Wow, two fics in two days!

But anyway, this is an extremely strange oneshot. I was reading some stuff in the FT archive and found an unusual writing style I wanted to try because it was simple but really effective. I think I probably failed, though. Anyway, uh, hopefully you'll enjoy this? - Luna

For a Moment

He is six, and he has just committed murder.

There's a flower in his hand, pink petals shot with burgundy and a slender dark green stem, and all he knew was that it was pretty and that his mother would like it.

That was why he had uprooted it, plucked it straight out of the grass.

Murdering it.

He is sitting there at the crime scene – the park meadow – staring at his victim with growing horror, when he hears footsteps and instantly reacts, dropping the flower. What if the police have found him? What's he going to do then? They'd know he was the killer – they always know, if his father's novels are any indication of the real world.

The footsteps stop behind him – he's frozen solid, unable to move, breathe, or think for fear of giving himself away – and a voice asks him, "What are you doing?"

He is relieved – the voice is young, curious, not the bark of a detective and not accompanied by the click of handcuffs. Slowly he rotates around to see a boy – his age – standing there, watching him with large indigo eyes.

He stares back for a good long minute before he realizes he was asked a question.

"I…" Giving up, he can't help but look down at the dead flower with a sharp intake of breath. "I… murdered this flower…"

He feels his chest tightening, and he barely notices that the indigo-eyed boy sits down next to him and looks at the flower pensively for a while.

"You're right. You did."

"I know that." He is getting annoyed with this boy – who said he was allowed to sit down next to him and tell him something mean – and his voice shows it, having a little more bite than intended.

They sit in silence before the indigo-eyed boy says, "I can fix it."

Whirling on the boy, he starts to protest, because no, you can't bring things back to life, but the words commit suicide when the boy picks up the flower gingerly and presses the broken ends of the stems together, massaging them into place with his tiny fingers.

"That's…" he tries to complain, but when the fingers depart, the stem is unblemished and the flower has been resurrected.

The boy has done the impossible.

He barely dares to breathe, riveted on the beautiful flower. "How did you…"

A faraway female voice yells, "Kaito! Where are you?" and the boy beside him starts, jumps to his feet, and flashes him a grin.

"Can't tell you! It's a secret!" the boy beams, all smiles and cheer, and he runs off towards the voice.

Kudou Shinichi is six years old, and he has just met an angel.

He is ten, and he is sitting outside his mother's bedroom.

He had gone there originally to ask her about when he was going to see Ran again, but since he could hear her talking on the telephone, he decided against walking in.

The words clamber underneath the door to him, shed carelessly from his mother's lips, and he listens with mounting interest.

"So, Chikage-chan, when are we going to meet again? Oh, I see. Next week is no good for me, either. How's your man?" A laugh struggles in the gap underneath the door for a second before pulling free, drifting to him. "I see. And how's Kaito-kun?"

Kaito. The name is familiar and tastes like a long-forgotten memory, and he doesn't know why. Does he know a Kaito? Is there a Kaito at his school? No, there isn't.

So then why does he feel like he knows the name?

Kudou Shinichi is ten, and he has just found his first mystery.

He is twelve, and he is in the middle of the field, panting and sweating madly.

The soccer ball is at his feet, the sun is glaring down on him, other boys are swarming around him, and it is the goal that could save his team from defeat against Ekoda Elementary's.

He senses someone to his rear – he ducks away in a successful evade from the valiant attempt. He feels a breeze whoosh over him – like a final cheer as he reaches the goal. He sees the boy in the net – red and white jersey – wearing an expression of horror – he knows they're going to lose.

He looks up at the bundles of spectators, trying to find his parents before the final kick, but he has looked in the wrong direction, to the Ekoda Elementary side of the stands.

In disappointment, he almost returns his gaze to the ball – almost, because suddenly he sees something indigo and he can't tear his eyes away.

Indigo.

Where has he seen that shade of indigo?

Someone steals the ball in his moment of hesitation, and he's lost the indigo in the sea of people.

Kudou Shinichi is twelve, and his team has just lost.

He is sixteen, but he looks like he's six.

The rooftop is far too cold for his tiny body, and he feels every gust of wind taking care to harass him, but his eyes are trained on the man across from him, the white phantom outlined against the lapis lazuli night sky.

"Good to see you, Kid," he comments, and he wants to smile at the way the phantom gives him a little nod like he's agreeing.

"It's been a while," the man tells him, smiling a halfway familiar grin that sends shivers unrelated to the wind up his back.

He decides to wait to make his move, admiring the rippling of the cape and the bits of hair peeking out from underneath the top hat.

He hates the shadows, though – the shadows from the hat that blend the monocle and the eyes behind the monocle into a mess of unattractive darkness. If he would be honest with himself, he is desperate to see who the phantom really is, but at the same time, he knows it's a futile hope.

Suddenly a gunshot ruptures the tense atmosphere, and he nearly jumps in surprise – but being who he is, he manages to keep it down. He peers around for the source of the sound – but his gaze immediately latches on the red carnation of blood blossoming across his rival's torso.

He starts to run over – but the phantom gasps, "No, don't!" stopping him.

He doesn't want to stop. He wants to save the phantom, and he wants to hurt whoever hurt him.

He glances around for a precious few seconds before he finally – finally – spots the shooter – a strange mustached man wearing a hat – two buildings over.

Before he knows it, he has deposited a soccer ball from his belt and aimed it directly into the man's face. It collides and even from where he stands, he knows the man is now writhing in agony.

Returning his attention to the bleeding man, he sprints over and lays him down. He presses a hand to the wound, cringing as his hand is stained crimson. "Don't move," he demands when his patient tries to sit back up, shoving him back down and pulling off his own jacket.

The phantom gives a small chuckle. Ragged breaths. "So you do care about me, huh, tantei-kun?"

At which he only glares, wads up his jacket into a messy pad, and presses it against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. "Don't talk," he commands, and the injured man complies with one of his infuriating smiles.

Kudou Shinichi is sixteen, and he has never cared about someone so much.

He is seventeen, and he has just returned.

He is welcomed back with a tearful hug and some halfhearted attempts at anger over his disappearance, and he is starting to become uncomfortable with the amount of attention they're garnering from the passers-by.

She finally pulls back, violet eyes glittering. "Welcome back, Shinichi," she whispers, and he is glad she seems to be calming down, though he wishes they had gone into her father's agency before the reunion.

They are about to do just that when he happens to glance into the window of Poirot – and then he stops breathing, because sitting at the window is a boy his age, watching him out of indigo eyes that burn into him with startling familiarity.

He doesn't move until she prods him. "Shinichi? Let's go inside, okay? We've got so much to talk about, after all!"

He doesn't want to refuse her, but even as he follows her up the stairs, he just can't bring himself take his eyes off of the indigo ones behind the wall of glass.

Kudou Shinichi is seventeen, and he still cannot identify that indigo.

He is eighteen, and he is sitting in Poirot.

He always comes here once a week ever since he returned. He has always tried to convince himself that he was coming to see her, not the indigo-eyed man – but even she doesn't believe that.

And now he can see her moving on.

The coffee cup in his hand suddenly feels heavier.

He forces himself to drink some of its contents, and he's just setting down the cup when a voice over his head says, "Tantei-kun," and he looks up and it's the man with the indigo eyes, standing by his table.

He breathes out one syllable – Kid – and suddenly realization hits with a collection of memories.

Angel.

Mystery.

Soccer.

Bullet.

Indigo.

Kaito.

Kudou Shinichi is eighteen, and he is in love with the Kaitou Kid.

And as the Kaitou Kid – Kaito – leans down and he feels lips pressed uncertainly against his, he knows.

The Kaitou Kid is in love with him as well.

...Well that was certainly odd o_O. This is what happens when you read NaLu fics and then listen to "100 Years" by Five for Fighting.

But, uh, review anyway...?

- Luna