This is an AU where Moral doesn't do the thing where he messes with Art's head, and there are spoilers for Koneko's tail c':
Thanks to Peach eats Smiley for beta'ing!
Rarepair Valentines 2015
[ Thursday, February 12th ; Fic 3 of 5 ]
If there's anything worse than knowing there's a serial killer targeting Minimum Holders on the loose, it's having to question friends in search of information.
Master's hand stills on the handle of the coffee grinder, and his brows furrow in deep concentration.
"Anything suspicious?" he echoes.
The bridging of an investigation into Art's private life is not something Art finds unfamiliar. Not when Nice is his best friend, not when Nice has a tendency to make enemies, and not when it's Art who's often left with the job of cleaning after him.
So it's easily that Art dismisses the apprehension shifting within his stomach in favour of remaining professional.
"Yes," confirms Art, with a nod. The atmosphere had grown taut as soon as he'd mentioned he'd been dropping by for police business. Had Nice been there, he might have said something to break the silence. But for once, save the silent presence of Hajime eating away in one corner, both Hamatora and Odd Jobs are at work and the rest of the café is empty.
"On and around last weekend, or the lead-up to it," says Art. "With particular focus on the twenty-first."
A body, dead; from Nowhere, a block away.
Master shakes his head. "Sorry. I don't have anything."
"That's fine," says Art, giving both staff behind the counter a slight bow. "Thank you for—"
There's a blur of auburn, a yelp of "Oh!", and Art turns to Koneko just as she straightens and thumps a fist onto an open palm.
"I remember something suspicious!" she says, eyes burning intensely. "There was a weird car here for the longest time!"
"A... car?"
"A car," and Koneko tucks a hand beneath her chin. Swish, her tail moves, hypnotising. "It was a black one."
"Would you know its type or plate code?"
"No, sorry. But it was definitely foreign and sporty! Like... one of those really fancy expensive Porsches."
Sometimes she sees it parked in Nowhere's car park, she continues, since people would sometimes use Nowhere's car park when they weren't supposed to, and Koneko'd made it a habit to look out of the window every now and then just to keep an eye on the spaces. The car's very attention-grabbing, so of course she wouldn't have missed it, but unfortunately she still hasn't gotten around to setting up a system for keeping track of exact times and models and number plates—
Art, notebook positioned before him, pauses when the search of his pocket reveals something's missing.
Koneko notices Art's frown before he notices it himself.
"—Ah!" she exclaims, and jumps. "Sorry, I've started to ramble."
"No, no," says Art. "You've been extremely helpful, thank you. It's just... I seem to have forgotten my pen. Could I perhaps borrow one?"
"Of course!" says Koneko.
Koneko fetches a pen from her pocket and hands it over. Art thanks her, she waits so that he can write his notes down, and then confirms when he reads the information back to her.
"I'm sure it was a Yokohama plate," she adds, remembering; Art jots it down. "In fact, it's—there! It's right there!"
Koneko points toward the windows. The exclamation's so excited that even Hajime looks up from her food to follow Koneko's arm. Sure enough, a black sports car is reversing into position; red brake lights flare menacingly as if sensing their gazes, and the engine continues snarling for several seconds before it's cut off at the ignition.
—Then the door opens and Birthday leaps out, followed by Ratio at a more sedate pace, and Art didn't need to see Ratio tucking a set of keys into his pocket to realise who the car belonged to.
A spoon clinks back into a bowl, Hajime returns to her meal, and Koneko deflates.
"Oh," says Koneko, tail drooping. She picks up her dishcloth with a small sigh. "I guess..."
Art closes the notebook and shakes his head.
"Thank you," Art tells her, with a smile. "Even if it did not work out, being observant is a talent that's highly useful."
Koneko's smile returns. "That's true," she says. "Sorry for your time."
Despite her enthusiasm, even when Art leaves the café, Koneko's tail remains down.
It's not until he finishes the rest of his questioning, arrives back at his office and finds his pen on his desk that he realises he'd accidentally taken Koneko's away.
If there's anything that can make him realise how limited his resources are, it's walking into Nowhere to find Koneko in the process of negotiating a contract with one of his men.
Nakatsuka Yuuki, says the form in front of her, while she spins another pen between her fingers. Strangely, her tail doesn't swish, but instead rests still; the only time it moves is when she looks up at Art's entry into the store, her eyes light up and she mouths a quick "Welcome!" – with both hands occupied, one by the phone and one with the pen, her tail is the only limb left to wave hello.
(Art still isn't sure how her tail works. The more he wonders, the less he wants to know.)
The café isn't empty on this visit; two tables are occupied by customers, Master is occupied with the stove, and Murasaki sits at the office behind a newspaper. Art exchanges silent greetings with them, and receives some in return.
"Welcome!" says Koneko. At some point, the call'd been over. "Table for one? Or if you're looking for Nice, he's out with Hajime."
Art shakes his head briefly. "Neither – I'm just here to return something."
"Return...?"
The pen is placed atop the counter. It's not a particularly fancy pen, a simple ballpoint with a clear shaft and small silver bands, but the little purple ribbon affixed to the end makes it one that's easily recognisable. Given her fascination with money, Art'd expected that Koneko would be mad, accuse him of stealing; he's taken by surprise when she claps her hands and beams.
"So that's where it went," she says, then turns to the pen. "I thought I lost you!"
"I apologise," says Art.
"No apologies necessary. Now, to finish this form, the phone number..."
Koneko begins fiddling with the handset and purses her lips in concentration. Art, who'd been about to leave, stops and reaches in his pocket to pull something out instead.
"Here," he says.
Koneko looks up and stares at the business card in his hand. "Wha...?"
"Detective Nakatsuka is one of my subordinates, investigating the serial kidnappings," says Art. "I'm... feeling generous. I'll take over as the contact from here."
"Hmm..."
She takes the card, and then examines both sides so intensely that self-consciousness tugs at Art's mind.
"Nope, sorry," says Koneko, finally. "It's not that I don't believe you, but I'm going to have to side with policy. Any changes are to come from Nakatsuka Yuuki, Art. If you want to take over, you'll need to do it from him."
Rejection.
Determination enters Art's senses as blazing wildfire. Koneko'd been analysing the card for too long; she'd analysed Art, analysed Art's pride. Denial is a slap to who he's become as a person.
(Being rejected? He'd also been rejected by all those that suggested he wouldn't be able to graduate from Facultas – and look where he sits today.)
Art bites the inside of his lip, tells himself that it's not a challenge, and policy is policy even for Hamatora, then forces a smile.
"That's fair enough," he says, wondering if Nakatsuka would still be at Headquarters upon his return. "In that case, I must be going. Thank you for everything."
If there's anything that rubs acid into competence and intensifies jealous sores, it's watching highly erroneous guesswork solve a months-long case in half a day.
The serial killer would have to be from the Minimum Agency. Taking and inserting Minimums is too time-intensive for a researcher on active duty. Therefore, Nice concludes, the serial killer would need to be someone who's already left the agency for an unspecified reason.
Nice finds a dozen names, picks one, and stalks them.
Of course, thinks Art, as he investigates the remains of the house which is owned under Moral's name; a house burnt to a shell of its former self after Murasaki and Nice's skirmish with the former professor. Moral'd torched the place, but the flames were not enough. There's enough traces of Minimum implantation left behind to provide evidence for Nice's suspicions.
From so many possibilities, and with such questionable reasoning – was this psychic intuition also a side-effect of possessing a supernatural Minimum?
Of course the universe favours him.
Art nearly rips the evidence bag he's in the process of inspecting.
"Hey."
There's no need for Art to turn around. "How is it going, Mr. Gasuke?"
Gasuke takes the evidence from Art's grasp and moves so that he's able to look into Art's eyes. For the first time in a long time, Art doesn't know what his expression is. Judging by the concern Gasuke gives back despite the fact that both of them are on duty, Art knows it's an expression he needs to reign in immediately.
But months of chasing has left Art tired.
"You alright?" asks Gasuke.
No. "I'm fine."
He notices Gasuke signing for a detective. She picks up the evidence which Art had been in the process of handling.
"The lying will give you cavities before all that sugar you consume."
"There is no correlation between cavities and lying, Mr. Gasuke."
"Ah, but how do you know?" says Gasuke, with a grin. Wrinkles deepen but glittering eyes wipe years off his features. "This whole time, them scientist types might've been lying about their findings."
Art is supposed to laugh. Instead he remembers words from Facultas, words from white labcoats wielding sterilised silver. "Congratulations! He has the potential to develop a Minimum."
The wedge joins the wave of frustration, and Art is weighed down by his age of twenty-one.
"Then pull up their dental records!" Art snaps. "I'm sure Moral's teeth are sharp enough to prove it to you."
Gasuke blinks, confused. Black char replaces white memories.
Stop, says a part of Art's mind. It frantically attempts to catch his attention; You're out of character.
Art is jolted, shocked, pulled from his mind and back to the investigation. He's supposed to be the commanding Superintendent at the scene. The officers around him are looking away so pointedly there's no doubt they're all listening.
"Art—"
Art joins the officers as if he can look away from himself.
"Have Honey continue her search for another ten minutes, and then once every fifteen minutes from there," says Superintendent Art's voice. "Visit the hospital to get Nice and Murasaki's testimonies again, and have them generate sketches for distribution. Inspector Gasuke, you're in charge until I return."
"Art, where are you—"
Art takes a deep breath, assesses his readiness, and then lets the entire breath out as a heavy sigh. Sometimes his profession lets him see the future. Another sleepless night lies ahead. Sometimes things never changed.
"I'm going to get some coffee."
If there's anything Art doesn't understand, it's his decision to walk off the case in order to cool off at Café Nowhere.
Koneko'd greeted him but she'd been alone. With Nice and Murasaki in hospital, Ratio's absence explained itself, and Birthday's most likely gone so that he may keep them company in some teasing, roundabout way. Koneko informed him that Hajime wanted to visit, which meant Master had to take her.
And so Koneko's the only person aside from Art in the store.
"Why didn't you go?" asks Art, after ordering.
Koneko huffs, and her tail curls. "It's not worth closing Nowhere for two morons suffering from minor smoke inhalation."
The excuse is incomplete, given Koneko's caring nature, and Art suspects there's something he's missing. But he's glad enough to leave it unasked. It hadn't occurred to him, not once, that Nowhere might have been closed, until Koneko mentioned the possibility of it being so.
Art stirs his coffee so that the sugar may melt, breathes in, and allows the warmth of Café Nowhere and Café Nowhere's blend to envelop his senses in a smothering hug. A companionable silence rests in the building, all noise is asleep save for the soft tinkling of metal, and the only real movement is in Koneko tidying baskets of cutlery. The pool in his heart lies still.
And then Art realises that, despite the fact that he'd asked, Koneko didn't question his presence in return.
"Aren't you curious?" says Art.
She isn't absent, either, because she answers immediately. "About what?"
"My being here."
"But you're here because you're here."
"Well... yes," says Art. "I should be on duty."
Koneko's tail looks like a question mark. "So... you think I should think you're skipping?"
"That's the logical conclusion."
"But it's not," says Koneko. "Because I thought the logical conclusion should be that, since you like doing things yourself so much, you probably have some personal reason that I don't need to know."
Art pauses.
Slowly, he lifts his gaze to look – look – at Koneko, and Koneko looks back. The moment ripples, begins as a stray drop, then grows ever wider and the water ever calmer. Their gazes link and breaths entwine in the space between, and he doesn't know how long the moment lasts.
What he does know is that he'd given up on the concept of people who could look after him without prying.
It's either looking after him, to learn his secrets, or not looking after him at all.
Art licks surprisingly dry lips. "I—"
"Ahh!" shouts Koneko. Art startles, almost spills his drink; she pumps hands which have formed into fists. "Coffee? What am I doing? You shouldn't be drinking that!"
"Uh—"
"Wait here!"
—and she disappears.
Or, more precisely: Koneko swivels around faster than Art once thought humanly possible, and vanishes out back in the blink of an eye. In the process, the flap of her jacket bounces up off a knob. It reveals that her tail is actually a toy clasped to her belt.
The implications – control? movement? Minimum? – leave Art dizzier than he's ever been.
As Art sits by the bar, and decides to finish off his rather delicious coffee in case Koneko does decide to go and snatch it away from him, he hears several crashes and a thump. A cat yowls, or maybe that's Koneko? Art might have considered it funny if it isn't occurring in front of him.
"Are you...?" calls Art, tentatively.
"I'm fine!" Koneko shouts back. "Just—ah—got it!"
When Koneko emerges, immaculate despite her glasses askew, Art decides never to go into the back of Café Nowhere unless absolutely necessary.
"Here it is!" she says, her glasses glint when she adjusts them, and she hefts a bottle of gin onto the counter.
Art hasn't ever paled so quickly in his life.
"What?"
(He'll never admit how tiny his voice sounded, not even under threat of death.)
Koneko's tail (toy tail?) begins swishing side to side triumphantly, and she dons a smirk best described as 'cat-that-not-only-ate-the-canary-but-managed-to-convince-it-to-jump-into-its-mouth'.
"Hoh hoh," says Koneko. "One of our customers ordered a glass of this yesterday. It's open, and there's plenty left."
"I—I'll—" Art fights the twitch in his brow. "I'll pass."
Koneko's expression suddenly becomes so heartbroken and so disbelieving that Art wonders if he'd confessed to destroying her hopes and dreams. "Ehh?"
"I don't drink," says Art.
"Oh." Koneko's tail fell. "Okay. I'll put it back, then."
And as if she hadn't taken it from another room, Koneko simply opens the mini-fridge by her legs and drops it in there.
Art watches her tail draw loops, remembers that it's attached to a belt-loop by a metal clasp, and decides that there are many things in this world he does not need to know.
"By the way," begins Koneko (and Art resolutely attempts to ignore the tail accentuating each word), "what were you about to say?"
When? is Art's first thought. He thinks, and realises he only remembers talking to Koneko and wondering about her tail.
He thinks some more, and then remembers something about smoke inhalation, Nice, and—
Art stiffens, because somehow he's forgotten the serial killer case already.
Because Koneko'd never asked what had gone wrong.
Koneko picks up on Art's shifting mood. She sighs, reaches for a glass, and begins wiping it down. The glass is already clean. Art wonders if the drying action is a habit calming rather than any real duty.
"It's bad, huh?" she asks.
Bad? Art assesses the situation with a fresh mind. Months of stress and hard work, a case with no leads, and a breakthrough only because Nice opted to put his mind to it. The identity of their serial killer, a face once the sketches were completed; tasks sounding so simple where Art and the rest of the police force instead opted to waste their time...
But after his visit to Nowhere, his frustration is the frustration of days distant, and he finds none of it matters any more.
Except one thing.
"I shouted at my mentor," says Art.
Koneko's wiping leaves a thin oily track in the glass, circling around, and around, and around. The dishcloth is dirty. "Did you mean it?"
"I don't." No longer.
"Then that's all good, isn't it?"
"Yeah," agrees Art. He still has some coffee left, and decides now to drink the bitter-sweet liquid down. "Things are... nice."
Upon hearing Nice's name, Koneko slams a fist on the counter. Thankfully, it's the hand which had been holding the dishcloth. Perhaps realising she's holding a glass, she slowly places it aside.
Her expression is so dark that Art wouldn't have been surprised if she's also growling.
"Nice..." says Koneko, glaring at Master's set of knives, "if you go and disregard other people again, I am going to—"
"Nice helped."
Art almost regrets defending his best friend when Koneko's turns on him.
"He doesn't listen," says Koneko. "He doesn't notice the fact that sometimes finishing a job means making the client happy instead of entertaining himself! Does he not realise that he's only gotten paid twice out of the last five—"
"But he determined the serial killer's identity."
"Yes, but—" Koneko's shakes her head. "Why do you and Murasaki keep encouraging him to make both your lives miserable?"
"Pardon...?"
"Geez, I give up!" Bonelessly, Koneko flops onto a stool, and sighs. "Why is life so hard?"
Art is too preoccupied with her assessment to give her an answer. Nice's irritating antics had been brought about by Art himself?
The door opens behind him.
If there's anything that can help Art work out his thoughts, it's a sparring session with his sensei.
To perform judo is to keep oneself centred and ready. There's something calming about the self-discipline, the sensation of stability, the exchange of heartbeats as each attempts to predict and forestall. Watch the space, the stance, the eyes; the atmosphere, the currents, and the window before the storm.
Be the river around the rocks, not the rock to stop the river.
Sweaty and short of breath, Art swallows the heart pumping in his throat and bows after the session ends.
"Thank you for inviting me, sensei," he says.
Three bows back, vast shoulders cutting through air as shovels shift earth. He, too, no doubt has layers of sweat beneath his own uniform. He'd left Honey to meet with Art. No doubt Honey'd informed him that Art would be at Nowhere.
"You looked troubled," says Three. "Have you worked out your course?"
Art doesn't know.
"May I ask you a question, sensei?"
The mountain nods. "You may."
"Do you think I'm miserable?"
For the longest time, there's no answer. Nothing changes in Three's expression. Art nearly gives up when he finally receives a reply.
"When I picked you up, I expected you to be," says Three.
"Sensei...?"
"But you were not. At Nowhere, you made your peace."
Art isn't quite sure what it means, given that he should be mad, and even Koneko'd said he constantly encourages from Nice the very things he wants least. But he isn't mad, hadn't been mad, and his sensei's conclusion is in line with the lack of anger.
He bows again; it's deeper this time, more respectful, torso horizontal.
"Thank you for your words, sensei."
Given its calming effects, Art makes a trip to Café Nowhere a part of his daily schedule.
Where his office never changes, where the building is always slate and grey and static and rectangular, Nowhere is alive and changes moods as its occupants come and go. Sometimes Koneko's busy with customers and can only spare a tail, sometimes Birthday turns up early to inject rays of yellow sunshine, sometimes Ratio and Murasaki are the stone supports to stop Art from tumbling. Sometimes Honey and Three are present, reminding Art of his work, but no work is discussed there. All the café's subtleties are as heartening as the loudest bellows from the depths of Birthday's lungs.
(Art won't admit how thankful he is whenever Koneko shouts for the volume to be turned down.)
Art had been mildly surprised to learn that Birthday always wakes before the sunrise, and that it takes Ratio two hours and a frighteningly bitter cup of coffee before he's finally alive enough to keep up – and only because Birthday's energy level begins to drop and taper.
Unsurprisingly, given Art's memories of Nice's ability to sleep at Facultas, Nice doesn't turn up until long after Art is gone.
Art's arrival becomes so routine that Master already has a cup of coffee ready and waiting for him by the time he walks inside.
"Good morning," says Master, setting off greetings from the other two in the building – Koneko and Murasaki. Art returns them with slight nods, but doesn't resist matching Koneko's dazzling smile with a small smile of his own.
When Art takes a seat, and prepares to add his sugar, he finally notices Nice's body slumped over Hamatora's table and dead to the world.
"They're waiting for a client," says Koneko, answering the unspoken question.
Nice starts to snore. Koneko's tail begins to twitch, and her smile becomes strained.
"I said," she repeats, "Hamatora is waiting for a client."
No response.
"Oi," says Murasaki.
"What?" the body grumbles.
"The client's going to be here soon."
"I know that," mumbles the body, melding closer to the table's surface. "Koneko's been going on about it for the past hour."
Koneko's grip tightens so much that Art worries she'll snap the glass she's drying. "But you haven't even been here for ten minutes – and do you know how hard it was to get this contract? At least say something so I know you're listening!"
"Something."
"Isn't it a little late to respond now?" says Art.
Nice shoots up from the table with such force that his headphones go flying back and almost fall to the ground.
"Art?" he exclaims excitedly, as if they haven't seen each other for years.
Art knows it's not the case; they'd crossed paths after Nice returned from a holiday in Okinawa. Somehow, Nice had gotten it into his head that Art found him annoying, and whilst that had been true at first, Art simply hadn't had a chance to visit once forensics finished processing the overwhelming amounts of evidence and the investigation into Moral's doings went underway.
It had been very, very difficult for Art to deal with all the souvenirs that Nice brought back from vacation. Fortunately Gasuke has a very big extended family.
Art takes a sip of his coffee. "Good morning, Nice."
"Hey," grumbles Nice, resident grouch, "if you were here, why didn't you say so sooner?"
"I believe everyone else did."
"Nuh. They just said 'good morning'."
Are you five? thinks Art, but smiles good-naturedly behind his cup. He swivels back to face the counter and pretends there is no turbulence – no turbulence at all.
Instead, he says, "but Koneko asked you to sit up, didn't she?"
"Then she should have said that instead of hinting at fuck-knows-what all the time."
Art's suddenly very sensitive about the way Koneko bristles. Behind the counter, she's exchanged glass for paper, and is in the process of sorting Hamatora's files. He wonders how long she spends dealing with Nice's obnoxiousness each day.
Art spots a broom behind her, leant against the wall. He checks his watch, decides he wouldn't mind being slightly late, and places his cup down.
"Koneko?" he says.
"Hmm?" Koneko chirps back.
"Would you be interested in learning how to defend yourself?"
In his periphery, Art notices Master shifting slightly as he begins to pay close attention to their exchange. Art pretends not to notice.
"I... guess so," says Koneko.
Nice begins to protest about something in the background, but Art ignores him.
"Alright, then." Art smiles. "Could you grab that broom there and step around to this side – here?"
It's with equal amounts of curiosity and confusion that Koneko does so, and Art begins his explanation. The first things to note would be space and stance. Without proper space, movement would not be possible, and without stance, she could be cast off-balance. But, space also encompassed range, and for her to familiarise herself with range it would be easiest to try some manoeuvres herself; first place the hands—
Despite the speed at which he's talking, Koneko picks it all up incredibly quickly. And so, a little before ten minutes have passed, Art's confident enough to move on with his plan.
"—Now," says Art. "For some practice. Nice, are you ready?"
Nice had moved to a stool by the bar as he watched Art's explain; currently, Nice stares from his seat and looks confused.
"Huh?" he says.
Art doesn't fight his smile. "I presumed by your attitude that you were volunteering to be a target."
"Wait, what?"
Behind his newspaper, Murasaki huffs, amused.
"Oh!" says Koneko, finally understanding, then looks between Art and the broom in her hands. "But, uhm, are you sure it's—"
"It's no problem," says Art. "If he's awake, it won't do him any harm."
The reassurance itself is questionable, but it's enough for Koneko's worries to evaporate, her grip to tighten on the handle of the broom, and her mouth to curl into a determined frown. "Okay!"
Koneko hefts her weapon. She takes a deep breath, and readies her battlecry.
And then she attacks.
"Nice, you butt!"
It turns out that Nice is, in fact, awake – or he is now – after hopping easily off the chair and avoiding the strike. Art sees the focus on the broom and the tensing of the shoulders that give Nice's next action away.
"Nice," says Art. "No disarming, and no hands on the lady."
The shoulders fall. Koneko isn't skilled enough to avoid telegraphing her movements. There's enough forewarning in her actions and space behind Nice that he's able to dodge and talk.
"Then hey, don't volunteer me –" duck, fingers twitch to grab the broom, but change their mind, "– for things I don't want to volunteer for!"
"Haaaaah!" shouts Koneko before Art gets to reply.
Nice runs out of space. He steps aside, pulls on his earphones in the same motion, then snaps his fingers.
In the next instant, Nice is next to Art and Koneko's strike goes through thin air.
Nice scratches a cheek and looks at Art with a strange expression.
"Are you really Art?" he says.
"You're not really nice," Art replies.
Nice doesn't expect the comeback; he actually takes a moment to pause and form a response in return. "And you're really a psychopath."
Art's fingers twitch. But Nice isn't the one who's been chasing after a serial killer. Nice can't help his sense of humour. He has no clue that he's creating a tempest, and Art can ignore the winds billowing across the surface of the pool because his craft is better than them; he should be better then them, be able to sail straight past them, and pretend they aren't actually there.
But then Koneko makes a shrill sound of irritation behind him – and Art turns around, sees that Koneko's found where Nice had disappeared to and is heading his way—
"Nice."
And Art decides it's better to stop Nice rather than silently smile and let the waves grow.
"What?" says Nice.
Art hears Koneko still. "When you say I'm a psychopath, you mean I'm like Moral?"
Moral, who's taken the lives of dozens of Minimum Holders, and the energy of everyone attempting to apprehend him.
"Of course not," says Nice.
"Moral is a psychopath," Art tells him, trying not to think of all the others he's faced given his profession; tries to keep his disappointment from leaking through. "Sometimes... some things aren't funny."
Slowly, very slowly, Nice rises to his feet. He's silent. He's staring. His eyes are wider than they've ever been.
It's the first time that Art has denied him.
—and then, abruptly, Nice's eyes flash from Art to Koneko to Master to Murasaki. He takes in the positions of every person in the café like a wild animal frightened, snaps his fingers, and runs away. The front door closes behind his shadow.
Not a moment later, it opens again, and Nice sticks his head inside.
"You deal with the job, Murasaki," he calls. "And, uh – Art?"
"What is it, Nice?" says Art.
"...My bad. You're just a demon in disguise."
Click, the door slides shut, and he's gone. There's a clatter. The broom falls to the floor.
"Is that—" Koneko says breathlessly, "—is that the first time Nice has admitted he's wrong?"
If it is, it's likely the last.
But there are signs that Nice is beginning to consider Art's situation some more. His visits to the police headquarters have dropped significantly, and after several unanswered calls and voicemail messages that he forgets the contents to once Art calls him back, he's growing into texting so he can remember what he'd said and so that Art can prioritise his own time.
Art isn't sure how much of the idea is Nice's and how much of the idea is Murasaki's. He also isn't sure where Nice's newfound absentmindedness is drawn from. But Art is glad for the break – especially after the leak of Minimum Holders' existences, and the riots, and the rise in the rate of crime. Now, all his calls are relevant, and relevant immediately.
So when his phone rings, whilst he's attending to bays of paperwork, he answers it without hesitation. "Hello?"
"...Art?"
Art drops his pen in surprise. "Koneko? How did you..." He looks down, sees the pen, and trails off upon remembering. He'd given her his business card.
He's surprised she still keeps it with her.
"S-sorry," says Koneko. Her voice is shaking slightly; Art realises he's been silent for too long. "I'll—"
"It's al—I do not mind," says Art, awkwardly.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," and he glances at the paperwork that never ends, "I'm sure. Do you need me somewhere? Where are you?"
"Nowhere."
"I'll be there within twenty minutes."
"Okay. See you."
Art goes searching for Gasuke; dialling results in no answer, but fortunately, he's in the smokeroom. Gasuke's looking away so he doesn't notice Art's presence, and it doesn't even cross Art's mind to catch one of the other officers' attentions instead – Art simply steels himself against the fumes, opens the door, and calls his name.
Sure enough, Gasuke grumbles good-naturedly about receiving more paperwork. Art apologises. Gasuke holds up a hand and grins.
"Don't worry about me, Art," he says, "I know you wouldn't run off for personal business without a good reason."
Art spends the drive to Nowhere wondering how he's able to ignore Nice for a day, but a distressed call from Koneko can't wait a single hour.
By the time he arrives, Koneko is in the car park, hands tucked together, and waiting. Her usual smile is gone. She's looking to one side, and doesn't realise Art's arrived until he lowers the window and turns toward her.
"Ah—" Koneko jumps, "Art! You're – early."
Art tries a smile. He'd arrived in ten. "It took less time to sort things out than I expected... is there any reason you're outside?"
"I wanted to wait for you."
The two of them stare at each other for a few terrifyingly long seconds. Art keenly aware that his car's engine is still running and he's having a conversation through a door. But it's not as if socially polite ways to talk about personal issues in contexts where cars are involved are courses taught at schools; if Art wants to open it and step out, he'll need to park, cut the engine, and ask Koneko to move out of the way.
But staying in the car could not be right either, could it?
While Art is deliberating, Koneko glances through Café Nowhere's windows and inside. Whatever she's looking for, she must have found it, because she hurries around the front of Art's car – and then Art is hurrying to check if the passenger seat is clean (it is) an instant before the door opens.
Koneko smooths her tail down, takes a seat, and removes her backpack before tucking it into her lap.
The situation becomes ten times weirder.
Art opens his mouth. "Ko—"
"I'm sorry for calling you out here," she says. The words all tumble from her mouth, any faster and Art worries she'll bite her tongue by accident. "I needed some advice, and I can't really ask Master, and Murasaki's so – so scary to talk to sometimes, and Nice is just—"
Her babbling winds Art's nervousness so tightly that it simply snaps under the strain. The rebound takes out all the barriers he'd cultivated surrounding his core, and he finds himself left with nothing but raw instinct, raw emotion, and weeks of training.
Forget where you are, it tells him. She is a stressed witness. It is imperative to ensure calm before gathering information.
"Please take a deep breath, Koneko," says Art's voice, taking command. He senses a small shudder when she does so. "I will need to park the car, first. Is there somewhere you'd like to go?"
"I..." Koneko thinks. "Here is fine. It's important, anyway. Master will be upset if I left."
"Alright. May I ask you some questions? There's no obligation to answer."
"N-no. Go ahead."
Art checks the rearview mirror. "Why do you have a tail?"
"...Huh?" She pauses, rendered silent by surprise. "Because it's cute."
"Because it's cute?"
"Yep," Koneko replies. "Did you know Hajime won it for me at a festival? I spent so many turns trying but she just swoops in like this! And—"
Art stops listening in order to concentrate on reversing, and simply nods and smiles whenever Koneko becomes more excited. By the time the car is parked, Koneko's gone on to talk about how Master had strong-armed his way into one of the stalls after assuming the owner was attempting to cheat both Koneko and Hajime out of their money when it had actually been the opposite ("There went my very first business deal!"), and she's back to her usual self again.
"Have you been to it before, Art?"
Art doesn't know what she's referring to, but he has an answer.
"Probably not," he says. "I'm usually at work when people are on holiday."
"Oh," says Koneko. "Hours as an officer must be difficult, aren't they?"
Art smiles. "It's part of my job. I just have time off at other times."
It's not entirely the truth. On holidays, he'd temporarily turn in his title as Superintendent and join the ranks of the Riot Police, so one of their members could spend the time with their families instead. It's not out of generosity, as much as he tries to convince himself. Keeping himself busy is the easiest way to forget he's alone.
But Koneko settles down and simply nods.
"That makes sense," she says, glancing to one side. "It's like sometimes in... hospitality..."
Her voice shakes enough to tell Art that it's the root of her problem.
"What's the matter?" he asks.
"Master, he..." Koneko pauses. "Master told me he wanted to pass the café's ownership to me soon."
She falls silent, gaze flickering, unsure whether or not to continue.
"You don't think you're ready?" prompts Art.
"No!" Koneko slaps a hand to her mouth, surprised by the outburst, swallows her words. "No – I always expected he would give it to me, it's not that, it's just... it's a lot of responsibility. And, I... I don't think now would be a good time..."
"Why not?"
"Well, I haven't even learnt how to make any of the dishes yet, or calculate inventory most ideally, or—"
The first chuckle is involuntary. The second follows, and then Art finds himself shaking with silent laughter.
Koneko looks like she's just been slapped. "Am I being funny?"
"No, no," says Art. "You just – you just reminded me of myself."
"Eh?"
"Master told you it would be 'soon', correct?"
A slow nod. "Yeah."
"When he said that, he didn't mean next week, or even three months. He most likely means after a year, or even a couple." A brief pause; collect the thoughts together. "As people grow older, their sense of time starts to change and they forget how short things are when they're young. Master will definitely train you first – there's no likelihood of him passing ownership to you if you're still not confident in your own readiness."
Art watches the shades of realisation pass through Koneko's expression, accompanied by reassurance, and allows a smile to rise. Her context may have been completely different from his own, but he'd still reached the right conclusion.
"You should take it a little easier, Art," Gasuke said, in the first few weeks after graduation. "Things you do overnight, everyone else does over a couple of days. There's no need to prove yourself here. Just stick to being capable."
"There is no need to compare yourself to him," adds Art.
Art had been too busy blinded by Nice's glare.
"Do you think... I'll be a good owner?" says Koneko.
"After learning that you're more concerned about your ability to reach your own expectations rather than doing the work itself?" Art replies, with no hesitation. "You'll be the best owner of Nowhere."
A giggle bubbles from Koneko's throat. "The best owner of Nowhere."
(Does that mean Art would be the best graduate?)
"Definitely," says Art.
(It's not bad to believe that Koneko will make dreams come true.)
Once Koneko's ready to leave, she surprises Art by walking around to his door instead of heading inside immediately. The lights on his dashboard flash to life; he lowers his window down.
"It's hard growing old, right?" she asks.
Art remembers the years he'd spent drowning in self-hatred and jealousy. For bright Koneko with her refreshing perspective to be asking him for advice – this Minimum-less graduate of Facultas who once cared what Nice and others thought of him until he met her?
With a small, privately ironic smile, Art shakes his head and says: "It's only as hard as you let it be."
Nice fucks up.
The second distressed phone call that Art receives from Nowhere is from Master, with Koneko's soft but haggard breathing in the background. He didn't want to go through the police's channels, Master said. It's to do with Moral.
Art speeds across lights and intersections and is pretty sure he'll be receiving a strict dressing-down from his superiors but it doesn't matter when it's Moral he's after and Koneko is not okay—
—and Art manages to make it to Nowhere in six minutes alone.
He passes the blur of blue and gold that is Nice on his way there, but thinks nothing of it until he hears the story from Master. Koneko grips tighter her tea towel. If Moral hadn't been so keen to play with Nice further, then Koneko – bright, radiant Koneko – would have died with her dreams.
Art understands why Nice had done it. He hadn't been at his senses. They haven't been best friends for so long that he doesn't know how to reason everything away.
But Art can't deny that Nice fucks up, and it's only because of a criminal and the universe that he can get away with being excused.
"I see," says Art, and takes a deep breath. Distance, he tells himself. "I'll need to ask some questions for the case, is that alright?"
Master nods, one arm still around Koneko's shivering back.
"...Um," Koneko whispers.
Art pauses, whilst reaching for his notebook and his pen. "Koneko?"
"C-could I... be next to you instead of facing you? Like..." Koneko hiccups and looks down; one of her hands reach up to touch her neck, no doubt still feeling the wire which had been there. "Like last time?"
"I..." Art glances toward Master, and receives another nod, "I don't see why not."
Slowly, Koneko extracts herself from Master's hold, and walks around the counter so that she may take a seat by Art's side.
"Th... thank you," she says, and then starts telling her story.
Art's halfway through his questions when Koneko suddenly leans into him and uncontrollable sobs wrack her frame, the shock finally settling in. Master grimaces for her sake, and above her head, offers Art a dishtowel. Art shakes his head; he'll have to move in order to take it, and some instinct tells him that the moment he moves would be the moment that Koneko would fall silent and bottle all her emotions inside her.
If it were any other witness, Art would have done so. But it's Koneko next to him, this Koneko who trusts him—him!, and so Art just wraps a hand around her back, experimentally mimicking Master's action earlier. When Koneko leans into the hold, Art considers his efforts successful.
Before he realises it, Koneko's fallen asleep; one hand curled around her towel and another wrapped in Art's jacket. That's when Art's phone vibrates in a specific pattern.
Nice is calling.
Art's just decided how he should apologise to Koneko for waking her when Master appears, and large hands expertly extract her grip without disturbing her sleep. Art tries not to think about how Koneko's fingers had tugged at his shirt and her expression pinched.
He, too, wants to stay. But if Nice is calling, it can only be about Moral.
Art drops into a quick bow.
"Thank you, Master," he says, quickly.
Master's stare is unreadable.
"Would you return after?" Master asks. It sounds less like a question and more like a command.
Art's gaze trails to Koneko, and he says, "I will."
Moral dies.
While Art's pulling the trigger, he wonders past the bile in his throat if the slimeball had used his hair to threaten Koneko rather than piano wire.
By the time Art returns to Café Nowhere, it's well past midnight. The building is like a lantern in the darkness, gushing bright yellow light into the chilly air. The sign says 'Closed', but Master is sitting by the window. He's obviously waiting; as soon as Art's presence hovers outside, he rises to his feet, unlocks the door, and gestures him in.
"Koneko is resting," says Master, before Art manages to speak. "Nightmares."
Art's smile falls off. From past experiences, he knows the nightmares will last for weeks at least. One does not pass murderers without dark stains on their memories after all.
"Please pass on my best wishes," Art says.
Master nods.
A silence falls between them, these two men in the entryway. It's not the companionable silence which Art had felt when facing Koneko, but the silence of gladiatorial pride. Café Nowhere transforms from a home into a stadium. The bright lights which had beckoned Art inside are now spotlamps highlighting every ridge on each of their faces, and every possible weakness, as they faced each other down. No crowds sit physically present, but there are still crowds cheering and jeering from the heart pumping in his chest and the testosterone blazing through his veins.
Though Art isn't sure which of them set up the atmosphere, Master initiated the battle, threw the gauntlet with a slight shift in his stance. Bidden by the primeval knowledge beating between his ears, Art inclines his head and accepts the challenge.
Time passes.
Master truly does have great muscles, thinks Art, then instantly stabs the thought before he can acknowledge it and casts it away.
Even more time passes.
Master is focused on Art's eyes, Art's hair. Art's lips unconsciously slide into a smirk and he draws himself taller. He easily discards the mental image of a peacock preening.
They're still watching one another by the time a watch beeps on the hour. Art can barely remember when or why it had started, but the face-off's gone on for so long that to back down now...
Even considering the possibility is absolutely unacceptable.
And so they continue to stare.
Finally, after an eternity, Master turns away. Not in defeat, but in a promise that the match would continue at a later time. Still, the yielding is enough for Art's pride to chalk it up as a victory in his direction.
Art's conscious mind hopes, equally as dearly as it is tired, that it wouldn't be any time in the near future.
"Koneko trusts you a lot," says Master.
Before combat, Art would not have realised the correct response. He'd thought that Koneko was just the type of girl to trust in others, and that she would have shown the same behaviour toward anyone else. But a connection was made during their showdown; Master had told Art in the ancient language that he did not think Art was taking Koneko seriously.
It's Art's role to prove how thankful he is that she respects him.
"I will make sure that trust is not misplaced, sir," Art replies.
Master smiles, and Art knows it's not only Koneko's trust which he's been given.
Art calls Master, first, to obtain his permission for their outing. It's an olive branch, an apology for not understanding. Master's approving tone when he authorises it told Art that he's more than fallen in good favour.
When he invites Koneko, and she steps confusedly into his car, he doesn't tell her where they're going.
"You're acting kind of strange, Art," she says, when they've stopped at a red light.
Art blinks and turns. "Strange?"
"You're not a fidgeting type of person but you keep tapping against the steering wheel."
So he is.
"I... suppose I'm just in a good mood," he admits.
"Really?" And Koneko perks up, finding a trail toward solving the mystery. "What for?"
"I want to introduce you to my brother."
Art is confused when Koneko squeaks and curls up in her seat.
By the time she starts muttering to herself, Art is more than very confused.
After he begins to park the car, her shoulders have fallen in realisation.
"Oh," she says.
No more words are exchanged until they pass the wrought iron gates of the cemetery. Art steps onto the correct path without a second's pause, expertly navigates the rows of headstones in a world where trees whispered and even birds dared not sing.
"When..." begins Koneko.
Art holds up an arm, asking her to stay silent. It would be rude to hold a conversation around those they did not know.
Soon enough, they approach an all-too-familiar tree, and Art stops before his brother's grave. He takes a moment to greet him, crouches forward with hands touched together in prayer. Hello, Skill, he thinks. It hasn't been too long since I and everyone else visited, but... I brought you a friend.
Art vaguely notes Koneko's presence kneeling next to him. He wonders if Skill would mind meeting her. Probably not; Skill was a people person, whereas Art preferred to stay in his shadow.
It's when he straightens again that he sees what Koneko'd placed down.
"That..." begins Art.
"Ah, sorry," and Koneko starts waving her arms in unison with the small white napkin-lily in the breeze, "that was all I had on me, I would have brought something if I knew..."
Art smiles.
"It's fine," he says, and turns back to the headstone. "Skill loves origami."
Koneko looks at Art as if trying to determine if he's lying. "Really?"
"Really. It..." Art's breath chokes; he forces himself to swallow the rock lodged in his throat. "It's the act of creation. Skill always... always loved stories, loved bringing things to life..."
A wetness slides down one cheek. Koneko offers him another napkin, and Art just closes his eyes and shakes his head. Some people said memories would fade with time, but his memories of Skill folding paper cranes feel like yesterday.
"I'll fold a thousand, just like in the tales," Skill resolved, after a failed first attempt, determination in every fibre of his body. "And then..."
"...And then a thousand paper cranes would give us Minimums."
"Did you...?"
Art shakes his head. "Skill only reached three hundred and fifty-four."
"Skill..." echoes Koneko.
Her voice holds traces of wistfulness, and Art turns back to look at her. Koneko's knelt down again, the napkin which had been offered to Art still in her hands. She unfurls the napkin, runs fingers down stressed creases, and then deftly begins to fold. Her movements are experienced, entrancing. Her tail is entirely still.
When Koneko reaches out and places the napkin-crane beside the lily, for an instant, Art sees Skill.
The instant vanishes.
"Three hundred and fifty-five," says Koneko. "Skill, if you wish for something, never give up hope! Master says that wishes are just luck, and luck can be improved by hard work. Now you're thirty-five-point-five percent of the way there! If getting a Minimum is what you and Art want, I'm sure you'll reach it together."
If Koneko expects any response, she receives none. The breeze has stopped, and Art stands silently, wondering what Skill would think in reply.
Art wipes his tears off with the back of one hand.
"Are we leaving?" says Koneko.
"Yes," says Art. "I... my break ends soon. There are still a lot of loose ends that the lawyers would like us to tie, even though Moral has been taken care of."
Koneko puts her hands together. Her tail is slowly swishing again. "Okay. Bye, Skill, thanks for letting me visit."
Sorry, Skill, thinks Art, that this is the first time I've introduced one of my new friends.
Letting others meet his brother isn't so bad. Perhaps, next time, Art should invite Gasuke.
When they pull up at Café Nowhere, Koneko tightens her hands into fists atop her knees.
"Hey, Art?" says Koneko.
Art cuts the engine and shifts the car into park.
"Yes, Koneko?" he replies, in much the same tone.
There's a pause. A jolt runs up and down her tail.
Koneko's eyes meet his, and she says, "I like you."
"...What?"
She's staring with such intensity that Art can't break the gaze. It takes a heartbeat until his eyes widen, and his chest hitches, and his arms fall weak at his sides. An incredible clarity settles across all the senses. They're sharper than they've ever been. His world has never been so clear, his hearing never sensitive enough to pick up Koneko's breathing from an arms' length away, his tongue able to not only taste the faint aftertaste of the sweet he'd eaten after visiting Skill but even each individual grain of sugar.
And everything suddenly makes sense.
"Oh," says Art.
His remark breaks the mood and Koneko twitches.
"Oh?" echoes Koneko, and then she sags as the irritation drains out of her. "Do you not..."
"No, it's not – it's not that," says Art, tripping over his words. "I simply..."
Didn't think I could ever be loved?
Art hesitates.
—and then he gasps and clutches his head. He sees visions of Skill, but Skill with a darkened visor, shirtless and vulnerable, strapped into a great hulking coffin of steel and cords and cables connected directly into his skin. Everything jumps into Art's throat all at once, and he wants to throw up, but there's nothing to –
Frantic hands grip his arm. "Art!"
– Skill in the machine smiles, red melts from his lips and tears weep from electronic eyes, and he says, "Nii-san..."
"Art!"
"Live..."
...
The person called Art doesn't know how long he sits there, in that hazy world, senses muted, staring at nothing. That person runs through the images again, wondering if it's the effect of some Minimum, or else where did they come from?
They are too true to be the Minimum.
Something cold is pressed to his head, and his head is tilted back. There's sound in his right (right?) ear. Languages he doesn't understand.
Languages he does understand.
Words too far away.
"...should call Ratio, he—"
Art coughs.
"Nnnngh." The towel on his head slips. "Ah—what..."
Koneko's face appears in his vision. He's lying down, still in the driver's seat of his car. She reaches over for where the towel had fallen and reapplies it to his head.
"Please stay still, Art," she tells him, making to leave. "Master is calling Ratio now—"
She yelps. Art doesn't know why until he notices he'd grabbed her by the arm.
"Don't go..." he mutters. "Was that... memory?"
Live.
Koneko'd obeyed his request. She stands beside him, if slightly awkwardly, unsure whether to keep her hands to herself or to help him. Art remembers her confession, and wonders about the vision.
A message from Skill.
Koneko's tail twitches nervously, and the sight of the toy brings to Art's face a smile.
Nii-san, live.
Art imagines himself looking over the pool within his heart. He stretches his arms before him, before grasping the steering wheel at the helm of his craft.
"Koneko," he says.
She's there in an instant. "Are you alright? Is anything wrong?"
"Koneko, I..." If that is what you want, Skill. One step at a time. He'll create his own waves. "I would be... willing to try."
That is how Art remembers killing his brother.
You'll start your 『 ｈｅａｌｉｎｇ 』 now.
Tell me: is it painful?
/FIN/
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