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The harsh English wind hit his face as he stepped out of the courtroom. He’d remembered it before, that icy chill that spread itself across his face like a mask. Except it had never been him who’d experienced it. Not really. This was the first time Kazuma Asogi had really stepped out into England. When he’d set out on his grand voyage to England, he’d imagined the moment to be different. Stepping off of a ship with his judicial assistant beside him, his dearest friend stowed away in a bag by his side, a world of adventure at his feet.
Well, it had certainly been an adventure for him.
He stormed through the crowd of gentleman and ladies flocking along the cobbles, travelling in no particular direction. The world was spinning and shattering beneath him more and more with each step he took. Faces, oh god their faces, they were flooding his senses. His father’s face, shiny and fake, hidden away from the world in shame. It couldn’t be. He wished it wasn’t. He’d known for what seemed like forever but he just couldn’t bear to think it. But it was his, as vaguely as Kazuma remembered it, with his moustache and his soft eyes. He remembered those eyes, looking affectionately down at him as he said goodbye. And now the whole of London looked down on those same eyes in disgust, horror. Such horror that they could never bear to look again, opting to hide it behind iron and veils. Made the product of some morbid curiosity as a false mantle slithered through the whispers of London, the gossipers poisoning his memory without even realising it. Kazuma’s breathing had become angrier, more hoarse as his vision became more and more tunnelled.
How dare they? How dare they treat his father in such an unbecoming way? Didn’t they understand how noble of a man he had been? He would never commit such atrocities!
Their faces, god their faces, Kazuma didn’t even want to think of the faces of the general masses, the wrinkling of noses and pitying eyes.
And Lord Van Zieks, his ever unmoving scowl. That stupid scowl of an apathetic displeasure that had been following him around for weeks. By this point, Kazuma didn’t know where he was, he’d wandered further and further out of the main city of London, buildings becoming more battered and scattered as he stormed forward, pushed only by his inner anger. The chatter of the city became distant and calm as he finally stopped, listening to his own breathing for a moment. An icy cold chill whipped across his face as something gentle licked his hand, making Kazuma loose his footing in a heightened sense of fight or flight. He stumbled, turning around and searching desperately around his feet for the source of the sensation. He felt it again, silky and soft as it brushed briefly against the hairs on his skin, making them stand on end in shock. He whipped his whole body around again, seeing nothing but the bleak gravel beneath his feet as he looked down. And again, the fabric rubbed against his hand as it settled beside his waist. Frustration rising, he waved his fingers around wildly, fumbling to find whatever it was that had been brushing against him. It slipped silkily in between his fingers as he snapped them shut, finally glancing down at his tormentor. It had a slender body of red, its tips slightly frayed as it wrapped from within his fingers all the way around the handle of Karuma.
His headband.
When he’d taken Karuma back from Ryunosuke, he hadn’t paid much attention to the blade itself, focusing mostly on how the handle seemed to breathe in his grip, as if sighing in relief at their reunion. He hadn’t even noticed how his red headband had been tied firmly around the handle, the knot itself perfect.
Kazuma couldn’t help but smile to himself, that must be the work of Susato. His stomach lurched as new faces flooded his mind. Susato, his dear Susato, with tears brimming in her eyes, fighting to be shed. Her smile thin and watery as she quivered like a leaf. His hand lay against the knot, tight and solid, gliding down the hilt to the pieces of ribbon allowed to flow in the wind. The fabric had clearly been tug at here, perhaps absentmindedly. Its fibres had become loose, the minuscule gaps between the weaves wider then how Kazuma had remembered them. He loosened Karuma from his side, holding it in front of him and lifting it high, inspecting the case in the light.
Meticulous was the word. No stains or marks anywhere visible. He lowered the blade, gloved hand resting firmly on the handle. He held its familiar weight for one moment, before unsheathing the blade, the cold metal sliding smoothly out into the air.
Again. Meticulous. Not a chip or scratch in sight. The blade itself had been polished to the point of reflectiveness. Kazuma smiled to himself, looking up and down at the blade.
This had to be Ryunosuke’s work. He’d always been on the more sentimental side of things. As he looked, he locked eyes on himself. His face, the eyes harsh and cold, the expression one without any compassion. Was this the face he had hidden for so long? Was this what everyone else in the courtroom had seen? What he had seen?
Kazuma’s stomach lurched violently. Him. Ryunosuke. The man who followed him across the earth. Even in death, apparently. Kazuma just couldn’t fathom why. He slipped Karuma back in its case, slinging it around his waist once more. Ryunosuke was a great man, one of the greatest men to have ever been. Leagues greater than himself. His tenacity and out of the box thinking were unable to be rivalled. To have such a great man carrying your legacy when you couldn’t was an honour Kazuma felt unworthy of.
For a moment, he was back in the Old Bailey, seeing Ryunosuke again. The way his cheeks had warmed, his blood buzzed with excitement as he met his eyes. Ryunosuke staring back at him. His face as soft as ever as he looked at him not in horror or shock, just relief. Pure relief and admiration were the only things behind his eyes. A luxury, a comfort. Truly, he was too good for Kazuma, far too good. He’d handed back Karuma almost instinctively, handling the heavy blade as if it would shatter into a million pieces with the slightest tap, his arms shaking slightly as he did, knocking the armband that hung too loosely around his arm down his bicep. Too loose and yet it fit him perfectly, those golden scales.
His face, gentle and gorgeous in the warm candlelight illuminating the benches, was painted with a smile. Nothing but warmth and happiness.
Kazuma stared at the ground for moment, that feeling of discomfort rising in his gut.
That’s how he chose to remember it. He hadn’t dared turn to face Ryunosuke, the man who’d done so much for him, when he couldn’t explain himself. Fleeing the courtroom like a coward, leaving him behind again. He’d began shivering, not from the cold air surrounding him, but from the anger at it all. At himself. This was all so stupid. He’d travelled for months across an ocean, in search of some grandios adventure which would magically amend his father’s legacy, avenging him for the years of injustice placed on his name, dragging those nearest to him down into this personal hell in the heart of London. Why has he even-
The loose ribbon fluttering at his side slapped his hand as harshly as it could, as if annoyed with his train of thought. Kazuma looked down again at it, worn at the tips with affection
“With this by my side, I always felt that you were watching over me, somehow.”
Those were Ryunosuke’s words as he handed back his katana, his soul, entrusting all that was to come back onto Kazuma’s shoulders. With his gloved fingers, he tangled the ribbon in the gaps, feeling the knots developing on his tongue in memory.
“My dearest friend, I hope you’ll continue to stay by me through this.” He muttered to himself. “Because now, more than ever, I’ll need someone as great as you on my side.”