SUMMARY: Conan has a secret, and curiosity always did kill the cat. But then again, he's not really gone, is he? [There's a fine line between truth and insanity. Shinichi just chooses not to see it.] KaiShin, Character Death, Ambiguity, Rambling(?).
A/N: Hello there! I just want to say "Hi," and "Don't kill me," before anyone yells at me for writing this, ahaha. It's deliberately confusing, but not so much that ya'll will miss anything that isn't exactly important. That said, enjoy! And tell me your thoughts if you have any by the end~! (By the way, this isn't Beta'd.)
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(One time, several years before now, Shinichi wondered just what he had done in his past life to deserve this.)
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("You're a fake man. You don't exist.")
"Maybe I do. Maybe I don't. But I'm here, right?"
Conan doesn't know whether to thank the gods or cry.
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Conan is seventeen for the first time, seven the second. It occurs to him that perhaps he should have remembered his birthday―and didn't Ran always gripe about his lack of self-awareness? But the day is dull, and it's nearly midnight, just ten minutes shy of his sudden acknowledgement to his birth.
An extra sense pricks at the back of his neck and he sighs, putting down his cup of milk ("Because coffee is bad for you," Ran says, "Children shouldn't have too much caffeine.") It also occurs to him that, even though it's his birthday, he just can't catch a break.
"So, who killed who this time?"
("Shut up, baarou," he snipes. "Let me do my work.")
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Conan sighs and shakes his head, staring at the dead man before him. He examines the gouged stomach, the dismembered limbs, the familiar stench of offal in the air, and concludes that yes, the scene does remind him of that one cheesy horror movie from all those years ago.
The boy (but oh, he's never really been a boy, not since he was five) drops into his hidden analytical mode and finds the clues, pieces together the puzzle. It's never as hard as it looks―he's been doing this since he was thirteen, and after all, he's seen every which way a man can be dismembered―and it ends the same way as it usually does: a dart, some idiocy, a revelation, and another soul on his long list of the dead.
He doesn't forget them.
(He would if he could.)
"Tantei-kun? Oi, tantei-kun, are ya gonna ask him or not?"
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"Do you ever miss being normal?" The thief asks, just once, all solemn expression and indigo eyes.
("Depends. I never really knew what normal ever was.")
"What, so your parents always left you alone as a kid?"
(Conan scoffs and shakes his head. "Quite the opposite. …I was never alone no matter how much I wanted to be.")
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Conan can hear it sometimes, the thoughts of those Kaito has left behind. More people than the thief believes truly mourn for him, like the girl whose thoughts always drift one way or another to a mop and a missing love, like the mother who has lost two people with the same name to the same man and continues to smile, and the police chief that had cared for his daughter's childhood friend like a son.
But he never reveals them. They aren't his to voice.
("Do you ever hate me for being like this?")
Shoulders shrug. "You can't help it, Tantei-kun. Now stop drowning yourself from the inside out."
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He tilts his hand mirror this way and that, catching the glinting rays of the sun. A white and annoying speck appears on the wall, chases a cracked path and disappears into the void as a cloud passes overhead. Then it jumps back into the open, tenacious and free and unencumbered by death's grip.
He doesn't know when this game became a metaphor for his ghost's life. But the other man doesn't mind, so he doesn't stop.
The mirror shifts, and the memory repeats again.
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("I think I might have loved you, once upon a time. Maybe even now," Conan admits, pained, wistful and longing.)
His hands rise, trace the curve of the phantom's bloody cheek, and drop back onto his lap. The sleeping man does not stir, does not breathe. The tiny hand rests atop the unmoving chest.
His love opens his eyes.
"…Where am I?"
(And so begins the path of another who has joined him.)
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The thief smiles, and Conan wants to scream because it's all his fault and all their fault and the blood slips through his fingers like melted promises and tears. Kaito―not Kaitou, never Kaitou―just pats his head and ignores the wide eyes, stands up like the roses at his lips are nothing but another mask. But he falls like his strings are cut, and no poker face out there can hide the fact that he's dead.
Shinichi's one true confidant is gone, and it's all his own damn fault.
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"I don't suppose we could get injured doing this?" Kaito fits on his gloves and readies his monocle, fitting the hang glider snugly on his back. He cranes his neck at the tall building and inhales the crisp winter air. A smile tugs at his lips. Then a frown.
Shinichi, not Conan despite his miniature body, speaks up and drawls, "Well, we're taking down two separate crime organizations. Do you think we'll be injured? Hell yeah." He pulls off his shirt and holds the pill in his hands. It's not the cure, but it's just enough to last two days. More than enough time to finish this.
"If anything happens—"
"We'll be fine."
"Still… If we die, I don't want there to be any regrets."
Shinichi's brows furrow just as the antidote takes effect. "Where exactly are you going with thi—?"
Warm, chapped lips descend upon his own, amethyst eyes desperately connecting with tanzanite. Then the thief swoops off.
Shinichi splutters. "Wait, Kaito!"
And he doesn't see him again until the blood can't be washed from his fingers.
(Shinichi has always hated the winter.)
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Kaitou immaturely sticks out his tongue, pulling at the eyelid unobscured but the lens of his monocle. Conan seethes (and hey, if anyone asks why he's suddenly a child too, well, he has an excuse), and chucks the heaviest book he can find, catching the suddenly unamused (more like pained) magician in the stomach. Hah. Serves him right.
("Why are you so irritating now anyways?" He asks, after the two have calmed down long enough for him to apply a poultice for their bruises.)
"Well, tantei-kun, I'd say it's a gift."
("Hmph. Well, then, Kaitou, I've got a gift for you―")
"Call me Kaito."
(…What's the difference?)
It makes all of the difference in the world. Even the spirits following him can see that.
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Conan doesn't know when the murders became a norm for him. His father says the same thing happened to him as a child, so maybe the family is cursed. It goes to say something for Yukiko: that she can stand all the gore is enough for the two to love her. Only Yukiko can see it for some reason, but Shinichi's curse has a line just like Yuusaku does, and they both intertwine, chains stretching as far as the eye can see into the horizon.
"There's always something new about the line," she says, smiling. "And if it never stops, well, I suppose I can say I have experience with deaths all around, can't I?"
They're cursed. Kaitou says about as much, and Shinichi wants to hit him but he can't.
("…You're right," he admits. But there's no pity in those eyes, just unveiled sadness.)
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Since when had the lurid thief become his friend anyways? Conan ponders the question as he sips his (smuggled) coffee and flips the pages of his book idly. Beside him (or more like under him), the phantom (and how Conan laughs, because how can he be a phantom if he's not dead) pats his hair and pulls at it gently, tugging little bows into their spots, braiding the longer areas. Conan slaps his hand away as he reads, smile tugging at his lips.
(Maybe that's why. They usually leave him alone when he's with KID.)
"Oi, oi, what's got you smiling there, tantei-kun?"
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Conan inflates a soccer ball and lobs it at the thief's head, catching him off guard. With a victorious grin, the not-child leers at Kaitou, hands in his pockets.
Then he yelps as confetti and glitter explode all around him.
("Damn it, KID!")
"Haha, serves you right, tantei-kun! …Ugh… Ouch. Why does it always have to be the face?!"
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Lately the line has been getting longer. Actually, it always had, but, well, recently it's come to Conan's attention that the growth is like a tumor—growing and growing faster as the seconds tick by. It's unsettling. The boy tries to ignore the yammering all around him (and yeah, plugging his ears won't help, all the silence in the world can't help him) as he smiles brightly, commenting on today's breakfast to his childhood friend. Ran pats his head and asks him how he slept.
("Good!" He chirps, already accustomed to the false taste to the words on his lips.)
Indigo eyes watch from afar, narrowing. "What have you got to lie for, tantei-kun?"
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Conan gasps for air and leaps from his covers, arms flailing in an attempt for stability. He doesn't quite roll off his bed—as there is nothing to roll from—and cringes slightly, registering the familiar walls and hoping the Sleeping Detective does not wake. Mouri Kogorou does not take well to being awoken in the dead of night. Well, not any time in particular either.
The boy chuckles dryly and wipes the sweat from his brow. He stares at the man before him, brown eyes closed, breathing slow, and the man in boy's skin shifts his gaze to the other residents just around the periphery of his vision.
("I thought I told the lot of you not to wake me anymore," he chides, before falling back onto his back.)
The memories seep into his skin like a forgotten stain. They'll always be there, carried on his flesh whether he can see them or not.
Never forget, they chant. Hah. As if he can.
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Conan's feet swing back and forth as he devours his ice cream, the perfect picture of content. Sonoko blabbers on about some gossip or other while Ran listens and occasionally makes comments. The world continues to revolve around him, and he takes it all in with a clarity he can say is both a curse and a blessing.
His eyes drift to the left unconsciously, and the cone cracks in his hand, melted cream sticking unpleasantly to his palm. He stares at his hand for a moment, then sighs and tries to eat up what little he has left. When all has been salvaged, he dumps the mess into a nearby trash bin and bounds off, assuring Ran that he's only going to the restroom.
Once far away enough, he turns to the little girl just a couple years shy of his physical age and gently coaxes her to stop crying. He grabs her bloody hand and takes her to find her parents.
"…Just who are you looking at?"
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("Hey dad?" Shinichi clutches at his pillow and doesn't blink, doesn't do anything other than glance upwards with beseeching eyes.)
Yuusaku bends down and smiles gently. A hand ruffles his son's locks by habit. "Yes, Shinichi?"
The eyes behind the glasses meander to the right slightly, dropping eye contact, and Shinichi notices but decides not to comment.
("Am I schizophrenic?")
The hand freezes. Yuusaku's brows furrow in sympathy and understanding, then carefully masked anguish that Shinichi's eyes can't help but pick apart.
"You can call yourself whatever you want. It doesn't make the people any less real, son."
("…Okay, dad.")
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Shinichi sees his father after everything is said and done, after the tears, after the coma, after Yukiko can't leave his side because then she doesn't know what she'll do.
But she sees him.
Shinichi sees him.
Kaito sees him.
Fuck it all. He doesn't care if his happiness is fake anymore.