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captivesrp · 5 years

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Murchadh sinks through familiar blackness that quickly materializes into the fields and hills beyond the veil. His golden friend is nowhere in sight. Confident that his friend will soon appear, Murchadh sets out at a brisk walk toward the nearest hill to gain a better view of the area.

Reaching the top of the hill, Murchadh scours the midday skies and soon spies a familiar serpentine shape above the horizon. With a grim smile on his face, he waits as the shape grows larger and nearer. Just a few breaths later, his golden friend alights gracefully just in front of him. Before Murchadh has a chance to open his mouth, the neidraig speaks. “There you are. I had hoped you would return before now. There is urgent business that needs our attention in the north. We must set out immediately.”

Murchadh is not distracted from his purpose. “I am here because I have a question to ask you. I have heard that it is not possible for someone to live on both sides of the veil but that, in the end, he must fade from one side or the other. Is this true?”

The neidraig looks at Murchadh with a guarded expression. “Who told you such a thing?”

“I am the one asking questions at the moment. Is it true or is it not?”

The creature looks at Murchadh for a long time before responding. “It is true.”

Murchadh raises one eyebrow. “Well, in that case . . .” The sunswept hills around him start to fade.

“What do you think you are doing?” His golden friend’s voice cuts through the air and the hills jolt back into focus again.

“Leaving,” Murchadh says simply.

“But I told you we have an urgent task before us. We must fly immediately.”

“I’m not staying here if that means fading away from the other side. That is where my family is, and they need me. Anyway, why should I stay here with you when you won’t even do me the courtesy of being honest with me about the repercussions of my coming here?”

“I have told you what you need to know when you need to know it. This does not need to concern you.”

“It concerns me a lot, if it dictates where I will spend the rest of my life! And I’d much rather spend that with friends who actually care about me instead of that which treats me like some mindless pawn!”

“This is your destiny, Murchadh. It’s in your blood. You are meant to be here with us.”

Murchadh’s anger boils over. “What if I don’t want to? What if I’m tired of being used and only told things when it’s meant to manipulate my behaviour? You’re no better than Symbre and the rest of her lot! I’m not going to be her pawn, and I’m not going to be yours, either! Goodbye!” Without giving his golden friend any time to respond, Murchadh throws himself into wakefulness. But instead of materializing into the shadows inside his tent, the swirling darkness becomes darker and heavier. He feels a force pulling at him, trying to prevent him from passing. Murchadh struggles against it, but the weight of exhaustion drags him deeper and deeper into darkness.

Suddenly, he feels a hand shaking his shoulder. He opens his eyes to see Wyddryr leaning over him.

Murchadh struggles to form words; shapeless sounds form but finally he manages to recover control of his tongue. “What is going on? Did someone die?”

Wyddryr, looking slightly surprised, whispers urgently, “No one yet. I need to speak to you quickly, and not here. Please come!”

“I just got back from my hunt. Can it wait?” Murchadh asks, now fully awake.

Wyddryr is confused. “This is your second night back.”

Murchadh wrinkles his brow and shakes his head. “But I just . . .” The creature’s warning echoes in his head: for verily our kind cannot dwell fully in two worlds at once. His dream with the neidraig must have held him within the dream realm for a whole day. To Wyddryr, he says, “Never mind. I will come.” He gets up and follows Wyddryr out of his tent.

It is a moonless night and a heavy fog hides the world and mutes all sound. They navigate by memory through the encampment. Once outside it, Murchadh follows Wyddryr through the woods a short distance until they enter a small natural grotto formed under a large fir tree. Under its branches they are hidden from all eyes. Ashrille is there and looks up when they enter.

Wyddryr speaks almost immediately. It is clear to Murchadh that Ashrille has already heard what he has to say. “Thank you for joining me. I—we need to go back out there. We need to catch the creature. We are so close; I know it. Ashrille, I know you’re with me; Murchadh, I’m sorry to ask it of you, but I know your skills, and we could use you. Your skills in the woods and … and in the dreams.” Wyddryr’s large eyes are filled with fear and hope.

Murchadh nods his head as he processes. “Why is this so urgent, and why are we meeting in secret to discuss this?”

“You were asleep all of yesterday,” Wyddryr explains. “Brân is here; he thought you were having a creature-dream, or something. They were going to wake you in the morning. Anyway,” he shakes his head, “I needed your help, so I waited—but I couldn’t wait any longer; I needed to wake you up before Brân got to you.”

Murchadh narrows his eyes slightly. “Why? What is so important that you need to go ahead of Brân and Symbre’s timing?”

Wyddryr looks at Ashrille, who shrugs imperceptibly. “Alright, well,” he says, turning back to Murchadh, “here it is—there’s no use hiding anymore. I wasn’t captured, Murchadh. My father—my father and I were slaves of a tribe to the southwest—doesn’t matter who they were. We were beaten, abused. The tribe made their living off a local quarry; we worked there day and night. The Gwaedwn—Logain, on a recruiting mission—he liberated us, all on his own. This was almost two years ago; seven or eight seasons, I think. He set a fire, burned down much of the village …” His haunted eyes flicker to the ground. “That’s how he got his scars, you know. Freeing us—freeing me.

“But my father became sick, awful sick. He’s dying. Logain has brought witches, mystics, but nothing has helped.” Wyddryr’s eyes burn as they turn back to Murchadh. “I need to kill the creature, Murchadh. I need its blood. For my father.”

Murchadh gives a short nod, processing slowly. His face does not change, but inside him emotion rages. He understands Wyddryr more now; they are quite alike. Murchadh would do anything for his father, even put up with abuse and pretend to be a slave. He would do more than that to save his father. He would betray the only tribe who accepted him---betray his saviours . . . Yes, Murchadh understands Wyddryr, and decides to do what he can to help him not go through life like he himself had: without a family. “You know, I don’t know why you hide your past,” Murchadh says, musing more to himself than to anyone else. If he had known sooner he would have helped more. “There is no shame or harm in it.” All the captives he knew would have helped. Anwen had lost her father, as well as Alaric.

“I wasn’t captured, Murchadh,” repeats Wyddryr. “I was planted among you. I was supposed to be a spy, to keep you in line. You think there’s no harm in that?”

“There’s no way the others would have helped him,” says Ashrille.

Murchadh pauses. “I will help you achieve the healing of your father,” he says. “I can probably help you find the creature.” But there is more Murchadh needs to know: “Why not get Symbre and Brân’s blessing? I can’t see why they would stop us. I have no great love for Symbre, but I have even less for the thought of being hunted by Asgell,” he adds with a smile.

Wyddryr’s eyes harden. “They’re not sending us out for a third hunt. We’ve failed them. In a couple days, recruitment missions will start heading out again. It’ll be spring before the hunt resumes and—” his voice breaks--- “and I don’t think my father has that long.”

Murchadh is stunned to silence. Fear for his friends fills him. His face must betray him, for Ashrille speaks reassuringly:

“Your friends won’t be killed.”

“They’re slaves, or members of the Gwaedwn,” says Wyddryr. “As long as they’re useful they’ll continue playing their roles.”

Murchadh releases a shaky breath. They will be safe; they will not be killed; he does not have to choose between them and Wyddryr. Maybe he can buy their freedom if he can bring back the blood or other gift of the creature. He looks piercingly at Wyddryr, studying the odd boy’s bright eyes. There are still things he needs to know. “Why did Logain free you and your father? I don’t imagine Symbre told him to; she doesn’t seem to have much compassion for slaves.”

Wyddryr replies with a shrug, “Because he is a good man.”

“That explains nothing,” responds Murchadh angrily. His thoughts---and frustration---is focused on Logain, on Symbre: on their refusal to let him into their motives. “I want to help you, but you can’t hide anything!” His head brushes a branch as he turns away from the others, and jewels of water rain down on his hot skin. He directs his eyes towards the village, off in the darkness, and fire burns in them. In a lower voice, he continues, “From what I have learned of the creature, everything matters: your history, your motives, your intent, who you associate with . . . You have to tell me.”

Wyddryr responds in anger. “What do you think I am hiding? Do you think I know every thought that crosses a man’s head? Logain came to the village, spent a day there with our masters, spoke with my father once or twice, and then in the night we woke up to fire and Logain telling us to run! Maybe he loves my father, maybe he just hated our masters. Ask him, not me!”

Murchadh realizes that he has misread his anger. He only feels compassion for him, it is the others who make his blood boil.

“Wyddryr …” Ashrille murmurs.

Wyddryr takes a deep breath. “I’ve told you everything I know. I’ve broken my trust with the Gwaedwn. Now, will you help me or not, because I have no more time to waste.”

Murchadh calms his voice. “I have told you, already, I will help you acquire what you need to heal your father. I just need to get my pack. It will only take a little while.” At their worried glances, Murchadh reassures them. “I will not be caught. I have passed unseen by the watchmen almost every morning since Alaric’s death.”

Ashrille looks at Wyddryr. There is a moment of silence. Finally, Wyddryr responds, “Thank you, Murchadh. We’ll be here.”

As he makes his silent way back to the encampment, Murchadh ponders what he has learned. He doubts the creature can be captured for Symbre’s purposes; from his research, he suspects it only grants its gifts on its own terms, to those who seek to help others.

Murchadh slips down the alleys of the village and ducks into his tent, where his gear is as he had left it after his hunt. As he gathers it up he continues reflecting on what he knows of the creature, and comes to suspect it has done everything for a purpose: in all the legends, it helps the helpless. If it exists---and his experience in the dream world assures him it must---then Murchadh, and Wyddryr and Ashrille and all the others, are just the kinds of people he knows it will help. Perhaps not directly through him, but through those innocent of bloodshed.

Murchadh exits his tent still deep in thought---so deep that he does not notice Asgell and Tyree until he nearly runs into them. Asgell takes him in at a glance: his resolved look, his pack and gear. She does not speak.

“I must go,” explains Murchadh. “I have dreamed of the creature. It has summoned me. I know its intentions. I know I will find it. Wyddryr and Ashrille travel with me. We are each of the Gwaedwn; we go hunt. There is no reason for concern.”

“Symbre will not let you go,” says Asgell. “You are Gwaedwn in name only.”

“And in blood!” cries Tyree.

Asgell continues without looking at the Gwaedwn warrior, “You are little more than children to our leader, without the freedoms of a blood-member.”

It is as Murchadh suspected. Yet, “I must go,” he says. “We must go.”

Now Asgell shares a look with Tyree. For a breath, Murchadh almost thinks he sees a flash of aggression flash across his cousin’s face. Then it resolves, and Asgell turns back to him. “We will not stop you. Be swift, and careful.”

Murchadh nods, flicks his eyes to Tyree’s, then turns and leaves. He slips into the shadow of the trees and is gone.

Before he reaches the hiding place under the fir, Wyddryr and Ashrille join his stride from the darkness.

“We couldn’t wait any longer,” Wyddryr explains. Murchadh nods in response. He draws his knife and cuts a branch from a nearby evergreen to use in obscuring their tracks, then gestures for Wyddryr to lead them north. His golden friend had said there was urgent business to the north; it was as good a direction to start out in as any.

As he sweeps their tracks, Murchadh keeps his eyes peeled in the darkness for any signs of their passage that cannot be brushed away; he straightens bent twigs and removes bruised foliage. But Wyddryr and Ashrille leave very little trail; they are as much one with the woods as any Murchadh has traveled with. Their going is slow during the night, but by morning Murchadh estimates they have put at least a quarter of a day’s-journey between them and the village. They had stopped covering tracks after following a creek upstream for a movement sometime in the pre-dawn. That had led them onto a rocky spine, which left no traces of their passage.

The company stops midmorning in a clearing. As rays of light dance through a mist that refuses to dissipate, Murchadh sits on a rock cushioned with moss and meditates, drawing in the spirit of the forest. It enters him, dwells within him. There is no question: he is a creature of the woods again. He is home. He feels the life of the forest flow around him, ebbing and flowing in noise and scent and touch.

For a moment, his golden friend is before him. It is pierced through by black arrows that turn into smoke as Murchadh’s eyes move past them. The neidraig cries out as the fine black particles hiss about its scales, but Murchadh knows that the gritty smoke is not dangerous. The golden creature is trying to lure him into the dream-world, but---

“Why didn’t you help me?” cries the neidraig. It throws back its head and the scales of its throat suddenly burst from the flesh, shatter in the air, and fall about Murchadh as a shimmering mist.

“Leave me be,” Murchadh declares. “I have made my choice.”

“This world is still within you!” says the golden neidraig, its voice a barrage of images and power. Murchadh looks down at his chest to see the beast’s claws pierce his clothes, sink in---but he does not feel their pain, and banishes their image with an angry growl.

“I have made my choice!” he cries, and wakes up to the startled faces of Wyddryr and Ashrille, who have turned to look at him from their relaxed places upon the grass of the woodland clearing.

“A creature-dream?” asks Wyddryr.

Murchadh does not respond. He can tell without looking up that the sun has climbed higher in the sky than his internal measurement of time allows. It is nearly midday. No wonder Brân is incapable of speaking clearly---dreams are a dangerous place. Murchadh will have to be careful. He gestures for the others to continue on.

Above them, clouds gather, and rain heralds the onset of the afternoon. It is cold and miserable, but Murchadh is thankful. Tracking them will be nearly impossible now. They travel in a silence that stretches out into the forest around them. Silence, except for the relentless crashing of rain. For a moment, Murchadh imagines that he hears a great creature flying high above the canopy. A pang runs through him---loss, grief, anger . . . something like that. Murchadh banishes the feeling to a distant place in the back of his mind. He cannot focus on that. Feelings endanger survival—that is what his years of wandering have taught him. Shut them away. Focus on staying alive, on completing the task before him. He will not fail Wyddryr.

As night falls, the trio sets up camp in a relatively dry spot in a grove of thick firs. Murchadh sets a few simple traps for the morning, and they dine on a chewy but flavourful bark Ashrille pulls out of her pack.

“We need watches,” says Murchadh after his stomach is satisfied. “I will take the last one. You two can decide which you want.”

Ashrille volunteers for the first. Murchadh sets himself up against a tree just outside of the small circle of firelight. Not without trepidation, he allows himself to sleep, and sleeps the light sleep of the wary traveler, absent a single dream.

The rain is heavy when he is wakened by Wyddryr for his watch. Through his watch, he notices from time to time the glint of light off the boy’s wide eyes. Murchadh is not surprised he cannot sleep. He does not disturb him. He is reminded of his angry outburst earlier, when his fury towards the Gwaedwn had boiled over. Wyddryr and Ashrille had not deserved that. His anger is for Symbre and her circle, no one else. Their plans have been flawed from the start, from their idiotic and cruel recruitment missions. Why, Murchadh figures many of the captives would have joined free of will had the choice been presented them: he himself had no other prospects. He is sure they could have found willing participants, children who would have offered loyalty and passion as well as the necessary innocence. The blood-pact had been too little, too late.

Wyddryr interrupts his thoughts. “I’ve told you my story,” he drawls, still lying in his place near the coals of the fire. “I’ve heard you’re a storyteller.” He puts his hands beneath his head as he stares up at the canopy above them. “Your turn.”

Murchadh cannot see any harm in fulfilling his request, and relates to him his story from birth to capture, finishing with the revelation of his relation to Tyree.

Wyddryr shifts slightly on his mat of needles. “So you have found family again?”

Murchadh smiles. “Yes, but I found it with Anwen and Ffrewgí first. Tyree came after. If he does not help me earn their freedom, Tyree is no kin of mine.”

A long moment of silence is filled only with the constant beating of the rain on the branches above and the ground around them. Wyddryr lets out a dry whisper of a laugh and asks, “Why are you always so stubbornly inquisitive?”

Murchadh leans forward. “According to the tales, intention plays a significant role in the success or failure of the hunt. I needed to be sure you are doing this for your father, not for wealth or power as the other Gwaedwn.”

Wyddryr yawns. “Right.”

The two of them fall silent, and Murchadh watches as Wyddryr’s eyelids flicker and then rest closed as the boy falls asleep.

In the morning, they cook a rabbit caught in one of Murchadh’s traps and head out into the rain after they have broken their fasts. Through the morning the sun makes headway against the clouds and the company passes through dappled shade as they walk, passing in and out of quick showers and beams of golden light, in which moisture shines like jewels and passing mists glitter. The forest thrums with energy, and Murchadh hopes the good portents point towards the success of their venture. In the back of his mind, the glimpse of a golden scale accompanies the temptation to receive guidance from the dream realm, but he rejects it, turning his thoughts towards the glory around him.

The sun is beginning to set when they crest a hill. Below them and to the left, in the crook of a stream, is a jut of rock sticking like a finger into the air. The trees in the valley are clinging to the last of their leaves and a coloured carpet decorates the space around the stone.

“This seems like a good place to camp,” suggests Ashrille.

Murchadh has a sudden urge to hunt, but suppresses it. He must help the others set up. The company moves down the gentle slope towards the stone and as they do a crawling feeling creeps down Murchadh’s back. Something is not right. He can tell the others feel the same way: they all slow and take careful steps forward.

Then Murchadh sees a shape slip out from behind the rock and grip its side to climb. In the sunset shadow, the figure is impossible to make out. Murchadh and the others creep closer, moving in a slight arc to come at the stone perpendicular to the line of the stream.

The sun slips below the forest, leaving behind a sky filled with colours. Murchadh’s breath catches. Archora is sitting upon the stone, smiling happily, with both hands folded on her lap. Joy brims up in Murchadh, but also unease. Something is not right.

“I saw that it was you,” says Archora. Murchadh studies her. She is covered in dirt and her hair is tangled with moss and twigs. She looks as if she has spent many days alone in the woods.

Murchadh does not speak. An indefinable feeling gnaws at him. He looks at Archora’s hands, clasped in her lap. Two hands.

“They didn’t catch me.”

How did she know what he was thinking? Murchadh blinks, and in the darkness of his eyelids---in that infinitesimal moment before he looks again at Archora---he sees the whole scene as if his eyes had never closed, but on the rock stands a white stag, exquisitely bright. On its head rises a single antler; the other corner of its skull is pure, as if another antler had never grown there. Behind the stag coils Murchadh’s golden friend, and with it coils a dark snake of smoke.

“You chose your family,” Archora says.

Murchadh breathes in deeply, the image already disappearing from behind his eyelids. “Yes. Thank you for the warning. It was appreciated. Now,” he continues, “we don’t have much time. Will you give us what we need to heal a dying man, and to free those who are unjustly captured?”

The little girl upon the rock spreads her arms. “I have nothing more to give you.”

Murchadh feels it would be futile to look over at his companions. Somehow, he knows that they are there and not there---that he would not see them, or that he would not be able to look. He sighs. “Then we will leave without your help and try to find another way. I will write a legend telling of how you turned us away empty.”

Archora winks. “Was I not part of your family?”

“Archora was,” says Murchadh, but suddenly he understands. Family. Nothing more to give you. He was not the only one to go on a hunt for this creature. Anwen, Ffrewgí, the others---they are innocent of bloodshed, and it is not in their natures to hunt to kill. Maybe, just maybe, they have already met the creature. Suddenly, Murchadh feels urgency press against his chest. He turns to Wyddryr and Ashrille, who are standing dazed beside him.

“Can you travel?” asks Murchadh. “We must head back. Your father’s life may depend on our speed.”

“What happened?”

Murchadh flicks his eyes to the stone. It is empty, and he can no longer remember what had occupied its seat. But he knows he must return to the village. “It was the creature.”

Wyddryr’s hand is immediately on the hilt of his falcata and a cold gleam shines in his eyes. “Where did it go?”

“Back through the veil,” assumes Murchadh.

“Then you will follow it,” growls Wyddryr, turning towards him aggressively. “You can enter the dream world. Bring it back.”

“That’s not how dreams work,” says Murchadh.

“We need its blood!” Wyddryr’s voice is low and cold.

Murchadh speaks calmly, though he is no longer filled with the confidence of a few moments ago. “We don’t need its blood. We need . . . we need to go back.”

“The legends say blood!” Wyddryr persists.

“Intentions and innocence,” mutters Murchadh to himself. “We will not be able to capture the creature,” he says to the others, “for we mean to kill it, or have already shed blood. We must trust in our family. They have been in the forest, they have gone on their hunts. If the creature has given its gift, it must have been to one of them.”

“How can we be sure the creature has given anyone its gift?” asks Ashrille. Concern for Wyddryr is painted across her face. Wyddryr himself is breathing heavily, unmoved from in front of Murchadh. His eyes are burning into Murchadh’s.

Murchadh can hardly hold his gaze. He lies, “It told me it gave me everything I needed in my family. They have what we need. Now we go.” He hopes the conviction in his eyes is as strong as the anger in Wyddryr’s.

Ashrille lays a hand on Wyddryr’s arm. “We brought him along for a reason,” she says.

Wyddryr flexes his fingers off the hilt of his falcata. “If we cannot get the creature’s blood . . . If my father dies . . . I will take the price from your blood.”

“How dare you threaten me! Heal your father on your own terms, then.”

Murchadh has lived enough on the knife’s edge of survival to move instinctively when Wyddryr, in a hissing flash, draws his falcata in a cutting arc. It is barely enough to save his life. The blade bites deep into his chin, hacking off a piece of bone as Murchadh falls backward, his bum leg betraying him in his moment of surprise. Then Ashrille is on top of him, and he is not sure if she is protecting him or holding him down for Wyddryr to finish the job. He fights against her hold, but she is whole of body and in her role as a village witch had experience holding down protesting patients.

“Stay, Wyddryr!” she cries.

She does not want him dead. Murchadh ceases his furious attempts to free himself, but does not relax. He can hear Wyddryr breathing heavily above them.

Ashrille’s hair falls upon his face as she turns to him. “Murchadh, apologize.”

“What for?” asks Murchadh spitefully, pain starting to course from the jagged wound on his face. He feels blood run down either side of his throat.

“His father is dying, you obstinate fool!”

“And I told you his health depends on us returning to the village---to our friends!”

“Well, your health depends on cooperating with us,” says Ashrille. “You’re losing a lot of blood.”

Murchadh pulls back his lips. “I have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m not gonna kill him,” says Wyddryr. “Let him be.”

Murchadh wrenches free from Ashrille as soon as she slackens her grip. When he stands, faintness almost overcomes him. He lifts his tunic to his chin to slow the flow of blood. He forces himself not to wince as he applies pressure. The pain is great, but he knows that the wound is not serious.

“Here,” says Ashrille, shrugging out of her pack and withdrawing a bandage. “I can make a poultice, if we rest here.” She looks up at the darkening sky.

Murchadh clings stubbornly to his earlier instinct. “We need to return.”

Anger is still burning brightly in Wyddryr’s eyes, but he sheathes his falcata and gestures. “Then lead on.”

“We should really deal with that wound . . .”

“It’s fine,” says Murchadh shortly, and turns to go, hardly caring if the others follow him. “My family needs me,” he says to himself. He can address the wound---and Wyddryr---later. Out loud, he says, “We must run on the night breeze, for our family---both blood and bond---they need us.” Murchadh sets the pace, as fast as his leg will allow, and he hears the sounds of the others’ footfalls behind him.

#murchadh #chapter eleven

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lisatelramor · 6 years

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NLTSA Extra: Dinner With the Kurobas

Set right after the end of chapter 13 when Kaito invites Saguru over for dinner.

Cooking with Kuroba was...different. As Saguru chopped a growing pile of vegetables and Kuroba put on rice and sliced meat to cook, he couldn’t help comparing it to cooking with Mel. Mel had more of a tendency to shoo Saguru off to the side and take over with micromanaging tendencies in the kitchen though. Kuroba didn’t seem to care that Saguru’s knife skills were less than perfect so long as everything got chopped in more or less similar sizes.

“So you cook,” Saguru said, as Kuroba began mixing up a sauce to go over the meal they were making.

“Obviously,” Kuroba said. “I don’t cook a lot because I’m on the go all the time—easier to just grab something while I’m out—but I’ve lived on my own for years. I’ve been cooking since I was in middle school whenever Kaa-chan took trips. You can cook too.”

“Poorly. Enough to survive off of.” Saguru finished slicing the last of the vegetables as Kuroba tossed the meat into hot oil, using long cooking chopsticks to keep it moving and cooking evenly. “Nothing special.”

“Cooking’s not your thing then?”

“No, that was always Mel’s thing,” Saguru said. Kuroba made an enquiring hum, reaching over to take Saguru’s cutting board and add the vegetables to the mix. Saguru watched, reminded of all the times he’d seen Mel wielding a wooden spoon with similar focus. “He liked to plan meals and try new things and I was always the boring one who would just make a roast and have it for the week if left to my own devices.”

“By roast, do you mean you just cooked a plain slab of meat and ate it?”

“Essentially, yes. Usually you cook it with carrots or potatoes and cabbage.”

Kuroba gave Saguru a flat look. “No offense but that sounds bland as hell.”

Saguru chuckled. “Yes, well, that’s traditional British cooking for you. Bland, and steamed, roasted or boiled. I can cook more than just sticking meat in the oven or boiling pasta.”

“I’d hope so. You wouldn’t have much variety otherwise.” Kuroba flicked his wrist, tossing the pan’s contents around a bit before adding the sauce. It hissed, bubbling and boiling quickly into a thick, sticky coating. “Set the table for me? There’s plates in that cupboard, cups in the one next to it, and chopsticks in the drawer to the right of the sink. I can handle the rice bowls.”

Saguru set the table diligently, putting Kuroba’s generic dishware with its simple floral pattern on the table at three places.

Kuroba was just filling bowls with rice as Saguru put glasses of water around the table when the front door opened. Takumi’s greeting carried in before he was even through the door. “Welcome back,” Kuroba called, filling the last bowl. “Hakuba’s joining us for dinner.”

“Hakuba-sensei?” Takumi poked his head around the entryway. He had his lacrosse uniform still on and a heavy sports bag over one shoulder, which he set down next to the pile of shoes. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought it might be nice to have company,” Kuroba said cheerfully. “How was practice?”

“Fine. I think I’ll make an alternate this year if I can get my aim just a little better. Or if someone gets injured.” Takumi scrunched his nose. “Which hopefully won’t happen.” He wandered over to the sink to wash his hands, giving Saguru a tiny nod like he wasn’t sure what the polite thing to do was when a teacher was unexpectedly in his home. They’d shared tea and stories often enough that it wasn’t too awkward though. “Kei-kun and Mirai-senpai said they’d help me work on some techniques next week though so I can be ready for the summer tournaments.”

“You’ll have to give me a list of game dates. I’ll try to make a few over the summer.”

“Sure. Oh, and I have a group report in History, so I have to meet up tomorrow with a few classmates. It shouldn’t take too long though, so we can still work on the thing with the doves you wanted to show me. It’ll just have to be in the evening.”

“I’ll make plans to have dinner at Obaa-san’s house then.”

Kuroba and Takumi moved around each other with the ease of people who shared a kitchen space frequently. Takumi even grabbed the last rice bowl to take to the table in the absentminded sort of way of habit, used to helping set the table then. Saguru felt a little out of place. He didn’t know where to sit, and surely the Kurobas had their preferred places.

Takumi solved that problem, plopping into the chair at the setting missing its rice, and Kuroba sat on the other side. It left Saguru sitting next to Kuroba.

Takumi took one look at the stir fry with the thin sliced pork stir fried in it and gave Kuroba a glowing smile. “I am so hungry after practice and this so beats the usual Friday night combini meal.”

“I’m not that bad am I?” Kuroba asked.

“About cooking?” Takumi picked up his chopsticks. “You save your cooking energy for Saturday, but nine times out of ten, Friday ends up a convenience store meal. I don’t mind, but you made ginger pork stir fry. This is great.”

“I really can and do cook,” Kuroba said, giving Saguru a serious look that almost hid the glimmer of humor in his eyes. “You’d think I only ever feed him onigiri and takeaway.”

“You’re a good cook, but Kaa-san’s tonkatsu still beats yours,” Takumi said. “Now can we please eat? I just spent more than an hour running around with a stick. I am starving.”

“We should make him wait,” Kuroba said in a loud whisper to Saguru. Takumi gave his father a betrayed look.

Saguru rolled his eyes. “As the guest, I think we should eat.”

“If you say so. Itadakimasu!” Kuroba said, cheerfully clapping his hands together. He didn’t let on that his ribs were bruised at all, not when cooking and not now as he leaned over to dish out food. It was both impressive and unnerving, because it left the question of if Saguru had missed other injuries in the past just because Kuroba was that good of an actor.

Takumi echoed Kuroba and dug into his food the second his plate was filled. Saguru took his time in comparison as Kuroba launched into an explanation of his current work project, his coworker’s lives, and various neighborhood gossip between bites of food, all unprompted. Takumi threw in a question here or there that showed he was both listening and knew who Kuroba was talking about. Saguru let the chatter wash over him, content to listen. It was a bit like family meals when he and Mel used to visit Mum, only with less pointed comments in his direction to engage him in the conversation. It used to exasperate them whenever Saguru sat back and listened; they could never quite get that sometimes he just liked to watch two people he cared deeply about interacting. It was a little different now, of course, more seeing sides to Kuroba and Takumi he hadn’t seen before, but the feeling was similar.

It was a bit of a bittersweet feeling in that similarity... Saguru turned his attention to his plate, pushing that emotion away.

“—Hakuba-sensei?” Takumi’s voice registered.

Saguru glanced up and found both Kurobas looking at him, heads tilted to the side like mirror images. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I just asked how your day went,” Takumi said. “You had Mai-chan and Hanasaki-san from class C get into an argument in your last English class, right?”

“Yes.” The day was a haze, all caught up in worry but that had happened. “To be honest it barely interrupted the class. I sent them in the hall and kept teaching.”

“...Wouldn’t they just keep arguing in the hall?” Takumi asked.

“So long as they weren’t being a disruption, I could have cared less at that moment.”

Takumi snorted. “I can half picture it—no wonder people in class C weren’t sure what to think of it. Usually you stop, give a warning or something and mark your book, and start back up again. Aren’t teachers supposed to care when that kind of thing happens?”

“Everyone has off days. Honestly, I couldn’t be less interested in knowing who was angry at whom over some romantic interest that likely has no interest in either of them.”

“Hakuba, you mean to say you ignore the gossip mill?” Kuroba said, mock-scandalized.

“I hear it whether I want to or not,” Saguru said drily, “so no, I suppose I do not ignore it.”

“Teachers follow the gossip mill?” Takumi asked.

“Of course. Teachers gossip just as much as their student body.”

“More, if half of what I hear is true,” Kuroba said, amused.

Saguru bet he meant Erika. Their old homeroom teacher had to be one of Kuroba’s sources. Saguru was still trying to figure out all of them, but he supposed Takumi could possibly count as another.

“I’ve been in that gossip,” Takumi said with a deeply uncomfortable expression. “What do they think of me? Holy crap, I just realized teachers might talk about me when I’m not there.”

“And students talk about their teachers all the time,” Saguru said, wondering how on earth this could be news.

“They know about my life and they might talk about it.” Takumi sat back in his chair like he was having a revelation. Saguru exchanged a glance with Kuroba. Kuroba looked far too amused. “That is extremely weird, especially because I know almost nothing about my teachers. Except for you, Hakuba-sensei.”

“That is normal. We’re at school to do our jobs and be professional. You’re at school to learn and be yourselves.”

“But you’re people.”

“Yes.”

“Of course you’re people, ignore that.” He waved a hand, erasing his words in a gesture. “I know teachers have outside lives, but I’ve never really thought about it. What do they do at the end of the day? What do they do in their free time? Why do they willingly teach the mess that is high school, I mean...why?”

Saguru couldn’t help laughing. “You know, it’s not much different from our students. We go home, deal with homework, and sometimes we even see friends or do things that might be considered fun by the majority of the population.” Saguru took a sip of water and added, “Although as to why, I can’t say with full certainty that all teachers aren’t somewhat drawn to things that will give them headaches. Or at least that’s true in my case.”

Kuroba laughed at that, catching his eye and no doubt thinking of Saguru’s old habit of pitting himself against Kid despite never truly gaining the upper hand. “You’re all a little bit masochistic?” There was a teasing lilt to that that had a blush crawling across Saguru’s cheeks before he could fully control his reaction. Kuroba looked terribly smug, amusement glinting in his eyes.

Takumi’s face scrunched in disgust. “Ew. No. Stop and don’t even bring that word up.”

“I didn’t say they are masochists just that they have a trend toward—”

“No.” Takumi jabbed his chopsticks in Kuroba’s direction. “I’m going to need brain bleach.”

Saguru cleared his throat, pushing the blush down. “More honestly, I like seeing people grow into their potential,” Saguru offered, nudging the conversation back to a safe track. “High school is where interests are being discovered and dreams take first steps.”

“Huh.” Takumi glanced at Saguru and away again just as fast. “Makes sense I guess.”

“You always did look for the good sides in people,” Kuroba said.

“I feel like nostalgia gives me too much credit; I liked understanding, but whether or not I empathized with them was an entirely different story.” He hadn’t exactly been empathetic toward Kuroba’s situation back then, at least not at first. Saguru finished the last of his food. Kuroba was a decent cook. It was certainly better than anything Saguru had made since moving to Japan. “Thank you for the meal.”

“You don’t want more?” Kuroba had the rice paddle in hand, ready to scoop out more if Saguru wanted, but Saguru declined the offer with a shake of his head.

“I’m full.” Both Kurobas looked at him like they thought he should eat more. Kuroba added another scoop of rice to his own bowl, perhaps trying to prove some convoluted point. Or maybe he was just still hungry. Not everything was a mind game to be read into. “I’m not a teenager anymore.”

“You barely ate enough then,” Kuroba said, “considering how much running around you did.”

“I don’t do much running at all now, so I don’t need seconds.” Takumi’s eyes flicked toward Saguru’s cane and away. Kuroba just kept up eye contact until Saguru rolled his eyes and held out his rice bowl. “Fine, but not much. I really am full.” Feeding people had to be a thing with Kuroba. Between the random gifts of food and how he seemed to enjoy seasonal food items to their fullest, food had some meaning in Kuroba’s personal interactions. Saguru could eat a bit more if it made Kuroba stop giving him a look that resembled some of the looks he’d gotten from his mother in the last year. “I do feed myself on a regular basis, Kuroba.”

“You make one meal for the week and pack sandwiches and salads for lunches,” Kuroba said.

“It’s efficient.”

“It’s boring. You don’t even order out.”

“It cuts costs to prepare your own food.”

“Since when is money an issue?”

Kuroba had him there, it really wasn’t an issue. “It’s financially responsible.”

“It’s bo-ring,” Kuroba repeated. “And you can’t be getting all your vitamins and minerals when you eat pasta for a week straight.”

Saguru chose to be the adult here and ignore him instead of continuing a pointless argument. Even if it was Kuroba teasing him. He could see that smirk twitching at the corner of Kuroba’s lips. Saguru finished the extra rice with pointed silence.

Takumi helped himself to thirds.

“So, while Takumi’s doing the dishes—” Kuroba said.

“Hey!”

“—want to pick out a game for after dinner?” Kuroba finished.

“Nothing with playing cards,” Saguru said instantly. “I’m sure both of you cheat.”

“I don’t cheat,” Takumi protested. Kuroba snorted. Takumi kicked at him under the table, clearly missing and hitting the table leg by the way all the dishes rattled. “Well, I only cheat against Tou-san because otherwise he’d never lose. It’s a survival strategy.”

“I only cheat against you half the time. You just have bad luck with cards.”

“Yours isn’t the greatest either, or were you dealing Kaa-san good hands that time I convinced her to play poker with us and Baa-chan?”

“Point,” Kuroba said. “Aoko’s luck trumps all of ours. So, Hakuba, stay for a game?”

Saguru glanced at Takumi, but he didn’t seem to mind the thought of playing a game with Saguru if his open interest was anything to go by. There wasn’t much waiting for him back in his apartment. He set down his chopsticks, meal finished. “I’ll stay.”

“Great! Come look at the game selection.”

“Nothing that will take all night,” Takumi said, rolling his eyes at Kuroba gleefully directing Saguru to a shelf with games stacked on it.

“Well that rules out a few.”

There were a good number of games, most of which Saguru had never heard of, ranging from what appeared to be adventure games, to card games, to games that required constructing things. It was no surprise to find something like Jenga with Kuroba’s steady hands, but he had to raise an eyebrow at some of them. “Too Many Cinderellas?”

“It’s fun. You try to convince the prince who Cinderella is, and sometimes it gets pretty ridiculous,” Kuroba said, content to let Saguru make the game choice.

Saguru kept looking. There were a few foreign games in the mix, like Monopoly and—Saguru’s eye caught on a familiar box. “How about Cluedo?”

Kuroba snorted. “You’re so predictable.”

“Just because it’s a mystery game doesn’t mean I’m predictable.”

“No?” Kuroba teased. “Then you just happen to choose one of the only mystery games in the mix by chance?”

“It’s one I recognize and enjoy,” Saguru defended, pulling the box free.

“Did you know there’s a Kaito Kid version that was made locally?” Kaito said in a lower voice. “The point of the game is to figure out who is actually Kid and how the target was stolen.”

“Sounds like a fun and thematically appropriate game. We should play it sometime.”

Kuroba grinned. “Thought you’d say that. Sadly I don’t own it. Kaa-san does though. Maybe I’ll borrow it and drag her into playing a game with us.”

“Somehow I’m sure you’ll still manage to cheat. Or automatically end up as Kid.”

“Haha, very funny.” Kaito snatched the box from Saguru and cleared a space on the coffee table for the board. “Just for that, you get to be Mr. Green.”

“What’s wrong with Mr. Green?”

“Nothing. That’s the joke.”

Saguru looked at him blankly. This was the classic version of the game so Green was a conniving priest, and he honestly couldn’t see the connection.

“...You’ve never seen the movie based on the game have you?” Kuroba said after a moment.

“There’s a movie?”

“We,” Kuroba said with mock seriousness, “definitely need to have a movie night some night, because if you enjoy the game and ridiculous eighties American films, it will be right up your alley.”

“Another time then,” Saguru said. He wouldn’t mind the chance to watch a movie with Kuroba at any rate. Although he wouldn’t have thought an American comedic film would be Kuroba’s choice, but what did Saguru know?

“So you’re choosing Clue?” Takumi said, dishes washed and set in the strainer. “How stereotypical, Hakuba-sensei.”

“I know, right?” Kuroba snickered.

Saguru rolled his eyes and let them have their fun.

“It’s a fun game though,” Takumi continued. “Hakuba-sensei gets to shuffle and deal out the cards.”

“Don’t trust me?” Kuroba said.

“Nope. You’re the one who taught Shiemi and me to cheat after all.”

“I’m hurt,” Kuroba said with exaggerated dramatics. He draped himself back along the couch, one hand over his eyes. It was all very amusing until Saguru remembered that Kuroba actually was hurt, and then it was a bit worrisome, but Kuroba popped back up again when the act didn’t get him a reaction. Not too hurt to play around at least. “No defending my name, Hakuba? Some friend you are.”

“You want me to lie?” Saguru asked, deadpan. “I’m not sure my detective sensibilities will allow it.”

Kuroba and Takumi both snorted at the same time. Takumi looked away, red faced and trying not to laugh even as he seemed to find the humor embarrassing. Saguru took the chance to snag the cards.

“Let’s play to learn who killed Mr. Boddy, shall we?”

“Professor Plum, in the study with the candlestick,” Kuroba said under his breath.

Saguru was going to make sure Kuroba lost, he decided. Just because. It didn’t matter whether Saguru or Takumi won, just that Kuroba lost a game for once. “In that case be Plum.”

“Nope, I call Mrs. White.”

“...The maid.”

“Yup.”

“I’m Scarlet,” Takumi said. When both adults glanced at him, he shrugged. “I like red.”

Scarlet brought a few too many memories of Koizumi Akako to mind for Saguru’s peace of mind. “Well let’s play then.”

Cards went into the file for the eventual reveal, and the rest were doled out.

Kuroba, it seemed, was the type to take the ‘jump around the board and confuse what is really being searched for’ sort of strategist. Saguru was more methodical, and Takumi was somewhere in between their styles. Saguru was somewhat convinced that both Kurobas were substituting loaded dice at one point, but he had yet to see them trade off and honestly they might just have good enough control to get the die to land on high numbers.

Kuroba had to dramatically act out each time he made an accusation. It took a few times for Saguru to realize he was imitating detectives he knew each time, though when he made up precise times and methodology in an imitation of Saguru’s reveal method, it was abundantly clear what he was doing. It was both irritating and amusing at the same time, and the game was the most fun Saguru had in a while. No pressure, just simple challenge of trying to out-think someone else.

Takumi won in the end. It was Saguru and Kuroba’s fault for getting too involved in trying to throw each other off that they half forgot about the other player in the game.

Takumi gave them both an exasperated look as he said, “Mrs. White, in the ballroom with a revolver, now will you please stop smirking at each other?” He opened the envelope and fanned out the cards to reveal that he was right.

“I guess you were the killer after all, Kuroba,” Saguru said.

“Damn, and I was between White and Mustard.” Kuroba tossed down his cards.

“I had Mustard the entire time, I was trying to figure out whether anyone had the pipe, rope, or revolver.”

“You both have tunnel vision and shouldn’t be allowed to play games against each other,” Takumi said. “Tou-san clearly kept guessing the rope because he already had it. Now I’m going to go to bed because I asked for a game that wouldn’t take all night and you both dragged the game on forever.” He had his hands on his hips like he was the adult in the situation and it was spoiled a bit by how he kept forcing himself not to smile. “Goodnight, Hakuba-sensei,” Takumi said. “It was...pretty nice having you over for dinner.”

“Thank you both for the hospitality.”

“Stop being so formal all the time,” Kuroba said.

“It’s called being polite. You should try it.”

“Goodnight,” Takumi repeated, exasperated. Saguru could hear him mutter something about acting the wrong ages as he wandered off to his bedroom.

When Saguru glanced at Kuroba, Kuroba looked...happy. Content, like he couldn’t imagine a better way to end the day and all was right with the world. To a lesser extent, Saguru found that he felt similarly at peace. Tonight was the most he’d laughed in...well, in a long time. A long, long time.

“Kuroba,” Saguru said softly, unwilling to break the moment by speaking louder. “Thank you. Truly.”

“Anytime, Hakuba,” Kuroba said. He smiled, maybe the truest smile Saguru had seen on his face in the whole of their acquaintance. “Anytime.”

That smile made Saguru want to commit it to memory, dissect every detail of its features and hoard it close with other similarly precious moments. He probably had an equally open expression at the moment, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about what Kuroba might or might not take from an unguarded and happy moment. Let Kuroba see him relaxed along with all the rest of Saguru’s myriad of emotions.

It was Kuroba who looked away first. “We’ll still have to watch that movie sometime.”

“Of course.”

“And maybe do this again. Dinner. And a game.”

“I would like that.”

“Good.”

That would be the ideal moment to leave, probably. Saguru didn’t really want to go just yet, but the clock on the wall matched the digital one blinking next to the TV, both showing almost nine.

Saguru reached for his cane. “Goodnight, Kuroba.”

“Night, Hakuba,” Kuroba said. He busied himself in picking up the Cluedo pieces, shuffling them about. “See you maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Saguru echoed agreeably before letting himself out. It wasn’t like either of them had to go far if they wanted to talk.

#magic kaito #fanfiction #my writing #not left to stand alone extra #nltsa

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