Change of plans. This is going to be fifteen chapters long.

I'm thinking of putting up a poll, one that asks who you think the murderer is, but I'm afraid that'd narrow down the choices for you. And if I were to include everyone… then the poll would be longer than my profile page. So, if you like, PM me who you think the murderer is, because I'm sure you have much more evidence now than you did before. And just because the focus is around Hyotei—and Yuushi—right now doesn't mean the murderer is from Hyotei. ;) Consider everyone, because the other teams are going to be getting the spotlight next chapter.

"He's dead."

Yuushi flinched at the sound of shattering porcelain. "Hiyoshi?" he asked. "Hiyoshi, are you alright?"

There was no reply, and for a moment, Yuushi wondered if the murderer had gotten to him, too. Then a shaky voice said, "Yeah, I'm okay. You're headed to Ohtori's house, then? I—I'll meet you there." With that, he hung up, and Yuushi headed to the flat.

Hiyoshi would probably take this the hardest—second to Shishido, at least, Yuushi realized. They were very close—and Choutaro was one of the most amiable people Yuushi had met. It was easy, very easy to get attached to him. The boy was remarkably talented, kind, generous, a saint—he'd had everything.

Niou, too, he thought.

---

Yuushi glanced around the room. Shishido and Ohtori—Shishido—had a very well-furnished flat. It was impeccably styled, the windows allowing just the right amount of sunlight to enter. The atmosphere that the room gave off was cheery, unfit for such a calamity. It was a lovely flat; the two of them had been rather well-off, and he supposed they'd had a knack for such a thing to begin with. Oddly, nothing seemed out of place. He'd been taken to Ohtori's still unmoved body as soon as he'd entered, and as far as he could tell, it was a clean shot to the occipital lobe, with nothing else in the room misplaced.

It was eerily reminiscent of Niou's murder.

Shishido was nearing hysterics by the time Yuushi had arrived. Hiyoshi was already there, panicked and franticly checking every corner of the flat. His eyes were rimmed with red, like he'd been crying. Yuushi didn't doubt it. He was greeted by neither Hiyoshi nor Shishido when he entered, only by a police officer who'd informed him that an autopsy would be performed immediately and he was welcome to investigate the room as he wished. Yuushi opted to sit across from Shishido instead, and calmly waited for Shishido to finish mumbling to himself. He lost his patience after the first ten minutes, and said, "Would you mind if I asked some questions?"

"It's my fault," Shishido said, staring at the wall. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have—I didn't—"

Yuushi cut him off. "It's not your fault. You didn't kill him."

"I may as well have," he said wretchedly. "I should've died—it should've been me. Choutaro didn't do anything." Then he paled. "I doubted him. I shouldn't have doubted him. He was telling the truth and I doubted him."

"Doubted what?" Yuushi tried, but Shishido was shaking his head wildly.

"It's my fault," he lamented, his breath coming in gasps. "Oh, God, Choutaro, if you can hear me, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry . . ."

Yuushi grabbed hold of Shishido's shoulders. "Get a hold of yourself," he said slowly. "You're panicking, and you're hyperventilating. In about two minutes you're going to stop breathing, and then you're going to die too, and we'll never find the murderer. So calm down."

Shishido didn't seem to have heard Yuushi's order, and put a hand over his mouth, breathing slowly. He was still muttering quietly, but Yuushi couldn't make out a word of it. Something about coffee and mansions . . .

"Do as you wish," he said flatly. "Feel sorry for yourself for the rest of your life. But if you ever want to find the murderer, then you'll have to help me. And don't go on about how you killed Choutaro, because, really, I'm not falling for it."

Well, that was harsh.

Shishido glanced upward, like there was nothing more he'd like to do than strangle him, but drew another shaky breath and stared at his hands.

Yuushi gave a long sigh. "Tell me the truth this time," he said gently.

Shishido was still pale, and his expression was heartbreaking. "Some of the story was true," he explained shakily. His voice cracked, and the words sounded like they were dragged by thorns. "Choutaro's father didn't approve of our business—he didn't approve of me in general. He comes from a much higher class than I do—you know that. To be honest, he wouldn't even need to work. But he liked interior design, and we were close. It was enjoyable, and Choutaro was happy. That's all there is to it. But his father never liked it, and he told Choutaro it was either the business or his inheritance."

"And Choutaro chose the business," Yuushi concluded.

Shishido laughed humorlessly. "Yeah. It was my fault," he said, sounding miserable. "It was my fault to begin with, and it's my fault he's dead. Niou had nothing to do with the inheritance issue—he was always fond of Choutaro, and he and I were okay, too. He was always defending us; he commissioned tons of buildings, and we ended up receiving a lot of publicity because of him. He was great."

Yuushi nodded slowly. "But it wasn't your fault," he reminded. "Choutaro chose the business because he liked design, and he enjoyed your company. He was perfectly aware of his decision, and lounging around was never to his preferences, anyway. But tell me—why did you cover for him?"

"You suspected him," Shishido replied. "You're good at what you do, Oshitari. And I thought Choutaro was the murderer."

"Why?"

"I saw him," he answered. "Niou went upstairs half an hour before Choutaro did, and when he did, I followed him. I thought it was weird, and he didn't seem to notice me. But I lost him for a while. Then I saw him outside the main room, and I saw him walk back downstairs. He didn't see me. I didn't think anything of it, but then they said Niou was dead, that they found his body in the main room, and then I knew."

"Didn't you think it was odd that Choutaro and Niou were on such good terms, though?"

"He didn't deny it when I asked," Shishido said vaguely. At Yuushi's confused stare, he explained, "I told him that I killed Niou. And Choutaro said it couldn't be me, and he was about to say who it was when he stopped. I figured he was going to say himself, but didn't want to admit it, or something." He shook his head. "But it couldn't have been Choutaro. He's dead," he spat. "He wouldn't commit suicide. I know him. So he couldn't have killed Niou."

Yuushi nodded slowly. "You're right," he agreed. "It wasn't Choutaro. And from what you've said, it appears that they'd been fond of each other—he'd have no reason to kill him. And if there were, you'd be aware of it."

"So I covered for him. I thought it was him. I shouldn't have doubted him." And then he was muttering under his breath, "Shouldn't have doubted you, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have doubted you . . ." He took a shaky breath and continued, "You see? I owed it to him. It was my fault he lost his inheritance. He shouldn't have had to work—he didn't need to live in the city. He had two houses in the suburbs and mansions all over the world. And thanks to me he lost it."

"He wouldn't have wanted it," Yuushi assured. "He liked living with you, liked living in the city, and he liked working. He was happy."

"He lost his inheritance because of me," Shishido said blankly. "That's it."

"Then that's why you covered for him?"

He looked up and said fiercely, "I would've taken the blame even if he hadn't lost his inheritance."

"I know," Yuushi murmured.

"And now it was all for naught," he muttered. "But it doesn't make sense. Why Choutaro?"

"Why Niou?" Yuushi pointed out in reply. "It's odd—it's very odd. Why would the murderer strike now?" He hesitated. "Did Choutaro visit anyone recently? Have any sort of private meetings?"

Shishido thought for a moment. "Not that I know of. Choutaro was pretty sociable, you know? I mean, he'd meet up with some of our clients, and they'd talk like they were old friends or something. People just liked him. I don't get why anyone would—"

"I've done an investigation," Hiyoshi interrupted, entering the guestroom. "There isn't much of anything; nothing's really out of place, from what I can tell. Did you notice anything when you entered, Shishido-san?"

He shook his head. "I didn't really look too closely," he admitted. "But everything seemed right."

Hiyoshi nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought. I can't find the gun, either. The murderer probably took it with him." He hesitated. "It was a nine millimeter bullet. It would've worked with Niou's pearl revolver, too. Nine millimeter bullets are pretty common among handheld pistols, so it doesn't narrow anything down, really. He—or she—might've been carrying the bullets with him. There were no other bullets seen, and from the looks of it, the blood was Ohtori's only. We'll look into it," he assured.

Yuushi glanced at Shishido, said, "We'll be right back," and pulled Hiyoshi out of the room. "About the body . . ."

Hiyoshi frowned. "He's been dead for an hour and a half, roughly. Around the time Shishido called you, he'd probably been dead for an hour, or forty-five minutes. The murderer would've had ample time to escape. What I don't understand is how he managed to get in without anyone noticing. It's awfully coincidental—almost all of their neighbors were away at the time, or didn't notice anything unusual."

Yuushi murmured agreement. "The neighbors here know Choutaro and Shishido very well," he acknowledged. "They would've realized something was off had they seen anyone else."

"This would be so much easier if it were like one of those detective novels," Hiyoshi commented. "With their footprints, magnifying glasses, and whatnot."

"I think you mean detective movies. And that'd make things too easy, wouldn't it? Was there anything else you noticed?"

Hiyoshi glanced back at the guestroom, where Shishido sat on the couch, studying the coffee table. "Do you think it was another instance of Russian roulette?"

"Why do you say that?" Yuushi supposed he already knew, but was curious to know what Hiyoshi had made of the situation.

"Well . . . if it's a repeated murder, and it's the same murderer—if he didn't want to be caught, he'd probably use a different tactic, but . . ." He sighed wearily. "I don't know how to explain it," he admitted. "It's just—the way he shot. The bullet was in the perfect position—a quick kill, like his first murder. And unless he'd been extremely skilled and experienced, it would've been difficult to make such a clean first shot."

"In the instance of Russian roulette, Choutaro would've had to shoot himself. Do you suppose he would've done it willingly?"

"The murderer was someone we knew," Hiyoshi murmured. "Assuming it'd been a friend of Ohtori's—then yes, he might've done it willingly."

"But what for?" he pressed.

"I've no idea," Hiyoshi admitted.

Yuushi nodded. "Then we'll further investigate this at the office."

They stopped by to inform Shishido of their leave, but the brunette barely acknowledged their presence; he'd given them the faintest of nods, without a word. Hiyoshi looked especially worried, and tentatively tried to comfort him. "He's safest where he is, now," he said unsurely. "And there's no drama to hold him back, anymore."

Shishido showed no sign of having heard his words, and the two men left.

---

The sun was bright when they exited, and the sky was a brilliant blue.

Hiyoshi took one glance at the beautiful weather and promptly punched a tree.

Yuushi frowned at him. "We don't need you getting hurt, too," he said sharply. "This isn't the time. And," he said, only partly joking, "if the murderer comes after you, too, you'll need a hand to defend yourself with. Don't break it on a tree."

Hiyoshi chuckled dryly, looking down at his hand. "Why Ohtori?" he asked, after a few moments of silence. "He never did anything. If he'd just—been too busy for the party, or something. And he could've missed the reunion. Then he'd still—I don't know."

Yuushi nodded grimly. "Everybody was present," he acknowledged. "It's unfortunate for us, and for them. Too many suspects, too many potential victims."

"But Ohtori never did anything," Hiyoshi said doggedly. "He—he volunteered at the animal shelter. He donated to charity. He always brought money with him when he traveled, in case he ran into the homeless. He—"

"I know."

Hiyoshi fell silent for a moment. "It's not fair," he said, "that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Many people were," Yuushi reminded him. "We were, too."

"I hope nothing else happens," Hiyoshi said, walking away from the trees and toward the police station. "Two deaths—already. It's awful. If everything stops, nothing else happens . . ."

"That'd be pleasant," Yuushi agreed. "But unlikely."

---

The news of Ohtori's death spread quickly. He was liked by many; Hyotei wasn't the only ones mourning. Yuushi had heard that Gakuto and Kikumaru Eiji had joined forces for once and rushed to Shishido's and Ohtori's flat. The police weren't allowing any visitors, and there were already a number of paparazzi present, clamoring for a shot at Ohtori Choutaro, a talented designer, who'd suffered the same fate as the esteemed Niou Masaharu. Kikumaru had been awfully fond of Choutaro; they'd been friends throughout middle school, even with the rivalry their two schools shared, and had kept in touch all throughout high school and college. He'd heard that he'd pleasantly drop-kicked a reporter who'd pushed him out of the way.

He assumed that Gakuto's reaction had been a bit less . . . volatile.

Hyotei, essentially, was in a rage—Choutaro had been the youngest, kindest, sweetest, and one of the most talented members, and nobody could find a good reason for his murder. Seigaku and RikkaiDai both gave their sympathies, but it was of little comfort to Hyotei.

Yuushi had anticipated most of their reactions, but he had to admit that Fuji's was extraordinarily peculiar.

He'd invited Yuushi out to dinner.

"Dinner?" Yuushi had repeated, disbelieving. "Ohtori died today, Fuji. You want to celebrate his death?"

"No," Fuji answered. "I want to celebrate your lack of accomplishments as a detective. Need you question my motives? You can't even get me to answer your questions with a straight answer. What makes you think I'll answer you now?"

That, Yuushi admitted, despite the twisted logic, made sense.

"The Four Seasons," Fuji told him. "At eight o'clock. I've made reservations. Don't be late."

Dial tone.

Yuushi hung up the phone.

---

It was a fancy restaurant, Yuushi knew; his family had been there more than once, and although he hadn't particularly cared for the food, he did quite like the scenery—a water fountain, dimmed lights, classical music.

It did always seem like the type of place Fuji would go to.

He'd carelessly tossed on the first suit and tie he'd seen, and walked into the restaurant with no qualms. He spotted Fuji almost instantly, and was ushered in by a waiter. Fuji greeted him with a blindingly brilliant smile, and waved away the waiter, who bowed politely and looking a little worse for wear.

"How are you?" Fuji asked pleasantly.

"One of my best friends just died," Yuushi replied briefly. "I must admit, I'm not in the best of moods."

Fuji laughed. "That," he agreed, "is a very reasonable excuse. Very well. We'll talk crossly, if it makes you feel better."

"Why did you ask to meet me here? You've invited me to coffee shops, to boutiques and offices, and never have you once provided me with a straight answer."

Fuji leaned in. "I'm aware that you and Choutaro were very close. I'm also aware that Choutaro was a wonderful person. Life's horribly unfair, Oshitari. But you can change that."

"By?"

He leaned back. "Solving the case."

"Don't you think I know that?" Yuushi demanded, half exasperated, half annoyed.

"By convicting the murderer," he emphasized. "It's one thing to solve a case, and it's another to punish the murderer." People were starting to stare at them now—two young men, dressed impeccably, at one of the best restaurants in the world, talking about murder. Yuushi lowered his voice.

"Why wouldn't I do so?"

Fuji glanced away, then back. "These people are all people we're close to. Niou, for instance, might've been a peculiar character, but you'll acknowledge that he was amiable, and a friend to most of us. It could be difficult to convict someone we grew up with, don't you think?"

"His crimes are unforgivable," Yuushi said briskly.

"You say that because Choutaro suffered because of it," Fuji began.

"He's dead. You can't suffer much more than that."

"Wrong," Fuji said. "But I'm not going to argue about that now. Choutaro suffered, and you were close to him, which is why you're so—cranky today." He seemed amused, and continued, "What if the murderer is someone you're even closer to?"

"Why are you doubting me so much? Do you find me so untrustworthy that you think I'd let a criminal escape? How much do you know about the case, exactly?"

"Much more than you do," he said mirthfully. "And more than I care to admit." Fuji smiled pleasantly. "Don't you miss our middle school days? When we'd all just met each other, and had nothing more to worry about than tennis games and competitions. No drama."

"No drama," Yuushi agreed. "Yes, I do miss it. But it's pointless to be nostalgic at this point. How can someone change so much?"

"You mean, from a tennis player to a murderer? Who knows? It must be a thrilling life he leads," he mused. "Having to kill off any and all witnesses. I'd bet he never thought killing one person could be so complicated. Or maybe that wasn't what you meant." He propped his chin on one hand. "Tell me, how's your love life? Nonexistent?"

"Quite."

Fuji laughed. "That's to be expected," he agreed. "Have you spoken a word to Gakuto-kun since your lovely duet at the music store? Don't ask me how I knew; even you know that's a waste of time."

"I haven't spoken to him at all," he said stiffly.

"Charming with women," Fuji acknowledged, "and an absolute mess with Gakuto-kun. I'd be amused if it hadn't been such a tragic day."

"You do sound amused."

"So I do," he said pleasantly. "You're fond of him, aren't you? But I believe that's all there is to it."

Yuushi gave a start at that. It was true, he realized; in all his years with Gakuto, he'd never quite considered the prospect of sharing anything more than friendship with him; but there'd been something then that was missing now.

And never had he once thought that he'd be the one caught, the one left behind, the one chasing after Gakuto, never close enough and always too far. That Gakuto, loudmouthed and rude, all sharp edges and brash retorts—

And this Gakuto, quiet and dignified, all refined points and subtle finesse. He liked this Gakuto, he really did—it was everything he could've wished for; someone elegant, practical, a high society type, artistically talented, a Midas touch. This Gakuto was perfect, and he was fond of him, so fond of him. He'd never liked someone quite so much before.

But something was lacking.

There was a sparkle missing, flashiness lacking, rudeness and recklessness and silliness and all—missing. And there was a sensation missing, a jumping of the heart, a clench of the stomach, a dizziness and a happiness and a sort of relaxation, all missing.

He was awfully fond of this new Gakuto. He liked this new Gakuto, liked him very much.

He wished he could love him.

Fuji nodded firmly. "Ask him out," he said. "What've you got to lose?"

They spent the rest of the night making small talk, but both sides seemed strangely absentminded. Waiters and clients alike stared openly at them. Both strangely ethereal and handsome, young, with their entire lives ahead of them, acting as if they had the largest burdens in the world.

Now, what could they possibly have to worry about? they wondered.

---

Tear-stained bedsheets, a heap of tissues by the floor, Choutaro's notes placed carefully by his bedside. A dark room, a young brunette, lying carelessly on the bed, too grief-stricken to properly settle. Labored breaths.

A revolver spun, pointing to him. It was a foolish sentiment. A revolver picked up. Shot. Swiftly to the head.

The brunette gave no shudder, no convulsion. But the breathing stopped.

Someone left the room.

---

His office was still dark and dreary. The building was almost empty, but he stayed behind.

Yuushi thought.

"Are you alright, Oshitari-san?"

"You don't look fine, Oshitari-san. Tell me what happened. Please?"

"Shishido-san is outside, so if you'd rather tell him . . ."

"I think it's the room. It's dreary."

"It's the mood. You see, the plants never go there; they're always at least a foot away from the window. It provides a lighter tone. Also, the blinds don't go very well with the rest of the room. It's too modern, and it contrasts with the feel of the rest of your office. Besides, it makes your office look a bit like a jail cell. What else? Oh! Your desk shouldn't face the wall; like that; it's too restricting. You have such a roomy office; why not place it somewhere near the center?"

And then:

"Alright. Someday, Ohtori, you may remodel the office for me."

Choutaro beamed. "Can I, really?"

Too late to cry about it now, he thought.

He stood in his office, eyeing the heap of things he'd bought from the furniture door. Then he walked over to the plants, and pushed them a foot away from the window. He pulled out a pair of light, silvery curtains and took down the blinds, replacing them. And then he pushed the desk away from the wall, and toward the center.

It does look better, he realized, and smiled forlornly.

He turned off the light and went home.