( stop! police! )

The roil in Katsuya's gut is something his heart feels before his head has time to intervene. It's an undulation of warmth, lazily folding over itself like a sinking feeling, but not unpleasantly.

Katsuya knows he'll lose it if he moves, yet duty has always dictated him before self-indulgence gets a say—so he really has no course of action available that isn't turning to Tatsuya, sharply, and with a severe kind of grimace. He hopes his brother hasn't paid any heed to the pause he took to gather his bearings.

"Don't be foolish," Katsuya says, with feeling. It's not appropriate to be putting things like that on Arisato. To see behaviour that isn't there and make ridiculous accusations. "He's simply... my friend. He happens to enjoy my company."

Granted, that statement is not one Arisato has ever committed to, though it's a barbed declaration anyway. The suffix of unlike somebody I could mention goes unsaid—but there's that sensation again, even as Katsuya perfects his most admonishing glower.

Blinking, Minato turns to face Katsuya again, head at a curious tilt. His host is willing to indulge him, despite the risk he’s already acknowledged. The gesture is meaningful even by itself, though it doesn’t go far toward determining Katsuya’s feelings on the matter…

❞It could be a date, you know.❞

"Yes," Katsuya says, with all the frank certainty of a man delivering hypotheticals—because he can only imagine Minato is raising the point due to abruptly cold feet. "I suspect there will be observers who interpret the scene as just that. However, please allow me to assure you again that harassment won't be a problem. I... would like to share dinner with you."

i also have something to say.

i have done nothing wrong, ever, in my life.

He’s still not happy? Wylan is growing a little bit concerned for his well being. The continued pressure on what he’s seen, and what was there, could spell one of two things. The first option that he wants to default to is that the man remains unconvinced of his innocence. Wylan is innocent, however. For his own safety (which is the most important thing here) he’s withholding great amounts of (bizarre) information, but he’s telling no real lies this morning. Some of his statements may fall into the white territory, but even then he’s just as confused about this transpiration as Katsuya is. Which brings him to the second plausible option.

Whatever he experienced in that alleyway may be connected to something bigger. Perhaps part of a series of incidents had occurred that the authorities are keeping a little closer to the hip. Does that mean he knows about the blank stares? The inhumanlike way in which the man moved to assault Wylan. The behavior could be explained by drug use, but the way they were carrying themselves (and the gun) was more robotic and logical than something born of delusion. Blank eyes. Blank expression. If he’d ever been part of a horror movie, this was it.

The brief recollection leaves his brows lifted as he stares vacantly at the pad on the table, but he finds it just as easy to work himself into a mulling expression from there, letting the brows fall in a sleepy manner over his green eyes. Certain details. How much more can he humor the officer before he crosses a line into valuable witness instead of innocent tourist bystander?

“Well. Hm.” A whole lot of nos aren’t getting him anywhere. And he did see some odd things, didn’t he? He’s just not sure how much was born from adrenaline and how much actually happened. Best to start rattling off some facts. Too much silence isn’t good for anyone. “He was alone, and he approached me as soon as he came outside, not sure if it was because I was alone or….” He focuses more, remembers the glint on those opalescent white orbs when they turned to see him. As if they were following an instruction and had moved onto the next step. “I… I didn’t smell anything, like there wasn’t any alcohol. Or something druggy.” He affords himself a shrug and small laugh, lest he appear too knowledgeable of the movement and popularity of current illegal substances.

There wasn’t anything abnormal aside from the Yakuza prior to the bullet and- and then for the first time that morning Wylan shows an honest expression, as muffled as it is by the hand rubbing at his face and morning stubble. But there’s definitely a glint of confusion in his eyes. Like seeing someone work on a puzzle and come to find that, in fact, those two pieces don’t go together.

“A butterfly. I mean. Wait, have you ever heard the expression seeing stars? I saw,” he pauses briefly, a chuckle. A hand goes up because as weird and real as it was, it doesn’t make sense. But he’s already started on it anyway so why not continue, right? “A butterfly. After he pulled the trigger. I thought it was adrenaline but it was still… I saw it again when the woman who called the police helped me up.” No doubt they had questioned her too. But he’s confident that there was no information to gleam there. Tourist gets shot. Didn’t see shooter. And neither did Wylan. “Maybe I really was just loopy. My heart was doing all kinds of weird stuff.”

The drawback to composure like Katsuya's—unflappable after years of confronting the most fanciful events—is that his resistance to betraying any sort of reaction may be telling all by itself. Reaching a standard that would satisfy the policing handbook, his face technically gives nothing away. He continues to boast the same unimpressed grimace he's been treating Wylan to since the interview began. Yet his gaze lingers just a touch too long, his brows drawn tightly together.

The absurdity of such a detail is Katsuya's saving grace; to other detectives, a mention of butterflies will mean very little. Should Wylan press the issue with brother officers later, he'll receive genuine bewilderment for his efforts—but that's precisely the problem.

They cannot know. Greater still, this can't be allowed to go much further. There are creatures in these streets that are fond of causing trouble, and it would be easy to mistake their dearth of self-control for intoxication... but even if that was the sort of beast that targeted Wylan, they don't generally strike a spontaneous victim twice.

Philemon, on the other hand: he's relentless. When he fixes his eye to someone, they’re never given a choice, and Katsuya knows what it's like to live under supernatural conscription all too well. If Katsuya’s distrust of Wylan had come simply from the man’s jocular attitude before, it's sombre concern for a doubly unfortunate tourist that drives him to push the notebook aside completely.

"English idioms aren't my strong point, but I'm familiar with the expression. I'll admit that butterflies are a new one on me, too. That said... it's also not unusual for stressful situations to trigger bizarre visual responses."

Katsuya punctuates his statement with a shrug—lazily, and half-hearted, a far cry from the rigid gestures he usually limits himself to during questioning. But it's a calculated drop in the pond, and so is the way he leans back in his seat next. No longer poised to hang on Wylan's every word, he abruptly flashes a smile.

Because perhaps Katsuya isn't as stoic as he'd prefer to be, but he's always had a knack for lying. His own proficiency at concealing the truth occasionally frightens him; something crawls around inside him that is only too happy to knock his lofty ethics from their pedestal and gleefully con the world.

There are secrets he's privy to that he can't risk sharing with civilians, a dangerous underbelly to the planet they dwell upon that makes deception necessary—so the crooked grin he serves Wylan is a forgery that's masterful enough to look authentic. Like he's suddenly taken a legitimate shine to the Yank lounging in his interrogation room, all earlier hostility forgotten.

"I imagine Tokyo has a reputation for being polluted, but you know, you'd be surprised at the things you find living in the city. I think it's more likely you merely saw a real blue butterfly, don't you?"

This is a much more manageable number of cats.

Rather than supplying an answer, Katsuya promptly lifts his head and looks Minato's way, his mouth already pursed with the beginnings of refusal. It's quite all right, he's about to say. I'll make it myself, and should I make some for you, too?

But there is warmth in his belly that halts his voice—a pleasing feeling that isn't just gratitude. It's the most selfish kind of tribute; a part of Katsuya is revelling in the stroke to his ego that comes from knowing Minato wants to do something for him, however small.

That's easy for a man like Narumi to say! He doesn't seem to care much about what anyone thinks of him—and that simmering self-confidence is an admirable trait, but it's one Katsuya has never quite been able to replicate. As he grows older, he grows more at peace, too, with his own shortcomings. That doesn't change the fact he'd rather sink into the wallpaper, unnoticed and unconsidered, than be seen in last year's fashion with antiquated tastes.

“That is simply too many cats!”

Because he can’t possibly be expected to feed them, and he can’t possibly be expected to have enough room for them in his modest home.