grow and mature. But their separation is not on diverging paths, just a circular track that temporarily moves apart before intersecting once again. With the promise of a reunion on the horizon and the reaffirmation of their continued commitment to one another, they go their own ways—separate but not incomplete, remote but not distant.
To Ryunosuke, Love will forever be an abstract concept, but he’s deeply intimate with love—for love takes tangible form in the family sword where Kazuma’s soul is housed that he keeps always by his side, with a burning fire inside his chest not like a wildfire threatening to explode, but a dependable hearth warming a home, patiently waiting for its lover to return.