Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had been so easy to avoid, at first.

It was out of guilt, of obligation, that he decided to take Tsujimura in. She’d been so stubborn, so insistent, yet he let himself let her in. He’d offered, after all, that she stick by his side and worm her way into his life. Then he went ahead and got himself used to her presence, letting the days pass by in a blur with her beside him.

Would he not have been in this situation, then, if not for her?

He thinks that when she’d gaze her head back at him, her eyes—lavender things, lavender oceans he’s lost himself into. They were wide, waiting for him. He doesn’t utter another word, letting himself into the back seat as she closes the door for him. Tsujimura sits herself at the front, starting the car as they drive ahead. The road is notorious with its bumps and holes, the midday sun seeping through the windows, then the seats, through his clothes—his throat. Clenching, clawing, it constricts and retracts and it needs to get out.

Ayatsuji ducks his head when he feels a cough rippling through. He covers his mouth with a gloved fist, letting a few slip through as he wrecks himself through the fit. It brings Tsujimura out of her dazed stupor from the traffic.

“Sensei?” Tsujimura asks, “Are you alright?”

Ayatsuji lifts his gaze to the rearview mirror. He finds the cause of his constricting lungs meeting his gaze, brows furrowed in mild concern.

He crosses his arms, rests his head against the window. The bumpy road momentarily does little to alleviate his dry throat. “It’s fine,” He murmurs hoarsely, barely audible. “Keep driving.”

There’s something clogging the back of his throat. It had felt way too solid to be phlegm. He urges himself to swallow, letting it fall back into his lungs.

Tsujimura doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t press him any further. Her eyes return to the road, her lips falling into a thin line. Ayatsuji knows she notices him stealing glances at her now and then, yet she doesn’t comment. He’s grateful she doesn’t.

When Tsujimura leaves for the day, he retreats to his basement for the remainder of the night.

A studio tucks itself into a dark corner. Ayatsuji flicks on the switch as he unpacks a spare mold of clay, mimicking a doll’s head, onto the table. Long, slender fingers expertly tie the apron over his waist. He pulls out a large box containing hundreds of plaster molds, setting the box next to his stool.

Nights like these are ones where he gains an unexplainable itch to create. Ayatsuji knows he’ll only toss and turn for hours on end if he ignores this itch, so he indulges himself to create. He doesn’t finish in one night, he allows himself to mold and shape as much as his deprived mind wills him to, only then does he actually retire for the night.

There had been a lovely citron dress he’d come across one of his usual store stops the other day. None of his dolls fit into it, and he mentally notes himself to purchase it during the case earlier today. Mei would fit into it just fine, however, favorite doll as she may be, she has plenty of outfits already. She seems to settle just fine where she is, anyway, in her new case. It was a glass, rectangular one, one that had also been displayed in the same store of that citron dress. Ayatsuji bought a couple of them and had them delivered to his office in due notice.

“For the dolls,” He’d told a much too wide-awake Ango back then, over the phone, when he made the delivery. “The dust can be a nuisance to clean.”

He had them dispersed across the basement, most commonly high up on a shelf. Mei is too beautiful to be displayed where no one can see her, so he had her displayed on a low table for easy spotting. The problem, tonight, is that the purchaser had given him one extra case. Ayatsuji snuck out to visit her just yesterday about it, and she did apologize—saying that her age is catching up to her, and that technology these days is advancing way too fast for her to keep up. He didn’t drag her any further for it.

So he has one more case to use. It’s no issue, he could always make a new doll. It’s been some time since he last sculpted, anyhow. No specific plan is in mind, but he could always go with the flow.

Mindlessly, he works through sanding out the clay. The process is mind-numbing, and he doesn’t have to think. Each step comes as second nature, and so, he thinks about how to paint the doll’s face.

His eyes lift momentarily to his paint. He’s running low on cool colors. Perhaps he ought to use more blue? The poor container is begging to be used, and he’s only ever used it to contrast his already warm-toned dolls (that’s to say, majority). Ayatsuji’s eyes drift back to the head resting between his fingers. It’s molded into a heart-shaped face. His gaze lifts back to the paint, and it drifts to his low supply of cool colors. Purple works as a complementary color.

It starts when he thinks of all-too-familiar purple eyes. He lifts an arm to muffle the cough that slips through, yet another passes. The head in his fingers slips onto the table, and he cares less about it cracking, he’ll clean it up later. For now, his instinct is to lean himself over, and vomit whatever has been clogging his throat.

There's an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. He hisses through gritted teeth. His chest clenches and constraints, his legs immediately darting for the bathroom. A cough ripples through as he rushes up the stairs, and he lifts his turtleneck to his mouth. The polyester pricks and itches at his throat more. It does little to muffle the coughing fit that crawls and scratches through his throat. His fingers fumble slightly with the knob before he’s successful in turning it, and he opens the door with a trembling shoulder.

With shaky hands, he opens the toilet and braces himself, kneeling in front of the seat. He wheezes, pulling back his bangs and shuts his eyes. A harsh cough, then another, and another, and he feels dizzy and can barely keep count. He manages to get to ten when he feels something build up at the back of his throat, and it takes another ten for him to choke it out. A blur of something purple momentarily meets his eyes before he rests his sweaty forehead on the toilet seat.

He needs a shower.

Ayatsuji musters the strength to lift his head, and finds a handful of tiny petals greeting him, floating atop the toilet water. Lavandula angustifolia.

He feels light-headed. Propping his forearm onto the toilet seat, Ayatsuji manages to stand with shaky legs. A rickety step forward, and he grabs at the end of his turtleneck with trembling fingers. It’s strangling his neck, he needs to breathe. Another rickety step, and he's lifted the turtleneck above his head, tossing it into the sink. When he regains his footing, he's already stripped himself bare and is turning the shower on.

The scalding hot temperature of running water hits his pulsing scalp and runs down his body. Ayatsuji racks through his memory for any illness relating to flora. He comes up empty. His fingers wrack through wet, matted blonde locks, and he tugs and tugs. The back of his head meets the shower’s tiled wall. He’s still coming up empty on floral-related diseases. A palm drags itself across his face, and he releases a long, shaky breath.

The image of lavender petals floating in the water are prominent behind his eyes, and once he’s done showering, he flushes the toilet. Its water gurgles back at him mockingly when it rises back up again. With a single burp, the water ripples into a still—devoid of the petals that once floated there. Like a cleaned up crime scene.

“Interesting,” An annoying elderly voice remarks, breaking him out of his reading trance, “how long have you had this condition, Ayatsuji-sensei?”

It’s early morning—six thirty-two, exactly. Twenty-eight minutes until Tsujimura arrives for the day.

Ayatsuji has his eyes locked onto a novel an old friend has lent him to borrow when Kyogoku manifested beside him. He doesn’t lift his head as he snarkily bites, “What, is it related to another one of the cases you’ve prepared for me?”

“Au contraire!” The old man gleefully denied, “None of the yokai I possess has the sort of capability to hinder your lungs—why, I figured you would’ve done that to yourself, eventually. I am the only yokai you have the fortune of being possessed with.”

“How joyous,” He impassively replies. Ayatsuji turns to the next page, eyes skimming through the words as he adds, “I don’t suppose this is the work of an ability, then?”

“Not at all, but you haven’t answered my earlier statement, sensei.”

Ayatsuji doesn’t reply, leading to silence from the apparition. But apparently his silence can only stretch on for so long, because he floats closer to his ear range, a knowing smile on his wrinkled, distorted face.

“I once helped out a young sonny with this exact condition, you know,” Kyogoku began. Ayatsuji’s eyes stop their skimming, and the apparition takes it as a sign he’s letting him go on.

“He approached me one day in hopes I could cure it. While I went by many names, this was something even beyond me! It’s not everyday you hear someone is suffering from a lung disease that involves flowers growing in them. There was admittedly a part of me that wanted to let him down gently, but the sonny was desperate. You know I like that in someone—someone that will go through any lengths possible to get what they want. Though, to be fair, I think anyone would be desperate to cure themselves of a chronic disease, let alone one that is practically unheard of…”

Kyogoku hears Ayatsuji turning to another page. He's not the slightest bit interested in whatever context his answer has, but he knows he's listening, anyway. It's all he has for now, after all.

“With some strings pulled, I managed to gain some information from a doctor situated in the countryside. It’s coined 'Hanahaki’, quite literal for its meaning, no? Originates when one suffers from one-sided love. You can’t help but think, well, with the case today, wouldn’t a lot more people suffer from it? It’s such a popular trope in various arts nowadays, it bores me to see it used endlessly, truly. Then, I noticed one similarity between the cases lent to me by that doctor. Every recorded patient was an ability user—an ability user, Ayatsuji-sensei! I couldn’t help but think if this was the cause of another ability, but the doctor didn’t know much. Truly a sad revelation.

“This meant, obviously, that my client now is an ability user. Japan is littered with a bunch of them, truly. I offered to help him cure his Hanahaki—with some favors first, of course. His ability was rather helpful in another case I was lent to solve. It was an ability that helped retrieve information, which proved useful for an old man like me. Hanahaki, of course, is only to be cured when your love is reciprocated. Told me about a woman he fancied for so long. I don't remember half of what he said, a pity. However, I did my best to help him. Seems that my matchmaking skills proved useful, even up to this day, don’t you think so, too, sensei?” What the hell did he mean by that?

“Anyhow, I managed to get the two lovers together. A happy ending, indeed! If it weren’t for the fact that my dear client had to pay his own end of the favor, then the two would’ve lived happily ever after!”

“Of course you got him killed,” Ayatsuji muttered, unsurprised. He closes the book in his hands and places it on top of his coffee table. He lights his kiseru pipe, resisting the urge to blow the smoke into Kyogoku's face when the bastard floats himself in front of him.

“While my abilities are limited due to this form, I would be honored to help you with your current dilemma!” He offers with an annoying wrinkled toothy grin on his face.

“I'd rather be shot twenty times at the head than ask you for help.” Ayatsuji snarkily replies, a huff of smoke escaping his nostrils as he hastily waves his hand at the apparition, “Buzz off.”

Unsurprising to neither of them, he does not, in fact, buzz off. Instead, he floats even closer with a resigned sigh, “You are ungrateful, as always, sensei. What do you ever plan on doing with your condition, then?” And, he adds with a mirthful tone, “I haven’t even the slightest clue on who your person of affection is, in the first place.”

Ayatsuji’s answer lies with a twist of his office door knob, accompanied with the clicking of heels falling into place. The door opens, and Tsujimura awaits for him to stand, as well. She raises her brow in an expectant way that’s gestured for him, precisely, to get up and get going. He does as gestured.

Placing his shades on, he grabs his coat that’s hung across his rattan chair, shrugging it onto his shoulders. He answers Kyogoku after taking another breath of tobacco.

“You’re a smart man, aren’t you?” He murmurs, audible enough for the apparition to hear, “Doesn’t take a kindergartner to know who when my options are limited in the first place.”

Ayatsuji ignores the cackle that follows his subtle-but-not phrasing, acknowledging Tsujimura with a simple nod. She closes the door, and they get on with their day.

When Ayatsuji thinks about it just a bit more, it’s not so easy to avoid.

Tsujimura watching over him is part of her job. Over the years, he’s learned to grow to her company around the office, in his various assigned cases, and the quiet moments inbetween. Growing used to her presence is a guarantee—if anything, she’s at least entertaining and fun to mess with.

Ayatsuji has found it a pastime to study her expressions: how her lower lip is pouted outward when petulant, her eyelid twitching from annoyance, how even her foundation can barely conceal the flush that paints her cheeks. Eyes are a gateway to the soul, and no matter how much she boasts to be an agent of the Special Division, one glance into her eyes and he can deduce what she feels in that moment.

Perhaps it’s all of the time he’s spent with her. Perhaps he’s only living up to his title and status as a detective. Either way, it’s fun to study her.

For instance, one of his favorite expressions: a frustrated Tsujimura.

In his own defense, he’d warned her to step out of the way. Another is a ruthless ability, an unthinking harbinger that stops at nothing to fulfill its task. If it brings down other casualties, then so be it. Ayatsuji is only ever here to solve the case as the detective, and he does tend to throw the rest of the job to Tsujimura.

So, really, is it his own fault that Tsujimura got herself caught up in the accident? While a good distance away from the point of impact, she still is near to the scene, and who says Ayatsuji can control whatever accident Another does? It’s not his fault that the wind picked up, letting stray planks worm its way out of its loose rope, coincidentally falling directly onto the suspect’s head. And, again, he’d warned Tsujimura to get out of the way.

The aforementioned agent marches her way up to him, her head hung low and her arms awkwardly lifted at her sides. Majority of her left side was coated in blood from the impact, staining her suit. Some of the debris had stuck to her face, too, so there went her pristine makeup. She looks at him like it was his fault. Strands of loose hair escape from her neatly combed bun, as if it were pointing exaggerations to her frazzled state. Her brows are scrunched together, teeth gritted as if she were restraining herself from voicing her complaints.

There was that expression he loved to see.

“I warned you,” Ayatsuji casually says instead, a pleased tone underlying his words. Tsujimura plants her soles into the pavement, grumbling curses underneath her breath. As she steps a bit further away from the scene, Ayatsuji finds her sulking with each minute that passes. He does nothing to comfort her, tapping a finger onto his kiseru as he waits for her tantrum to be over. In the midst of said tantrum, she scrambles to dial someone on her phone, and he takes an inhale of smoke as she makes a quick call.

Minutes later, she lowers her phone and places it back onto the holster of her belt, loosely attempting to keep her composure at bay. “I’m going to have to ask for a spare uniform to be delivered back to the agency… urghh, it’s such a pain to wash out blood on white clothes…”

As if it were the cherry on top, thunder rumbles and echoes throughout the cityscape, souring Tsujimura’s mood even further as a drop of rain makes itself known, only to be followed by a series of them. The rain barely conceals Tsujimura’s “Oh, you’re kidding!”

“If you keep complaining, then you won’t be able to make it back to the car in time,” Ayatsuji remarks. “Might as well run to it now.”

Tsujimura grumbles just a bit more. Her face is bundled together in a bunch of frustrated nerves, and Ayatsuji resists the urge to poke some fun at her for it. Taking a deep breath in, she releases a long, deep sigh that sounds more akin to a groan.

“Fine, fine,” She mumbled, hands on the buttons of her blazer as she shrugged the material off. Ayatsuji finds that perhaps she wasn’t exaggerating on her temper tantrum, her dress shirt underneath revealing a large splatter of blood that proves itself difficult to wash through. It rides all the way to half of her slacks, the stains hugging her physique, and with the blazer out of the way, he thinks maybe she was right in being confident of being the pride of her trainee class.

Ayatsuji shrugs off his own coat, and throws it at her head, her yelp snapping him out of his racing thoughts. It, however, does little for his constricting lungs, so he averts his gaze to the side.

“Ack, wha—?!”

“Rain is picking up,” He finds himself saying amidst his pounding heartbeat, “you’re really not planning on running out there, are you?”

“Eh?” Tsujimura raises the coat, letting herself realize that he’s lent her his coat. Her lips part ever so slightly, fixing the coat so it hangs over her head, barely shielding her red-tinted cheeks. “Thank you, but… uh, what about you, sensei?”

Ayatsuji says nothing and walks on over to their suspect, shuffling through the bag now loosely slung over their arm. He pulls out a portable umbrella and opens it, effectively shielding himself from the rain. Without missing a beat, he walks by her frozen state and makes his way to her parked Aston Martin. He barely restrains the smug smirk that’s fighting to make itself known from her aghast expression.

Throughout the years Ayatsuji has known him, Ango is a man that’s rightfully earned where he is today. Which doesn’t exactly surprise him when he’s already on his case after making a request to visit the Special Division’s library, along with asking to be lent cases on ability users that have been contracted with Hanahaki.

“Hanahaki?” Ango echoed over the phone. There’s a pause, as if he were thinking over what to say. What comes out is a question instead, “When do you need them, sensei?”

Ayatsuji knows that Ango has an inkling on why, but he doesn’t press on. “As soon as possible. I’m presuming the Special Division has the files, then?”

“But of course,” There’s the faint noise of tapping keys that fill his ears, and Ango’s voice comes back to the line. “How does tomorrow sound? I’ll be sure to tell Tsujimura-kun to lighten it with the reminders on the report, too.”

True to his word, Tsujimura says nothing as Ayatsuji walks his way to her car, seating himself at the back as they wordlessly drive to the library. Waiting for them at the front is Sakaguchi Ango, who responds to Tsujimura’s bow with a simple bow of his own head. Ango ushers her off with a wave of his palm, indicating that he wants to speak to Ayatsuji alone. While reluctant, she does as asked, and doesn’t seem to complain much when Murakoso and Aoki walk up to them to take her time; the former greeting her with a wide grin, and the latter seeming more resigned, but nonetheless appeared happy to be there.

The moment they enter the library doors, Ango lends Ayatsuji a manila folder, filled with various files. They don’t exchange another word as they find themselves some seats—Ango sitting himself on a desk, immediately burying himself into the laptop he brought with him, and Ayatsuji sitting himself adjacent to him.

“I wouldn’t think someone like you would be infected with Hanahaki,” Ango says towards the silence. Ayatsuji skims through the files lent to him, most information already being known from Kyogoku’s rambling some days ago. It was no shocking matter that Ango had managed to already find out the true reason why Ayatsuji sought out these recorded cases. Perhaps he didn’t want to risk higher-ups learning about his illness? It’s not like they actively listen to each of his phone calls—they would’ve chided him on his doll collecting hobby years ago if they did.

“You’re calling me heartless,” He belatedly replies. Ango doesn’t lift his head from his laptop, his fingers steadily pressing the keys as he responds, “Not at all, sensei. Can I ask how long?”

‘Who is it, then?’ goes unasked. Ayatsuji doesn’t know if he can answer that question if it were, anyway. He instead redirects his attention to the files, closing it with a soft snap that reverberates among the still shelves.

“Two weeks,” He says without missing a beat. “So it’s cured via reciprocating of feelings, or manually done surgery. There's only a handful here recorded that have gone through with the surgery, so the details are not as exemplified as I wanted them to be. I don’t suppose you know a doctor trained in this area?”

Ango knowingly shrugs, “Are you planning on getting the surgery?”

“Just exploring my options,” He lifts his kiseru, gesturing to it with his chin. Ango spots his gesture from his peripheral vision, and gives him an affirmative nod, with a murmured, “Away from any papers, please.” Ayatsuji hums, lighting it as the tobacco fills his petal-covered lungs.

“‘Exploring your options’, you said? Is your current state in the disease an early one, or are you downplaying the symptoms to me, sensei?” Ango couldn't help but ask.

“Former,” He answers. “Perhaps it's the flower. It differs from each victim, apparently it's got something to do with the romantic feelings and the person itself. Do you think I'm downplaying it, Sakaguchi-san?”

He cracks his neck, “You seem to be the sort of person to do so.”

“Oh?” Ayatsuji hums, “Are you saying that I repress my true feelings?”

Ango stares blankly at him as an answer. He opens a palm, then gestures to Ayatsuji, then at the manila folder in his hands. The detective clicks his tongue, “Touché.”

“That's probably the most honest you've ever been with me,” Ango mused. “So, enlighten me. What's your conclusion in reading about the cases in your hands?”

“There’s no records on when or how this phenomena started,” Ayatsuji starts, exhaling smoke through his teeth. “You’d think it was from an ability by how this disease only seems to form with fellow ability users. There’s already so little of them in the world. It only worsens the more you repress it, and if you wait long enough, you die. Such a selfish disease; reciprocate, or someone’s life is in your hands.”

“Are you venting from your own situation, or is this your personal conclusion from the reports?” Ango asks, curious, yet unable to hide his mirth. Ayatsui doesn't reply, and inhales more smoke.

“From what little details these provided, the surgery doesn’t guarantee a safe experience, either. From research, the flowers have ties with the memories of the loved one. Each removed petal not only ensures removing the romantic feelings, but can alter memories with this person involved. There’s even a case here that pinpoints how the ability user practically had selective amnesia because of it.” Ayatsuji slides the manila folder over to Ango, fiddling his kiseru with gloved fingertips.

“Do you want me to contact a doctor, then?” Ango asks, and Ayatsuji waves with the back of his hand. A dismissive motion.

Silence washes over them both once more, the only thing breaking it is Ango’s mind-numbing fingers sliding across his keyboard, and Ayatsuji smoking from his kiseru. Ango takes a glance at Ayatsuji—a man who only sits before him because of the collar seared deep into his throat. Many times he’s bitten the hand that holds his leash, yet none alleviate the chains bound to him. Yet he’s warmed his heart up enough to someone. It doesn’t shock Ango that Ayatsuji would go ahead and repress his feelings, the homicide detective has some issues on his own that need fixing. But in an environment and job such as theirs, he finds himself unable to blame him.

“I’ve had Hanahaki, too, you know,” Ango finds himself admitting, a quiet murmur into the conversation.

Ayatsuji is unable to hold back the bitter laugh that slips through, “Oh? How coincidental.”

Ango shakes his head, exasperated, exhausted, “Indeed. It lasted a few years.”

Ayatsuji tilts his head. “Feed my curiosity, if you would.”

He satiates, as so, “Similar symptoms as yours, from what I know. There’s apparently a third cure to the sickness. Are you aware of it, sensei? I only sit before you because the one I hold dear has long passed. And with it, so did the disease.”

“Are you suggesting I get Tsujimura-kun killed?” He inquires. Sarcastically. Ayatsuji then realizes that he’s revealed to Ango who the cause of his Hanahaki is.

It comes as a slow, yet swift progression: his lips parting, and in a millisecond the kiseru pipe lodged inbetween his teeth loosen from its grip, and the following seconds his eyes squeeze shut beneath his shades in a resigned manner. He’s not meeting Ango’s gaze anymore, his head comically turning to his side ever so slowly. If it weren’t for the sight before him now, he wouldn’t think it was possible for the Special A-Ranked ability user—the notorious, infamous homicide detective himself, Ayatsuji Yukito, to be flustered.

Ango rolls his eyes, “If you are so desperate to cure yourself, who am I to stop you?” There is no real intent behind his words, yet the latter portion of his inquiry remains truthful: do whatever you like.

He sighs in a resigned manner, and continues, “On a more… personal regard, from me to you. Repressing all of… that up only flares the disease. No matter how much you ignore it, it will be there to remind you. I have no qualms in telling you what you should or shouldn't do, but a word of advice: be careful. Treasure it well. You don't know when you'll lose her.”

Ayatsuji clicks his tongue, seeming to regain his snarky composure, “‘When’ is such an indisputable, definite term you used there. Don't go projecting on me now, Sakaguchi-san.”

“So?” The light above them flickers for a blink’s moment, creating a harsh glare over Ango’s glasses. “Knowing this, what will you do about your disease?”

He hums thoughtfully, “Can I take a rain check on that?”

Ango smiles bitterly, “And witness your Hanahaki worsen in due time? What should I tell the higher-ups? The director?”

Ayatsuji uncrosses his legs and stands, before heading for the door and waves at Ango with a dismissive hand, “You’ll come up with something, oh great Sakaguchi-san.”

He drags a palm across his face as he shuts his laptop, “You and your twisted humor, I swear…”

As if he had recalled something, he hums in acknowledgment. “One more thing,” Ayatsuji says, turning back to Ango. “I’ve run out of porcelain clay. Could I have some delivered to my agency? I’ll call you again later, as well, for the list of paint I’m low on.”

Ango sighs, already reaching for his phone, “Expect it by three days’ time.”

Ayatsuji is sanding down the freshly fired porcelain when it hits him that his new doll is reminiscent of Tsujimura.

The Hanahaki had only escalated after his previous coughing fit. He hadn’t realized he’d taken the purple eye suggestion from way back into actual consideration until he’s done sanding and began thinking on how to paint the doll’s face. He makes sure to put the head down carefully this time, and has successfully managed to not break it this time around when he enters yet another coughing fit. A handful of lavender petals are thrown into the nearby bin afterwards.

If anything, Hanahaki is incredibly annoying to deal with. Ayatsuji scowls to himself, knowing it’s only going to worsen. Or it doesn’t have to worsen, and he can confront his feelings head on.

He clicks his tongue.

It’s one in the evening, and he can’t sleep.

He finalizes the sanding on the hands and feet, and gets to attaching the body parts together. Making new plaster molds to have the closest thing to accuracy was another hassle, so he decides to make due with the hundreds of molds he already has. Once he’s done attaching the limbs together, he seats the doll on his lap and grabs a brush.

Painting is not the easiest step, but putting the base colors down is. He grabs the blend of the skin color he’s made earlier—it was hard to get down with the dim lighting in the basement, but he finds it accurate enough. He allows it to dry for some minutes and gathers the paint for the makeup.

Tsujimura doesn’t go overboard with it—just turquoise eyeshadow, sometimes lilac to “switch it up” (he hardly finds logic in that). The turquoise is a blue that matches her hair, and pale pink lipstick. He’ll handle the rest of the details later. Perhaps observing how she reapplies her makeup in her car will prove useful, after all?

He mimics what he recalls her routine to be, from the handful of times he’s seen. Start with the inner eyelid, and stroke outwards, to the other end. Tsujimura has done it hundreds of times, and although she tries to conceal it around him, it’s hard to miss the proud look she has on her face when she applies it just right the first time. He considers adding some lilac to the inner eyelid. He applies just a miniscule and blends it into the turquoise, and finishes with highlights.

Whenever Tsujimura applies her makeup, it’s always the nearest mirror she has on her person, or in her car. But when it comes to lipstick, she almost always uses the hand mirror she keeps in her passenger compartment. Even with such a small mirror, he can see the reflection of her lips. Open her mouth ever so slightly—not too big, but not too small, either. Just the right amount, like a miniature ‘o’ shape. Then, start with the center, and extend to the rest of the lip. Sometimes, she’ll pop the lips and end with a small, satisfied smile.

Ayatsuji closes his lips when he realizes he’s parted them while recounting the process in his head. The basement feels warmer than before.

Emotions have only ever been a hindrance to his line of work.

Ayatsuji has seen it ruin people—victims and co-workers alike. Many times he's witnessed a suspect cling onto their life, monologuing about remorse, or rage, or they spout out whatever last wishes they have as if he'd keep to them. He's seen agents fall, merely watched as their peers panic and grieve and mourn for them. To let your emotions guide you is a guarantee for risk. There are logical patterns when it comes to humans—to explain someone's actions due to emotions is something even he doesn't fully grasp. A detective's mind is their greatest weapon, after all.

It's always why he preferred dolls. Emotions can hinder people's judgment and thinking, and, in turn, their actions. Dolls do not judge, or cry, or scream, or spout whatever emotional nonsense that is fleeting in the turning world. It's why he detached himself from the world, let the whispers and murmurs about his void of a heart slip by.

Yet despite all of that, his heart beats. It beats against lavender-filled lungs, reminding him he's still alive—reminding him of the time slipping by.

Lavandula angustifolia. He thinks, looking at the sink, full of the purple petals. Blood had begun staining itself with his saliva. He swipes his tongue at his teeth, poking around the incisors for petals that have managed to slip itselves in. A habit he’s grown ever since getting Hanahaki.

Lavender. Delicate, serene—healing, purity, a balm for the soul. In religious matters, it offers protection. Connected with life-long devotion.

Lavender, like her eyes.

He taps his finger against the sink. Blood drips itself from his lip and down his chin. A droplet falls onto the once pristine white porcelain sink.

Ayatsuji sees his own reflection staring back at him in the mirror. His teeth are stained with blood. Iron wafts through his nose, adding to his already forming headache.

Hanahaki is such an annoying disease.

“Have you ever been in a relationship, Tsujimura-kun?”

Ayatsuji glances from his seat. There’s an unfamiliar woman standing next to Tsujimura—it’s hard to see her face when her back is facing him, but he's seen her a handful of times. Tsujimura looks confused by the sudden question, but thinks about it anyway.

“Uh,” She stammers out, but clears her throat, and continues. “Yeah? I mean, for a short while in high school, and I had to cut off the one during college because of. Well, getting recruited and all.”

Ayatasuji averts his gaze. A hum is shared in acknowledgment, “I see.”

“W… Why such a question, Murakoso-san?”

“Nothing, nothing! Just curious, is all. Aoki-san kept talking about how he missed his wife during our break, and it bummed me out.”

Tsujimura chuckles in a short, awkward manner. “I see. Was… was that all?”

“Yeah,” The woman pops a bubblegum, and chews it once more. “Couldn’t get Sakaguchi-san out of his desk, so I found you in the downtime. Ya headed out for a case again?”

“Ah, yeah. About to make a drive for Osaka, just finished something up with the director. You?”

“Sakaguchi-san has an errand with the Port Mafia, so we’re headed there in a while.”

Tsujimura nods, opening the door to the driver’s seat. “Alright. I’ll chat with you when I get back?”

The woman nods, and spots Ayatsuji in the backseat. She gives him a simple wave in acknowledgment with a short, cheeky smile. He blinks in return.

When she leaves, he finds himself telling Tsujimura, “I didn’t think work gossip was still a thing in the government.”

“It’s not, just small talk, really, but it’s nice to catch up with co-workers, you know?” Tsujimura meets his gaze at the rearview mirror.

Ayatsuji makes a humming noise. “So you were in a relationship before?”

She stills, rigid as ice. Embarrassment builds itself onto her cheeks as her grip on the steering wheel tightens much more than she’d like. She coughs into her fist, “...I didn’t think you were listening.”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s just co-workers catching up together, after all.” He parrots her words. She groans.

“I mean, I guess.” Tsujimura huffs, “You already know the answer to that if you were listening intently to our conversation.”

“Would you consider getting into one, then?” He finds himself asking. He bites onto his tongue after catching himself.

She tilts her head, “Probably not? I mean, look at my job, sensei, I’m practically glued to you twenty-four-seven.” She chuckled weakly, “But it’s not entirely out of the question? I mean, there are secrets involved, so it’ll definitely not last long. But if I were to ever enter a relationship with anyone regardless of that risk, then that means I know what I’m getting into, and I would’ve loved the person regardless.”

Ayatsuji feels lavenders clogging his throat. He swallows thickly before they have the opportunity to crawl out.

“You’re such a romantic,” He says in a small tone. Tsujimura squawks with, “You asked!”

He opens his mouth to retort back, but a cough manages to ripple itself out. Muffling the sound with his fist does little, because it’s quickly followed by another, and another. His gaze turns away when Tsujimura becomes concerned at the sudden fit. Ayatsuji hears her call him, but he’s too focused on trying not to let any petals slip. He hunches himself over, letting his body rack itself through the fit.

When he’s done, he moves to pocket the bloodied petals into his coat—the one far from Tsujimura’s vision.

“Are you okay, sensei?” Tsujimura asks once he’s calmed down. “You’re not sick, are you? I mean, the weather has been getting colder recently…”

“It’s not the weather,” He restrains his wince at how hoarse his voice sounds. “I’ll be fine. It’ll pass.”

She still hasn’t started the car. She turns to him, and Ayatsuji makes sure to keep the hand containing the bloodied petals hidden from her line of sight. “Sensei, you’ve been coughing a lot more recently this past month. I really don’t want to intrude, but can’t we at least get a check-up? I know the Special Division has contracts involved with certain hospitals around Tokyo, so if it’s your status you’re worried about—”

“Tsujimura-kun,” He says, sternly; a mild warning. She seals her mouth, and her gaze drops from the rearview mirror.

Tsujimura, sunshine-y and stubborn as she might be, is not as oblivious as Ayatsuji wishes her to be. He doesn’t lift his body from its hunched position, dragging his hand across locks of tousled hair as Tsujimura finally starts the car.

It’s only a matter of time until she figures out. She’s an observant woman.

The first thing Ayatsuji sees when opening his sewing kit is a stray strand of red thread left tied in one of his needles.

If he were imbued with the red string of fate, would his situation now be any different? Would the person on the other end still be her? His gaze momentarily flickers to withering lavender petals that have been thrown into the bin weeks ago. The red string doesn’t complicate things—he doesn’t have to play love-me-nots each time he throws up lavenders. Who is he to defy fate, anyway?

He tosses the red thread into the bin, and gets to sewing. He knows what Tsujimura wears to work, it’s the same thing everyday (the doll is already of her likeness, who is he to stop now?). Sometimes, she’ll change up the neck scarf, but she mostly sticks with the blue floral patterned one. He isn’t sure if he’s able to exactly replicate that.

Ayatsuji inserts the dark gray thread into the needle. He sews her cuffed sleeves onto her blazer.

Falling in love at first sight is not a phenomenon Ayatsuji believes in—frankly, he thinks it to be rather nonsensical. He knows he doesn’t fall in love with Tsujimura at first sight, because the first word he thinks of when he meets her for the first time is: nuisance.

He thinks her to be like his previous agents, and is already predicting when she'd grow tired of him. The thought doesn’t leave him as a conscious decision he’s made to himself. Two years later, she’s made her presence known not only in his agency, not only to his job, but into his life. Even back then, to that very first case together at Narwhal Manor.

If he hadn’t offered that they become partners, would she, too, have left after getting the information she needed about her mother? If she hadn’t accepted, would their time together be any different than it was now? If he’d shown her the door that day, would he have been able to avoid getting Hanahaki in the first place?

If he were given the chance to change things, would he?

Ayatsuji thinks, after fitting the blazer on, completing her uniform down to the T; There’s an answer that makes its glare known.

(Now that he thought about it, he's never seen Tsujimura wear any clothing that isn't her usual work attire. She's never had a reason to, anyway. Would she look good in that citron dress he saw from back then?)

Shaking his thoughts away, he places the doll back into its place on the shelf and tidies up for the night.

The government cares less if Ayatsuji is on death’s door, coughing and throwing up lavenders because of unrequited feelings. If his breathing is still intact, so are his chains. Cases are becoming more frequent, getting assigned to him back-to-back. He can’t even breathe (metaphorically and literally, in a sense) after giving Tsujimura a report on the previous case, because the Special Division is knocking down his door and gives him another for him to deal with.

Ayatsuji is not paying any close attention to whatever the director is talking to him about. There’s an ache in his temple that’s annoying him, and he has to restrain the urge to massage it because it’ll look like he’s pissed with the director. His “resting bitch face” (courtesy of an old friend) will not help with whatever defense he’ll come up with. So, he sits there silently with a mild scowl.

When he's given the go-ahead to leave, he does so without question. He turns the knob, ready to search the hallway for Tsujimura, always on standby to be by his side. Sakaguchi Ango greets him on the other side of the door.

“May I speak with you, Ayatsuji-sensei? It's about our rain check from a while back.”

Ayatsuji takes a quick re-evaluation of the hallway. Ango gives him a knowing smile, “Tsujimura-kun is waiting in her car. I won’t take much of your time.”

He leads him to a desolate pateo placed in the backyard of the building. The sun has set behind Tokyo's cityscapes, and Ayatsuji lights his kiseru pipe next to a placard that has “NO SMOKING” written in big bold kanji. Ango looks at him with a disapproving stare, but instead dignifies his comment with a mere sigh.

“Can I have my answer now?” He asks, standing adjacent to him.

Ayatsuji places his kiseru against his lips as he murmurs, “I think you know it, don't you?”

Ango shakes his head, almost in a fond manner, “Do you think of me that highly, or do you not wish to verbalize it?”

Ayatsuji scoffs, a huff of smoke escaping him. “What are you, my therapist?”

“You don't have one.” Ango pointedly replies, before raising the clipboard lodged inbetween his arm and shows him the file clipped at the front, “Here's the record of a doctor we have, has experience in Hanahaki removal. She's a doctor situated in Yokohama.”

Ayatsuji only stares at the record, making no moves of taking the file. Ango takes the hint, lowering it with a barely there, bemused smile. “That's my answer, then. Should I send my goodbyes?”

“You have such twisted humor, Sakaguchi-san. Yet you chastise me for mine.” He replies with a sigh full of smoke, the tobacco wafting narrowly through lavender-filled lungs.

He muses, “Well, what else are your plans?”

Ayatsuji gives him a pointed look, “Let Tsujimura-kun figure it out, first.”

Ango gives him a look of mild disbelief, “Was her being the cause of the disease not enough for you, sensei?”

He does a half-shrug with his shoulder, “She’s a smart woman. I’m not going to dump it all onto her so suddenly. If she manages to find out before I’m dead, then so be it.”

“‘So be it’?”

“Keep the doctor’s contact at arm’s reach.” Ayatsuji tells him, an uncharacteristic stillness in his stern tone, “I’ve no medical background, but I still would appreciate it if my memory is intact afterward.”

Ango raises his brows, as if he were processing his words. Then, a shake of his head, presumably in a resigned manner. “Maybe I’ve underestimated you, sensei.” He murmurs, then in a quieter tone, “I would still like for you to keep my words from back then in mind, however.”

Ayatsuji pulls out bloodied lavenders he's been hiding in his coat pocket. He tosses it into the bin placed next to the pole he’s leaning on.

“I know what this means. I know what I'm getting into.” He says. His voice sounds oddly distant to his ears.

He catches on, “And if you don’t? What will I make of you, then?”

“I’ve been here long enough. I know how you all run.” Ayatsuji takes another intake of smoke, “I have faith she’ll figure it out, eventually. You should, too.”

Ango sighs, exhaustion from the days seeping in. “It's getting late…”

Ayatsuji hums, “It's six in the evening, Sakaguchi-san. Maybe you should stop pulling all nighters.”

Tsujimura, on occasion, takes the occasion to nap on one of his rattan chairs on their slow days.

He doesn't comment on those times much, allowing her to do her thing. She isn't the snoring type when sleeping (not that he's seen, anyway), so he allows her to rest. It's much more preferable than to hear her nagging him to finish his report. She coincidentally wakes up when she needs to make the cue to leave every time, anyway, so he never makes the move to wake her. Not when she looks so at peace, like the weight of her expectations is off her shoulders.

Rays of dawn seep through his curtains, creating an orange, ambient glow in his office. His black cat has rested herself into a loaf comfortably under the light, her fur turning into a soft brown from the sun. His calico cat, on the other hand, naps comfortably next to Tsujimura. Her purrs are in sync with the rise and fall of Tsujimura's breathing. Tsujimura's arm is wrapped securely around her. He'd always remembered his cats to be extremely fond of her presence.

Loose strands of her hair have fallen onto her face. As tight and secure she makes her bun to be, it always seems to loosen itself after a long day. Ayatsuji lowers his pen, and walks over. Delicate fingers brush against her bangs to tuck the loose strands behind her ear—meticulous, feather-like.

When he brushes through stray strands, he mentally notes to himself—soft, with a natural wave to them. Perhaps it’s an unconscious, selfish notion, but his fingers trail down the strands and his knuckles brush against her cheek. Ayatsuji makes sure to withdraw his hand immediately when her eyelashes flutter, and she stirs ever so slightly from the motion. He swallows down the building bile of lavenders yet again. Neither of them bring it up

He doesn't know what makes him succumb to requesting an order of mint teal doll hair that very same night, late in the hour. He doesn't know who he's fooling, when he mindlessly orders other variations of accessories and clothing he already has stored for his other dolls. Perhaps he's trying to convince himself that he hasn't gone mad.

Tsujimura mirrors the confused look he gives her when she walks in the office a few days later with a sealed cardboard box.

“You have a delivery,” She pointedly tells him, raising the box a bit for further emphasis. “Sakaguchi-senpai received it earlier, told me to give it to you.”

He doesn't listen to the rest of her rambling words when she places the box down on his desk (something along the lines of his ability to request her boss for his groceries instead, and not have her fetch it for him like a maid). His eyes scan over it, trying to recall whatever he had requested of Ango for the past week. No favors to fulfill from prior cases, his request for tobacco leaves isn't due until the end of the month—perhaps something with his dolls? It was more likely.

A vague reminder of the night before yesterday revisits his mind, and his hand stops before it could even brush against the carton—as if it would burn him. Seeming to sense his frozen stature, Tsujimura breaks out of her rambling and pesters him about it.

“Sensei? What's inside?” She asks, “Is it fragile? Related to the case you're working on? I can help open it, if—”

“Brew me a coffee,” He manages to utter out, more quietly than he'd prefer, “you know how I like it.”

Without further clarification towards her, he grabs the box and makes a swift turn towards the staircase leading to his basement. His calico cat rouses from its slumber with a yawn as Tsujimura guffaws at his sudden retreat.

“I'll be right back,” Ayatsuji called out, not wanting further ruckus, “stay put while I store this away.”

“Do you want a coffee or not?!” Tsujimura squawks out, apologizing towards his cat shortly after when she makes a long, exasperated meow her way right after her retort.

Lavenders fight to crawl out of his throat, and he only lets himself fall into another coughing fit after placing the box down on his studio table. He muffles the fit into his elbow. He spits out the remaining petals stuck in his mouth into the nearby bin, grimacing at the blood and spit staining them.

He feels a migraine forming at the recesses of his temples. Ignoring the aching feeling, he searches around his drawers for his boxcutter (leftmost drawer, he reminds himself), and without a second thought, stabs the boxcutter into the cardboard.

The motion is swift and sharp, and he has to stand there for just a moment to recollect himself. Ayatsuji pinches the bridge of his nose, regaining his breathing. Six, in. Hold. Eight, out.

He exhales.

His grip on the handle tightens, and he drags it across the seal. The sound echoes throughout the dim basement, like a swing of a knife across a victim's body. He places the boxcutter down once he's done.

Ayatsuji takes one peak and slams the lid back in its place when he catches a single glimpse of teal. It doesn't lead to much, the covers denting inside of the box itself from his actions, and in fact, he could see much more of the teal color than he previously did. A silent curse escapes his way as he drags a palm across his face.

He never should've ordered this.

Grabbing the box, he walks to the closet containing all of his supplies his dolls will ever need—and promptly shoves the box at the back, covering it with some spare cotton cloth and placing his sewing kit on top, as if it would seal it completely from existence. With this, he would only have to be reminded that he impulsively ordered mint teal doll hair. That way, he'll never have to make use of it, let alone see it ever again.

His chest tightens, and he scowls at yet another round of petals flaring through his lungs and up his throat. He feels faint. The migraine worsens.

Ayatsuji returns to his office after coughing out another handful of lavender. Tsujimura is leaning over the trash bin placed underneath his desk with a puzzled look. She only straightens her posture when she spots him returning from the corner of her eye.

“You should take it easy,” Tsujimura tells him. “So… do you still want that coffee, or no?”

He doesn't give her a worded answer. Briefly, he considers telling her. He doesn't know what he wants to tell. He immediately rejects the idea the moment it comes up in his head.

“If I’d known Hanahaki would be the disease to take you out, I would’ve targeted your assistant from the very beginning.”

Ayatsuji raises his head from his novel, if only to glare at the apparition that manifested himself before him.

Kyogoku only cackles at the sight, “Oh, such a harsh reaction! You take things too literally. I wouldn’t have been able to get even a finger on your dear Tsujimura anyhow!”

“I really wish you weren’t dead sometimes, if not so I could kill you with my own hands.” He mumbles, placing the bookmark in as he closes the novel.

A pleased grin makes itself known on the apparition’s wrinkled face, “Bringing me down with you, eh? That does seem like your style. You know what isn't, Ayatsuji-sensei? Lingering around to see what happens—beating around the bush.”

“I am not having this conversation again,” Ayatsuji murmurs with a groan. Kyogoku shrugs with his arms crossed beneath his tattered kimono, “If you truly wish to avoid the matter, then you really shouldn't let such miniscule matters kill you.”

“It will, and in case your age is betraying your memory, you bastard, I'll refresh it for you.”

Ayatsuji kicks the bin underneath his desk to enter Kyogoku's vision. Inside is a handful of tissues and lavender petals—bloodied and wilting. A jumbled variation of petals from weeks and months ago, to recent days.

Kyogoku chuckles in that annoying condescending manner that makes Ayatsuji want to strangle him, “Oh, no, no, sensei. I remember quite well—vividly, in fact. Your worsening state these past few weeks does its job of reminding me, anyhow. You always did seem to be the type to repress your emotions. I'm surprised it only took up until now to form. You always had such a fondness for her, even from your first case together.”

“Since what—” Ayatsuji stammers out, before catching himself as he clears his throat with an irate sigh, “you are getting a twisted kick out of this.”

“I truly am! It's not very often I see you scared, so I delight in it as much as I can,” cackled the apparition.

Whatever retort dies at the back of his throat. Ayatsuji swallows back climbing lavender that stains his throat, and chokes out a faint “what?”

“Hm?”

“I'm not scared.”

Kyogoku tilts his head, “Well, that's why you've been prancing around the disease for this long, haven't you? What else could it be?”

Ayatsuji’s mouth purses itself into a thin line, and seems to stare off with narrowed eyes into a distance far away from where Kyogoku floats before him. He appears to catch on immediately with his thought process, because a bemused smirk crawls itself onto his face.

“What, you haven't figured it out yourself, sensei? It seems I've bested you once again, fufu. It's not a case you're solving, nor is it one you're lending to your dear assistant, is it? You prance like a frenzied child, waiting it out. But you can't, remember, sensei? That Hanahaki disease is taking its toll. The blood mixing itself in with the petals is a critical indicator. It's been a couple of weeks since that started, hasn't it?

“To think that even the cold, ruthless homicide detective can, too, feel the sorrows of pining… ah, how tragic. To know that even you would succumb to the matters of the heart. You can't live that intimate domestic life. You've locked your heart and all of its matters away the moment you've accepted her offer. Yet you can't last a day without her, and here you are, stuck on what to do, what to do. Confessing is truly the easy way out, but do you wish to bring that burden onto her?”

His smile turns into a mockingly wicked one, a glint in his eye Ayatsuji does not want to decipher, "All you'd do is stain her like you've stained the many, many lives you've taken. Stain her like how others' stares burn into your very skin. Would she, too, live long enough to be like them? To come to her senses and turn her back on you? Or befall herself into fulfilling her duties, leaving you with the irrevocable remorse of letting her waltz into your life—”

“Gods, you talk way too much.” Ayatsuji scowled, sending a heated glare towards the apparition's way, “You really think it's that easy, don't you, you hag?”

It's enough to make him shut up, and Ayatsuji has to remind himself to breathe. Slouching his back on his seat, he adds with a faint mumble, “It's enough that I have her by my side. If I die choking on that fact, so be it.”

“Your words remind me of a tragic Shakespearean love play, sensei,” Kyogoku muses into the silence that follows. Ayatsuji pinches the bridge of his nose, and replies in a tired, yet equally venomous tone, “I really want to snap your neck right now.”

Ayatsuji wakes up at exactly two o’ clock in the morning.

It's not ‘waking up’ per se, he never managed to sleep in the first place. His feet meet the cold planks of his bedroom as he makes his way for the bathroom. A scowl is engraved as he opens the toilet seat with a slam, hunches over, and he scrunches his face as he coughs and coughs and coughs.

It's ineffective, the bile unmoving, and it irritates him further. Ayatsuji resorts to kneeling as he heaves, and he knows it's there, the wretched petals mocking him, clogging his throat. His hands latch onto the seat and he takes a sharp intake of breath, and tries again.

His dried heaving echo throughout the empty bathroom, ringing in his ears. The repeated motion causes his vision to blur, and he is unaware of how much time has passed until he finally feels the faint taste of lavender seeping at the back of his throat.

Ayatsuji rests his forehead on the toilet seat once he's done, a mixture of blood and spit dripping down his chin and onto the floor. Another migraine forms. His throat feels unbearably dry. There are petals stuck inbetween his teeth and underneath his tongue. He feels unbearably dizzy.

With slow, yet long, languid steps, he hoists himself up and flush away any evidence of petals. His feet bring him to his kitchen. His hands grasp a bottle of wine and a shot glass from the high shelves. His feet drag him to the dining table.

Drinking is not an occasion he frequents. He doesn't know what part of him brought him to grab a bottle.

Ayatsuji thinks, such a miserable act.

He pours himself a shot, and downs it in one go. The pain that follows in his throat stings, but it's grounding. A familiar burn. He takes his kiseru pipe and lights it, ignoring how his breath falters as he sighs out the smoke, ignoring how his vision blurs. The motions repeat into the passing minutes. Another bile of lavender makes itself known in his clenching chest.

He’s a mess. He needs to think.

Ayatsuji finds himself standing, grabbing tightly on the edge of the desk before he loses his balance. His calico cat resting by his foot meows in protest at his sudden decision, before shortly returning to napping. He doesn't know when she'd gotten there. His black cat resting on the kitchen counter tilts its head at him when he makes brief eye contact with it.

He stumbles down the stairs to the basement, makes his way to the closet at the end of his studio. The doors open with a harsh rattle. His hands search its shelves and drawers, pushing aside supplies he doesn't bother recognizing. The damned box reveals itself from beneath his sewing kit.

With shaky, unstable fingers (he blames it on the alcohol), he opens the lid. Inside unsurprisingly reveals sealed plastic with the mint teal doll hair he ordered a week ago. It stares at him, mockingly. He caves in.

Ayatsuji tosses the sealed plastic onto his desk, rolling up his eyes to briefly meet the ceiling. His steps are misaligned, he shakes his head to control himself. He sits himself down, grabs his apron and ties it around the waist.

He styles the hair like how she usually styles it. Parts it to the left, separates the front to work on the bangs, leaves some curlers in to match the wavy look, ties the back portion into a messy bun that she never seems to get neat, no matter how hard she tries.

He's never seen her with her hair down. His fingers jitter to a stop at the realization. He finds himself imagining the sight. The fingers laced into working on her bun tighten ever so slightly, and his face burns. It's the alcohol, he lies pathetically to himself.

When he glues the hair on its scalp, he does a once over of the doll. As it faces him, golden eyes meet painted lavender ones. Briefly, he thinks its smiling at him in a mocking manner. Ayatsuji feels the exhaustion seeping in.

He lays it on its back on the table, reminding himself to store it away in the cabinets tomorrow.

He rarely dreams, if at all.

Yet greeting him amidst the cruel palace of his mind is mint teal hair and lavender eyes, and a voice that has long since entranced him with its song. Her hands hold him so near, so tender, unafraid of the stain seared into his being for years to come. Her smile blinds him so—how he yearns to see that smile for the rest of his miserable days.

Ayatsuji wakes the next morning, wiping away a stray tear from his eye. He blames it on his killer hangover when Tsujimura notices his bleary appearance and asks what's wrong.

Of course she doesn't buy it, but she doesn't press any further, and he's relieved. He'd rather she walked out the door and never see him again than find out it was all because of her. Ayatsuji prays that day never comes.

Tsujimura drives Ayatsuji back to his agency at the end of the day, having just wrapped up another case. When she parks the car, she opens his door for him, and doesn't pry when he doesn't make his usual comment about her being so polite. Rather, he doesn't acknowledge her at all, seeming to be in a distant state of mind. Her concern is palpable and extremely evident all over her face, anyhow.

The moment Tsujimura opens his front door for him, a faint rumbling makes itself known, and he jitters to a stop.

Tsujimura's face flushes a pretty light pink, turning her head to the side as if it would help hide her embarrassment. Ayatsuji, seeming to snap out of his distant state, takes it upon himself to drive her embarrassment even further.

“You didn't eat,” He blatantly points out. The blush on her face worsens, and her gaze lowers to the ground.

“I had a heavy lunch with Sakaguchi-senpai earlier,” She tries to excuse. Her stomach disagrees with another faint rumble. Tsujimura slumps her shoulders.

Ayatsuji shakes his head, walking alongside her to the office. When they get there, he places his cap down onto his desk and turns to her while shrugging his coat off.

“How do you feel about curry?”

Tsujimura faces him, wearing a blank, confused expression. He raises a brow, waiting for her answer. She catches on, and her blush only seems to darken, if that were humanly possible.

“I-It’s fine, sensei, really, I can just order takeout—”

“I have leftovers left in the fridge from last night,” Ayatsuji interrupts, hanging his coat over his chair and makes his way to the kitchen all the while not meeting her gaze.

Tsujimura stands, stupefied, watching as he ties an apron on. A handful of minutes pass, and she notes that he doesn’t open the fridge. If he did, it wasn't tupperware that contained already cooked curry that was in his hands. Her embarrassment worsens even more as a realization makes itself known—he's making her a meal from scratch.

She thinks about helping him, guilty at the notion that Ayatsuji, of all people, felt pity on her and cooked her dinner. As if he could read her mind, he glances towards her direction with a half-hearted glare burning from his eyes. It doesn’t hold as much heat as his usual glares, but it effectively makes Tsujimura stay put.

“Do you like your curry spicy?” He asks from the kitchen. It makes her flinch for just a moment, but she fiddles with her gloved fingers as she sheepishly answers, “N-No, thank you.”

Ayatsuji answers with a single hum and leaves it at that.

“Grab us plates, won't you?” He calls from the kitchen. Tsujimura makes a trek for his kitchen and grabs two plates and separate sets of utensils, and she resists the urge to salivate at the smell of curry wafting through her nose.

Seeing the sparkle in her eyes, Ayatsuji says in a joking manner, “Do leave some for me.”

“I wasn't gonna hog it all to myself!” Tsujimura retorts. She shoves his plate and towards him, and he is unable to hide the amused smirk that makes its way to his face at the notion.

She portions the curry evenly, and sits next to Ayatsuji. As if asking for permission to eat, she glances at him without a word. Ayatsuji raises a brow, before gesturing at her plate as an answer. With a clasp of her hands and a murmured itadakimasu, she grabs a spoonful and chews. Immediately, Tsujimura lights up.

“Sho good…” She moans through a mouthful of curry. Ayatsuji is unable to hide his pleased smile, and reminds her, “Mouth, Tsujimura-kun.”

Her hunger has gotten the best of her, for moments later, she grabs another spoonful. Ayatsuji sighs at how she doesn't slow herself down, its effects evident—the soup has stained itself at the corner of her mouth.

He reaches out a hand, cupping her left cheek. Mindlessly, he swipes the sauce away with his thumb. Some of her lipstick smudges itself along with it.

Ayatsuji thinks, her lipstick is different today. It tends to be on the paler shade.

A warmth creeps itself back onto her face and seeps onto his palm, snapping him awake from his thoughts with a blink, then another. His eyes meet hers, wide, shocked. Her lips part with a mild twitch as she tries to stammer out something, a sentence, a sound, anything, and his hand is still cupping her jaw.

Ayatsuji catches himself, retreating his hand far quicker than he'd like the moment he feels his throat constricting.

“Has anyone ever taught you proper eating manners? To think a government agent would have the table mannerisms of a child,” He instead chides, trying to calm his racing mind. The hand that cupped her jaw shakes numbly. He hides it behind his figure, concealing it beneath the table. The petals fight to crawl itself out of his throat, and he swallows thickly, hoping it at the very least postpones his coughing fit.

“I do not have!—” Tsujimura starts to defend, but bites the inside of her cheek, letting the words die on her tongue. She pouts, finishing the rest of the curry. Eating seems to have lightened her mood, because she hums appreciatively and takes another bite, drowning herself in the delicious meal.

Ayatsuji rests a cheek on his palm as his gaze washes over her humming. It's turned into one of the songs he's heard being played from her car radio. He surmises it to be out of tune than what he's heard. The petals in his lungs calm itselves down.

“You cook way too well, sensei.” Tsujimura remarks after a short while of chewing. Ayatsuji raises a brow, “Is that a compliment?”

She guffaws, “Of course it is! Why wouldn't it be?”

He'd shrug a shoulder in reply. “Thought you'd be looking down on me.”

“Honest!” Tsujimura defends, seeming genuine with her words, "Where'd you even learn to cook so well?”

He gives her a lopsided smirk, “What, you expect me to teach you?”

“I can cook!” She defends, before sheepishly adding, “Decently… Just curious, is all.”

Ayatsuji rolls his eyes. His smirk has mellowed into a small, barely there smile. “Go and eat your food. It'll grow cold.”

“Ah, right.” Tsujimura murmurs, before bowing her head ever so slightly towards him. “Thank you for the meal, sensei. You really shouldn't have.”

His brows arch at the action. He blinks once, twice, before shaking his head.

“Eat your food,” he repeats underneath his breath, although audible enough for her to hear. The temperature in the room has gotten warmer.

Tsujimura has raised her head now, her mouth opened in the way she's about to retort back once again, when the sound of glass shattering reaches their ears.

Ayatsuji directs his eyes to the source: below. The basement.

“Ah, I'll go and check,” ever the diligent agent, Tsujimura pushes her plate away (half-eaten, she hadn't even touched her drink) and begins to stand, when Ayatsuji immediately rises to his feet. He pays no attention to her calls towards him as his feet drag him to the basement door.

Sharp eyes scour over the room once he's descended down the stairs. His dolls remain seated in their usual spots. Not a single speck of dust nor dirt. None of the porcelain ones, then. Ayatsuji’s head turns to the glass cases he's put up. They're all in place. He makes a quick count by five. They're all in place, he reaffirms.

He recalls he's been given an extra one out of mistake. A meow by his foot snaps his eyes to the ground—shards and chunks of glass not too far from his studio, originating underneath the table. His black cat rubs its head against the hem of his pats, as if it were apologizing.

“Oh, gods, oh no, let me—” Tsujimura stammers from behind him, and her arms reach out from below. Her gloved hands scoop up the cat, and she meows appreciatively at the action. “Steady, steady, careful…” She coos, rubbing her behind her ear, earning a satisfied purr in reply.

Ayatsuji's eyes do not leave the pieces of shattered glass, once a pristine case to inhabit a doll.

His mind halts. Did he ever put that doll back?

“I'll clean it up,” Tsujimura offers, before ungracefully placing the black cat into his arms, receiving a protestant meow. “Oh, that's such a mess… where did you keep the broom again, sensei?”

She doesn't wait for an answer, and steps into the studio. Her eyes scour the sides of the wardrobe, before muttering about the possible locations of his cleaning supplies, before her eyes stop onto something on the ground. Something amidst the glass chunks. Curious, she crouches, and reaches, and her eyes widen, and she stands, and—

Petals pile and build and scratch at his throat.

“This…” Tsujimura murmurs, disbelief lacing itself into her words and body, “this is…”

In her gloved hands hold a small, porcelain doll. Around a foot and a half long. Her own eyes stare into the doll's lavender painted ones—a miniature of her very being.

He'd forgotten to put it back into the cabinets. A careless, irresponsible mistake.

Ayatsuji breathes in, and out. Steady, calm. Six, in. Hold. Eight, out.

His lungs remain constricted amidst his seemingly stable voice. “Are you going to just stand there? Move aside, at least. You'll scratch yourself on the glass.”

“Sensei, what…” Tsujimura stammers, then raises the doll more, as if he hadn't seen it the first time, “this is— this is a doll of me.”

Ayatsuji has seen that doll far too many times, he knows what it looks like. “Good to know your eyes are still functioning. Can you put it down, now? You'll make even more of a mess with the glass around you.”

She is relentless, pursing her lips into a thin line before extending her arm out, bringing the doll closer, closer. “Why do you have a doll of me?”

“Tsujimura-kun,” He says, and it's not in a plea, but a demand, because he hadn't planned for this, “put that back where you found it.”

“You're avoiding the question.” She asserts, her brows scrunched together. She's walking towards him now, stopping just a step away from him. “Why do you have a doll of me? I'm certain you didn't have this made. When did… how long… when did you start…”

Her words are melding together, and no matter how many frequent sixes he reaches, no matter how many eights he holds onto—like his throat, his mind is ablaze. His eyes are burning daggers onto the doll, unable to meet her gaze (funny, he hasn't had that problem in years).

“Isn’t it obvious?” He utters out, his voice feeling awfully far, and before he can stop himself, it spills out, "Do I really have to explain it to you?”

“I need to know what—”

“Is your head so full of air that you haven't picked it up these past few months? You couldn't connect the dots at all? Not even the slightest clue?” Ayatsuji blurts out. It's truly a pathetic sight—he’d always been so good with his words. Yet he stands before a bewildered Tsujimura, for he is unable to structure even the most pitiful white lie about her.

Her voice falters, “Sensei, what—”

“Put that down,” he orders, his voice feeling awfully far from his own ears.

Ayatsuji cannot see firsthand what Tsujimura's face is, but he can make a close guess from the two years he's spent day by day by her side: her mouth's opened into an awkward shape, trying to find words to gather and say. She would then proceed to close it, and hang her head low in defeat; perhaps the arm with the doll in it, too. From his peripheral vision he can see her hands ball into resigned fists. She'd then snap her head to the side, accepting her loss in the moment.

She does as told. Her heels turn and walk away from him. With a faint and soft thud, he'd surmised she'd placed the doll back on the desk.

While gulping down lavender petals, he chokes out, “Go home, Tsujimura-kun.”

There is a momentary pause before her heels echo mockingly throughout the cold basement, sounding more distant with each one. It stops for a handful of seconds, around the door. She's probably looking back at him for some form of answer, a goodbye, a word, anything, and Ayatsuji refuses to look at her throughout.

Her heels continue their trek, until he hears the familiar shut of his office door, faint in the hollows of the basement.

Ayatsuji walks over to his desk and grabs ahold of the doll. Painted lavender eyes stare back at him, as if it were doing so in a sneering manner.

He never should've made this.

When he returns upstairs, he cleans up the table, ignoring how his own portion of the meal have been left untouched.

That very night, Ayatsuji throws up handfuls of lavender. His migraine worsens. He forces himself to vomit out more petals when he feels his throat tighten once more, yet all that comes out is a pathetic, choked sob.

Ayatsuji is well aware of his standing. The government makes that fact well-known, is always sure to remind him of it—his limited freedom, the snipers specifically designated to blow his skulls out, the letters demanding his execution, the cases that pile up along with the body count.

Blood has long stained his hands, the ground he walks on. Another pricks at his skin, crackles at each guilty count he declares. It looms over him, bores itself into his very being. Muddying his life, his very fate, sealing him onto a path destined for solitude and death.

For over twenty years, Ayatsuji has seen countless people fall because of him. For twenty years, he's seen bitterness and anger and how dirty humanity is. He has long since accepted this path, knowing the consequences if he were to ever divert from it. The path is one destined for him to tread alone, and by treading it, he loses everything.

He's lost far too much. A selfish, cowardly part of him doesn't want to lose Tsujimura, too.

His legs feel unbearably heavy, yet Ayatsuji lifts them off the bed anyway. His throat is irritatingly dry, and another headache has done the pleasantries of greeting him a good morning. He drags a palm across his bleary face. He's still in yesterday's clothes. They stick to his skin like pin pricks digging into his flesh, dragging and brushing against it that worsens his already annoying headache.

Ayatsuji drags himself out of bed. He feels his hand around his area to know where he's at, his eyes too heavy to open. Did he drink last night? Only his hangovers can cause him to be unbearably groggy.

God, his head hurts.

He pulls himself to the closet. His hand shuffles around for a new shirt. He tosses the old one into the laundry. What time is it? It seems unbearably early, but the sun is already there. He should wash his face, his skin feels so sticky. A clammy hand runs across his hair, locks tangled together. He’s too tired to brush it properly. The light stings, where the hell are his glasses? Did he leave them in the office last night? For gods sake, it’s too early for this.

A groan escapes him. His cats, having slept next to his bedside, follow behind him as he drags himself to his office.

It’s practically seven in the morning, how is it this hot already? He drags his hand across his face again, lowers it to tug at his collar. It clams and scratches at his sweaty skin. Ayatsuji reaches his desk, clamoring around the drawers to find his glasses. There are stars in his vision, he feels uncontrollably faint. Did he eat last night? Did he eat at all yesterday? His throat is dry, he needs water, and the light is still stinging his eyes, and he can’t find his fucking glasses.

With a sharp intake of breath, his eyes narrow to at least try and decipher the time shown on his grandfather clock. Tsujimura is seven minutes late. Did her boss scold her again? Did last night bother her that much? Did she decide to leave, after all?

His throat is dry. He clears his throat, which was a mistake, because he’s made his body know the presence of lingering lavender petals at the back of his throat. The cherry on top for his condition today. Wonderful. He loves having to repress his feelings. His head is being such a bitch, and the faint feeling is only heightening. The stars are increasing. Where the hell are his glasses?

Ayatsuji clicks his tongue, slams a drawer shut. He moves to get a glass of water from the kitchen. His vision fails him, and he falls.

The stars have lessened when he regains control of his body, but he doesn’t have the strength to open his eyes. His side hurts, and he winces at the pain rushing through from it. Did he hit himself on the sharp corner? He should’ve made that order of styrofoam corner guards months ago. Ayatsuji feels around, and finds the edge of his desk, and he tries to stand with his shaky grip. The petals at the back of his throat remind him that they’re there, because the moment he finds his balance, he immediately hunches over his desk and hurls.

There’s a sound of heels rushing to get to his side, and an arm is slung over his shoulder. When did Tsujimura get in?

“...sei… Sensei?! Sensei! What on earth— are you alright?!”

Her voice pierces through him amid his splitting migraine, but it still causes him to scrunch his face in a discomforting manner. “How about you use basic observation skills, Tsujimura-kun—”

Ayatsuji’s coughing interrupts his words. He chokes on petals and spits them onto his desk, blood and all. He cares less if Tsujimura knows now. He’s more hooked on the fact that she doesn’t have a probable clue after all this time, anyway.

“W… wha… okay, okay, here, let me carry you.”

His arm is slung over her shoulders, and he limply follows her guide as she walks him to the kitchen. He presumes she’s led him to the sink, because he feels a gloved hand in the middle of his back urging him to hunch over. He’s too weak to protest, and does as told. With a sharp, shaky breath, he hurls, and hurls, and it’s the only sound he hears in the minutes that only ever seem to drag on. Petals leave him, iron mixing in with his spit as he heaves and pulls and vomits.

Ayatsuji stops when he’s heaving onto dry, humid air. A couple of seconds pass, and he uses his arms to balance himself on the counter. The hand placed on his back leaves, and he hears her heels rummage around the kitchen shelves. His vision returns after a handful of minutes, the stars lessening, but his head is as relenting as always.

Tsujimura lowers a glass of water to enter his field of vision. A silent offer. He doesn’t make any moves to grab it.

“Sensei, drink.” She tells him, gently. When he doesn’t relent, he hears an irate sigh from his right.

With her free hand, Tsujimura grabs his jaw and forces him upwards, meeting her face. Her brows are furrowed, and she’s biting the inside of her cheek. She presses the glass to his lips, the water staining the dry skin.

Ayatsuji averts his gaze away from her eyes. Is the weather really this hot at this hour of the day?

Begrudgingly, he wraps his fingers around the cool glass, and drinks. He manages to only finish half. Her shoulders seem to slack at the action. She’ll take it.

Tsujimura grabbed a spare cloth and got a handful of ice cubes from his freezer, wrapping it together. Wordlessly, she helps him back to the couch in his office. She lays him down, his head resting on the armrest. She walks around for a bit, and flicks a switch, dimming the lights. She walks over to his desk, where the window is, and seals the curtains shut. Even sealed, the sunlight still makes way, lighting the room up one way or another, if only a bit dimmer.

When she’s done, she walks back over to him, rag still in hand. She lifts it and drags it across his neck, earning a wince from the temperature.

“Sorry,” She murmurs sheepishly, and continues it anyway, earning another wince. She drags it away from his neck once she’s done, and before Ayatsuji could muster a worded reply, Tsujimura places it against his cheek.

“Eugh, what the—”

“Sorry, sorry,” Tsujimura apologizes, before adding, “close your eyes real quick.”

Ayatsuji mutters an incoherent protestant grumble. He closes his eyes, and resists the urge to wince once more when she drags the cold rag against his face. She presses into corners, reaching below his ears, and wipes away at his neck once more. She pulls away once she’s done, and reaches for his hands, and Ayatsuji has to mentally scold himself for blacking out just for a moment from the action because all she’s doing is place the rag into his hands.

“Put that on your head,” She tells him. He does as told. Now that his vision has cleared up just a bit, he can see that Tsujimura’s sat on the other end of the couch. There’s a moment of silence before she breaks it once more.

“How long?” Tsujimura asks, meekly.

Ayatsuji hums, “Was you fussing over me the entire time just to get me to talk?”

“Sensei,” she sighed. He crosses one leg over the other, before deciding to amuse her, “The pining or the disease?”

“Sensei.”

He sighs, letting his head hang back as the coolness of the rag washes over him. “Do you want to know?” He asks in return, and he sounds awfully quieter than before. His headache seems to have lessened, anyhow

He hears a groan from the other end of the couch, “Ugh, listen, I— I thought about it. About last night. I mean, I had… suspicions for some weeks now? I was… I was wondering where you were getting lavenders from, your bin is awfully full of them, and… look, last night confirmed some things. It’s me, isn’t it?” She’s fiddling with the edges of her sleeves now, “I mean… why else would you make a doll of me? I know how much you like them, so… so I thought, maybe it was your way of dealing with your feelings?”

Ayatsuji doesn’t reply immediately, doesn't have it in him to see her face. He sighs, and murmurs, “Well, aren’t you such a high-thinker about yourself.”

He doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s annoyed. “Please don’t crack jokes right now, sensei.”

“‘m not.”

“Be honest, then.”

She’s insinuating he hasn’t been. He has to face that fact each time he’s forced to throw up lavender, the petals mocking him each time they make themselves known.

“...Narwhal Manor.”

“Narwhal Manor—” Tsujimura guffawed, unable to hide her shock, “you’ve been hiding the disease from me for two years?!”

Ayatsuji manages the strength to lift his head and narrow his eyes at her, “The first one, you idiot.”

“The huh—?” She utters, before her head racks through their conversation, and she recalls his earlier joking question. The screws and cogs in her head clicked together, and her eyes widened. “...Oh. Oh.”

He can’t believe himself, either.

“Disease, I’d say… a couple of months.”

The bewilderment on her face only worsens, “You can’t be serious—”

“Let me finish.” Ayatsuji knows that he’s kept her in the dark for too long, and if he doesn’t explain himself now, he doesn’t know when else he’ll be able to. “You still haven’t clued it together?

“You have tortured me since the beginning, leeching onto me like a parasite. It was so easy, at first, I would’ve expected you to leave anyhow, but you are stubborn— irrevocably, irritatingly stubborn. Even when you aren’t here, I long for you. Don’t you know how nettlesome that is? Two years, for two years you’ve haunted me, and I don’t even fight it. Day in and out you’ve haunted me, and I am an idiot for lingering, for letting this fester into something more. Don’t you know how much of an impact you’ve made on me? Don’t you know how every night, these past few months, I have thrown up lavender because of you?”

He’s wording it like it’s her fault. He doesn’t want her to think that. It was never her fault. It was never a bad thing. His stupid feelings just turned into something more, something that threatened the comfortability he has with her now.

Catching himself, Ayatsuji clarifies, in a quieter voice, “It’s not your fault. It’s not a bad thing. I’ve known about this for a long while now. It just… manifested into Hanahaki.”

“I… I know of Hanahaki,” Tsujimura finds her voice, unable to meet his gaze. “I heard about it around the Special Division. I think I overheard Sakaguchi-senpai talk about it a few times. It’s a government secret, apparently files of it are stored in one of the Special Division libraries. But I never knew the specifics. I never— I didn’t… I wouldn’t think I’d cause…”

Ayatsuji sighs, “Tsujimura-kun, you’re the only one who is willing to stick by my side. Is it really that much of a shocker?”

“Well, no. Well, uh, yes?” She stammers, “Just… why… how could you ever…”

How could you ever like someone like me?

And before Ayatsuji could even think about it, “How could I not?”

And he doesn’t think twice about it. He’s known, after all. Perhaps even when he thought of her to be a nuisance, back then, he’d fallen without knowing. What he knows, however, is that he would like her to be by his side. All he wants is that—a selfish request, such is the selfish disease that has bloomed itself within him.

The petals are, oddly, calm. His lungs feel the clearest they have been in months.

And, oh, Tsujimura’s face is such a pretty pink right now. What a lovely color on her.

“I… I, uh…” She coughs awkwardly, clears her throat. “I wouldn’t know that because… well, you don’t really make that clear…”

Ayatsuji stares at her for a second, then another, and a beat passes as he can’t help but cheekily reply with, “Are you biting back at me, Tsujimura-kun?”

She is silent for a short while, then responds with a quiet, “...Maybe.”

Ayatsuji can’t help but snort, letting himself laugh over it. The sound of his laughter makes her stockstill, as if she couldn’t believe the sound, let alone the sight of it. She stares at him for a little while, before the sound of her short chuckles help lighten his headache, if only in the metaphorical sense.

When their laughter dies down, Tsujimura sighs before slouching in her seat. Her voice is quiet as she says, “... I don’t… I’m sorry.”

Ah.

“...Is this your way of putting me down gently?” Ayatsuji murmurs weakly, letting his head loll back on the arm rest.

Tsujimura immediately responds, “No! I-I mean— Just, that was about the Hanahaki, agh—” She stops herself before she can stammer any further, and clears her throat. “Listen, I… thought that, too. I wouldn’t think I’d… stay this long, either. I only wanted to be assigned to you because you were the one thing left connected to my mother. But…”

She gestures her arms to herself, “... I clearly am here for something other than that. I mean, why else would I stay with you? Point is, I… I don’t mind. Being your supervisor. Being your partner.”

He falls silent, trying to read anything hidden from her expression. But it’s hard to conceal anything when it comes to her, he finds himself realizing. She’d always worn her heart on her sleeve, and that pure stubborn heart of hers is one of the many things he loves about her.

Ignoring his racing heart, he scoffs and chides with, ““People can quit their jobs even after ten years of experience, you know.”

“That’s not what I mean! I enjoy your company, you know!” Tsujimura defends. Ayatsuji can’t resist the genuine smile that makes its way to his lips. “Aww, you’re so sweet. Did I ever mention that?”

“No, because you’re too much of an asshole! All of that and you mistake my reply as a job reflection?!”

“That’s how you started here, anyway.”

“Don’t chastise me!”

Ayatsuji chuckles. He wouldn’t want to trade her for anything in the world.

Selfishly, he murmurs, his gaze to her lips, “…Can I?”

It takes a moment for it to register into Tsujimura’s head, and her blush only worsened, if that were even humanly possible. Nonetheless, she nods in reply, closing her eyes shut and expecting it to happen. A small smile graces his lips at the sight.

He does not kiss her, contrary to her thoughts. Instead, he leans over to her, and rests his head on her shoulder. This takes her aback, eliciting a short yelp to slip from her. He nestles himself into his position before murmuring cheekily, “What? This headache is no fun experience. I haven’t eaten at all these past hours too, you know. I want rest.”

Ayatsuji lifts his head, unable to resist his smirk, “So, please treat me gently for today.”

Tsujimura looks at him, baffled and all. Her face scrunches together in that frustrated expression he loves to see. With a scoff, her hand grasps the back of his neck, and before Ayatsuji could even blink, she’s pressing her lips onto him, rendering him speechless.

Aoki, admittedly, isn't that close to Murakoso outside of work, however she does pester him to call and text now and then. It isn't that he doesn't want to, their line of work barely gives them the casual time they want outside of their work hours. Still, it isn't that Murakoso is a complete stranger to him, he does know what she's like out of work—almost entirely the same, and that the casual and laid back attitude is revealed tenfold—however, if he were to compare himself and Tsujimura on how close they were to Murakoso, Tsujimura would win. Aoki doesn't complain, they get along well anyway.

Despite this, he's almost entirely certain Murakoso acts the same way with Tsujimura as she does with him. Because when they reach the car to wait for Ango, Murakoso crosses her arms and leans against the car, with Aoki standing not too far from her, she mindlessly asks, "Do you think Tsujimura-kun and Ayatsuji-sensei are a thing?"

Aoki blinks at her, raising a brow. It isn't out of character for her to gossip with topics like these, so he always decides to amuse her whenever any of their co-workers aren't around (he was always the one to entertain her the most, anyway). He thinks aloud, "Tsujimura-kun and… who?—"

He cuts himself off, seeming to stare into nothing as the silence in the parking lot fills the now empty air between them. Murakoso fills it with the noises of chewing her bubblegum, and purses her lips to blow it, yet was rudely interrupted when Aoki snaps his head at her with the most incredulous look on his face and exclaims in a whisper, "The homicide detective?!"

Aoki knew that Murakoso could be… ridiculous (for lack of a better word) at times, but sometimes there are times like this one where her questions were outright preposterous.

"I know, I know, it's stupid, but, hear me out," Murakoso tries to reason, and the incredulous look on Aoki's face only grows. "They always spend a lot of time together, and they seem to trust one another a lot."

"I am— I am more than certain it's because Tsujimura-kun is his supervisor, Murakoso-san," Aoki retorts. "It's practically her job to always watch over him and make sure he doesn't try anything out of line. Of course she'd practically be glued to him by the hip!"

"It's ridiculous, I know—"

"It's because it is, Murakoso-san—"

"Tut-tut-tut—" Murakoso waves a finger, telling Aoki to zip it, "Listen, I was on call with Tsujimura-kun last night, and she said she's seen him smile before. Smile, Aoki-kun! Think of all our previous encounters with Ayatsuji-sensei. I can never imagine him smiling! He's always brooding or saying some sort of snarky remark, but the fact that he's willing to show a vulnerable side of him to her says a lot about their relationship!"

Aoki's baffled look stays consistent with each word that comes out of Murakoso's mouth. "Murakoso-san," He replies gently, "she's practically his babysitter."

“Hey, now, let’s not put it in that way—”

“Putting it lightly,” Aoki interrupts, furthering his point, “yes, she’s always with him, there is bound to have some form of trust between them both. She’s been his supervisor for two years now, and is the only one who hasn’t quit that position after the first day with him.”

"Which proves my point," Murakoso adds, and Aoki does not suppress his sigh. "The trust those two have for each other is commendable! Remember the Kyogoku case a couple of months ago, with Engineer and all? Who was the one who stayed by Tsujimura-kun's side the most while she was at the hospital, recovering from her leg injury?"

Aoki sighs once again, "It was Ayatsuji-sensei—"

"Exactly! It was Ayatsuji-sensei!" Murakoso snaps her fingers, then points one of them at Aoki, as if she's had the entire situation figured out. "I'm more than certain they were even closer than they previously were after that case!"

Aoki's unamused expression hasn't lifted ever since the conversation started. "Good to know you clearly spend your time well."

"I only thought about this last night!" Murakoso retorts, and while she was in the midst of defending herself to Aoki, his eyes catch a familiar sight of cyan hair exiting the nearby door. Aoki clears his throat, signaling Murakoso to stop talking. She looks at him, confused, but does as told. Her head turns to where Aoki was looking, and her eyes widened as she spots Tsujimura walking by, talking with someone via her ear piece.

Tsujimura seems to notice them, acknowledging them with a quick, short wave (one that Murakoso returns and Aoki nods to), before walking past them while in the midst of conversing with someone.

"...Why are you telling me you're out of brown sugar?" Tsujimura asks toward her earpiece in an incredulous tone. Murakoso and Aoki don't hear another voice, yet they seem to already know who she's talking to with the way her face scrunches up as she listens to the receiving end. "I'm not— How many times do I have to tell you?! I'm not your servant! No, I'm not buying you your groceries! Don't give me that excuse again, I'm not— …n-no, I'm not making that face again, that's completely off topic! Quit laughing, sensei, none of this is funny!"

Murakoso and Aoki only watch the conversation as they slowly hear Tsujimura's words fade once she reaches her car, and opens the door to get in. Her face only seems to get redder by the minute (from embarrassment, they both presume), and Aoki and Murakoso watch with bemusement (Murakoso) and a moment of revelation (Aoki) once Tsujimura drives off.

"...Murakoso-san."

"Yes, Aoki-kun?"

"I may be on your side with your presumptions about those two."

Murakoso does not bother hiding her unimpressed expression, "All it takes is for you to see them bickering like they usually do?"

Aoki shrugs his shoulders, "Well, thinking about it now…"

Murakoso huffs, crossing her arms as she rests her back against the car, "Tsk, not another word."

"The hell are you angry about?" Aoki asks, confused. "Weren't you the one trying to convince me there was something going on with those two? Aren't you supposed to be happy that I'm somewhat convinced now? Murakoso-san, come on, don't give me the cold shoulder!"

“Well, aren’t you two lively today?”

Both agents become stockstill, their feet gluing to the concrete ground. Ango tilts his head in an innocent manner, his hands clasped beneath his back.

“Don’t freeze on me, now,” Ango chides amusingly, ushering them both away from the door. They do as gestured, letting him into the passenger seat; Aoki in the driver's seat, and Murakoso in the back.

Ango isn’t ignorant, he knows what the two were talking about. They have an awful loud mouth, not to mention the loud expanse of quiet that the parking lot holds. He’s more surprised that his two bodyguards have suspicions on their co-worker and the detective she’s watching over. It’s not like gossip such as that is rare, but he supposes he shouldn’t be too surprised that such suspicions have risen.

Not that they’re wrong, but who is he to tell them the truth? They can figure it out themselves.