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Mori carries the spare key to Fukuzawa’s home in the inner pocket of his coat, alongside a gun and a pair of sterile gloves. The latter two have a clear purpose: taking lives and saving lives is what defines his existence after all.
The key to Fukuzawa’s home on the other hand, he prefers not to think of. On the days when he’s honest with himself, to him, it’s the difference between existing and living.
Turning it twice in the lock, he pushes the door open and steps inside. It is a little past noon, a quiet March afternoon, yet the house he’s entered reminds him of eternal winter, with not a single streak of light passing through its closed blinds.
Mori finds Fukuzawa seated on the tatami floor of his living room, wrapped in an old yukata, clutching a bamboo sword with his left hand. He wants to ask whether the man has eaten. Instead, he leans forward, picking up an empty bowl and a pair of chopsticks resting on the floor, and pretends to ignore the fragments of Fukuzawa's cherished bone china scattered on the mat in a haze of golden-blue.
He walks to the kitchen as quietly as he came, briefly pausing only to slide the window open. A dull noise fills the room as he sets the bowl in the sink and removes his gloves, turning the faucet handle with a tilt of his index finger. Lukewarm water hits the bottom of the dish with a splash, barely filling it completely before another press of Mori's hand shuts it off.
He throws a resigned look at an empty bottle with dish soap, quietly disposing of it, and picks up a faded cellulose sponge, diligently scrubbing the sides of the dish before giving it a thorough rinse.
"Ranpo called," he murmurs after shutting off the faucet, reaching for a few paper towels to dry his hands.
He knows that Fukuzawa won’t indulge him in conversation. Knows that when he returns to the living room, the two pearls of familiar silver eyes, those same ones that occasionally graced him with a fond look, will remain tarnished. All the same, he opens one of many cupboards to retrieve Fukuzawa’s cherished pottery, determined to make some tea.
Clutching the sides of a glazed ceramic cup with his fingers, he sets it on the countertop with a clink and reaches to grab another one for himself. Fukuzawa never really acknowledged it as his favorite, but it’s the only one Mori ever saw him use on the rare mornings when Fukuzawa’s home was also his own.
With steam rising from the kettle's neck in a thick, burning cloud, he places two teaspoons of sencha into the pot and fills the cups with boiling water, watching as it diffuses in a splash of bursting bubbles rising to the surface. Then he waits.
If there’s anything that Fukuzawa taught him during long shared nights at the clinic, it’s how to make a good cup of tea.
When the water temperature falls sufficiently, he drains both cups into the pot and lets it steep for another two minutes before discarding the leaves altogether. The grassy aroma of freshly brewed sencha infuses the air as he carries the set to the living room, setting it down on a low table.
As predicted, Fukuzawa remains in his previous spot, his expression unwavering. Not a single muscle of his face twitches to acknowledge Mori’s presence, not even when he settles on the floor next to him, carefully collecting fractions of broken bone china and setting them aside.
Once he’s finished, in a smooth motion, he picks up the pot and tilts it, letting a uniform stream of warm liquid fill the cup to the brim. It burns his fingers when he takes it in his hands and blows once before having a symbolic sip just to taste it.
“Not even bitter,” he says with a thin smile, extending the cup toward Fukuzawa in offering.
At last, the swordsman briefly glances at the beverage in Mori’s hands before his gaze disperses again and settles on some invisible point on the opposing wall.
In the quiet of the room, kneeling on the firm surface of the tatami floor, Mori internally marks his small victory. He came to Fukuzawa’s home fully aware he will be faced with a war that he cannot win, but if he can win a battle, that’s good enough for him.
Reaching out, he hesitantly takes Fukuzawa’s hand that rests on his lap.
Cold.
In all those years of partnership, he remembers the swordsman’s touch burning like the sun that divided Yokohama’s days, leaving nights for the mafia and twilight for the agency.
Yet today, his fingers are cold, befitting the ghost of a man in place of him, his heart pumping loss and grief through his frail body as if it were blood.
Silently, Mori unfolds Fukuzawa’s hand, resting the cup with its fading heat in the palm of it. Maybe, if he’s lucky Fukuzawa will drink some of the tea while he’s still here. If not, he can only try again later that week.
Rising from his seat, he heads to the man’s bedroom, opening a few more windows on the way to create some air flow. He doesn’t have much time left – with Fukuzawa’s absence, the turmoil caused by Fukuchi’s death has taken over the country akin to a natural disaster. Mori is determined to tame it.
He crosses the room in a few strides, picking up a pair of used towels and a dark blue yukata sprawled on the floor, then changes the sheets of Fukuzawa’s futon, laying out some fresh clothes on top of it. He has little hope that Fukuzawa will manage to shower in his current state, but at the very least he can sleep in a clean bed.
Discarding the laundry into the basket, Mori returns to the living room one last time before he has to take his leave. To his pleasant surprise, the cup he’s filled with tea rests empty on top of the low table beside his own. Silently, he lowers himself again and picks up the pot, pressing the lid down with the weight of his fingers. The sound of pouring water resonates around them, much like in years past when both of them still had reasons to smile.
“I left some taiyaki in the fridge for you and Ranpo-kun,” he utters, keeping his gaze on the continuous flow of tea gradually filling the cup.
Once it’s full, he raises his eyes to meet his former partner's, maintaining a neutral expression.
“I must leave now, but I shall see you again in a few days. Hopefully on Saturday.”
Feeling a look of remorse threatening to surface, he turns away and rises, hiding his humanity like he always does behind his usual mask of pretense.
Staying was never an option . If anything, Fukuzawa should know it better than him.
Yet leaving like this doesn’t feel right either.
Does Fukuzawa grieve him too, even when they still breathe the same air?
Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, Mori looks at Fukuzawa and searches for the man who entered his clinic twelve years ago, wearing a polished sword, and his altruism on his sleeve. Almost on instinct, his hand wanders back, briefly running through tangled strands of silver, so familiar to the touch.
“Next time, it’s your turn to make tea… Yukichi,” he whispers.