Archive of Our Own ^beta

There was always a tune playing in the back of Daisuke Kambe’s head. More often than not, it was a sad tune, a melancholic piano piece that traveled from his brain to his body, leaving behind a tingling sensation on his delicate fingertips. A soft rhythm that seemed to fit no matter what, somehow, in his mess of a life. As per usual, Daisuke’s brain worked on soft legatos and diminuendos, a never-ending symphony that barely - just barely - managed to keep his mind working. Chopin’s Waltz in C-sharp minor.

The rain was awfully cold against his pale skin, falling mercilessly on top of his mangled body, droplets trailing from the tip of his nose to the end of his cheeks, caressing his troubles away, lulling him into what seemed to be a sweet state of unconsciousness. Daisuke somehow had felt the need to stay awake, a voice inside him commanded him to: a handful of staccatos that contrasted erratically with the heartfelt piano tune inside his head. 

The notes, the rain, and the blood that seeped away from him, effortlessly leaving him behind, mixed in a painful crescendo meant to suck the life out of Daisuke’s lungs, his warm breath creating a thin layer of mist against the cold weather, vanishing in the air mere seconds later as if it were nothing but a nuisance. His head lolled to the side, his body felt numb: like all those times he brought himself to sit on the piano yet never knowing what to play. It felt like being underwater, so close to the unreachable light that cracked through the surface.

The music he felt running through his veins picked up the pace, when Daisuke was certain he was already dead. “Stay with me!” it said, a steady marcato, muffled by white hot pain that almost made the soothing melody vanish. Whoever the virtuoso was, the millionaire despised momentarily. Don’t interrupt my music, he wanted to say, you’re killing it. Instead, he thought, the music was the one actually killing him. The waltz echoed inside his eardrums, his fingertips stopped feeling the ground, and reality seemed too far away for him to catch. 

And yet, there was someone with him, carefully, methodically, interrupting his music. That was all the great Daisuke Kambe could remember — oddly comforting cold, and a newfound piece that ranged from a furioso to a bruscamente and a sotto voce, the dynamics too messy and scrambled for his lethargic brain to comprehend in his weakened state. “Stay with me, please…” But he remembered thinking, at some point, that because of whoever called for him, that mysterious virtuoso who exposed a new rhythm to his waltz, he found it hard to let go of consciousness. Just for a bit more time, he wanted to stay and listen to someone that wasn’t himself. Then the world slipped out of his numb hands, and he was wrapped in a deranged illusion of reality, one where everything was dark.

—————

“Here, this one’s for you,” was the simple sentence that managed to bring him back to reality.

The humid streets of London were as utterly depressing as they were somehow comforting. The raindrops fell against the window and slipped down, competing against each other in a race to get to the bottom, leaving a trail behind that allowed to see the insides of a home behind the foggy glass: a typical scene of England, nothing but a series of brown brick buildings under a grey sky. There was a breath of melancholy in the air. The woman behind the window Daisuke was intently staring at had switched a vinyl with another, and the music that came from it managed to slip away and soak the street as if it were rain. Waltz No. 2 by Shostakovich.

A mid-winter waltz that was quickly to melt with the bustling atmosphere of the British city, so alien yet so familiar to the millionaire, who had lived there for so many years yet seemed to have forgotten about it. Then again, he had never lived in London, he just had pretended to exist in that place for a certain amount of time. Yet now, as he stood in the middle of the sidewalk, he wondered why it looked so different: full of colours he had never seen, opaqued by those menacing rainstorms that peeked above the wet pavement. To think the cheerful aura of the bystanders around him had seemed so boring once upon a time almost made him smile, or perhaps it was the warmth that he felt on his hands.

“Thank you,” he replied, holding the pastry carefully as to not stain his leather gloves. It smelt incredibly sweet, and the warm aroma was quickly to take over his senses, mixing perfectly with the majestic melody that still hung in the air, like a comforting blanket. He would have liked to start walking to his rhythm, yet his condition only allowed him to pick up a calm, almost slow pace that was by no means in sync with the music.

It had been a week and a half since he had been stabbed and, while the situation had not been ideal, it hadn’t been as bad as he had originally thought. As he munched on his slice of Battenberg cake, he fondly remembered staying at home during the last ten days, being taken care of by a rather grumpy and insolent yet affectionately attentive man, that unknown virtuoso that had interrupted his dying music with his very own rough pizzicattos, filling him with life he had little to no idea he was lacking. Daisuke supposed that, after a week and a half of staying in his penthouse in bed, someone else was taking care of the Adollium trades, probably his reliable relative Suzue, since he was unable to leave town due to his injury. Every time he asked about it the answer trailed along the lines of “don’t worry about it”. Words he would always have blind faith in.

“I have no idea what this is, but we should take some home.” Daisuke lifted his gaze up to his side, observing the way Haru Katou seemed to marvel over the small pastry on his hand. His ashen blonde locks merged perfectly with a scene, his serene voice almost sounding as if it had been composed by Shostakovich himself — meant to be music. “Don’t you think?” 

“Is there a reason we’re talking a walk today?” The question he blurted out had sat on Daisuke’s mind for way too long, yet his partner was blatantly ignoring him as he kept on walking, very slowly, matching the raven’s pace. His aureate eyes still so impressed at everything foreign, things he wasn’t used to or things he hadn’t even seen before. 

“You’re feeling better,” was the response. Haru hadn’t even bothered looking back at his partner, too busy looking ahead. The umbrella they were sharing sheltered the millionaire from feeling uncomfortable at the situation, like always, finding an endearing comfort in the detective’s presence. That loud and annoying virtuoso that at the time seemed to blend in perfectly with the crowd, just another note inside a symphony and, to Daisuke’s eyes, the one that carried all the weight. “I thought it would be good for you to stretch your legs a bit. Besides, might as well take the chance and show you something cool.”

————

They proceeded with their walk in comfortable silence, save for the occasions where Daisuke needed time to stop and rest, making Haru’s walking come to a halt beside him. “Are you showing consideration towards me?” The millionaire would ask, a smirk gracing his delicate lips, which would earn either a chuckle or a snarky (yet unusually fond) remark from the taller male, who also stopped from time to time, if only to try and read a sign they had come across. Needless, to say, Daisuke found hilarious how much of a lost cause his partner was at the English language, and so did some bystanders, apparently, since they decided to laugh at the thick Japanese accent that accompanied Haru’s words. They got away with it, sadly, since the blond prevented him from acting in consequence in the first place.

“I probably would have laughed, too,” he casually said, shrugging nonchalantly. But Daisuke was certain he would not. “Don’t try and make your injury worse.”

When they arrived at the park, the soft rain that enveloped them had started to turn into white, pristine snow. It was inevitable to sigh in contentment at the sight of tiny snowflakes dancing on the water, like ballerinas during a representation of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake Suite. The sight would make anyone’s jaw go slack in awe, and Daisuke wondered how something so utterly mundane as an empty park could look so beautiful. The trees swung carefully with the tempo of the wind, under the light of the light posts that illuminated the darkening scene, like stars on the night sky, reflecting ever so slightly in Haru’s golden eyes, full of mirth as they stared back at his cerulean ones. He was sure they were shining too, as if the snowflakes had also fell on the water that his gaze held.

“You said London was boring, so I’ve been trying my best to find out the most boring place in town and still prove you wrong,” were the mischievous words the blond beamed, a smirk gracing his face. It was inevitable for Daisuke to chuckle as he became aware of it: the park was dark and completely empty, yet still held some kind of energy that felt comforting, so thick both of them could taste it. Haru sure had kept himself busy in the meantime between taking care of him and dealing with the aftermath of the last Adollium trade.

“That’s not all there is to it,” Daisuke retorted, however, remaining the sole reader of Haru’s mind, which happened to be an open book. “Don’t be prideful and say it.” The umbrella that covered them both was closed and put aside, leaving their heads exposed to the heavenly feeling of frozen water drops falling from the sky, eliciting a smile out of him, merging with the mid-winter waltz that took place around them.

“Hmmph. Cheeky brat,” the inspector mumbled with feigned irritation, crossing his arms in front of his chest, before giving in to Daisuke’s wishes. After all, there was no use denying it, the calendar on his phone clearly marked the second day of February. “I felt bad leaving you at home today mainly because it’s your birthday, so I took you out as a celebration of sorts. Happy now, rich boy?”

“Amused would certainly be an understatement,” was the lighthearted response from the satisfied millionaire, who mindlessly stared at the sky, watching the snowflakes float in the cold London air. One of them landed on Haru’s nose, who went crossed-eyed at the sensation the moment Daisuke spoke again, his lips forming a straight line, as expected of his usual monotone expression. “You must be aware it’s been nineteen years since all of my birthdays have felt hollow. What point is there in living one more year if you don’t feel like you’re living?”

Haru said nothing, listening to his own background music at the back of his own head, not knowing what was the right answer. “You can change that now,” he retorted simply, looking at the small handfuls of snow that had formed on the ground, as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. Truth is that, perhaps, in that exact second, it was interesting only to him. “Whenever you’re ready, that is. Whenever you want.”

Daisuke mused this response, feeling the atmosphere suddenly change into something new, refreshing. The cold that surrounded him, making his nose turn slightly red, became as comforting as threatening. Mysterious, and incredibly stunning at the same time. If he had learned something by heart during that year it was that, no matter what, Haru always knew what to say. He understood. No offence but the man wasn’t exactly what one could address as wise (although he was highly intelligent), yet there had always been an unspoken connection between them, something that couldn’t be expressed with words, that granted the inspector access to the most secretive parts of Daisuke’s brain. To one Haru Katou, he thought, he was an open book, and viceversa.

“How do I know I’m ready then?” The words left his parted lips as if they were a sigh, a diminuendo and, for a small moment, the irrational fear of the wind taking them away, making them fall in deaf ears, made the millionaire feel the way his stomach was tied in knots. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he was actually ready to be having that conversation yet, but his sentence was careless — was he asking Haru, or was he asking himself?

The blond appeared to be lost in thought. His calloused fingers grabbed a small sample of virgin snow and threw it into the river, watching it melt and dissipate into a thousand particles. Deconstruction: the charm of destruction. “You won’t, I guess,” was his response, to which the raven hummed in acknowledgement. “Sometimes you think nothing’s gonna happen, and then… it happens,” he justified himself, letting out a small, airy laugh that Daisuke could only describe as ‘adorable’, a brillante dynamism accompanying them, there was some sort of relief as the undertone of his words. “One moment you’ll just go ‘Hey, this is not so bad’ and realise that uh… the rain doesn’t last forever. There’s sunlight waiting to show after it.” Daisuke actively avoided any comment on Haru’s insultingly off impression of himself in spite of the thought that popped up in his head: there was no sun after, which was a bummer, but there was snow. A tornado of whites that gently covered the Earth, the pureness of it almost blinding.

Daisuke understood. In his wandering through the rain, desperately waiting for the sunlight, he had forgotten what snowing was like. And then there was Haru, an angel that came from a perpetually frozen paradise, his upbringing surrounded by snow. A cute coincidence, he had to admit, the sole concept was enough to make him melt on his partner’s palm (figuratively, that is).

“I’m tired, Katou. Can we head home?”

“Sure, I need to check on your wound anyway.”

Surely enough, the streets had become empty. Everyone would gather at home on that gloomy February evening, watching the snow mercilessly fall, sipping unbearably sweet hot chocolate in front of the fireplace. But they would never feel as content as Daisuke did, his feet waltzing on the slippery road. His wound, which started to ache quite distantly, kept his figure from crouching down, let alone lay down on the floor — like he used to do so long ago, on his birthday, while he had his parents by his side. However, as he ran his fingertips through the accumulated snow on a certain window, he found something just as amusing, enough to keep his nostalgic thoughts away from him for a small period of time.

The freezing cold burnt his already scarred palm, his skin turning a red shade at the contact with the soft snow, shaping it carefully. Seeing it explode on the back of Haru’s head was compensation enough. The fact that the drizzles of frozen water fell inside his hoodie, making a shiver run down the blond’s spine, only made it so much funnier. Before he could even process it, he was laughing like a madman, so much his stomach hurt (something he’d blame on his latest injury, quite obviously). 

Katou looked about to go feral, a vein sticking out of his neck, about to explode. It was hilariously gratifying, to see how the hot-headed detective practically burned in rage, fumes escaping his furious brain and melting the snow that still managed to stick to his fawn coloured locks of fluffy hair. This time, though, and much to Daisuke’s surprise, he actually took a deep breath (something Saeki advised him to do on the daily, given his temper-driven shenanigans) and relaxed until his lips curled into a mischievous smirk. “Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” Yet the millionaire was way too caught up on wiping away a fake tear as a consequence of his laughing fit to prevent the snowball from hitting his face with outstanding force. All things considered, his partner was quite the marksman, he had to admit it. Just not out loud. And not to Haru.

“Easy, inspector, you’ll hurt me.” His chuckle was too small a sound for anyone to hear.

“Your stomach has been compromised so I’m refraining from going for it. I’ll break your face though, rich boy.” And the sound of the detective’s voice was a cantabile that never abandoned his ears.

Spending time with Haru was nice. The man was magnetic, he exuded a warm and comforting attitude that opaqued his first-glance hostility and seriousness, no wonder he managed to draw in so many people: even Daisuke, a major outcast, void of such sensations since such a tender age. Haru was both snow and fire, a confusing yet reassuring manifestation of emotions that the raven could get lost in, get drunk of, couldn’t escape from. It was like listening to Strauss’ Delirien Waltz on repeat for days straight and never getting tired of it. Wether it was cold or warm, the inspector’s presence was something Daisuke held on for dear life, like a lifesaver, something he would always treasure.

The snow made small crunching noises under his feet, pouring completely upon the rooftops of the British capital, and exploding on their jackets with a steady sforzando as they ran down the undisturbed avenue, their heavy breaths and their chuckles getting swiped by the chilly winter breeze ever so often. From where he stood, he could only witness his partner’s back, long legs swiftly avoiding the slippery sections of the pavement beneath him, almost as if he were flying. He moved gracefully to the majestic beat of the piece echoing in the raven’s head, that talented virtuoso. 

Upon first meeting, Daisuke would have never guessed how important the grumpy man would become to him. How his frown would easily become the softest of smiles when they were together, and how his hesitation before jumping into Daisuke’s life now had become running in front of him, tracing his path towards happiness and joy, guiding him by blows of snow directed to hit between his ocean-like eyes. The sole comparison between the Haru he once had met and the Haru that laughed devilishly at Daisuke while getting the snowflakes out of his hair was outstanding. It was like witnessing the development of a Symphony and hearing it again, adding a new musician every time. The blond’s energy matched those of the best music pieces of all time — heartfelt as Chopin, majestic as Strauss, as entrancing as Shostakovich. He was forever grateful that the road that carried them had decided for their paths to meet.

——————

The cloudy sky had turned so dark the clouds were not distinguishable anymore, and one could only tell they somehow remained there because of the snow that fell delicately upon the ceilings of brick edifications. His pinkish lips curled into a smile full of mirth as he looked at the endearing scene, his pale features caressed by the soft light that exuded from the fireplace, which seemed to be full of glee as flames died and were reborn in front of his very eyes.

“Are you sure it doesn’t hurt anywhere?” Haru’s quiet voice spoke, a melody that resembled an adagio, full of concern. “Shouldn’t you be resting in bed?”

“Laying in bed all day is something I clearly don’t need anymore,” he reassured him, taking his bigger hand in his and making it stop pulling on his shirt, where it had been for a while, since the older male had started to examine the current state of Daisuke’s injury. Turns out, the raven had been either too clumsy or too careless (maybe even both), slipping and falling on the hard pavement, something the blond would have found incredibly funny if he hadn’t been at death’s door mere days ago. “I’m fine. Now, get here.”

Daisuke patted the seat besides him on the piano, which Katou eyed before hesitantly taking. Moments ago, while the millionaire recovered from the hit and allowed warmth to return to his cold body, Haru had mentioned, from the kitchen, that Daisuke should try and play the piano that resided in his penthouse. The instrument was covered in filth and dust, a testament to the raven’s abandonment for the things that gave him joy, but had lately been cleaned by a certain inspector who was too much of a caretaker and used music as an excuse to get his still weak partner out of bed.

“What do you want me to play?” He asked, and those keys who had remained intact for so long were finally being traced by his mindless fingers once again, warming up with a few major chords. 

“I- uh- H-how would I know? I don’t know shit about music, Kambe!” The blond stammered, flinching away from the shorter male and even the instrument with one agile movement. 

“I know, I know, I didn’t expect you to,” he hummed in response, his voice lacking any kind of sarcasm, irony or bite. Instead, it was a soft cadence of affectionate appreciation. “I’ll just play whatever comes to mind, okay?”

He mentally rummaged through the thousands of music sheets his brain had scanned so long ago. Thousands of chords hid behind his eyelids, his heavy fingers playing sample after sample, just a few notes, a few measures, trying to find something appropriate. He was painfully aware that Haru wouldn’t mind whatever he played: he didn’t seem to be the type to listen to piano music from centuries ago, however, Daisuke deemed that wooing his partner with elaborate arpeggios and loud agitatos was not the right move, but rather try to preserve this small little moment of peace they had created. The blond moved closer to the millionaire’s undisturbed figure, mere centimetres, yet enough for them to become trapped in a small bubble, alien to the rest of mankind, only existing to them at that exact time and place. 

The inspector’s gaze reflected the fire that kept them warm, a swirling dance of golden bright colours perpetually burned into Daisuke’s mind, just as the orange light washed over his ashen locks of hair, creating some sort of an halo around him, something so angelical Daisuke felt like a sinner by even looking — admiring — the way his partner’s brow furrowed in concentration while trying to follow the raven’s hands. It was Brahms’ Op. 39 No. 9 in D Minor — a short, candid and heartfelt waltz. The blond simply listened to the way Daisuke seemed to place every note in the correct place, creating a hypnotic melody that, at the same time seemed to be painfully slow. He relinquished in the way his eyelids fluttered in front of his cerulean orbs, as if the very music ran through his veins instead of blood: the sole thought of that concept was drawing him in towards his partner, who he had once referred to as ‘despicable’, and who managed to prove him wrong at every turn, showering him with newfound tenderness.

Haru hadn’t realised he had been holding his breath until Daisuke turned his head ever so slightly, locking eyes with the detective in an all-to-knowing way. Gently, his soft hands (who remained strangely delicate despite the burn scar that had taken over Daisuke’s palm so many weeks ago) grabbed Katou’s calloused and rough ones, gently placing them on the piano, and covering them with their own carefully, as if draping a blanket over a newborn. Haru was well beyond words at that point, simply letting himself be carried away by this experience, feeling pulses of excitement rush through him every time one of his fingers was guided downwards, eliciting a soft pianissimo sound to come out of the elegant instrument. His hands could never belong in there, but as long as Daisuke’s were on top of them, he felt as if they could enjoy the foreign sensation, just a little. His heart felt three times bigger than it had always been, and he found there was no way he could blame the hot tingling sensation on his cheeks on the fireplace’s warmth. Soon enough, however, such nuisances slipped away from his mind, and he fell into what one could only qualify as a trance, indulging himself in the pleasantly mesmerizing way their hands fit together, creating a handful of chords that echoed in the large room they found themselves in.

“This is C minor,” a change, “E minor,” another change, “D minor…”

Neither of them became aware of how clse their faces had gotten until there was no salvation from the risk they were about to take. Perhaps it was unavoidable for them to do so, perhaps it was that same fate who had brought them together playing its cards once again. That fate who had joined them at the hip — two lives, two souls, intertwined, merging into one. When their lips met, none dared open their eyes, yet they could see each other behind their heavy eyelids. It was a soft sonata of unsaid feelings they transmitted, and Daisuke was reminded again of a virtuoso, the way Haru’s lips traced upon his was the most sacred of blessings, which mimicked the thoughtfulness he had expressed playing the piano moments earlier. A concerto just for the two of them. Daisuke wondered, at the back of his cloudy mind, when had he abandoned being a soloist for the sake of sharing such intimacy with his coworker. Nevertheless, the answer was more than obvious.

At some point, he got lost in the legato of Haru’s gentle, caring touch cupping his cheeks as if he were as fragile as a glass statue. Not wanting to part, methodically avoiding their separation and the consequential end of the symphony they had started writing together, he let his hands arise towards the back of the blond’s neck, casually brushing against silky locks in which his fingers became tangled not long after, pulling him in with relative ease, deepening the intoxicating kiss they shared, feeling the magnetism that brought them together in the first place flood his senses like the snow outside flooded the vacant streets of London. 

When their lips’ affettuoso had become a con fuoco and then into a last moment risoluto, they parted in order to let air into their lungs, the sweet taste of Haru’s chapped lips still present in Daisuke’s reddened ones. They let their foreheads fall against each other, dark and light bangs clashing messily and becoming tangled, the moonlight in Daisuke’s gaze fixated in the sunset that grazed Haru’s. 

“That was an unexpected birthday gift, inspector,” the low cadence of the raven’s voice commented after a long beat of silence, to which his partner laughed with mirth, still refraining from breaking their contact, their holy connection. 

“Perhaps today was a bit weird of a birthday celebration,” he answered, his honeyed voice in decrecescendo, then he shook his head, lifting it from where he rested, making a cold sensation snap Daisuke out of the moment. “I’m sorry, there was no cake or gifts, and perhaps spending the day together like this is not what you wanted.” His hesitant words actively avoided mentioning their kiss, for they were both too aware that neither of them regretted it. “You said you didn’t know if you were ready earlier, and yet I…”

One moment you’ll just go ‘Hey, this is not so bad’ and realise that uh… the rain doesn’t last forever. He was reminded of cold, oddly comforting snow, an ethereal mid-winter scenario. Those words stuck with Daisuke as he carefully, brought his hands up to Haru’s cheeks, thumb soothingly rubbing his ivory skin, pulling him in once again. He knew, in that moment, that he was ready. His unofficial birthday celebration had been the best day of his life, something full of joy and contentment he had not felt since nineteen years ago, and his birthday gift had always been there: by his side or, right then, between his thoughtful hands. He kept his eyes open during the kiss, even when his partners’ shut, and smiled all the way through it to the point the blond found himself chasing his mouth in a needy manner. 

There was always music inside Daisuke Kambe’s head. In fact, too many pieces for him to name. Still, all of them would always be devoted to a certain virtuoso, for Haru Katou was the only person alive to bring the melodies inside his head into life, something the millionaire would not want any other way.

Injury or not, Daisuke mentally marked the day on a calendar. February the second. And eagerly awaited for more birthdays to come, more music to let out of his insides — he was ready to let go of his burden now, and, as per usual, he had a certain temperamental inspector to thank for it.