The Sea and the Sky

Her father didn't often talk about the Great War, the conflict that had left him with a limp and nightmares, but whenever he did these days, he would always comment on the tragic irony.

"All sides fought what they prayed would be the final fight," he would say, staring unseeingly across the veranda and into the sparkling sea. "The war to end all wars, they called it. We were so happy in 1918- so many had died, but we thought it was worth it, so that our children, and our dead friends' orphans, would grow up into a world of peace." Then he'd always laugh, harsh and humourless, and take his pipe out of his mouth to spit bitterly into the ground. "Then what happens? An even larger war comes along in time to take even the youngest of the dead men's sons. A world in pieces. " Then he would bless her for being a daughter- he would never have to watch her leave to fight. He would never have to bury her, as his old friends- his fellow survivors, leftover soldiers- buried their sons.

As the new war ticked into one year, then two, there were times when her father would put on his old uniform and they would get into a little steamer boat filled with other crippled middle-aged men in old uniforms and then they'd sail to the mainland, or another little island, and attend a solemn funeral, sometimes under a funeral veil of grey clouds, sometimes cruelly juxtaposed with bright sunlight.

At one end of such journeys was death, at the other her father's painful reminisces, where she could do nothing for him but stay there with him and listen to him, maybe topping up his drink as he tried to wash all of the old wounds away and never quite managed. But in between were the blue waves of the Mediterranean, and the warm sun, and the salty breeze. She loved it more than anything else, and was glad that she was a woman and would never be drafted and forced to leave.

By 1942, the USA-Japan war had been mixed up with the European one. Now the entire world really was at war.

He'd never seen Europe before, and only caught glimpses as he flew over it, but he couldn't help seeing it as beautiful, and he was sorry that he was only there to bring destruction to it. He had no choice but to lead other young men over this land, to drive them to attack the other planes that strove to defend it from the bombers, to send the burning skeletons of the Allied planes down to bury themselves in the scarring landscape. He was one of the best. He couldn't not fly. Once, it was what he had loved more than anything else.

The he was transferred to a seaplane squadron in the winter of 1942, because of his skill at adapting, and he discovered the most beautiful place of all, even in the dead of winter; the Mediterranean. Where the sea and the sky were so blue that if you barrel-rolled you wouldn't know which way was up. Where the air was crisp and salty and a joy to fly through. Oh, how he wished he could fly for the joy of it, but he was there to fight. To bring war and death to the tiny islands dotted with hotels and cafes and little homes, where life was for relaxing, not destroying.

It was almost a relief when, two weeks after he was transferred to the Med, he was shot down.

Living in the Mediterranean was easy when there was no fighting, but now she never knew when gunfire would break out over her head. Her father would always send her down to the basement at those times, along with everyone else in the café- the war hadn't fully penetrated their pool of blue, and people still sailed, trying to forget and ignore the war in a lifestyle of endless holiday. When the planes were gone, he would call them back up and offer a free round, to cheer and fortify. She always feared that when they came back up, the café would be gone. It had happened during the last war, only the basement surviving by virtue of being deep underground.

Other problems began in late spring 1943. Supplies were already being disrupted by pirates, but their supply boat didn't have far to sail, and so had never encountered problems before- yet they kept coming up short, though the boatman would swear that he had filled their order. It wasn't a damaging amount going missing, but a noticeable amount of food and drink, sometimes even fuel being siphoned from the boat. The boatman's nephew started coming with him, to watch the supplies, and they still couldn't catch who was doing it, but once or twice, she thought that she might have seen a flash of white around the little docking island that the café was built on. It might have been a seaplane. She couldn't be sure.

He didn't dare fly much, not when there was the faintest hint of fighting planes around, and with the war on, there almost always was. As long as he kept the wings folded, his seaplane looked like a boat. If the Allies spotted him for what he was, they'd kill him- and if the Axis found him, they'd probably do the same. He'd been gone too long to be anything but a deserter. It was probably true. He had no desire to return to Japan.

It had taken months to repair his plane, scavenging parts from other planes that had been shot down. He'd often found pilots, friend and foe, but he'd never yet found one alive. Many were riddled with bullet holes- their enemies had aimed at the pilot rather than the plane, watching the undirected planes crash of their own accord. He'd had a little money, to begin with, and had used it to buy some food and white paint (he couldn't stand to see his plane so scarred, and in any case it stood out covered in bullet scars), but it had been difficult to do. The populations of the little islands spoke almost exclusively Italian, a language he knew little of. He'd also bought a fishing rod, knowing that he had nowhere to go and no way to make money. He had no fuel, so mostly he just floated randomly on the lull of the waves, fishing when he got hungry. It wasn't easy to cook fish on a lighter, and he wasn't much of a cook anyway, so the results always made him feel so sick that he swore he'd never touch fish again, but inevitably he got hungry again. Whenever he made landfall, he'd steal a loaf of bread or a bottle of wine, but never much. He'd been a skilled pickpocket as a child, but he'd never liked it as a necessity to survive, especially when he was stealing from a people that he was increasingly wishing that he'd been born amongst. It wasn't much of a life, but it was better than all of a death.

Besides, just floating, stretched out on a wing or the engine, watching clouds in the day and stars at night, was very peaceful. More peaceful than he'd ever felt. He felt content to exist in his floating limbo, though often he dreamed of hearing on a landfall that the war had ended, scrounging a little fuel, and flying into the sky again. He always watched the sky.

In the spring on 1943, he was floating past a small island that seemed to have nothing but a café on it; even so, there were a large number of small boats and even a couple of seaplanes attached to the dock in the front, so it must be popular, even in the late evening. He could hear American music playing (the government must have little hold in these remote islands; it would never be allowed otherwise) and chattering voices, and longed to join them, even if he couldn't understand a word; but he had no money, and who'd accept a ragged Japanese without a yen (or lire) to his name? His plane floated around the back of the island, and he saw a smaller mooring, where another boat was moored, hidden from the bright, opulent tourist boats, stacked with boxes of supplies. A servant using the back way in.

He stuck to the edge of the island, just behind a rock outcrop that allowed him to see the boat but not vice-versa, and saw the boatman, an older Italian with greying hair, chatting to a middle-aged man with a pipe and a cane. The middle-aged man began limping back up a stone staircase cut into the rocky bed of the island, while a girl helped the boatman pick up boxes and head up the stairs after him. He couldn't see the girl well; she wasn't really that young, in her early twenties probably, the same age as him, with dark hair tied back as she carried boxes of food. His stomach grumbled as he contemplated those boxes. He was so hungry!

There were several minutes between the pair of them taking a box up to the café and returning, and that was more than enough time for him. Stripping down to his pants, he dived into the warm water, swimming rapidly over to the boat, grabbing a wooden box and swimming back with it floating next to him. He waited a few minutes to see the pair come and go, and then returned, this time grabbing a pair of bottles of wine. He didn't want to take too much. Just enough to keep him off of fish if he was drifting for a while. The third time, he returned with an empty bottle and hid around the back of the boat, by the fuel tank, siphoning off a little fuel. This took longer than grabbing boxes and bottles, and at one point he had to hold his breath and hide underwater, under the boat, while the girl and the boatman came and went. Then he finished the job and swam back to his plane. The fuel wasn't a lot, but enough to accelerate away from the island before they spotted him.

He continued drifting for several days, enjoying the wine and ham that he had stolen in small increments, until he saw the island again. He was surprised- hadn't he sailed away from it? But perhaps he had floated into a counter-current that had pushed him back, sometime when he was sleeping so he didn't notice. He shrugged, tucking into the little cove again. A day later, as he had hoped, the supply boat appeared again, and again he was able to appropriate a few supplies. He left in a different direction this time, but again, as soon as he started drifting, the currents pulled him back. The island must be situated in the crossing point of several underwater currents. Or maybe the water spirits had plans for him there. Whatever the case, the supplies made the drifting life a little more comfortable, and he was incrementally filling his fuel tank enough to fly away if necessary.

In the back of his mind, he knew it would have to happen sooner or later. He knew all too well that peace was not a natural state- for the people in this part of the world, perhaps, but not for him. Sooner or later, it would break. He would just have to prepare for that, and enjoy the peace while it lasted.

While standing on the supply boat one day, she got an idea. She ducked down behind some boxes, completely invisible to the boat from the outside. The boatman's nephew, a boy of about twelve, spotted her, but she put a finger to her lips and he winked, understanding. He left with his uncle to take boxes upstairs. It looked like the boat had been left empty. For a moment, all was quiet.

Then she heard the faintest creaking as somebody nimbly climbed up onto the side of the boat. There was the faintest dripping of seawater, then a gentle clinking as the person, whoever they were, picked up a pair of bottles. Instantly, she leapt out of her hiding-place, clutching the broom that she had grabbed as an impromptu weapon, and swung it at the thief.

"Sneak thief!" she yelled as he leapt over the broom and crouched on the edge of the boat. He froze, as did she, facing each other, sizing each other up.

He looked Asian, but the colour of his eyes definitely wasn't- a sparkling blue like the depths of the sky in summer, peeking out from overlong locks of unruly dark brown hair. His age was hard to determine, his face shadowed with stubble, but he didn't look much older than her. She blushed when she realized that he was only in a pair of thin trousers, but while there was some muscle tone- or at least, tone indicating where muscles had once been- he was thin and wasted. His ribs stuck out, and his arms were thin. His skin was yellowish- he must be ill. There were slim scars here and there- he was a soldier. But he wasn't fighting. He was just taking food.

The Japanese were their enemies, supposedly, but she couldn't help feeling, from her father's stories, that while there were two sides in every war, they weren't one country against another, but the foot soldiers of every country against the generals who started the war and sent them to die. The men who fought and died and the men who treated the deaths as statistics. All the suffering was on the soldiers, and their families.

To her surprise, the young man bowed his head. He had no weapons with him. He carefully put the bottles back. "Gomen nasai." His voice was dry and rough from dehydration, thin from hunger, but he seemed ashamed of his stealing. She was overwhelmed with pity, and felt guilty for nearly attacking him. In his state, she could probably snap him like a twig, but had no desire to do so.

She hated the suffering of war. On both sides.

She picked up the bottles, handing them back to him. His expression was of utter shock, and he asked her something in that strange language- Japanese, of course- that she didn't understand. She just pressed the bottles on him, nodding. He took them, this time indicating himself with one, still confused. She nodded again. For you.

"Arigatou Gozaimasu," he said, suddenly grinning broadly, the expression flashing across his face like lightning and sending a similar jolt through her system. Then he took her hand and kissed it, causing her to blush. He spoke once more, in weak Italian.

"Thank you, pretty lady," he said, before diving back into the water. She leaned over the side, watching him swim away, and then saw the white seaplane accelerating away. She waved at it, indicating the café, trying to tell him that he could come back.

She hoped he would. If nothing else, he needed a shave.

She later told her father that the thief had been a few boys on a motorboat who had escaped when she saw them, and probably wouldn't be back.

"For me?" he said in surprise as she pressed the bottle on him. When the girl had caught him, he knew that it was over, and he was back to a fish diet if he was lucky; she might even call the authorities. But then her face had softened as she looked over him. He knew that he looked a mess; he just hadn't realized how much until he saw her expression. Then she offered the bottles back.

She clearly didn't understand Japanese, and he didn't know how to ask in Italian, so he simply indicated himself with the bottles. She nodded. She was letting him take them?

"Thank you," he said, smiling at her. She blushed a little. It was very pretty on her; her soft olive skin darkening, her eyes widening and allowing him to better see their deep blue colour, like sea, brown hair curling in waves over her shoulders. She was very pretty, and he was struck with an old impulse, one he hadn't used since his pickpocketing days, when it was sometimes the only way to get past a woman who had caught him in her handbag. He dredged up the few words of Italian he knew.

"Grazie, bella," he said, kissing her hand. He blushed deeper, and when she froze, he leapt back into the water and swam. He didn't look back until he reached his plane, and burned up some precious fuel accelerating away. He didn't look back until he was far away from the island.

He couldn't go back; the girl would know he was stealing. He was back to fish, then, once the supplies he had now ran out. He stopped the engine, wondering if he had gone far enough that he wouldn't be drawn into the currents that always pulled him back to that island. Part of him wanted to never return. Part of him wanted to return and never leave.

He wrestled with his thoughts for two days, as he continued to drift. His mind would no longer wander freely. Whether he looked to the sea or the sky, he was reminded of her eyes, first blazing with anger, then soft with kindness, then bright with affection when he kissed her hand. Such different expressions, all so beautiful.

"Ladruncolo!"

He didn't know what it meant, and knew that it probably wasn't good, but he couldn't help grinning when he remembered her voice.

She had been kind to him once- was it merely pity on his emaciated form? Or would she be kind again?

When the currents dragged him in sight of the island again, he decided to trust in the sea spirits and take a chance. This time, he used a little fuel to steer himself to the docking in front of the island, and waited. It was late at night- people were leaving the café. He waited.

The sea kept drawing her gaze. Though she had always found it beautiful, and in quiet moments had been content to just watch the rolling waves, soon she couldn't seem to tear her gaze away, causing her to bump into people when serving tables. The café was popular, but it only had her father behind the bar and her cooking and serving tables. Her mother had once done the cooking, but she was long gone. She felt that they needed another waiter, and her thoughts strayed to the Japanese man again- and as her thoughts strayed, so did her gaze, back to the deep blue sea, and just as often the clear sky (after all, it had been a seaplane, so maybe he would fly? But could he afford fuel if he couldn't even get food? He must have been the one stealing fuel from the boat) as she found herself watching for him. Whenever there was a flash of white foam in the sea, her heart would leap, and she would often lost track of a conversation in the middle of it. "Silly girl!" she would berate herself, but soon she'd be watching again.

It was getting to the point where her father was noticing her ditziness. He teased her a little about it, correctly guessing that she was thinking about a man but thinking that she had a crush on one of the horde of young men- gamblers, mostly, some businessmen- taking a holiday in the Med and living in the hotel that was only an hour's boat ride from their little island. There were a couple of hotels within a couple of hours, and the tourists and travellers that passed through often stayed at them while detouring on their boat rides during the day to visit them for lunch or dinner. Not many could be bothered with the early ride that was required to come for breakfast, allowing them to sleep in, for which she was grateful- despite the hour trip, many still didn't leave until late at night.

It was at such a time, when the visitors were finally filing out, paying their bills and leaving good tips, that she noticed one boat that nobody was getting into. It wasn't until the boat next to it pulled out that she got a good view of it, and her heart skipped a beat.

It was a seaplane. A white seaplane.

Ignoring her father's yell as she burst through the doors that he was making to lock, she ran down to the dock.

He was really starting to wonder what he thought he was doing. He hunkered down in his cockpit, but even so he caught the odd looks from the tourists and holidaymakers as they went to their own boats and sailed away. His plane was painted wholly white- he'd even painted over the Japanese flags, not wanting to broadcast his nationality- but he wasn't sure how many recognized the uniform, or if they saw his face. He just huddled up, curling up over his constantly aching stomach, and waited.

It wasn't until all of the other boats had gone that he saw her.

She was running straight for his seaplane, face flushed with exertion, ignoring the male voice calling to her- the older man. Her father, maybe? He could distantly see the man limping out of the café, but then his gaze was drawn back to the girl as she threw a mooring rope around his plane.

"Buon giorno, ladruncolo," she said, quirking a little grin. She extended a hand to him. She was welcoming him?

"Grazie," he said, taking her hand and pulling himself out of the cockpit. He stumbled a little on land. He hadn't stood properly for some time; mainly he crawled around his boat, and only took a step or two from the edge of the supply boat. She tugged his hand towards the café.

"Andiamo, andiamo," she said, tugging his hand. He guessed that she was telling him to hurry up, and tried to walk a little faster, though already he wanted to collapse. Halfway up the dock, the older man caught up to him.

"Chi e, Aoko?" the man asked, pointing at him. He didn't catch what the girl said in response, but the man did not seem to like it. They quickly descended into an exchange of rapid and angry-sounding Italian. They were arguing about him. He already regretted coming, and turned to leave. The girl grabbed his arm.

"Attessa," she insisted, perhaps pleading him to stay, but he shook his head, trying to pull away. Kami, he was so weak now that he couldn't even pull out of this girl's grip!

"Scusa," he muttered, trying to apologize and return to his plane. "Scusa, bella…" his stomach twinged painfully with hunger, and he curled up around it. As soon as he closed his eyes, he couldn't open them…

Aoko rounded angrily on her father as the pilot collapsed. "He's sick and emaciated, padre! How can we just abandon him? What would have happened to you if you'd just been abandoned in France?" he opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again. She'd won, and he knew it; he'd nearly died in 1915, and would have if the news of Italy switching sides hadn't reached his lines, leaving him dying in front of a trench full of new allies. They had happily patched him up; as Christmas 1914 had shown, the trench soldiers felt more of a kinship with each other than their leaders, and things had been much the same when the news of the end of the war had spread in late 1918 and early 1919. It didn't matter that the man dying in front of them was wearing a different uniform. He was a fellow soldier. And he was dying.

It wasn't that difficult for the two of them to carry him inside, even with her father's limp. The man was so light. They put him in Aoko's bed and Aoko slept on her mother's old side of the double bed in her father's old room, though within two days she had moved to a makeshift bed in her room, determined to watch over her patient as he warred with the hunger and illness. He was mostly unconscious; she carefully spooned soup into him several times a day, knowing that his shrunken stomach would not be able to take a lot at once. Her father clearly resented having him there, but he couldn't throw him out. After a few days, he seemed to get used to the young man in Aoko's room. Whenever it was quiet in the café, she would go check on him. His colour was slowly returning to something normal, and he looked slightly less emaciated, but it was a week before he properly woke up.

His eyes fluttered open, the blue still deep and dark with sleep, and he peered around the room. It was still morning, but Aoko had woken up early and had been watching him. She instantly knelt by the side of the bed.

"Good morning, sneak thief," she said. She'd taken to calling him that, because she didn't know his name. He glanced at her and smiled, that electric grin again.

"Ohayou gozaimasu," he said. He glanced around the room, then looked at her. "Anata wa Aoko desu?" she blinked in surprise at her name. He pointed at her. "Aoko desu?" he asked again. She nodded.

"I'm Aoko," she said, pointing to herself at her name. He clearly only spoke a few words of Italian, and she knew no Japanese; they'd have to start learning a bit of each other's language. It would be best for him to learn Italian, if he was to stay, but she wanted to know Japanese as well. "Do you have a name, sneak thief?" she asked, pointing at him as she addressed him. He nodded.

"Watashi wa Kaito desu," he said, indicating himself. "Kaito."

"Kaito," she repeated, pointing at him. He grinned and nodded. "Nice to meet you, Kaito." She smiled at him.

"Hajimemashite, Aoko-san," he replied. "Arigatou."

Kaito wasn't sure how long he'd been on the island when he woke up. He'd realized that his illness must have taken a turn for the worse, and he'd blacked out. That must have convinced the man to let him stay. When he opened his eyes and looked around the familiar room, the first thing he saw was the girl.

"Buon mattino, ladruncolo," she said. He recognized that the last word was him; she was smiling, too, glad that he was awake. He smiled back at her, causing her to blush again. It was beautiful.

It was difficult to hold a conversation, he knowing little Italian and she knowing no Japanese at all, but they did manage to exchange names. Hers was Aoko, which made him blink. It didn't really seem to be an Italian name; it sounded like "Blue child" in Japanese, and seemed appropriate for this sea-eyed girl, surrounded by beautiful blue.

He heard voices filling the café, and she left, probably working there. He drifted in and out of sleep, generally only waking when Aoko returned, bringing soup. Once, he woke up in the middle of the night (he had no idea how long it had been; the sleep was throwing off his sense of time, and he had no way of asking) and saw Aoko curled up on a makeshift bed in the corner. He felt guilty; he was taking her room.

A week after he woke up, he was able to stand up. He paced back and forth across the room, shuffling, trying to get his muscles used to movement again. He wanted to help, to repay Aoko for her kindness. Conversation was difficult; mostly hand signs and his patchy Italian, though he was learning a little more.

One evening, when people were leaving, he went to the window and watched them go, then walked into the café. The man (Aoko's father, he was sure; she addressed him as padre, which he was sure meant father) was tidying up tables, and he located Aoko in the kitchen, washing plates. She jumped when he came up behind her. He didn't understand what she was saying, but the tone indicated surprise and so she was probably remonstrating. He pointed from himself to the heap of dishes, indicating his desire to help. She looked surprised for a second, then handed him a dry cloth and indicated the pile of cleaned dishes. He began to dry them. He tapped a plate with a questioning look.

"Piatto," she said, interpreting his look correctly and tapping the plate. "Piatto."

"Piatto," he repeated. She smiled, and indicated a cupboard.

"Armadio," she said. "Piatto, armadio." She pointed from the plate to the cupboard. He nodded, walking over to open the cupboard and seeing a stack of dry plates. He placed the new plate on top of them. She nodded and smiled.

After that, every evening he dried while she washed; the job was thus done in half of the time and gave them time to continue their language lessons. Kaito soon found that she wanted to learn Japanese, just as he wanted to learn Italian, so whenever she taught him a new word or phrase he would trade her the Japanese equivalent. After a couple of weeks, they were able to hold a basic conversation in either language, and his strength was returning. He insisted that she take her bed back and slept on the makeshift bed himself. She protested, but he managed to convey that he felt it immensely disrespectful to take her bed from her, and that the makeshift bed was comfier than his cockpit anyway. It was; he felt comfortable and safe in the café, and even Aoko's father seemed to have accepted him as always being around. In the summer of 1943, when tourism increased, he began working as a waiter in the café, and learned several phrases of other languages too; enough to charm tourists of any nationality. But none charmed him more than Aoko.

The days dripped on, one at a time, at their own pace.

Aoko always remembered that summer with happiness; adding Kaito to the café brought a spark to life to it that had died when her mother did, and that Aoko had never quite managed to recreate. It was fun teaching him Italian and learning Japanese, and she always felt a thrill of joy whenever they were able to express new thoughts and concepts to each other. Like a deeper connection, a step into each other's worlds.

She was right; Kaito was wonderful help as a waiter. He was friendly and charming, and surprisingly quick hands, once he got his strength back; he could carry four plates at once and juggle up to seven- literally juggle, the laden porcelain flying through the air and then landing in front of the customer, not a single drop of soup nor a leaf of parsley dropped. Needless to say, he made a fortune in tips, and he pressed it all on Aoko; he eventually found the words to tell her that he was overwhelmingly grateful to her for saving his life and letting him stay. There seemed to be more to it, but neither of them knew the words yet.

The words would come. Day by day, they grew more fluent in each other's language. Her father refused to learn Japanese, but he was friendly enough to Kaito, though once his strength returned he began to mutter about a man sleeping in his daughter's room. Aoko protested that Kaito was a perfect gentleman, and he was; she felt safe with him.

After that first week, he didn't sleep much. He seemed to be a bit of a night owl. Once or twice, Aoko woke in the night to see him sitting by the window, staring, entranced by the moon. The second time, she sat up and he noticed her, his blue eyes glowing in a face painted monochrome by the moonlight. He indicated the moon. "Tsuki," he said.

"Luna," she responded with a smile, repeating their little ritual as they exchanged languages. He grinned.

"Bella luna," he said softly, then made a little movement in the air with two fingers. When Aoko moved next to him, she saw that he was walking his fingers along the path that the moonlight painted on the black water, before jumping up to the moon.

"Aviazione," he said, using the word that she taught him for flying. "Bella luna. Cielo…" after "sky", he paused, searching for a word that he didn't have. He tapped his chest over his heart. "Aviazione," he said, tapping his heart again.

"Passione," she told him. Love. He nodded, smiling softly. She looked up at the moon again, and she could understand his desire to soar, all the way to the moon and the stars…

"Kaguya-hime," he said mysteriously. She glanced at him. He indicted the moon, then her. "Bella. Kaguya-hime." She tried to question him as to what he meant, but he could find no translation. It seemed to be a name. Who was Kaguya-hime, then? Something to do with the moon, and beauty.

He'd indicated her when he said beauty. That alone made her blush.

By winter of 1943, Kaito knew enough Italian to tell Aoko most of the story of Kaguya-hime, though parts were untranslatable. She blushed when he told her the story, realizing that he had compared her to the otherworldly beauty of the moon princess. He loved that blush; it was so cute. He started going out of his way to see that blush, telling her little stories, giving her little compliments, helping out in extra ways. Her father glared at him whenever she blushed, but there was nothing much he could do about it. Kaito was strong enough to leave, but he had no desire to, and Aoko had expressed no desire for him to leave either; besides, the extra tip money he made was setting them up comfortably for winter. Winter was not as cold in the Mediterranean as it was further from the equator, but trade would decrease. They would be alone many days, something Kaito didn't mind at all.

They had almost forgotten the war until the bombers came.

The voice crackled out of the radio, a warning. Kaito was getting good at Italian but he couldn't understand all of the words, especially through the thick static, but one leapt out at him:

Bombardiere. Bomber.

"The basement!" Aoko's father called, but instead Kaito ran down to the dock. Aoko ran after him.

"The basement!" she insisted, but he shook his head, pushing her towards the café.

"You go," he said. "I stop them. They cannot destroy the café. You go. I will return."

"No!" she said, but now he was strong enough to shake her off, and impulsively, he wrapped her in a tight hug.

"I will return," he promised. "You go. The basement." He let go of her and got into his seaplane. He hadn't flown it since he had arrived, but it all came back quickly; his guns were still well stocked.

"Ladruncolo!" she yelled from the dock. "You better come back!"

"I promise," he called in reply. "I promise, Kaguya-hime."

Then he flew up, up into the silver-streaked sky.

He almost gasped aloud when he felt the wind in his hair. It had been- a year, maybe? So long! Suddenly he could feel the wind and the air around him again, a living thing that if he slid his plane into just right…

He drifted up, above the clouds and into the sun, towards the direction that the bombers were coming from. He could hear the explosions from here. They were sweeping the sea and bombing every island they passed over. As he drew closer, he saw Italian air forces absorbed in a fight with American fighters, drawing them away from the bombers. The bombers drawing closer to Aoko's café, destroying the blue as they painted the sky black and the sea brown and the very air red with explosions.

He would not let them destroy everything!

They didn't even see him as he dropped out of the sky, his tuned-up engine humming near-silently, his guns blazing. They tore apart one wing after another, ignoring the dogfighters and striking the bombers. Some of the fighters shot at him but he slipped past the gunshots like a phantom and struck his targets. He'd only meant to wound them, sending them crashing into the sea, but they were full of bombs. Their fates were of their own making.

The fighters, focusing on him rather than the Italians, were beginning to fall like flies. He struck the last bomber, twisting to narrowly avoid a falling fighter.

The Italians would soon be able to pay attention to him. He had to leave. He closed his eyes, gave himself to the tug and flow of the wind, and flew.

Aoko shivered with rage and fear. How could he! Would he be back? He'd get himself killed! He'd be found floating in the ocean, those laughing blue eyes faded and drained into the sea…

For hours, they sat and worried. She could hear the other customers muttering, wondering where that charming young waiter was. Had he gone up to watch for the planes with signor Nakamori? Would they be all right? They'd said bombers, after all, not just fighters!

Aoko could only worry in the grip of the darkness.

Years later, it felt like, she heard her father's call.

"On the radio, it says all the bombers were shot down by a white phantom!" he called. "The authorities tried to chase him, but they lost him!"

Aoko thought of Kaito's white plane, appearing out of nowhere as he had, and then slipping away just as easily, and laughed. But in the hours to come, as she waited for him to return, listening to the radio voices speculate about "Bianco Fantasma", she couldn't help wondering: would he ever disappear from her life like that?

Would the sneak-thief slip away in the night?

It wasn't until everyone had gone home that he reappeared.

Kaito was exhausted. He'd pulled stunts that he hadn't tried since he was much younger and stupid(er) when escaping those authorities, burning up all of his precious fuel. He'd staged a crash-landing on a nearby island and, once they were done looking for him and had flown off, he'd pushed the seaplane into one of the currents that he knew so well.

"Take me home," he'd prayed to the water, the blue darkening as the sun fell. "Take me back to Aoko."

Then he'd blacked out.

He awoke to her voice.

"Stupido! Ladruncolo stupido!"

He blinked as hands tugged at him, and looked up groggily at Aoko. It gave him a sense of déjà vu; waking up somewhere strange to her face. But it was his cockpit, not a comfortable bed, and she was angry, not comforting. She hauled him out, and slapped him across the face.

"Stupido!" she screamed, tears leaking out of her eyes. He stared in shock at her, then held her again as she began to sob.

"Tu morte," she muttered into his chest. "We heard they were chasing you. We heard you crashed. I thought you were dead."

"I just escape," he replied, patting her hair. "An escape, a clever one. I am sorry. Scusa tante. I am so sorry." He murmured comfortingly in both languages until she calmed down. She looked up at him, placing a hand on his cheek.

"Gomen nasai," she said quietly. "I was so scared."

"Scusa tante," was all Kaito could think to say. "You should not be… I wish you could not be." He wished that he had the words good enough to tell her that he hated the war, that he wished that it was over, that he wished that she would never be afraid again. He didn't have the words yet. But the words would come, he knew. When he needed them most, the words would come.

The words for her.

They stood like that for a long time, until her father came out and yelled at them.

1944 came. The fifth year of the war. Aoko often heard her father grumbling that it was now longer than his war. There was always grumbling about the war, but there was also talk of the tides turning. Aoko didn't care which side won, so long as it ended. Or rather, she was torn on who she wanted to win. For Kaito's sake, she wanted a good solution for the Japanese- she had no idea how he felt about his homeland, for he never talked about it, but surely he hoped the best for them. But still, she often heard stories on the radio, of the atrocities in China, not overshadowing those in Germany but no less terrible. She could not connect Kaito to these horror stories.

Part of her also feared for the end of the war; if it ended, would it be completely safe for Kaito to fly again? Would he leave in his Biano Fantasma, and never return? Every day and ever night, her fear built. Kaito noticed that she was becoming withdrawn, and asked, but she couldn't tell him. He knew the words- he was very proficient in Italian now, practically fluent in it. But how could she ask him?

It was keeping her up one night when she heard whimpering from Kaito's bed in the corner.

Her night vision was good from staring at the ceiling all night, so when his whimper first distorted the rhythm of the waves in her ears, she looked over at him and saw him curled up, fists in front of his face like a child hiding himself, gasping and whimpering as if in pain. Suddenly, she understood why so often she had woken to see him staring out of the window, already awake.

Slowly, she slipped from her bed, trying to be as smooth and silent as the phantom she approached, looking even more ghostly wrapped in moonlight. She knelt next to him and placed a light hand on his shoulder.

His reaction was instantaneous. He almost didn't seem to move- one second he was lying curled, the next he was crouching with one hand in a vicelike grip around Aoko's wrist, with no apparent movement in between. Aoko gasped in pain. He glanced at her, then his hand, and then paled and dropped her hand, falling gracelessly backwards onto his butt.

"Scusa tante, Aoko," he murmured. "I am so sorry. I thought…"

"I was from your nightmare," Aoko said gently. She had never seen him like this so far; the expression on his face was frightened, sad, broken. "Kaito, talk to me. What is wrong? Why are you so sad?"

"I had a nightmare," he said softly. "A memory, a bad one. I'm sorry. Go back to sleep. It's nothing."

"It's not," Aoko countered stubbornly. "Not if it makes you so sad." He looked up at her, their gazes, paled by weak moonlight, meeting for a long moment. It kept stretching and stretching, and Aoko felt such tension building that she longed for it to snap.

It did, gently, as he found the words to frame his memories. She could almost see them.

There weren't many, as if the sea had washed them away, and maybe that was for the best. He had only faint memories of family- soothing voices, warm embraces, and memories that were little more than flashes of light and colour and joy but that he knew was magic. His father had taught him magic tricks, he knew that much. He could barely remember any of them, but if he could lay his hands on a deck of cards, he was sure, his hands would remember. They'd teach him all over again.

At a very young age, the memories of family stopped, and the memories of hunger began. He had endured hunger so many months on the sea because it was a familiar part of his life, something he was used to. Hunger and the sky over his head. And there was loneliness, and fear. Maybe he had no other relatives. Maybe there was nobody to care for him. Maybe nobody wanted to care for him. Those were the boys he ended up with, the ones nobody wanted to care for.

It happened while pickpocketing. Hands made quick by tricks easily slipped coins from pockets. One day, instead of a coin, his hand closed around another small hand. They quickly pulled out of the pocket but didn't let go of each other, each determined to see who had chosen their target.

At the other end of the hand was a boy his age, one much like him, with foreign-looking eyes and filthy, too-small clothes. Another abandoned boy. They were everywhere. Street children, gangs of them. When the war came, these clans of lost children would grow, and occasionally be wiped out as they risked the bombings to steal from empty houses. Now, they were small, for the most part. He joined only three other boys, all unwanted by society.

One obviously foreign- he kept trying to paint his light hair with coal dust but it always showed through. One so dark-skinned that he was almost a negro, though he wasn't really, but many adults assumed he was. And the other boy like him.

He couldn't even remember their names, now. These boys had been his brothers Kami knew how long, right up until they all enlisted together- anything for food and clothes provided, and maybe if they were heroes they'd have homes when they came back- and he could no longer even remember their names. He could remember things about them, games, fleeing together through holes in fences and across rooftops from police, the terrible beatings when they had been caught (the police did not like street thieves, and liked their odd little gang even less), huddling together against rain and wind and snow in whatever corner they could find before they were driven on. He could remember standing guard for the one who kept sneaking into an Okiya to see a Geisha apprentice- completely forbidden, they'd both be abandoned if the mistress knew, but the girl was beautiful and so sweet, she really cared about a street ruffian enough to risk everything to see him- but he couldn't remember their names.

When they enlisted, they were split up. He was lucky. He got to fly. He never knew where the others went.

He'd crashed, and he was alone again with the sky and the hunger. Then it had all begun to drift away.

The sky had thrust him down to the sea, and the sea had brought him here. To kindness and peace.

He said nothing more for a long time, allowing her to examine his memories where she held them, turning them this way and that, taking them in like she'd taken in his language. Their worlds were melding.

Then there were only two more words.

"Grazie, bella."

She kissed him, and there were no more words. None needed.

Winter, spring, summer, fall. Another year turned like that, 1944 passing without too much of a fuss, at least in the Mediterranean. An oasis from the turning tide of the fighting.

The morning after the nightmare story, Aoko had found a pack of cards under the bar. It had been a slow day, and Kaito had spent most of it sitting on the counter, playing with the cards, bringing them to life under nimble fingers. Aoko was entranced, as were the few visitors. His tips rose.

The next day, they brought back friends, demanding to see the show. In the height of the summer, he spent much of the day dancing from table to table, ordered food appearing from nowhere, cards and juggling balls and tame birds (the customers couldn't fathom where they came from, but Aoko had seen him, in the early morning, feeding birds in the little garden behind the café. They weren't that far from the mainland, and somehow, the birds were willing to come for Kaito. Kindred spirits, perhaps. They all belonged in the sky) appearing and disappearing and flying through all sorts of tricks in between. Their revenue and popularity grew, and Aoko was beginning to feel that they'd have to expand and locate more staff. In winter, perhaps, when visitors decreased.

Twice more, Kaito fought off bombers and disappeared. The news was alight with talk of Bianco Fantasma, their mysterious saviour. Aoko hated to watch him go, but he always returned.

Late at night, after the chores had been done and the café tidied, Kaito began to go sailing on his seaplane- not far, just far enough to feel like they were in the centre of the ocean, with nothing but the gentle waves and the moon and stars above them and their arms around one another. It was they for she always went with him, enthralled by the beauty of the night sky. She hadn't noticed it since she was a child. Kaito's new eyes helped her see the beauty of her home anew.

"Aoko," he said one night, "You know what you always call me?"

"Ladruncolo?" she asked, quirking a smile. He grinned back, the expression still jolting through her, even after two years.

"I just realized," he said. "The Japanese equivalent. It's Kaitou."

She sat up then, staring at his pale face. "Your name is sneak-thief?"

"No, no, no," he laughed, waving his hands. "It's pronounced the same, but it's written differently. Different meanings. But the same pronunciation."

She laughed. "I feel like I've been calling you sneak-thief every time," she giggled. She lay back down, staring at the moon. "So… what does your name mean?"

"The ocean wave," he said softly.

It was nothing much, lying on the white wings, staring at the glowing moon, picking out constellations, listening to the lap of the waves. It was nothing much, but it was everything, and it was perfect.

By April 1945, the Axis were losing badly and Italy had had quite enough. News of Mussolini's execution did not reach their little island for two days, until approximately the same time at which Hitler was following him into Hell, with his wife and dog at his side. News of death and uncovered atrocities were everywhere, but all there was in the café was laughing. When the news came over the radio, Aoko's father instantly broke out in free drinks for joy, and the partying went on so long that nobody left until dawn- and oh, what a party. They had managed to make the café bigger over winter, using the extra revenue from Kaito's extraordinary tips, and Aoko had managed to bring her cousin over to help waitress, though the girl soon took over the kitchen instead- Ran was an incredible cook. They built an extra room for her as well. They could have built one for Kaito, but he refused. He was happy where he was. He did let them buy him a proper bed, though.

Magic filled the room. Aoko never knew where he procured the fireworks from. It was all part of the magic. The end of the war was almost too good to be true, so if mysteriously appearing fireworks were also too good to be true, why shouldn't they happen as well?

With the end of the war, patrol planes stopped, and fighters, and bombers. There were displays, for a few days, but none over the sea. The skies were clear. In the bright morning of May 1st, 1945, while the partiers were going home, Kaito led Aoko down to his seaplane.

"You can fly again!" she said happily, her eyes glittering like the bright sky above. He grinned back.

"Will you fly with me, bella luna?" he asked, offering her his hand. She could only grin and nod, her eyes shining ever more. "You know, Aoko, do you know what your name means?"

"I'm not sure it means anything," she said, settling into the cockpit with Kaito. It was extended to allow two people. He'd dreamed of this day. He'd dreamed of flying, and bringing her with him, to feel the freedom of the air once more. He wanted to share that with her. He had been living in her world for two years, slowly sharing his. He wanted to combine them completely. More than anyone else, he wanted her to feel that freedom.

"It sounds like a Japanese name," he said, turning to look at her with smiling eyes, "meaning blue child." Before she could respond, he brought the plane to life, shooting across the waves before rising into the sky. She shrieked, but when he looked back, her smile was wide with exhilaration.

The blue sky child and the thief of the ocean wave rose into the beautiful blue, into the sky, into freedom, in a beautiful land where the sea and the sky were one, and all was at peace.

Something a little different, but I hope you liked it. Because Studio Ghibli plunnies me bad. ;)

I do not own Meitantei Conan or Magic Kaito- they're the property of Aoyama Gosho. I made up the café and any similarity between any real place is purely coincidental. Hitler and Mussolini firmly belong to Satan.