Archive of Our Own

Barok is well-accustomed to the feeling of being watched.

It’s a very specific brand of awareness, the kind that comes from years of being intermittently stalked through London’s streets, forced to encounter would-be-assassins on dark corners, or emerging from squalid alleyways. When one’s daily routine allows for the possibility of being set upon by hostile forces, one grows intimately familiar with the skittering unease that precedes bloodshed, and the surveilling eyes that act as its herald. Malevolent eyes, or greedy, or vindictive, charting his passage from home to carriage to office and then back again.

He is likewise familiar with labouring under the heavy gaze of the judiciary, has oft felt the oppressive weight of its scrutiny as he works to take on a consortium of upper-class criminals. He’s grown used to the staring, murmuring crowds that fill the courthouse seats, to watch with rapt attention as he faces down that many-headed hydra, and equally used to the eyes of his peers—suspicious, or admiring, or sometimes wary, wondering if they ought to tread more carefully.

This wealth of experience is how Barok knows that he’s being observed now, as he mills about the edge of the drawing room amidst a different breed of crowd—more refined, perhaps, but no less prone to abject voyeurism. There’s a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, a sharpening of his senses in response to some unconscious danger. His muscles tense instinctively, with apprehension and anticipation alike, and it takes all of his carefully cultivated self-control to keep from crushing the delicate stem of his coupe glass between his fingers.

The mask that presses uncomfortably against the bridge of Barok’s nose obscures his peripheral vision, forcing him to turn his head to survey the room. When he slants his gaze slightly to the left, he catches a woman dressed as Titania observing him from behind her painted fan. Caught, she quickly looks away, and draws her companion into hushed conversation. Bright laughter follows.

Still, the feeling does not lessen.

Some manner of attention is, regretfully, to be expected. It’s rare—nearly unheard of, really—for Barok to host large gatherings of any kind, and he has on this particular occasion invited the spectators in. They are here to stare at his home, to lift the veil on the enigmatic former Reaper of the Bailey, not a monster, but a man after all. And a man with a very rich and discerning wine cellar.

It’s his fault, perhaps, for continuing to cultivate his privacy even since the clearing of his name. But given the choice between navigating high society, or the semi-regular attempts on his life, Barok thinks that he might, in fact, prefer the latter.

With a fortifying breath, and a refreshing sip of champagne—pleasant effervescence on his tongue—Barok continues to make the rounds. He reminds himself that he agreed to this for Iris’ sake, that she is no doubt enjoying herself immensely, and that he can certainly endure one evening of idle scrutiny and tedious conversation on her behalf.

He hasn’t missed this, though, and if there is any silver lining to his years of enforced solitude it’s that he hasn’t been forced to endure the season at Klint’s, or anyone else’s, urging. Barok has never been particularly sociable. He knows how to be sociable, the finer points of etiquette drilled into him from such an early age, but it does not come naturally. And his reintroduction to society has been—exhausting.

Tonight is worse than usual, for the simple reason that Asougi is nowhere to be found. If Barok is fully honest with himself, he has been using his apprentice as something of a crutch at these events, and he feels his absence keenly now, as he steps softly across the carpet in order to greet the latest guest.

It’s in the middle of weathering a tired political spiel from a peer dressed as Napoleon that something in the air shifts. Barok’s heightened awareness—that sense of being watched—has remained at a steady pulse throughout the evening; as such, he’s unprepared for the moment that it jumps sharply in intensity.

The fine hairs on the back of Barok’s neck lift all at once, alerting him to the fact that he’s just been made the singular focus of someone’s attention. He cannot say how he knows for certain, save that years lived in peril have instilled in him a second sense, one that warns him when someone has set their gaze on him with intent—ill, or otherwise.

Lord Astor’s droning speech fades into the background as Barok casts his gaze discreetly about the room once again. He picks through the sea of opulently clad bodies that have invaded his home for the evening, the endless parade of feathers and rhinestones, the swathes of velvet, and taffeta, and tulle, trying to ascertain where the danger lies.

It’s a more difficult task with so many of the guests’ faces obscured, masks and heavy makeup concealing what might otherwise show in their expression. Whether hatred, conviction, or some other, more innocuous emotion, their disguises leave Barok none the wiser. Worse, many of the attendees have fashioned elaborate costumes for the occasion, the impressive construction of which allow for any number of hidden compartments. It would be child’s play to smuggle a weapon in.

A man clad as a centurion passes by, and Barok half-expects him to lunge in his direction with knife drawn. He doesn’t, of course, but Barok only unclenches his jaw once the man is out of range, and even then he holds his body tight and coiled, in case he is forced to act suddenly.

As he searches for the source of his crawling unease, the sounds of the party continue to swirl around him: Lord Astor, still monologuing; the bright orchestral music which rises in soft swells from the adjoining room; the tinkling laughter and murmuring voices of other guests engaged gayly in conversation. That’s the other trouble, Barok thinks. He won’t easily hear someone coming in the midst of this muddle.

And then he locks eyes with the man in the corner.

Upon meeting the other man’s gaze, a trickle of electricity runs up Barok’s spine. It causes him to straighten, as though his muscles and nerves have been threaded through with steel wire and a puppeteer has just reached down to yank them taut.

He’s sure that the stiff movement is immediately obvious to his observer, and berates himself for failing to reign in his reaction on time.

But if the man is perturbed at having been spotted in turn, he makes no sign. He’s chosen a position on the other end of the room, beyond the occupied assembly of chairs and settees, where he may lean against the wall and forgo socializing in favour of watching Barok. And there he remains, unmoving in his half-shadowed corner, as Barok looks on.

His new admirer is less ornately—or imaginatively—dressed than some, though the contrast of the gold embroidery against his dark, high collared coat is striking. The garment tapers in at the waist, and out at the wrists; paired with a ruffled white shirt and cravat, white gloves, and polished leather boots, he cuts a fine figure. Perched atop his face is a white and gold cat-like mask, which leaves only the lower half of it exposed.

What concerns Barok is not the man’s attire, or even the deadly sword at his hip, but rather, the intensity of his gaze. Beyond the mask, its wearer has fixed dark eyes on him, in a stare as potent as it is firm and unwavering.

For a moment, time hangs suspended. Barok stares back, refusing to cede the match—or simply unable to break the petrifying spell that has seized him. He feels as a deer must when caught in a hunter’s sights, awaiting the inevitability of the shot.

“Don’t you agree, Lord van Zieks?”

The shot never comes. Lord Astor’s voice pierces the enchantment, and with the interruption time resumes its regular march. Barok does not stagger back, red blooming on white cotton, but instead turns his attention back to the conversation he has been neglecting.

“I’m sure that it merits further consideration,” he says, noncommittal enough to avoid insult, and then without further ado, pardons himself.

The man is still watching him. Barok doesn’t need to turn to know it.

He can feel those fierce eyes trained on his back, as he pivots and heads in the opposite direction.

“A costume ball?”

“Yes,” Barok affirms. He’s as resigned to the notion as he is trepidatious, but believes that he’s largely successful in conveying only the former. “Miss Sholmes thought that it might be—” he pauses, tries to not make the idea sound like so much of an ordeal— “fun to throw a soiree, in order to stave off winter’s gloom.”

It won’t be a true ball, of course. Even with rooms reopened and repurposed, his townhome won’t comfortably fit more than sixty guests. And yet, the thought of all the preparations to come is already giving him a headache.

He can tell that Asougi isn’t fooled by his flat affect. They’re too familiar now, and Barok’s efforts to shelter behind his usual barriers—professionalism, rank, his own reserved nature—are increasingly less effective. Asougi’s keen gaze cuts through them all, rending whatever polite facades Barok erects as easily as if they were made of paper. He fears that one of these days, Asougi will cut too deep, and then they will both have to reckon with what spills out.

Thankfully, Asougi’s sharp eyes are preoccupied elsewhere at the moment, looking over the mask in his hand: a shining lion, complete with a curling golden mane, and sharp teeth that glitter in the candlelight. The lion is supposed to look aristocratic, a fierce and noble beast lording over the other animals. To Barok’s eyes, it merely appears pained.

“Well, if Miss Sholmes says so.”

They both know that Barok is not one for social gatherings. Now that his exile is at an end, he attends the occasional party to keep up appearances and curry favour, and Asougi is at his side more often than not, learning to do the same. It’s the unfortunate reality that not all of a crown prosecutor’s work takes place at the scene of the crime, or within the halls of the judiciary.

In truth, Asougi endures the simpering and small talk only a fraction better than himself. They must make an amusing pair to those that know them well enough to spot the signs of discomfort: one man agonizingly polite, but stiff as a corpse, the other practically vibrating with impatient energy.

“Isn’t she a little young to be attending evening parties?”

Barok sighs, and reaches up to massage his left temple. “I did attempt to impress that upon her,” he says, “but I regret that even my best efforts were in vain.”

Asougi’s mouth twitches. This time, he looks up as he speaks. “You mean that you were too soft to refuse her.”

“Yes,” Barok replies stiffly. “Well.” He looks away. Those damned eyes. “She’s nearly thirteen now, and she’s always kept—” here he hesitates, thinking of Sholmes— “adult, if not mature company. I trust in her ability to comport herself with grace and discretion.”

Iris’ unusual array of interests had been an adjustment, at first. He’d been unfamiliar with the whims and desires of ordinary little girls, let alone little girls who aspired to engineering and authorship as well as tea parties. In truth, Barok half-suspects that she wants to host this party not only for the opportunity to dress up, but also to make connections that might further her scientific pursuits.

Frankly, he’s just glad that she is showing an interest in her birthright. It had been wobbly, navigating the inevitable revelation of her parentage, and subsequent matters of inheritance. Barok has no expectations, but he wishes for her to make use of the world available to her. Though, her lack of a proper upbringing under that detective means that he is perhaps willing to indulge her beyond what is wise.

“In any case,” he adds, in the face of Asougi’s lingering skepticism, “I told her that it mustn’t go long past midnight, and that she isn’t to drink, or to dance except with those already familiar to her.” There is no etiquette that Barok is unwilling to breach on her behalf in this matter, in order to ensure her security and comfort. With fortune comes a certain amount of interest and attention for those of the fairer sex, even those not of marrying age.

“Never fear, sir,” replies Asougi, dry as a desert wind. “With you looming nearby, I’m certain that no young men will dare approach, let alone do anything untoward.” He turns the mask in his hand over and the gems catch the light, illuminating the snarl on the lion’s face. “What will you go as? Not this one?” He asks like the choice would be eminently inappropriate, which Barok might take offense at, were he not correct.

“No,” he says. “I fear the lion doesn’t suit me.”

With a resigned breath, Barok rises from his desk in order to retrieve two fresh chalices and a bottle of wine. Now that the working hours are over, he feels he is owed the indulgence, particularly if Asougi is going to continue to dissect him. Upon returning to his seat, he proceeds to uncork the bottle and pour himself a glass. When he makes the silent offer to Asougi he is waved off.

“I unearthed that from a trunk last evening,” Barok admits, as he delicately swirls the wine in his glass, soothed by its rich aroma. “I’m due for supper later, and thought to offer it to Miss Sholmes to do with as she pleases.” He takes a sip of his drink in order to disguise the way he hesitates, before forging on. “Klint wore it once, to a soiree.”

“I see.” Asougi’s gloved fingers tighten briefly on the edge of the mask, and he places it down again like it might bite him. But whatever he thinks of Klint’s suitability, he keeps it to himself.

There will always be sensitive topics between them, but Barok appreciates that the shaky accord they’d forged in the wake of the Reaper trial has hardened to something steelier since. There is respect between them, and a modicum of understanding, and if there is tension still, it has taken on an altogether different dimension—one that Barok does his best not to dwell on.

Asougi snorts, and casts a look his way. “Would you rather be the lamb, then?” He’s joking, but there is some slight, wicked edge to the question that unexpectedly makes Barok want to flush.

He doesn’t respond to the flirtation—if it is, as he fears, flirtation—but takes another sip of wine. “I imagine I will leave the matter of my costuming to Miss Sholmes,” he says, in the thrumming silence. “She seems enthusiastic to outfit everyone in her immediate circle.” And to plan everything else, for which Barok is grateful. He’s willing to be consulted on guest lists, or anything pertaining to logistics, but is otherwise happy to leave the arrangements in her capable hands.

Asougi’s shoulders relax even further as he laughs. “Be careful, sir. You might end up in tights if she has her way. Done up as Robin Hood, or Prince Charming to counteract that severe expression.” He looks Barok over appraisingly, and his eyes linger slightly longer than appropriate.

“I’m sure that I will endure,” Barok replies, before returning once again to his wine. It relieves the parched feeling in his mouth, but does little to temper the quick, staccato beat of the organ that resides in his chest. He drinks anyway.

Asougi leaves, eventually, when the conversation has run dry. Barok’s heart marches on.

Refuge appears in the form of Iris Sholmes.

Barok finds her bright-eyed and giggling by the refreshment table, where a chaotic scene is in the midst of unfolding. He arrives just in time to witness a silver platter go tumbling to the floor, spilling its contents across the rug as the horrified butler looks on from nearby. Upon closer scrutiny, he deduces that Wagahai has taken offense to her own costume, and has retaliated by attempting to ravage the hors d'oeuvres, resisting all attempts thus far to remove her.

He takes the opportunity to assist—the cat has gotten its claws tangled in the lace embroidery of the tablecloth, which he will despair over later—and by the time things are back in order he’s nearly forgotten the issue of his shadow. In exchange, they’ve drawn the attention of a number of the other guests, who look on in various shades of amusement or disapproval.

“Well, I suppose things were going too perfectly,” says Iris. She’s holding Wagahai now, who hangs dejectedly from her arms. The cat, having been foiled in her sabotage, doesn’t seem inclined to similarly ruin her dress, at least. With scaled wings and long antennae, she makes a bizarre, but charming Jabberwock to Iris’ Alice. “Thank you ever so much for the help, Uncle Barry.”

The nickname hardly makes Barok wince anymore. It’s a small indignity in the face of Iris’ genuine affection, which he treasures above all. “It was no trouble,” he assures her. “Has your evening been pleasant otherwise? I hope that you aren’t feeling too besieged.”

Barok has tried to keep an eye on her throughout the evening, and has more often than not seen her at the centre of a delighted crowd. He knows that Iris is a charming curiosity to many, with her inventions and her great intelligence, and supposes that there are worse things to be—as long as she’s enjoying herself.

“It’s been wonderful,” Iris exclaims, hugging Wagahai tighter, who lets out a pitiful meow in protest. “I’ve already secured funding for a new invention of mine. Also, did you know that Lord Hyssop is a great admirer of botany? He’s invited us to come and view his extensive collection sometime, and might be persuaded to part with one or two specimens.”

Barok had known that, and he suspects that Iris had as well, from the way that her eyes twinkle. She may have inherited Klint’s force of personality, but that cunning is all her mother’s. And, he admits reluctantly, perhaps the detective’s.

“How fortuitous,” he replies. “I’ve heard that Lady Pauline Nathanial, the Marchioness of Beesley, is an avid reader of your publication, as well as someone with an uncommon interest in aviation, should you wish to make her acquaintance later.”

“Oh, yes! I’d be delighted.”

Barok can practically see the gears in Iris’ mind begin to turn with the possibilities. He speaks up again, before he loses her to this newest round of social machinations. “And no one has been a bother to you? Pray, do not hesitate to call for me if you find yourself overwhelmed in any fashion.”

“Not at all,” Iris reassures him. “Everyone here has been so lovely, and so interesting. I only wish the evening wouldn’t come to an end so soon.”

It’s a relief to hear. Formally acknowledged, there are too many vultures who are inclined to come pecking at her skirts. Though, they typically find themselves on the wrong foot when they inevitably approach Barok, and he informs them that while she may be heiress to the estate, she is not his ward; Sholmes maintains that honour. Suffice to say, neither of them are inclined to barter away her independence.

Speaking of Sholmes, Barok finds himself more than a little irate at his absence. He’d promised to help look after Iris while Barok was preoccupied with managing the guests, but currently he can see no hide nor hair of the man. Where the devil has he gotten off to?

“We really have to do this again sometime,” says Iris. “I think it’s been a splendid success, don’t you?”

The faint smile that Barok levels at her is genuine, if not fully felt. “I couldn’t agree more.”

It’s an indisputable fact that Iris has done a wonderful job of bringing life back to the townhouse. She’s transformed what is usually a pristine, but empty shell into a lively, glittering venue once more. If Barok is unable to appreciate the production as it deserves, it is because he can still vividly recall the extravagant parties that Klint and Elizabeth used to host in this very home, and reliving those memories is a bittersweet experience.

Still, he’s gratified that Iris has not only taken on their mantle, but seems to be thriving under it. She’s grown into a fine, if unconventional young lady. In truth, Barok thinks that if there is some small, silver lining to the tragedy of Iris’ birth, it’s that she has been allowed to flourish on her own terms. As much as he wishes for her to claim the full extent of her birthright, he suspects that she would have felt constrained, had she matured within the rigid social confines of the nobility, flattened beneath the expectations of a highbred daughter. It will be difficult to straddle worlds as she does, but at the reward of remaining unfettered—free to realize her full potential.

Iris beams at him, and Barok’s own smile becomes a fraction less feigned.

“I already have some ideas for next time,” she informs him. “I’ll have to tell you about them over tea next week. Do you suppose the guests would be terribly put-off by an arctic expedition theme? Or if that’s too fraught, I think Grimms’ fairy tales could make for an absolutely enchanting option.”

“...We can certainly discuss it later.”

Iris blows her cheeks out at that—a bad habit, if endearing—but her response is good-natured. “Oh, alright then.”

She tilts her head slightly, and now she really does remind Barok of Klint, when she dons that contemplative expression. It’s the very look he would always adopt prior to asking Barok some penetrating personal question, and he’d never managed to shore up defences against it.

“I nearly forgot,” Iris says. “But I’ve been meaning to ask… well, have you seen Zuzu yet?”

Something in Barok’s stomach plummets to hear mention of that name. His mouth reverts to a tight frown. “I’m confident that Mr. Asougi is somewhere nearby, should you wish to speak with him.”

“Oh, no,” she replies, wide-eyed, and earnest, and just a bit impish. “It’s just that if I’m not mistaken, he was looking for y—”

“Mr. Reaper!”

The interruption is as convenient as it is profoundly grating. Barok is glad to have something to turn his glower on, as Sholmes sweeps into the conversation, balancing a plate stacked high with hors d'oeuvres in his hands like a lost circus performer, or an overeager waiter.

“How delightful that you’ve chosen to grace us with your grim presence at last,” says Sholmes, in his insufferably chipper way. “Still wearing that dour expression, I see. I suppose you’re glum about letting the masses flock to your roost. Well, never fear, my dear fellow, your guests appear to be behaving themselves—quite disappointingly, I might add, for it has made for a frightful lack of mental stimulation.” He grins. “There is still time for that to change, however, so I maintain my optimism.”

And then, having said his piece, Sholmes begins to stuff his face with the purloined food. Alas, Barok doesn’t have faith that it will keep him quiet for long.

Unable to pinch his nose due to the mask, he expresses his displeasure with a small snort. “Not all of us derive pleasure and satisfaction from being witness to such unsavoury acts as theft or murder,” he replies. “And seeing as the evening’s entertainment is already well in hand, I believe that we would all be grateful if you curtailed any investigation to the refreshment table.”

That extracts one of those exaggerated belly laughs from Sholmes. He is an entirely ridiculous man, and lucky that Barok’s care for Iris means that, whatever he may think of her chosen guardian, he is not so cruel as to wedge himself between them. They have settled on this peevish coexistence instead.

“My compliments on your attire this evening,” Sholmes says, when he straightens again, to Iris’ visible pleasure. “Very suitable indeed.”

“Isn’t it?” she asks. “He’s ever so fond of those adorable bats in the office; I couldn’t resist making him a costume to match.”

Barok crosses his arms, conscious of the winged cape that restricts his movement. He feels slightly ridiculous, but no more so than any other person here, and admittedly Iris’ craftsmanship is without fault. He’s grateful that apart from the mask and mantle, he has at least been able to don more typical evening wear beneath.

Looking over Sholmes’ attire, Barok finds himself unable to return the compliment. The man has thrown some sort of Eastern robe haphazardly over his trousers, along with his usual odd assortment of purportedly scientific paraphernalia. Even Barok’s rusty knowledge of Japanese dress is enough to clock the bare arms and plunging neckline with nothing underneath as improper for public appearance, but his prior transgressions make it so that Barok cannot comment for fear of coming off as insensitive.

Sholmes knows it too, if his beatific grin is any indication.

Barok keeps his eyes politely averted from Sholmes’ exposed chest, and takes a different tack. “I find myself relieved that you’ve foregone the gown this time.”

Another laugh. “Masks maketh the man, my good fellow. Or when the occasion calls for it, the woman.”

Sholmes has the audacity to wink at him then, and Barok the good sense not to flush. For all the man’s inanity, he is, to Barok’s dismay, often quite perceptive. He thanks God that whatever his proclivities, in this case they’ve never stirred beyond shallow attraction; the very idea of it makes his own amorous misfortunes seem that much more bearable.

“And yet, your own mask sits atop your head this evening,” Barok observes. The fox-like visage has been pushed up to rest amongst Sholmes’ flaxen locks, a sly second set of eyes looking out over the crowd.

“I’m taking a break from disguise,” Sholmes informs him. “A novelty in and of itself, is it not? You might try it sometime.” Before Barok can muster up some sort of reply to that, Sholmes’ wily gaze sharpens further. “By the way, are you aware that you have a tail, my dear fellow?”

Barok follows the trajectory of his look. At the end of his stare lies the man from earlier.

Iris turns her head as well, and lights up upon spotting him. “Oh, but that’s—”

“Pardon me,” Barok interjects, though the discourtesy makes him wince. “But I do believe that I should let you return to the business of hosting. I’ve monopolized your attention for long enough, and I shouldn’t like to deny you the opportunity to speak with the other guests.”

That makes Sholmes laugh again. Barok grits his teeth against it, and with Iris’ blessing, moves on once more.

He isn’t fleeing, Barok maintains, as he makes his way from the room. That would be entirely unbecoming of a man of his age and station. This is merely a strategic retreat.

He very nearly manages to convince himself.

One week from the party, Barok loses the war to impulse and finally asks the question that has been needling at him.

They’re at the end of yet another work day. The sun has long since sunk below the horizon, taking its pale, wintery light with it. By now, the candles in the room have burnt down to little more than stubs, and the sizable pool of wax in the tray on Barok’s desk suggests that they’ve been at things much longer than intended—but then, that’s nothing new either. With how much time he spends ensconced in this office, it’s no wonder that it’s more familiar to him than the echoing chambers of his own home. Though, it had been a minor shock, the day he’d realized how at ease he felt here with Asougi working in the background, their quills scratching away in companionable silence.

“Do you have any ideas for your own costume, Asougi?” He thinks he makes a passable attempt at idle curiosity, though really he’s been wondering ever since they first broached the subject.

Asougi takes his time in answering. He sets his pen down with a click and gets to his feet, stretching—no doubt stiff from kneeling in one position for so long. Barok holds his gaze firmly above his neck, to avoid watching the way the muscles of his back flex beneath the smooth fabric of his suit.

He still claims that the low writing desk is his preference, in spite of numerous offers on Barok’s part to purchase him something more suited to the room. The sentiment may well be genuine, but Barok suspects that he also derives some measure of satisfaction from repeatedly turning him down.

“I haven’t had the time to put much thought into it,” Asougi admits, with a slight shrug. “I might ask Miss Sholmes for assistance myself, if she’s not too busy.” When he turns to face Barok, there’s an amused slant to his mouth. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any ideas, sir.”

Now, Barok is forced to look him over. He keeps his gaze perfunctory, as though assessing Asougi’s suitability, but he fears his eyes linger too long in certain areas—on the firm plane of his chest, or the appealing taper of his waist beneath his closely tailored clothing. He doesn’t think Asougi is fooled by the pretense, but if his return look is too knowing, Barok pays no heed. It has been like this for a while now.

Barok hums as he considers his answer. “It’s an opportunity to wear more familiar attire, if you’ve found yourself missing it. Eastern clothing is fashionable for fancy dress lately.” Admittedly, he is himself curious to see what Asougi would look like in the elegant lines of a kimono. “Though, I imagine you might not find the additional attention pleasant.”

Asougi scoffs—loudly, disparagingly—which is what Barok expected. “I’ll refrain. Believe it or not, I’ve no great urge to make a novelty of myself, let alone as entertainment for England’s gentry.”

Barok concedes the point.

“Historical and literary figures are usually popular,” he offers instead. “If your aim is to remain unobtrusive you might pick one of the usual favourites: Achilles, or H—enry V.” He nearly stumbles over the suggestion, amending it at the last second as he catches the obvious gaffe.

“Hamlet too on the nose, sir?” Asougi’s voice is wry, and Barok despairs, not for the first time, that the man is so astute.

There’s no upset in Asougi’s demeanour, however, as he strolls across the room and takes up a new position, arms crossed and hip leant against the edge of Barok’s desk. “How about Mephistopheles? We could match.”

Barok sucks in a breath, and places his own quill down. “I think not.” He isn’t sure what Asougi thinks to tempt him with in this particular scenario, but it doesn’t bear acknowledgement. Nor does the instinctive heat that creeps up the back of his collar, that furtive fear of being found out. “And I protest your low assessment of my character.”

“Caesar and Brutus then?” suggests Asougi, this time with a glint of black humour.

Barok can only raise an eyebrow because he knows that Asougi means to nettle him. It is his favourite pastime. “If you’re planning to make an attempt on my life, do be kind enough to wait until after we’ve settled the matter of the Barnes case.”

“A bit narcissistic of you to assign yourself Caesar, wouldn’t you say?”

This time, it’s Barok who can’t help but snort. “Well, it’s become eminently clear to me that you’re capable of devising some sort of costume without my assistance,” he says, “so I believe that I will leave you to it.”

The silence that falls is amiable, relaxed in a way that wouldn’t have been possible even a year ago. There is a small smile playing at the corner of Asougi’s mouth, which Barok spots when he allows his eyes to drift there.

Then Asougi adopts a more serious expression, uncrossing his arms to brace himself against the desk instead, one flat palm against its smooth surface. Because Barok is still watching, he notices the instant the smile slips away. Even so, he isn’t prepared for the question that follows.

“Shall I go as your disciple?”

Barok stiffens immediately. It’s clear from Asougi’s tone that he’s referring to the initial period of time he’d spent at Barok’s side, as a prisoner of memory, cloaked and concealed. They do not acknowledge those early months of their association—at least, not until now.

Barok has dwelled on them in his own time, in painful remembrance, or forlorn regret, or quiet, creeping dread, recalling the naked vulnerability he’d once shown his apprentice, but he’d thought that they had an implicit understanding: The men who’d interacted during that time no longer exist.

It’s why he works to keep Asougi at arm’s length, even now. They cannot return to what was, only march forward. And he has lost the right to that close confidence, by virtue of who he is, and what he has done.

An icy hand has reached into Barok’s chest, encircling his lungs and squeezing the breath from him. When he finally manages to speak, the words sound insubstantial, like thin vapour expelled from a pipe. “I was unaware that you’d kept the mask.”

If he closes his eyes, Barok can still picture the pale guise bouncing along the courtroom floor, ripped from Asougi’s face by the shock of revelation. His doing.

“I still have it,” Asougi confirms.

Feeling returns to him in a violent rush. “What on earth for, Asougi?” Barok knows that he is doing a poor job of concealing his emotions—shock and bewilderment chief amongst them—but he cannot fathom what had compelled Asougi to retrieve, let alone keep hold of, an object so wedded to that period of darkness and turmoil.

Asougi’s mouth forms an inscrutable twist. “Sentiment?” he suggests. “I suppose it’s a memento, of sorts.”

“I’d assumed you would have liked to put the whole juncture behind you.” Barok’s voice comes softer now, less strident, but he still finds himself at a loss to understand Asougi’s motivations.

“It wasn’t all terrible,” Asougi has recrossed his arms, but his stance is thoughtful, rather than defensive. “I miss the ease of it sometimes.” Of our interactions, remains unsaid.

As does Barok. He misses that openness, the memory of which condemns him now. For surely Asougi recalls the manner in which he spoke and acted, when he could still pretend him a stranger—the things said and done in confidence.

Barok’s apprentice had come to him at a time when he’d felt under siege, as a lone ship under attack by a vast and powerful ocean. The vessel he’d built from fury and denial to shelter himself from the truth had been splintering, battered by the waves kicked up by Naruhodou and his resolve to see justice done. Quiet, nameless, dependable—the disciple had a point of refuge in that raging storm of paranoia and spite. Easy to confess to, for a lonely and bitter man seeking absolution for a great many things.

Now, in the aftermath, Barok is still adrift at sea—easily spotted amongst the wreckage. And Asougi has remained, an unexpected anchor to which he might take hold in the harsh light of day, when the waters threaten to drown him.

He’d been tender, with his apprentice. Surely Asougi suspects.

“Did you prefer it?” Barok asks him, before he can come to his senses.

It’s something that he’s wondered on occasion. There had been something far less fraught in that muted coexistence—a simple duty of care, a companionship not born simply from necessary civility.

But then, had things remained as they were he would not have this Asougi, whose passion and drive threaten to singe him. The burden of the past is the price Barok pays for that privilege.

“No,” Asougi says, at last. “I was more content, perhaps, but also less alive.” He’s staring beyond Barok, out the great window, and his gaze is distant and searching, as though he seeks to pluck his answer from somewhere in the heavens. “It was like a dream, at times. I had an unshakable sense of purpose driving me onward, but nothing to explain it. No sense of self. No ambitions to guide me, just a directionless desire.” When Asougi turns his eyes back to him, they’re as dark as the night sky. “I prefer this.”

Barok swallows, wishing he had a glass of wine to wet his throat and relieve the tight feeling there. “So do I,” he admits. Is it grief, or is it hope that strangles his speech and makes it difficult to speak? “And I’m very glad to have received the chance to know you as you are, Asougi. The man who woke from the dream, so to speak.”

“Hm. I hope you’ll allow me the same privilege again, someday.”

Barok averts his eyes and does not respond. He’s viscerally aware that this conversation has skewed off the path of what is safe and appropriate, and that they are teetering on the edge of a fragile cliff. He both anticipates, and deeply dreads the day that Asougi finally smashes the glass facade Barok has constructed between them.

“Well, sir?” prompts Asougi, once the silence has dragged on long enough. “Shall I don the mask again?”

A return to the past—to simpler times. It’s tempting, if only briefly.

“No,” Barok answers, and means it. He’s grown tired of languishing in memory; there’s nothing there for him that may exist in the present.

Asougi really looks at him, then. His stare is arresting in the warm twilight of the office. It peels Barok back layer by layer, dissecting his answer in an attempt to expose the quivering truth that hides at its core. Barok can only sit there and endure it—a dozen endless, agonizing seconds—until finally, Asougi nods.

“As you wish, my lord.”

How unfortunate it is, thinks Barok, that his stature does not predispose him to blending in.

It’s a familiar lamentation. This is not the first time this particular thought has crossed his mind, nor is it likely to be the last. What is a boon in matters of intimidation or force is all too often a hindrance on those occasions he would prefer to remain unobtrusive and unseen. Alas, there is little to be done about the matter, except to resign himself to the necessity of remaining on-guard.

For now, he’s taken a position on the outskirts of the ballroom, in a corner that affords him a mostly unobstructed view of the exits. Barok has no desire to join the warm press of bodies gliding along the dance floor, so he busies himself with watching the couples spin, and pretends to enjoy his drink, though his ailing mood has soured the taste. He’s sour about that as well; wine is meant to be enjoyed, not to pass one’s lips in perfunctory measures.

In his dark costume he makes a rather obvious, if intimidating wallflower. He won’t be able to linger long, not without eschewing his duties as host, but if he’s lucky he’ll at least manage to ride out the evening without having to dance. Courtesy demands that he ensure no lady is left bereft of a partner whilst under his roof, so he’s relieved to note that the ballroom is packed with eager pairs, all of whom seem to be managing quite well without his intervention. He’s not sure how much courtesy he has left in him.

The centre of the room resembles a kaleidoscope in motion, a shifting mosaic of richly coloured fabrics and glinting ornaments as the guests turn together in time. There is something vaguely uncanny about the effect, the reason for which becomes apparent if one looks closer and notes that most of the dancers are not clad in fashionable evening wear, but an assortment of more outlandish patterns. The most creative costumers are at a disadvantage in the dance; swaddled in their unwieldy attire, they do their best to stumble gracefully through the steps. Luckily for those unfortunates, the musicians are being kind this evening, sticking mostly to simple waltzes in what he can only assume is a bid to keep trodden toes to a minimum.

As a rule, Barok doesn’t care for costume balls. There’s an ever-present risk to the perceived anonymity. They devolve too easily into clandestine displays of incivility and vice—an excuse for ordinarily respectable people to speak or behave outrageously beneath the guise of a stranger. It’s a flimsy pretense that he has little interest in taking part in.

As much as they would like to play at mystery, he can tell at a glance who most of the guests are. There is Lord Henry Alcock as Mark Antony, regaling a red-hooded Madame Bloodsworthe with some overblown tale related to his travels. The Don Juan stood by the doorway is clearly Lord Bath, laughing bawdily as he downs his fourth glass of wine and eyes his Hungarian companion with poorly disguised interest. None of them are behaving as covertly as they imagine, least of all the young Romeo dancing with a twinkling Miss Shan O’liers, in the hopes that he’ll be forgiven his meagre fortune.

Barok sighs, resigning himself to the last few remaining hours. However much it puts him on edge, the party has remained, by all rights, fairly tame and inoffensive; he doesn’t imagine it will escalate before it’s time to ferry all the guests home.

Just then, a flash of dark fabric catches his eye.

Attuned as he is to his surroundings, and the ever-present threat that has trailed him throughout the evening, Barok spots the man instantly. He seems to have temporarily given up his pursuit in order to dance with a familiar figure, a Joan of Arc easily identified by her shock of blonde hair.

Miss Lestrade is slightly out of place amongst this crowd, a nettle amidst the orchids. Barok imagines that if anyone were to say anything uncouth to her, they would promptly feel the sting of her tongue. And she is by all appearances unintimidated, flashing a grin at her partner as they turn. He’s gratified to see her having a good time.

The scene before him calls up another memory, of an impromptu dance lesson in the middle of a warm Baker Street flat. If Barok closes his eyes, he can hear Iris clapping, Sholmes strangling his violin with his enthusiasm, and bright peals of laughter, as the two inexperienced participants fumble the steps. Then, Iris’ joyful voice ringing out: Uncle Barry, perhaps you ought to be the one to teach Zuzu to dance. I think he’d benefit from proper instruction.

He recalls his own demeanor: slightly flushed from the Christmas punch, caught off-guard and short with embarrassment. Calling it a ridiculous notion. And then, burning with another emotion, as he watched Asougi from the corner of his eye and tried to convince himself he had no interest in steering him around the floor.

In the present, Barok forces himself to relax his grip on his glass. He mustn't think about dancing with Asougi. Touching Asougi in any capacity. That way madness lies.

The man waltzing with Miss Lestrade looks up at that moment, as though he has been privy to Barok’s innermost thoughts, however deeply buried they may lie. Those burning eyes find him instantly, and they remain trained on Barok a bar longer than necessary—one more flourish of the strings—before the dance sweeps the couple away again.

Skin tingling, his heart beating in time with the music, Barok thinks that it may be time to move on again.

But he’s dallied too long, and the price is to become victim to an introduction.

“I must say, my lord, that this party has utterly charmed me,” Lady Craven informs him, once they’ve been left in one another’s company.

Barok forces a polite smile. “All credit is due to my niece, I’m afraid. She took most of the arrangements upon herself.”

“And what an equally charming young lady. If it’s not too presumptuous of me to say, I believe that she’d have made her mother proud.”

Barok’s smile becomes more genuine, if somewhat sadder, at the mention of Elizabeth. “I do believe you’re correct.”

Lady Craven is beautiful in her costume, a vision of the night sky in black silk, with constellations trailing from her dress, and stardust in her veil. Barok has no real interest, in any sense of the word, but there’s something expectant in her manner, and in spite of his earlier avowal to abstain from dancing, he thinks that perhaps he might turn obligation into distraction.

“Will you honor me with your hand for this next set?” He’s careful not to let his resignation show with the offer, and feels a slight sting of guilt at her delighted acceptance.

As they turn on the floor, Lady Craven proves herself to be an adept conversationalist, which makes the arduous duty of small talk more bearable. They move at arm's length, keep time with the other pairs, and Barok allows her to steer their discussion, responding to her light inquiries as necessary.

But unfortunately, it proves not to be the distraction he’d hoped for, because the longer they are engaged, the more difficult it is to not envision someone else in her place.

The comparisons come in swift, relentless succession, in spite of Barok’s conviction to avoid dangerous fantasy. He dances politely with Lady Craven, and thinks only that in another life it could be the warm, compact line of Asougi’s frame against him, pressed closer than appropriate in an exhilarating waltz. Asougi’s firm grip on his shoulder. Asougi’s eyes boring into his soul, and the smell of spiced soap in place of rose.

He is cognizant, the whole time, of the man still dancing with Miss Lestrade, separated as they are by only a few other whirling bodies. He catches glimpses of a dark coat flaring out, light feet gliding across polished wood. Once, they lock eyes, and it causes a thrill to skitter up his spine, a jolt of electricity that leaves his nerves abuzz for the remainder of the dance.

Barok declines to remain and chat, once he’s escorted Lady Craven back to a seat—to her disappointment, and his brief chagrin. When he looks back to the floor, the man has gone.

Experience has taught Barok better than to believe that he has given up, and as such he doesn’t let down his guard, even as he moves toward the nearest exit. It’s an apt decision, for soon Barok spots the man again, closer than before. He looks as though he means to move his way.

There’s a break in the music, a silence that stretches longer than a quick change in the set. The loss of the lively orchestral backdrop is jarring, and puts Barok further on edge, but an explanation quickly arises; Iris has arrived, accompanied by Sholmes and his instrument. It seems that they mean to commandeer the piano for a performance.

With everyone’s eyes on the two of them, Barok takes the opportunity for what it is: a chance to retreat.

For he is running. He can no longer pretend otherwise. Chalk it up to cowardice, or sensibility, but Barok has no desire to encounter his shadow face-to-face. Not tonight.

He may not be able to escape—his home is not so large—but he can prolong the inevitable.

Asougi finds him lurking at the back of the wine cellar.

More accurately, he finds Barok in the midst of a sorely-needed break from event planning. That he’s chosen to retreat to the cool sanctuary of the cellar under the thin pretense of selecting refreshments for the event in question is of little import.

Barok hears Asougi’s footfalls echoing on the stone stairwell and uses the forewarning to make himself look busy, rising from his half-slumped position on the bench and bringing a contemplative hand to his chin. By the time Asougi has reached the last step, Barok is casting a critical eye over the rows of sturdy oak barrels before him, as though that had been his aim all along.

“I see that you’ve managed to make your escape.” Asougi sounds amused, and not in the least fooled by his act. “Miss Sholmes will be disappointed to not hear your opinion on floral arrangements, my lord.”

With a small sigh, Barok drops the charade and turns to face him. “There is only so much party planning a man can withstand in one day,” he says. “And I have never claimed to be a saint.”

Asougi cocks an eyebrow. “For all that you love to martyr yourself.”

Barok levels an unimpressed look in his direction, but refrains from chastising him for the jibe. Some things are simply inherent to the natural order. The sky is blue, London beset by an inescapable, foul smog, and Asougi will be insolent. There’s no stopping it, and he has long since forfeited the war.

Sometimes, Barok will admit, he greatly appreciates Asougi’s brazen familiarity. There is no one else so willing to be forthright with him. For a man of his station, with so few surviving family or friends, such unreserved honesty is a rare, fleeting thing that he cannot help but grasp at. Other times, it feels torturous, a pale substitute for greater intimacy, an aperitif to whet his appetite, when what he really wants is a full course.

“I’ve half a notion to cancel the whole thing altogether,” Barok grumbles, though he doesn’t really mean it. Not at the risk of having to endure one of Iris’ crestfallen expressions.

“Ah, not a martyr after all.” Asougi’s smile is a thin, crooked slash across his face. “A sacrifice to Miss Sholmes’ rare, but incendiary displeasure. Brave of you to finally put your foot down, sir, but rather stupid.”

Barok snorts, and chooses not to dignify that with a response. Instead, he turns his attention back to the wine, this time to the gleaming ranks of bottles that fill a nearby rack. He steps forward and pulls a vintage from its wooden nest, hums approvingly at the label. This year will do nicely, in fact.

Asougi approaches, closing the scant distance between them to peer at the dark bottle alongside him.

Barok knows that he has little interest in wine, and can’t help but wonder at his motive. However, he’s more preoccupied by Asougi’s sudden proximity. The cellar isn’t small by any means—he’s expanded it, since the house fell to his care—but the ceiling is low, and the necessary arrangement of racks and barrels mean that the space presses in on them intimately.

When Asougi shifts, his sleeve nearly brushes against Barok’s own. He’s close enough for Barok to count the fine black strands of hair that fall softly into his face as he angles his head. Close enough to catch his scent, clean lavender and sandalwood mingling with the earthy aroma of the cellar.

The masked disciple had found him down here once, drunk on wine and melancholia, bleeding from where he’d crushed a chalice in an ungloved hand. He’d delicately picked glass from Barok’s palm, and then bandaged it with painstaking care. Barok tries not to dwell on what had followed, but it's impossible not to now, as his skin prickles in Asougi’s presence.

“I can’t help but notice that you’ve also fled the proceedings,” Barok murmurs. “Or have you developed a sudden taste for claret?”

Asougi looks up at him through darkly feathered lashes. Amusement still lingers in his face, as well as some murkier resolution that Barok won’t attempt to decipher.

“I can’t pretend that I enjoy it to the degree that you do, but if you need a second opinion, I wouldn’t say no to a drink.”

Presumption, again. The part of Barok that is parched for companionship drinks it up greedily. “The hour has grown late,” he muses. “Perhaps I ought to ask Miss Sholmes if she wouldn’t mind concluding for the evening.”

That’s how they end up in the adjoining kitchen an hour later, seated at the corner of a sturdy wooden table with a small army of uncorked bottles growing between them. Barok’s staff is part-time, and gone for the evening, so there’s no risk of the cook stumbling upon their impromptu tasting session and falling over herself at the impropriety of their using the downstairs instead of the dining room.

Asougi is laughing freely at something Barok has just said. He’s flushed, two bright red spots high on his cheeks, which Barok blames on the heat of the nearby range—its blackened, half-dead embers still smouldering weakly in the grate—or perhaps just the alcohol. His bearing is looser than usual; he leans on one elbow for support, covers half his face with a splayed hand to catch his mirth as it spills out.

Barok has forgotten how the rest of the story goes, or even which university mishap he’d been recounting. He’s too caught up in the lightness of the moment, and the exhilaration of having earned Asougi’s goodwill, even if it is at the expense of his younger self’s dignity. He marvels at the signs of cheer in Asougi’s frame—the creased eyes, the way he laughs with his whole chest—and that he’s the one to have put them there.

His staring has gone on for too long. Barok knows that he should avert his gaze before he is caught, but he’s not unaffected by the drink either. It sands down the sharp edges of his awareness, dulls the omnipresent sense of danger.

When Asougi requests another story, Barok waves him off in favour of uncorking another bottle.

“Haven’t we tried enough?” Asougi asks him, bemused. “Or have you not decided yet?”

Barok isn’t sure what face he makes at the reminder of his original excuse, but whatever it is can’t be flattering, because it makes Asougi laugh again. If this were truly in service of the party, he would not be opening a Cabernet Sauvignon instead of something more suited to the menu. However, he doesn’t think that Asougi’s knowledge of wine—gained mostly in passing, by way of existing in Barok’s periphery—is comprehensive enough to call him out on it.

“Why is it that you’re so surly about this production?”

“You know that I don’t like parties,” mutters Barok. He pours himself a larger quantity than can be justified for the purposes of sampling, then lifts the bottle in Asougi’s direction, who acquiesces with a lazy wave.

This is the closest Barok has ever seen him to drunk. Asougi is always careful to keep his composure at parties, under the watchful judgment of high society. And Barok isn’t privy to what he does in his spare time, with whatever friends or strangers he might meet in London’s cramped and well-trodden pubs. They orbit one another, in separate but overlapping spheres.

Now, the boundaries are blurring, and Barok is quietly absorbed by the way Asougi blows a chunk of hair out of his eyes; it's in mild disarray, falling in dark swells across his forehead, and Barok wants nothing more than to feel it between his fingers.

How long has he been nurturing this flame? He recalls only that desire had sparked in him like a candle one day. He’d cupped it furtively in his palm, sheltered it close to his chest, too weak to snuff it out. But left unchecked, it’s continued to grow, and now the crackling blaze threatens to consume his common sense.

“It’s more than that,” Asougi insists. “This entire time, you’ve had the attitude of a man marching toward a battlefield.”

Barok sighs. “I have a particular aversion to fancy dress balls. Their brand of pageantry is not to my taste.” He swirls his wine in its glass, letting the notes of pepper and blackcurrant sweep over his senses. “There’s enough subterfuge and illusion in ordinary life,” he continues. “I see no need to invite more of it.” When he takes a sip from his glass, the full-bodied vintage washes away any lingering distaste.

One of Asougi’s brows twitches meaningfully in Barok’s direction. “I suppose when you’re already accustomed to wearing a mask every day, it might be hard to see the romance in it.”

Hearing the word romance pass Asougi’s lips is what finally jars Barok back to reality. It’s too close to home; it makes him recognize just how much he’s allowed his guard to drop, to speak with Asougi like this on such frank terms, and the realization is as sobering as a bucket of ice water dumped overhead.

“I’d advise against continuing this line of conversation, Asougi.”

An order, rolled up in suggestion. It's the first command Barok has given him since departing the office earlier today. Jarring, because of the privacy of their venue. Significant, in the way it makes sour regret rise at the back of his throat.

There’s a beat of silence, tense and weighted with unspoken truths. Asougi is correct about the mask, of course; Barok has donned the guise of the hard, unfeeling prosecutor for so long that he barely feels its chill when he slips it on. Asougi is one of the few people in recent memory who’s seen past it to the living, breathing man beneath, though even Barok doesn’t know how much of his true nature he’s let slip in his presence. He lacks the courage to meet Asougi’s gaze and discover the answer for himself.

“Do you trust me, sir?” Asougi’s voice comes again, unexpectedly low and serious.

Barok furrows his brow at the change in topic. “You know that I do.” That they are here now, drinking alone in the bowels of his private residence, is proof enough of that.

Asougi shifts, leaning forward in his stool until he is far closer than can be considered proper. At some point in the evening he’d cast aside his tie in order to undo the top buttons of his white-collared shirt. It's a testament to Barok’s willpower that he’s able to keep his eyes from drifting to the exposed hollow of Asougi’s throat, where his pulse beats strong and rapid beneath the skin.

“With everything that you once did?”

This again. Always back to this, no matter how much Barok would like to let history lie. The masked disciple is a fresh bruise amongst old scars, still purpling between them. Blotchy, and ugly, and barely-healed. And yet, Asougi insists on pressing.

When Barok slants his gaze sideways, he finally meets Asougi’s eyes. They’re sepia in the lamplight, the colour of aged oak barrels, or rich soil, and they seem to him to hold the radiance of a hearth. A shiver runs through Barok, in spite of the warmth that blankets the room and circulates in his blood. Asougi sees him as few others do, and it’s an intoxicating, frightening thing.

Asougi takes his struggle to respond as permission to further invade his space. He closes the gap until his face is scant inches from Barok’s, so close that he can feel the heat of his breath, and the intent behind it.

Memory and present day blur together. Barok recalls the dual sensation of cool, smooth lacquer pressing against his skin, and soft lips against his own. He’d placed a gentle hand against his apprentice’s chest then—pushed him lightly away—and now he does the same, before Asougi can repeat something unspeakably foolish.

The flesh beneath his hand is firm and unyielding.

“Enough,” Barok says. That will be all.

Back then, he’d faced a flicker of disappointment, followed by placid acceptance. My lord. This time, there’s a flash of fire when Asougi withdraws, an anger that hadn’t existed before. When Asougi speaks, he does so more bluntly than the disciple ever would have dared.

“Would you rather I was him?” Unsaid, but implied: Would you let me then?

The question hits Barok with the force of a punch. He hadn’t allowed himself to consider the face behind the mask when his disciple had kissed him, in what he can still only imagine was a glut of sympathy. He’d been weak that evening, drunk on grief and loneliness. It was why he’d allowed the hand on his chin, and the warm press of his mouth, more a solace than any lustful indulgence. He’d closed his eyes and sighed, allowing himself that first and last comfort.

Now, the man’s identity has been made crystal clear, and comfort is the least of the things Barok wants from him.

“No,” he answers honestly. “But my preference is inconsequential.”

“Why?” Asougi’s voice is edged in steel; it demands the truth.

“You are being asinine.”

Asougi’s mouth twists. “And you’re being obtuse. I was playing at mute, not blind. I know how you looked at me, even back then. Is that inconsequential?”

“It has no bearing on our current relationship,” Barok says, stiff with discomfiture. “We are not those same men.”

“No, we’re not,” Asougi agrees. “That man would have served you without question. The one that you met in court would have killed you.” He stands, pushing his stool back with a clatter. “And I want something beyond either of those things.”

Asougi steps closer, crowding him, fierce and unrepentant in a way that makes Barok as furious as it does envious.

“He wasn’t me, but I am him,” Asougi informs him. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that I discarded everything else along with the disguise.”

Barok wets his lips, and does his best to suppress the maelstrom of emotion that rages against the bars of his ribs. Instinctive anger, and bitter hope, and last, but most potent of all: nauseating desire. “You’re a fool if you think that changes anything.”

What Barok wants doesn’t matter; it does not dictate his choices. He’d been unforgivably lax with the masked disciple, a dog scouring the floor for any scrap of comfort. But he has responsibilities to Asougi, personal and professional, and there is a danger to letting this continue. Barok’s desire isn’t stronger than his duty, his sense, his cowardice.

He doesn’t quite flinch, though his hackles rise, to hear Asougi curse him under his breath. Even after all this time, the foreign syllables put him on edge, with their inevitable, unshakable associations.

“You’re unbelievable,” Asougi breathes, running a hand through his hair. “Two years. Two years of this—of drinking and company, of you letting me into your office, your home, but not further. Of my pushing to get to know you, in spite of you, and every time that I think, perhaps, we’ve come to some sort of understanding, we find ourselves back at the beginning again.” He scoffs. “You’re not obtuse, you’re afraid. Hiding behind your masks like always. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

Barok goes rigid. One of his hands clutches the edge of the table; his fingers dig hard into the soft, weathered wood. “You overstep your bounds, Asougi.” They are master and apprentice, noble and foreign student. There’s a set trajectory for their acquaintance, and he should not—cannot—encourage anything more.

Asougi scoffs. “Yes, you love those, don’t you? It’s so much easier for you to fit us into our little boxes, nice and separate.”

He’s still so close, and Barok has yet to push him away. In the amber light, Asougi looks lit from within, haloed gold at the edges of his hair. There’s a fire in his cheeks, his eyes, his tongue. The flames that leap from his mouth threaten to scorch Barok.

“Maybe I’ll don the Professor’s mask for my costume. Would that be more suitable?” Asougi snorts, bitter and waspish in a way that Barok hasn’t seen for a while. “You be Hamlet. I’ll come as my father’s ghost, since you’re so set on remaining haunted by your failures.”

The mention of Genshin cuts him to the bone. It opens up a bloody hollow for Asougi’s anger to make its home in him, and as that ire takes hold of Barok, its roots sinking in and branching deep, it crowds out any other emotion.

“Enough,” he snaps, curling a fist tight until his nails sink into his palm. “You’re drunk. Go home, before you embarrass either of us further.”

He’s treated to a curled lip. A flash of teeth.

“Fine.”

Asougi grabs his half-finished glass from the table, and drains it in one fell swoop. Then he sets it down again with a final thump, before turning to stalk from the room. He leaves without so much as another word or look in Barok’s direction.

Barok sits frozen for a while longer. The anger and wine are effective numbing agents, counteracting the sting of more painful emotions like remorse. He waits to hear the sound of the front door slamming shut before he moves again, reaching for the familiar consolation of a chalice.

As Barok raises the glass to his lips, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the shimmering liquid. It takes a moment for him to recognize the warped figure who looks back, but there is no mistaking its expression—dark accusation writ in every line of his face.

There comes a point near midnight where Barok cannot bear the eyes any longer.

Seldom has he found himself alone this evening, subjected to what has felt like an endless parade of guests. He speaks with passing acquaintances, with old colleagues, and new associates, aware all the while of the constant attention aimed at him from across hallways and the far-off corners of rooms.

His guests cling to him like barnacles to a pier, keeping his shadow at bay with their attention, and yet, the conversation is its own stifling ordeal. As the party progresses, Barok finds himself less able to tolerate the constant buzz of voices around him, or the ringing laughter. The once-harmonious playing of the musicians has become strident to his ears, the light bouncing off of glittering chandeliers and crystalware intolerably bright and distracting. He shifts in place, feeling both restricted and overheated in the crowded room.

What had been bearable at the start of the evening is no longer so, after hours with no relief, and Barok can feel his headache coming to a fruition. The pressure has been building between his temples for some time, and now it finally breaks open, a deluge of splitting, throbbing tension that floods the space behind his eyes. As such, he takes his leave less graciously than he should, abandoning his current engagement with some half-baked excuse about acquiring another drink.

If his abrupt departure is marked or commented on, Barok is too preoccupied to notice. But no one calls attention to him as he steps carefully free of the throng and strides down the hall, through the foyer and up the grand staircase which leads to the second floor. He takes care to keep his steps measured, in spite of the quick beating of his heart. If he is to flee, he will do so with whatever measure of poise remains at his disposal, in the hopes of not giving the correct impression to anyone watching.

The halls on the second floor are blissfully free of guests, and Barok meets no other soul as his feet lead him, half-consciously, in the direction of his rooms. He catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror along the way, and nearly startles at the unfamiliar figure; the effect of the costume, with its fanged half-mask and flaring cape, gives the impression of a creature flying in haste from some wicked scene, or imminent danger.

There is no one following him when Barok looks back, and yet he cannot shake the sense that there is something nipping at his heels, spurring him on.

Upon reaching his bedroom, Barok continues on through, heedless of the dark, in order to throw open the doors to the balcony. The rush of fresh evening air does immediate wonders for his constitution, the brisk cold of a February evening shocking him back to his senses.

He steps out onto the landing, pulling his cloak tight and close around him to better shield against winter’s breath. The light dusting of snow crunches beneath his boots as he approaches the edge and takes hold of the railing. His gloves aren’t thick enough to afford full protection, but the faintly numbing sensation of the metal through the thin leather is grounding.

The cold air sears his lungs, but as Barok takes deep breaths his mind begins to settle again, and his pulse begins to slow, like an ice floe congealing again after the melt. There are no eyes to track him out here. He is finally, blessedly alone. With a relieved exhale that fogs the air in front of him, Barok endeavours to enjoy that solitude for whatever short time he may.

He doesn’t expect to be alone for long.

Sure enough, within ten minutes Barok catches the faint creak of a door, followed by the light knock of heels against wood as someone else enters the bedroom. Then the absence of footfalls, their impact muted by the rug spread out beneath his bed, further signifying their owner’s approach.

Barok moves further out onto the balcony, though he knows there is little chance of remaining unseen, even in this shadowed corner. The moonlight reflects off the snow in the garden, illuminating the landscape in a soft silver glow that belies the late hour, and leaves him no space to hide.

A light sparks to life in the bedroom. The intruder has lit the lamp on Barok’s bedside table, and he carries it out with him as he joins Barok on the landing. The flame wavers briefly, but withstands the faint breeze, illuminating the feline face above it in stark relief.

Barok tenses to see the familiar visage, that of his persistent tail, but doesn’t draw a weapon; there’s no real danger, even if his instincts scream the opposite.

He is caught, though.

Barok sighs through his nose, closing his eyes in acceptance of his fate. He should be angry, but finds that he is just tired. “Asou—” he begins, but is interrupted before he can finish.

“Do I know you, sir?”

That draws a scowl from him. He’s been asked that same question an intolerable number of times this evening already, in sly, or vain, or sometimes cheery tones, and has no interest in performing the ritual again.

“Yes,” he replies shortly. “Must we play this game? It is childish.” Admittedly, the same might be said of Barok’s own avoidance this evening, but to pretend that a stranger stands before him now stretches belief to its snapping point.

As though a stranger would have the gall to pass through his rooms to seek him uninvited. As though Barok would ever fail to recognize the man standing before him, even half-hidden behind a mask. He’s spent enough time studying the curve of that mouth.

The mouth in question now curves into an equally familiar, if somewhat wry smile. “Names would defeat the purpose of this.”

“And what exactly is the purpose of this, sir?” Barok asks, playing along for the moment, though he can feel his headache threatening to return with a vengeance.

Asougi steps forward, and sets the lamp down on a small, wrought-iron table, dormant under its thin blanket of snow, before turning to fully face him. “Of a costume ball? I can’t claim to be an expert, but from my recent observations: to get as drunk as politely possible, and then spend the rest of the evening trying not to trip over one’s garments.”

Barok fails to contain a snort at that; it blooms, warm and incriminating, in the air between them.

Then Asougi holds out an arm to him, and Barok realizes that the object cradled in his other hand is in fact, a champagne glass. A transparent peace offering, and yet Barok feels himself thaw slightly. He doesn't hesitate to take it, in spite of everything.

He suspects he’ll need wine to see himself through this conversation.

“Seeing as I’ve found you out here, I assume that you’re not fond of the spectacle,” Asougi comments.

“And you are?”

Asougi shrugs, too casually. “It’s growing on me. I can see the benefit of shedding one’s identity for the evening. It frees you to act in ways you might not otherwise.”

“But not,” says Barok, “from the consequences.” Not wholly. There is a thin line that is easy to cross, and people must reap what they sow when the masks come off. A man may flirt with a woman above his station, but face her father’s retribution if he presses his suit later. Emboldened by his anonymity, another may espouse opinions too radical for the light of day, which see him foisted from his position the next week. It’s a false sense of freedom imparted by disguise, and all the more dangerous for it.

“And what are the consequences for tracking someone across the evening with intent to ambush them?”

With Asougi’s hot eyes on him, Barok understands that there will be no apology forthcoming. He senses no anger there, no lingering ill-will from their disastrous conversation the other evening, but there is something else, just as acute, that passes from Asougi to him, an electric feeling that settles in the base of his spine.

Barok shivers, not from the cold. “I’ve yet to decide,” he bites out. “That depends entirely on the reason for your pursuit.”

He can infer Asougi’s aim. To speak on more equal terms, not hindered by the trappings of ego or legacy that always seem to trip them up. That doesn’t mean that he approves. It certainly does not mean that he appreciates his position as the hunted party.

Asougi steps even closer, to join Barok at the railing. He looks out over the still garden, its greenery encased in fragile ice, its denizens sleeping under a blanket of snow. “It’s a beautiful sight,” he says, “even covered in frost.”

Barok looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and takes a long sip of champagne as he mulls over his reply. He knows that Asougi has no particular love for horticulture, or small talk. He speaks plainly, fiercely, or not at all, and Barok struggles to discern his intentions.

“Somehow, I doubt that you’ve been hounding me all this time in order to discuss the hedges.”

“Is there something you’d rather discuss, sir?”

Barok’s mouth thins to a hard line. They haven’t spoken at length since he’d cast Asougi from the kitchen, exchanging only tense missives and short questions across the yawning chasm of the office. Asougi had been visibly angry that first morning, but once his passion had cooled, he’d descended into a contemplative silence that had put Barok even more ill-at-ease.

He can guess what particular topic Asougi would like to discuss.

When Barok maintains his silence, Asougi takes it as an invitation to press on. “You know, I spent a number of months wearing a mask like this one.” He reaches up to trace the sharp edge of it—so different, and yet so alike to the mask he speaks of. “An amnesiac in a strange land, under a presumed stranger’s care.”

“Is that so,” Barok responds. Flat. He will not give Asougi whatever reaction it is that he seeks. He’ll humour this only as far as necessary to restore harmony between them.

“I once had a conversation with that stranger,” continues Asougi, “who told me that he couldn’t profess to know what circumstances had led me to his doorstep in my current state, nor to understand the particular loss I had suffered, but that still, I might see it as an opportunity.”

Barok remembers that conversation, wine-sodden as it had been. He’d been determined to do what was good and proper by his apprentice, even steeped in a quickly dissolving denial regarding his true identity. But he hadn’t been selfless. Perhaps he’d thought that by encouraging Asougi to forge himself anew, he’d free himself of any responsibility for what had occurred, and what was still to come. Or perhaps he’d simply been envious of Asougi’s fresh start—his freedom from memory a curse and a luxury all at once—and keen to live vicariously through his charge.

“That man sounds like a fool,” Barok says, feeling strangely subdued.

Asougi laughs; rich and full-throated, the sound is a battering ram against Barok’s resolve. “Sometimes,” he agrees. “But what he said resonated with me. That I could choose what kind of man I wanted to be behind the mask—what life I would live going forward.” He looks at Barok, then, and lowers his voice. “I think that man owes it to himself to take his own advice.”

That’s the rub, isn’t it? Barok has no idea where to begin. He hardly knows who he is, after everything, and the idea of letting Asougi any closer, where he might see the shriveled, splintered core of him, makes Barok want to retreat and bristle.

He lets out a harsh breath, recognizing the defensiveness for what it is, but unable to expel it. There are no answers to be found in his champagne, but he drains the glass anyway. Only then does he mutter, “And if he worries that those close to him will be dissatisfied by what lies beneath that mask?” He neglects to voice his deeper fear: that there is nothing of worth left behind to fashion a new man with.

Asougi snorts gracelessly. “Too late for that. I do see you, sir, as difficult as you’ve made it. We’re far beyond strangers, and hardly just colleagues. I’d argue that we’re friends, whether you like it or not.” His posture is ramrod straight, shoulders firm and squared in the direction of the garden. He still doesn’t look at Barok, but his voice is unhesitating. “Believe me when I say that I’ve already made my judgments.”

Could it be that he has so little to hide from Asougi, after all? He’s done his best to remain aloof, to keep his distance, but perhaps it was hopeless, to think he could conceal anything from a man so after his own heart. Their souls are bound not by ribbon, but by iron chains.

“Why is it so difficult for you to envision a happy future for yourself?” Asougi asks. He’s beginning to sound impatient, crossing his arms tightly as he stares out at the frosted landscape.

Cowardice, Barok thinks. He’s never been one to be bravely selfish. He doesn’t seize what he wants with both hands like Asougi. Grown comfortable in his misery, his lonely self-denial, he lacks the spirit to envision more.

“What one doesn’t have, one can’t lose,” he says.

“…That’s pathetic, sir.”

It shocks a laugh out of Barok, a rough, unguarded noise that he thinks surprises Asougi just as much as it does him. It lingers for a moment, a warm cloud of condensation battling the chill, and then it dissipates, and Barok is simply tired. “I couldn’t bear it, if you came to harm because of any further… association with me,” he says carefully. Hasn’t he caused enough damage to the Asougi name? In this case, restraint serves as both a penance and safeguard.

Asougi huffs. “That’s a toothless excuse. We’re already in danger—both of us, every day, because of our positions. Have the courtesy not to lie to me, at least. You’re afraid that you’ll be hurt again, whether by your hand or mine.”

The accusation rings true, clear and cold beneath the starless sky.

“It’s the answer of a man too long bound by the chains of propriety and expectation,” Barok admits. “And grief, which has long functioned as both a comfort and cage.” He feels an uneasy thrill at admitting such, as he does any time he voices a vulnerability.

As ever, Asougi doesn’t mince his words, but cuts right to the truth. “It’s selfish.”

That, as well. It has been easier for Barok to deny Asougi’s agency in this matter, rather than to acknowledge that he is not the only involved party here.

Barok fiddles with the empty champagne glass. He tilts it, watching the wan moonlight flicker white along its surface, as he gathers the courage that Asougi demands of him.

“What would you do, then,” he begins, aware that with each soft word, he is breaking every pact he has made with himself in regards to his apprentice, “if I were to free you from any consequences this evening?”

He needs Asougi to be bold where he cannot. Even now, fear, that familiar companion, wraps its vines around his heart, strangling whatever hope or desire may grow there.

The snow has begun to fall again, sprinkling the two of them with fragile flakes that clump and stick to their clothes. Asougi’s eyes are vivid in the darkness, though when he speaks his voice is light. “I might ask you to dance.”

It's impossible to deny the flirtation, this time. And harder than ever, to ignore how part of him curls toward it. Still, Barok cannot help his huff. “In the absence of music?”

“I’m going to need you to suspend your disbelief for this exercise, sir.”

“Perhaps it is you who should make a stronger case.”

That’s his final mistake, the one that cements the course of this encounter. Asougi has never been one to shy from a challenge, and Barok had known that on some subconscious level when he’d issued his reply. Just as he knows now, as Asougi turns to fully face him, that he intends to finish what was begun the other evening, in the private warmth of Barok’s kitchen.

Barok is thoroughly cornered on this end of the balcony, trapped between the guardrails and outer wall, his escape path to the bedroom blocked. It’s as easy as Asougi stalking closer, as Asougi’s fingers at his chin, the shock of cold leather enough to make him part his lips. And then Asougi is urging Barok’s face down to meet him, and Barok is allowing himself to be pulled into a kiss before he can convince himself to protest.

He drops the champagne glass when it happens. There’s a muffled crack as it hits the snow-covered tile, and Barok thinks that he might kick it as they both stumble back. It’s almost humiliating, how easily all of his conviction and restraint shatter along with it.

Barok’s hands fly instinctively to Asougi’s chest, and even he isn’t sure whether he aims to push him away or pull him closer until he’s crushing the soft silk of Asougi’s neckwear between his fingers, and then it’s no choice at all. Asougi presses him against the wall, and Barok lets him, swamped by dizzying desire—or perhaps relief.

He has wanted this guiltily, angrily, self-pityingly. He still isn’t sure it’s something that he’s worthy of pursuing, but Asougi doesn’t give him time to wallow as he engages in his hot, open-mouthed assault. The wall is cold at Barok’s back, the paneling digging in in spite of his many layers, but he scarcely feels it; it's inconsequential compared to the solid, unbroken line of warmth that is Asougi’s frame against his, the feeling of Asougi’s tongue sliding against his own, the bite of his teeth against his tender lip.

Asougi doesn’t let up until Barok is flushed and panting, his ragged breath blooming between them in the cold, and even then he doesn’t retreat far. Barok can still taste the sweetness of champagne on Asougi’s tongue, as he breathes his question against Barok’s mouth. “Well? How was that for a convincing argument?”

Barok can do little but stare helplessly for a moment. Then he manages to scrape together some semblance of composure to say, with all the practiced aristocratic haughtiness he can muster— “Adequate.” He thinks the shaking rasp of his voice gives him away. “I suppose that your training has amounted to something after all.” Though, he isn’t sure he wants to dwell on whom Asougi trained this particular skill with.

Asougi’s eyes glint like the flat of a knife. “I’ll show you adequate,” he mutters, and Barok is treated to the firm press of his body again, and the electrifying sensation of fingers curling around his nape and through his hair.

The wanting noise that escapes him is the most honest he’s been with Asougi in some time, but apparently not enough to satisfy. The hand tangled in his hair tightens until Barok looses another; it reverberates through both of their chests, and only seems to egg Asougi on.

It takes all of Barok’s concentration to keep pace. He has little practice at this, and Asougi kisses with all the intensity of the sun, heedless of the masks which bump against one another and get in the way. Barok can only respond with all the lonely hunger of the last decade, and hope that Asougi understands.

“Asougi,” Barok manages, what seems like an age later, but is probably not even a minute. His mouth is intoxicating; Barok could easily find himself addicted to it, would forsake wine for the way it warms him from the core. He doesn’t feel the bite of winter at all anymore, not with desire trickling thick and sweet through his veins like molasses. But sense is knocking faintly at the back door of his mind, so he wrenches his head to side, to Asougi’s disgruntlement.

“We mustn’t—” Barok swallows, closes his eyes to temptation. “We have to rejoin the party.” His absence will be noticed before long, if he isn’t missed already. And he can hardly reappear looking the very picture of the debauchery he’d condemned in thought but a few hours prior.

That observation is what finally lights a flicker of shame in Barok’s chest. It only worsens when he realizes that his tailcoat is unbuttoned, and that Asougi’s hands have made their way inside to splay against the thin cotton of his shirt. His breath is hot against Barok’s throat, seeping through the fabric of his collar.

“That’s not just your excuse to run again, is it?”

“I—no.” Barok’s fingers tighten in Asougi’s clothing, unwilling to relinquish their grip on his lapels. His mouth throbs; he can feel his pulse in his lips, a bruising reminder that he can’t help but savour in spite of his embarrassment. Begrudgingly, he adds, “I suspect that you would only catch me again if I tried.” That tenacity is something that has always been a great source of admiration and trouble for him.

Asougi laughs into his neck then. “Oh, yes,” he agrees. “Better to surrender now, sir.”

With Asougi’s hips slotted against his thigh, it's obvious how Barok’s capture has affected him. It makes Barok light-headed with want, a tide of feeling that sweeps away any lingering doubt or guilt, and proceeds to drown them with prejudice. It's only by a miracle that he manages to keep from twitching into the pressure.

“Not here,” he murmurs. “Later.” The promise nearly catches in his throat.

“Presumptuous, to think a stranger would be inclined to linger.”

Though he knows Asougi to be in jest, the comment strikes a more sober chord in Barok. With reluctance, he pushes lightly against Asougi’s chest, and mourns the necessary loss when Asougi heeds him and takes a slight step back.

“How lucky that you aren’t a stranger, then,” Barok says softly, “And will stay when I entreat you.” His heart still beats an unsteady rhythm, but the heat in his body is gradually dispersing into the night, replaced by a more tremulous, but hopeful affection.

Asougi reaches a hand up toward his temple, and Barok is struck by yet another flash of deja vu. A vision blooms in his mind’s eye of the masked disciple doing the same. He recalls his instinctive panic, his desperate need to cling to the last vestiges of denial. And then his hand flying out to encircle his apprentice’s wrist. Don’t.

This time, Barok doesn’t move to stop him, but simply watches as Asougi slips the mask from his head to reveal his slightly flushed, and fiercely determined face. How many times has Barok looked upon that handsome visage and tortured himself with what he saw there? The ghostly afterimage of a man he’d once admired, and then killed. A jagged mirror in which to condemn himself. A beautiful and cracked thing, to put up on a shelf and never touch, for fear of ruining it beyond repair.

In the silver glow of the moonlight, Asougi has never looked more real to him.

After a slight hesitation, Barok follows suit and removes his own face covering, exposing his reddened cheeks to the stinging air, and Asougi’s consideration.

“There you are,” says Asougi, his dark eyes glittering.

Barok grips the mask so tightly that he’s sure his knuckles must go pale beneath his gloves. He wonders what Asougi sees when he looks at him: A hard, haggard man, stubborn beyond reason? A gutless excuse for a noble, hiding behind his vices and affectations? Or does he see what Barok sees in Asougi: a luminous hope, and a tentative, fumbling way forward?

Asougi moves to kiss him again—more softly this time, and without barriers.

Barok opens gladly to receive him. He uncurls his stiff fingers, and lets the mask flutter to the ground.

Barok only spots the invitation once it’s already falling through the air.

Slipped from the stack of correspondence in his hands in a moment of carelessness, it throws itself at the desk below with surprising vigour, as though it cannot bear to remain unread one second longer. The card impacts the polished mahogany with a nearly imperceptible thunk, balancing momentarily on its hard edge before tipping over to lie flat.

There’s no one present to witness Barok’s sigh, a resigned wisp of a breath that lingers for a moment like smoke in the empty office, before trailing away. He places his pile of correspondence down again in order to pick up the card, and turns the thick, matte paper over to read the curling text on the front. It is as expected. An invitation requesting the pleasure of his company at Shrewsbury’s for a dinner party on the sixth. While not an unusual occurrence these last weeks, this one has come directly to the office—a more daring appeal than he’s heretofore seen.

He’s in the middle of mentally composing a polite refusal when Asougi arrives for the day. He strides through the door without knocking, still trailing snow from his clothes. Barok’s eyes flit to him automatically and then linger, taking in his bright, windblown cheeks, and the way that his hair sticks wet at his temple, in disarray from removing his cap. Asougi spots him looking and grins, which does little to slow Barok’s pulse at the vibrant sight of him.

“My lord.” Proper and perfunctory, Asougi nonetheless manages to colour the words with enough cheek that Barok knows he’s been caught red-handed.

“Prosecutor Asougi,” he returns. How did it go this morning?” By diverting immediately to work, he hopes to pre-empt the teasing.

“More or less as expected,” replies Asougi, as he shrugs his coat off to hang it near the door, and then shucks off his gloves. “The witness isn’t talking yet—paid off, no doubt. But the Yard’s got faith they can get him to squeal before Thursday’s trial, and our case is strong enough with or without the testimony; we’ll just plan for the worst-case scenario.” His eyes fix on the card in Barok’s hand. “Another one?”

Barok grimaces. There’s no point in denying evidence so plainly on display. “Yes,” he reluctantly affirms. “Had I known that the success of Miss Sholmes’ party was going to paint such a glaring target on my back, I might have rethought lending my support to the endeavour.” It seems that, demystified and defanged, his attendance is now sought at every soiree across the capital.

“You’ve faced worse hyenas than London society,” Asougi says. He strolls toward the table in the centre of the room—still awaiting a new model—where he drops his leather bag without fanfare. “Let them pick over your bones for a while, and they’ll get bored before long.”

“What a flattering comparison.” Barok eyes the bag, wondering whether he ought to bother chastising Asougi for the grey water he’s allowing to pool on the wood. "I should think I merit more consideration than a corpse."

“Do you need me to stroke your ego, sir?” Asougi glances over at him, and the shades of meaning there would induce Barok to blush, were he not already practiced at weathering Asougi’s jibes in other contexts. A puckish grin curls at the corner of Asougi’s mouth as he looks Barok up and down. “In any case, I think the pleasant consequences of that evening more than make up for the ill, don’t you?”

“...Indeed.” Barok keeps his expression composed, and banishes any thoughts of firm hands, or hot mouths, or smooth skin on skin from his mind. They’re at work, for God’s sake, and he isn’t a coltish schoolboy, mooning over the object of his lustful fantasies for the first time. At least one of them ought to make an attempt at professionalism.

Asougi rummages through his bag for a moment, and pulls forth a cloth-wrapped object.

“I’ve got a gift for you, sir,” he says, in response to Barok’s consternated brow. His mouth is still amused, but there’s something more serious lurking in Asougi’s expression as he approaches Barok’s desk in order to hand the mysterious parcel over to him.

It’s lighter than it looks, and uneven in shape. And above all, entirely unexpected. Barok isn’t sure whether he ought to be touched by the gesture, or apprehensive. What can Asougi have possibly thought to bring him—he, who notoriously asks and wants for nothing—and why? Rather than waste time agonizing over the possibilities, Barok undoes the string holding the wrapping together, and lets the cloth fall away.

The first glimpse of black on white makes his breath stop. He stills entirely, looking into the empty eye sockets of the disciple’s mask, which stares back at him placidly now that there is no one to inhabit it.

When he glances back to Asougi, Barok finds him standing uncommonly stiff, waiting for his reaction. A deep, gnawing emotion manifests in Barok’s core, a pensive sort of yearning that makes him want to reach up and run his thumbs along Asougi’s cheekbones, his brow, his jaw—to map out the contours of his face by feel alone, and smooth the tension he finds there.

Unable to do so at this present time and distance, Barok settles for doing the same to the mask. “What is this?” he asks. His fingers trail along the mask’s edge, feather-light. It’s seen worse than his touch, yet still he fears damaging it.

Asougi sets his jaw, in that stubborn way that both covers and conveys his uncertainty. “A promise,” he offers at last. “We’re beyond masks, don’t you think?”

“I quite agree,” responds Barok, voice soft. He can’t know the full reasoning behind Asougi’s giving him this, but he can extrapolate. This mask, more than anything, is a reminder of where they’d started, and how far they’ve come since. It demonstrates a willingness on Asougi’s part to place his well-being in Barok’s hands, and to face him stripped of any armour or pretence. His heart thumps painfully in his chest to be the recipient of such a grand gesture; he hopes that Asougi can tell how deeply moved he is.

“Asougi,” he begins, and then stops, unsure what it is exactly that he means to articulate. Gratitude? A promise of his own? In the end, Barok doesn’t consciously decide on the question; it slips from his lips before he can reflect on the wisdom of asking.
“Why did you kiss me on that first occasion?”

It’s a puzzle whose answer has eluded him to-date. After all, they’d been little more than strangers still, united only by Stronghart’s order and a mutual determination to see justice done.

Judging from Asougi’s expression, and the way he crosses his arms, the question has caught him equally off-guard.

“...It wasn’t just pity, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Barok had, admittedly, assumed as much. That, or else that his apprentice had felt some obligation to flatter and appease the man he’d been forced to rely on, in order to secure his own position.

Asougi huffs. “You’re not the only one in the world who’s ever been lonely, sir. You’re a handsome man, and I admired you—isn’t that enough?” And then, perhaps seeing Barok’s doubts reflected in his eyes, “I was determined to know you, even back then. It didn’t take me long to figure out that you weren’t nearly as cold or cruel as you pretended.”

“Merely sad and bitter?”

“Sad and bitter,” Asougi agrees archly, because he is unwilling to cater to Barok’s self-deprecation. “And also strong, with an unyielding commitment to truth and justice, and a deeply-rooted integrity.” His mouth twists with grim amusement. “Of course, that only incensed me later on, forced to reconcile the man I'd looked to for example with the sworn foe I’d imagined. It’s probably for the best that you didn’t take me to bed that evening, or else when my memories returned I might have been tempted to take Karuma to more than just your throat.”

He doesn’t ask why Barok refused him. Presumably, the answer is obvious and needs no further elucidation.

“I cared for you already, by then,” Barok admits. It would have been difficult not to, faced with that earnest regard—the first tender gesture granted to him in close to a decade. “Even if I was unable to accept or express that under the circumstances. And though I could not afford to trust you.” He traces down the line of the mask’s beak, resting his thumb at the pointed end, where it would rest in the divot of Asougi’s upper lip. “I’m glad beyond words to have received this second opportunity,” he murmurs. “Though admittedly, I oftentimes find myself unsure how to proceed.”

In his periphery, Barok sees Asougi relax, if only incrementally—the set of his shoulders not so martial, his fingers no longer clenched so tightly in the material of his suit. Asougi comes closer, stepping around the desk to stand at the side of Barok’s chair. He curls his fingers around the back of it, gripping the carved wood as he looks down upon Barok with resolute eyes.

“We could begin with a proper reintroduction,” Asougi suggests, his voice low. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord. My name is Kazuma Asougi—Kazuma, to you.”

Barok’s heart skips briefly. He’s sure that Asou—that Kazuma can read him like an open book, his surprise and pleasure at this additional gift written in stark lines across his face. He reaches for Kazuma’s other hand, who allows him to take it in his own, and then ferries it to his mouth so that he may kiss the back of it.

“An honour,” Barok says, just before his lips brush against soft, warm skin. “Barok, then.” In private at least, where he’s sure he’ll quicken and flush to hear his given name in Kazuma’s crisp, assured timbre. And he believes that he’s now managed to catch Kazuma off-guard a second time in one day, for when he looks back up Kazuma’s cheeks are darkened, his eyes glittering.

The expression settles quickly into something more triumphant. Barok is familiar with that look; he’s seen it innumerable times in the courtroom, whenever Kazuma is confident that his prey is about to run straight into his jaws. As such, he’s prepared when Kazuma proceeds to grab a fistful of his clothing, and uses the leverage to yank Barok forward into a voracious kiss.

The danger is not worth the thrill, and yet Barok throws caution to the wind for a few impassioned seconds before he comes to his senses and disentangles them. “Must you always have the last word?” he mutters, but can hardly muster up a glare, not when his mouth tingles and exhilaration sparks in his blood like gunpowder. Kazuma’s smug manner should not be nearly as attractive as it is.

”If you didn’t like it, you wouldn’t put up with it.”

Barok huffs, but doesn’t deny it. Nor does he turn his face away, facing Kazuma’s perception head on.

The glass facade has shattered, but Barok finds that he no longer fears exposure. With Kazuma’s gaze fixed on him, as bright and penetrating as the sun’s rays, he thinks that in time, he might even come to relish it.