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Barok removes his pristine white gloves, reluctantly laying them out on the peculiarly stained wooden table that decorates his otherwise gray holding cell. He glances down at his pale hands and frowns at how dry they’ve gotten in the arid climate of the jail. He sorely misses the lemon cream lotion his laundry maid makes. Helen, he thinks. Or Helena.
He isn’t entirely sure.
He groans and flips his hands over to analyze the palms of his hands. He wonders if Ryunosuke believes in palm readers. It seems like the kind of superstition he would believe in, though Barok isn’t even sure that Ryunosuke is superstitious at all. There’s a lot he doesn’t know about him.
Does that Nipponese believe in ghosts? Barok smirks at the thought. Do chills run down his spine when he imagines some ghost standing at the foot of his bed at night?
Does Mr. Naruhodo have nightmares?
Because Barok has nightmares. He only has either nightmares or no dreams at all. The latter happens when he can’t fall asleep until just before dawn, when the valet has just begun to stir and the housekeeper begins to float through the halls. They’re as quiet as a mouse, but Barok can still hear them – or, at least, imagine hearing them – through the thick confines of his chamber. It reminds him of being a naughty young child staying up past his curfew to do absolutely nothing, only to be stunned when Klint called him out over breakfast tea the next morning.
Barok used to wonder if he had eyes planted all around the mansion.
Now, the imagery of eyes embedded into patterned walls follows him in his nightmares.
Does Mr. Naruhodo have nightmares? Barok asks himself again. He almost wishes that the young man does, just so he could hear about them. He almost wants to see them, to plant himself in the Nipponese’s mind and see what crawls around in there. What causes his wide-eyed fascination over the most mundane things in England? What seeps into his thoughts when he’s alone at night?
Barok looks down to find that he’s somehow laced his fingers together, and his fingernails are tearing into the skin between his knuckles. He watches with mild amusement as the pads of his fingers begin to whiten with the sheer amount of force he’s exerting with them. Eventually, his dull fingernails break skin. He looks on as a bead of blood rolls down his hand.
Does Mr. Naruhodo bleed like this?
Barok chastises himself for such a crude and violent thought. He may despise the man’s home country, as well as his sycophantic culture and overt patience, but he doesn’t wish any harm towards him. He only wonders what they might have in common – if they could have anything in common. They were both human after all.
At least, Mr. Naruhodo is. Barok thinks he may be something worse.
He leans back in his uncomfortable wooden chair with a groan. Why does that man plague his mind? Why can’t he leave him be, even in his own thoughts? It certainly isn’t for a lack of trying, though he knows it isn’t the Japanese man’s fault either.
Barok tries to be empathetic for once. He closes his eyes and tries to recall what it was like to be Mr. Naruhodo’s age. For Barok, it was only a year after his brother had passed. He was living much like he is now, albeit with a frailer frame and an even frailer conscience.
He sighs. Perhaps he should think back a bit further.
21. Klint was alive, and the van Zieks manor was alive with him. The house staff was twice the size that it is now, and Barok still took his daily horse rides around the expanse of the family acreage. Inspector Gregson would drop by some afternoons, reluctantly giving into the promise of a warm cup of tea after the insistence of a kitchen maid besotted by him. And that damned Sherlock Holmes was never, ever anywhere to be seen. He existed only in publications that were craftily shafted behind the worst penny dreadfuls on the news stand.
Barok furrows his eyebrows. Why does Mr. Naruhodo even live with that farce of a detective? Was he unable find any other accommodation? If he weren’t in prison, Barok would consider offering him a wing in his manor –
Barok feels a surge of blood rushing to his face as he imagines a sleepy Mr. Naruhodo in his nightwear, wandering the lofty halls of the van Zieks estate. He covers his face with his hands, although he knows the guard can’t see his shameful blush in the dark.
I would not…I should not give any of my lodgings to that man. Barok tells himself. Perhaps I’d give him some loose change to find somewhere decent to stay, but that would be for my peace of mind. Just…the duties of a good Samaritan.
As if he’s ever been a good Samaritan. He’s not even sure if he has his faith anymore.
Sometimes, it feels like when Klint left his life, God left with him. Barok still prays, still keeps with his routine rituals of faith, but still he finds himself in a cloud of darkness that God’s light hesitates to reach. He knows from all of the scripture he’s had ingrained in his head that it could reach him – and yet it doesn’t.
How can God love him, but not enough to touch him?
Perhaps it’s a feeling less like love and more like indifference.
Barok sighs at his own sacrilegious thoughts. He almost wishes he could be a Nipponese and not have to worry about what an omnipotent god thinks of him. Mr. Naruhodo probably never even thinks about prayer or the eucharist, and he seems all the better for it. He’s young and spry, full of vigor and passion for the law. He only concerns himself with what is just and moral, like a true upstanding man. Even when he finds himself led astray by a deceitful tongue like McGilded’s, he makes his way back to the path of the righteous and carries on.
It seems like Mr. Naruhodo has more faith than Barok’s ever had in his entire life.
Barok exhales. It’s funny how people who don’t believe in God can be the Godliest of all.
And in that, Barok realizes that what he has in Mr. Naruhodo is not resignation to a reluctant attorney, but faith. He has faith that the man will fight tooth and nail to prove the truth in court tomorrow, and he has faith that the man will succeed. No one has given Barok anything to believe in for the last decade – not Inspector Gregson, not the courts, and not even God.
But he believes in Mr. Naruhodo, and not just because he must.
Barok grimaces.
What a terrifying thought.
* * *
In court the next day, Mr. Naruhodo grasps at straws and flails embarrassingly until he stumbles on a miraculous turnabout. It’s nothing new for his legal repertoire, but the judiciary nearly leap from their velveted seats, mouths agape as a foreigner picks apart their beloved chief justice.
Mr. Naruhodo – no, Ryunosuke – displays his pointer finger to the court like a magician revealing a card tucked under his palm. He shouts, loud and thunderous in the sacred courtroom, his argument a mountaintop sermon for the entire empire to hear.
Then he looks over at Barok, eyes unwavering and full of reassurance.
Barok covers his mouth with a timid gloved hand, unable to look away, and he recalls the zaps of electricity in Ryunosuke’s eyes when they first locked swords in this very courtroom. He remembers the moment the Japanese man finally squared his shoulders and laid both his argument and heart out on his sleeve. Even back then, Barok caught a glimpse of small sparks behind the man’s dark eyes, embers of a fledgling phoenix.
Now, he sees a roaring flame; truth and gospel speaking from behind Ryunosuke’s irises.
It’s a burning bush.
Barok knows this scripture intimately well. From all of the verses he’d pored over in his youth, he knows faith comes to people in many forms, like wood on fire or a pillar of cloud, and with it –
“Love,” Barok whispers to himself. His eyes dart around him, but he quickly realizes no one heard him. Despite having his own head laid out on the altar and the ghost of his brother hovering over him with a knife, all eyes are on Ryunosuke. He silently thanks God with a bowed head.
Beneath his gloves, fingernail-sized cuts begin to dry, and on his lapel, the remnants of his brother’s wounds begin to scab over.
* * *
Despite all of his complaints and excuses after the trial’s conclusion, Barok finds himself within the raucous walls of 221B Baker Street at seven o’clock that evening. The celebration rages on both for him and without him, leaving him to idly sip his wine in an inconspicuous corner. From across the room, he watches Gina’s black dog run laps around Sherlock’s Stradivarius, as if to shield it from the detective’s potentially villainous playing. Unfortunately, Iris picks the dog up to give him a hug, and Sherlock grabs his trusty violin in a simple fell swoop.
Barok takes that as his cue to venture outside.
He nods to the room at large – and yet no one in particular – before stepping out. A cool breeze greets him, and he briefly understands the plebian desire to smoke from a pipe. He imagines it’d warm him up on this dreary night.
A smaller figure a few paces down the outer wall of the building catches his eye. It’s none other than the man of the hour, with his hand held to his chin like he’s still deep in thought, though Barok can’t imagine how. His own brain feels like it’s filled with lukewarm sand after the trying day they’ve had.
“Were you in need of a reprieve?” His voice comes out louder than he intends, rocking his own ribcage and rattling Ryunosuke’s eyes with surprise. Barok slowly brings his arms to his chest and tilts his head back, feeling a sudden need to shrink himself. Perhaps if he holds himself tight enough, he’ll become the same size as a worm and just slither down the sewer grate near them.
Ryunosuke shakes his head, as if trying to quickly rid himself of the fright Barok gave him. “Yes. It was a bit…stuffy in there.” He laughs breathily. Barok thinks it’s a pretty sound.
Ryunosuke continues, “Do you also feel overwhelmed by all the people? And by…everything else?”
Barok pauses to think. The last few days have been grueling, with every dark recess of his mind broken into and lit ablaze, like a writer frantically setting a candle after incurring a nighttime stroke of genius. Everything felt frenetic and crazed during the trial, and it feels so hollow now in the aftermath. But, Barok thinks, it’s a good kind of hollow – like a blank patch of dirt waiting for a gardener to see to it.
Barok makes a small nodding gesture, one so minute that he wonders if Ryunosuke missed it. He clears his throat. “Indeed. I’m sure you can imagine that I don’t often engage in…dinner parties.”
“Oh.” Ryunosuke says, as if he’s just realized he’s done something wrong. “Is it not to your liking?”
“Perhaps I misspoke,” Barok tries again, “I’m not often invited to dinner parties. In fact, I haven’t been invited to one at all. Not since…”
Well, there’s no use sounding cryptic or coy now. Ryunosuke knows everything. He knows all of Barok’s dark history, of his family’s history, of all the sins that neither time, blood, nor water could wash away.
Why does he have to know? Barok feels that ache in his chest once again, in all of its same, terrible agony.
“It’s okay.” Ryunosuke says suddenly, without elaborating. The words sound like rushing rain. The ache in Barok’s chest melts underneath them, replaced by something warm and bright.
“Do you think I’ll be invited to any future dinner parties? Or have I been too Reaper-esque this evening?” Barok asks softly, desperately reaching for levity and landing on awkward humor.
Ryunosuke has the kindness to chuckle – of course he does, Barok thinks. “I’m sure you’ll be on Iris’ guest list for the next few parties.”
Ryunosuke laughs again, somehow both more polite and awkward this time, before continuing with a more serious tone. “I just won’t be able to make it to them.”
Barok tilts his head. His boots suddenly feel heavy. “Why is that?”
Ryunosuke finally looks up at him, eyes emboldened with determination, before he suddenly cowers. His voice is just above a whisper.
“I’m returning to Japan.”
Barok feels his heart drop. His shoes are like cement now, and he wants to curl down into the pavement even more than before. Why did this blasted Baker Street…gang invite him to dinner only to crush what little he’d rebuilt of his heart during the last few days? Six months ago, he finally found something meaningful to orbit around, someone to envy and hate and admire all the same. After ten long years, he finally has a reason to work, a reason to feel – a reason to get up in the morning and actually live.
And here it is, leaving him.
“What?” Barok says. He thinks he sounds dumb, which is something he’s never thought about himself. Ryunosuke does that to him, it seems – making him see himself in new lights.
Ryunosuke hesitates, and Barok watches his jaw stutter before he says, “I’m leaving. I’m going back to Tokyo.”
“Why?” Barok asks, feeling even dumber.
“There are things I wish to fix about the legal system in my home. Besides, I want to further hone my lawyering skills, so –”
“You can do that here.” Barok says abruptly.
“What?”
Is it his turn to sound dumb? Barok thinks.
“You can do all of that here,” Barok repeats, dropping his arms and standing straight. “We still need a defense attorney with passion like you.”
We still need you, he thinks to himself. I need you.
“I’m not the only defense attorney in London, Lord Van Zieks.” Ryunosuke seems done with cowering. He straightens his back too, locking eyes with Barok.
But you’re the only one I trust, Barok wants to say.
Instead, he says, “Mr. Naruhodo. There is nothing that can absolve all the wrong that I’ve done to you during your stay here…but if it is even one of the reasons for your early departure, then I can only continue to apologize and pray you’ll forgive me.”
He pauses, feeling that same ebb of resentment cresting in his chest. Superficial resentment for Ryunosuke leaving him, hiding the resentment Barok feels for himself. He wishes he could resent the man, for finding the lonely lord in his tower and besotting him before running away with his heart.
However, Barok isn’t delusional enough to believe that’s the story of their encounters. He’s been awful to Ryunosuke. He’s transgressed him one too many times.
“I’m terribly sorry.” Barok adds, his chest ready to give out after all the duress he’s put it through.
“Lord Van Zieks!” Ryunosuke raises his voice, his eyebrows furrowed but his eyes still wide, as if he were stunned and irritated at the same time. “That is – that has nothing to do with it! I’m going to Tokyo to become a better lawyer, and that is the entire truth. Why would I leave over the…unfortunate way you treated me when we first met? You are clearly much kinder to me now.”
“Well,” Barok sputters, unsure of how to respond. “I don’t see who else could drive you out of this country.”
Ryunosuke laughs. “Must everything be about you?” His jaw suddenly drops and he slightly bows his head. “Sorry. That sounded a bit…”
“Apt.” Barok supplies. “I’ve been told I can be a bit self-absorbed.”
Ryunosuke tilts his head, and Barok feels blood rush to his face when he catches sight of the small smirk on the man’s face. “Who would dare to tell you that?”
My brother.
“Only the bravest of acquaintances, I’m sure you can imagine.” Barok presses his lips together.
“I see,” Ryunosuke nods, holding in a laugh. “Regardless, your treatment of me – no matter how kind or unkind – has nothing to do with my early departure,” he sighs. “I really do want to help strengthen the judicial system in my home country.”
He speaks with so much sincerity that Barok can feel his own decrepit heart wilt.
“That is…honorable.” He manages to get out. “You are a very honorable man, Mr. Naruhodo.”
“Ah,” Ryunosuke raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, which flaunts a pretty flush under the dim streetlight.
I want to kiss it. Barok thinks.
“That’s very kind of you, Lord Van Zieks.” He says, completely unaware of Barok’s tawdry thoughts.
“It’s the truth,” Barok wills himself to focus. “Japan will be fortunate to have you.”
“Actually –“ Ryunosuke starts sheepishly. “I think it’d be fortunate to have you, too. Or, I’d be fortunate to have you.”
His eyes widen. “I mean, I’d be fortunate to have you there with me! In Japan, that is. As a visitor.” He looks down at the ground forlornly. “As a visitor,” he repeats to himself.
Barok shakes his head. “What?”
Ryunosuke groans, seeming both frustrated and embarrassed. “When I saw your reaction to me saying I’d leave, I thought that I should invite you. Of course, it’s a one-way trip for me, but it could be a nice sabbatical for you – I think! Naturally, I don’t know if you would actually find it nice, but-“
“Mr. Naruhodo, please, calm down.” Barok interjects. “You would like me to…come with you?”
Ryunosuke nods, but doesn’t elaborate further. It’s almost like he’s lost his voice.
“That would be an honor.” Barok says, rushing to rescue the awkward pause they’ve found themselves in. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
Ryunosuke beams up at him then, his twinkling eyes betraying any shame he felt moments ago. Barok feels his heart skip a beat, and he knows then with all the dread in his soul that this trip would only be filled with skipped heartbeats and sweaty hands. He feels like there are stones aimed at him in a village square, but Ryunosuke is still looking up at him with sincere excitement.
It’d be unfair to be dishonest when Ryunosuke’s been anything but.
“Mr. Naruhodo, I must tell you – just in case it makes you wish to rescind your invite,” Barok hesitates, a brief pause catching in his throat. He taps his right foot, then his left, remembering what it is like to feel vulnerable – to feel human.
It’s terrible. No wonder Jesus only did this for 30 years. I can barely do 33, Barok thinks, sick to his stomach with anxiety.
But when Ryunosuke keeps looking at him with those kind eyes, it feels like a panacea.
He continues.
“Ever since I met you, I’ve felt something that is…indecipherable. It keeps me up at night and rouses me from sleep in the morning. It is ever-present.”
Barok takes a single step backwards, giving Ryunosuke a little more room to see him in all of his pathetic glory.
“And I don’t know what to make of it. Or, I didn’t, until this case came along.” Barok closes his eyes in thought. “After you offered to advocate for me in court, and after I accepted your offer…I knew it then.” He murmurs under his breath, “Yes, it must have been then.”
Ryunosuke furrows his eyebrows. “You knew what then?”
“This feeling that I thought was a plague,” Barok begins, “is more like a miracle. Or some divine lightning bolt that should never have struck near me.”
He opens his eyes, peering down at Ryunosuke with an unreadable look. “Are you familiar with the Old Testament?”
“I’ve read some verses here and there,” Ryunosuke answers skeptically. “Why do you ask?”
“You see, when God sent locusts and diseases, the Pharoah thought they were plagues. But do you know what Moses thought?”
Ryunosuke tilts his head. “What?”
“He thought they were miracles.” Barok says.
Ryunosuke shakes his head, clearly confused. “Lord Van Zieks, I have to be honest – I have no idea what you’re talking about. Am I the plague?”
Barok sputters. “No! Well, yes, but not in a malicious way –“
“Then why did you mention locusts and diseases?” Ryunosuke grimaces.
“I’ll concede, I shouldn’t have used that metaphor –“
“And who would Moses be?” Ryunosuke interjects. “Kazuma?”
Barok’s mouth twitches.
“Mr. Naruhodo, please.” He says, finally cutting through the other man’s spiral of questions. “I was trying to say that I thought my feelings for you were just hatred and spite due to…my brother’s death.” He takes a breath. “I thought of you as a plague because I was blind to my own misdeeds and prejudices, when all along, you were a miracle – both for me and for London. You’ve shown me what light feels like after living in darkness for all of these years.”
Ryunosuke flushes a deep red, his eyes shifting away. “This is very high praise, Lord Van Zieks…”
Barok continues. “But it is deserved. Mr. Naruhodo, the feeling I have for you is…”
He feels his heart flutter in his throat. Ryunosuke looks up at him, hanging on every last word. Barok wants to kiss him senseless.
“Love.” Barok says at last. “I believe that it is love.”
Ryunosuke’s mouth parts and he lets out a quiet “oh” sound, his eyes tracing the curve of Barok’s face. It’s like they’re seeing each other for the first time again, this time with no fears of “The Reaper” or other deceitful ghosts of the past haunting them. This time, they’re in a world of their own, under faint streetlight on a quiet, cloudy London evening, peering into the other to see if they look different on the inside.
Barok thinks Ryunosuke looks beautiful, though he does not wish to know if the man thinks the same of him.
Then he realizes the silence has gone on for too long, and that they are not on another plane but just outside of a dinner party. On the other side of a frosted window, Sherlock is terrorizing his Stradivarius’ strings. Barok can faintly hear the violin’s cries if he focuses hard enough.
He wonders if he should go back inside and endure the screeching recital or just walk off into the night after embarrassing himself so profoundly. He figures if Ryunosuke’s leaving soon that they’ll both eventually forget that this happened – this conversation, this bond that almost was, this journey together.
He’ll forget. Barok thinks. I won’t.
Then, he feels a warm hand slip into his.
He looks down to see Ryunosuke’s smaller hand, surprisingly calloused where Barok’s is smooth, clasped onto his own. The man himself pointedly looks away from Barok and out at the empty street, his cheeks a stunning red with a small droplet of sweat pacing down one of them. Barok almost wants to laugh at how gorgeous the sight is.
Instead, he holds Ryunosuke’s hand tighter.
After a few moments, he bends down slightly to reach the tip of Ryunosuke’s ear.
He kisses it gently and whispers.
“Thank you.”
He begins to lean back before Ryunosuke suddenly swivels to face him. The shorter man releases Barok’s hand and wraps both of his arms around his back instead, lightly tugging him down into a kiss. It’s a chaste and sweet thing, with Barok too afraid to make any movements and Ryunosuke too nervous to relax his face. Through the nerves, Barok can’t help but feel like this is some divine movement, like the conducted swelling of an orchestra in the middle of a symphony.
He wonders if this is God touching him at last.
When they pull away, Barok finds himself breathless, nearly gasping for air as he looks down at Ryunosuke. They look at each other in silence for a few moments, with Ryunosuke’s arms still warm and soft against Barok’s back.
Ryunosuke gives him a small smile then, one that Barok’s never seen on him before, and tilts his head forward to lean against Barok’s.
“Was that one of the miracles?”
Barok laughs. “I’m afraid so. Perhaps we should try again to be sure.”
Ryunosuke hums. “Only if you promise to never stop trying, even when we reach Japan.”
Barok presses his lips against Ryunosuke’s cheek. “I promise to God above.”
Ryunosuke shakes his head, a smirk still dancing on his lips. “Not to God. Promise to me.”
Barok blinks, and somewhere in the distance of his love-addled mind, he feels as if a ram is approaching the two of them, something to replace his own sacrifice so he won’t lose the man before him.
Deux ex machina. Barok thinks. We’ve been saved. I’ve been saved, by the man right in front of me.
“I promise, Ryunosuke.” He says at last.
Ryunosuke smiles, and Barok finally finds himself smiling back.