You'll notice that there's a part in the story where I include Gakuto's point of view, too. It only made sense—and writing Gaku is so much fun. I really did have way too much fun writing this.
(And most of you guys got the first reference, haha. It was pretty easy—but the next reference(s?) is/are, too.)
If you really want to find out who the murderer is, you should probably do some background checks on the Prince of Tennis characters. There's bound to be something there that will give it away—but you'll find out who the murderer is in the next chapter, anyway. Two chapters left.
Yuushi had gone back to his office for the night, and ended up sleeping there. It was around two AM when he woke up again; to Hiyoshi's incessant knocking. Yuushi didn't bother with the door—if Hiyoshi wanted to come in, he certainly had the means to; he had a spare key. Yuushi couldn't be bothered with anything at this point—especially since he hadn't slept much.
It annoyed him that Gakuto acted so calm about the whole thing. He didn't even know why—it was unreasonable and illogical, but if anything, nothing had really been logical since the murders started happening.
Especially since almost all the murders pointed to Gakuto.
He had the opportunity. He had intelligence. He had the means to do so—there wasn't anything else to consider.
Yuushi didn't know how he'd ever manage to turn him in. If he did. It killed him; how was he supposed to convict somebody he cared so much for? They were friends first—but now that he thought about it, after what happened yesterday, he doubted it.
Hiyoshi had looked rather upset when Yuushi explained what happened, demanding to know why he'd screwed everything up. Yuushi wasn't in the mood to justify himself, and had calmly asked Hiyoshi to leave. That wasn't the nicest thing to do, probably, but what had he been expecting? Why was Hiyoshi taking such an interest in their relationship, anyway?
"Yuushi."
He looked up as the door opened. Hiyoshi walked in, with a hesitant Gakuto in tow. Yuushi was too tired to do anything, and settled for staring in bemusement. "Yes?"
Hiyoshi shoved Gakuto in the room, bolted, and slammed the door shut.
That got a reaction.
Gakuto whipped around and started knocking at the door, while Yuushi jolted upwards from his seat and cursed Hiyoshi under his breath.
It took a few moments for them to settle.
He looked at Gakuto, who was leaning against the door, exasperated. "That Hiyoshi," he muttered. "Gotten arrogant over the years, hasn't he?"
"He was arrogant to begin with," Yuushi replied flatly.
They waited in silence for a while, listening as Hiyoshi's footsteps faded away. "So, what brings you here?" Gakuto asked mordantly.
"I'm solving a case. It's not working out well."
Gakuto looked annoyed. "I'm sorry," he told him, not sounding sorry at all. "When do you think Hiyoshi's going to get back here?"
Yuushi snorted. "Probably never. He's locked the door from the outside. Give me a second—I'll look for the key." It was buried somewhere under all the papers on his desk. So maybe he wasn't the nicest person at two in the morning. He didn't bother trying to hide the files this time—Gakuto could think whatever he liked.
He fumbled with the heap of papers while Gakuto stood by the door, idly.
"Sorry," he finally said. "About yesterday. I shouldn't have lost my temper."
Gakuto shifted uncomfortably. "It's not your fault."
Not his fault. Of course he'd say something like that. Lose your temper, he thought. Why won't you lose your temper? "You probably won't think that the next time we see each other," he muttered. A flash of silver caught his attention, and he pulled the key out from beneath a manila envelope.
Gakuto's eyes flickered to the papers on his desk. "Something about the case?"
"You could say that." He passed Gakuto by and unlocked the door.
He didn't move; Gakuto gave him a long, considering glance. "Something about me?" he asked dryly. "Am I a major suspect now? Arresting me next week?"
Yuushi gave him a surprised look, but didn't say anything to refute it.
". . . you're serious?" Even then, his voice was perfectly balanced. Yuushi resented how calm he was, how in control he was. Gakuto wasn't supposed to be like that—he wasn't.
"It's classified."
He didn't fall for it. "How could you even think that?" Gakuto asked in disbelief. "Do you really think I'd do something like that? Kill Choutaro? Shishido? Do you think I'm that twisted? That crazy?"
"I don't know," he bit out. His voice was tense, trembling with emotion, and he resented it, resented even more how steady Gakuto's voice was.
"You're going to have to be more specific," Gakuto replied sharply. "How can you not know? They're your thoughts, aren't they? You're being illogical—"
"I'm being illogical? You're being too logical. We haven't had a single conversation wherein you didn't try to psychoanalyze me! There's no jury, no verdict here, Gakuto. It's just us." And that, Yuushi thought, was a thousand times worse.
"I don't know what's with you," Gakuto said, exasperated. Something in his eyes flickered. "I come back, and you're—different! I don't know what you want me to do! Am I not allowed to mature? Am I not allowed to stop being fifteen?"
Yuushi was tempted to roll his eyes. "That's not my point and you know it."
"Then what is your point?" he demanded. "What do you mean? You've been playing word games ever since I came back to Japan. You lead me on and drive me away—what's your point? That I'm a psychotic serial killer? Do you really not know me better than that?"
"You may as well be the murderer," Yuushi spat. Gakuto's eyes widened—in anger or surprise, Yuushi wasn't sure. He didn't care, either. "I don't know you better than that, I don't know you'd never do something like that—I don't know you at all. Who knows what France has done to you?" There was a sort of dark humor in that, but nobody laughed. "How did you change so much, Gakuto? How is it even possible?" He laughed harshly. "You've always been good at achieving the impossible, haven't you? You've always been spontaneous—at least that's stayed the same, or I'm sure I wouldn't have recognized you at all.
"I don't know what you hoped to achieve by playing like this, but I'm asking you to stop. What happened to you? Did you do it on purpose? Change on purpose? Why? Was it amusing? Did you take some sadistic pleasure in it?"
Gakuto's eyes, brilliant blue, darkened to an ugly grey. His delicate features twisted into a mix of shock and fury. "How dare you?" Those words were laced with venom, but Yuushi paid them no mind.
"Did it help? Was it entertaining for you? Have you had your fun?"
Yuushi wanted to stop, he did—but he couldn't. Three years of pent-up frustrations poured out, and while he knew this conversation was practically suicidal—he couldn't stop. It was relieving, and yet it was a thousand times more angering. Gakuto was quietly frustrated, quietly angry, like ice—ice so cold that it burned to the touch. That was what his eyes looked like—chips of fire-ice, so cold, burning, burning cold. And he wanted to melt them so badly, wanted to watch them sink, get swallowed by the fire that was Gakuto, really Gakuto—not this icy interpretation of him. This wasn't Gakuto, it wasn't. He'd believe that to end of his years—this wasn't Gakuto. He didn't want this Gakuto, not at all.
He didn't want anybody.
Nobody would ever be fiery enough, arrogant enough, lax enough, wild enough—it was a foreign ghost in Gakuto's body, and if he couldn't have Gakuto, that Gakuto, the real Gakuto—he didn't want anybody.
He laughed, a half-nervous, half-delirious laugh. He supposed his eyes looked drunken, feverish with freedom. I don't want anybody. Don't regret it, don't regret it. "It's over!" he laughed, and took one step forward. Gakuto took one step back. "It's over."
The silence that followed was deathly.
Yuushi sighed, a draining sigh, and closed his eyes.
I. Want. Nobody.
(And yet, he was still faintly aware of how badly he wanted to love him.)
His shoulders slumped. It was unbefitting act for somebody like him. He shouldn't have lost control like that—Gakuto had remained perfectly composed throughout it all, even with Yuushi's rant. Gakuto had changed—it was over. It was a habit of his, to go on a long tirade and then lose the energy to keep it up. He amended it by not losing his temper at all—but that hadn't worked out too well. Nothing to be done about it now; what was the point of dragging him into this mess, anyway? He opened his mouth to apologize. "Gakuto, I—"
"Shut the fuck up, Yuushi."
No venom, just fire. Yuushi looked at him, looked carefully. Gakuto's hands were trembling, and he'd taken one step forward, two steps, three steps, until he was directly beneath Yuushi.
Two petite hands, the same hands that had played La Campanella, those pale, fragile hands—shoved him hard, and sent him stumbling backwards.
"What the fuck is your problem?" Gakuto demanded, shouting at the top of his voice. "Quit harping about how I changed, you fucking jerk! You haven't changed a fucking bit, and you know what? Maybe you should have. Maybe you should've changed every single fucking thing. Of course you're still goddamn dense and you can't see past an act. Of course you can't tell I've been in love with you for the past fucking eight years, can't tell I changed everything for you, and now you're complaining about it to me, you fucking bastard."
Yuushi was still trying to take in this sudden personality change. A spitfire—that was exactly what Gakuto was, at that moment. Crazy, loud, obnoxious, crude—this was him, this was who he was looking for.
An act?
His breath caught in his throat.
He's in love with me?
Gakuto continued, "Weren't you looking for a high society type? Didn't you want someone classy? Didn't I go all the way to fucking France and go to fucking law school and graduate first year at the top of my fucking class?" He took another step forward, and this time, Yuushi was the one who took a step back. Gakuto clenched his left hand into a fist, then raised it—punched Yuushi, square in the jaw. He took deep, heavy, furious breaths. "And I come back, and all you can do is rant about how I've fucking changed—what the fuck do you want, Yuushi? What the hell do you want from me?" His voice was choked. "I did everything."
Yuushi touched his jaw, probably bruised and definitely swollen, in disbelief. What just happened?
"Make up your fucking mind! Didn't I do what you wanted? Wasn't that what you were looking for? Wasn't it?"
But Gakuto's voice was a peculiar cross between infuriated and miserable, and Yuushi, for the first time in three years, realized he recognized the redhead standing before him.
"Gakuto—" His voice was weak, shaking, disbelieving, not daring to hope—
"You don't know who I am?" Gakuto gave him a long glare, piercing and blue, so blue—transparently blue, like it'd always been. "Well, congratulations! I don't know who I am, either," he spat. "Nice game. You've won."
Like a whirlwind, he stormed out of the office, flinging the door open and slamming it closed. The sound was thunderous, but nothing compared to the sound of his heart pounding, tha-thump, tha-thump, steadily wild, carefully reckless, subtly loud.
His legs felt weak, and he stood, dumbfounded for a few moments, before they finally gave way.
He fell to his knees.
It was an act.
The whole thing—it was an act.
He'd found him again, found Gakuto. The Gakuto he was—is—madly in love with.
And now he'd lost him.
…
The more he thought about it, the more he realized it made sense.
…
"I'm Gakuto. You're Yuushi. I'll always be Gakuto, and you'll always be Yuushi."
…
"I'm not fourteen anymore, Yuushi."
…
"The stuff there is so classy that you kind of adapt, I guess."
…
What's at first an act can become a habit—there was a saying like that, wasn't there?
Yuushi was still numb.
The side of his jaw was an angry red, and his legs still felt weak. Gakuto had only just left, really—but it felt longer, so much longer. He wondered if it was the argument that had finally sparked Gakuto's anger, or if it was just the pressure of acting so long—or both, possibly?
Gakuto playing classical music, looking so at ease. Arguing like a lawyer, talking like a lawyer—he'd morphed himself into the perfect high society type, changed himself entirely. Maybe that was what he'd meant when he commented on Niou's death.
…
"Even if some people deserve to die."
…
He wondered if Gakuto thought he deserved, too, if he'd thought that the act was such an unforgivable crime.
Yuushi recalled how Gakuto's eyes had dared to look hopeful when Yuushi finally confessed. And he recalled how his face fell a moment later. Was that why? Knowing that Yuushi was fond of this new persona—fond of an act?
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Why in the world had Gakuto thought he needed to change, anyway? Yuushi was a bit outraged by the idea—then realized that it might have been his own incessant flirting. Those "proper young women" his mother had introduced him to—he'd had no actual interest in them, but Gakuto mightn't have known that.
And Yuushi was always such a gentleman, himself—was that what it was? Needing to live up to something?
Gakuto, he admitted, had exceeded him in all aspects of that.
…
" Of course you can't tell I've been in love with you for the past fucking eight years, can't tell I changed everything for you . . ."
…
He was still breathless.
He had to find him . . .
He had to find Gakuto.
What the hell had he been thinking?
Gakuto's strides were long but stilted, and he staggered his way back to the hotel he was staying at.
If he wasn't going to follow through with it—why act in the first place?
It wasn't just France, wasn't just the acting—he'd hoped, would have been happy if even for a moment, a split second, Yuushi loved him. He'd wanted it so badly, had come so close to having it—and then he'd let it go.
Why act?
It was a game of make-believe, in the end, just a fantasy—and as wonderful as fairy-tales were, he'd learned at an early age that they'd never come true.
When he was younger, he used to believe he could fly. Being so lithe and light, he'd managed to master the art of acrobatics, and then came to love tennis, with his acrobatic techniques. His Moon Salute had always been an exhilarating feeling—like he could fly. Being ten, twenty, a hundred feet into the air, flipping, and then falling back down to Earth, because he was no bird, no angel—no wings, no flight. But he savored those few seconds as much as he could, and thought of them in his dreams.
Being around Yuushi was kind of like flying. It was the feeling of flying without actually doing it—flying in a dark, midnight blue sky, one that fiercely resembled Yuushi's eyes.
It was a stupid sentiment, he thought. A really stupid sentiment. Stupid dreams.
He'd chased them, anyway.
He'd gone all the way to France, studied, been accepted into a prestigious university, attended a spectacular law school, graduated at the top of his class, and been offered a job at one of France's biggest law firms. He'd picked up two instruments, learned them at an astonishingly quick rate. He learned how to charm, how to stay composed. Etiquette was easy to learn, especially since he came from a high class family, himself. He'd carefully chosen the people he associated himself with—chose high class, polite gentlemen, proper young ladies, and adapted to them in no time at all. It was painful to do, but he'd resisted—never really knowing what for.
And then he'd come back to Japan.
He'd gone to the reunion, seen that some of his friends really hadn't changed at all—realized that some people didn't even recognize him, and wasn't sure if he ought to be proud or horrified. He'd seen Yuushi, who was much the same as always—and almost faltered.
His friends, meanwhile, were being killed off, one by one. He could barely keep up his new image, but it was easier than he thought—what was at first an act could easily become a habit, he realized. He was ashamed of it, almost.
That night in the club, he'd almost lost the will to continue with the façade. It was so much fun, dancing like that. For a moment, he was himself, dancing, reckless and wild. But it was only a glimpse, and he hid it away the moment the night ended. He'd chosen to go to Japan with this façade, and he'd follow through with it.
And it still didn't work. Yuushi suspected him for murder, of all things. When he finally realized it, Gakuto was devastated. How could he? But it was too late to turn back, and he decided if nothing else, he'd stay consistent, stay steady. Yuushi could doubt him all he liked.
That day in the park, that morning they went to the museum, Gakuto wavered. He'd seen how stunned and miserable Yuushi was, and he wanted to cry for him. Instead, he reached for his hand. The morning had gone peacefully enough.
It was the evening that ruined it all.
He'd just had dinner with Jiroh, and it'd all been wonderfully pleasant. They joked around like old times, and in a moment, Jiroh saw through the act that nobody else did.
…
"Hey, Gaku."
"Hm?"
"Why are you pretending? You still love him, right?"
…
He'd still been slightly in shock when he saw Yuushi, and when they argued—he'd come so close to just giving it all away. But before he had a chance to lose his temper, Yuushi lost his own, and Gakuto realized that to an extent, his act worked.
…
"I like you. And I could almost love you."
…
He was terrified.
What was he going to do? This wasn't him—he'd made Yuushi fall in love with act. Just then, he realized how cruel it was, how awful it was—it was a heartless thing to do, just like a prank.
And yet he'd been—(still was)—so in love with him when he'd decided to begin the act. He'd done it in the hopes that Yuushi would love him, and now that he had it—he didn't want it, not like this.
He wanted Yuushi to love him, and even if acts became habits—it wasn't him. It'd never be him, however much he wanted it to be.
Gakuto kept running until he was a safe distance away from the office. He was in an unfamiliar neighborhood—it'd been a long time since he'd last been to Japan, and he realized he didn't really remember how to find his way around.
There weren't many people around. He stumbled into an alleyway, and waited until he was safely alone before he allowed himself to cry.
He'd seen the general direction in which Gakuto had run, and followed blindly.
…
" Of course you can't tell I've been in love with you for the past fucking eight years, can't tell I changed everything for you . . ."
…
How had it taken so long for him to realize?
And he'd wanted it so badly.
Gakuto had practically told him, that morning.
…
"They were elegant. High class. Well-mannered. Your family liked them."
…
"They were perfect for you. You needed somebody like that—someone you could rely on, and someone who'd complement you."
…
Why hadn't he paid more attention to that?
It explained why Gakuto was so stunned, when Yuushi implied he had a secret, when he implied Gakuto wasn't telling him something.
It wasn't about the murders.
It was . . . this.
He didn't know whether he ought to be ecstatic or exasperated.
Why did Yuushi have to be so—stupid?
Why did Gakuto have to believe something so stupid?
Yuushi looked around franticly. He'd begun to wander, not really sure where he was going. He didn't often go to this area of Tokyo, and it was a quiet neighborhood, not many people. He staggered forward, looking around and running as fast as his legs would take him.
Then he heard a choked sound, and turned back around.
A flash of red, devastatingly red against the grey air.
He forgot how to breathe.
"Gakuto," he whispered.
There he was, slumped against the brick wall, hands clenched into fists, eyes looking down, wide and unfocused. The sky was grey, and the partly obscured sun cast a strange light on him. It illuminated his tears, made them look like liquid crystal against his pale, pale skin.
"Gakuto," he repeated, a little louder.
Gakuto's head snapped up, and he looked at Yuushi in surprise. And then he took a step backward, as if he wanted to run. "Yuushi," he said uncertainly.
"Gakuto, why didn't you tell me?" Yuushi asked suddenly, all in one breath. In three quick strides he took Gakuto by the arms. "Why act?"
The redhead looked skeptical. "Drop it," he said slowly. "Seriously. Just drop it."
"You can't possibly expect me to leave something like this alone," Yuushi replied, disbelieving. "Tell me."
"I did," Gakuto blurted, annoyed. "You almost fell in love with a façade, and I did it on purpose! I'm sorry, I swear I didn't mean for it to go like this—I don't know what the hell I was thinking, and then it was too late, and I—" He broke off, looked down, then looked back up. His voice cracked, was completely desolate, bewildered, like he couldn't understand it either, as he whispered, "I wanted you to love me."
A pause. Then Yuushi moved closer. "I do."
"You don't," Gakuto said quickly, looking a tad panicked. "It was an act, it wasn't real. It was a mistake, I'm sorry—"
"I do love you." The sky darkened a little more, and Yuushi wondered if it was going to rain. He pulled Gakuto into an embrace, Gakuto's back to him. He took both of Gakuto's hands and held them in his. They were trembling. "I do."
"You don't," he breathed, sotto voce.
Yuushi ignored it. "I'm in love with you."
Gakuto faltered, then slumped against him. "You're not," he replied pleadingly, "and it's my fault. I'm sorry. Leave me alone, please." But he didn't seem to have the strength to pull himself away, and Yuushi tightened his hold around him. "We can pretend this never happened. I'm good at acting." There was a tint of dark humor in his tone. "I'm going back to France, anyway, so I—"
"I love you," Yuushi murmured.
"Stop saying that; you don't! Stop with it already!" Gakuto whipped around and gave him a hard stare. "I'm not going back to that," he said slowly.
I've said it. It's over.
He swallowed back any regrets and continued, "I'm not acting anymore." He took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking—There are hundreds of people in Japan who actually are like that, who don't have to act—just . . . go to them, or something. Let me go." His voice shook. That's it. After eight years—I'm just handing him away. He resigned himself to it, and tried to stifle the sudden urge to cry.
"I love you." Yuushi decided he'd repeat that for the rest of his life if he had to. It sounded so perfectly sweet, perfectly honest—and he wanted to lavish Gakuto with it, everyday, every moment if he'd allow it.
"Are you deaf?" Gakuto demanded. "I'm not acting anymore! It's not—me!" He was beyond frustrated, wondering what the hell it'd take for Yuushi to get the fucking hint—had he always been this dense? He'd spelled it out for him—multiple times—hadn't he?
"Are you deaf?" Yuushi asked softly. "That's exactly what I want."
"For me to be deaf?" There was genuine confusion in his tone, and Yuushi almost laughed.
"No," he replied. "You wouldn't be able to hear my declarations of love if you were deaf."
Gakuto turned a pale red, and looked away. "Stop it, Yuushi," he said, his words choked. He sounded as if he were about to cry—his words were breathy, trembling, and his expression desolate. "I'm sorry." He lifted an arm and brushed it against his eyes violently, and Yuushi thought he saw something liquid sparkle in the light.
"Why in the world would you think that I'd wanted a polite society type?" he inquired, pulling him closer and closer until his chin rested on top of Gakuto's head. "Did I ever tell you that?"
"Why wouldn't you?" Gakuto replied flatly. He pushed himself away from Yuushi, and took a staggering step from him. "Why wouldn't you?"
"I love you," he said, and pulled him back. "You. Not—whatever you were pretending to be."
Hope dared to flare in Gakuto's eyes, still brilliant, still blue. "You don't mean that," he said halfheartedly.
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Why . . . ?"
"Of course you're still dense," Yuushi murmured. "Of course you can't tell I've been in love with you for the past eight years."
…
"Of course you're still goddamn dense . . . Of course you can't tell I've been in love with you for the past fucking eight years . . ."
…
Gakuto's eyes widened.
"I was fond of the act," Yuushi acknowledged. "But I love you."
Shock, nonsensical stammering, inelegance—Yuushi looked at it, all wonderfully transparent on Gakuto's face, and never thought him more beautiful. He could see it all, every act, perfectly visible. His heart on his sleeve again, everything spelled out. "Yuushi . . ." he said, dazed.
Pure joy. That was what it felt like. Gakuto's face was still swept with disbelief, but Yuushi had recognized his victory—he allowed himself to laugh, fully laugh, allowed it to ring clear. And then he couldn't stop, because this was all just so ridiculous—the entire situation. It was like the world had played a practical joke on him, and he couldn't help it—he laughed.
"Silly Gakuto," he whispered, and leaned in to kiss him.
…
"I could almost love you."
…
Not almost. Not anymore.
But then again, he was talking to a different Gakuto now. This wasn't Gakuto the lawyer, Gakuto the calm and collected, Gakuto the polite society type.
This was Gakuto, Gakuto the dancer, the brash and reckless and wild.
The actual Gakuto, he realized, with a happy sort of shimmer.
Yuushi recognized this feeling from middle school and high school. It was that familiar fluttering, that pounding of the heart, the delirious happiness, drunken with joy.
It was that, except ten times more powerful.
And the kiss only intensified it, intensified to twenty, thirty, a hundred, a thousand times stronger.
So this is love, Yuushi thought. It'd been eight years, three years apart—eight years' wait.
Gakuto seemed about to pull away, and Yuushi wrapped an arm around him, pulled him back, closer and closer.
It was so much more than just worth it.
…
Gakuto thought he could fly.
He really could—everything had vanished. He didn't know how to describe it—but if this was what a kiss from Yuushi felt like, he never wanted to stop. He knew it was going to rain—the sky was grey and the clouds were dark and sooner or later (but probably sooner) they were both going to end up soaked and they'd probably catch a cold and end up sick for a week and he was rambling but he really didn't care.
He could fly, and he'd touch every star in the sky—it took a miracle, but it was exactly what he'd been dreaming of.
And now he finally had it.
Yuushi was the one to pull away, and when he did, Gakuto let out a breathy laugh.
"I love you," Yuushi told him. It might have been the hundredth time that day, but Gakuto couldn't bring himself to be embarrassed about it. He decided he could live on those words, for the rest of his life. He leaned in a little, marveling at how perfectly he fit into Yuushi's arms.
"That's all I ever wanted," Gakuto breathed.
Gakuto was on his way back to the hotel, and Yuushi had offered to walk him there. It was going to rain soon, and neither of them wanted to get soaked. The sky had darkened significantly, and Gakuto glanced warily at it.
"I'm kind of glad it didn't rain," he said, "while . . . y'know." He'd taken off his tie and stuffed it into his pocket, and had undone the first two buttons of his dress shirt.
Yuushi looked at him curiously. "Why?"
Gakuto shrugged. "It would've been pretty cliché," he pointed out. "Straight out of one of those cheesy romance novels. Don't you think?"
"I wish it did rain," Yuushi mused. "It would've been very romantic, I believe. Chasing after you, a kiss in the rain . . ."
Gakuto snorted, but turned away to hide his blush. "Stupid Yuushi."
They walked in a comfortable silence, and then Yuushi's cell phone rang. He shot Gakuto an apologetic look and answered. "Hello?"
"Oshitari-san?"
"Hiyoshi? What's wrong?"
"Inui was killed only a few minutes ago. Someone heard the shot. I just got here—you have to come, right now. It was near the Sumida river—I can't believe no one saw anything."
"Inui's dead?" Yuushi repeated in disbelief. He'd been hoping to ask him a few questions—so much for that idea. And to think, another person dead . . . this made five, didn't it?
Gakuto looked startled by the comment. "Inui's dead?" he asked, worried. "What happened?"
"I'll be right there," Yuushi said, somewhat regretfully, and hung up the phone. He turned to Gakuto, who held up a hand before he could say anything.
"Get the hell out of here," Gakuto told him, giving him a gently push toward the direction of the office. "You're wasting time."
"Can you make it back to your hotel safely?" Yuushi demanded. The murderer could come after anybody next—he was on a roll, with his five victims. And if he was still in the area . . .
"I'll be fine," he assured. "Just go."
"Lock the doors," Yuushi warned. "And don't let anybody in. Even if it's somebody you know. It doesn't matter who—I don't care if it's Atobe himself. Don't let anybody in."
"I got it, I got it."
Yuushi cast one glance back at him, and ran.
"Oshitari."
The words were hissed, and by the time Yuushi realized who it was, Fuji had already stormed up to him and given him a shove that almost sent him stumbling into the river. I'm getting a lot of abuse today, aren't I? he thought wryly. "Fuji," he greeted, maintaining his balance and glancing at Hiyoshi, who was talking urgently with one of the police officers. "Where's Inui?"
"Are you blind?" Fuji asked, his voice deceptively casual. "He's lying right next to you." Yuushi gave a surprised start. "Nobody moved him, for fear of messing with our genius detective's notes." His words were dripping with acid, and Yuushi didn't doubt that he was furious.
Inui was splayed on the floor in a rather awkward position. There were red marks on his wrists, which suggested a struggle. The classic bullet through the occipital lobe was present, and Yuushi wondered if it was another case of Russian roulette.
"Inui," he murmured. It was such a loss.
"If I may ask," Fuji began, his voice steady.
"Yes?"
"Why was someone from Seigaku killed?"
His blue eyes slid open, a piercing turquoise blue. "Why Seigaku? What did Inui ever do?" he demanded.
Hiyoshi walked up to him. "We don't know why the murderer does anything," he warned.
"Hiyoshi," he acknowledged flatly. "Of course we don't. Because Oshitari can't seem to uncover this on his own, can he?"
Yuushi had to remind himself that Fuji had just lost a friend, and had to keep himself from being annoyed. "Do you know what happened?"
"I was walking in the area," Fuji replied. "I was supposed to meet with Tezuka and Eiji in half an hour. But who knows if that'll happen?" He chuckled darkly. "For all I know, they're dead, too! Or they will be. Inui called out to me, and by the time I got there, the shot had already been fired. He was alone." He took a deep breath and put a hand to his chest. "Wasn't I supposed to be next? Aren't I the one meddling around?" he demanded. "Why Inui?"
"I don't know any more than you do," Yuushi replied sharply. "Stop this, Fuji. It's not helping anybody."
"You certainly need all the help you can get, don't you?"
"You're the one tossing red herrings everywhere."
Hiyoshi listened to the exchange for a few moments, then muttered something about an autopsy and walked away.
"As a matter of fact," Fuji snapped, "I know much, much more than you do."
"Yes, for someone who knows who the murderer is, you're awfully surprised, aren't you?"
"There's no point in telling you who the murderer is," he replied darkly. "You wouldn't arrest him, unless you figured it out for yourself."
"It's not Gakuto," Yuushi retorted.
"You don't know who the murderer is," Fuji taunted. His smile was frightening. "You don't know anything! So you'd better hurry up, Oshitari, because you're either going to be arresting someone you grew up with, or carrying his corpse to the morgue."
Unfortunately, he had a point.
Yuushi returned to the office after all notes had been taken, and Inui's body was safely carried away. Eiji and Tezuka had come to Fuji, stunned. Eiji, however, was especially horrified, and Yuushi wondered why.
The office was silent. It was finally raining, and Yuushi noted absentmindedly that it felt like a scene from a detective movie, with the grey skies and dark office. Notes were scattered haphazardly across his desk, and he looked through them absentmindedly.
Inui was fairly tall, and very fit. He had a good athletic build, and was more than capable of putting up a fight. The fact that he was killed indicated that the murderer had a good fighting ability, or was at least fit enough to take on someone like Inui.
What was Inui doing by the river, anyway?
Fuji had been on his way to meet with Tezuka and Eiji. Inui had happened to be in the same area. He'd met with the murderer, who'd begun to engage him in a struggle. He called out to Fuji, who he probably noticed was nearby, and by then, the murderer had shot him. It didn't seem like Russian roulette—Shishido's murder had been done while he was asleep, but Choutaro and Niou hadn't put up a struggle at all. Marui had died by poisoning, so that didn't apply, but—
Why was the murderer so desperate to kill Inui? What did Inui know that was so threatening?
Fuji knew who the murderer was, but no attempts had been made on his life. If Inui did know the murderer's identity, what made him so much more threatening than Fuji? What more did Inui know? If anything, Fuji was more likely to be targeted, with his sadistic nature.
There was still something missing. Motives, reasons, methods—
What else was there?