Chapter Text
Chapter One
October 2014
7:35 p.m. – Akito University Library
The night is not the only one watching him.
Chrollo Lucilfer has been staying inside the University Library for ten hours now. His fingers are hovering over the book spines like a hummingbird, the tips grazing over the tortured speckles binding the pages together. He’s been counting the amount of literature resting in the wrong place, like the works of Shakespeare, nesting in between the huge psychology books he’s always hated. Or the thrillers of Stephen King, found in the Math sector of the library.
He’s been gathering all those books together, tucking them against his chest like an unfound treasure. Now, he’s inserting every book in the right place, his body damp under the light of the moon like he’s the star she’s been missing. He slides The Night Circus out of his arms and pushes it in between Grimoire by James Champagne and The Magician’s Nephew by C.S. Lewis.
Chrollo looks down to find his arms empty, void of everything he’s caught in his teeth. He glances at the bookshelves lining up the library. The books are sinking beneath the vibrant smile of the moon, like she’s stealing the words one by one until she’s sure that Chrollo is alone.
The quiet song of the library is ruined when he hears a ring inside his pocket. He pulls his phone into his hand and stares at the message.
From: Baka Hisoka
Message: I think I may be on to something, finally. It sounds a little crazy, though. I don’t think they’ll believe me.
Chrollo places both hands on the phone this time, his lips unknowingly twitching into a smile.
You’re always crazy.
Another message arrives right after Chrollo has sent his.
From: Baka Hisoka
Message: And I’m always right.
As one of the only people who actually understands the things Hisoka is always babbling about, Chrollo can’t help but agree. Hisoka is currently helping examining a crime scene in downtown Yorknew City, where a new case is being solved by the best investigation team in the local police area. Whenever that happens, Hisoka has no choice but to ditch his plans with Chrollo – and practically with everyone else.
“Hisoka,” he whispers, clutching his phone, “you know I don’t like loose promises.”
“Talking to yourself again?”
The man whirls around to find Machi, her shoulder leaning against the bookshelf adjacent to his. Her lips are pursed tight, but her eyes are smiling. She’s crossing her arms as she stares at him, waiting for an answer to exit his lips.
“I don’t like the silence,” he admits. Chrollo tips his chin up to the ceiling. He counts the spider webs caught in between the edges of the walls, hoping for them to fall. “So I talk to myself.”
Machi snorts. She pushes herself off the bookshelf and walks closer to Chrollo, her steps a silent hum on the library floor. “You like the silence,” she corrects. “What you don’t like is being left alone.”
Chrollo continues to stare before Machi finally reaches up to draw his chin down. His heart almost jumps to his mouth.
Her eyes are the soft color of the moon.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess that’s true.”
~***~
7:44 p.m. – Downtown Yorknew
The first thing he says when he arrives at the crime scene is this: “This isn’t a suicide, it’s murder.”
Hisoka’s eyes are looming over the walls. Not a speck of blood is found on the paint, just dust and the occasional army of ants darting towards the holed edges of the room. Every piece of furniture has been set in place, and knowing the police, every single thing here has been left untouched to make sure the evidence doesn’t get tampered. The body of the man is lying facedown on the floor.
His jacket is sprawled on his body like a cape. His arms are outstretched to the sides. Blood is pooling the floors like a lake, and an ugly slot is plastered on the far side of his temple. Hisoka can smell something odd wafting from the dead body, but he doubts that the scent is coming from the man himself. It’s only been hours since the murder scene was reported.
“What do you mean it’s murder?” Akatsuki demands. He pulls his hands from his coat pockets to aggressively point at the body on the floor. “Just look at him! Look at this place! Does it look like some murder scene to you?”
Hisoka snaps on his gloves and glances at him for a brief moment. “You look like a murder scene to me.”
As he kneels down beside the body, Akatsuki finds himself speechless, the blood draining from his face in total fury. The man nearly lunges at him before Wing clamps a hand over his shoulder in comfort. Professor Wing has been the one inviting him to these kinds of investigations. He’s the only one who doesn’t look at Hisoka as an amateur.
“Relax, Akatsuki,” Professor Wings laughs. “Don’t let this affect you.”
Hisoka flashes Akatsuki a smile when the man fumes, his lips itching to snarl, the white of his fists wanting to stomp on Hisoka’s gut. When Professor Wing shoots him a sharp look, Hisoka finally ignores him.
He inspects the hole on the man’s head, measuring the size of the bullet and how strong its momentum was when it blasted through the victim’s temple. He asks the police for the evidence, and they offer him the Ziploc of the bullet they’ve collected. Next, he lays his finger on the coat, brushing over the fabric and checking the texture. Hisoka moves over to the soles of the man’s boots. He leans a little bit closer before the smell finally catches his nostrils.
When he’s done, he straightens himself up and finds himself staring at the man beside him. “You said that his neighbor found him dead just a few minutes prior.”
Professor Wing nods. “She saw him enter his apartment when she just got home shopping.”
“And he was alone.”
“Yes.”
“Was she drenched when you first saw her?”
The question clearly makes Professor Wing surprised. His brows knot together in confusion, his eyes blinking as he tries to recall the past events. “Well. No.”
“Any signs of being under the rain at all?”
“No.” Professor Wing scratches his head. “None at all. Why do you ask?”
Hisoka removes the gloves from his hands and throws them on the floor. He can still feel the sweat clinging on to his palms, but more than that: the clear scent of rain found on his fingertips, where they’ve been inspecting the man’s coat like a second skin.
“This man’s coat is wet, which is an obvious sign that he’s been outside, under the rain for about an hour.” Hisoka pulls his phone out from his pocket and checks the weather section, passing his phone over to Professor Wing for a further look. “We didn’t have a downfall in the city, but it seems that there has been one in the downtown.”
Akatsuki takes one look at Hisoka’s phone and scowls. “That isn’t enough evidence.”
“His boots smell of petrichor,” Hisoka points out. “Quite a strange thing to overlook. And finally, the bullet is a common 9mm, very inexpensive and also relatively small. Won’t be too heavy for a woman to carry in her pocket.”
As the realization dawns on him, Professor Wing looks at him as if he’s crazy. Both he and Akatsuki glance at each other in disbelief. “Wait, you’re not saying that the woman who reported this incident is the same one who killed him, do you?”
“Well.” Hisoka’s eyes are burning – golden, defiant, a challenge. “Why not?”
~***~
8:14 p.m. – Natsu Ramen Shop
“I think they’re going to fire me.”
Machi has been listening to Hisoka complain for the past fifteen minutes. They’re in the only ramen shop Machi can tolerate. Don’t get her wrong: she likes ramen; it’s the interior that irritates her. But this ramen shop has nice wooden dividers to separate the customers eating their meal. So even if Machi wants to shove her entire face into that big bowl, no one will judge her for her decisions. Just the man in front of her, pushing all her buttons until she has to grit her teeth in absolute annoyance.
She has her cheek pressed against the heel of her palm. She twiddles with her chopsticks before stabbing them into the bowl. “They can’t fire you,” Machi says, sighing. Her chopsticks hang tight to the long string of noodles. “It’s not even your job.”
“But what if I can’t work there anymore?” Hisoka counters. He drags a chopstick full of noodles into his mouth and swallows, narrowing his eyes in thought. “No, actually, you’re right. I’m too valuable to fire. I’m like Sherlock Holmes.”
At that, Machi laughs, her fingers losing her grip on the noodles she successfully gathered. “No, you’re Hisoka, and you’re an idiot.”
Hisoka reaches out to poke her nose with his chopsticks, getting it slightly damp in the process. He hovers around his bowl before he finally snatches a piece of shrimp. “So,” he says, glancing up at her, “what was Chrollo doing when I wasn’t around?”
The question makes Machi look up at him. Her fingers wobble slightly against her hold before she finally settles her chopsticks into the bowl. She curls her arms on the table, her eyes staring at the last piece of shrimp in her ramen before she looks at him. “Maybe you should take him into your investigations sometimes.”
Hisoka’s eyes burn into the pink of her flesh, making her question her sentence. “You know,” he says, “that he doesn’t want anything to do with it.”
“Yeah, but he can’t keep on staying in the library every time your plans are cancelled!”
Machi’s voice hardens, the lump in her throat turning into a fist. She knows that she should stop talking. She needs to stop talking. But she can’t get rid of the face Chrollo made when she made him look at her – the way his lips were latching on to Hisoka’s absence, the way every inch of his being was still finding the fastest route to where Hisoka went.
“I was watching him rearrange the library like some sort of crazy person,” she says. “He didn’t even turn on the lights. Just walked around with his books. I almost thought he was a ghost.”
Hisoka’s golden eyes are dim under the fluorescent lights of the shop. He looks tired, weary. His voice is as raw as the sun when he speaks. “Then,” he whispers, “what do you think will happen if I ask him to come with me?”
Machi shakes her head. She reaches for her napkin and wipes it against her lips. “At least he’ll feel a little less lonely.”
~***~
8:30 p.m. – Under a lamppost
Chrollo is used to waiting in the cold.
He wraps his arms around himself, his body huddled underneath a thick coat until he can feel his breath warm inside his throat. The cold evening air wrenches to nip at his bare fingers. He curls them together and brings them to his lips, blowing a shuddering breath as his shoulders quiver from the unexpected ache.
He hasn’t been waiting for Hisoka for long. It’s only been ten minutes since Hisoka texted him to meet at the park, so that they could go home together to avoid the bite of the dark. But Chrollo doesn’t have a high tolerance to the cold, and Hisoka is the only person who makes him forget the shake of his skin, erasing his thoughts inch by inch.
Chrollo is about to curve himself forward when he feels something warm touch his cheek. He looks up to find Hisoka handing over a can of coffee, the glow of his eyes the color of heat. He slowly unwraps his fingers and accepts the can of coffee, heaving a breath when the steam sinks into his cold skin. Hisoka sits next to him and rests his arm against the back of the bench. Chrollo can feel it now – the height, his presence.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Hisoka says. “But I bought you coffee, just in case.”
Chrollo fixes his finger under the tab and clicks it open. The smell is soothing. “Thank you.”
He takes a little sip, letting the drop trickle down his throat to calm the cold. He offers the can to Hisoka, but the man shakes his head. Instead, Hisoka’s hand moves away from the bench and flutters over Chrollo’s wrists, fitting their fingers together like a single wing. Chrollo’s heart is furling tight inside his chest, every beat the weight of atlas. His thoughts are flying into his teeth until he has to clamp his lips together to make sure he doesn’t say anything.
“What is this for?” he murmurs, staring at their fingers.
“If I ask you,” Hisoka says, his eyes focused on the sight in front of them – the sea curling open to kiss the moon’s bearing, “to come with me, would you hesitate?”
Chrollo swallows another inhale of coffee down his throat. “That depends on where you want to go.”
“Machi told me to bring you into my investigations.” Hisoka doesn’t blink, even when the sea suddenly makes a rumble from the distance. “So that you wouldn’t feel as lonely. Will you come with me, then?”
It takes him a moment to gather the pieces of Hisoka’s words. Chrollo feels his hold tighten against his own fingers, the usual blush of his knuckles turning into a pale crescent. He doesn’t know why Machi had the urge to actually tell Hisoka what he was feeling, or why she thought she had the right to share that small part of Chrollo’s secret.
All he knows is that he can’t follow the sun when he feels like he’s about to burn, because Hisoka won’t be able to recognize him when it’s over.
“No,” he finally says, unlinking his hand from Hisoka’s grip. “So, don’t ever ask me that again.”
~***~
9:58 p.m. – Crime scene, in charge: Wing
Wing wants to think that Hisoka has made a mistake. After all, it’s not uncommon for forensic students to assume that this certain evidence will lead to its conclusion. Still, there’s a nagging part inside of him that’s trying to tell him that Hisoka is correct. (Wing doesn’t want to admit it, but Hisoka is almost always correct, considering that the boy identified the kind of bullet just by its size, smell, and weight.)
But all the other investigators have evidence that doesn’t exactly coincide with the one Hisoka has in mind.
For one thing: Akatsuki proved that there was no sign of a struggle, because the apartment was perfectly arranged by the time they got there. The victim was a man, no less, so chances are, if he were killed, the said woman would have a hard time decapitating the victim.
The second reason why is because Mako mentioned that the woman was in distress when they tried to interview her. In fact, she was so busy sobbing at that point that they decided to leave her be. Of course, the woman might have been a good actress, but what are the chances of that?
Hisoka’s question suddenly pops into his head, a bomb threat. Well. Who not?
Any regular forensic student would stick to the obvious evidence led by the crime scene, but his detectives couldn’t even recognize the scent of the aftermath of rain on the man’s boots, nor did they have the wits to check the texture of his coat. Wing even counterchecked the weather forecast, and Hisoka was right: the downtown area had a downpour before the woman reported the man dead.
So. Why not?
“Excuse me, sir.”
Wing turns to Ayano, his mouth dropping open to find the woman securely locked in between two policemen. Her wrists are cuffed together, and her cheeks are stained with tears and a dab of blood. Ayano pushes the evidence bag to Wing for inspection.
“These are five 9mm bullets – the same ones we found earlier on.” Ayano turns to her in discomfort. “We decided to roam inside her room, and we found these hidden in her medicine cabinet. Turns out, she was the victim’s personal maid before the man accused her of stealing. The court sent her to jail for five years.”
The woman struggles, trying to yank her arms away. “I lost my child because of him,” she sobs out. “Everything is his fault.”
Wing can’t stop staring at her, or the evidence bag, or the untouched body still lain on the floor. He can still envision Hisoka inspecting the man’s coat, the way he burst through the doors of the crime scene and announced his opinion. Akatsuki must be furious right now, for knowing that an “amateur detective” got another murder case right.
“Send her to the police station for further questioning,” Wing orders. He gives back the Ziploc bag. “It seems that we’re done here.”
~***~
10:10 p.m. – Hisoka’s residence
There aren’t enough nicotine patches.
Hisoka’s arms are practically full of them, but his thoughts won’t stop spinning, and he can’t distinguish the difference between heroin and a sleeping pill. At this point, every drug substance is the same damn thing: it’s the only way he can think, and at the same time, it’s the only way he can stop himself from thinking.
He hates himself for hoping that Chrollo will send him a text. He’s been messaging the man for a good hour ever since he left. There are even surrenders, such as an: I’m sorry, I won’t do it again; or a: Please talk to me. I’ll make it up to you; and the worst of all: I’m wrong, and you’re right. So. Please. Please reply.
Which is why, when his phone finally gives off a ring, Hisoka’s body thrusts forward. His hand immediately clutches the phone and opens the message, a wave of disappointment pushing him back on the couch when he realizes that the text is from someone else.
From: Professor Feathers
Message: you were right. we caught her.
Hisoka blinks at the screen. It might not have been from Chrollo, but it’s enough to make him feel slightly contented.
As he leans back against the armrest, his fingers brush over the nicotine patches, and he slowly peels them off one by one, until every writhing thought has died down.