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“Truth tea,” Ryunosuke repeats. “You’ll… have to explain that one.”
“Well, it's really quite simple, Runo,” Iris returns with an exaggerated shrug. “I've been developing a truth serum—it’s still in an experimental phase, mind you—and, ah… Well, it seems it became mixed up with the blend I brewed this afternoon.”
“That’s… not quite what I was asking.”
Iris quirks an eyebrow at him. “What are you confused about, then?”
The logistics of a truth serum, for one. How and why she didn't keep them separate, for another. “Nevermind.”
“You’re so finicky, Runo,” Iris sighs. “But, no matter. I should have a remedy in, let’s say… a week?”
Out of the corner of Ryunosuke’s eye, Kazuma flinches. He’s been tucked away on the couch behind Iris and Sholmes, dead silent since Ryunosuke returned home. “That’s absurd,” he hisses, then goes utterly pale, eyes widening.
“Now, that’s no way to talk to Iris, no matter how upset you are,” Sholmes interjects, tossing a glance behind him at Kazuma. “Really, Mr. Asogi—”
“Wait.” Ryunosuke stares at Kazuma. He's crossed his arms tight, tight across his chest, almost defensively—to say nothing of how he refuses to look anyone in the eye. “You’re not telling me…”
“Oh, yes, Kazzie’s the one who drank it. Didn't you know?”
Ryunosuke takes a deep breath. “No. No, I didn't.”
“Well, he did. But, you know, it’s not all bad. I mean, it's not like Kazzie can possibly be holding onto any more big secrets.” A beat, then: “Right, Kazzie?”
Kazuma’s mouth flattens into a line. “That would be quite terrible.”
“So, really, what’s a week?”
They’re missing, maybe, the biggest problem: “How is he supposed to prosecute?”
“Why, half-truths! Omissions! Surely you already knew that, Mr. Naruhodo,” Sholmes answers with a grand wave of his hand. “That is how all lawyers get by, is it not?”
Ryunosuke glances at Kazuma. Kazuma stares right back at him. There’s a disbelieving grin tugging at the corner of his mouth—twitching, threatening to take over his face. An effect of the truth tea, maybe, because Kazuma never shows his hand. Not like that.
Ryunosuke has to fight back a matching grin. “Of course,” he returns, utterly failing to keep his voice steady. Kazuma huffs out a laugh—almost a snort.
And, sure, it’s just a week. And, sure, it could be worse. And, sure, if anyone could come out of this unscathed, it’s Kazuma.
Ryunosuke, though? Ryunosuke is doomed. Because it’s one thing for Kazuma to let slip the occasional laugh, the occasional smile, the occasional word of affection—but it already threatens, now, to be constant. That Kazuma might not be able to hold back that derisive snort; that those wry smiles at Ryunosuke’s antics might be grins, instead; that Kazuma might—could—will say things Ryunosuke all too desperately wants to read into.
“Now, it’s getting quite late,” Sholmes continues, undeterred, “and I hate to be an ungracious host, after, ah, poisoning you and all, Mr. Asogi, but—”
“It is quite rude,” Kazuma deadpans. God, but he’s leaning into it already. Ryunosuke coughs, a poor attempt at masking his laughter. Kazuma notices, of course—throws a smug look in Ryunosuke’s direction. “But I don’t mind.”
He stands—graceful; you’d never suspect a thing was wrong with him—and collects his things. Or thing, singular, since it’s really just a bag resting against the couch. He throws it over his shoulder—hesitates at the door, gaze lingering on Ryunosuke.
“Do you… need something?”
Something crosses Kazuma’s face—surprised and frustrated in equal measure. His mouth twists—presses into a line. “I don’t… need anything,” Kazuma says. Slowly; carefully. Then, like whiplash: “Goodnight.”
—
“Oh, of course,” Kazuma says, chin in hand, as he nods. There’s such candor in his tone—like the clouds clearing from the sky. Then, under his breath: “How could I not have…?”
It’s a gambit, surely. Kazuma’s never so cooperative in court—far prefers to play with Ryunosuke’s theories like a cat chasing a mouse, even if they both know Ryunosuke is dead-on.
Then it shifts, again. Whiplash, again. And Kazuma’s hand is on the hilt of his sword, and he’s staring straight at Ryunosuke, and: “Might you continue with your theory, Counsel?”
“Well, I just think—” Ryunosuke flounders, and, ugh, he hasn’t sounded this uncertain since his first few cases. “That is, the defense believes…”
Humor glints in Kazuma’s eyes. Blatant. Enough to catch Ryunosuke a little further off-guard, because it shines—not quite a cat beginning his hunt. No, it’s something far, far more intimate, like the way it would when they were still students, and they were getting far too riled up as they worked away at their servings of hotpot, and—
“…believes, ah, that if we were to compare the fatal wound to this weapon, instead, that—erm—”
A smile tugs at Kazuma’s mouth. Just barely. “The defense may take all the time it needs.”
A gracious offer. One Ryunosuke sorely needs.
—
“I’m not sick,” Kazuma huffs as Ryunosuke sets about making dinner for him. Kazuma lingers in the kitchen, still, even as Ryunosuke elbows him away and cordons him off from any and every effort to be useful. “You don’t have to—fret over me like this.”
“Do you have to be sick for me to be nice to you?” Ryunosuke fires back. Because, no, Kazuma doesn’t need Ryunosuke hovering over him. Kazuma can manage himself and his affairs just fine, as always.
But, see—there’s this little kernel of selfishness pressed up against Ryunosuke’s heart, more uncomfortable with each beat, that wants. Wants to see this: Kazuma open, easy, and free. And if Kazuma’s a little more loose-lipped, a little more affectionate, and Ryunosuke indulges in that, too—it doesn’t hurt anyone, does it?
Kazuma’s mouth twists. Ryunosuke is learning what this means—that Kazuma’s fighting back something a little too honest. “You don’t have to.”
“Well, I want to.”
Something crosses Kazuma’s face—quick, just enough that Ryunosuke can’t quite latch onto it. Something a little desperate, maybe. “At least let me help.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“What are you making? Curry?” Kazuma peers over his shoulder. “Look, let me just—”
“If you start helping,” Ryunosuke starts, letting the word drip with disdain, “you’re just going to make the whole thing yourself.”
“Well, of course,” Kazuma says immediately. Also immediately: a deep scowl sets into his face.
“You heard yourself,” Ryunosuke lilts, no shortness of pride in his voice. “Sit down.”
Kazuma huffs—an inflated, dramatic thing—but does. Sets to work on case files in his desk across the room—his apartment is a tiny thing, really just one room. Arranged in a flash when he arrived in England. Ryunosuke can’t help but keep glancing at him—to see the easy furrow to his eyebrows at a particularly frustrating juncture, or his teeth worrying his lower lip at a confusing mix of evidence, or…
“You’re staring,” Kazuma says without looking up. “Try not to burn the place down, will you?”
“Surely you trust me more than that,” Ryunosuke retorts. Embarrassment still leaks into his voice as he stares fervently down at the cutting board—focusing on chopping this apple evenly—instead.
“You’re not giving me much reason to.”
“Oh, hush.”
Kazuma laughs—a low, rich thing. It rumbles right down Ryunosuke’s spine. So, so pleasant. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Oh, do not weaponize your—condition,” Ryunosuke mutters. “That’s just low.”
“But it’s true.” Kazuma sighs so gracefully—you’d really think he was affected. “I’m bound in all matters to speak the truth and only the truth, so help me—”
“Your truth is not that you think I’ll burn down your apartment.”
“No, it isn’t,” Kazuma agrees all too easily. Laughter bursts from Ryunosuke’s throat, a little disbelieving. “Haven’t worried a bit since you arrived, actually.”
He says it so casually. His eyes don’t leave the paper he’s reading—intent as ever. And, yeah, maybe Kazuma just means that he hasn’t worried about the integrity of his apartment, but isn’t it all too easy to read a little deeper? A touch more literally?
If only.
“Oh, this is good,” Kazuma mumbles in the middle of his first bite, mouth full.
Ryunosuke scrunches his nose and looks away. “Aren’t you always on me about manners?”
“Like you care,” Kazuma drawls.
Well, no—Ryunosuke doesn’t. Not really. Especially not right now.
“Glad you like it,” he says instead. Kazuma’s returning smile is just a hint too smug. “How are you feeling, anyway?”
Of all things, that’s what makes Kazuma’s smile falter. And, yes—there’s that little twist to his mouth. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Ryunosuke returns, voice curling wryly. “That would be why I asked.”
It’s a moment—two—before Kazuma’s mumbling something incoherent.
“What?”
“I said I’m—happy.”
Oh. Well—“That’s—good?” Ryunosuke fumbles. “Can’t say that’s what I expected.”
And, yeah, he’d like to pry. He’d like to poke and prod a little further. Learn the why, even if he’s invested in a particular answer. But there’s this tight curl to Kazuma’s fingers around his bowl. A silent betrayal. And, really, if Ryunosuke asks, Kazuma doesn’t have much choice but to betray himself further, does he?
“My condition,” Kazuma starts, letting disdain seep into the word, “isn’t as terrible as you might think.”
It begs the question. Or, well, it begs multiple questions. Why it was such a big deal that it’d take a week for Iris to craft a cure; why Kazuma feels the need to choose his words so carefully, but only sometimes.
“Come, now,” Kazuma continues, filling the silence, “you of all people should know.”
Ryunosuke raises an eyebrow.
Kazuma raises one right back. “Surely you’re aware of how telltale your expressions are.”
“I mean,” Ryunosuke hedges, “yes. This feels a little different, though, doesn’t it?”
“Not really.”
“Yeah, okay,” Ryunosuke returns. “That’s—”
“Glad you agree,” Kazuma interrupts. There’s an impish grin spread across his face. It’s a little too wide—a little too free—for Kazuma. A little too heavy on Ryunosuke’s heart.
—
“Kazzie’s here!” Iris’ voice rings through the apartment, up into the attic. Ryunosuke glances out the window—it’s dusk, already. It draws attention to the ache in his back, the stiffness in his wrist—God, how long has he been at his desk? Hours, at least. No wonder his attention has been waning.
He scribbles a couple notes—reminders for whenever he returns to this bit of paperwork—and heads downstairs. Iris has already set about brewing tea alongside Susato, Sholmes is hurriedly finishing—something at his own desk, and Kazuma is… standing in the doorway.
Ryunosuke pauses at the last step, throwing a glance at Kazuma. “Aren’t you going to come in?”
Kazuma blinks, as though lost in a trance. “Yes,” he answers, a little too quickly. Takes off his shoes in the same little rush.
Ryunosuke quirks an amused eyebrow at him. Kazuma doesn’t return it. Not that it’s strictly unusual for Kazuma to not have the patience for Ryunosuke’s antics; not that it’s unusual that Kazuma would be running out of energy as the week goes on.
Ryunosuke and Kazuma sit down just as Iris is finishing plating everyone’s food up—chicken fricassee, by the looks of it. She practically dances about the table as she sets everyone’s plate down in front of them. Vaguely, Ryunosuke wonders how this will go over, because Kazuma can’t stand chicken on a good day; but as Iris sets down Kazuma’s portion, she sing-songs, “And special just for Kazzie, rabbit fricassee!”
And Kazuma stares at his plate, and he says, “Oh,” and nothing more. A shadow crosses Iris’ face—gone in a flash. It’s a long moment, after Iris has sat down and already gone running down some other train of conversation, that the words fall thick and slow out of Kazuma’s mouth: “Thank you.”
Iris interrupts herself with a wobbly little smile—then, like nothing ever happened, is back in a heated discussion with Susato.
And, see, again—not strictly unusual for Kazuma to be a little put-off, a little awkward, in situations like these. But it is unusual that thank you is all that really passes Kazuma’s mouth the whole evening—even as Susato and Ryunosuke recount the case from a couple days back. Even after Ryunosuke throws in a few jabs against Kazuma, for good measure. And what about when the whole table gets to planning a New Year’s celebration, Susato’s eyes lighting up as she and Iris hammer out how they might make authentic osechi so far away from home?
Nothing—but you can tell he hears, by the way his eyes flick this way and that, following the conversation, and how that twist to his mouth only sets itself deeper and deeper.
The bustle and clamor of clean-up—Susato and Iris working on the dishes and food storage with Ryunosuke and Sholmes’ ‘help’—is almost enough to mask the sound of the door closing. Not quite, though, and certainly not enough to mask Kazuma’s absence.
“I’ll be right back,” Ryunosuke mutters to Susato. Susato glances behind her—notices, too, of course, a frown setting deep into her face.
Kazuma is just a little ways down the sidewalk when Ryunosuke steps out onto Baker Street. It’s foggy; the gas lamps fight just valiantly enough to make his figure visible. Kazuma stiffens—slows—must know he’s fighting a losing battle—as Ryunosuke hurries down the street after him.
“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” Ryunosuke asks, voice icy, as he falls into step beside Kazuma. Kazuma’s still walking—stubborn thing he is.
Kazuma glances sidelong at him, half through his eyelashes. “I don’t want to.”
“That’s too bad.”
Kazuma huffs. His breath blooms—blossoms through the air. “For you?”
“Kazuma.” Ryunosuke steps bodily in front of him—blocks his path. Kazuma’s gaze hardens into a glare; his hand tightens on the strap of his bag. “What’s wrong?”
Fear flickers quick and skittish across Kazuma’s face. He swallows thickly—mouth twisting something ugly—and his voice comes out like rust: “They’re too kind.”
They both hear to me, even as it stays caught in Kazuma’s throat. “Kazuma. Surely you don’t actually think that.”
Kazuma’s stare is scathing.
“Oh,” says Ryunosuke, catching up to himself. Because it’s so much easier, isn’t it, to doubt Kazuma—so much harder to grapple with that Kazuma believes this, and has believed this for however long, and Ryunosuke hadn’t noticed. “What about me?”
“What about you?”
“Do you think I’m too kind?”
“Yes,” Kazuma says, immediately, and then, so that the words run together: “Don’t ask me that.”
Ryunosuke stares at him. The fear is back, now, and here to stay—rests in his eyes, glassy and clear. “Why?”
“Don’t,” Kazuma hisses. “I don’t—I can’t—”
“Okay. Okay,” Ryunosuke relents, no matter how desperately he wants to push, press, ‘till—“Let’s get you home.”
“You don’t have to,” Kazuma mutters.
“I know.”
“Then don’t.”
“I want to,” says Ryunosuke, and Kazuma doesn’t speak to him the whole walk home.
—
“Aren’t you going to go home?” Kazuma asks the second they walk into his apartment.
Ryunosuke glances at him. He’s taking off his shoes—invested entirely in that action, not sparing a look at Ryunosuke. “Do you want me to?” A beat of silence. A gambit: “I’ll go, if you tell me you want me to.”
Kazuma pads further into the apartment—sets his bag down. “Do what you want.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know,” says Kazuma. His voice is so, so tiny.
“Kazuma,” Ryunosuke starts. Kazuma doesn’t move a muscle. “Look at me?”
It’s something magnetic—Kazuma’s shoulders shift just enough for Ryunosuke to see his face. They haven’t bothered to turn on the gas lamps, but the moon glints through the window just so, just enough that Ryunosuke can see the light peeking out of the corner of Kazuma’s eyes. There’s a square to his jaw and a soft to his eyes and it’s something magnetic—Ryunosuke steps forward, reaches, cups Kazuma’s chin, brushes Kazuma’s cheek dry.
Kazuma shivers—leans into the touch. “Ryunosuke,” he starts, and chokes on whatever was next. It’s an awful sound. “You need to go.”
“But you don’t want me to.”
“No.” Kazuma’s voice is barely a breath—like something might shatter and slice into him if he speaks any louder.
“Then I won’t.”
“Okay,” says Kazuma. “Okay.”
Ryunosuke forces himself to pull his hand away, then—Kazuma’s snaps up to keep it there. He seems startled by the motion himself—mouth pressing into a thin line. “Sorry,” Kazuma mutters, pulling his hand away with what seems like concentrated effort.
“It’s okay,” Ryunosuke tells him, selfishly. Kazuma’s eyes flit to Ryunosuke’s—something frail and curious in them and it does something terrible to Ryunosuke. Enough that he dares run his thumb across Kazuma’s cheek, just so he might have a chance to memorize the feel of Kazuma’s skin against his, and he’s rewarded by Kazuma sighing—melting into his hand. “You like this,” Ryunosuke manages, a little breathless.
Kazuma doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to, not exactly. Not for Ryunosuke to press: “What else?”
Kazuma’s gaze falls to Ryunosuke’s mouth. Subconsciously, Ryunosuke’s tongue wets his lower lip, and, oh, Kazuma lets out a shuddering little sigh, mouth parting like—“Kazuma,” Ryunosuke manages, voice strangled. “You need to tell me.”
“Kiss me,” Kazuma blurts, a frantic, desperate thing, and the words aren’t even out of his mouth fully before Ryunosuke is. Kazuma’s gasp is muffled—his blush hot against Ryunosuke’s fingertips—and his mouth is so sweet as it works against Ryunosuke’s. Kazuma’s pulling back after just a moment, two, a terrible thing if not for that he’s mumbling, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” and pulling Ryunosuke right back in—
It’s something delirious, heady, addling. They might kiss for maybe forever—peppered with Kazuma pulling back to mutter wanted this, or I love you, again, like he’s desperate for Ryunosuke to know, and maybe he is. God, Ryunosuke needs him to know, too, but he needs to memorize Kazuma’s skin, mouth, heat, just the same.
“Sensitive,” Kazuma mutters after some time, reaching his fingers to his mouth, and, oh—yes, his lips are a little swollen, a lot red. God, Ryunosuke did that. Probably looks similar himself.
“Sorry.” He’s not, not really. Kazuma huffs out a sigh, but there’s a laugh somewhere behind it. It’s a lovely thing—reminds him—“I love you,” says Ryunosuke helplessly.
Kazuma stiffens, eyes widening. “You don’t have to… say it back.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t,” Kazuma returns, something desperate and a little vicious, and—
“I want to,” Ryunosuke retorts, a little harsher than he intends, but as harsh as he feels. “Don’t you get it?”
And Kazuma blinks, mouth setting into a frown—not the one where he’s holding something back, but more like he has nothing to say. Eventually: “No. Not really.”
It all makes sense, suddenly. “I’m sorry,” Ryunosuke says, if only because there’s nothing else to say. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t true. For any of us.”
Kazuma doesn’t reply. Not exactly. No, he just looks at Ryunosuke—looks away—asks, “Stay?”
His voice is even, but his face isn’t—it betrays that he barely dared ask. He’ll learn, eventually, that he doesn’t need to.