Chapter Text
Kazuma has had fifty days to imagine this moment.
Not that every day was spent imagining it, of course. Most of his days have been filled with training, or catching up on Iris’ book recommendations, or learning how to thwart Sholmes’ disconcerting lockpicking skills. But occasionally, on those nights when they serve chicken, while he lies awake trying not to mutter increasingly elaborate curses on the chef, he imagines the ship docking at Yokohama. Of what it would feel like, to take his first steps back on home soil after nearly two years abroad. Of the humid air and that salty, acrid smell of the harbor while passengers jostle onto the pier. And he imagines that he’ll look up from his luggage, and he’ll pick out the faces of his welcome party—his family—somewhere among the crowd. They’ll be smiling, he hopes, although by now he’s learned to temper his expectations. He doesn’t imagine Ryuunosuke’s face specifically.
It’s only afterwards, when he’s standing there in the haze of the humid summer morning, catching sight of Professor Mikotoba (smiling, waving, and alone), that he realizes with an unpleasant flood of disappointment exactly how much he’d taken Ryuunosuke’s presence for granted.
The crowd pushes past him—some of them throw dirty looks his way, and more than once he hears a curt, “Excuse me.”
“Mr. Asougi!” An arm flings around his shoulder, and he tries not to stumble as all of the weight of Herlock Sholmes sags against him. “Why is it that I am not even two minutes off that wretched boat, and yet I am already thrust into an even more wretched situation!”
But Kazuma has his own wretched situation to deal with, which includes Sholmes’ increasingly oppressive deadweight and the distinct lack of Ryuunosuke. One of those things is more likely to be addressed within the next minute than the other, though, so he relents and asks, “The what?”
“My clothes,” says Sholmes, “are sticking to me.”
“It’s August,” Kazuma explains.
“Typhoon season, Daddy,” says Iris, appearing at Kazuma’s side. “We read all about it before our journey, remember?”
“I remember a great many things, Iris,” Sholmes replies, still draped uncomfortably around Kazuma’s shoulders. “But weather facts must be reserved for only the most riveting of small talk, and therefore have no place in my brain.”
“So you’d rather complain than be prepared. I see!” Iris says. She grabs Kazuma’s wrist and tries tugging them forward. “Let’s get going, shall we? It would be rude for us to keep clogging up the dock. And Professor Mickey is waiting!”
“Mikotoba?” Sholmes mumbles into Kazuma’s shoulder. His mood has melted as quickly as body. “Tell me, Iris, is he here?”
“You’ll find out sooner if you’d walk on your own, Daddy,” she says, and with a heavy sigh he peels himself off Kazuma.
Professor Mikotoba’s smile widens as they approach, but Sholmes doesn’t appear to notice. He scans the docks, head whipping from side to side, looking anywhere but straight ahead where Professor Mikotoba is waiting.
“I don’t see him,” Sholmes announces. “However, there is some man here who looks eerily similar to Mikotoba, if perhaps one squints and tilts their head at just the right angle…”
“Sholmes…” Professor Mikotoba sighs and shakes his head, but he’s still smiling.
“Ah, so it is him! Apologies, Mikotoba. I couldn’t recognize you with that mustache, you see.”
“You saw me in London, Sholmes. I haven’t changed it since then.”
“And that’s precisely the issue,” Sholmes replies smoothly. “But no use dwelling on Mikotoba’s stubbornness, I suppose. The next leg of our journey awaits!”
And so it does, because the next train out of Yokohama leaves in just fifteen minutes. They make a mad rush to the station, hefting their luggage through the crowd and up the platform. Professor Mikotoba has already bought their tickets, thankfully, and they flop into their seats right as the train begins to depart. Only one more hour, Kazuma thinks. His body thrums in anticipation, even as the fatigue of boat travel sinks in. Iris and Sholmes must feel similarly—their faces are glued to the window the entire trip, uncharacteristically quiet except for the occasional fascinated observation.
The train ride passes in a blur, and Kazuma soon finds himself swept into a carriage and down the familiar set of streets to the Mikotoba household. He stumbles a little when he steps off at the gate, still somewhat stunned that he’s actually here. Home.
Professor Mikotoba tugs the luggage from his hands, rousing him from his fugue state.
“Welcome home,” he says, and Kazuma mumbles his way around an awed tadaima.
They drop their luggage just inside the house entrance, when Iris pipes up with the question that’s been at the top of Kazuma’s mind since they arrived this morning: “Where are Runo and Susie?”
“They had a trial today. And actually—” Professor Mikotoba checks his pocketwatch. “It seems they’re not quite finished yet. What do you say—shall we see if we can catch the rest of it?”
Kazuma has already seen Ryuunosuke defend before, and has no particular desire to watch him while someone else is serving as the prosecution. But before he can say so, Iris gasps and claps her hands together delightedly.
“Oh! Watching Runo and Susie in the Japanese courts! I’d love to see them!”
“Alright.” Professor Mikotoba smiles. “Let’s catch a rickshaw, then. Unless you want to take a short break to unpack…?”
“There will be plenty of time for unpacking later,” says Sholmes, waving off the suggestion. “Whereas, each trial is only a once-in-a-lifetime moment!”
Kazuma can’t help but roll his eyes at that. He’s prosecuted his own fair share of slogs of trials back in England, as Sholmes very well knows. He hardly sees how this might be different, except that Ryuunosuke will be there. And as pleasing as that is sure to be, it wouldn’t be anything he’s not already used to.
Except this, within not even two hours since he stepped off the docks at Yokohama, is the second of his tragic over-estimations. Because of course Ryuunosuke is not wearing his Yuumei uniform nearly a year after setting off on the path of a defense attorney. He’s not wearing that western suit either, which would have been arguably more tolerable given that Kazuma had already been exposed to it during their time in London. Instead, he’s wearing a navy blue haori hakama kimono in similar make as Professor Mikotoba's, with the red han-eri collar underneath a perfect complement to the hachimaki around Karuma's hilt. It suits him devastatingly well.
“Oh, and there’s Susie!” Iris exclaims. She’s pointing somewhere, although Kazuma is currently too busy watching how Ryuunosuke’s sleeves move as he crosses his arms to bother figuring out where.
A shrill “Objection!” cuts through the air, and with an unpleasant start Kazuma remembers the existence of the prosecution. He pulls his gaze away from the defense’s bench to the opposite end of the courtroom, where the prosecutor is haphazardly waving a fan about. His face looks vaguely familiar, but…
“Who’s that?” Iris asks, to which Professor Mikotoba responds, “I believe that’s young Prosecutor Auchi.”
“Auchi, hm?” Kazuma mutters. The name rings a bell, and he recalls a man whose chonmage fell under Karuma’s sharp blade. “He has too much hair.”
“That’s the son,” Professor Mikotoba explains. “Takeshi, I believe? He was in your year, you know.”
“Hmm…” Kazuma narrows his eyes further, because clearly Takeshi Auchi was not exemplary enough to stand out to him, and is therefore a poor match against Ryuunosuke.
All that fan-waving and screeching must have communicated something important, because Ryuunosuke looks taken aback and begins furiously shuffling through his evidence list. So some things don’t change after all, Kazuma thinks, calming a little at the familiar sight of a floundering Ryuunosuke. But, as is becoming disturbingly usual, Kazuma has made his judgment too soon. Because once Ryuunosuke finds what he’s looking for, he leans back and rests his hand over Karuma and he grins. It’s dazzling. It’s horrible. It’s absolutely annihilating. Kazuma swears a curse on Auchi's bloodline for all eternity.
That expression of Ryuunosuke’s seems to signal the end of it, though, because by the time Kazuma has shaken himself away from death-glaring at Auchi, the judge is already declaring his verdict. A Not Guilty. Of course. As if he can expect anything less of Ryuunosuke, by now.
Iris springs from her seat as soon as the verdict is announced and rushes to the lobby. By the time Kazuma catches up to her, Ryuunosuke and Susato are entering from the chamber.
“Iris! Mr. Sholmes! You’ve arrived! And...Oh—!”
Susato squeaks as her eyes land on Kazuma, and without looking away she grabs at Ryuunosuke and tosses him to the ground.
“Ouch! Miss Susato! What the—”
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammers, still staring at Kazuma. “It’s just—I didn’t—I wasn’t expecting—”
“Quite the welcome, Judicial Assistant Mikotoba,” he says. “Although it seems Ryuunosuke’s gotten the worst of it.”
They both stiffen, and Ryuunosuke slowly angles his head backwards and looks up.
“Kazuma,” he says.
“I’m back,” Kazuma agrees, and after a brief moment of consideration, adds, “partner.”
It is the exact wrong thing to say. Ryuunosuke’s jaw clenches, and he busies himself with getting up off the ground. Susato tears her eyes away, instead focusing intently on Sholmes.
“How was your trip, Mr. Sholmes?” she asks. “No storms or other poor weather, I hope?”
“To be quite frank, Miss Mikotoba, a storm or two would have been the perfect antidote for boredom. But I hear we may experience a typhoon here in Japan, at the very least, so that much I can look forward to!”
“A-ah, yes…”
“Enough weather talk, Daddy.” Iris whacks his arm with a rolled-up newspaper she’d grabbed from the train station on the way home. “Susie! You were marvelous in there!”
Susato ducks her face and fidgets with her hands. “Well, I can hardly take credit for our success. It was Mr. Naruhodou who did all the hard work. And Prosecutor Auchi helped us fit the final piece together, and the judge was favorable today…”
Iris rolls her eyes. “Oh please, Susie. You and Runo need to learn to be less modest.”
Professor Mikotoba laughs. “We’ll be sure to tell that to all of the people of Japan, Iris,” he says, resting a hand on Susato’s shoulder.
“Iris is right, though,” says Ryuunosuke. “I really don’t know where I’d be without all of your help, Miss Susato.”
“You were marvelous too, Ryuunosuke,” Kazuma cuts in. Ryuunosuke ignores him.
“SUSATOOOO!!”
There’s a blur of yellow and a rustling of fabric as someone launches at Susato.
“H-Haori!” she says, stumbling back to catch the girl in her arms. “You were here for the trial?”
“Of course!” the girl replies. “I had to watch you for moral support, didn’t I?”
Kazuma vaguely remembers her from brief interactions at the Mikotoba household—Haori Murasame, one of Susato’s friends. He might have offered a polite hello, if he wasn’t so busy trying to catch Ryuunosuke’s eye as he shuffles further and further around Susato. And Murasame appears occupied enough, as it is.
“Just in time for lunch, too,” Professor Mikotoba says. “I’m sure our guests are hungry from their journey. You’re welcome to join us as well, Miss Murasame.”
“Oh!” Murasame says. She glances around at their group, finally seeming to notice a few unfamiliar faces. “Ah, that is, if I’m not intruding…”
“The more, the merrier!” says Sholmes. “There can never be too many people to regale with the Great Adventures of Herlock Sholmes! And accomplices.”
Murasame’s eyes widen. “Susato, is that…”
“The very same,” Susato whispers back.
“Please, ladies, hold your applause,” Sholmes says. “At least until after the great detective has been fed. Lead us away, Mr. Asougi!”
Sholmes grabs his arm and whirls him around, pulling him out of the lobby.
“Wh— Why me?” Kazuma blurts, with a hint of annoyance. He hears a chuckle that sounds suspiciously like Professor Mikotoba.
“Because you are a local, and because you haven’t been home in so long. Surely you have something you’ve been craving, that you haven’t been able to find in London?”
“La Carneval,” he says, because it’s the first thing he sees as they exit the courthouse, and because he needs to somehow find a way to talk to Ryuunosuke alone, as soon as possible. The sooner they can get lunch over with, the better.
“Oho! Beefsteak!” Sholmes declares. “Not what I would have chosen!”
“Then you can choose it yourself, next time.”
“No beef hotpot, huh,” Ryuunosuke mumbles. Kazuma freezes, then glances back at him. Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments before Ryuunosuke startles and turns away. Damn.
It’s only after they’ve been seated, with Kazuma staring at the image of a dripping beefsteak on the front page of the menu, that he realizes he would really have rather had the beef hotpot. Damn!
He finally pulls himself away from the menu and looks up at the rest of the table. He’s wedged between Iris and Sholmes, somehow, and across from Murasame, who is engaged in conversation with Susato. Ryuunosuke is at Murasame’s left, his face turned away from Kazuma and towards Professor Mikotoba, who is sitting at the end. Kazuma quickly processes their seating arrangements and then turns to Iris.
“Would you like to sit next to Sholmes?” he asks.
“Not particularly,” she says.
Well. “Would you switch seats with me regardless?”
“I like the end seat.” Iris glances up from her menu and takes a long look around the table. Her eyes flick between the three sitting across from them, before she finally settles back on Kazuma with a beaming smile. “But because you asked so nicely, Zumie, I’ll do it for you.”
“Thank you,” he breathes out, and they make a hasty swap. Susato looks over at him, an expression of consternation on her face, but luckily any protests she might have are interrupted by the sudden appearance of their waiter.
“Good afternoon,” the man says. He coughs slightly, and Kazuma recognizes the detective who had been involved in Ryuunosuke’s trial nearly two years ago.
“Inspector Hosonaga?” says Susato, thoroughly distracted now. Kazuma is almost in the clear. “Are you still working undercover here?”
“Please. I am no inspector,” he says. “At least, not right now. I must continue to serve out the rest of my contract as a waiter, regardless of whether or not there are crimes to investigate while doing so. The intelligence-gathering I'm able to conduct here is surprisingly useful, though.”
“Ah… I see…” Susato says, but Kazuma is no longer paying attention, because Murasame has gotten up to go to the restroom, and this is the only chance he has.
He mumbles some excuse that no one is listening to, and follows quickly after. He catches her on the way back to the table, her eyes wide with surprise as they nearly bump into each other in the narrow hallway.
“Murasame-san,” he says. “I will buy you a year’s worth of beefsteaks if you would trade seats with me.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. She thinks for a moment, calculating a similar arrangement that he himself had done almost fifteen minutes prior. “Asougi-kun,” she replies, very seriously. “You do not have to bribe me for the honor of being able to gaze directly in Susato’s eyes.”
“Excellent,” he says, and escorts her back to the table. Ryuunosuke does a double-take when Kazuma slides into the seat next to him, and glances over at the chair where Kazuma—and Iris before him—had originally been. But Murasame is happily leaning forward over the table, eyes sparkling as she laughs at whatever Susato has said, and Ryuunosuke can only settle for a glare. Kazuma returns it with his most brilliant smile.
“I hope you wanted beefsteak, Mr. Asougi,” says Sholmes, “because that’s what we ordered for you while you were away.”
“Yes, sure, thank you,” he says, and returns his attention to Ryuunosuke. Ryuunosuke shifts a little in his seat, and the defense attorney badge on his armband catches briefly in the light. Kazuma itches to know whose name is inscribed on the underside.
Ryuunosuke looks to his left, but Professor Mikotoba is wrapped up in one of Sholmes’ disjointed storytellings again, and, resigned, he settles for conversation with Kazuma.
“So,” he begins, apparently electing to ignore the seat-swapping gymnastics that led them here. “You’re back.”
“That I am.”
“How was London?”
Kazuma laughs. “Chaotic. The judiciary’s still sorting through the mess Stronghart made, trying to work out who can be trusted not to take extrajudicial actions. I’m up against a new defense every trial.” He rests his arms on the table, smiling at Ryuunosuke. “None of them put up quite as much of a challenge as you.”
“Hm.” Ryuunosuke stares at some vague spot between Sholmes and Iris, refusing to turn his head even the slightest bit towards Kazuma. “I didn’t realize trials were a competition.”
“They’re not, of course,” Kazuma swiftly responds, then frowns. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Your beefsteak, sir.” Inspector Hosonaga appears behind Kazuma’s shoulder and slides a hot plate between them, setting it in front of Ryuunosuke. “And yours, as well.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” Ryuunosuke says. Kazuma is still a few sentences behind, wondering how he can salvage this conversation when it’s barely even begun. He frowns down at his beefsteak. It offers no answers.
Everyone else is eating, though, and Kazuma is hungry. And if he’s stuffing his mouth with beefsteak there’s a significantly decreased likelihood of him saying something that will piss off Ryuunosuke.
Chatter returns around the rest of the table, but Kazuma stays quiet. He gets through about half of his steak before slowing down, taking the time to think as he chews.
Theoretically, he knows why Ryuunosuke might still be upset with him. He made a mistake, and he never fully apologized for it, and he arrived back in Japan unannounced. He had hoped that complimenting Ryuunosuke might ease them back into a friendly relationship, but…
I need you to be honest with me, Kazuma.
The memory of their conversation at the docks nine months ago comes to him suddenly. It was something Ryuunosuke had said after Kazuma returned Karuma to him, his eyes solemn as they bore into Kazuma’s soul. Kazuma had left him with Karuma and his hachimaki and an unspoken promise to meet Ryuunosuke’s every expectation, honesty among them.
And all of his compliments have been honest, every time. None of them put up quite as much of a challenge as you. It was meant to be a testament to how much Ryuunosuke has grown as a lawyer, and how much Kazuma trusts that he will see to the heart of the truth. But, after re-examining his phrasing, he might admit that it perhaps wasn’t the most straightforward way of saying so…
Ah.
There.
Kazuma slams his hand down on the table. “Ryuunosuke.”
The outburst makes Susato flinch in her seat, and draws the attention of everyone else at the table. Time and a place, Kazuma, a voice reprimands from the back of his mind. It sounds irritatingly like Ryuunosuke. But he needs Ryuunosuke to pay attention, because he’s realized something urgent and now is as good a time as any to say it.
He wants to say something like the Japanese judiciary is lucky to have you or you’re a better man than I’ll ever be or you’re amazing and stunning and I’m still in love with you, but his tongue has never cooperated in any moment that has mattered and instead he says, “Is that mine?”
Ryuunosuke’s fork is halfway to his mouth; he goes very still, and without looking over at Kazuma says, “What?”
“The armband,” Kazuma says, because he might as well make use of this hole he’s dug himself into.
The mood turns frosty; Sholmes and Iris are now watching them avidly, and Ryuunosuke does not answer.
“I see,” Kazuma mumbles, a little deliriously, because Ryuunosuke has not gotten his own armband, which means that he keeps not one, but two mementos of Kazuma with him at all times, which means that Kazuma still has a solid chance. If he hasn’t already ruined it with his run-off mouth, that is.
Ryuunosuke doesn’t respond. He cuts his steak and scarfs it down with a vicious intensity, and stiffly ignores Kazuma for the remainder of their lunch. Iris fiddles with her Bearis trinket. Sholmes makes a poor attempt at stifling a laugh. Murasame gives him a pitying glance, which is more sympathy than anyone else has shown, and probably more than he deserves.
Welcome back to me, he thinks sourly, and doesn’t finish the rest of his beefsteak.
Miraculously, Ryuunosuke still returns to the Mikotoba household with them afterwards.
Iris rushes off to unpack her things, with Susato and Murasame close behind. Sholmes has wandered into the house, complaining loudly about the heat, and Professor Mikotoba has similarly disappeared. Ryuunosuke branches off to the side yard, moving quickly past the pond around to the back.
“Ryuunosuke,” Kazuma calls out after him, but Ryuunosuke continues to ignore him. Kazuma walks faster. “Ryuunosuke!”
Ryuunosuke stops before one of the pine trees and turns around, weary irritation evident on his face.
“What do you want, Kazuma?”
You. Karuma. Our soul. “What do you think I want, Ryuunosuke Naruhodou?”
“Honestly? I have no idea what you think.”
Anymore. The word hangs implicitly at the end of his sentence. But they both know that Kazuma had never been the person Ryuunosuke thought he was, and the silence only thickens until it’s as heavy and uncomfortable as the humid afternoon air. Ryuunosuke sighs.
“Why are you here?”
“Can I not come back to visit my home?”
“I don’t know,” Ryuunosuke says snippily. “Can you stop responding with a question, maybe?”
Honesty. Kazuma reminds himself sternly. “Do you remember our last conversation, in England?”
“That’s another question—”
“When I asked you to hold on to Karuma for me,” he goes on, and watches while Ryuunosuke pieces together where this conversation is going. It’s one of the things he loves most about Ryuunosuke—how he can always get to the heart of a matter, without Kazuma having to explain it himself.
Ryuunosuke continues to stare at him for a few moments, then sighs again.
“Do you really want the sword?”
“I—” Kazuma hesitates. What he really wants is Ryuunosuke’s heart, but he’s absolutely certain that’s the wrong answer. But surely there’s some metaphor about hearts and swords and becoming worthy of one or the other, so instead he says, “Yes?”
“You sound so sure,” Ryuunosuke says dryly.
“I swear it, on my honor.”
Ryuunosuke assesses him skeptically, which Kazuma supposes is what he deserves.
“Alright,” he finally says. There’s a scrape of metal; a flash of silver; and then: “Draw your sword, Kazuma.”
Kazuma laughs. “Really? We’re going to do this here? Right now?”
“Your sword, Kazuma.”
Kazuma shakes his head incredulously, but unsheathes his saber. “You know, Ryuunosuke, when you said you looked forward to our duel I didn’t think you’d take it quite so literally—”
Karuma arcs down from the left. Kazuma parries on instinct, the clang interrupting whatever he was about to say next.
“Ah,” he says. “Nice move.”
Ryuunosuke steps back for a moment before coming at him from the right. Kazuma blocks again, countering with a half-hearted swipe. Ryuunosuke pivots and makes another arcing swing, and Kazuma has to admit that he’s a little impressed.
“Expert maneuver, Ryuunosuke,” he says. “I’d almost think you’re taking this seriously.”
“You’re talking too much.”
“Oh, sorry.” Kazuma lunges into the opening at Ryuunosuke’s left, which is quickly blocked by Karuma. “I was under the impression you wanted me to talk more, not less.”
“Yes, about important things. Not running your mouth off at any passing thought you have.”
Not every passing thought, he thinks wryly, but has the good sense to keep that to himself. For a few minutes there’s nothing but the sound of swords crashing; this back-and-forth, step-by-step dance. He’s almost enjoying himself, even, and when Ryuunosuke places another well-timed strike Kazuma can’t help but chime in with a teasing, “Not bad, for a broken sword.”
Ryuunosuke’s expression darkens. “And whose fault is that, I wonder?”
Ah. Kazuma hesitates for a split second, and Ryuunosuke has him on the defensive again, pushing him backwards towards the pond. “I didn’t mean—”
“What did you mean, then, Kazuma? Or were you not thinking, as usual?”
“As usual?” Kazuma sputters, affronted. He pivots as soon as his foot touches stone, darting to the side to avoid a spill. “I’m trying to apologize—”
“And doing a piss-poor job of it, too.”
“If you would bother listening to me—”
“Maybe if you would bother listening to yourself. Do you know how you sound, right now?”
“And yet you’re the one idolizing a sword.”
“It’s my best friend’s soul,” Ryuunosuke says haughtily.
“Your best friend is right here!” Kazuma snaps. “You’ve built up some image of me that never existed, and now you’re blaming me for it, as if that’s in any way a fair or reasonable expectation of anyone!”
“Because you lied to me, Kazuma,” Ryuunosuke says, stabbing forward with Karuma.
“Ha—” Kazuma huffs and blocks it easily, and if Ryuunosuke hadn’t kept a flexible stance he might have knocked Karuma from his hands. “Nothing I’ve ever said has been a lie—”
“Alright, fine.” Another jab. “So you’ve never lied. You’ve only refused to share important information with anyone, and brought me all the way to England without telling me why, and strung us along on your little revenge plot until we had to dismantle it for you. But yes, you’ve never lied. Excellent job, Kazuma. Absolutely stunning lawyering.”
Kazuma falters, blustering at the disastrous combination of a compliment veiled within a flurry of blows. It’s endlessly unfair, that Ryuunosuke can exploit his weaknesses like this.
“You’ve made so much progress,” Ryuunosuke says, relentlessly pushing onward. “Is that what you want me to tell you?”
Yes. "No."
But Ryuunosuke has managed to become an expert at reading him, in the interim of nine months apart, somehow, and Kazuma watches as he narrows his eyes and frowns. Ugh.
Kazuma’s foot bumps against something uneven, and all of a sudden his back is pressed against the pine. Ryuunosuke slashes downward, and Kazuma lifts his saber to meet it with an ugly clang. They’re leaning in so close, now—their faces filling the space between their crossed swords.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Kazuma,” Ryuunosuke says, the words ghosting against his lips. Just a few more millimeters and Kazuma could shut him up properly—show him exactly how much he has or hasn't changed. But he doesn't get the chance; Ryuunosuke lets him go and steps away.
Kazuma clears his throat. “You’ve been practicing.” He’s very proud that his voice doesn’t waver.
For a moment some of Ryuunosuke’s charming modesty returns, and he gives an awkward half-shrug. Kazuma seizes the opening.
“Do you think of me?” he says, a crazed grin spreading across his face. “As your faceless opponent? As your sparring partner? Training for the chance to cross swords with me again—”
There’s a flash of silver, and Karuma is pointed at his throat. “You’ve always been too full of yourself,” Ryuunosuke says hotly. “That’s why you’re so easy to best.”
Kazuma opens his mouth indignantly, but Ryuunosuke withdraws Karuma again and takes a few more steps back.
“I don’t know why you’re here,” he says, while Kazuma sorts his thoughts together. “And honestly, you’re just wasting your time.”
“Wasting my—”
“I have no interest in talking to you like this. So yes, you’re wasting your time.”
“Ha— That’s— As if I came just for you—”
“Didn’t you?”
The words shrivel on Kazuma’s tongue, and he stays quiet. Ryuunosuke stares him down with that horrible, familiar disappointment.
“Nine months, and you’ve hardly changed at all, huh?”
Kazuma flinches as though struck. Ten minutes of sword fighting, and this is what hurts the most. “You don’t mean that.”
“Well, you might think differently,” Ryuunosuke says, sliding Karuma back in its sheath, “but I've never been able to be dishonest with you, Kazuma.”
He turns to leave, and Kazuma can only watch as his back recedes from sight.
Ryuunosuke doesn’t stay for dinner. He had left as soon as their duel ended, although Kazuma imagines he must have said goodbye to the Mikotobas and their British guests. Dinner itself had been another awkward affair—less awkward than lunch had been, but that is hardly an accomplishment.
Kazuma sits on the porch overlooking the garden, letting the heat and the incessant buzzing of cicadas wash over him.
“Aahh…” Sholmes sighs, plopping beside him. He’s changed out of his suit and into some light purple yukata, waving an uchiwa fan at his face. “What a day, what a day! And to think, this is only the beginning of our holiday!”
It is, and Kazuma’s already managed to ruin it somehow. He makes an irritated noise and hunches his shoulders.
“Why, Mr. Asougi,” Sholmes says. “With a sigh like that one would think you’re not enjoying yourself.”
“It’s our first day of holiday,” says Kazuma, glaring at the setting sun, “and Ryuunosuke refuses to talk to me.”
“Oh, come now. You were talking earlier, weren’t you? Doing that... whatever it was in the garden.”
“It was a duel.”
“Right! A duel! With words and with swords, unless I’m mistaken. Therefore, it’s a falsity to claim that Mr. Naruhodou refuses to talk to you, given that he already has.”
Sometimes Kazuma really hates what proximity to the law and all its minor technicalities does to people. Although he’s certain Sholmes has always been this annoying, world-famous detective or otherwise. “Alright, well, from now onward he will likely refuse to talk to me further.”
“Hmm.” Sholmes leans back, tapping his fan against his cheek. “And what would you say is the estimated likelihood that he doesn’t talk to you for the rest of our holiday?”
“I...Do I have to put a number to it?”
“Of course you don’t have to, Mr. Asougi. But if you don’t, your hypothesis is untestable and your claims will be unsubstantiated. How about this—I’d put it at a likelihood of eighty-two percent.”
Eighty-two. As much as Sholmes touts using evidence and logic as a basis for any sort of claim, Kazuma would bet that he’s pulled that number at random. Even so, the prospect of Ryuunosuke ignoring Kazuma for the rest of their month-long holiday is so crushingly devastating that he groans and sinks his head into his hands.
“Ah, well. No matter.” Sholmes claps a hand around his shoulder. “If it’s any consolation, it’s not just Mr. Naruhodou, you know—it appears Miss Mikotoba also refuses to talk to you!”
“...Thank you, Mr. Sholmes. I noticed.”
“Honing your deductive skills, I see. Good lad!” Sholmes laughs and slaps him on the back again, making him cringe. “And of course, I am happy to offer my expertise in the Herlock Sholmes Art of Apology. A patented technique I’ve honed over the years, as Mikotoba can attest.”
I would rather walk straight off the docks at Yokohama, Kazuma thinks, but has enough self control by now to know not to vocalize it. Ryuunosuke should be impressed.
“That’s a no, I take it?” Sholmes says, laughing at Kazuma’s expression. “Ah well. Let’s see if we can improve that eighteen percent remainder, shall we? And if not, then at the very least we will have to make the best of our holiday.”
“Fantastic,” Kazuma mumbles, but he does not have much confidence.