#three (hamatora)

[pinkhammock]

Lord…

forgive me the sin of staining these fangs and claws with blood.

I am the Beast.

[hamatorapersonals]

[minimum-holdersrules-blog]

Minimum Holders

Re: Hamatora Opening

[murasakis-glasses]

ついろぐ⑥ by しゃち

Permission was given. Think about giving the artist 10 stars to show your appreciation~☆

[syviki]

Fic: Ctrl+F5 — [10/??]

In another story, Murasaki’s the best graduate of Facultas, Ratio is a doctor in search of a cure, and Art receives help on a case from a man with brown hair and three bandages – a man said to work with Mao.

Different meetings lead to different relationships. And what these all lead to? AU.

—

The apartment is as it always is: small, absent, and lonely.

January the first makes no difference to it.

Hajime tries not to make a sound when she enters and closes the door behind her, because – if the time on her phone is correct – Nice is in the midst of another one of his naps, and disturbing him would mean having to deal with an upset schedule and inordinate amounts of fatigue. Fatigue always meant Nice would burn anything he tried to cook one hundred percent of the time, and then Hajime would have to try and deal with dinner for both of them.

Hajime drifts silently past the futon, glances briefly at the time left on Nice's countdown – 15:21, so he'd just fallen asleep – and leaves him alone.

She tip-toes to the bathroom, grabs the bundle of clothes waiting for her, and throws her old garments in one corner for a thorough disinfecting later. She's already washed her hands after the job. There's no way to walk around the city with hands covered in someone else's blood.

She has a shower.

She washes her hands again.

Hajime's sure that Nice knows whenever she's hiding demons beneath her jacket, but it's one of the necessities they never share.

Nice's timer has counted all the way down to 5:55 when Hajime steps out, bandage already over her right eye. Hajime hovers. There's no furrow, no tensing of muscles that say he's having another nightmare.

Hajime likes it when he's sleeping peacefully.

A lock of hair has fallen into his mouth. Hajime tucks her legs beneath her before reaching out, brushing it away. She resists the urge to remove the bandage and check up on him with her Minimum.

“You have the directory,” Nice mumbles, lips curved in a satisfied smile.

The timer says 2:18 when Hajime rises to her feet and leaves for work again.

—

“Just a little theoretical experiment,” says Nice. “And then I'd like to make you an offer.”

On any other day, Art would have said that he had a case to solve, he had no time for theoretical experiments, but he's in Nice's unexpectedly companionable company, and the remains of Café Nowhere's coffee lie warmly in Art's stomach, so Art raises his brows.

“A theoretical experiment?” echoes Art.

“Yeah.” Nice starts absently swinging his umbrella. “Say – you were looking for a Minimum. How would you go about finding it?”

Art gives him a sideways glance. The question is all sorts of leading.

“I would check the directory,” he says, carefully.

“No, no...” and Nice shakes his head, “I mean, sure, that is an option, but what if it was just you as a detective? How would you go looking for it then?”

“You'll need to be more specific.”

“Okay, then,” says Nice's voice. “What if it was the Healing Minimum?”

Art snaps his head behind him. He stares at Nice, who'd stopped walking. Nice is busy fishing his umbrella from the bush it had become entangled in.

Nice notices he's being watched, and smiles back at Art innocuously.

“Guess I shouldn't do that,” says Nice, once he catches up.

Art is still thinking. “The Healing Minimum? The one which is said to have the ability to remove any illness?”

“That's the one.”

Before either of them could say another word, Art's phone rings. It's Gasquet. Art tries to cast the conversation with Nice aside and answers the call.

“Hello?” he says.

Static.

Art frowns. “Mr. Gasquet?”

No reply.

Art removes the phone from his ear and stares down at the screen.

Nice takes the moment to peer over. He notices the lack of sound emanating from the speaker and offers, “Old man's probably pocket dialling.”

It makes sense, but Art still can't erase the unsettling clouds condensing in his chest; perhaps it's the weather that's leading to his apprehension, because of how they'd just sat through a storm.

Art hangs up and puts the phone away.

“Healing Minimum?” reminds Nice.

Ah. They were in a conversation.

“Why are you asking?” says Art.

“Why not?”

Because you just told me that you were Feng, the one person in Yokohama that can find the unfindable, thought Art, and because the Healing Minimum exists only in legend, which would make it a perfect job for your description.

The question is too specific to be entirely theoretical.

Nice sulks in the silence.

“C'mon,” he says, and makes a motion almost like he's nudging. “It's not going to make a difference, because I've already nearly found it.”

Whatever Art opens his mouth to say, he forgets in surprise. “It exists?”

“Well, yeah.” Pause. “Kind of. Maybe. Sure.” Art opens his mouth again, but Nice ploughs on. “Who cares? What's wrong with answering? I'm just trying to kill time until we get back over here.”

The reassurance isn't reassuring enough to Art, but Nice is incredibly earnest, and Nice is in possession of a lead that Art requires. Art supposes he can humour him for one last time.

“Hospitals,” says Art.

Nice is swinging his umbrella again. “Hmm?”

“I would check hospitals,” Art clarifies, then takes a moment to collect the rest of his thoughts. “Question staff. Conduct interviews... search for contacts, assistance, and leads.”

“But what if you can't find anything in any of them?”

“There are always stories and rumours to follow.”

“Huh. So that your Superintendent's methodology.”

A movement in the corner of Art's eye causes him to turn around. Nice is tapping at the bridge of his nose thoughtfully.

“Is there a problem?” asks Art.

“Not really,” says Nice. “It makes sense that you'd think someone with a Healing Minimum would have connections to a hospital, but I don't do that. Mao and I try to stay as far away from you public service guys as possible.”

“How would you approach this, then?”

“Well, rumours and miracle stories first. Then... you've noticed, right? Whenever a Minimum is involved, there's always something that's missing. Craters without explosives. Fire without tinder.” Nice shrugs. “How I work, I hunt for that. Whatever I don't have. That's where I go.”

“That would be extremely inefficient,” says Art.

“Maybe for you,” Nice agrees. “But you're also under paperwork and jurisdiction.”

There it is again: The reminder that Nice works outside the law.

“Anyway,” says Nice, “thanks for your input.”

Art checks his watch, has another glance at his phone, and the police building rises from the skyline.

—

10: before I sleep (i dream)

—

The first hint that he's dreaming is when he's aware of a distant sound, recognisable as the beat of footsteps in the corridor.

“Hey, Art—”

Art wakes up with his head against his elbow and the fabric of his dress shirt pulled taut across his shoulders. There's a sheaf of paper between his fingers, bent against the surface of his desk, and when he lifts his head to blink blearily and glance around, the computer screen beside him is blank and sleeping.

He tries to remember what he'd been doing; one glance down reveals Sakiyama Seiji, and carries with it the memory that, as one of its prime agents, he'd been writing a report for the faceless officials in the Minimum Agency.

Gasquet pauses at the doorway. He's hovering with worry. He enters when Art starts to rearrange his hair.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Gasquet?” says Art.

The question is ignored. “Thinking about the same thing?”

Art can't tell what he's referring to, but assumes by the gaze toward his desk drawer that he's talking about Skill. The reminder about Skill's death anniversary clings messily to his conscience, a stain never harder to wash away.

(Except – he hadn't dreamt about Skill.)

“Yes,” Art lies.

There's a sigh. Gasquet tosses another bundle of papers toward Art, then turns around so he's leaning on the edge of the table.

“Those are the reports you wanted on suspicious activity in the area, circa two years ago,” he says. “I sincerely doubt there's any relevance in pursuing Sakiyama there.”

—a man, approx. 170cm, brown hair and blue eyes—, a segment reads, when Art moves to take them.

[ I... looked you up. Two years ago. ]

“You can never be too sure,” Art replies.

Hopefully, Gasquet wouldn't notice that the area included Art's apartment, in addition to including the police station.

Art's on the third page when Gasquet sighs again.

“Can I not convince you to take time off early?” he asks.

“I have work I need to do,” says Art.

“And you have sleep you should be doing.”

“My week off begins in two days.”

“That's no reason it can't begin now.”

Art pauses. “With all due respect, Mr. Gasquet, I—”

“Alright, alright.” Gasquet slides his shoulders back to shrug with his hands, and Art idly wonders which of the officers he'd picked that habit up from, because Gasquet hasn't shrugged with his hands before. “Can't say I didn't try.”

Art chose not to mention that Gasquet's been trying for days.

“Thank you for your concern,” says Art.

Gasquet waves a hand dismissively. “Don't thank me. Actually, can I borrow your car for a couple of days?”

“Pardon?”

“I need to move some belongings b'tween here and my cousin's place in Tokyo. You won't be needing it when you're off, no?”

“Not... particularly,” admits Art.

Gasquet leans closer. A sudden bristling runs up and down Art's back, beneath his jacket.

“So I can borrow it?” says Gasquet.

Art tries to shake it, but he can't escape the notion that he's being pushed against a wall.

“I... don't see why not,” says Art. The wall grows arms and wraps around him; Art breaks its grasp with the power of logic. “I can take public transport home tomorrow. Please be careful. Don't smoke inside. Avoid dirtying the interior.”

Gasquet laughs.

“Have some more faith in me, Art,” he says.

I do, thinks Art. Gasquet is Gasquet, who's always helped and always had his best interests at heart. Still, his smile hangs fragile, balanced precariously off the edge of his emotions. It must be the remains of Sakiyama's influence contributing to his paranoia.

Art decides to attend the next available courses at the Police Academy in order to refresh his education and guard him from that in the future.

He returns to the predictability of his paperwork, and doesn't dare shift his smile to reply.

—

On the first day, Art wakes up and conducts his usual morning routine, only to reach for his missing car keys and remember, somewhat belatedly, that he wasn't expected at Headquarters unless an emergency occurred or after seven days.

The knowledge paralyses him. Art hasn't had so much time to himself since Facultas – before he realised that, unless he spent every waking hour studying, he wouldn't be able to stay.

Art wanders aimlessly around his apartment, looking for something, anything. The floors are clean, and so is his kitchen. His bed is made, the sheets are fresh; he'd changed them less than a week ago. The long, cold fishtank empty against one wall; an impulse purchase that he could fill; but once he returns to work he won't have time to care for fish, not when he sometimes forgets to feed himself.

There's a bill on the counter. More paperwork. It's due in a month.

Art tries to deal with it but finds he isn't allowed.

Art decides not to call, taking it instead as an excuse to visit a branch personally.

—

A few hours later, he's across the road from Café Nowhere.

Yokohama isn't a city difficult to navigate without a car. It's large enough that walking from end to end would take half a day on foot, but its web of public transport is extensive and, though crowded, there are many options available. Art knows of them, but doesn't use them regularly enough to be familiar.

He discovered the branch is closed for the New Year. There are many festivities, but he isn't in the mood for celebrating; instead, he'd been following the instructions on his phone in search of a book store. Art would make his visits to Skill's grave count; not so rarely to be neglecting, not so often for them to lose meaning. Skill would have appreciated Art talking to him about some hobby, even if Art had only picked it up to assuage his brother's worry.

Less than five minutes after getting off the bus, Art finds he's recognising the street as one he's walked before. He doesn't know what he's expecting when he looks up.

Art finds Café Nowhere watching him back.

The door is ajar, casting shadows across the entryway. Sunlight illuminates the windows a blinding white and bleaches the warmth from brick walls. A moat of traffic divides them, with rushing cars and rapid engine growls, steeds of knights guarding a distant castle. It's nothing like it'd been in the rain, door closed but signs with arms wide open and keen to usher its visitors inside.

It's nothing like it'd been when he was with Nice.

They'd shared an umbrella, awkwardly. Art remembers the sound of his breath and the rhythms of his walk. Nice had entered Art's life as the fake deliveryman wearing earphones, in possession of a piece of evidence crucial to the arrest of Tachikawa Kenta. He'd warned. Helped. All in exchange for frivolities—

Frivolities in exchange for behaviour that never considered personal consequences or the law.

Art hesitates.

Already, Café Nowhere has forgotten him. Nice would have forgotten him too.

Art's tried, and tried. Skill should be the only thing on his mind; Skill, and finding those who'd taken his life, to make up for the world's injustice.

But thoughts of Nice won't go away.

Art looks back to his phone for further instructions. He unlocks the screen, but instead of being greeted by directions, he's met with the reminder he'd jotted down.

Find Miraki Lending. Hajime met with James Shunsuke?

Art pauses.

It's a long time before he turns around and pursues his curiosity.

—

Birthday's burnt more calories that week than he's ever burnt in an entire month.

Probably.

He's lost track of how many times he's gone on a walk to calm his head, watching Ratio lose track of time as he tries to adjust to a sleeping schedule where days are nothing but timeslots spread across naps few and far between. But Birthday's been on a lot of walks – until one of his legs kept cramping, and Birthday's been stuck at home.

Ratio'd asked Birthday to help wake him up, to prevent him from oversleeping.

Birthday's of the very clear opinion that surviving on four thirty-minute naps are undersleeping.

(Birthday figures he's lost more than enough calories stressing over Ratio.)

Today is day eight. It's eleven in the morning, and Ratio's shifts leave him with the time off. They'd run out of coffee earlier.

Birthday forgot to mention it, and it was 5 AM when Ratio discovered it the hard way.

“G'night, Ratio,” says Birthday, trying to hide his grimace behind a smile as he pretends to tuck Ratio in.

Ratio opens an eye to look at Birthday. There's an incredible bag beneath it, from the first day, when Ratio'd gone without sleep for twenty-four hours to force himself into the schedule. It's faded enough to no longer look like a parasite had gone and attached itself to Ratio's face, but not enough that Ratio doesn't look like he's grimacing back.

I'm sorry I haven't found your cure yet, says the gaze.

Birthday opens his mouth, tries to say, Do you think I want you to ruin your life just to try and save mine?, but he's promised to wake Ratio up in half an hour. New Year or not, Ratio's already scheduled his day with margins so tight they might as well not exist. He'd made sure that Birthday knows. If Birthday starts to argue, Ratio will be down a quarter of his daily sleep.

Ratio'd be awake, after half an hour of sleep, from 5 AM all until the evening.

“Sleep tight,” Birthday says instead.

Thank you, Ratio closes his eye and says wordlessly.

Ratio falls asleep, and Birthday's by his side, watching the time tick down twice as fast as normal. It's like the microwave effect, but in reverse. It's not the first time Birthday's wished that Ratio's naps passed according to microwave time.

“But I have promises to keep,” Ratio'd told him.

Birthday leans back and falls lifelessly into his chair. The back digs into the base of his spine. Birthday doesn't care.

They'd been twelve, when Birthday said he wanted a cure, and Birthday had been joking.

“I hate this,” he mutters to himself, but he's really talking about himself and the world and everything in between. “Fuck. I wish you'd realise that sometimes there are promises that aren't worth keeping.”

—

Art's first impression of Miraki Lending is that it is incredibly clean.

The signage is fresh, colours bold. Glass gleams in the light without a trace of a scratch or of any stain. Painted surfaces are unclouded. Both buildings to either side are injured, presenting chipped bricks plastered with ghostly tape remains.

Then Art walks closer and sees the marks on the walls change direction several times, and wonders how many times it's been renovated because the building is not one that is new.

Before he's given the chance to touch the handle, the door opens. Behind it is a giant of a man with wild blond hair spilling over a dark suit. He has a great scar on his face in the shape of an X. Art notes instantly the cut of his clothes and how he shows no sign of making any movements toward his own body. It's unlikely he's concealing weaponry, but Art doesn't doubt the man's size and muscles would be more than enough to compensate should he need them.

“Welcome to Miraki Lending,” says the giant.

The voice is harsh. Art hears the kind undertone for what it is.

“Thank you,” says Art.

“If you would like to enquire about a loan, the President will be here shortly—”

“I'm looking to speak with a Miss Hajime.”

All of a sudden, Art's path is blocked. The giant has shifted with barely any warning. The lack of signals and the defensive action causes Art to mirror the giant's tense posture unconsciously.

“Hajime is...” The giant hesitates. “Why do you wish to speak with her?”

Art decides to take the blunt approach. “She helped save my life.”

A flash of something passes through the giant's eyes – but before Art gets an opportunity to read it, they're interrupted by soft footfalls. Hajime emerges, tiny beside the giant's grand stature. The giant takes half a step back to give her access.

It didn't take long until Hajime spots Art. She gasps, curls her lips into her teeth. Her dull gaze flickers with the bitter taint of apprehension, and even the bandage over one eye doesn't manage to halve the reaction.

“Why are you here?” demands Hajime. She takes a sharp breath, then repeats monotone as if she were a recording, “Why are you here?”

“I...”

Art fumbles for words he no longer knows. At some point, he'd expected her to be like Nice; brighter, more playful. He'd already been off-balance, having to approach a day without the rigour of routine to guide him. Such a cold response threw him even more.

Hajime must have sensed that Art wouldn't be able to say anything. She turns and looks up to the giant beside her.

“Three,” she says. “If the President asks, I am on a short walk. Alone.”

The giant – Three – nods, though his brows are drawn in confusion. “I... understand.”

Hajime brushes past him and gives Art a sharp look instructing him to follow.

Art obliges.

He has no idea where they're going, and the streets change little, although the density of the people on its sidewalks begins to increase. Where there'd been a couple of people every handful of steps, there were now five. Ten. Dozens – mostly young adults, below the age of forty; once walking and moving alongside them, now starting to slow to a standstill. The low hum of distant conversations surrounding them begins to intensify.

And then the street opens into a loud shopping district filled with people.

Masks behind counters watch as Hajime pushes past, eyeing the groups of people. Art hurries his pace and concentrates on the peak of white from her cap, short against her surroundings. Hajime shows no sign of stopping. Art pushes through the crowd, which had settled back after she'd moved them, in order not to lose her.

Stalls selling clothes make way for displays of trinkets. The crowds briefly thin. They reach an intersection that leads to a food strip.

Hajime slows. Art stops beside her, and he finds his stomach has tensed. He takes a deep breath to return the wind to his lungs, forces himself to relax, and looks ahead into the strip. Dense, fragrant smoke hangs between the buildings on either side, carries to their noses with the help of a soft breeze. Art realises he hasn't eaten all morning. Have some lunch before you continue, it beckons.

Hajime shifts by his elbow, and Art wonders if he'll be asked to treat her.

“You can't visit me,” she says, suddenly.

Given by her reaction, Art has guessed as much already. “Is there a reason for that?”

"...Yes.”

Hajime doesn't elaborate any further. She turns around, away from the food, and starts walking again. Her pace is no longer as swift, and Art is able to walk beside her.

“What do you want?” she says, once a block has passed.

“I wanted to thank you,” says Art. “Nice told me you weren't scheduled to visit Sato on the day I was attacked.”

Hajime makes a movement like she's shaking her head, but as soon as Art turns to look, the movement is gone. For a while, she says nothing. Then, Art is no longer next to her; the cadence in her steps change unexpectedly, and she overtakes him.

"...nothing,” Art hears her say.

Her arms tuck into herself and she shakes her head again. Hajime's wake grows; the crowds are still in their way, but now they've noticed that Art and Hajime are together, so they part pre-emptively to allow him through after her.

“Are you also from Facultas?” asks Art, when it becomes evident she wouldn't continue.

"...Yes.”

“Which class were you in? Your third language—”

“Unregistered,” says Hajime. She doesn't turn around. “That's why... I won't be in it, your directory.”

“How did you...”

“Nice talks in his sleep.”

Art files the knowledge away. Nice's ability to retain information isn't as secure as Art had assumed.

“You're... looking for Nice, aren't you?” says Hajime.

“I'm not,” says Art, without hesitation, confident in the truth. “I only have some questions regarding your associations at Miraki Lending.”

There's a pause. Hajime stops, turns around. She scrutinises Art carefully. Though her stare is carefully emotionless, there's a suspicion, there; no effort is made to hide how her eyes are ripping him apart. An idea occurs to him, that Hajime is keeping her emotions beneath a certain threshold.

Art realises he's holding his breath.

Somehow, not knowing the full extent of Hajime's emotions is somehow more terrifying than if they were on full display.

“Liar,” she says.

I'm not lying.

The words don't go spoken.

“Stay out,” Hajime continues. “Nice doesn't... he doesn't need you. He doesn't need anyone who wants him only for what he can do.”

“I'm not looking for Nice,” says Art. “What connection do you have to Facultas? Do you – Would you know anything about strange events on the 7th of January, four years ago?”

Hajime pauses. Art wonders if she's about to leave.

Then, she stares at him and says: “Miraki Lending has nothing to do with Skill.”

—

“Are you alright?” are the first words from Three's mouth when Hajime returns.

Hajime barely spares him a glance, but commits the concern to memory. Concern could lead to guilt. Does he believe he's in her debt? It's a tie she'll need to watch and tear down if it ever became a necessity.

“The President?” she says.

“President Okura enquired approximately four minutes ago. I... responded as you asked.”

“Thank you.”

“Where did you go?”

Somewhere with Minimum, thinks Hajime.

Hajime doesn't reply. She tentatively lifts the bandage over her eye, and gives a small sigh of relief when the x-ray patterns of blue and white appear around her.

Of course, Three notices the sigh.

“Are you alright?” he asks again.

Hajime shakes her head dismissively, making clear her lack of interest in answering. She'd achieved what she'd set out to in her meeting with Art. Even if Nice is—

Even if Art—

Pressure rises in the back of Hajime's mind, accompanied by the memory of phantom needles and distant injections. She can't finish the thoughts. Her right eye pulses as a reminder about how she can't make another mistake. They're dangerous to consider at the current time.

The growths are pruned, swiftly, before they begin to consume.

Pruning is easiest when it's done all together. All... at once.

“You're getting soft, Three,” says Hajime. She makes her way inside. “Forget him... he owes me nothing.”

—

Art stands there, watching the spot where Hajime'd disappeared into the crowd. His heart has made its way to his throat, beating frantically against his empty chest; locked out, refused re-entry. The crowds part around him, this island alone in the waves of people.

Stay out.

Miraki Lending has nothing to do with Skill.

Isn't that more than what he's wanted? A clue, a clean break, to forget Nice, to...

[ Liar. ]

“Art,” Hajime'd said before leaving. There is no friend in how she pronounced his name. “There is a lot that Nice doesn't know... if you take advantage of that I will kill you. Skill's death is not by – not by— I—” she gasped and raised a hand to her throat, “I can't say. You are searching wrong. Hopefully... we never need to meet again.”

Art forgets to visit the book store.

—

Moral knocks politely on the young teacher's door, umbrella hanging off his wrist and the grip of his shiny golden revolver in his palm. It's late enough that nobody is awake, but it's also late enough that it happens to be three in the morning.

Moral isn't particularly worried, or anything. Momoka's records say that Kitazawa Yasuo is usually awake at the time.

After a minute or so, the door opens, and a half-naked man frowns suspiciously into the corridor.

“Good morning,” says Moral, shielded by the umbrella.

He fires. Gunpowder and blood splatter and combine on the clear plastic. Kitazawa's eyes are deliciously wide. It's always wonderful to see others respecting his power.

Kitazawa isn't dead yet, because he's scrambling for something, but Moral's more than prepared. He forces the door open and steps inside. Before the door is closed and any pesky neighbours wake up to investigate, Moral reaches inside his carry-bag and tosses a handful of spent firecracker casings behind him.

There isn't a body in the hallway. Kitazawa's probably trying to call for help, or trying to put his illicit pictures on the cloud, or something. What an exquisite Minimum. He'll find out that his phone and internet plans would all have stopped working.

Moral wonders if he should remove his shoes, and changes his mind. He drops what he's holding and claps his hands.

“Happy New Year!”

Too bad hide and seek isn't fun with a trail of blood to lead him.

—

/TBC/

—

[minimum-holdersrules-blog]

[raincappuccino]

Imagine Three being the Shipper. If you'll remember, Three ships stuff. Three is always, always trying to get everyone together. He probably cross-ships too. He's probably always having arguments with Honey who insists that "they can't all be gay. They're probably just friends." Everyone thinks Three just sits in the corner reading shoujo manga but he's actually secretly plotting ways to lock Birthday and Ratio in a closet. Three probably reads Hamatora fanfiction. He reads all of your fanfiction. He writes his own fanfiction. One of those Hamatora fanfiction writers out there is secretly Three. 

[syviki]

Fic: Love and Learn — [1/1]

// Rarepair Valentines 2015 × Fic 3 of 5 [Feb 12th] \\ @AO3 & @FFN

Sometimes you don't know what you're missing until you find them.

Pairing: Art/Koneko Rating: T Word count: 9051

—

If there's anything worse than knowing there's a serial killer targeting Minimum Holders on the loose, it's having to question friends in search of information.

Master's hand stills on the handle of the coffee grinder, and his brows furrow in deep concentration.

"Anything suspicious?" he echoes.

The bridging of an investigation into Art's private life is not something Art finds unfamiliar. Not when Nice is his best friend, not when Nice has a tendency to make enemies, and not when it's Art who's often left with the job of cleaning after him.

So it's easily that Art dismisses the apprehension shifting within his stomach in favour of remaining professional.

"Yes," confirms Art, with a nod. The atmosphere had grown taut as soon as he'd mentioned he'd been dropping by for police business. Had Nice been there, he might have said something to break the silence. But for once, save the silent presence of Hajime eating away in one corner, both Hamatora and Odd Jobs are at work and the rest of the café is empty.

"On and around last weekend, or the lead-up to it," says Art. "With particular focus on the twenty-first."

A body, dead; from Nowhere, a block away.

Master shakes his head. "Sorry. I don't have anything."

"That's fine," says Art, giving both staff behind the counter a slight bow. "Thank you for—"

There's a blur of auburn, a yelp of "Oh!", and Art turns to Koneko just as she straightens and thumps a fist onto an open palm.

"I remember something suspicious!" she says, eyes burning intensely. "There was a weird car here for the longest time!"

"A... car?"

"A car," and Koneko tucks a hand beneath her chin. Swish, her tail moves, hypnotising. "It was a black one."

"Would you know its type or plate code?"

"No, sorry. But it was definitely foreign and sporty! Like... one of those really fancy expensive Porsches."

Sometimes she sees it parked in Nowhere's car park, she continues, since people would sometimes use Nowhere's car park when they weren't supposed to, and Koneko'd made it a habit to look out of the window every now and then just to keep an eye on the spaces. The car's very attention-grabbing, so of course she wouldn't have missed it, but unfortunately she still hasn't gotten around to setting up a system for keeping track of exact times and models and number plates—

Art, notebook positioned before him, pauses when the search of his pocket reveals something's missing.

Koneko notices Art's frown before he notices it himself.

"—Ah!" she exclaims, and jumps. "Sorry, I've started to ramble."

"No, no," says Art. "You've been extremely helpful, thank you. It's just... I seem to have forgotten my pen. Could I perhaps borrow one?"

"Of course!" says Koneko.

Koneko fetches a pen from her pocket and hands it over. Art thanks her, she waits so that he can write his notes down, and then confirms when he reads the information back to her.

"I'm sure it was a Yokohama plate," she adds, remembering; Art jots it down. "In fact, it's—there!It's right there!"

Koneko points toward the windows. The exclamation's so excited that even Hajime looks up from her food to follow Koneko's arm. Sure enough, a black sports car is reversing into position; red brake lights flare menacingly as if sensing their gazes, and the engine continues snarling for several seconds before it's cut off at the ignition.

—Then the door opens and Birthday leaps out, followed by Ratio at a more sedate pace, and Art didn't need to see Ratio tucking a set of keys into his pocket to realise who the car belonged to.

A spoon clinks back into a bowl, Hajime returns to her meal, and Koneko deflates.

"Oh," says Koneko, tail drooping. She picks up her dishcloth with a small sigh. "I guess..."

Art closes the notebook and shakes his head.

"Thank you," Art tells her, with a smile. "Even if it did not work out, being observant is a talent that's highly useful."

Koneko's smile returns. "That's true," she says. "Sorry for your time."

Despite her enthusiasm, even when Art leaves the café, Koneko's tail remains down.

It's not until he finishes the rest of his questioning, arrives back at his office and finds his pen on his desk that he realises he'd accidentally taken Koneko's away.

—

If there's anything that can make him realise how limited his resources are, it's walking into Nowhere to find Koneko in the process of negotiating a contract with one of his men.

Nakatsuka Yuuki, says the form in front of her, while she spins another pen between her fingers. Strangely, her tail doesn't swish, but instead rests still; the only time it moves is when she looks up at Art's entry into the store, her eyes light up and she mouths a quick "Welcome!" – with both hands occupied, one by the phone and one with the pen, her tail is the only limb left to wave hello.

(Art still isn't sure how her tail works. The more he wonders, the less he wants to know.)

The café isn't empty on this visit; two tables are occupied by customers, Master is occupied with the stove, and Murasaki sits at the office behind a newspaper. Art exchanges silent greetings with them, and receives some in return.

"Welcome!" says Koneko. At some point, the call'd been over. "Table for one? Or if you're looking for Nice, he's out with Hajime."

Art shakes his head briefly. "Neither – I'm just here to return something."

"Return...?"

The pen is placed atop the counter. It's not a particularly fancy pen, a simple ballpoint with a clear shaft and small silver bands, but the little purple ribbon affixed to the end makes it one that's easily recognisable. Given her fascination with money, Art'd expected that Koneko would be mad, accuse him of stealing; he's taken by surprise when she claps her hands and beams.

"So that's where it went," she says, then turns to the pen. "I thought I lost you!"

"I apologise," says Art.

"No apologies necessary. Now, to finish this form, the phone number..."

Koneko begins fiddling with the handset and purses her lips in concentration. Art, who'd been about to leave, stops and reaches in his pocket to pull something out instead.

"Here," he says.

Koneko looks up and stares at the business card in his hand. "Wha...?"

"Detective Nakatsuka is one of my subordinates, investigating the serial kidnappings," says Art. "I'm... feeling generous. I'll take over as the contact from here."

"Hmm..."

She takes the card, and then examines both sides so intensely that self-consciousness tugs at Art's mind.

"Nope, sorry," says Koneko, finally. "It's not that I don't believe you, but I'm going to have to side with policy. Any changes are to come from Nakatsuka Yuuki, Art. If you want to take over, you'll need to do it from him."

Rejection.

Determination enters Art's senses as blazing wildfire. Koneko'd been analysing the card for too long; she'd analysed Art, analysed Art's pride. Denial is a slap to who he's become as a person.

(Being rejected? He'd also been rejected by all those that suggested he wouldn't be able to graduate from Facultas – and look where he sits today.)

Art bites the inside of his lip, tells himself that it's not a challenge, and policy is policy even for Hamatora, then forces a smile.

"That's fair enough," he says, wondering if Nakatsuka would still be at Headquarters upon his return. "In that case, I must be going. Thank you for everything."

—

If there's anything that rubs acid into competence and intensifies jealous sores, it's watching highly erroneous guesswork solve a months-long case in half a day.

The serial killer would have to be from the Minimum Agency. Taking and inserting Minimums is too time-intensive for a researcher on active duty. Therefore, Nice concludes, the serial killer would need to be someone who's already left the agency for an unspecified reason.

Nice finds a dozen names, picks one, and stalks them.

Of course, thinks Art, as he investigates the remains of the house which is owned under Moral's name; a house burnt to a shell of its former self after Murasaki and Nice's skirmish with the former professor. Moral'd torched the place, but the flames were not enough. There's enough traces of Minimum implantation left behind to provide evidence for Nice's suspicions.

From so many possibilities, and with such questionable reasoning – was this psychic intuition also a side-effect of possessing a supernatural Minimum?

Of course the universe favours him.

Art nearly rips the evidence bag he's in the process of inspecting.

"Hey."

There's no need for Art to turn around. "How is it going, Mr. Gasuke?"

Gasuke takes the evidence from Art's grasp and moves so that he's able to look into Art's eyes. For the first time in a long time, Art doesn't know what his expression is. Judging by the concern Gasuke gives back despite the fact that both of them are on duty, Art knows it's an expression he needs to reign in immediately.

But months of chasing has left Art tired.

"You alright?" asks Gasuke.

No. "I'm fine."

He notices Gasuke signing for a detective. She picks up the evidence which Art had been in the process of handling.

"The lying will give you cavities before all that sugar you consume."

"There is no correlation between cavities and lying, Mr. Gasuke."

"Ah, but how do you know?" says Gasuke, with a grin. Wrinkles deepen but glittering eyes wipe years off his features. "This whole time, them scientist types might've been lying about their findings."

Art is supposed to laugh. Instead he remembers words from Facultas, words from white labcoats wielding sterilised silver. "Congratulations! He has the potential to develop a Minimum."

The wedge joins the wave of frustration, and Art is weighed down by his age of twenty-one.

"Then pull up their dental records!" Art snaps. "I'm sure Moral's teeth are sharp enough to prove it to you."

Gasuke blinks, confused. Black char replaces white memories.

Stop, says a part of Art's mind. It frantically attempts to catch his attention; You're out of character.

Art is jolted, shocked, pulled from his mind and back to the investigation. He's supposed to be the commanding Superintendent at the scene. The officers around him are looking away so pointedly there's no doubt they're all listening.

"Art—"

Art joins the officers as if he can look away from himself.

"Have Honey continue her search for another ten minutes, and then once every fifteen minutes from there," says Superintendent Art's voice. "Visit the hospital to get Nice and Murasaki's testimonies again, and have them generate sketches for distribution. Inspector Gasuke, you're in charge until I return."

"Art, where are you—"

Art takes a deep breath, assesses his readiness, and then lets the entire breath out as a heavy sigh. Sometimes his profession lets him see the future. Another sleepless night lies ahead. Sometimes things never changed.

"I'm going to get some coffee."

—

If there's anything Art doesn't understand, it's his decision to walk off the case in order to cool off at Café Nowhere.

Koneko'd greeted him but she'd been alone. With Nice and Murasaki in hospital, Ratio's absence explained itself, and Birthday's most likely gone so that he may keep them company in some teasing, roundabout way. Koneko informed him that Hajime wanted to visit, which meant Master had to take her.

And so Koneko's the only person aside from Art in the store.

"Why didn't you go?" asks Art, after ordering.

Koneko huffs, and her tail curls. "It's not worth closing Nowhere for two morons suffering from minor smoke inhalation."

The excuse is incomplete, given Koneko's caring nature, and Art suspects there's something he's missing. But he's glad enough to leave it unasked. It hadn't occurred to him, not once, that Nowhere might have been closed, until Koneko mentioned the possibility of it being so.

Art stirs his coffee so that the sugar may melt, breathes in, and allows the warmth of Café Nowhere and Café Nowhere's blend to envelop his senses in a smothering hug. A companionable silence rests in the building, all noise is asleep save for the soft tinkling of metal, and the only real movement is in Koneko tidying baskets of cutlery. The pool in his heart lies still.

And then Art realises that, despite the fact that he'd asked, Koneko didn't question his presence in return.

"Aren't you curious?" says Art.

She isn't absent, either, because she answers immediately. "About what?"

"My being here."

"But you're here because you're here."

"Well... yes," says Art. "I should be on duty."

Koneko's tail looks like a question mark. "So... you think I should think you're skipping?"

"That's the logical conclusion."

"But it's not," says Koneko. "Because I thought the logical conclusion should be that, since you like doing things yourself so much, you probably have some personal reason that I don't need to know."

Art pauses.

Slowly, he lifts his gaze to look – look – at Koneko, and Koneko looks back. The moment ripples, begins as a stray drop, then grows ever wider and the water ever calmer. Their gazes link and breaths entwine in the space between, and he doesn't know how long the moment lasts.

What he does know is that he'd given up on the concept of people who could look after him without prying.

It's either looking after him, to learn his secrets, or not looking after him at all.

Art licks surprisingly dry lips. "I—"

"Ahh!" shouts Koneko. Art startles, almost spills his drink; she pumps hands which have formed into fists. "Coffee? What am I doing? You shouldn't be drinking that!"

"Uh—"

"Wait here!"

—and she disappears.

Or, more precisely: Koneko swivels around faster than Art once thought humanly possible, and vanishes out back in the blink of an eye. In the process, the flap of her jacket bounces up off a knob. It reveals that her tail is actually a toy clasped to her belt.

The implications – control? movement? Minimum? – leave Art dizzier than he's ever been.

As Art sits by the bar, and decides to finish off his rather delicious coffee in case Koneko does decide to go and snatch it away from him, he hears several crashes and a thump. A cat yowls, or maybe that's Koneko? Art might have considered it funny if it isn't occurring in front of him.

"Are you...?" calls Art, tentatively.

"I'm fine!" Koneko shouts back. "Just—ah—got it!"

When Koneko emerges, immaculate despite her glasses askew, Art decides never to go into the back of Café Nowhere unless absolutely necessary.

"Here it is!" she says, her glasses glint when she adjusts them, and she hefts a bottle of gin onto the counter.

Art hasn't ever paled so quickly in his life.

"What?"

(He'll never admit how tiny his voice sounded, not even under threat of death.)

Koneko's tail (toy tail?) begins swishing side to side triumphantly, and she dons a smirk best described as 'cat-that-not-only-ate-the-canary-but-managed-to-convince-it-to-jump-into-its-mouth'.

"Hoh hoh," says Koneko. "One of our customers ordered a glass of this yesterday. It's open, and there's plenty left."

"I—I'll—" Art fights the twitch in his brow. "I'll pass."

Koneko's expression suddenly becomes so heartbroken and so disbelieving that Art wonders if he'd confessed to destroying her hopes and dreams. "Ehh?"

"I don't drink," says Art.

"Oh." Koneko's tail fell. "Okay. I'll put it back, then."

And as if she hadn't taken it from another room, Koneko simply opens the mini-fridge by her legs and drops it in there.

Art watches her tail draw loops, remembers that it's attached to a belt-loop by a metal clasp, and decides that there are many things in this world he does not need to know.

"By the way," begins Koneko (and Art resolutely attempts to ignore the tail accentuating each word), "what were you about to say?"

When? is Art's first thought. He thinks, and realises he only remembers talking to Koneko and wondering about her tail.

He thinks some more, and then remembers something about smoke inhalation, Nice, and—

Art stiffens, because somehow he's forgotten the serial killer case already.

Because Koneko'd never asked what had gone wrong.

Koneko picks up on Art's shifting mood. She sighs, reaches for a glass, and begins wiping it down. The glass is already clean. Art wonders if the drying action is a habit calming rather than any real duty.

"It's bad, huh?" she asks.

Bad? Art assesses the situation with a fresh mind. Months of stress and hard work, a case with no leads, and a breakthrough only because Nice opted to put his mind to it. The identity of their serial killer, a face once the sketches were completed; tasks sounding so simple where Art and the rest of the police force instead opted to waste their time...

But after his visit to Nowhere, his frustration is the frustration of days distant, and he finds none of it matters any more.

Except one thing.

"I shouted at my mentor," says Art.

Koneko's wiping leaves a thin oily track in the glass, circling around, and around, and around. The dishcloth is dirty. "Did you mean it?"

"I don't." No longer.

"Then that's all good, isn't it?"

"Yeah," agrees Art. He still has some coffee left, and decides now to drink the bitter-sweet liquid down. "Things are... nice."

Upon hearing Nice's name, Koneko slams a fist on the counter. Thankfully, it's the hand which had been holding the dishcloth. Perhaps realising she's holding a glass, she slowly places it aside.

Her expression is so dark that Art wouldn't have been surprised if she's also growling.

"Nice..." says Koneko, glaring at Master's set of knives, "if you go and disregard other people again, I am going to—"

"Nice helped."

Art almost regrets defending his best friend when Koneko's turns on him.

"He doesn't listen," says Koneko. "He doesn't notice the fact that sometimes finishing a job means making the client happy instead of entertaining himself! Does he not realise that he's only gotten paid twice out of the last five—"

"But he determined the serial killer's identity."

"Yes, but—" Koneko's shakes her head. "Why do you and Murasaki keep encouraging him to make both your lives miserable?"

"Pardon...?"

"Geez, I give up!" Bonelessly, Koneko flops onto a stool, and sighs. "Why is life so hard?"

Art is too preoccupied with her assessment to give her an answer. Nice's irritating antics had been brought about by Art himself?

The door opens behind him.

—

If there's anything that can help Art work out his thoughts, it's a sparring session with his sensei.

To perform judo is to keep oneself centred and ready. There's something calming about the self-discipline, the sensation of stability, the exchange of heartbeats as each attempts to predict and forestall. Watch the space, the stance, the eyes; the atmosphere, the currents, and the window before the storm.

Be the river around the rocks, not the rock to stop the river.

Sweaty and short of breath, Art swallows the heart pumping in his throat and bows after the session ends.

"Thank you for inviting me, sensei," he says.

Three bows back, vast shoulders cutting through air as shovels shift earth. He, too, no doubt has layers of sweat beneath his own uniform. He'd left Honey to meet with Art. No doubt Honey'd informed him that Art would be at Nowhere.

"You looked troubled," says Three. "Have you worked out your course?"

Art doesn't know.

"May I ask you a question, sensei?"

The mountain nods. "You may."

"Do you think I'm miserable?"

For the longest time, there's no answer. Nothing changes in Three's expression. Art nearly gives up when he finally receives a reply.

"When I picked you up, I expected you to be," says Three.

"Sensei...?"

"But you were not. At Nowhere, you made your peace."

Art isn't quite sure what it means, given that he should be mad, and even Koneko'd said he constantly encourages from Nice the very things he wants least. But he isn't mad, hadn't been mad, and his sensei's conclusion is in line with the lack of anger.

He bows again; it's deeper this time, more respectful, torso horizontal.

"Thank you for your words, sensei."

—

Given its calming effects, Art makes a trip to Café Nowhere a part of his daily schedule.

Where his office never changes, where the building is always slate and grey and static and rectangular, Nowhere is alive and changes moods as its occupants come and go. Sometimes Koneko's busy with customers and can only spare a tail, sometimes Birthday turns up early to inject rays of yellow sunshine, sometimes Ratio and Murasaki are the stone supports to stop Art from tumbling. Sometimes Honey and Three are present, reminding Art of his work, but no work is discussed there. All the café's subtleties are as heartening as the loudest bellows from the depths of Birthday's lungs.

(Art won't admit how thankful he is whenever Koneko shouts for the volume to be turned down.)

Art had been mildly surprised to learn that Birthday always wakes before the sunrise, and that it takes Ratio two hours and a frighteningly bitter cup of coffee before he's finally alive enough to keep up – and only because Birthday's energy level begins to drop and taper.

Unsurprisingly, given Art's memories of Nice's ability to sleep at Facultas, Nice doesn't turn up until long after Art is gone.

Art's arrival becomes so routine that Master already has a cup of coffee ready and waiting for him by the time he walks inside.

"Good morning," says Master, setting off greetings from the other two in the building – Koneko and Murasaki. Art returns them with slight nods, but doesn't resist matching Koneko's dazzling smile with a small smile of his own.

When Art takes a seat, and prepares to add his sugar, he finally notices Nice's body slumped over Hamatora's table and dead to the world.

"They're waiting for a client," says Koneko, answering the unspoken question.

Nice starts to snore. Koneko's tail begins to twitch, and her smile becomes strained.

"I said," she repeats, "Hamatora is waiting for a client."

No response.

"Oi," says Murasaki.

"What?" the body grumbles.

"The client's going to be here soon."

"I know that," mumbles the body, melding closer to the table's surface. "Koneko's been going on about it for the past hour."

Koneko's grip tightens so much that Art worries she'll snap the glass she's drying. "But you haven't even been here for ten minutes – and do you know how hard it was to get this contract? At least say something so I know you're listening!"

"Something."

"Isn't it a little late to respond now?" says Art.

Nice shoots up from the table with such force that his headphones go flying back and almost fall to the ground.

"Art?" he exclaims excitedly, as if they haven't seen each other for years.

Art knows it's not the case; they'd crossed paths after Nice returned from a holiday in Okinawa. Somehow, Nice had gotten it into his head that Art found him annoying, and whilst that had been true at first, Art simply hadn't had a chance to visit once forensics finished processing the overwhelming amounts of evidence and the investigation into Moral's doings went underway.

It had been very, very difficult for Art to deal with all the souvenirs that Nice brought back from vacation. Fortunately Gasuke has a very big extended family.

Art takes a sip of his coffee. "Good morning, Nice."

"Hey," grumbles Nice, resident grouch, "if you were here, why didn't you say so sooner?"

"I believe everyone else did."

"Nuh. They just said 'good morning'."

Are you five? thinks Art, but smiles good-naturedly behind his cup. He swivels back to face the counter and pretends there is no turbulence – no turbulence at all.

Instead, he says, "but Koneko asked you to sit up, didn't she?"

"Then she should have said that instead of hinting at fuck-knows-what all the time."

Art's suddenly very sensitive about the way Koneko bristles. Behind the counter, she's exchanged glass for paper, and is in the process of sorting Hamatora's files. He wonders how long she spends dealing with Nice's obnoxiousness each day.

Art spots a broom behind her, leant against the wall. He checks his watch, decides he wouldn't mind being slightly late, and places his cup down.

"Koneko?" he says.

"Hmm?" Koneko chirps back.

"Would you be interested in learning how to defend yourself?"

In his periphery, Art notices Master shifting slightly as he begins to pay close attention to their exchange. Art pretends not to notice.

"I... guess so," says Koneko.

Nice begins to protest about something in the background, but Art ignores him.

"Alright, then." Art smiles. "Could you grab that broom there and step around to this side – here?"

It's with equal amounts of curiosity and confusion that Koneko does so, and Art begins his explanation. The first things to note would be space and stance. Without proper space, movement would not be possible, and without stance, she could be cast off-balance. But, space also encompassed range, and for her to familiarise herself with range it would be easiest to try some manoeuvres herself; first place the hands—

Despite the speed at which he's talking, Koneko picks it all up incredibly quickly. And so, a little before ten minutes have passed, Art's confident enough to move on with his plan.

"—Now," says Art. "For some practice. Nice, are you ready?"

Nice had moved to a stool by the bar as he watched Art's explain; currently, Nice stares from his seat and looks confused.

"Huh?" he says.

Art doesn't fight his smile. "I presumed by your attitude that you were volunteering to be a target."

"Wait, what?"

Behind his newspaper, Murasaki huffs, amused.

"Oh!" says Koneko, finally understanding, then looks between Art and the broom in her hands. "But, uhm, are you sure it's—"

"It's no problem," says Art. "If he's awake, it won't do him any harm."

The reassurance itself is questionable, but it's enough for Koneko's worries to evaporate, her grip to tighten on the handle of the broom, and her mouth to curl into a determined frown. "Okay!"

Koneko hefts her weapon. She takes a deep breath, and readies her battlecry.

And then she attacks.

"Nice, you butt!"

It turns out that Nice is, in fact, awake – or he is now – after hopping easily off the chair and avoiding the strike. Art sees the focus on the broom and the tensing of the shoulders that give Nice's next action away.

"Nice," says Art. "No disarming, and no hands on the lady."

The shoulders fall. Koneko isn't skilled enough to avoid telegraphing her movements. There's enough forewarning in her actions and space behind Nice that he's able to dodge and talk.

"Then hey, don't volunteer me –" duck, fingers twitch to grab the broom, but change their mind, "– for things I don't want to volunteer for!"

"Haaaaah!" shouts Koneko before Art gets to reply.

Nice runs out of space. He steps aside, pulls on his earphones in the same motion, then snaps his fingers.

In the next instant, Nice is next to Art and Koneko's strike goes through thin air.

Nice scratches a cheek and looks at Art with a strange expression.

"Are you really Art?" he says.

"You're not really nice," Art replies.

Nice doesn't expect the comeback; he actually takes a moment to pause and form a response in return. "And you're really a psychopath."

Art's fingers twitch. But Nice isn't the one who's been chasing after a serial killer. Nice can't help his sense of humour. He has no clue that he's creating a tempest, and Art can ignore the winds billowing across the surface of the pool because his craft is better than them; he should be better then them, be able to sail straight past them, and pretend they aren't actually there.

But then Koneko makes a shrill sound of irritation behind him – and Art turns around, sees that Koneko's found where Nice had disappeared to and is heading his way—

"Nice."

And Art decides it's better to stop Nice rather than silently smile and let the waves grow.

"What?" says Nice.

Art hears Koneko still. "When you say I'm a psychopath, you mean I'm like Moral?"

Moral, who's taken the lives of dozens of Minimum Holders, and the energy of everyone attempting to apprehend him.

"Of course not," says Nice.

"Moral is a psychopath," Art tells him, trying not to think of all the others he's faced given his profession; tries to keep his disappointment from leaking through. "Sometimes... some things aren't funny."

Slowly, very slowly, Nice rises to his feet. He's silent. He's staring. His eyes are wider than they've ever been.

It's the first time that Art has denied him.

—and then, abruptly, Nice's eyes flash from Art to Koneko to Master to Murasaki. He takes in the positions of every person in the café like a wild animal frightened, snaps his fingers, and runs away. The front door closes behind his shadow.

Not a moment later, it opens again, and Nice sticks his head inside.

"You deal with the job, Murasaki," he calls. "And, uh – Art?"

"What is it, Nice?" says Art.

"...My bad. You're just a demon in disguise."

Click, the door slides shut, and he's gone. There's a clatter. The broom falls to the floor.

"Is that—" Koneko says breathlessly, "—is that the first time Nice has admitted he's wrong?"

—

If it is, it's likely the last.

But there are signs that Nice is beginning to consider Art's situation some more. His visits to the police headquarters have dropped significantly, and after several unanswered calls and voicemail messages that he forgets the contents to once Art calls him back, he's growing into texting so he can remember what he'd said and so that Art can prioritise his own time.

Art isn't sure how much of the idea is Nice's and how much of the idea is Murasaki's. He also isn't sure where Nice's newfound absentmindedness is drawn from. But Art is glad for the break – especially after the leak of Minimum Holders' existences, and the riots, and the rise in the rate of crime. Now, all his calls are relevant, and relevant immediately.

So when his phone rings, whilst he's attending to bays of paperwork, he answers it without hesitation. "Hello?"

"...Art?"

Art drops his pen in surprise. "Koneko? How did you..." He looks down, sees the pen, and trails off upon remembering. He'd given her his business card.

He's surprised she still keeps it with her.

"S-sorry," says Koneko. Her voice is shaking slightly; Art realises he's been silent for too long. "I'll—"

"It's al—I do not mind," says Art, awkwardly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," and he glances at the paperwork that never ends, "I'm sure. Do you need me somewhere? Where are you?"

"Nowhere."

"I'll be there within twenty minutes."

"Okay. See you."

Art goes searching for Gasuke; dialling results in no answer, but fortunately, he's in the smokeroom. Gasuke's looking away so he doesn't notice Art's presence, and it doesn't even cross Art's mind to catch one of the other officers' attentions instead – Art simply steels himself against the fumes, opens the door, and calls his name.

Sure enough, Gasuke grumbles good-naturedly about receiving more paperwork. Art apologises. Gasuke holds up a hand and grins.

"Don't worry about me, Art," he says, "I know you wouldn't run off for personal business without a good reason."

Art spends the drive to Nowhere wondering how he's able to ignore Nice for a day, but a distressed call from Koneko can't wait a single hour.

By the time he arrives, Koneko is in the car park, hands tucked together, and waiting. Her usual smile is gone. She's looking to one side, and doesn't realise Art's arrived until he lowers the window and turns toward her.

"Ah—" Koneko jumps, "Art! You're – early."

Art tries a smile. He'd arrived in ten. "It took less time to sort things out than I expected... is there any reason you're outside?"

"I wanted to wait for you."

The two of them stare at each other for a few terrifyingly long seconds. Art keenly aware that his car's engine is still running and he's having a conversation through a door. But it's not as if socially polite ways to talk about personal issues in contexts where cars are involved are courses taught at schools; if Art wants to open it and step out, he'll need to park, cut the engine, and ask Koneko to move out of the way.

But staying in the car could not be right either, could it?

While Art is deliberating, Koneko glances through Café Nowhere's windows and inside. Whatever she's looking for, she must have found it, because she hurries around the front of Art's car – and then Art is hurrying to check if the passenger seat is clean (it is) an instant before the door opens.

Koneko smooths her tail down, takes a seat, and removes her backpack before tucking it into her lap.

The situation becomes ten times weirder.

Art opens his mouth. "Ko—"

"I'm sorry for calling you out here," she says. The words all tumble from her mouth, any faster and Art worries she'll bite her tongue by accident. "I needed some advice, and I can't really ask Master, and Murasaki's so – so scary to talk to sometimes, and Nice is just—"

Her babbling winds Art's nervousness so tightly that it simply snaps under the strain. The rebound takes out all the barriers he'd cultivated surrounding his core, and he finds himself left with nothing but raw instinct, raw emotion, and weeks of training.

Forget where you are, it tells him. She is a stressed witness. It is imperative to ensure calm before gathering information.

"Please take a deep breath, Koneko," says Art's voice, taking command. He senses a small shudder when she does so. "I will need to park the car, first. Is there somewhere you'd like to go?"

"I..." Koneko thinks. "Here is fine. It's important, anyway. Master will be upset if I left."

"Alright. May I ask you some questions? There's no obligation to answer."

"N-no. Go ahead."

Art checks the rearview mirror. "Why do you have a tail?"

"...Huh?" She pauses, rendered silent by surprise. "Because it's cute."

"Because it's cute?"

"Yep," Koneko replies. "Did you know Hajime won it for me at a festival? I spent so many turns trying but she just swoops in like this! And—"

Art stops listening in order to concentrate on reversing, and simply nods and smiles whenever Koneko becomes more excited. By the time the car is parked, Koneko's gone on to talk about how Master had strong-armed his way into one of the stalls after assuming the owner was attempting to cheat both Koneko and Hajime out of their money when it had actually been the opposite ("There went my very first business deal!"), and she's back to her usual self again.

"Have you been to it before, Art?"

Art doesn't know what she's referring to, but he has an answer.

"Probably not," he says. "I'm usually at work when people are on holiday."

"Oh," says Koneko. "Hours as an officer must be difficult, aren't they?"

Art smiles. "It's part of my job. I just have time off at other times."

It's not entirely the truth. On holidays, he'd temporarily turn in his title as Superintendent and join the ranks of the Riot Police, so one of their members could spend the time with their families instead. It's not out of generosity, as much as he tries to convince himself. Keeping himself busy is the easiest way to forget he's alone.

But Koneko settles down and simply nods.

"That makes sense," she says, glancing to one side. "It's like sometimes in... hospitality..."

Her voice shakes enough to tell Art that it's the root of her problem.

"What's the matter?" he asks.

"Master, he..." Koneko pauses. "Master told me he wanted to pass the café's ownership to me soon."

She falls silent, gaze flickering, unsure whether or not to continue.

"You don't think you're ready?" prompts Art.

"No!" Koneko slaps a hand to her mouth, surprised by the outburst, swallows her words. "No – I always expected he would give it to me, it's not that, it's just... it's a lot of responsibility. And, I... I don't think now would be a good time..."

"Why not?"

"Well, I haven't even learnt how to make any of the dishes yet, or calculate inventory most ideally, or—"

The first chuckle is involuntary. The second follows, and then Art finds himself shaking with silent laughter.

Koneko looks like she's just been slapped. "Am I being funny?"

"No, no," says Art. "You just – you just reminded me of myself."

"Eh?"

"Master told you it would be 'soon', correct?"

A slow nod. "Yeah."

"When he said that, he didn't mean next week, or even three months. He most likely means after a year, or even a couple." A brief pause; collect the thoughts together. "As people grow older, their sense of time starts to change and they forget how short things are when they're young. Master will definitely train you first – there's no likelihood of him passing ownership to you if you're still not confident in your own readiness."

Art watches the shades of realisation pass through Koneko's expression, accompanied by reassurance, and allows a smile to rise. Her context may have been completely different from his own, but he'd still reached the right conclusion.

"You should take it a little easier, Art," Gasuke said, in the first few weeks after graduation. "Things you do overnight, everyone else does over a couple of days. There's no need to prove yourself here. Just stick to being capable."

"There is no need to compare yourself to him," adds Art.

Art had been too busy blinded by Nice's glare.

"Do you think... I'll be a good owner?" says Koneko.

"After learning that you're more concerned about your ability to reach your own expectations rather than doing the work itself?" Art replies, with no hesitation. "You'll be the best owner of Nowhere."

A giggle bubbles from Koneko's throat. "The best owner of Nowhere."

(Does that mean Art would be the best graduate?)

"Definitely," says Art.

(It's not bad to believe that Koneko will make dreams come true.)

—

Once Koneko's ready to leave, she surprises Art by walking around to his door instead of heading inside immediately. The lights on his dashboard flash to life; he lowers his window down.

"It's hard growing old, right?" she asks.

Art remembers the years he'd spent drowning in self-hatred and jealousy. For bright Koneko with her refreshing perspective to be asking him for advice – this Minimum-less graduate of Facultas who once cared what Nice and others thought of him until he met her?

With a small, privately ironic smile, Art shakes his head and says: "It's only as hard as you let it be."

—

Nice fucks up.

The second distressed phone call that Art receives from Nowhere is from Master, with Koneko's soft but haggard breathing in the background. He didn't want to go through the police's channels, Master said. It's to do with Moral.

Art speeds across lights and intersections and is pretty sure he'll be receiving a strict dressing-down from his superiors but it doesn't matter when it's Moral he's after and Koneko is not okay—

—and Art manages to make it to Nowhere in six minutes alone.

He passes the blur of blue and gold that is Nice on his way there, but thinks nothing of it until he hears the story from Master. Koneko grips tighter her tea towel. If Moral hadn't been so keen to play with Nice further, then Koneko – bright, radiant Koneko – would have died with her dreams.

Art understands why Nice had done it. He hadn't been at his senses. They haven't been best friends for so long that he doesn't know how to reason everything away.

But Art can't deny that Nice fucks up, and it's only because of a criminal and the universe that he can get away with being excused.

"I see," says Art, and takes a deep breath. Distance, he tells himself. "I'll need to ask some questions for the case, is that alright?"

Master nods, one arm still around Koneko's shivering back.

"...Um," Koneko whispers.

Art pauses, whilst reaching for his notebook and his pen. "Koneko?"

"C-could I... be next to you instead of facing you? Like..." Koneko hiccups and looks down; one of her hands reach up to touch her neck, no doubt still feeling the wire which had been there. "Like last time?"

"I..." Art glances toward Master, and receives another nod, "I don't see why not."

Slowly, Koneko extracts herself from Master's hold, and walks around the counter so that she may take a seat by Art's side.

"Th... thank you," she says, and then starts telling her story.

Art's halfway through his questions when Koneko suddenly leans into him and uncontrollable sobs wrack her frame, the shock finally settling in. Master grimaces for her sake, and above her head, offers Art a dishtowel. Art shakes his head; he'll have to move in order to take it, and some instinct tells him that the moment he moves would be the moment that Koneko would fall silent and bottle all her emotions inside her.

If it were any other witness, Art would have done so. But it's Koneko next to him, this Koneko who trusts him—him!, and so Art just wraps a hand around her back, experimentally mimicking Master's action earlier. When Koneko leans into the hold, Art considers his efforts successful.

Before he realises it, Koneko's fallen asleep; one hand curled around her towel and another wrapped in Art's jacket. That's when Art's phone vibrates in a specific pattern.

Nice is calling.

Art's just decided how he should apologise to Koneko for waking her when Master appears, and large hands expertly extract her grip without disturbing her sleep. Art tries not to think about how Koneko's fingers had tugged at his shirt and her expression pinched.

He, too, wants to stay. But if Nice is calling, it can only be about Moral.

Art drops into a quick bow.

"Thank you, Master," he says, quickly.

Master's stare is unreadable.

"Would you return after?" Master asks. It sounds less like a question and more like a command.

Art's gaze trails to Koneko, and he says, "I will."

—

Moral dies.

While Art's pulling the trigger, he wonders past the bile in his throat if the slimeball had used his hair to threaten Koneko rather than piano wire.

—

By the time Art returns to Café Nowhere, it's well past midnight. The building is like a lantern in the darkness, gushing bright yellow light into the chilly air. The sign says 'Closed', but Master is sitting by the window. He's obviously waiting; as soon as Art's presence hovers outside, he rises to his feet, unlocks the door, and gestures him in.

"Koneko is resting," says Master, before Art manages to speak. "Nightmares."

Art's smile falls off. From past experiences, he knows the nightmares will last for weeks at least. One does not pass murderers without dark stains on their memories after all.

"Please pass on my best wishes," Art says.

Master nods.

A silence falls between them, these two men in the entryway. It's not the companionable silence which Art had felt when facing Koneko, but the silence of gladiatorial pride. Café Nowhere transforms from a home into a stadium. The bright lights which had beckoned Art inside are now spotlamps highlighting every ridge on each of their faces, and every possible weakness, as they faced each other down. No crowds sit physically present, but there are still crowds cheering and jeering from the heart pumping in his chest and the testosterone blazing through his veins.

Though Art isn't sure which of them set up the atmosphere, Master initiated the battle, threw the gauntlet with a slight shift in his stance. Bidden by the primeval knowledge beating between his ears, Art inclines his head and accepts the challenge.

Time passes.

Master truly does have great muscles, thinks Art, then instantly stabs the thought before he can acknowledge it and casts it away.

Even more time passes.

Master is focused on Art's eyes, Art's hair. Art's lips unconsciously slide into a smirk and he draws himself taller. He easily discards the mental image of a peacock preening.

They're still watching one another by the time a watch beeps on the hour. Art can barely remember when or why it had started, but the face-off's gone on for so long that to back down now...

Even considering the possibility is absolutely unacceptable.

And so they continue to stare.

Finally, after an eternity, Master turns away. Not in defeat, but in a promise that the match would continue at a later time. Still, the yielding is enough for Art's pride to chalk it up as a victory in his direction.

Art's conscious mind hopes, equally as dearly as it is tired, that it wouldn't be any time in the near future.

"Koneko trusts you a lot," says Master.

Before combat, Art would not have realised the correct response. He'd thought that Koneko was just the type of girl to trust in others, and that she would have shown the same behaviour toward anyone else. But a connection was made during their showdown; Master had told Art in the ancient language that he did not think Art was taking Koneko seriously.

It's Art's role to prove how thankful he is that she respects him.

"I will make sure that trust is not misplaced, sir," Art replies.

Master smiles, and Art knows it's not only Koneko's trust which he's been given.

—

Art calls Master, first, to obtain his permission for their outing. It's an olive branch, an apology for not understanding. Master's approving tone when he authorises it told Art that he's more than fallen in good favour.

When he invites Koneko, and she steps confusedly into his car, he doesn't tell her where they're going.

"You're acting kind of strange, Art," she says, when they've stopped at a red light.

Art blinks and turns. "Strange?"

"You're not a fidgeting type of person but you keep tapping against the steering wheel."

So he is.

"I... suppose I'm just in a good mood," he admits.

"Really?" And Koneko perks up, finding a trail toward solving the mystery. "What for?"

"I want to introduce you to my brother."

Art is confused when Koneko squeaks and curls up in her seat.

By the time she starts muttering to herself, Art is more than very confused.

After he begins to park the car, her shoulders have fallen in realisation.

"Oh," she says.

No more words are exchanged until they pass the wrought iron gates of the cemetery. Art steps onto the correct path without a second's pause, expertly navigates the rows of headstones in a world where trees whispered and even birds dared not sing.

"When..." begins Koneko.

Art holds up an arm, asking her to stay silent. It would be rude to hold a conversation around those they did not know.

Soon enough, they approach an all-too-familiar tree, and Art stops before his brother's grave. He takes a moment to greet him, crouches forward with hands touched together in prayer. Hello, Skill, he thinks. It hasn't been too long since I and everyone else visited, but... I brought you a friend.

Art vaguely notes Koneko's presence kneeling next to him. He wonders if Skill would mind meeting her. Probably not; Skill was a people person, whereas Art preferred to stay in his shadow.

It's when he straightens again that he sees what Koneko'd placed down.

"That..." begins Art.

"Ah, sorry," and Koneko starts waving her arms in unison with the small white napkin-lily in the breeze, "that was all I had on me, I would have brought something if I knew..."

Art smiles.

"It's fine," he says, and turns back to the headstone. "Skill loves origami."

Koneko looks at Art as if trying to determine if he's lying. "Really?"

"Really. It..." Art's breath chokes; he forces himself to swallow the rock lodged in his throat. "It's the act of creation. Skill always... always loved stories, loved bringing things to life..."

A wetness slides down one cheek. Koneko offers him another napkin, and Art just closes his eyes and shakes his head. Some people said memories would fade with time, but his memories of Skill folding paper cranes feel like yesterday.

"I'll fold a thousand, just like in the tales," Skill resolved, after a failed first attempt, determination in every fibre of his body. "And then..."

"...And then a thousand paper cranes would give us Minimums."

"Did you...?"

Art shakes his head. "Skill only reached three hundred and fifty-four."

"Skill..." echoes Koneko.

Her voice holds traces of wistfulness, and Art turns back to look at her. Koneko's knelt down again, the napkin which had been offered to Art still in her hands. She unfurls the napkin, runs fingers down stressed creases, and then deftly begins to fold. Her movements are experienced, entrancing. Her tail is entirely still.

When Koneko reaches out and places the napkin-crane beside the lily, for an instant, Art sees Skill.

The instant vanishes.

"Three hundred and fifty-five," says Koneko. "Skill, if you wish for something, never give up hope! Master says that wishes are just luck, and luck can be improved by hard work. Now you're thirty-five-point-five percent of the way there! If getting a Minimum is what you and Art want, I'm sure you'll reach it together."

If Koneko expects any response, she receives none. The breeze has stopped, and Art stands silently, wondering what Skill would think in reply.

Art wipes his tears off with the back of one hand.

"Are we leaving?" says Koneko.

"Yes," says Art. "I... my break ends soon. There are still a lot of loose ends that the lawyers would like us to tie, even though Moral has been taken care of."

Koneko puts her hands together. Her tail is slowly swishing again. "Okay. Bye, Skill, thanks for letting me visit."

Sorry, Skill, thinks Art, that this is the first time I've introduced one of my new friends.

Letting others meet his brother isn't so bad. Perhaps, next time, Art should invite Gasuke.

—

When they pull up at Café Nowhere, Koneko tightens her hands into fists atop her knees.

"Hey, Art?" says Koneko.

Art cuts the engine and shifts the car into park.

"Yes, Koneko?" he replies, in much the same tone.

There's a pause. A jolt runs up and down her tail.

Koneko's eyes meet his, and she says, "I like you."

"...What?"

She's staring with such intensity that Art can't break the gaze. It takes a heartbeat until his eyes widen, and his chest hitches, and his arms fall weak at his sides. An incredible clarity settles across all the senses. They're sharper than they've ever been. His world has never been so clear, his hearing never sensitive enough to pick up Koneko's breathing from an arms' length away, his tongue able to not only taste the faint aftertaste of the sweet he'd eaten after visiting Skill but even each individual grain of sugar.

And everything suddenly makes sense.

"Oh," says Art.

His remark breaks the mood and Koneko twitches.

"Oh?" echoes Koneko, and then she sags as the irritation drains out of her. "Do you not..."

"No, it's not – it's not that," says Art, tripping over his words. "I simply..."

Didn't think I could ever be loved?

Art hesitates.

—and then he gasps and clutches his head. He sees visions of Skill, but Skill with a darkened visor, shirtless and vulnerable, strapped into a great hulking coffin of steel and cords and cables connected directly into his skin. Everything jumps into Art's throat all at once, and he wants to throw up, but there's nothing to –

Frantic hands grip his arm. "Art!"

– Skill in the machine smiles, red melts from his lips and tears weep from electronic eyes, and he says, "Nii-san..."

"Art!"

"Live..."

...

The person called Art doesn't know how long he sits there, in that hazy world, senses muted, staring at nothing. That person runs through the images again, wondering if it's the effect of some Minimum, or else where did they come from?

They are too true to be the Minimum.

Something cold is pressed to his head, and his head is tilted back. There's sound in his right (right?) ear. Languages he doesn't understand.

Languages he does understand.

Words too far away.

"...should call Ratio, he—"

Art coughs.

"Nnnngh." The towel on his head slips. "Ah—what..."

Koneko's face appears in his vision. He's lying down, still in the driver's seat of his car. She reaches over for where the towel had fallen and reapplies it to his head.

"Please stay still, Art," she tells him, making to leave. "Master is calling Ratio now—"

She yelps. Art doesn't know why until he notices he'd grabbed her by the arm.

"Don't go..." he mutters. "Was that... memory?"

Live.

Koneko'd obeyed his request. She stands beside him, if slightly awkwardly, unsure whether to keep her hands to herself or to help him. Art remembers her confession, and wonders about the vision.

A message from Skill.

Koneko's tail twitches nervously, and the sight of the toy brings to Art's face a smile.

Nii-san, live.

Art imagines himself looking over the pool within his heart. He stretches his arms before him, before grasping the steering wheel at the helm of his craft.

"Koneko," he says.

She's there in an instant. "Are you alright? Is anything wrong?"

"Koneko, I..." If that is what you want, Skill. One step at a time. He'll create his own waves. "I would be... willing to try."

—

That is how Art remembers killing his brother.

—

You'll start your 『 healing 』 now.

—

Tell me: is it painful?

—

/FIN/

Rarepair Valentines 2015 index [ Thursday, February 12th ; Fic 3 of 5 ]

((I love all opinions, please consider leaving some, thank you!))