Archive of Our Own

Moonstruck
By earthy
••••••••••••••••••••

Daisuke Jigen watches from under the shadowing brim of his hat as the world’s most formidable swordsman tears open a white packet of sugar and tips it into his cappuccino. Then another. And another.  

“You know, Goemon, if you were anybody else I’d smack you upside the head for ruining good coffee.”

“My intention is not to ruin it, merely to make it palatable enough for me to consume.” Goemon empties a fourth sugar packet into his beverage and stirs it with a little silver spoon, which he clinks daintily on the side of his cup when he’s finished. “I ask you, what kind of backwater café does not have green tea or oolong?”

“This one,” Jigen answers bluntly. He ashes his current cigarette on his saucer before continuing. “But it’s the only place in town open past seven on Sunday.”

The town is a sleepy hamlet, about an hour’s drive outside of Prague. Here it is rumored the tenth century Bohemian duke, Wenceslas the First, hid a cache of gold in a labyrinth of tunnels that run beneath its cobblestone streets. It was this unconfirmed treasure trove that brought the gunman and samurai here. Or, more accurately, it was Lupin—lured by a very recently acquired map of the tunnels—that brought them here. After which he promptly bailed.

“I don’t know if this map is the real deal or not,” Lupin said when he proposed an investigation, “but there’s only one way to find out.”

That was yesterday. Today Lupin is conspicuously absent thanks to the sudden yet entirely predictable arrival of Fujiko Mine in Czechia. But instead of the three of them retreating to Prague together and trying again some other day, Lupin insisted that Jigen and Goemon stay in the village and do some preliminary scouting. And so, with a promise to return later that evening, he zipped back to the city for what would no doubt be an exorbitant date and left his two best friends to fend for themselves.

Goemon blows on his coffee and takes a sip, wrinkles his nose in distaste, and takes a bigger sip. “Far too sweet.”

Jigen is about to say something sarcastic but catches himself and smiles instead. “Well, drink as much of it as you can tolerate. The caffeine will keep you alert when we’re lost in an underground maze later tonight.”

“I take that to mean you do not think Lupin’s map is legitimate?” There is the barest trace of a smirk on Goemon’s lips that most people wouldn’t detect but Jigen never misses.

“I’m not convinced this tunnel system even exists, to be honest. We haven’t checked to see if there really is a hidden entrance where the map says it should be.”

From the moment Jigen heard about this map, he flagged it as one of Lupin’s flimsier leads. And clearly not a high priority since he ditched it as soon as the chance to spend time with his woman presented itself. But Jigen doesn’t feel like the day was wasted. He and Goemon spent it doing no preliminary scouting whatsoever.

Instead they wandered down narrow streets, admiring the whitewashed buildings with red tiled roofs and enjoying the mild temperature and low humidity. They ducked into a used bookstore when they came across one, though the books were mostly in Czech (which neither of them could read) and got lunch at a sandwich shop. Some of the locals gave them curious looks—a genuine, sword-toting samurai tends to attract attention in most settings—but nobody treated them with suspicion or hostility, which is always a plus.  

Now the two of them are sitting at a cast iron bistro set outside a tiny café, beneath a cloudless sky in transition from blue to orange. Jigen is perfectly at ease, not just because of the idyllic setting and impeccable weather, but also his present company. Unlike Lupin’s rallying charisma or Fujiko’s unparalleled ability to get under his skin, Goemon’s presence always has a calming effect on Jigen.

It’s an odd way to feel about someone he’s watched kill more human beings than he can count, but so much about Goemon Ishikawa is contradictory. His self-mastery in battle is so finely honed that he doesn’t flinch or break form when half his arm gets flayed by an axe, yet the sight of a naked woman leaves him dumbstruck and trembling. He is capable of feats no one else on earth can perform, like bisecting a Cessna jet in one sword stroke, but is hopelessly inept when trying to use ubiquitous new technology that even preschoolers can manage. He lives by a strict code of honor, even as he spends his days aiding and abetting a world famous criminal.

Jigen stopped trying to make sense of the man long ago. Goemon is Goemon—straightforward, guileless to a fault, oblivious to how out of place he is in the modern world, and always true to his word. He also happens to be highly lethal—and downright beautiful in battle—but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him now. Unless you noticed the sword laying across his lap beneath the table, that is.

He’s looking down into his cappuccino, eyebrows furrowed, as if the answer to some deep philosophical question might be lurking just below its foamy surface. His mouth is set in an upside-down v shape that would look like a sulk on any other face but on Goemon’s is strangely endearing. A light breeze lifts dark, silken strands of hair from his pale forehead and gently lays them down again.

Jigen catches himself watching a little too intently and quickly looks away. His bad molar, usually dormant, throbs for several heartbeats. He knows from experience that this pain is a physical manifestation of psychological stress, but he doesn’t want to confront the cause of that stress. He doesn’t even want to acknowledge it. Pretending the problem doesn’t exist won’t make it disappear, though. The twinges in his tooth make sure to remind him of that.

“Povidla kolach?” The waitress who brought them their coffee earlier, a petite, bespectacled young woman with a European accent Jigen can’t place, has materialized out of nowhere and places a plated dessert with two forks on the table.

“Thank you,” Jigen says in English, then switches back to Japanese after she departs. “Willing to give it a try, Goemon?”  

Goemon cautiously picks up a fork and lets it hover in the air above the round, jam-laden pastry. “It looks rather gooey, it could be unpleasantly so.”

“Says the guy who loves natto,” Jigen says. Then, with a shrug, adds “Suit yourself,” and starts to carve off a generous portion with the side of his fork. It is indeed gooey, and flaky and plummy and delicious.

“Well, if you insist,” says Goemon, even though Jigen hadn’t insisted.

He eats with undisguised relish, filling his cheeks like a hamster and closing his eyes as he savors bite after bite. Jigen knows it embarrasses him to be caught enjoying western cuisine too enthusiastically, but Goemon can’t suppress his natural reactions to food. Hard to believe this is the same guy who slices people in half and separates limbs from bodies.

“Pretty good, isn’t it?” Jigen meets Goemon’s eyes and grins.

Goemon’s face blooms pink, exactly as Jigen hoped it would. “Well, it cannot compare to mitarashi dango, of course, but it is not bad.”  

Cute thinks Jigen. There really is no other word for it. He shakes a fresh cigarette from his pack and tucks it between his lips but doesn’t light it. He’ll let Goemon have the rest of the kolach. As he’s appreciating the view in front of him, Jigen feels the phone in his pocket buzz with an incoming text message and pulls it out. It’s from Lupin. 

Running late. Will meet you at entrance to underground. Make it up to you later.

“Is something the matter?” Goemon asks.

“Nothing I couldn’t have seen coming,” Jigen replies, earning a raised eyebrow from his companion. He clarifies, “Lupin is running late, says we should head over to the entrance where he’ll join up with us when he arrives.”

Goemon sighs and dabs his mouth with a napkin. “He really is hopelessly beholden to Fujiko Mine, isn’t he?”

“We’ll make him treat us to dinner back in Prague tomorrow, as penance for standing us up.” Jigen rises from his seat and dusts the crumbs from his jacket. “We’ll find the best Japanese restaurant in the city,” he adds, flashing a smile at Goemon, who looks instantly pleased.

The waitress, who appears to be the only employee on duty, is clearing off tables as the café’s closing time approaches. Lupin would probably have offered to stick around and help her—she is young and pretty and female—but Jigen would rather make a quiet exit. Goemon is already out on the sidewalk waiting, Zantetsuken sheathed at his hip.

“You remember where we’re going?” Jigen asks as the two start walking. They examined the dubious map earlier in the day, but not meticulously.

“Our destination is a granite outcrop within the wooded area at the northern outskirts of the village.” There is no hint of doubt in Goemon’s answer and it sounds right to Jigen so he doesn’t question it.

“Lead the way.”

••••••••••••••••••••

Unhurried, Jigen and Goemon pick their way along the one-lane road that leads northward from the village and eventually joins the highway towards Prague. It’s the route Lupin will be arriving on any minute now, though so far there hasn’t been a single vehicle passing in either direction.

Jigen wishes they could skip this whole nighttime spelunking expedition and return to their hideout in the city, maybe stop at a liquor store on the way for some Scotch and Japanese sake. This, he reasons, is an achievable goal—Lupin will be itching to get back to Fujiko and should be easy to persuade once he finally shows up. He doesn’t even need to ask Goemon to know that he’ll be on board with the plan.

With that settled in his mind, Jigen can enjoy the walk and watch the stars come out. When he looks up, however, the stars are already being spectacularly upstaged.

“Wow, that is one hell of a moon,” he utters aloud as his steps come to a halt. The sight is arresting, not merely a full moon but a so-called supermoon that appears impossibly large and close to earth, shining a brilliant champagne gold.

A few paces ahead, Goemon stops as well and turns his gaze skyward. When he speaks, the words are soft and measured. “Beautiful, is it not?”

Jigen hums in agreement and then inhales sharply as his molar pulses with incandescent pain. The torment is mercifully brief, but now he can’t escape thinking about the last time he witnessed a moon so magnificent. That night in Paris when Fujiko tended bar. His mind conjures up the peaty taste of the liquor on his tongue and the velvet tang of tobacco smoke in his nose. The rosy flush in Goemon’s cheeks that night is forever seared into his memory. Letting himself remember the details brings a different kind of ache, like a screw tightening in the center of his chest.

Pull yourself together, man. 

Turning his focus back to the road, Jigen blinks in surprise at how far ahead Goemon has pulled. Did he speed up? He’s already reached the stone bridge, beyond which is the forest that Jigen has no intention of entering. But Goemon doesn’t know about that yet.

“Slow down, will you!” Jigen calls, apparently not loud enough because Goemon keeps walking. The solitary ronin traversing an old bridge on a moonlit night makes for a striking view—with just a few tweaks to the setting, it could be a scene from an epic historical drama. Or another lifetime. The screw in Jigen’s chest tightens further and he tries to swallow it down into his stomach before shouting again. “Goemon! Wait up!”

This time, his voice carries—halfway across the bridge, Goemon finally pauses so his companion can catch up.

No. That’s not it. 

Something is wrong.  

Something is very, very wrong.

Zantetsuken falls from Goemon’s slack hand and hits the stone below with a heavy ka-thunk. Half a second later, Goemon follows, crumpling bonelessly next to his sword.

“Goemon!” Breaking into a sprint, Jigen closes the remaining distance and drops to his knees beside the fallen samurai. Somewhere in the process he loses his hat but it doesn’t matter because it’s just a stupid hat.

Goemon lies on his side, body curled in on itself like a dried leaf. He’s shivering. No, those are muscle spasms—he’s having a seizure.

Jigen’s mind flashes pure white, as if his brain has been forced to reboot. When he snaps back into awareness, the bridge, the countryside, the stars, and even the moon have all fallen away—there is only the man in front of him, pallid and twitching.

With shaky, fumbling fingers, Jigen works open the zipper of the canvas bag that holds their exploration gear and fishes out a flashlight. Under the high-powered beam of illumination, it is clear that Goemon is very sick. His pained face glistens with sweat and there is foam at the corners of his mouth. He’s still experiencing spasms, but more sporadically now. Whatever caused this is not immediately apparent.

“Hang in there, Goemon, I’m going to call for help.” Jigen tries to keep his voice from quavering—he’s not sure if Goemon is conscious and can hear him but he doesn’t want to sound as scared as he feels.

The call he makes is answered immediately. “Hey, Jigen, what’s up?”

“Lupin, where are you?” Jigen barks into his phone.  

“I’m almost there,” Lupin says. “What’s wrong? Why are you yelling? Did something happen?”

“It’s Goemon,” Jigen says hoarsely. “He collapsed. I think he might’ve had a seizure but I can’t tell. He’s in a really bad way, Lupin. You need to get to the stone bridge just north of the village as quickly as possible.”  

There is a protracted pause before Lupin speaks again. “I’m already here.”

Light spills over Jigen and Goemon from the headlights of a custard colored Fiat that has stopped on the bridge. When Lupin steps out, he’s still holding his phone to his ear, but he hangs up and slides it back into his breast pocket before striding briskly to the spot where one friend lies incapacitated on the ground and the other is kneeling beside him with two fingers pressed to his carotid artery.

“He has a pulse but it’s weak and thready,” says Jigen. “And his breathing sounds labored.”

Lupin crouches down on the other side of Goemon’s unresponsive form, putting himself at eye level with Jigen. His expression is grave and when he speaks, his voice is authoritative but calm. “Let’s get him in the car and we can talk on the way to the hospital. I’ll get his shoulders and you’ll get his legs.”

“Right.” Jigen nods and, following Lupin’s lead, shifts into position. Even though Goemon’s body is slim, it’s dense with muscle so lifting and moving him gently is a two man job.

“Alright,” Lupin says. “Lift on three. One. Two. Three.”

Working together, they maneuver Goemon into the front passenger side, secure him with the safety belt, and recline the seat all the way down. Jigen retrieves Zantetsuken and climbs into the rear driver side where he can monitor Goemon’s condition for the entire ride. Once everyone is settled, though, a new problem presents itself.

“The village doesn’t have a hospital,” Jigen realizes out loud with rising panic. “Not a real one, anyway. There’s a twenty-four hour clinic, but I don’t think they’ll be able to treat whatever is wrong with Goemon. He’s too sick, he needs an ICU. If we take him there, they’ll just wind up transferring him somewhere else and that’ll waste time.”

“Then we’ll just have to get him to the city as fast as we possibly can.” There is no evidence of fear in Lupin’s voice and his mouth, visible in the rearview mirror, is twisted into a defiant smile, as if this is all just a fun challenge that the universe has thrown at him and he is more than equal to the task.

Jigen wonders if Lupin would be able to keep such a cool head if it was Fujiko Mine in peril, or if the man would be just as scared as he is right now. The two relationships are not equivalent, of course—Lupin and Fujiko are off-and-on lovers who are most likely destined (or doomed) for each other, while Jigen and Goemon are merely friends—but the comparison comes to Jigen’s mind unbidden.

“I trust you,” Jigen says, and means it. If there’s one thing he’s learned over the years, it’s that Lupin is the man who makes the impossible possible.

Lupin presses a button on his smartphone and sets it in the cup holder between the front seats, letting it ring on speakerphone as he puts the car in drive. “I hope you have as much faith in our navigator as you do in me.”

After five excruciating rings, someone picks up, and Jigen knows who it is before he even hears her speak. “Missing me already, Lupin?” Fujiko teases. “You know Mr. Grumpy won’t like it if he catches you calling me during your boys night.”

“Sorry, Fujicakes. As much as I’d love to flirt, we’ve got an emergency situation on our hands and need your help. Also, you’re on speakerphone so try to be nice.”

“An emergency?” Fujiko’s voice sounds genuinely concerned. “What happened? Is everyone okay?”

“Everyone is not okay!” The words escape Jigen’s throat in an impatient growl even though Fujiko has done nothing to earn such harsh treatment, besides calling him Mr. Grumpy. It’s fear, not anger, that is animating him right now, but the distinction hardly matters—better to let Lupin do all the talking.

“We need the quickest route to the best hospital in the region. Goemon’s sick. He might’ve been poisoned, but we don’t know for sure.”

Poisoning hadn’t occurred to Jigen as a possible cause of Goemon’s illness, but it fits the situation—rapid onset of severe symptoms in an otherwise healthy individual. There are other things it could be, though, some more frightening than poison. It could be a brain tumor that’s been growing for months and has only now begun to encroach on vital structures. Just imagining Goemon with cancer is enough to make Jigen’s blood run ice cold.

The car is moving now, with Lupin in the driver’s seat, following the directions that Fujiko just relayed to him. Laid down in the flattened passenger seat—on his side in case he needs to vomit—Goemon is still unconscious and having small, intermittent muscle spasms that prove he’s still alive. Jigen, in the back seat, watches the rise and fall of Goemon’s chest through the opening of his kimono.

You aren’t allowed to die before me, Samurai Goemon. I entered this world before you did. I met Lupin before you did. And I will exit this world before you do. That’s the rule and you aren’t allowed to break it. So you can’t die yet. Not for a long, long time. I need you—

“Uh, Jigen? Did you hear what I just said?”

“Oh, sorry,” Jigen says, looking away from Goemon for only a few seconds so he can make eye-contact with Lupin via the rearview mirror. “No. Can you say it one more time?”

“I asked you what happened today.” Lupin speaks gently despite having to repeat himself.

Describing the day’s activities, Jigen includes every detail he remembers, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, in the hope that something might spark a diagnostic epiphany from Lupin. When he can’t think of anything more to add, he asks a question that’s been bothering him. “What makes you think he was poisoned?”

“His symptoms, mainly,” says Lupin as he accelerates the car. “They match descriptions of what nerve agents do to a person. I’ve never witnessed the effects firsthand, mind you, so it’s just speculation.”

“Could it be an allergic reaction?” Jigen asks. “Maybe he’s allergic to something in the plum tart we split. This doesn’t feel like anaphylaxis to me, though.”  

“I’d include a snakebite on the list of possibilities, but you and I both know that no snake could get close enough to strike Goemon. The poor creature would be in a stewpot before it knew what was happening.”

Anxiety’s iron grip around Jigen’s heart loosens just enough for him to crack a small smile, which he realizes was Lupin’s intention. “That’s our Goemon,” he says with affection, and as soon as he speaks the name, the man stirs.

The noise Goemon emits is a pitiful croak, barely audible. “Ji…gen…”

Caught off guard, Jigen nearly leaps out of his seat, then scrambles to grab hold of Goemon’s sweaty, calloused hand. “I’m right here, buddy. We’re on our way to the hospital now so just hang on.” He watches Goemon’s bleary dark brown eyes flutter open halfway and try to focus on his face before fluttering closed again. “Hey, stay with me!”

But the plea is futile. Goemon’s brief lucidity ends with a grand mal seizure.

“He’s seizing!” Jigen yells as the hand he’s holding contracts around his fingers. “Gun it, Lupin!”

Already traveling well over any posted speed limit—and faster than any unmodified Fiat is capable of—Lupin pushes the car to its maximum velocity. It’s only when they reach the city that the vehicle slows down and not by much. The laws of physics that pinned Jigen’s shoulders to the back of his seat while hurtling down the highway now pitch him left and right as they whip around street corners, but through it all he never lets go of Goemon’s hand.

At last, in a feat befitting the man who can make the impossible possible, Lupin executes a remarkably soft stop in front of the emergency room entrance of an upscale looking hospital. While the drive out to the village took an hour, the return trip was completed in just twenty-two minutes. A pair of hospital personnel are already waiting outside with a gurney, and alongside them is the woman called Fujiko Mine, her pretty face scrunched up in worry.  

While the professionals extract Goemon, Lupin hops out of the driver's side and meets Fujiko with an embrace and whispered words. Jigen exits last, flexing fingers that still feel the pressure of what they’d been clasping, like a phantom limb.

Lupin is speaking soothingly to Fujiko when Jigen reaches them. “I’m going to find a place to park, Fujicakes, then I’ll meet you inside.” He kisses her lightly on the mouth and moves to get back in the car, leaving Jigen alone with the woman.

“Jigen,” she says and then falls silent, as if she doesn’t know the appropriate thing to say in this situation.

“Fujiko,” Jigen mirrors, likewise uncertain of how to proceed in conversation.

The uneasy duo maintain their reticence as they follow after the gurney that’s just been whisked into the hospital. Neither says a word as they settle into leather chairs that feel too opulent for an ordinary emergency room, leaving an empty spot for Lupin between them. Then, mutely, they wait.

Jigen sits in a hunched position, his forehead cradled in his palms, fingers laced into his thick bangs, and lets the events of the last half-hour soak into him. They got Goemon to a hospital still breathing, which doesn’t mean he’s going to be okay, but at least gives him a fighting chance. Jigen’s role is finished so he should feel at least a modicum of relief, yet he is more anxious than ever now that everything is out of his hands.  

“It’s an excellent private hospital,” Fujiko finally says. “Diplomats and politicians and even royalty are treated here. I have a connection to the hospital director and he assured me that Goemon will get the best care. And absolute privacy. Zenigata won’t be showing up here.”Jigen lifts his face to look at hers, which is more compassionate than he’s used to seeing it. “I’m not the heartless bitch you think I am, Daisuke Jigen. I care about him, too. We dated once, if you recall.”

Reminding him of how she manipulated Goemon in the past provides Jigen no solace. She’s trying, though, and that is something he has to grudgingly respect. He knows he should respond, but he doesn’t know how—he is in uncharted waters here. To his relief, Lupin rejoins the party just in time to save him from having to speak.

“I know it’s too soon to expect good news,” Lupin says, “but you haven’t been given any bad news, either, have you?” He is addressing Fujiko, who stood up and took both of his hands in hers when she welcomed him, but his words are just as much for Jigen as they are for her.

“No news,” Fujiko replies. “All we can do for now is wait.”

After what feels like an hour, but according to the clock on the wall is only five minutes, Lupin speaks again. “I shouldn’t have abandoned you two like that.” His voice is weighted with remorse. “I thought I was doing something thoughtful, giving you a laidback day together in a peaceful environment. You both are always in high spirits after that sort of small town excursion. But I shouldn’t have foisted it on you the way I did.”

Jigen’s ears glow hotly when he realizes what is being implied. Does Lupin know? For all of Jigen’s assiduous efforts to repress, deny, and delegitimize his own feelings, he shouldn’t be surprised that gimlet-eyed Lupin still perceives something there. Just how much Lupin really knows, however, is difficult to gauge.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Jigen tells him. “You had no way of predicting this turn of events. Even if we’d come back to the city with you earlier in the day, it might’ve happened anyway.”

“But we could’ve gotten him to the hospital sooner," says Lupin.

“You and Fujiko got us here damn fast. If anyone is at fault, it’s me. I should have protected Goemon.” Jigen’s voice almost cracks when he says the name.

Lupin lets out a single staccato laugh that contains no mocking. “Whatever made Goemon ill is something that couldn’t be defended against with bullets. Of that I am quite sure. You’re being too hard on yourself, Jigen.”

“Maybe,” Jigen says halfheartedly. Self-compassion has never been easy for him, and right now it feels downright impossible. Everyone who gets too close to him eventually gets hurt—a curse that only Lupin seems immune to—so why should he absolve himself this time? If anything, this time is worse than the others because it’s Goemon, a man who is virtually indestructible.

A man more precious to him than he’s been willing to admit.

The wait ticks by with agonizing slowness. At fifteen minutes, Lupin and Fujiko vacate their chairs to go search for coffee. They return with three white paper cups in brown paper sleeves along with a generous assortment of creams and sweeteners and set all of it on a low-slung table. The sight of little sugar packets makes Jigen feel sick to his stomach. At thirty minutes his coffee is untouched and tepid.

At one hour and six minutes a doctor in black scrubs emerges from swinging metal doors and walks over to the only three people in the waiting room. She’s an older woman, in her fifties or sixties, with steel gray hair and an expression that is somber but not without kindness. Jigen stands up to receive the news, his knees popping after sitting for so long.

“I’m Dr. Brodská and I treated your friend.” Her English is crisp and lightly accented. “His condition is stable but serious. He stopped breathing shortly after arriving and had to be intubated. Right now he’s in a medically induced coma, but you can see him if you’d like.”

“Do you know what made him sick?” Jigen doesn’t wait for her to volunteer the information.

Dr. Brodská pans across their faces with a discerning gaze. “Why don’t you three follow me back to see your friend and we can talk more privately.”

As he tails the doctor with Lupin and Fujiko through the swinging doors and down a long corridor, Jigen does his best to mentally prepare for the sight of Goemon with a tube down his throat and wires attached to his body. Between the three men in their team, injuries are a fairly common occurrence, but they usually patch each other up without hospitalization, even for something as serious as a gunshot wound. Seeing one of their own in an ICU bed is going to be harrowing. Jigen thinks he is ready, but when he enters the room and his eyes fall on Goemon he feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

“Fucking hell,” utters Lupin, who doesn’t use profanity liberally.  

“How long will he have to stay like this?” asks Fujiko.

Jigen sinks down into a bedside leather chair—the same kind that’s in the waiting room—unable to look away from Goemon, in that nest of tubes and wires, as he listens to the doctor’s prognosis.

“It is too soon to tell at this point—could be days, could be weeks. Or, he might never recover enough to breath on his own, in which case you will have to make a difficult decision. But if he does wake up, his recovery will likely be a lengthy one. Your samurai has been poisoned by a Novichoke type nerve agent of unknown formulation.”

A nerve agent, just as Lupin hypothesized. But it’s the word Novichoke that makes it truly terrifying, evoking news stories about Russian dissidents and unwitting bystanders who’ve been killed or permanently injured. As a weapon of assassination, Novichoke is both extreme and cowardly, an excruciating death without having to directly confront the target. And there is always a target.

“Thats not the sort of thing a person accidentally leaves behind in a charming little Czech village,” Lupin says grimly, acknowledging another truth about poisoning with a synthetic agent like Novichoke. There is always a perpetrator.  

“No, it’s not,” says Dr. Brodská. Then her tone changes, becoming more clipped and businesslike as she moves on to matters beyond Goemon’s condition and treatment. “Now, as I’m sure you are aware, I have an ethical and legal duty to protect the people in that village from any potential harm. That would mean reporting this incident to the authorities and triggering an investigation.”

Jigen is listening—he hears every word and registers its meaning in context—but his capacity to react is diminished by the emotional distraction that is his friend in a coma with a hose down his throat.

The doctor sighs as if in defeat before she continues, reluctantly. “My boss, the Hospital Director, has informed me that your team—or whatever you call yourselves—is some sort of non-governmental organization, sanctioned to conduct your own inquiries into crimes against its members. And that I am not to interfere. Also, he said that he is happy to provide hazmat and laboratory support.” By the time she gets to the end, she is speaking through her teeth.  

“Anything else?” Fujiko asks.

“Yes, Ms. Mine. He said to tell you that after this, the two of you are even and he asks that you never contact him or his wife or his son ever again. Now, if you don’t mind, I have other patients to tend to.”

After the doctor departs, the hiss and sigh of the ventilator and the beeping of vital sign monitors—noises that had been present all along—swell to fill the space left by an absence of voices. Jigen’s rage at whoever is responsible for Goemon’s poisoning is like distant thunder, a storm gathering strength on the far horizon of his consciousness that hasn’t yet made landfall.

“We’re going to find out who did this, Jigen.” Lupin’s voice is resolute, leaving no room for doubt. “And we will make them pay for hurting him like this.”

“I think one of us should stay here at the hospital,” Fujiko says. “Just in case there’s a change in his condition.”

“Good idea,” says Lupin. “Jigen, you don’t mind hanging back while Fujiko and I take the lead on this one, do you?”

Jigen swings his attention from Goemon to Lupin, whose eyes brim with unspoken understanding. “I don’t mind.” Jigen’s voice comes out sounding tired and dazed. “You’re right, one of us should be here. Just in case.”

Lupin pats him on the shoulder. “I knew I could count on you. I’ll pick you up a toothbrush and razor. And something to eat. We’ll check in to let you know what we discover.”

“Try to get some rest,” says Fujiko, with what sounds like actual sympathy.

“Right.” Jigen knows that he’s being coddled, that Lupin and Fujiko are aware, or at least suspect, that his feelings towards Goemon are something other than friendship, and are handling him with kid gloves because of it. But he doesn’t have the energy to protest or push back. Now that the adrenaline rush of the last several hours has fully dissipated, he feels exhausted and grief-stricken.  

Once he is alone in the room with Goemon, comatose and fighting to live, Jigen does something he hasn’t done in years: he breaks down and cries.

••••••••••••••••••••

Interlude: Paris

••••••••••••••••••••

“So how long are you going to make us wait before you tell us where we’re going tonight?” Jigen had been walking with Goemon along the Seine for nearly fifteen minutes, the two of them following after Lupin, who had promised a ‘fun surprise.’ But the longer they trekked with no clues as to their destination, the more he began to suspect the involvement of a certain femme fatale.

“Yes, I would like to know, as well,” said Goemon. “Your air secrecy is starting to feel like treachery. I cannot help but wonder if this evening’s agenda has something to do with Fujiko Mine.”

Jigen let out a laugh. “Took the words right out of my mouth, Goemon. I think the reason it’s a ‘surprise’ is because if he’d mentioned Fujiko from the beginning, me and you would never have agreed to come along.”

Lupin folded his hands behind his head and turned to face his two friends, walking backwards just as effortlessly as he had been walking forwards. You guys are so distrustful. And besides, even if Fujiko is involved, that doesn’t mean it won’t be fun.”

In unison, Jigen and Goemon groaned.

“You know, sometimes I think you two are just jealous because neither one of you is in love like me and Fujiko are. Every time we relocate to another country for a while, you both meet or reconnect with beautiful women but it never goes anywhere.”

“The women in my life are better off if they move on to less dangerous guys,” said Jigen, more resigned than bitter.

“I am too busy with training to waste my time on courtship,” said Goemon, proudly.

Lupin sighed. “Okay, I get it. Love is a touchy subject for you two. But you don’t have to take it out on sweet Fujiko.”

“That’s it, I’m out of here.” Jigen turned on his heel and started to walk away and Goemon was quick to join him.

“I shall go with you.”

“Wait!” Lupin shouted after them. “I haven’t even revealed where we’re headed!”

The retreating pair paused, side by side, and turned back to face Lupin.

“Let’s hear it,” said Jigen.

“Please do tell us,” said Goemon.

In response, Lupin grinned and swept his arm towards a glittering tower of glass and steel on the other side of the street from the river. “Better than telling, allow me to show you.”

Jigen hadn’t been paying any attention to the buildings they walked past, choosing instead to look out over the water as sunset sparkled on its surface like embers. Gazing upon the structure that Lupin gestured to, he found it hard to believe that it had escaped his notice. Twenty stories tall, at least, the skyscraper had an art deco aesthetic but with twenty-first century sensibility in materials and construction that belied its newness.

“A hotel?” Jigen guessed.

“Not just any hotel,” Lupin declared, beaming. “Welcome, my friends, to La Citadelle.”

There was a moment of silence while Jigen and Goemon exchanged looks of bemusement with each other.

“I am afraid I do not understand.” Goemon was as straightforward as always. “Are we here to steal something from within at Fujiko Mine’s behest?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Lupin shook his head and waved his hands dismissively. “La Citadelle doesn’t open to the public for another two weeks, at which time it will become the premiere luxury hotel in Paris. But tonight the three of us have the incomparable privilege of being invited to preview the exclusive lounge and bar on the nineteenth floor. And it’s all thanks to Fujiko.”

That was a lot of words, but one in particular caught Jigen’s interest. “Bar, eh? Now it’s starting to sound like it could be fun.”

Lupin’s grin widened. “All you can drink at no charge.”

“If you’d mentioned free booze when we first set out, we could’ve skipped this whole conversation,” said Jigen wryly.

“Yeah, but where would be the fun in that?” Lupin winked and then led the way for the last several meters to the hotel’s main entrance.

A concierge in an immaculate white suit let the three men in and confirmed their names on the guest list before directing them through the marble-floored lobby to a bay of elevators. On the ride up to the nineteenth floor, Lupin explained that Fujiko had been asked to appear in a promotional video for the hotel and as part of her payment was allowed to host a private party ahead of the grand opening. And while he admitted that he hadn’t seen it for himself, he assured his friends that the view was spectacular.

He was not wrong.

The space was dominated by floor to ceiling windows, beyond which the city of Paris twinkled as if studded with diamonds lit up for the night. The bar itself was an island of polished burl wood, accented by lamps shaped like old fashioned lanterns, their soft yellow glow lending a dreamy atmosphere to the scene. There were only two people present.

“What is Zenigata doing here?” Jigen was incredulous. “And why is Fujiko the one pouring?”

Behind the bar, Fujiko was dressed in a crisp white shirt and a black apron, like an actual bartender. She was chatting up Zenigata, who was perched on a velvet barstool, but smiled in greeting when she spied the new arrivals. Zenigata spun in their direction and waved.

“No need for worry, gentlemen. I’m not here in an official capacity. I happened to run into this lovely lady and she extended an invitation.” The way he slurred his words and his goofy smile indicated that he had already had a few drinks.

Lupin didn’t hesitate to take a seat next to the Interpol officer who made hunting him his life’s work. “Well, as long as you aren’t going to arrest any of us, I see no reason why you shouldn’t be allowed to join the party.”

Jigen was still dubious of the whole set up, but a few shots of Lagavulin would take care of that. He planted himself on the stool to Lupin’s left and Goemon sat down in the next seat. There was a prominent sign that designated this area as non-smoking, but Lupin was already lighting up so Jigen figured the rules didn’t take effect until the hotel officially opened and extracted a cigarette from his own stash.

“Do you have sake?” Goemon asked.

“Do I ever,” Fujiko replied, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. Then she reached under the bar and produced an elegant blue bottle with a bowing crane on its label.

“That is a hundred-thousand yen bottle,” said Goemon, his on-hand knowledge mildly surprising to Jigen. “Are you truly authorized to dispense such an extravagant potable?”

Fujiko flashed a conspiratorial little smirk. “Tonight I’m authorized to dispense whatever I want.”

“In that case, give me the most expensive Scotch you've got,” said Jigen.

Alcohol flowed as freely as the Seine, heating veins and melting edges, and Jigen quickly forgot about why he’d doubted Lupin. He noted in the back of his mind that he should apologize at some point, but he’d barely spoken to Lupin at all since they’d arrived. And he was okay with that.  

Goemon leaned into Jigen like a flower growing towards the sun, his cheeks flushed and shining after finishing off the most expensive bottle of sake Jigen had ever encountered in the wild. “I would like to smoke one of your cigarettes, Jigen, if you would be so kind.”  

“Are you sure about that, Goemon?” Jigen was smiling, loosened up by the Scotch. “You aren’t a smoker so it might make you sick.”

“I smoke a kiseru,” Goemon replied, cheerful and booze-haughty.

“Fair enough,” said Jigen. One cigarette probably wouldn’t be enough to sicken him, especially since he did occasionally smoke, as he said. He plucked a cigarette from his pack and held it out for Goemon, who surprised him by opening his mouth instead of his hand. Their foreheads nearly touched as Jigen bent to light the cigarette between Goemon’s lips.

Goemon inhaled smoothly and released a long pendant of smoke through a giddy smile, demonstrating that he could handle himself. He was definitely intoxicated, though, and if he kept drinking he really would get sick. It didn’t help that Fujiko was making sure every glass stayed filled with top shelf liquor and craft beer.

Jigen waited until Goemon was near the end of his cigarette before turning towards Lupin, who was laughing with one arm thrown over Zenigata’s shoulders like they were old friends rather than adversaries. “Hey, Lupin. I think me and Goemon are going to head back to the base before he hits his limit and either passes out or pukes.”  

“Probably a good idea,” Lupin replied, distractedly. “That guy has never been good at pacing himself.” Then he returned to joking with his nemesis and flirting with the bartender.

“You ready to leave, Goemon?” Jigen wasn’t sure if Goemon would agree or if he’d insist on sticking around and getting further hammered—as an adult, it was his decision to make.

But, to Jigen’s relief, Goemon hopped down from his barstool with a buoyancy he rarely exhibited when sober. He swayed slightly on his feet, but wasn’t staggering drunk. “If it is time for us to depart, then depart we shall.”

So they departed.  

Almost as soon as the two men were outside the doors of La Citadelle, Goemon paused to rummage through the loose sleeves of his pale green kimono. From the left side he withdrew another pricey looking bottle of sake and brandished it in the air impishly.

“Did you steal that?” Jigen asked, honestly impressed.

“That is one way of looking at it,” Goemon replied. “Fujiko Mine said that I could have it. And this is for you.” From his right sleeve, he pulled out a bottle of Macallan Scotch that Jigen knew cost several thousand quid.

The idea that this was in any way from Fujiko didn’t sit well with Jigen, since her gifts always came with strings attached—he preferred to think of it as wholly Goemon’s doing. “I don’t know what to say. Thanks.”

“Did I pick a good one? I am afraid I am not well versed in occidental liquors.”

“Yeah,” said Jigen, turning the bottle in his hands. It pleased him more than it should have to learn that Goemon really had chosen it for him. “You picked a great one.”  

As they started to walk along the Seine once more, this time in the opposite direction, Goemon hooked his left hand around Jigen’s right elbow for support. Jigen liked the way it felt and had to remind himself that it was just the alcohol affecting them both. With a little help, perhaps, from the City of Lights—Paris was the sort of dangerously romantic location that could make anyone believe they were falling in love.  

“Do you miss them?”

It took Jigen a minute to realize that the question was for him, from Goemon, and respond. “Miss who?”

“The women,” said Goemon. “The ones who ‘moved on to less dangerous guys,’ in your words.”

“Sometimes,” Jigen answered, and then clarified. “Not often. I chose this life over settling down in safety with any of them, so I doubt it was ever true love. And to be honest, I’m not unhappy about that.”  

Goemon’s grip on Jigen’s elbow tightened. “I will drink to that, my friend. Kanpai!” He took a deep glug from the bottle of sake that Jigen hadn’t realized he’d opened, and let out a laugh.

Jigen felt lighter after saying what he did and tasting the truth in it—he wasn’t unhappy with the path he’d chosen. Even if he did feel increasingly attached to the few who were here on this path with him. “Don’t overdo it, Goemon.”

“You are worrying about me to excess.” Goemon took another long pull from the bottle and passed it to Jigen, who took a modest swig and then held onto it. “Though I do appreciate your concern for my health. You know, you really are a good man, Jigen Daisuke. I hope you never find true love.”

Jigen stopped walking and grabbed Goemon by his cheek. “What the hell kind of thing is that to say to a friend?”  

“Sowwy! Sowwy!”  

Jigen wasn’t actually upset and only pinched hard enough to distort Goemon’s words a little bit, not to cause real pain. He grinned wickedly. “Do you yield?”  

The latest doses of alcohol were hitting Goemon’s bloodstream now—his gaze was vaguer, his face more flushed. When he slurred a response through his stretched mouth, he sounded confused. “Lield?” Then his eyes looked suddenly very sharp and his right hand sprang like a viper and snagged Jigen by the beard. “Uh shambarai neber lields!”

After an initial instant of shock, Jigen realized he’d been caught. “Well played, samurai.”

He was keenly aware of how close Goemon’s face now was to his own, close enough to catch the sweetness of sake on Goemon’s breath. The points of connection between their bodies—Goemon’s nimble fingers twisted in his goatee and his own hand squeezing Goemon’s mochi soft cheek—conveyed an electric prickle of intimacy that felt inappropriate for two drunk friends goofing around. But Jigen refused to yield just yet. Swordsman and marksman were locked in a stalemate, staring each other down through a haze of alcohol and nicotine. This was a game of chicken between two frighteningly competent combatants, neither of whom was inclined to give up without a fight—there was a limited number of ways it could end.  

After a short but tense deadlock, Jigen and Goemon both let go at the same time and proceeded to rub the spots on their faces that had been manhandled.

“I did not mean to imply that I begudge—that I begrudge you joy and fulfillmentude.” Goemon latched onto Jigen’s elbow more firmly than before as they resumed walking. He was noticeably more inebriated now, less steady on his feet and sloppier in his speech. “What I meant was that it frustrates—that is to say, it is frustrating enough having to share you with loopy—by which of course I mean Lupin—whom you have known since childhood. If you were to find genuine true love, I probably might never get to be spending time with you like I am right now anymore. And that, I believe, would be a real tragedy. Yes, my motive is selfish, I know, but not malicious. Never malicious.”

His mind dulled by drink, it took Jigen several seconds to parse what Goemon had just said, but once he understood, liquid heat that had nothing to do with alcohol filled his stomach. Were these Goemon’s true feelings or just drunk talk? The words to respond evaded him so he stayed silent as they walked, letting Goemon’s confession—if that’s what it was—hang in the air between them.

And then something incredible happened. The curtain of cloud that had been covering half the sky all night drew back to reveal a moon so large and luminous that Jigen and Goemon, as one, froze in place to gape at it. From somewhere in the past, Jigen recalled that this phenomenon was called a supermoon, but that term felt woefully inadequate to describe what they were witnessing.  

Goemon pressed in closer on Jigen’s right, shoulder against shoulder, hip against hip. “Jigen?” The way he said the name sounded more like a promise than a question.  

Jigen turned his head and Goemon’s mouth was on his.

For such a bold action, the kiss was soft and tentative at first. Jigen knew that he should push Goemon away, knew that Goemon was much more intoxicated than himself and that he had to be the responsible one. He knew this. And yet he kissed back as if he were drowning and Goemon was oxygen.

His body’s instinctual response was nothing short of a revelation. There was so much pent-up desire coursing through him now that it frightened him. Where did it come from? How long had he wanted this man without even realizing it?  

The kiss deepened on both sides. Goemon responded to the increased pressure by opening his mouth wider and slipping his tongue past Jigen’s teeth. Jigen, in turn, sucked on Goemon’s lower lip until it was swollen. Back and forth they negotiated the terms of their contact, each pressing for more. More tongue. More teeth. More touch.  

Here, in the City of Lights, awash in the champagne-colored brilliance of a once-in-a-lifetime moon, everything felt possible.  

When the two of them pulled apart, a spidersilk strand of saliva stretched between their mouths, shining obscenely in the moonlight. Their bodies had become entangled as they made out. Goemon’s long fingers now cradled the furry sides of Jigen’s face. Jigen’s broad hands now gripped Goemon’s taut waist, holding him close. Both of them were panting like they’d just finished running a marathon.  

“Goemon.” Jigen exhaled the name and it tasted better than any cigarette ever had.  

“Jigen.” Goemon’s voice was ragged and needy.

The afterglow—that sublime exchange of breathy names and longing looks—was short lived, however. Jigen watched as Goemon’s features rearranged themselves from passionate to nauseated and knew exactly what was coming.  

“Oh no,” Goemon muttered as he shoved Jigen away, staggered over to the river’s edge and emptied a small fortune in Japan’s finest sake into the Seine. His whole body quaked as he clung to the guardrail and retched miserably.

Jigen stepped over and rubbed circles on Goemon’s back until his shaking stopped. Knowing it wasn’t the kiss that had made him sick was small comfort. “Do you feel a little better now? Think you can make it back to the hideout?”

There was a fresh sheen of sweat on Goemon’s face and he still looked queasy, but he nodded wordlessly in the affirmative.  

By now the magnificent moon had gone back into hiding. The enchantment was broken. It hadn’t been a revelation after all, just drunken nonsense. As Jigen walked him to their Paris base of operations, Goemon kept mumbling, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over.

Back at their temporary headquarters, Jigen helped Goemon—now barely able to stay awake—get situated on the shabby sofa. He carefully removed Goemon’s zori sandals and tucked a crocheted blanket around him. On the coffee table he placed a full glass of water and a pitcher to refill it from. Softly, he asked: “Are you sure you’re okay, Goemon?”

“I’m sorry,” Goemon whimpered pathetically. “I’m sorry, Jigen. I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jigen reassured him. He tucked an errant curl of dark hair behind Goemon’s ear. “You don’t need to apologize for anything.”

That night, Jigen’s subconscious was dragged down to the depths of hell. He had done a heinous deed, committed an unforgivable act, and he would have to live with the guilt and shame and any other consequences that might arise from having taken advantage of a friend. Even if one of those consequences was that Goemon came to hate him. The mere thought was unbearable.

Although he slept fitfully, Jigen woke up without any indications of a hangover. Apparently he hadn’t consumed as much alcohol as he thought he had. The same could not be said for Goemon, whose first act upon waking was to lever himself up from the sofa with an agonized moan.  

“Please tell me, Jigen,” he said, kneading his temples with his fingertips. “How much did I have to drink last night?”

Jigen plunked down into one of the two threadbare armchairs in the hideout’s common room—the other being occupied by a loudly snoring Lupin, still dressed in the clothes he’d worn the previous night—and sighed. “Do you want the answer in volume or monetary value?”

Goemon cringed. “I can’t even remember how I got back here. I assume one or both of you had to drag me the entire way.”

Here was a plot twist Jigen hadn’t anticipated. Goemon could be lying about what he did and didn’t remember about last night. Maybe he was embarrassed or thought he’d done something wrong—he had been apologizing so profusely afterwards. Or maybe, he was letting Jigen off the hook. That idea only made Jigen feel more guilty.  

Or maybe Goemon really had forgotten what happened. Always a lightweight when it came to alcohol, Goemon had a lower tolerance than Jigen and Lupin and even Fujiko. And he had definitely gone past his limit last night. Besides that he was notoriously untalented in the art of subterfuge. But if Goemon was telling the truth about his amnesia, what was the right thing for Jigen to do? Tell Goemon everything? Take the secret to his grave?

“I walked you here from the bar, but you only needed a little bit of help.” He had to say something.

“I didn’t do anything embarrassing in my state of inebriation, did I?” Goemon looked apprehensive.

“You threw up into the Seine,” Jigen said. It was a true answer if not a complete answer.  

Goemon let out a humiliated groan. “Did Lupin witness this unbecoming occurrence?"

“No,” Jigen answered. “Nobody saw but me and some random strangers.” And one hell of a moon.

That Goemon’s first concern was whether Lupin witnessed his undignified behavior didn’t surprise Jigen. The samurai respected Lupin more than anyone else in the world and was loath to display any signs of weakness in front of him.  

“That is a relief,” said Goemon. Then he addressed Jigen with pleading eyes. “You won’t tell him, will you? Can we please pretend I didn’t make a complete jackass out of myself last night?”

Jigen couldn’t discern whether Goemon was really just talking about the vomiting or about the unspoken other thing, but it didn’t matter. If Goemon wanted to bury it all, Jigen would abide. What other choice did he have?

“I promise not to tell a soul. It will be as if it never happened.”  

••••••••••••••••••••

Interlude: Paris / End

••••••••••••••••••••

For four nights and four days, Jigen leaves the hospital only to shower and change clothes at the gang’s Prague hideout. He hardly sleeps. Lupin and Fujiko take turns bringing him food and vague updates on their search for the person or people responsible for Goemon’s poisoning. Jigen doesn’t badger them for more information—once they have enough evidence to act, he will be the first to know.

The updates Jigen is much more eager for are those pertaining to Goemon’s condition and his prospects for recovery. But so far there haven’t been many. His vital signs are improving, according to Dr. Brodská, but she can’t provide a timeline for when he might come off the ventilator and out of his comatose state. “Maybe later this week,” is the best she can offer.

For now, Jigen’s primary pursuits are vigilance and distraction—to watch over Goemon in case anything changes, but to not drive himself crazy while doing so. He finished the stack of Louis L’Amour books that Lupin brought him the first day. Reading them made him think fondly about a past argument he had with Goemon over The Magnificent Seven versus The Seven Samurai.

“Samurai movies will always be the superior genre to westerns because samurai are cooler than cowboys.”

When Jigen remembered what Goemon said back then, he made a silent promise that if Goemon would just wake up, he would happily admit that samurai are much cooler.

Now, as day four shades into night five, Jigen’s mind is wading into dark waters, the what-ifs and tough decisions that might have to be made. He hates how badly he wants to hold Goemon’s hand. Even though he had no problem holding it in the Fiat at a moment of terror, he can’t do it now. And he hates it.  

Jigen is still wallowing in self-loathing when the door to the private room clicks open and he hears Lupin say his name with gravity. “Jigen, we found the person who did it.”

Lupin enters carrying a laptop bag, but more curious is the absence of Fujiko at his side. Jigen figures she would want to be present for the big reveal so she could exaggerate her role and congratulate herself. No. That isn’t fair, for Jigen to assume the worst about her. She’s been nicer to him over the last four days than he previously thought her capable of. Almost like an actual friend.

There’s a small table and another chair in the room and Jigen helps Lupin drag them over next to the chair he’s been using. While Lupin sets up the laptop on the table, Jigen tries to mentally arm himself to handle whatever he’s about to learn.

“Do you want the long version or the short version?” Lupin asks.  

Jigen considers for a moment. “How about the medium version?”

“Medium it is.” Lupin clicks on the icon to open up a thumb drive inserted in the USB port and drags a zip file onto the desktop. When he unzips the file and opens it, a multitude of new windows cascade across the laptop screen. Despite the apparent chaos of the array, Lupin navigates through the information expertly as he presents it to Jigen.  

“Our first task was to find out where in the village Goemon was exposed to the nerve agent.” Lupin clicks on a photo of an empty white coffee cup sealed in a clear evidence bag. “Thanks to the laboratory and hazmat experts at our disposal, we were able to identify traces of the substance in a single coffee cup—and, fortunately, nowhere else—indicating that the poison was in an ingested form. That fits with the delayed effects and the lab confirmed it when they analyzed the chemical composition.”

“Goemon complained about the taste of the coffee,” Jigen says guiltily. “I thought he was just being picky. You know how he is.”

Lupin claps a reassuring hand on Jigen’s shoulder. “You had no reason to be suspicious. I wouldn’t have been.”

The laptop screen now displays a 3D model of a molecule, rotating on a black background—the nerve agent, presumably. Lupin continues his report.

“Once we had the molecular structure mapped out, I got into contact with a young friend of ours who has a talent for accessing highly restricted information online.”  

Jigen cocks his head in surprise. “Ami?”

“Ami Enan,” Lupin confirms, beaming as proudly as if he’d raised the girl himself. “Even though she’s busy with college and working as a freelance software developer, she still found time to help out her old pal, Lupin.”

“Pal?” Jigen raises an eyebrow. “That kid had a colossal crush on you, you know.”  

Lupin frowns. “Hey, that’s not my fault. Okay. Moving on. I sent her the molecule and she found the supposedly top secret lab that manufactured it. Amazing, right? According to Ami’s hacked intel, the nerve agent that poisoned Goemon was produced in Belarus, at a facility that works closely with the Belarusian KGB.”  

If Jigen wasn’t already primed for it due to the involvement of Novichoke, hearing that acronym would be alarming. The KGB, in any iteration, is not an organization you want to tangle with. But what is the connection? Jigen and Lupin had done a few jobs in Belarus, but that was years ago and Goemon played no part. Assuming this was a targeted attack, it doesn’t make sense.

“Determining who obtained and deployed this nerve agent required a different set of skills,” Lupin continues. “This is where Fujiko proved indispensable. Using her womanly wiles and extensive network of, uh, gentlemen admirers, she secured a private conversation with a technician at the lab that made the stuff.”

These gentlemen admirers, as Jigen understands, are men that Fujiko has beguiled, conned, defrauded, and blackmailed over the years. But seeing how it gets results, he’s developing a newfound respect for her methods.

“Fujiko’s source informed her that this particular formulation is still in development and only a small quantity has been produced, exclusively for laboratory use.”  

“So how did it wind up in a coffee cup in Czechia?”

“That’s an excellent question, Jigen. According to internal records at the lab, a batch of the agent was destroyed last month. But the man Fujiko spoke to said that it had in fact been secretly sold to a Belarusian national who paid in cash. An enormous sum of it.”

On the laptop screen, Lupin opens a set of candid street photos of a woman with high cheekbones and mousy hair. Jigen recognizes her immediately, even without her glasses.  

“That’s the waitress,” he blurts out. “From the café.”

“Iryna Anatolevna Danilovich,” says Lupin.

Jigen rolls the name around in his head, searching for it among his memories but not finding it. “Doesn’t sound familiar,” he says.

“It didn’t sound familiar to me, either,” Lupin says. “So I did a little more digging and found this.” He opens another set of photos—mugshots—of a somewhat younger woman with hollow eyes and disheveled, bleached blonde hair. When he arranges these next to the other pictures, it becomes clear that they depict the same person at different points in her life.  

“That woman.” Jigen’s voice is laced with contempt. How had he not realized that their waitress was her?  

The younger, blonder Iryna in the mugshot was one of the perpetrators in a human trafficking ring that Jigen and Lupin crossed paths with during an attempted art heist in Minsk about five years ago. The duo had broken into a warehouse to retrieve a collection of supposedly lost Chagall paintings, only to discover Iryna’s group using the space to conduct their illegal flesh trading. A shootout erupted and Jigen had slain one of theirs. Iryna’s lover. She’d wailed over his body and cursed Jigen’s name.  

Understanding lands on Jigen like a dead-blow hammer. When he speaks again, the words come out in a low growl through his teeth. “She put the poison in the wrong cup. Goemon wasn’t her target. I was.”

Lupin is silent. He already knows what Jigen just realized, having conducted the research himself, and is giving his best friend and partner time to fully process it.

Now that he has all the pieces of the story put together, Jigen can assess the scenario as a whole and quickly draws several conclusions. Iryna Anatolevna Danilovich is scum. The effort and money she put into her botched assassination demonstrates just how consuming her craving for revenge is. The fact that she botched it demonstrates that she is not a mastermind. She is the reason that Goemon is in a coma and might not regain consciousness.

Unexpected is how he doesn’t have even the slightest urge to push Goemon away, the way he has done in the past to people—especially women—who were endangered by their proximity to him. It’s not just because he knows the samurai can handle just about any high-risk situation with deadly aplomb. He wants to pull Goemon closer to him and never let go.

And punish anyone who hurts him.

At last he has something to say to Lupin. “When you entered the room, you said that you found the person who did this, not that you caught the person who did this. I take it Miss Danilovich wasn’t working at the village café when you visited.”

“She left her letter of resignation the night of the poisoning and hasn’t been seen in town since.” Lupin shakes his head. “Worked there for less than a week, didn’t use her real name. As I'm sure you’ve figured out by now, she was also responsible for getting that bogus map into my hands.”

“All that work to kill me in dramatic fashion and she still managed to bungle it,” Jigen grumbles. “Any ideas where she’s fled to?” 

At that, Lupin grins. “But of course. I wouldn’t be so confidently presenting all of this to you if she’d given us the slip. There was one last teensy-weensy favor I asked of Ami Enan—nothing major, just hacking a few CCTV cameras and employing a bit of ethically questionable facial recognition software—and she confirmed for me that Iryna Danilovich is still in the country, right here in Prague.”  

“I see.” Jigen remains outwardly calm, but inside him, that once distant tempest has come ashore at typhoon strength. He is ready to rain destruction. “You know her current location?”

“I do,” says Lupin, nodding.

For all the ingenuity, collaboration, and toil that went into solving the crime, however, something about this endgame scenario strikes Jigen as a little too convenient. Even if she wasn’t the most competent assassin, why would Iryna stick around for this long so close to the scene of her crime? “Think it’s a trap, Lupin? Maybe she’s waiting for you to come and avenge your partner.”

“It’s certainly something I considered,” Lupin says. “But after staking out her flat, I don’t think it’s likely.”

Jigen knows the answer to the question he’s about to ask, but he wants to hear how Lupin replies. “If you staked out her flat, why didn’t you go in after her?”

Two unshakable friends and partners in thievery meet each other’s eyes as a wordless exchange of trust. The smile Lupin gives is soft and empathetic, not a grin or a smirk. “Because if Fujiko was lying in that hospital bed, I’d want to be the one to confront the person who put her there.”  

“Right,” says Jigen, bowing his head. Having Lupin’s blessing is not a requirement for what he intends to do, but it means the world to him. Now the only thing holding him back is his reluctance to leave Goemon’s side for an unknowable span of time. He glances over at the man, who might be mistaken for sleeping if not for the tube in his trachea.

Lupin sets a hand on Jigen’s shoulder reassuringly. “I promise to stay right here with him until you return.”

“Thank you,” Jigen says quietly. He can barely keep his voice from breaking under the weight of his emotions. “Could I have a minute to say goodbye? Alone, I mean.” It’s a simple request but Jigen can feel his heartbeat in his throat as he makes it, as if it’s an act requiring great courage.

“Of course,” says Lupin, pushing himself back from the table and up from his chair. “I’ll be out in the hallway making a quick call to Fujiko.”

Over the past four days and four nights, Jigen has spoken quite a lot to Goemon, even while doubting that his words can breach the gates of the unconscious mind. It’s mostly been reminiscences of past heists—treasures they stole, perils they narrowly escaped, foods they dined on in cities across the globe. Not once has he talked about his feelings, and he’s not sure if he can do it now, but he wants to try at least.  

Standing up so he can look at that wan, oddly beautiful face from above, Jigen begins. “I’m leaving soon, Goemon, but I won’t stay gone for long. I don’t know if you heard what me and Lupin were just talking about—and if you didn’t you probably aren’t hearing me now—but the reason you’re in a coma is because you drank poison that was meant for me. I am so sorry, Goemon. If I could trade our places right now, the way it was supposed to go, I would do it without a second thought. But I can’t. And I can’t do anything to wake you up sooner. The only thing that’s in my power to do is to take down the person who did this.”

Jigen scratches his bearded jawline and then drags his hand up his face and into his unkempt hair. There is so much more he needs to say, but can’t. And what would be the point, anyway, if Goemon isn’t awake to hear it? He agonizes silently as seconds pass and eventually sighs in defeat.

“When you wake up—and you have to wake up—I’d like to talk about some things. Like what happened in Paris.” Why the hell is this so hard? “So stay alive and keep growing stronger because I will come back to you.”

The last thing Jigen does before he leaves is tuck an errant curl of dark hair behind Goemon’s ear. It is as much physical touch as he will allow himself.

When Jigen steps out into the hallway, Lupin passes him a yellow clasp envelope, which he stashes in his jacket as Lupin slips into the private ICU room.

••••••••••••••••••••

Inside the envelope from Lupin, Jigen found a handwritten note with the address and directions, a subway fare card, and the key to open a coin locker that contained his disguise for tonight’s mission. After what felt like an interminable ride, he has arrived at his destination dressed as an air duct maintenance worker, counterfeit repair order in hand and his loaded Smith & Wesson concealed inside his coveralls.

The place where Iryna Anatolevna Danilovich is currently living is an inverse Prague to the romantic old world splendor of spires and pastel frontages. The panel housing complex is a triumph of Soviet Era brutalist architecture—enormous concrete monoliths, each made up of thousands of cells of individual humanity, arranged into tidy rows and columns. It’s all about efficiency and an illusion of uniformity.  

One of these thousands of cells contains a would-be assassin.

Luckily for Jigen, Lupin’s directions include a remarkably precise hand-drawn map of the buildings surrounding the subway station with the quickest path marked in red. Tonight’s waning moon is blurred by a translucent veil of thin clouds, but it still provides enough light for him to navigate. He’s been thinking about what he’s going to say to Iryna when he comes face to face with her and he still doesn’t know. When he sees her, it will come to him

His quarry resides on the seventh floor. He takes the elevator because it’s less conspicuous, besides he’s in disguise. Three other people from the ground floor ride with him, heading for the third, fourth, and tenth floors. Jigen presses the button for seven and by the time the elevator ascends that high, it’s down to him and a tired looking man in rumpled office wear.  

The doors open, and a pretty woman with mousy hair scraped back into a tight ponytail, dressed in black jeans and a gray sweater, steps inside. Iryna Danilovich.

This is an unanticipated development, so unanticipated that Jigen freezes in place. It’s only when the tired man taps his shoulder and points at the floor number—“this is your stop” communicated in a manner that requires no translation—that Jigen remembers how to move his feet. He exits hastily, but not before noting that Iryna pressed the button to go up to the roof. Then he sprints to the stairwell.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Jigen knows that he is unlikely to outrace Iryna to the top, but the elevator does have to stop at the tenth floor so he isn’t without hope. When he pushes open the door that leads out onto the rooftop, panting from the climb, he walks straight into the business end of a pistol.  

“I was wondering when you would show up, Daisuke Jigen.” Iryna’s smirk is cold and arrogant. She speaks in English, her accent lending a seductive quality to her voice that might be attractive if she weren’t a sociopath. “Have you buried your samurai friend already? Or did you send him back to Japan for cremation?”  

Jigen realizes he must have made a crucial miscalculation somewhere in the chain of events, but he can’t think clearly enough to analyze each step. With a gun pointed at his head, the non-stupid thing to do right now would be to put his hands up in the air. Instead, riled by her inflammatory comments, he tears off the latex mask that was supposed to conceal his identity and bares his teeth at the woman.

“So you realize you made a mistake, eh? You put the poison in the wrong cup and now you have to deal with me directly."

Iryna sneers indignantly. “Mistake? I did not make any mistake.”

“Bullshit!” Jigen barks. “Goemon wasn’t even there that night in Minsk. I’m the one you want dead.”

“If I wanted you dead, Daisuke Jigen, then you would be dead. If not by poison, then by my gun right now.” Her expression twists into one of gleeful sadism. “What I wanted was to make you suffer. So I went after the person who is most precious to you.”

Jigen makes a snap decision to reach for his weapon but a bullet whizzes past his ear before he can grab it.

“Ah, ah, ah. You know it is not polite to interrupt a lady when she is speaking about her perfectly executed revenge plot. As I was saying, in order to make you suffer I went after the one who is most precious to you. A more impatient person would have assumed that to be the man known as Lupin the Third. But not me.”  

“Shut the hell up,” Jigen growls, but of course she doesn’t. Why would she?

“Come on, don’t you want to know how I know?” Iryna flashes him an insincere pout. “I’ve had my eyes on you for nearly a year, searching for the best weakness to exploit. Every time you’ve been outside in public, someone who works for me has been watching you. And always you look at that samurai like he is someone special. You think nobody sees it, but I did. I saw it all. Whether at a bistro in Rome or a park in London. Or walking along the Seine after a night of heavy drinking.”

Don’t take the bait, Jigen reminds himself. She’s trying to agitate him again so he’ll act irrationally. In order to disarm her, he needs to stay calm. “I didn’t realize how badly I hurt you when I killed that guy,” he says, loading his tone with feigned remorse. “You must’ve really loved him to be this hellbent on revenge.”  

At this, Iryna throws back her head and laughs haughtily. “Love? I did not love that man. He was my source of wealth. I was living comfortably off of his money and only had to get my hands a little dirty, but he was a careless idiot to let us get caught by you. I could have easily found another man to pay me if it hadn’t been for you. Instead I had to rot in a prison cell. And then, the things I had to do to get my hands on that poison. The men I had to toy with.”  

“You’re like an evil Fujiko Mine,” Jigen says, affirming to himself that he does not, in fact, consider Fujiko to be evil.  

“That is high praise. Faking love is one of the most useful talents in a woman’s arsenal. A talent you do not possess, Daisuke Jigen. Your love for that silly cosplay samurai is genuine. Was genuine, I should say. Too bad you never told him how you feel. Even after that passionate kiss. What happened? Did you pretend it didn’t happen? That you were both just drunk and it didn’t mean anything? How devastating this must be for you.”  

Jigen’s mouth curls into a derisive smile. “Go ahead and keep taunting. You’re clearly making shit up at this point. Otherwise you would know that Goemon isn’t dead at all. You did make a mistake. Not the wrong cup but the wrong dosage. It takes a lot more poison to kill a samurai than an ordinary human.”  

“You are the one who is lying.” There is an almost imperceptible quaver in Iryna’s voice that betrays her self-doubt. “The Novichoke I used is powerful enough to take down even a so-called samurai. If your Goemon lives, he’ll have nerve damage so bad that he will never wield a sword again. And he will have _you_ to blame for it.”  

“You may have done your research about me, but you don’t have a damn clue when it comes to Goemon.” Jigen maintains his sangfroid, even though his heart is pounding, his brain reeling. This woman obviously doesn’t know Goemon—she doesn’t even know whether he’s dead or alive—but she does know the experimental nerve agent she administered to him, and if she says permanent damage is the price of surviving it, Jigen is inclined to believe. But he can’t reveal any trace of anxiety or fear.  

Iryna tilts her head in mock curiosity. “Oh?”

“Not only is he alive, he’s already fully recovered,” Jigen lies. “The thing you failed to grasp about Goemon Ishikawa of the Thirteenth Generation is that nothing can stop him from being a samurai. If his hands don't work, he’ll hold Zantetsuken in his teeth. He’s no cosplayer. That man is as real as they come. And he’s infuriated with you now, positively itching for vengeance. That’s why he insisted on coming here with me as my backup. Isn’t that right, Goemon?”

He asks the question at the end loudly and watches as terror takes hold of Iryna, her eyes darting about the roof, scanning the shadows for the glint of steel, a swordsman lying in wait. In that instant, Jigen draws his piece and aims. But before he can fire, she targets his head and pulls the trigger—  

The shot goes wide. The bullet misses Jigen by meters and caroms off an air conditioning unit as Iryna’s gun flies from her hands and clatters away, out of reach. Seizing the advantage, he presses towards her as she backs away, palms up.  

Iryna snarls. “You think I am a moron? That was a gunshot. Samurai do not use guns.” She switches to a roar. “I know it is you, Lupin the Third! Show yourself, you craven ‘gentleman’ thief!”

But Iryna Anatolevna Danilovich isn’t nearly as skilled at walking backwards as Lupin is. Her feet slip on gravel and she struggles for balance. Her ankles knock into metal pipes and she nearly stumbles. The backs of her thighs bump against the edge of a concrete barrier.

“Where are you, Lupin the—…” Before she can finish yelling the name, she pitches backward, windmilling her arms, and then plunges head first to the sidewalk below.

Jigen doesn’t look over the ledge. He doesn’t want to see. “You can come out from hiding now, Fujiko,” he calls to the night.

A nimbus of auburn hair and a pale pink face materialize from behind the stairwell enclosure but her black bodysuit remains almost invisible in the darkness. “Are you satisfied with how things played out, Jigen? Even though you didn’t get to shoot her?”

“It’s better this way,” says Jigen, which is true despite the tiniest shard of disappointment that will probably stay buried in his psyche for a while. “There are so many people living in this housing complex. I think an accidental death would disturb their peace of mind less than a homicide would.”

“You really are a big softie at your core,” Fujiko teases fondly. “And what was that I heard you call her? An evil Fujiko Mine? I guess that makes me the good Fujiko Mine then. Isn’t that right, Jigen?”  

“Please stop talking,” Jigen grumbles. 

“Also, I want to know more about this passionate kiss between you and Goemon.”

“That’s it, we’re leaving separately.” He stalks towards the door to the stairwell, which is being held ajar by a brick.

“Wait!” Fujiko shouts after him and he pauses to listen. “Before you leave, I want you to know that—about what that woman said—I’m not faking it with Lupin.”

“I already knew,” says Jigen. “Thanks for the back-up, by the way.” He throws her a goodbye wave over his shoulder and then is on his way.

••••••••••••••••••••

When Jigen arrives back at the hospital, the first red glow of daybreak is already starting to bleed up from the East. Inside Goemon’s room, Lupin is in the chair next to the bed, reading The Lonesome Gods through a pair of glasses perched on his nose. Whether he is up early or has stayed awake all night is unclear, but Jigen suspects the latter.

“I’m back,” Jigen says blandly.

Lupin removes his reading glasses and tucks them into the paperback as a makeshift bookmark before vacating his seat. “Everything okay?”

“More or less. Any news here?” Jigen casts his gaze towards Goemon.

“Yeah, actually. Doc says treatment has gone better than expected. She credits Goemon’s abnormally robust natural healing. He might be brought out of the coma and taken off the ventilator as soon as tomorrow.” Lupin looks at his watch and corrects himself. “Later today, that is.”

“Really?” Hope bubbles in Jigen’s chest. Intellectually, he knows that Iryna Danilovich’s literal downfall has nothing to do with Goemon Ishikawa’s miraculous recovery, but the two things feel symbolically connected nonetheless.

“Really,” says Lupin, smiling. “It won’t be for a while yet, though, so you should try and get some sleep. You look exhausted.”

Jigen feels exhausted. Not just from being out all night, but from all the dread and worry that has kept him up for days. This morning, finally, he feels like he can rest.

“I think I’ll just crash in the chair here,” he tells Lupin.  

“I figured you would. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go meet Fujicakes for breakfast.”

“Tell her I said hi.”

After Lupin has gone, Jigen drops down heavily into the armchair. Watching Goemon, he ponders what the phrase abnormally robust natural healing means. When Jigen told Iryna that it takes more poison to kill a samurai than an ordinary human he was bluffing, of course, but perhaps there was a bit of accidental truth to it. What he said about nothing stopping Goemon from being a samurai, on the other hand, was wholly fact-based. Nerve damage or no damage, the man will find a way.

Jigen closes his eyes.

••••••••••••••••••••

Jigen opens his eyes. 

The sky outside the window is glowing red. Still? No, that window faces the West. Also, Lupin and Fujiko are both in the room. And Goemon is in a different kimono, deep blue. And is awake. And doesn’t have a tube in his throat.

“Whuh?” Jigen sits bolt upright, blinking in disbelief. “Goemon, how—how long have you been awake?”

“About forty-five minutes.” Goemon’s voice is quiet and hoarse and he speaks more slowly than usual.

“And how long have I been asleep?” Jigen asks.

“About twelve hours,” says Lupin brightly.

Twelve hours isn’t an outrageous amount of sleep, but it’s more than Jigen required given the circumstances. “Why didn’t you wake me up for—?” He doesn’t need to say what because that part is obvious.  

This time it’s Fujiko who answers. “Sorry, Jigen. We knew you needed sleep, and you just looked so peaceful we didn’t want to disturb you.”  

“Like a bearded baby,” Lupin chimes in. “But don’t feel bad about it. You didn’t miss much.”

“The doctor performed some tests,” Goemon rasps. “And I got cleaned up a bit. That is all.”

“I brushed his teeth,” says Lupin, causing Goemon’s cheeks to pinken.

Suddenly Jigen is very self-conscious about his own grunginess, as well as an urgent need to use the bathroom. He can’t shake an unreasonable fear that if he leaves this room he will return to find Goemon back in a coma, but there is a limit to how long certain bodily functions can be postponed so he has no choice but to excuse himself.

While he’s in the bathroom, in addition to relieving himself, Jigen scrubs his hands and face and plucks minute scraps of latex mask still clinging to his beard and eyebrows. He doesn't have a change of clothes or a toothbrush on hand, but there is a bottle of mouthwash and he makes use of it, swishing thoroughly. This isn’t how he imagined his reunion with Goemon would go—he assumed he’d have more time to prepare, mentally and otherwise.

Goemon is awake and talking. Grooming is trivial compared to that.

Jigen returns as freshened as he can get and is relieved to find Goemon is still alert, still breathing on his own. Lupin and Fujiko are now hovering near the door, poised to make an escape.

“Are you two leaving?” Jigen asks them.

“Just to go get dinner,” says Lupin. “Don’t worry, we’ll bring you something. In the meantime, the two of you can get caught up.” The only thing missing is a suggestive wink at the end. 

Fujiko flashes Jigen a smile that might as well be a wink, but Goemon is unlikely to have noticed.

Two depart and two are left behind. It has been less than a week since Jigen last spoke to Goemon, but it feels like months have passed. Years. A lifetime.

Jigen sits back down in the armchair that has become so familiar to him and opens with a predictable question. “How are you feeling?”

Even though it is a predictable question, Goemon’s response sounds nervous. “Alright, I suppose. It is a strange thing to wake up in an unfamiliar hospital.”

“It’s better than not waking up at all,” Jigen says, and then mentally chides himself for saying something so stupid and weird. “Sorry, I’ve kind of been on edge for the past few days.”

“Lupin told me you stayed with me the whole time.”

“I did,” says Jigen. Heat oozes into his face. “For the most part. So, uh, what else did Lupin tell you?”  

“Just the basics,” says Goemon. “That I ingested a nerve agent because a woman who wanted revenge on you put the poison in the wrong coffee cup.”  

“Right,” Jigen responds. Had Lupin not told him the full story of what happened? Or had Fujiko not told Lupin?  

Goemon’s nose scrunches in puzzlement. “Lupin did not explain to me why you are dressed like a plumber, however.”  

“Air duct technician,” Jigen corrects him. The smile comes naturally.

“Are those not the same thing, essentially?” Goemon asks.

Jigen sighs, not unhappily. Goemon is still Goemon. There is something he wants to ask before he forgets. “Why did Lupin brush your teeth?”  

Goemon acts surprised by the question. “Well, as you can hear, my vocal cords are a trifle bruised from the ventilator so I knew you—or whoever—would have to lean in close to properly hear me and I did not want you—or anyone else—to find my breath objectionable. That is all.” He looks away as he says this, trying to hide how rosy his face is.

“No, I mean—how much are you able to use your hands?”

“Oh, that.” Goemon closes his eyes and bows his head. Before, he looked embarrassed. Now, he looks ashamed. “The doctor said muscle strength and fine motor skills will require more time and physical therapy to regain. She was impressed that I was able to speak right away, though.”  

“I’m glad that you can,” says Jigen. “But is it really okay for you to be talking with bruised vocal cords?”

“It is fine,” says Goemon. “Beneficial even. The doctor instructed me to use my voice every day and think of conversation as a type of training.”

Jigen watches Goemon’s hands bunch loosely in the blanket that covers him to his waist, fidgeting despite the lack of dexterity and grip. Cautiously, he asks: “What do you remember about the night you collapsed? Was it painful? Scary?” 

“Both, I think.” Goemon looks down at his fingers, weakly flexing in the soft cotton fabric. “The symptoms developed very rapidly and my memories after that are mostly disjointed fragments. I remember pain, and fear, but not clearly.”

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Jigen says. 

Goemon gives a small, faintly sad smile. “I’ve experienced worse things in my life.”  

Like the time he endured torture to protect Lupin, thinks Jigen, an incident that none of them likes to talk about. “I know,” he says. “But just because you can withstand extreme situations, doesn’t mean you should have to. I’m really glad that you’re still with us, Goemon.”  

“I am glad I am still with you, too, Jigen,” Goemon says. “That is, with all of you. Still in the world. You know what I mean.”  

There is a lull and Jigen feels an anxious flutter in his stomach. Is this his cue to start talking about all the things that he’s been feeling? Or should he wait until Goemon has had more time to recuperate? While he’s still in contemplation, Goemon interrupts his thoughts.  

“Jigen?” His expression is pensive. “May I talk to you about something important?”  

The request comes so unexpectedly that Jigen blinks several times, stunned, before replying. “Yeah, of course.”

Goemon clears his throat with a wet-sounding cough and begins. “Before I collapsed on the bridge and everything became muddled, the last thing I clearly remember about that night was saying something to you that was terribly embarrassing. Afterwards, I could hardly believe I did it and tried to get away from you.”

“So you really did speed up,” says Jigen. “I don’t remember you saying anything embarrassing, though. The last thing I heard was when you said the moon was beautiful, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, that was it.” Goemon’s cheeks are bright red, his eyes looking away awkwardly. “As a Japanese person, are you not familiar with the expression?”  

Jigen scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’ve spent more years living outside my home country than inside it, so I’m afraid I’m not familiar with all of the idioms.”

“I see. Well, in that case I suppose I need not have felt so embarrassed. I was so mortified after saying it, in fact, that I believed myself to be entering the throes of a panic attack. I was dizzy and sweating and my chest felt tight.”

“You had no reason to suspect it was actually something a lot more dangerous,” says Jigen. “But why would saying something embarrassing cause you to have a panic attack even if I had known what it meant? I’ve heard you say a lot of esoteric things over the years and never thought any less of you for it.”  

The blush now encompasses Goemon’s entire head. “I—well—I think the most comprehensive way for me to explain it requires going a bit further back in time. To Paris.”

“Paris?” Jigen’s heartbeat is in his stomach.

“The night Fujiko invited us to that overextravagant hotel bar,” says Goemon. “When I drank so much I vomited into the Seine. Do you remember, Jigen?”  

Jigen knew when Goemon said Paris it was going to be about that night. “Yeah, I remember.”  

Goemon averts his eyes again. “So do I. That is, I lied to you when I said I could not recall what happened that night. And I do not refer only to disgorging into the river. I remember what I did to you, Jigen.”  

“What you did to me?”  

“I mean k-kissing you.” His eyes squeeze shut as he stutters the word. “I sprang that on you without seeking your permission beforehand. It was a dishonorable thing that I did. I am a disgrace as a samurai.”

“You were very drunk, Goemon.” Jigen has to strike just the right balance with what he says. He wants to let Goemon share his account of that night without interference, but he can’t bear to see the guy struggle with guilt over it.

“I knew what I was doing,” says Goemon solemnly. “Alcohol did not force me to do anything I was not already predisposed to do. Alcohol merely loosened my self-restraint enough to act on a desire I had been harboring for a long time.”

“What are you trying to say?” Jigen asks the question with calm deliberation. He thinks he knows the answer but he can’t assume anything—he has to hear it from Goemon.

“What I am trying to say is—…” Goemon has to stop and take a steadying breath. “I had been wanting to kiss you all evening. I even requested one of your cigarettes to smoke so that I might experience what your mouth would taste like. But it was not enough to satisfy my yearning.”

Jigen has no words as he watches Goemon tremble slightly, as if holding back tears through sheer force of will.  

Goemon continues even more quietly. “I say I had wanted to kiss you all that evening, but the truth is that it started much earlier than that. Years earlier. When I first started working with you and Lupin, I was determined to see you as my rival for his respect and trust. But the more time I spent in your company, the more I realized that it was Lupin I was jealous of for his closeness to you, Jigen. The two of you have an ironclad bond that dates back to your formative adolescent years.”

“It’s true me and Lupin have been friends and partners since before we met you,” says Jigen. “But it’s always been strictly platonic. You know that.”

“I do,” says Goemon. “And I tried so hard to convince myself that the way I feel about you is something like that. The reason spending time with you is like being home regardless of where we are in the world is because I see you as a brother. The reason I so often find myself thinking about how loyal and selfless and cool and handsome you are is simply admiration. But those are lies I told myself. That night in Paris, between the sake and the moon, I could not contain my ardor. The next morning, when I remembered my egregious behavior and realized I might have ruined our established friendship, I panicked and told you that I could not remember what happened. Graciously, you played along.”

It’s a lot for Jigen to digest and he doesn’t know how to respond so he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “You think I’m handsome?”

“I—well—yes—that is—I do,” Goemon stammers and then pauses to compose himself. “Ever since Paris, I tried to bury all of these inappropriate feelings deep inside of myself again. But on the night of the poisoning, when I saw the moon, it all came bubbling back up to the surface and I wound up saying that thing that I said.”

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” Jigen supplies. “I still don’t get what’s so embarrassing about that, though.”  

“Y-yes, about that,” says Goemon. “In Japan, that expression means—it is an indirect way to say—…”  

“What?”  

“I cannot simply say it out loud! That is the reason the expression exists!”

Jigen watches Goemon and feels an immense upwelling of affection. After everything that Goemon worked up the courage to tell him, Jigen is pretty sure he knows what that Japanese expression means. He reaches for Goemon’s closest hand and holds it.  

For the first time since he began sharing his story, Goemon meets Jigen’s gaze. “Are you not disgusted by me after hearing all of this, Jigen?”

“Not even a little bit,” says Jigen, smiling patiently at him. “The truth is, I’ve been trying and failing to put what happened in Paris behind me, too. The guilt I’ve felt over not pushing you away because you were too drunk. The shame I’ve felt over how intensely I experienced that kiss. I thought that I’d taken advantage of you.”

Goemon scoffs at that. “You, take advantage of me? Do not be ridiculous.” Then his tone turns softer. “Did you truly not hate kissing me?”

“Hated it?” Jigen arches an eyebrow, frowning. “If that’s the impression that you got then I must be a hell of a lousy kisser.”

The comment makes Goemon so pink and flustered he can barely articulate a reply. “What? I did not mean to imply—! You are an excellent kisser, I assure you!”  

“Relax, Goemon. I was joking.” Jigen sighs. “Look, expressing tender feelings, even euphemistically, doesn’t come naturally to me. I’ll admit that before Paris I didn’t spend much time contemplating what you mean to me. But I’ve replayed that damn kiss in my head every single day since it happened, no matter how hard I try not to. And it’s got me thinking about every interaction we’ve ever had and seeing them with new eyes. Then there was the absolute hell of the last five days when I thought you would die and that I would lose you forever. All of it has helped me to understand how much I care about you and what kind of relationship I want to have with you.”

Hope sparkles in Goemon’s eyes. “Does that mean that you reciprocate?”

“Yeah, that’s what it means. I love you, Goemon.” Jigen hadn’t planned on saying those three words, it just happened on its own.  

When Goemon smiles, tears that had been collecting on the rims of his lower eyelids spill over and streak down both cheeks. “The moon is beautiful, is it not?”  

Jigen looks out the window. Tonight it is an ordinary waning moon. And it is beautiful.

“So what comes next?” Goemon asks.

After thinking about it for a moment, Jigen answers. “We could go back to Japan for a while. You’ll do physical therapy and occupational therapy and training. And I’ll stick around to keep you company. How does that sound?”

“It sounds nice,” says Goemon. “But what about Lupin?”

“I’m sure he won’t mind going on an extended vacation with Fujiko.”

“Say, what do you think the two of them are going to bring for dinner? I hope it is Japanese food.”  

Jigen squeezes Goemon’s hand. “I do, too.”

••••••••••••••••••••

End

••••••••••••••••••••