If you want to figure out who the murderer is, this is definitely the chapter to do it! It's like, a chapter of clues and whatnot, so make the most of it, 'kay?
(And I know I was supposed to update Romeo and Juliet first, but I really couldn't help it. This chapter is over ten thousand words, which is like, happiness in a bottle.)
Also! (I've got to stop with these crazy author's notes.) Challenge! :) Maybe, haha. See, I really, really like Disney. Well, old Disney. New Disney is awful, but the classics—Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, The Little Mermaid, Mulan, Alice in Wonderland, Robin Hood—that stuff is awesome. And I especially love the songs they sing. So I'll be using five references to those songs—like, sampling a line—or even just a phrase. They can appear in any of my stories or summaries—starting now. The person who can catch all five of my references gets to request anything at all—multichapter, saga, poetry, or just a oneshot. I kind of doubt anyone's going to get it all, haha, but it'll be fun! Embrace the classics!
Yuushi was listening to rock music, which, in itself, was a bit of an odd thing for him to do. He was known for his classical tastes—classical music, classical literature, classical everything. But at the moment, a Metro Station song was blaring from his iPod, which he'd put on speaker. Seventeen Forever, he recalled, and smiled wryly.
It was an American song, and it'd been Gakuto's favorite.
He honestly doubted Gakuto had paid attention to the lyrics back then, but it would've been appropriate, even if he hadn't. Forbidden love, eternal youth, wanting something to last forever—Yuushi almost laughed at the irony.
One mistake from being together, he thought.
The song was a little too melancholic for his tastes—at the moment, anyway—and he waited until the song was over, before switching to another one. Gakuto had always loved the band Metro Station; their songs had a catchy rhythm that practically defined him, and were easy to dance to. Those were the only two things Gakuto ever looked for in a song. Yuushi wondered what his tastes in music were, now.
Probably the Tannhäuser Overture.
They used to be so different. Yuushi had liked that—he'd liked so much about him. Liked how brash he was, liked how silly and crude and rude and reckless he was.
If Yuushi had wanted a high society type, he'd have married one of those stuck up, refined ladies his mother had introduced to him.
One mistake from being together.
The next song was Shake It, by the same band—same catchy beat, same danceable quality. Yuushi closed his eyes and listened. His English was decent, and as far as he could tell, it was just about a boy who'd met a girl, a girl who could dance. There were sexual undertones, he supposed, but almost every song in the world had those. He couldn't understand why Gakuto had loved these songs so much back in school, but he fathomed it now.
It was easy.
It was the same reason he went to clubs and danced. It was easy, so easy to just find a random stranger and listen to the music, dance along, and think about nothing. Living like that, like every day was an eternity, like one may or may not live to see the next.
Yuushi found it to be an enviable quality.
Pretending nothing had ever happened might have been easy, too. Pretending none of the clues pointed to Gakuto, pretending he could fall in love with him, pretending he had no feelings for him at all—he could do it, if he tried. Even if Gakuto were the murderer, he doubted he'd be able to convict him, arrest him. He wondered if he'd be able to, if he really did have to.
Yuushi wondered if it'd be worth it.
His phone rang, and he almost didn't hear it over the blare of the iPod.
Gakuto?
He answered it, but didn't turn off the song. It was loud enough to hear over the phone, he knew, and for a moment, he hoped Gakuto would recognize it.
"Hello?"
"Yuushi? Are you… occupied?"
(You busy?)
"No," Yuushi said.
"If you're available, would you like to meet up with me? I'm completely free today."
(Wanna hang out? I'm so bored.)
"Sure. Where, and when?"
"Would the museum be adequate? I haven't seen it since I moved. And, right now, if you'd like."
(Let's go to the museum. I miss it. Let's go now, since you're not doing anything, lazy Yuushi.)
"That'd be fine; I'll see you there."
"Thank you, Yuushi. Oh, if I may ask—what is the song you're playing?"
(Cool. Nice song! By Metro Station, right? What's the name, again?)
Yuushi felt his hopes rise for a moment. "A song by Metro Station. Do you know it?"
"It sounds familiar." A pause. "Although, it's awfully loud. I'll see you there, then. Good bye."
(Right, Shake It, I love that one! You're not playing it loud enough, Yuushi! Alright, see ya.)
Dial tone.
Everything Gakuto should have said. Everything Gakuto did say. Opposites, opposites.
Yuushi wondered if Gakuto really didn't recognize it. It wouldn't have been completely surprising, admittedly. He held the phone in his hands and turned it over, stared a hole into it, as if that'd provide him with his answer.
He was completely at a loss.
The museum wasn't too far from where he lived, and he grabbed a jacket before leaving. It was still fairly early morning, and he'd intended to work on the case.
He decided it could wait. And, somewhat guiltily, he realized that talking to Gakuto could help him with his case, whether Gakuto meant to do so or not. He used to be an open book, used to wear his heart on his sleeve. He'd probably learned to lie by now, but Yuushi decided it was worth a try. There wasn't much to lose, was there? Marui was dead, Choutaro was dead, Shishido and Niou were dead. He texted Hiyoshi, and told him he'd probably be out for most of the day.
If you can do some of the office work on your own, I'd be very grateful, he'd said.
Hiyoshi had responded with a No problem, but Yuushi still felt guilty.
He walked. It wasn't a long trek, and he knew he had plenty of time before the museum opened. It was still winter, but he felt as though the weather was warmer. It wasn't snowing today, and for once, the sky wasn't gray. He wondered if that was a good omen.
It was the end of January, and he couldn't say he was looking forward to February.
There were a few people gathered by the museum, probably tourists. They were chattering excitedly to themselves, and talking about some new exhibition. Yuushi realized that he hadn't been to the museum in a while, either.
"Yuushi."
With a barely noticeable jolt, Yuushi realized he'd walked right past Gakuto—and almost right into the (closed) museum doors. "Oh," he muttered under his breath, and turned around. Gakuto greeted him, trying to hold back a laugh. Yuushi smiled. "What brought this on?" he asked, gesturing to the museum.
Gakuto glanced at it, then looked back at Yuushi. "I've done a lot since I came back to Tokyo," he said, "but I spent most of my time talking to the Japanese lawyers and businesspeople. The museum is a bit more relaxed."
Yuushi nodded in reply, and almost sighed. It wasn't the response he'd been hoping for, but it'd have to do. "Why don't we go for a walk? We have almost fifteen minutes until the museum opens," he offered. Say yes.
"Okay," Gakuto agreed. They walked down the museum steps in silence, Gakuto taking confident strides, but eyes looking down. Yuushi would've thought that he was insecure, but he didn't know, anymore. Fifteen year old Gakuto used to walk with a swagger, and look down when he was nervous.
Let's say he is nervous. What about?
He noted that Gakuto looked up every few seconds, then looked away. Once or twice he opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and made some offhand comment about how the weather was improving.
Yuushi commented, "Do you remember—back when we were seventeen? We always came to this museum. Whenever—"
"Whenever your mother brought you a new engagement candidate," Gakuto finished. "Yes, I do. I met some of them with you."
"They were awful," Yuushi said, with some degree of amusement.
"They were elegant," Gakuto defended. "High class. Well-mannered. Your family liked them."
"They always did like those types."
"They were perfect for you. You needed somebody like that—someone you could rely on, and someone who'd complement you."
Yuushi let out a breathy laugh, and shook his head. "I was more interested in playing tennis," he pointed out, "with you."
"Your parents didn't like that," Gakuto said under his breath. He still looked tense, and Yuushi wished he'd tell him just what was going on.
"Do you want to tell me something?"
Gakuto's head snapped up at the comment. "Why do you ask?" he asked, his voice carefully steady. His gaze didn't waver, and his pupils didn't dilate, but it made sense—it wasn't a lie.
Yuushi held the stare, and for a moment, he thought he saw something waver. " Is it something important? Can't you trust me? I know it's been a while," he said softly, "but we're still Yuushi and Gakuto, aren't we?" He hated how hopeful his voice sounded—desperate, almost. He didn't do desperate. He never did desperate. He had never, never been desperate before.
He was desperate.
"It's not that," Gakuto finally said. His voice sounded like it'd crack, but he held it steady. "Some things I can't tell you, okay?"
"You don't want to?" Yuushi persisted. "Or you can't?"
"Both," he snapped. "Drop it."
"No," Yuushi retorted. "You've been acting strangely ever since you arrived in Japan. You grew up, fine." Gakuto seemed to flinch at that. "I don't see how anything else has changed."
"Nothing changed; that's the problem," Gakuto said. "Don't do this."
"Don't do what? Talk to you? You invited me here, didn't you?"
"You agreed to it."
"I didn't think we'd be walking in silence for two hours. How dare I assume that I'm actually allowed to talk to my friends," Yuushi replied sarcastically.
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" He loathed being frustrated, but for once, he couldn't help it. What was the secret? What could possibly have been so important that—
Yuushi stopped walking.
It took Gakuto a moment to realize that he was walking alone, and turned back to see Yuushi standing there, stricken. "What?"
"Gakuto, did you . . . ?"
"Did I what?"
Was he trying to confess?
To the murders?
Gakuto's not the murderer, he told himself, fiercely. Can't be.
He shook his head, and caught up with him. "Never mind," he said quietly, and tossed his head back. Why do I keep doing this? Ruining this? Why did I bring it up? He should've known—he'd never have been able to convict Gakuto, if he were the murderer. He prayed Gakuto wasn't.
"Can we please not talk about this?" Gakuto asked softly, and looked up at him with pleading blue eyes. "One day. Just for today."
Yuushi was startled by the offer, but shook his head. "You don't have to talk about it, ever," he replied, "if you don't want to. I'm sorry."
It wasn't his fault, but it wasn't Gakuto's, either—and he'd been the one who'd brought it up. It wasn't fair, this tension.
"I'm sorry, too," Gakuto murmured, and took a deep breath. "I'd like to tell you," he confessed, "someday. Just . . . not now. But I really do want to tell you."
"Thank you for that."
"Mm." Gakuto turned away again, looking bothered by something. Yuushi took in the sharp curve of his jaw, his brilliant eyes, an odd mix of blue and grey. He took in his crimson bob, the way it just barely grazed his chin, and thought, He's beautiful.
"Do you want to head back?"
Gakuto nodded his agreement, and in one casual pivot, turned around. Must be the years of dancing, Yuushi mused.
Then Gakuto looked away, and Yuushi felt something cold and smooth touch his hand. He looked down, startled. Gakuto's hand, small and pale in comparison. How did that hand play La Campanella? Yuushi wondered, distractedly. There was something—something about that gesture that was distinctly Gakuto-like. He liked that.
It was the shy, but reckless sort of thing fifteen-year-old Gakuto would've done. Except it would've been accompanied by a loud, careless comment, about how Yuushi's hands were calloused from playing the violin—or something like that.
And then Yuushi realized they were holding hands.
And Gakuto initiated it, of all things.
There were a hundred reasons why Gakuto might have done that, but Yuushi chose to focus on just one, however silly or far-fetched it might have been. Folly of youth, he decided. I'm not even thirty yet; just turned twenty-one. It still applies.
It was amazing how this one little gesture could cause so much of a stir. Just because it was akin to teenage Gakuto. It was like being in love with a ghost. He considered telling Gakuto that—that he was fond of him, but was in love with his ghost.
What a scene that'd be.
He twined Gakuto's fingers with his and walked back to the museum.
Hiyoshi laughed. Yuushi was very, very close to scowling, had he not realized at the last moment that scowling would've been rather petulant of him. "So that's why you were in a bad mood," Hiyoshi said, still grinning. He was sitting in Yuushi's chair, in Yuushi's office, and leaned forward, fiddling with one of the pens. "You should've told me! I'd have explained."
"I didn't think you had anything to explain," Yuushi said icily.
Hiyoshi shrugged. "Not to me. But Oshitari-san, I didn't think you were the jealous type."
"I'd prefer it if we ended this conversation now." Yuushi grimaced.
Hiyoshi held up his hands as if to surrender, still holding the pen. He clicked it a few times. "If you want," he agreed. "But it was nothing, really. I hadn't spoken to Mukahi-san in a while, and I wanted to catch up, that's all. And—" Here, he smiled a little. "—I wanted to see your reaction."
It wasn't too difficult to put two and two together. "You knew I was watching?" Yuushi wasn't sure whether to be upset or impressed, and settled for putting both hands on his desk and leaning forward. "What was the point?"
"To see if you'd actually do something about it," Hiyoshi snorted. "You're so slow. If you're not going to work on the case, you may as well work on your nonexistent love life." He smiled a little—wryly—to take away the sting in his words. "Did it work?"
Yuushi thought back to the conversation he'd had with Gakuto that morning. "No."
"Why not?" Hiyoshi inquired, genuinely concerned. "He was in a pretty good mood this morning."
"I know," Yuushi said. "It vanished."
Because of me.
"He was happier with you," Yuushi continued flatly.
"That's not true. He wanted to see you—besides, you're Oshitari Yuushi. Flashy, handsome, talented, tall, dark, and mysterious." Hiyoshi let out a laugh. "I'm the one nobody remembers," he joked. "Maybe he was just tense. Mukahi-san is more fond of you than he lets on, if you ask me. Did you bring up the case again, or something? You know he doesn't like gloomy things like that."
"I don't know much of anything about him, anymore," Yuushi replied flatly.
"Sure you do. You're thinking too hard about it. If you put half as much effort into the case . . ." Hiyoshi pressed.
Yuushi cracked a smile and held up his hands, mimicking Hiyoshi's gesture. "I understand," he said, amused. "I'll get to work now."
Hiyoshi nodded firmly, and rose from Yuushi's chair. "This is important," he insisted. "You can't let this go on anymore." He hesitated. "But Mukahi-san is important, too."
"I know."
The two of them stood in silence for a few moments, then Hiyoshi made to leave. "I'll get you some coffee, if you want. My shift ends now, anyway."
"I'll pass, thank you."
Yuushi watched as Hiyoshi approached the door. He was grateful for what Hiyoshi did—it'd been a chance for him to sort out what was left of his social life, and he was thankful for that. It was kind of Hiyoshi to think of him, and it was so like Hiyoshi to notice that the miniscule problem existed in the first place. He remembered the feeling of Gakuto's hands, so small, so petite, in his own. He recalled the cool, smooth, porcelain touch, and said:
"Hiyoshi."
The blonde turned around and looked back. "Yes, Oshitari-san?"
"Thank you."
Hiyoshi shook his head knowingly. "It's okay," he said. "It's a present. For my senpai-tachi."
Yuushi smiled a little, and Hiyoshi walked away.
Yuushi took his jacket with him and left his office. It was a good day—fairly warm for winter—and he felt like going for a walk. He'd read over the notes before he left, but the notes weren't really what interested him, in any case. He'd decided to pursue criminology because of the psychology behind it all. And he couldn't figure out anything psychological while sitting in a stuffy office with a heap of paperwork.
It wasn't too hard to read over the notes, or to draw the conclusions. The hard part wasn't even piecing it together.
The difficult part was trying to make sense of it.
Shishido's position, and the general setting of the murder both suggested that he'd been asleep when he was murdered. The murderer obviously didn't have to worry much about a struggle, or anything like that. Given the estimated time of death, there were probably little to no people around, and so the murderer didn't have to worry about being seen.
Niou and Choutaro hadn't shown signs of a struggle at all, even though their fingerprints hadn't been found on the gun. It couldn't have been suicide under pressure, or anything like that. They willingly—or unconsciously, perhaps?—allowed the murderer to shoot them. It was a perfect shot, right through the temporal lobe. It could've been done from a distance, but it didn't seem likely. Niou had specifically been spotted walking up the stairs, and looking excited about something. He was the type of person who enjoyed the chase, enjoyed provoking people and letting them down. He was the type of person to play by the game, and however much of a trickster he was, he played by the rules. His death, as someone had said, was to his liking. It was dramatic, attention-gathering, spontaneous and random.
Choutaro, on the other hand, was particularly meek. He was submissive, quiet, obedient, naïve, caring—almost to a fault. He would've been easily fooled by the murderer—but even Choutaro couldn't be that naïve. He wouldn't have risked his life for someone who'd killed Niou, one of his closest friends.
It didn't make sense.
Shishido had probably been an easy target. He was in a state of shock and misery, and might have trouble even walking up straight. Yuushi realized long ago that Shishido had constantly blamed himself for the loss of Choutaro's inheritance. The brunette was someone from a middle class family, and might not have understood that Choutaro wanted nothing more than to work and be happy with his best friend—which he was. They'd been living happily, working happily. Everything was smooth, content, peaceful. Choutaro didn't want the inheritance—he'd never been one for extravagance. And although Shishido (though dramatic) wasn't one for profligacy, either, he might have thought that Choutaro was entitled to it.
Yuushi stopped walking for a moment. The air chilled, and for a moment, he wondered if it was going to snow. It was in the middle of the afternoon, and many people were wandering the streets. The sun's rays shone upon him directly, but despite it, he felt cold. He was back by the park, and something occurred to him.
As it was, Shishido had nowhere to go but downward. His best friend had been killed, and he was lost. Yuushi had discerned that much from his appearance, when he'd last seen him. His business would have spiraled downward, too. Yuushi had no doubt that Shishido wouldn't have been able to carry on. He'd have ended up bankrupt, and living in misery for the rest of his life. Choutaro had died at the peak of his happiness, and Shishido at the bottom.
It was almost a good thing that the murderer chose to kill him at that point. It was almost an act of pity, Yuushi thought. Shishido had been about to fall, anyway. Dragging it out would only have hurt him more.
The murderer almost certainly didn't need to have much physical strength. The gun was easy to wield, and so far, all the deaths had been easy to manage, in terms of strength. Three of the deaths were by shooting, and the third was by poisoning. It could have been coincidental, but the methods implied that the murderer was weak, physically.
All the deaths except Marui's were caused by a fatal bullet wound. It was odd; why change the method now? Although, he couldn't have killed Marui with a gun in public. Still, he'd managed to catch Niou, Shishido, and Choutaro in private.
How had he managed to kill Marui, anyway?
The only one with the opportunity was Inui, but he had absolutely no reason to, whatsoever. Inui had no motives for killing Shishido, Niou, or Choutaro, either. It didn't make sense.
It was odd that Choutaro's and Shishido's deaths were done without invoking any suspicion from neighbors. Either Choutaro had introduced the murderer to his neighbors prior to the murder, or the murderer was already an acquaintance of Choutaro's. If that was the case, then it'd make sense that the neighbors didn't suspect seeing the murderer with Shishido, either.
But somebody should have found it suspicious, even if they knew that the person was a friend of theirs. Somebody should have noticed it.
In the end, it only made sense that the murderer was someone both Shishido and Choutaro were familiar with. They were both close to Niou Masaharu, as well—as was Marui. Yuushi wasn't sure how close Shishido and Choutaro were to Marui, but they had to at least have been acquaintances, given their common friend in Niou.
Yuushi stopped by a park bench, old and worn, and considered this for a moment.
Marui's death didn't seem premeditated. Something was off about it. For a premeditated death, the murderer was sure to have given something away—he wouldn't have tried to pull such a stunt in public. It didn't fit the murderer's psychology; he was clever, quietly so. The personality needed for a murder like Marui's required a brashness and recklessness that the murderer may have had, but wouldn't have put into play.
The murderer was definitely brash, definitely bold. It took someone bold to kill Niou, especially at a reunion among celebrities.
But boldness wasn't recklessness.
A flash of red caught his attention, and he stood up, walked a little. As he got closer, he realized it was Eiji, bouncing on his toes and talking to someone excitedly.
Inui?
The glint of his square glasses and the dark hair proved that it was Inui, as did the monotonous quality of his voice. They were talking too quietly for Yuushi to truly understand what they were talking about, but Yuushi had always had a predilection for eavesdropping. Absentmindedly, he noted that they were talking in a fairly secluded area—and that aside from him, there didn't seem to be anyone in the area. He doubted that Eiji nor Inui realized he was listening, anyway.
And then he caught the name "Fuji".
Yuushi strained a little harder. What in the world were they talking about?
"But thank kami-sama," Eiji was saying gratefully. "I was so sure—!"
". . . doesn't make sense," Inui put in. He looked confused, and a bit suspicious. Everybody lied. He knew that. But nonetheless, Yuushi strongly, strongly disliked it when people lied to him. "It . . . his mental instability . . . equations . . ."
". . . a mistake?"
". . . can't . . . the file . . . accurate . . . I'm not . . . that. Fuji's . . . doesn't fit . . . what happened with . . . realize some . . ."
Eiji had a tendency to speak more loudly when he was desperate or trying to defend something, which was how Yuushi caught the entire sentence. "Fuji's mental instability," Eiji said, and practically spat out the words "mental instability," "has nothing to do with this!"
Mental instability?
Inui shushed him, and Eiji blushed wildly. "Sorry," he muttered, and continued the rest of the conversation in whispers.
Fuji—mentally unstable?
Yuushi left.
Finding Momoshiro didn't take long. He didn't have a client at the moment, and was seated in his office, playing with a pen and eating from a bag of chips. Yuushi threw open the door and in three brisk strides, approached Momoshiro's desk.
"Explain."
Momoshiro looked surprised. "What?" he asked, bemused. "Are you drunk, Oshitari-san?"
If the matter hadn't been such an urgent one, Yuushi would've taken the time to be insulted. "Fuji's mentally unstable?" he asked, ignoring the question. "I heard—a few people talking about it. Why didn't you tell me this? Fuji was Niou's psychiatrist, wasn't he? Why was he allowed to be a psychiatrist if he was mentally unstable? What did they do during their sessions?" Then, "I know you lied about not knowing what they did, during the interrogations."
The barricade of questions led to the effect he wanted. Momoshiro's eyes widened, and then he laughed weakly. "Nothing to be done about it, nothing at all," he muttered to himself. "I didn't think it was too important, at the time."
"What wasn't important?" Yuushi demanded. "Let me decide what's of importance and what isn't. That isn't your place."
Momoshiro smiled. "Won't you have a seat?" he offered, gesturing to the chair opposite his own. His smile was carefully practiced, meant to be warm and disarming. It almost worked. Yuushi glanced at the seat and then back at Momoshiro, whose smile had yet to falter.
"Will this take long?"
"Probably," he said.
Yuushi wasn't in the best of moods, and sat in the seat grudgingly. "Explain," he repeated.
Momoshiro sighed a little, barely audible, and folded his hands. He glanced around a few times, then pulled out a folder. The contents were sifted through for a few seconds, then a single sheet of paper was pulled out. "Fuji-san is perfectly sane," he said, and held out the document for Yuushi to see. "This is the official document. He's sane."
"Then what were Kikumaru and Inui talking about?" Yuushi glanced over it. It looked accurate, and as far as he could tell, it was the real thing. He handed the paper back to Momoshiro, who handled it with the utmost delicacy.
"Eiji-san and Inui-san?" Momoshiro repeated. He looked vaguely surprised, and a little worried. For whom, Yuushi wasn't sure. "How did they—?"
"Nothing stays a secret for long," Yuushi said grimly. "What were they talking about?"
Momoshiro put the paper back into the manila folder, and the folder back into the drawer. He took a moment to look around, and stepped out of his office to see if there was anybody at the door. Nobody appeared to be present, and, satisfied, Momoshiro went back inside. "Fuji forged something," he explained. "He wanted to get closer to Niou, but because Niou already knew him from our tennis teams, Niou wasn't all that interested. He needed something extra, that would really draw Niou's attention. Niou's met plenty of people by then, you know? He's seen everything." He opened the bottommost drawer and pulled out another document, handing it to Yuushi. "So he forged this."
Yuushi looked it over. The paper was almost identical to the one he'd looked at earlier, with only one difference. It read that Fuji was a diagnosed schizophrenic, and that he was under rehabilitation. He had to admit, the paper looked completely viable. "You didn't report him?" Yuushi inquired.
He shook his head. "Nah. Fuji-san is my friend; and besides, I didn't think it'd do any harm."
"Why was he so interested in Niou?"
Momoshiro's expression darkened. "I've worked with Niou a few times, before," he said. "Niou-san is good person, he really is. But—it's very complicated."
"I have time."
"He had this strange interest in people mentalities—Fuji-san and Niou-san both, actually. That was why Fuji-san was so interested in Niou-san; they were a lot alike. But Fuji-san was much more subtle about it. Niou-san, though, had the means to toy with people however he liked. Fuji-san had charm, but Niou-san had more power. Fuji-san wanted to know more about him—because, well, Fuji-san likes puzzles."
"Mm."
"Niou-san was a bit odd, though." Here, Momoshiro looked confused. "He liked toying with people, but I never thought it'd come back to bite him, honestly. It was like a hobby, almost. He'd get close to someone, very close to them, to the point where that person is almost completely dependent on him. He has that charisma. People loved him. And then he'd abandon them—really suddenly. He'd just stop talking to them entirely, brush them off, pretend he never knew them, or insult them and drive them away if they chased after him. Most people couldn't handle the shock—especially since they were so dependent on him, you know? But Niou-san just went on like nothing happened, and found someone new."
Yuushi raised one eyebrow. "He enjoyed this?"
"He liked seeing people's reactions," Momoshiro explained. "It was a dangerous thing to do, but we never thought anything serious would happen. He made himself a lot of enemies, that way. Yagyuu-san knew this, and I think that was why he sent him to us. But I don't think he ever stopped; from what I know, he's been doing this for quite some time, now." He let out a sharp, barking sort of laugh. "If he'd tried that with a mentally unstable Fuji, he'd have gotten himself killed a long time ago."
"I can believe that," Yuushi agreed.
"Fuji-san knows a lot about this," Momoshiro continued. "Have you spoken to him?"
To Yuushi's surprise, Fuji was waiting for him as he stepped out of the building. "How was your conversation with Momo?" the brunette asked pleasantly.
"Adequate," Yuushi replied.
"Pleased to hear it."
Yuushi made to leave, but Fuji followed. "You actually seem to be doing some work," Fuji continued. "I'm so proud of you, Oshitari-kun. I'd love to help you, you know."
"I couldn't tell."
"I have my own way of helping." Fuji hummed a little.
"It can't be called helping," Yuushi replied, and veered away from him. Fuji followed.
"Just because you can't appreciate it doesn't mean I'm not helping you," Fuji protested, and walked ahead of him. He turned around, facing Yuushi, and began walking backwards. "Haven't I helped you with your love life?"
"No, you haven't."
"That's because you don't have one," Fuji said dismissively. "I've given you hints every now and again. You choose to ignore him."
"You insert lies along with your hints," Yuushi said. "It's almost impossible to discern truth from fiction when it comes to you."
"I'm flattered, Oshitari-kun."
"Wonderful."
"Just because I'm so flattered, I think I will help you." With exaggerated histrionics, Fuji leaned upwards and whispered into Yuushi's ear, "Someone was following me here."
Yuushi looked at him, startled. "How do you know?"
"Because I know who the murderer is," he replied easily. "Once you know that . . ."
Yuushi was too busy to worry about his bruised pride.
Fuji was next, possibly—it made sense. He probably knew the most about this case, out of anybody. And it wouldn't surprise him if Fuji had solved the mystery already—it was slightly insulting, of course, but that wasn't really what mattered at the moment. "Do you think the murderer is targeting you?"
"Yes," Fuji replied flatly. "It's only a matter of time. I don't mind dying like this, really. No dramatics. A bullet to the temporal lobe is fine for me." Yuushi noticed that he didn't mention poison.
"Don't you have regrets?"
He laughed sharply. "Just because you do doesn't mean I do," he said. "I've made my peace already. I've even solved the case."
How did I guess? "Who was following you?" Yuushi asked firmly. "Just because you want to die doesn't mean the rest of Japan does."
Fuji's smile fell off his face. "I didn't say I wanted to die," he said quietly. "I just know I'm going to. Don't dispute it," he warned, when Yuushi began to protest. "I'm always right. I don't believe I've ever been wrong—I have a family of fortune tellers and psychics." He laughed again, and for a moment, Yuushi almost believed that Fuji was telling the truth, that he was ready to die.
The area was fairly deserted, mainly because most people were at work by this point. Fuji kept up with Yuushi surprisingly well, considering how tall the latter was. "Marui's death was a sudden one," Fuji said casually. "Don't you think it's odd? Really, why Marui? He doesn't have anything to do with this, does he?"
"You'd know," Yuushi pointed out.
"But you wouldn't." Fuji smiled brightly. "It's so obvious, Oshitari. Someone with superior intellect like yourself should have figured this out already. Or is it because you're distracted?"
Yuushi stiffened. "I don't know what you're implying," he said coolly.
Fuji hummed again. "If you say so," he replied. "Say, Eiji's been acting rather oddly around me, lately. You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?" His smile was half mischievous, half knowing. There was a mocking tone to his voice.
"He thinks you're crazy," Yuushi said flatly.
"I suppose Momoshiro showed you that document. Yes, Inui has somehow managed to get a hold of it." The brunette laughed a light, trickling laugh. "I know that. But there's another reason. Come to think of it, Inui's been acting rather strangely, too."
Yuushi refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how confused he was.
Fuji opened his eyes, and the shock of blue almost made Yuushi stop walking. "I won't help you, you know," Fuji said. "I don't want to."
"I realized that a very long time ago," Yuushi assured.
"It's nothing personal. But you'll fail completely if you don't do this on your own. Me telling you wouldn't help you, at all. It wouldn't be good for me, either. I will die—but I want to live." There was the slightest of tremors in his voice, and anyone who didn't know Fuji well wouldn't have noticed it.
"I wouldn't hold it against you," Yuushi replied, feeling sympathetic.
"I don't want pity." There was sincere distaste in his voice. "I want you to get a grip on your twisted life and figure this out."
Fuji, he noted, is spiteful when he's upset.
"How's Mukahi?"
The smile twisting Fuji's face was a frightening one, but Yuushi didn't flinch. "He's well."
"Did you have a run in with him? In love yet?" Fuji teased. He was having too much fun with this, but Yuushi knew there wasn't really anything to be done about it. Fuji's humor was the type who'd make a typical person cry. "Confessed yet?"
"I don't love him," Yuushi said calmly.
"Oh?" His smile was still carefully in place. Yuushi decided it was a requirement for all psychiatrists, to have such carefully practiced smiles. Still, when he thought about it, Fuji always smiled like that.
"I will never love him." The words left an odd taste in his mouth.
"Did you get into a fight?" Fuji asked, tilting his head to the side.
"No," Yuushi replied. "I just—don't love him."
"Ah." Fuji nodded a little, and his smile turned from subtly disarming to overtly wicked. "Did he change too much?"
Yuushi had always marveled at Fuji's uncanny ability to pick things up so quickly. "Something like that."
"Pity we can't rewind time, isn't it?" Fuji murmured. "If only you'd kept him from going to France—if only you'd written more letters to him—if only you'd been closer to your friends, protected them more. Time machines are really wonderful in theory. Maybe then the murderer wouldn't have been—well, a murderer. But really, not being able to love him—that's a strange form of torture."
"It is," Yuushi agreed.
Fuji left him some time afterward, and Yuushi continued his walk in silence. Strange form of torture, indeed.
He'd taken a trip to Kanagawa simply for the hell of it. Tokyo was wonderful and bustling, but that wasn't what he needed at the moment. Kanagawa, while not particularly quiet and peaceful, was a little better. He didn't know this part of Japan very well, as he'd only come here a few times before—and most of those times were with Atobe, back in their tennis playing days. He found it incredibly amusing that Atobe never seemed to stop challenging Sanada, and lost match after match—and the one match he had been about to win had been stopped by Yukimura.
Yukimura. The Child of God, they called him, even now. He'd always been very perceptive. Now there was a character—Yuushi wondered if he'd have anything to say about the case.
Since he was in Kanagawa, he might as well. Most of the former RikkaiDai players still resided in Kanagawa, with the exception of a few. As far as he knew, Jackal had temporarily—only recently—traveled to South America for an internship with some politicians there. Yuushi suspected it was to get away from the murders. In any case, it seemed to leave him out of the equation—the murders had steadily progressed even without him there.
It surprised him that nobody else had thought to leave Japan. Maybe they thought they'd be suspected, if they did leave—whether or not they were guilty.
Yukimura, Kirihara, and Sanada were all taking a break from the pro circuits because of the case, he knew. It would've been bad publicity for them to continue playing, with the death of two of their friends. He doubted they were really in the mood to play tennis, anyway—Yukimura had been attached to everybody on the regulars, and Kirihara was especially close to Marui and Niou. Sanada, Yuushi suspected, cared for them as much as Yukimura and Kirihara did, even if he didn't wear his heart on his sleeve.
Kanagawa was somewhat well-known for its shrines and temples, and so he went to a Shinto shrine. It wasn't as quiet as he would have liked, and there were many tourists, coming in and out. People chattered excitedly amongst themselves, and for a moment, Yuushi stood to the side of the shrine, just watching.
He was agnostic, but wondered whether or not he'd ought to pray, if only for the hell of it. He never really saw the point in religion, and avoided it as much as possible. Choutaro, he knew, was Christian—and prayed weekly.
The shrine waited invitingly, and he walked up the stone steps, slowly and deliberately. People rushed by him.
Then, halfway there, he decided it was too crowded and descended back down the stairs.
There were a number of sub-shrines at this particular shrine, and he approached the farthest one he could see.
Much less people paid attention to the sub-shrines, which was odd—there were usually much more people there. He thanked his luck and knelt beside it, not really sure what to say. What was there to pray for, anyway?
He settled for sitting there and—well, not doing anything.
"Haruka-san, don't," somebody pleaded. "They would've hated to see you like this."
Yuushi glanced toward the trees. It couldn't be good karma to eavesdrop on four people in one day, but if he remembered correctly, Haruka was Niou's sister.
He didn't move.
"You mean well, Yukimura," Haruka replied. "I believe that." Yuushi edged closer, and saw that the two of them were sitting on a stone bench. "But you know how Masaharu was."
"He was protective," he admitted. "But he had good intentions."
"I know that," she said flatly. "I wish I could've explained it to him. Going behind his back, even after death . . ."
"You don't know if he would've disapproved. He didn't know it was Marui," Yukimura pointed out.
She seemed to brighten a little at that. "I suppose."
"The two of them were best friends," he continued. "He loved him as a brother, didn't he?"
"He did," she agreed. "Bunta was the one person other than Yagyuu-kun he kept in touch with, consistently."
Yukimura smiled sympathetically at her, and Yuushi wondered if he'd been the one to go to her. He recalled how distressed she'd been on the day of Marui's death, screaming hysterically. "Masaharu loved you, and he loved Marui. He would've been pleased to know that you loved each other."
There was a pause, then a light laugh. "I can't believe you're a year younger than me, sometimes," Haruka said fondly. They talked a little longer, about past encounters with Niou and Marui, and after a while, Haruka left.
Yukimura sat there in silence, and Yuushi questioned whether or not he ought to leave.
"You can come out now, Oshitari-kun."
Yuushi's eyes widened, then he chuckled wryly and stood up. Yukimura was still by the tree, patting a patch of grass next to him. "Sit."
"Was that Niou's sister?" Yuushi asked.
"It was." Yukimura nodded. "She's been rather depressed lately—I'm sure you can guess why."
"Inui mentioned something."
"Mm." Yukimura gave Yuushi a glance as he sat down, and murmured, "How far did he get?"
"Only said that Marui was in love with her."
"And she loved him, I assure you." Yukimura hesitated. "This may help you with your case, and that is the only reason I'm going to tell you," he said firmly. "If you repeat this to anybody, I will personally make your life miserable."
"I believe it."
"Marui was in love with Haruka-san," Yukimura acknowledged. "Very much so. But the two of them—well, they weren't sure how to explain it to Niou. He was rather protective. And Marui didn't have a very good record with girlfriends, either. He was a bit vivacious—never really wanted to stay with one thing for too long. But he did love Haruka-san; I think they would've lasted, if . . . this hadn't happened." He made a vague gesture.
"So?" Yuushi prompted.
"They kept it a secret," Yukimura replied. "Haruka-san hinted at being in love to Niou occasionally, but he never responded well. They never did tell him."
"Surely his protectiveness couldn't have been that extreme?"
"It was," he said wryly. "His younger brother died, remember? He's always had a bit of a family complex—and I must admit, he could get rather obsessed with these things. Haruka-san, in any case, was loyal. If she'd gone against his wishes, he could have crashed. The death of his brother was hard on him—I think that might have partially been the reason why he and Yagyuu were so close."
"Oh?"
"Yagyuu's younger sister left the family," Yukimura said. "She didn't die—but she made the decision to go to Europe for a study-abroad program when she was fifteen. She just—stayed; she hasn't been back to visit even once since she left. Yagyuu misses her dearly; he's the type who needs somebody to look after. Niou was, too."
"I see," Yuushi murmured.
"Marui was awfully broken up after Niou's death," Yukimura continued. "Very dark. He may have been looking for somebody to blame. In fact, I think he may have suspected somebody from Seigaku. We—Sanada, Kirihara, Marui and I—met with a few of the Seigaku members, about an exhibition match—Tezuka, Inui, Oishi, and Eiji. Marui was silent the entire time."
"How odd," Yuushi said, thinking back to the conversation he'd overheard.
"In any case, they kept the relationship a secret. I wish they would've told him."
"Why?"
Yukimura thought. "I'm very certain that Niou would've approved of it," he said confidently. "They didn't need to hide it. Niou loved them both dearly, and if he'd known that Marui was in love with her . . ."
"How can you be so sure?" he inquired.
He laughed. "Cheesy as it sounds," Yukimura said, "love is a powerful thing."
Gakuto definitely had the opportunity. He was there, he wouldn't have been suspected, being a close friend of almost all the victims—he'd been rather close with Marui, and especially close with Shishido and Choutaro. In fact, almost everyone from Hyotei had a possible motive.
It's not him, Yuushi thought petulantly. It can't be him.
It couldn't be, couldn't be—the other deaths seemed to be results of Niou's death, and Gakuto rarely spoke with Niou at all.
Gakuto, Gakuto.
Yuushi was taking the bus back from Kanagawa, and glanced at his watch. The stop was only five minutes away, and even then, he'd have to make a ten minute trek back to his office. The warm weather earlier this morning had long since died, and at the moment, it was below zero.
He was freezing—but suspected that his chills had very little to do with the weather.
Trees flew past, and each building the bus passed by was cold and silent.
But the memory of Gakuto's hand in his was warm.
He knew he'd be happy with this new Gakuto. His parents would be happy with him, too—he was exactly the high society type he was supposed to be with. But he thought back to Ohtori, who'd given up his inheritance to continue the business with Shishido, to live with him, enjoy his company, and be happy with him. He thought of Shishido, who'd been willing to confess to a crime he hadn't committed just to protect his friend, and wondered if he'd do that for this new Gakuto.
He doubted it.
But he knew he'd do it for fifteen-year-old Gakuto, brash Gakuto, rude Gakuto, silly Gakuto.
He wished he'd come back.
One more stop, and he'd be home. He looked at his hand and wished for that feeling again.
And then he laughed.
This is an awful lot like a romance novel, isn't it?
He remembered how he used to make Gakuto watch those sappy movies with him, how he made Gakuto read those romance novels.
He remembered the face Gakuto made every time he did so, and how it'd made him laugh.
The bus doors opened, and he stepped off, taking a moment to check where he was.
There he was.
Gakuto, in his pea coat and ascot scarf, dressed to kill. Yuushi began to call out a greeting, then fell short. He wished he were wearing that old hoodie, with the fur trimmed hood and sleeves. He wished he were wearing a beanie the way he used to, and sneakers instead of boots.
He began to turn around, but then Gakuto called, "Yuushi."
Why am I running away from him?
Yuushi looked at him, looked at his smile and wave. He mimicked the movements and took stilted steps toward him. "Good evening," he offered. "Why are you out?"
Gakuto looked at him carefully, and Yuushi wondered what he saw. "I went out to dinner with Jiroh," he explained. "He's been down lately."
"He has," Yuushi agreed.
"With Marui's death, it's not really surprising," Gakuto muttered. He seemed distinctly uncomfortable, not at ease, but then again, Yuushi really wasn't, either.
No, now that he thought about it—Gakuto didn't seem uncomfortable. Just . . . distant.
He wondered if he ought to ask him about that morning. The touch of his hand still lingered. He tightened it into a fist, then released it.
Gakuto watched him openly, half distracted, half curious. It was probably more out of habit than anything, but he tilted his head to the side, if only marginally, and for a moment, he looked like—fifteen year old Gakuto. It was only a hint, but he was—okay with that.
"The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam," Yuushi said sardonically. He hadn't wanted to say it aloud, but the silence was deafening, and he doubted Gakuto would understand what he meant, anyway.
They stood like that for a few moments, then Gakuto smiled a little. "I've been seeing you around very much lately," he joked. "Is the murderer following me?"
The case.
Yuushi murmured, "That's a perfectly viable explanation, actually."
He hadn't meant to say that aloud, either.
Gakuto's smile fell. "Is this about Marui's death? I've heard about it from Jiroh, you know, you don't have to—"
"Just heard about it? Are you sure that's all?" The words were sharper than he'd wanted them to be, and he mentally berated himself. Why couldn't he just—talk?
He didn't get an immediate reaction, but noted that fifteen year old Gakuto would've started yelling and kicking and punching. With a quiet sort of anger, the redhead asked, "What do you mean?" The look in his eyes darkened, and they seemed to freeze—whereas fifteen year old Gakuto's eyes would've been alight with fire.
Yuushi wanted to say more, wanted to get this whole thing settled, but turned away and replied, "Never mind it.
"Never mind what?" Gakuto asked sharply.
"Nothing," Yuushi said firmly. "Forget about it. How was the dinner with Jiroh?" Standing still was getting to be overbearing, and he began to take small steps—away from Gakuto, toward his office. He glanced back, to see if Gakuto was following.
He wasn't. He didn't look angry, just hurt, but it was so subtle that Yuushi couldn't be sure. His eyes were hard and he commented, "You don't have to tell me. I wouldn't expect you to." His tone was biting, and Yuushi had learned enough about psychology to know this was a defense mechanism. "I've figured it out, myself. We can't even have a civilized conversation for two minutes. How can someone change so much in a year?"
Yuushi gave a disbelieving laugh. "You're talking about me? How I've changed so much? Gakuto, do you hear yourself? Have you seen yourself?"
The redhead's expression darkened. He looked like he wanted to say something, then thought better of it and turned away.
"It's been three years, not one."
Gakuto shook his head. "That's completely irrelevant."
"Don't run away," Yuushi warned.
"Me?" Gakuto demanded. "I'm the one running away? Really? Stop being a coward and accusing me—why don't you look a mirror before you start telling me how I've changed?" He took a frustrated step forward, and Yuushi realized perfunctorily that Gakuto had finally lost his temper. "You're the one who can't hold a conversation. The instance in the coffee shop, the incident this morning, today—I'd call it a self-defense mechanism, but since you don't have anything worth defending, I'd call it guilt. And there's a clear difference between now and when we were fifteen, but you don't realize just how blatant it is, do you? You—"
"Stop arguing like a lawyer," Yuushi interrupted.
"Lawyers tend to argue like lawyers," Gakuto said dryly.
"You're not!"
"Not what? A lawyer?" He laughed acidly. "Sure I am. We swim in shark-infested waters because we are sharks. We ruin families. We argue. We get paid—a lot—to argue. We enjoy it." The look in his eyes was practically maniacal—this was exactly how Gakuto used to act when he was angry. Go on a crazy rant, act a little insane— "Yes, I'm a lawyer, what with my cold, cold heart," he said scathingly. "Or, you know what? Lack thereof. Are you happy?"
"I could almost love you," Yuushi said. "You're exactly the polite society type I'm supposed to be looking for. You play the piano, the clarinet, you're a lawyer, upper-class, you don't argue, you don't yell, you're not rude—you're perfect. I like you. And I could almost love you." 'Almost' being the key word, he thought. "Was that cowardly?"
The look on Gakuto's face would've been amusing had Yuushi not been so caught up in his monologue. His first reaction seemed to be, What does that have to do with anything? Then surprise. Then hope. Then happiness. Then distress. Then his face fell and he looked down. Something sparkled and Yuushi wondered if he was crying.
Yuushi froze. What did I just say?
"Okay," Gakuto replied weakly, and nodded a little.
"Wait," he began.
"I'm sorry," Gakuto said. "I have to go. It's getting late, and I—" He already backing away, making some vague hand gesture. And before Yuushi could take one step forward, Gakuto had taken five steps back. And then he was gone.
Yuushi covered his face with one hand, not sure if he was angry, saddened, disappointed, or just confused.
He used to love Gakuto.
He realized this as he began to leave, tired and slumped. Back when they were playing doubles together—he used to be in love with him. Everything used to be so much easier.
His office was dark, less gloomy than before, thanks to the efforts of Choutaro and Shishido, but still dark. He decided he was never remodel this office, if only to follow that last piece of advice they'd given him, for the rest of his life.
He passed by the music store, and took a few moments to walk inside. There was a new pianist inside, playing a contemporary piece. She was completely lost in the music, and her eyes were closed, hands gliding across the keys. It was admittedly beautiful. But Yuushi thought it lacked something, lacked a quality that Gakuto's music had.
The people gathered around the piano were different this time around. The lighting was different, everything was different. He'd never have that moment, that New Year's moment again.
One moment of being completely carefree and spontaneous. Because Gakuto was spontaneity, and spontaneity was Gakuto. And that moment was spontaneous. That was why he longed for it so much.
The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.
There were a thousand "why"s he could have asked. Why Gakuto changed, why he changed, but he decided it'd only serve to complicate things. And matters were complicated enough as they were.
He left the music shop, and listened as he walked, as the piano music trickled into nothingness.