A/N: *tiptoes up to account* *pops fic in* *crawls back under rock*

Okay. Don't lynch me. I'm late. Horribly late. I apologize. It's just that rush week plus Moving Castles plus werewolf!Heiji plus fic-that-just-happens-to-drastically-expand equals one bloody mess. Seriously, this just wouldn't end.

Also, thanks so much for the wonderful feedback. You are awesome, all of you. *hugs* May your life be cookie-filled.

Fic still dedicated to buttefly-chan, because that fic of yours just about killed me and you are posting it, girl. And that PIC, fsaljzdkqla. And omg, MICE. That was such a wonderful birthday present. Thanks so much, hon! *glomps*

Disclaimer–I don't own DC. Obviously. The chapters' titles are taken from Vienna Teng's Momentum.

-

Like Waking Up Without A Sound

-

You're still bloody from last year's war

Your bandages you bullet holes like mine

And I'm here with my stars out

You say you're scared well so am I–

-

Sunday morning dawned bright and early in Aoko's living-room. Pale, long stretches of golden light floated lazily over the parquet and furniture, shining white-hot through the window, flickering in ever-moving sways over the room to meet Aoko's open bedroom door. It gave the place a soft, ethereal, sigh-empty quality, gold and airy and too wide to breathe.

She had woken early. Was not hungry. She had disposed of her pyjamas at leaving her bed, but had only put on sweatpants and a white t-shirt–Sunday was not to be cloisoned in the usual tight skirts and ironed blouses. As she slumped on the living-room couch, she felt slightly restless.

In her chest was a soft, uneasy flutter that spoke of early mornings and nothing to do. It was rare that she should have Sundays to herself. She usually worked on whatever project she was late for, or went out with friends; office friends for the most part. She had lost touch with Keiko years ago, and though she still received phone calls from Hakuba or Akako, she did not know if they could still be considered as friends.

High school days were done and over with. All that must remain of them now were a few sketches in her old notebooks.

She still kept those, come to think of it. If she remembered correctly she had stashed them in the whatnot when she had moved in this flat two years ago. Three heavy drawers she had not opened in months–until she had grabbed Kaito' letter from the second two nights earlier. She had even caught a glimpse of leather underneath–

Leather. Her last high school notebook had been leather-bound.

And there it was, when she knelt in front of the whatnot and pulled the heavy drawer open. It was exactly similar to what her remembrance of it held–except scratched. She pulled it out. The scent of it wafted out to her, familiar and almost-ancient, as she kneed the drawer close again and retreated to the couch.

She opened it delicately, knees brought up to her chest, as though a treasure book to handle carefully. She had only left it there for a few years, never opening it again since high school, but it felt centuries old; and though the leather bind was industrial, the mere feel of it was stirring under her fingertips.

Inside were sketches in her own hand–yet inexperienced, but firmer, more firmer than one would think–in pencil and pastel and crayon, subtle shades that were stroking the paper, as though plumes of smoke that had never quite alighted on it.

The subjects of them were achingly familiar. Her high school desk, with her pencil case and notebook on it, her schoolbag poised against one of the metallic legs. Keiko's pigtails from behind–back when their desks had been one in front of the other and they had been whispering to each other all day long–an attempted profile of Akako's, then the same, this time the whole posture, carelessly sitting on a desk with chocolate boxes. Hakuba in sanguine, to recall happier times with orange hair.

Kaito. Kaito. Kaito.

One of them was probably not modelled after nature, for it pictured him in a staring contest with a salmon. Aoko chuckled a little bit, then turned the page. The ache had dulled, and curiosity had taken its toll, a bittersweet curiosity of days long passed.

The classroom bathed in sunlight. And then Kaito again, in light grey-blue pencil­–fast asleep on his desk, head pillowed in his arms. Only the side of his face was visible, the curve of the nose, the half-parted lips, the shade of the dark bangs straying on the forehead. She had taken her time, probably at lunchtime, to accentuate the finest lines of her drawing, but the direct outline of his silhouette and the desk he was slumped onto were not entirely defined, so the result was numbingly blurred and distinct together–and one had the feeling that he might yawn any moment, stretch deeply, limb after limb in a feline fashion, and offer a lazy grin.

There were only a few more attempts after that, quickly aborted, and the rest of the notebook was blank. She had only gone a little past the middle.

All this left Aoko with a deep sense of melancholy. She had enjoyed herself while flipping through the whole thing, but she had no wish to unearth older notebooks, and the resulting feeling of this paradox was somewhat that of being left-out. Her younger self had loved drawing; loved it so much she had filled notebooks in months–

I still do, she thought defensively. I love drawing–I still enjoy it. The leather notebook was heavy in her hands. I still love drawing as much as ever.

Was that why she hadn't filled a notebook–why she hadn't gone any further than a few pages each time, and had given it up–and this, more and more rarely as the years passed?

I draw all the time for work. It's what I do.

Oh, sure. Drawing for a publicist agency. Now that demands imagination. And art.

"Shut up," she muttered, but then bit her lips, sighing. It was right. Drawing for work was nothing like drawing for her own enjoyment, not the way she remembered. Past the original thrill of a new project, there was nothing of the deep contentment, the fine completion she used to feel when she drew for herself first–and she had felt again, while leafing through her past teenage years.

Oh, fuck off, she thought irritatingly, and grabbed a pencil on the coffee table. It was a simple HB one, but it'd do, for now.

At first her hand was hesitant and clumsy, for she did not know what subject to adopt. She was again close to giving up. But the room was wide and breathless before her, glazed white-gold in the summer morning, and her pencil got firmer and surer, the first outline caressing the paper.

-o-

He wasn't too certain when to show up. As a high school student, Aoko had had a frequent tendency to oversleep any chance she could get (sometimes he even had to wake her up as he came to pick her up), and he doubted this had changed.

He had finally resolved on eleven, which should at least see her awake, and besides he nourished a faint hope of inviting her to lunch. She didn't respond to her first ring, however, and he was wondering if she actually was still asleep and maybe he should call again later, when footsteps slammed close and the door was flung open.

"Who the–Kaito?"

She stood dumbstruck in the doorway, one hand still on the frame, in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, and Kaito was suddenly overwhelmed by a surge of fondness; fondness and familiarity and I know you, I missed you.

But then her eyes flared with another familiar glare, and her hand clamped down on the handle. He wondered vaguely whether she was considering slamming the door in his face.

"Aoko," he said pleasantly, mostly because he didn't want either the visit or his nose drastically shortened. "May I come in?"

"What for?" The words were blatantly bit out more than they were spoken.

He 'tsk-tsk'ed at her. "Why, Aoko, I didn't think you'd be drunk enough to forget. Friday night? We agreed with Chidori-chan I would come by this morning to fetch the preliminary sketches for the campaign. Remember?"

"No," she ground out, still glaring at him from behind her dark bangs.

"Well, we did. I just swung by Chidori-chan's place to pick up her drawings before I came over." He presented the folder for confirmation.

Her dead grip on the handle loosened the slightest bit. "I agreed to that?"

"When you were drunk."

She huffed at him, but let go altogether of the handle and allowed the door to open some more. "… fine. Come in." He did so, cautiously letting her close the door behind him. "Living-room's that way–I'll go make some coffee–" she then appeared to realize what state of dress she was in. "–and–oh, god, I need to put on some clothes–"

The words sank in and she flushed. "I mean–"

"Aoko." He interrupted softly, and that seemed to freeze her. "I've seen you in bathing suits and pyjamas. I think I can stand the sweatpants."

Now the flush had become a full-blown blush. Pretty. "I'll go put on some jeans," she said shortly, and, leading the way into the living room, disappeared through what was probably the door to her bedroom. It was slammed shut.

Kaito was left to take off his jacket and look around. This was a pleasant, luminous room, whose window was large and flooded the furniture with sunlight. It was a beautiful day outside. Somehow it felt even more beautiful once it had made its way inside Aoko's life.

The place wasn't neat, to speak of (Aoko had always been the messy one), but it was far better than some days he remembered from high school. A coat on the armchair, a rug on the couch. A book or two left on the table. A scarf. An empty cup on the coffee table, and a leather notebook–

–wait.

He knew that notebook.

It might have been any leather notebook, but he was fairly certain he had seen it before. Which was ridiculous, he hadn't seen Aoko draw anything since high school–

High school. It was her notebook from back then, wasn't it? He recognised the long red ribbon she had tied to it once, before his very eyes. But it looked like it had been closed hastily, and a pencil lay beside it…

He picked it up.

He was surprised to see it wasn't filled much further down the middle. The drawings were old for the most part–high school old. Hakuba. Koizumi. The classroom. Their old math teacher. Classmates. And then–

… oh…

When had she drawn that?

He dropped in the nearest armchair–it was warm and deep, welcoming him comfortably–as he stared at the sketch. No doubt it had been taken during their last days of friendship, or whatever it was that they had between them back then. It was simple, natural, but for all the pictures and likenesses that had been taken of him within the last two years as a magician, none had touched him more than this did right now.

He was asleep on a school desk. The sketch was taken in simple, grey-blue pencil, but Aoko's evident knowledge of him and features had affirmed the lines and curves. The outline was undefined, though, and blurry, so the sleeping figure looked as though lost in a dream and rather inaccessible.

After that were a few failed attempts, and then the drawings started afresh. The hand was different–not changed, so much as grown. It was more certain, more apt, too, and the lines were drawn in deliberate experience. It was today's drawings, he realized, as he beheld an essai on the empty cup standing by its lonesome on the coffee table.

He didn't realize Aoko had returned until she tore the notebook out of his hands.

"Ao–"

"Don't touch that!" She had slipped in jeans and clipped her hair back, and with her cheeks red with fury and the notebook clasped to her chest, she spun on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen.

When he joined her there a few moments later, she had lain the notebook on the counter and turned her back on him, busying herself with making coffee. He would have liked to say sorry, but her shoulders were shuddering and in the state she was she would lash out to him without the slightest hint of remorse.

"It's been a while since I hadn't seen your drawings," he tested, leaning against the doorframe.

"Don't be stupid, Kaito," she snapped. The coffee machine was switched on with a hard jab but she did not turn back. "Of course you have. You have my sketches under your eyes everyday–it's my job."

"It's also not the same thing," Kaito said mildly. "There's nothing alike between your sketches for your agency and these in your notebooks." He paused for a minute, seeking the good word. "Not the same warmth."

She turned resolutely back and pushed past to pick up the empty cups in the living-room.

"You know, I was rather surprised at finding you in that publicist agency. All those years put aside–I wouldn't have thought you, who loved drawing as you did–do–would end up in such a place as that."

That did rile her up. She glared at him, shouldered past again, and started to wash the cups in the sink. The loud flow of water nearly drowned out her words. "My job's fine."

He considered this for a moment. "It is," he conceded. "There's worse. But it's not what you–it's not you."

The water was cut short and she wheeled back on him in an instant. "Fuck off, Kuroba Kaito! Not all of us can manage to get to do whatever we want with our lives! You stroll back into my life with your perfect , wonderful career and tell me what I should be doing with mine–have you considered I might not have had the choice?"

Her hand landed hard and flat on his chest and then retracted as though burnt. She whirled round again just as the coffee machine started to bleep.

She filled both cups with slow deliberation, clearly keeping her hands from shaking. She put the machine back. She switched if off. She took a breath and turned back to hand him his drink. "Could we just," she said slowly, voice tense and tight, "just do this work right and get rid of it. Please."

He accepted the coffee and took a sip, cringing a little at the bitter, unsweetened taste. And then, "I'm sorry."

She nodded a little.

Fifteen minutes later saw them sitting on her couch and frowning over the sketches. There were half a dozen of them, on wide, rectangular sheets of paper, and as Kaito studied them Aoko fidgeted beside him with the nervousness of the artist awaiting praise or judgement.

"They're good," Kaito said finally. "Of course they can be perfected, but I like them better than Chidori-chan's."

"Chi-chan's a great colourist," said Aoko immediately.

"Yes–that's why she's fit for this job. Yours are more imaginative–more unique." He passed on the subject quickly. "I like those two better," he added, pointing at one picturing the theatre hall's entrance and another an old city's street at dawn. "I think you should present them. They've got something oldish to them–ancient might be the word. Nineteenth-century-wise. It's pretty much the effect we want to obtain for this winter's shows."

She leaned back, seemed to relax. Drank some coffee. "… okay. Thanks."

It was very strange, the thought swept through his mind mildly, to be sitting on Aoko's couch and drinking her coffee on a bright Sunday morning. It should have been.

It wasn't. It felt right. Whole.

A seventh panel lay face-down on the coffee table. He leaned forward to pick it up. "What's this?"

"… oh, that–" suddenly she was flustered. "That's just a sketch–an idea. It doesn't fit but–" he wasn't listening.

He wasn't listening. The panel was numbingly simple–background plain white. On it unfurled in long, calligraphic strokes the poised figure of one black rose. Alone. Simple. "It's beautiful," he breathed.

Aoko's eyes were darkened by the lowered lashes. "No, it's–it doesn't fit."

"It doesn't–for this winter's shows–it's not the kind of thing we're looking for. Granted. But as such, so simple… aesthetically, it's beautiful," he said, and grinned at her in an urge of happiness which took even he by surprise.

Her lips opened and his eyes locked there, to the pink triangle of tongue that darted out to wet them. For a second she looked quite at a loss for words. And then her hand inched on the couch and she murmured, "I­–"

The phone set off.

Aoko leapt off the couch in one heartbeat, and Kaito was struck by abrupt emptiness. She was away and on the other side of the room, and he leaned back against the cusuin, one hand straying still on the black-and-white panel.

"Hello? Ah, Chi-chan!" Aoko ran a nervous hand through her hair as she spoke. "How are you–no, I'm fine. Yes, he's here. … Chi-chan! No, we didn't–Chi-chan, stop it. We're taking a coffee. Yes. Yes, right. No, he liked two–says I should present them. … that's great. We'll do that tomorrow then… we'll have to deal with Morida-san. Yes. No!" she laughed. "Okay then. I'll see you tomorrow. Bye."

By the time she was done Kaito had stood and was slipping on his jacket, a firm smile stretching his lips. She put the phone back down in its cradle and turned to him, both hands in her back as she watched him pick up the panels.

"I guess I'll go then. Is it okay to put those in the folder?"

"Ah–yes–let me help–"

"Nah, it's alright." He straightened up, and for a second his eye strayed on the sunlight stroking the window. "I guess I'll have lunch now–" he grinned at her, stretching lazily under the sun– "Care to come?"

"I–" she seemed to do a double-take. "Lunch–at your place?"

"Err–no," said Kaito, rather taken aback. "I was more thinking along the lines of Starbucks, but if you want–"

She bit her lips. For a second there was sun-drenched silence–and then she looked up, and he leaned down pretty much at the same moment, and they found themselves kissing before it really came down to them.

His unoccupied hand somehow worked its way into her hair, fingers threading with the locks over her nape. Hers clutched the green fabric of his shirt, and then relaxed, and then started a sort of kneading, slow and comforting, as their mouths moulded together.

It wasn't anything more than this: a warm, slow kiss in the sunlight. When they parted, Aoko wasn't looking up anymore.

"I think you can find your way out," she murmured, and her hand left his chest. She bent down to pick their empty cups. In a minute she was in the kitchen, and water to wash them was heard gushing down, and he saw himself out.

It was still a beautiful day outside. The sun shone bright. The sky was cloudlessly blue, and only a soft wind cooled down the heat. Somehow, though, it did not feel half as beautiful this side of Aoko's window.

-o-

By a common, though unspoken agreement, neither he nor she mentioned that incident during the three remaining weeks of July. They would hardly have had the time to. Things were getting frantic around the office. The first sketches had been advanced, copywriters had entered the task, colourists were giving out earlier and earlier deadlines–the race was simply on.

Office meetings. Files and files to sort through, forms to fill, lunchtimes significantly shortened. The sketches weren't good enough, were striking enough–did the staff really understand the complex ramifications and possible consequences of such a project? Notices and notices feel everyday. As if that wasn't enough, Kaito's summer season of shows began, giving him less and less time to work with the agency.

Nearly all the office staff went to see him, in groups of three or four, under the pretext of getting inspiration for the campaign. On the house. Aux frais de la Princesse, said Kaito, laughing, the morning of the day Aoko was to go with Chidori and their next-booth neighbours. They owe us that. He had brought coffee and pancakes for breakfast.

It was a spectacular evening. They had gorgeous seats, a little on the left side of the balcony; from there they could see the whole stage. People crowded around, above, and below them, and all of them, thought Aoko with a jolt as the lights dimmed, to see the boy had who been her best friend, to see the boy who knew magic.

Of course, she thought again as a few moments later he appeared on stage to thunderous applause, he still knew magic–and he certainly was no longer a boy. She was surprised, though, too see him in a simple, plain grey flannel suit; she had rather expected him in a black or white tux.

Yet it made sense. Despite the monocle, his KID costume–what with the circus hat and flapping cloak, and the bright flecks of colour that were his red tie and blue shirt–had kept informal and meant mainly to draw attention. And as Kuroba Kaito, high school student–formal outfits rendered him as uneasy as a fish out in the air. Though she had had the proof, over the last two months he had spent wearing those black suits at the office, that those fitted him as well as anything else, it felt somewhat relieving that, even for his shows, he did not refer to dressing up too much.

… and then all thoughts so material were all but swamped away when a grinning Kaito calmed the applause, opened his mouth to speak his greetings, and promptly made the red curtain tumble down on him.

The audience gasped as one and Chidori grasped Aoko's hand. "What's happened?"

"It's alright," Aoko said calmly. Her eyes never left the stage, and Kaito's gesturing figure under the red velvet. "He's done it on purpose." There was a boom and the curtain fell flat on the stage.

Chidori squealed and her fingers dug in Aoko's palm.

"Sorry for that," Kaito said, strolling down the orchestra, hands in his pockets. "My magic seems to be rather whimsical tonight."

The audience breathed and laughed, and marvelled. Chidori's dead grip on Aoko's hand fell away. Kaito was grinning as he leapt back on stage, and Aoko couldn't resist a smile. She still remembered high school times when Kaito all but 'poof'ed out of his clothes at the classroom door and then re-entered it through the window. Apparently he'd improved that trick.

The two hours and a half of the show's passed as but one. Kaito was in top form, and by the time the evening was close to a finish nobody so much as blinked when doves plopped out of nowhere. He had to resort to greater and greater tricks to surprise them, most of which Aoko didn't recognise. He had them improved to an art.

"All right, class," said Kaito, purposefully striding across the stage in his shirtsleeves; "I will need a voluntary for this last trick." He sauntered down the steps and into the audience, scanning faces and raised hands. "Anyone interested? Who? You, maybe?" He selected a pretty brunette from the fourth row and led her toward the stage to more applause.

Aoko leant slightly forward. Kaito held the woman's hand firmly in his, whispering to her as they approached the centre of the stage. An armchair stood on it, genuine-looking and therefore suspiciously obnoxious.

"All right. Sit," said Kaito, seating her in it. "Yes. Comfortable enough? Perfect. No, don't move. Just hold out your hands–level with your face… thank you. Will you hold this handkerchief for me?" It was a plain white one, square-shaped and large enough to mask the woman's face when it was spread out, dangling down from her fingers.

Even though her features were now hidden, Aoko could tell the woman was nervous. It was obvious by the way she sat, her fidgety attitude in the armchair, the position of her feet, too closely brought together.

"Are you quite sure you're comfortable?" Kaito asked pleasantly, now sitting behind the chair. "If you're feeling uneasy feel free to tell me… no? very well. Are you ready? I can assure you you will suffer no harm from this. Yes? Alright."

He snapped his fingers. The lights went out for half a second, so short Aoko felt mildly disorientated, as though she had merely blinked.

The armchair now stood empty.

The handkerchief hang still in midair.

"Ah," said Kaito, thoughtfully. "Now that is quite the interesting circumstance."

–and there was a holler among the audience. "You fucking son of a…" it was cut short by a shuffle, and then a tall, gangly man burst up the steps and onto the stage, making a beeline for Kaito and grabbing his shirt collar so hard Aoko thought he winced. "What have you done with her? Where's Nari?"

"Yusuke!"

The voice was coming out of nowhere. Not quite, Aoko thought bemusedly; not quite. It came from the armchair and–had that handkerchief just fluttered?

The man let go of Kaito's shirt as abruptly as he had gripped it. "Wha–Nari? Where are you?"

"I'm right here! Yusuke, I'm right here!" The time the handkerchief did flutter.

Yusuke saw it, too. He took a step backwards, glanced at Kaito–who was again standing with his hands in his pockets a few steps away, his face no longer that of a grinning clown–and then lunged at the handkerchief.

It dropped to the floor.

Yusuke staggered, grabbed it, clasped it. "Nari! Where are you? Can you hear me?"

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Kaito sombrely, leaning over to the audience, "if a few of you will be so kind as to come on stage… one or two from the balcony too… I want you to inspect the stage for any ploys."

Shinji went. There were six or seven of them, nosing around the stage and searching for traps and tricks. Yusuke stood amongst them with the handkerchief clutched in his clenched fist, looking helplessly around. As Shinji raised his eyes to where they were breathlessly sitting, he shook his head.

"Thank you," Kaito said gravely. "You have seen nothing on this stage? Nothing tricky, nothing hidden? By the curtains, around the armchair… nothing? Thank you very much."

He reached out behind the armchair and pulled Nari away from it.

Half the audience gasped and then wolf-whistled as Nari fell into Yusuke's arms for one very enthusiastic kiss; Shinji clapped Kaito over the shoulder with an appreciative shout; the hall nearly crumbled under the amount of applause; and all in all it was a very successful evening.

-o-

"It's alright," Aoko said, as her three colleagues packed inside a taxi. "No, it is. I live twenty minutes from here. Really. Just go before your driver gets too impatient and charges you twice the price."

"Ao-chan," Chidori pushed down Hazaya's elbow from into her face, "are you sure? It's late–you can drop you on the way."

"And have all four of us crammed in like sardines? No thanks." Aoko forced the door to a close. "And it's not late–barely eleven. I'll be fine. A few minutes' walk in the night will do me good after the show's rush."

The theatre had been stifling, and the pushing one's way out had been worse. The summer air, if still warm, was at least pleasantly so, and she enjoyed walking around at night.

"Then be sure you call me when you get ho–" The car drove off.

Chidori's claim of this being late was inaccurate. Around her, spectators likewise coming home from the show were numerous enough to provide her with some entertainment as she walked, and cafés and bars were still open and lightful. Aoko walked not too quickly, looking around as she went and therefore not noticing the man who, coming from an adjacent street, all but collided with her.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, did I hurt y–"

"Ouch, no, I wasn't watching where I–Kaito?"

"Aoko?" He recovered pleasantly, and then laughed and took her arm quickly. He had changed–he was simply wearing jeans and a dark-grey jacket, a black cap pushed down over his eyes. She wondered how he had managed to get dressed so rapidly, and yet get there as fast as she.

"Wait–what?"

"I'm currently running for my life," he informed her, hastily taking her away. "A mob of women were waiting for me at the artist's entrance–with lashes." He shuddered violently. "Much as I like entering in contact with my fans, this is taking it a little too far. C'mon."

For a few minutes they walked in silence. He had yet to let go of her arm, but was pressing it against his, until after a time he loosened his grip and slipped down to take her hand. "… how was the show?"

She cast him a glare. "You know very well it was a triumph. Will you boast now?"

"No," he chuckled, "no, I won't. I was wondering what you thought about it."

"… oh, well. It was great, Kaito, as you very well know." He rolled his eyes. "I mean it! I–you improved your tricks so well, I didn't recognise most of them. None, really. Except the first one with the curtain–"

"Haha, yes, that one should be familiar–"

"–the last one, with the woman, I really could figure out. It was a trick, wasn't it?" She didn't lift her eyes to his, but rested them on their joined hands instead. The embrace was warm, disturbingly intimate, but she couldn't resolve herself to break away.

"Of course it was a trick," he said gently. "It's always a trick. I'm not pretending to anything else. Remember? 'Nothing in the pockets, all in the hands…'"

"'… and everything is Poker Face'," Aoko completed, laughing, his father's old motto. "Yes, I remember. It's just–well, I dunno. Sometimes it felt so real, I just–I just couldn't understand and it unnerved me." Her breathing was shallower, but Kaito's hand was gripping hers tight.

"You look like you could have a drink," said he, practically. "I know a small bar not far from here which has this great brandy…"

"Are you trying to drunken me, Kuroba Kaito?"

He laughed briefly. "I might be. You look like you could afford the breather, and besides it's Friday. Open till late. Come on." He clasped her hand more firmly, steering her onwards onto the shunning night.

There was something fabulous, she thought, lopsidedly–and the realization struck her in the night, abruptly, like a misstep–in holding somebody's hand. It might seem childish, worthy of the high school student she had been once. But it had been a while. It was quiet, fingers intertwined carelessly, none of the dead grip some of her former dates had coerced on her hand, as though afraid she would slip off. There was some space left between her palm and Kaito's; but with every shift they would brush, warm, and it sent a minute thrill up her nape.

It was quiet.

"Kaito," she asked slowly, "why were there no roses?"

He stilled, minutely. When he spoke again it was with a tight throat, and then he coughed, and resumed again, more freely, shuttered out. "Wha­–sorry–what's that about roses?" (She hadn't ever thought she'd hear him say this.)

"Well–there weren't any in your show."

"What about it?" He chuckled a little. Not quite. Restrainedly, it felt. "Should there be any?"

"What–Kaito, roses were your trademark!" She had lagged behind, but caught up quickly. Her hand had slipped a little. "When you invited that woman on stage–I thought you'd shower her with them–back in high school, you'd take every opportunity to give roses to any girl you could find–"

"No," he said curtly. "No. I gave them to only one girl."

One. "Kaito," she said, and his hand slipped from hers.

"Here we are."

-o-

The bar was quiet and hushed, and the liquor was good. The other patrons seemed to know Kaito, too, for there were several wolf-whistles when he led her to a box, and some shouted out to him as he sauntered over to the bar to order their drinks.

They didn't talk much. They sipped their alcohol in companionable, almost-silence, warm and pleased as the stiff drinks stirred on their tongue and burned down their throat. When they did talk, it was softly, and of unimportant things–the walk back from the show, the office's A/C on Monday morning, what a nice bar this is. Yes. Yes, it is.

They lapsed into silence again.

Minutes passed. Aoko wasn't sleepy, and apparently Kaito wasn't either. She downed the rest of her second brandy in one long sip.

"Care for some more?" Kaito asked a few moments later. He'd been swirling a few drops of liquor left in his glass for some time, drained it then, and stood up.

"Sure," Aoko said, handing him her glass.

He talked with the bartender for some time, leaning forward on the counter. Aoko watched him hazily, the smile, the lean, fine hands. As he came back her eyes swept over his figure rapidly, all long limbs, finding the adult where she remembered the boy, changed and not-changed, different but–

"Here ya go," he said, handing the glass back.

"Thanks."

More minutes. More alcohol. Through the blurred mist emerged one clear thought. "You know," she said, too suddenly, too loudly, and furious 'shh's erupted from neighbouring boxes. "You know," she repeated heedlessly, mindful only of the blue eyes that had turned on her.

Kaito laughed softly. "I think someone's drunk."

"'m not."

"Oh, yes. What do I know?"

She propped her cheek on her palm and her elbow on the table. "You were right when you said I wasn't at the right place. In my line of work." She took a thoughtful sip of brandy. "I'm not. I don't always like it. I wish I did."

"I'm sure a lot of people wish that," Kaito said, with the mild undertones of one who has a successful career.

She hushed him up. "Yes. No. It's just not what I'd thought I'd do," she sighed, drumming her fingers on the table. "'s not what I wanted. I always wished I could find a way to draw all day…"

Another sip of brandy. "Wouldn't it be grand to just drop everything–drop everything, for good, and never come back–and start on another life, someplace else, completely start over–" another sip. "That's what I should do," she said thoughtfully.

"Aoko…"

"That's what I should do," she said more forcefully–and it was like a break of light, clear sailing after a storm and the sudden calm of what were no longer shallow waters. "That's what I'll do. I need to quit my job–I can't stand it anyway–where's my cell phone?"

"Aoko, you might want to think about that."

"I'm only thinking clearly when I'm drunk. Now did you steal my cell phone?"

"No," he said, putting his glass down. "Aoko–"

"Never mind, here it is. Excuse me a moment. Shut up, it's ringing… Hello? Morida-san? Yes. It's Nakamori–Nakamori Aoko–the one who draws, yes. I wanted to say, I quit. No, I quit. The project, the office, the firm, everything. You'll have to send me my things. I don't care for coming back. Bye now."

She hang up.

There was a pause.

"Maybe if you call back tomorrow morning they'll take you back in," said Kaito shortly.

Aoko eyed him thoughtfully. "You," she asserted, "need more to drink."

-o-

They stumbled through the doorway, laughing. They had their arms more or less fast around each other, and so when one was thrown off-balance, the other was also–so that after a minute or so of trying to figure out how to take off their shoes and jackets at the same time they weren't one bit surprised at finding themselves braced against the wall, faces mere inches apart.

"Oh," said Aoko, and broke in a fit of giggles like she hadn't since high school.

"Oh," agreed Kaito with a lopsided grin worthy of the old days. "Oh indeed."

"I'm pretty certain the room isn't supposed to spin so much. It didn't this morning," she sighed, pillowing her head on the wall and Kaito's arm. "Did we drink that much? We didn't drink that much. I'm never drunk."

"I seem to recall a few incidents," Kaito articulated tartly, rather wondering at the fact that he could still make complete, sense-making sentences. Or maybe they weren't. Maybe he just thought they were. He pondered on this for a moment. "You're drunk anyway," he concluded, decisively.

Aoko's arm was falling asleep. She stretched it and settled it comfortably around Kaito's shoulder, fingertips stroking dark crops of wild hair. Careless. Not disagreeable. "… that would certainly explain many things."

A few minutes of comfy, brittle silence trotted by.

"I'm thinking something," Kaito confessed suddenly.

Aoko giggled again. "I think I'm thinking the same thing you're thinking."

"Are you now." He cocked an eyebrow at her, drawing a low laugh. "And what are you thinking you're thinking is the same thing as what you think I'm thinking?"

"I think we're both thinking the same thing about that I think I'm thinking the same thing I think you're thinking. I think."

Their big, goofy grins mirrored each other. Kaito leaned in.

Aoko, unsurprisingly, tasted of alcohol–sweet, bitter alcohol, which he knew she found in his mouth also. Her hands dug in his hair, hard, but not painfully–or if so, in an… interesting way, if the effects on his body were any testimony–as their lips opened easily to each other. There was a moan shared between them, which he was pretty sure came from her, and a sigh, which, he found, was his, as their mutual alcohols twined and moulded and bodies were pressed hot and tight together.

­–then, somehow, the world slipped and spun, and he found himself pinned against the wall by a very enthusiastic Aoko, currently engaged in plundering his mouth.

That wouldn't do at all, he reflected, and then busied himself with threading his fingers in the hair pooling on her nape. He could only speak when she pulled away, after all. "That won't do, mmmm… at all," he breathed out, when he could, and then scooped her clear off her feet.

She squeaked and latched onto his neck. "Kaito! What are you doing?"

"Tucking you in," he replied, making for the general direction of the bedroom. "You're drunk, and you'll be hangover tomorrow if you don't sleep." Strangely enough, this statement didn't sound as–logical once he had said it. He firmly ignored that.

"Oh yes, tuck it in," Aoko purred, and then happily engaged in licking and nipping at his neck, effectively unlocking rather a lot of mental images of the most pleasant kind in Kaito's mind. Thank you, brain.

He stood at the doorway to her bedroom, still holding as firmly as his drunken state allowed him to onto his sanity and the purring, mewling girl currently lapping at his clavicle and twisting in his arms. One, unfortunately, did not go with the other. "Aoko…"

"Hmm?" The soft, long-drawn sigh was breathed in the shell of his ear.

"That's a–ah–"

"–good idea," she finished, wriggling in his arms to be put down. He held steady, and started forwards toward to bed again. He bent to release her on it, but her arms tightening around his neck sent him tumbling down–and in trying to brace himself and recover from the fall–it seemed that his Kaitou senses were much diminished by drinking, which was odd–he ended up right on top of her.

"Oh, fuck," he muttered, and kissed her again.

The next few minutes were pleasantly occupied in some interesting activities, and wound up in them being completely dishevelled and somewhat turned on. Kaito burrowed his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in, trying to think past the hazy barriers of oh god yes yes feel you want you need you.

"The shirt must go," Aoko decided, tugging at it. Her fingers ghosted on the skin on his back and sides, cool and fleeting.

He obediently peeled it off, falling back immediately to nuzzle her jawline. "This is only possible because we're drunk."

"Hmm?" Her hands were slowly stroking his back, exploring every bump and hollow, following the soft lines of muscles up and down his arms. He whimpered a little. The caress was excruciatingly soft, making his breath hitch every time she found a sensitive spot and circled it, idly, with her fingertips.

"We can only do this because we're drunk," Kaito elaborated. "If we weren't you'd already be kicking my ass out of your flat."

"Hmm. I like it better this way," Aoko whispered as their lips brushed and shifted. Wait. Wait. Not yet, not yet, and he smiled. "I'm stupid when I'm sober. I never reach out to take what I want. Really want."

Kaito kissed her, long and lingering, neither of them pulling apart until they lacked air. "And this is what you want?" he murmured, fingering the buttons of her blouse.

"Hmmm, yeah," she breathed, arching her back off the bedding so he could slip her blouse completely off her, and after that words were replaced by noises of another nature altogether.

-o-

Saturday was a bright, bright morning whose sunlight bathed Aoko's eyes even before she opened them. It was also unexpectedly warm, which surprised her–in summer the heat was such she usually kicked off sheets and blankets during the night. As, however, she slowly came to, and rational thought returned to her, she became, almost simultaneously, very much aware of three different things.

Her head was throbbing and swimming with every breath she took.

She was naked under the bedclothes.

The warmth that surrounded her was really located in one arm slung around her waist and a chest grounding against her back.

Shit, she thought, burrowing her face in her pillow one second before she pulled slowly away. The arm tightened one second, but then let go the other, and she quickly gathered the sheets over her chest in case whoever it was was leering–

"Nhng," said Kaito, indistinctly, sighed, and relaxed, nestling more comfortably in the blankets and pillows. Lips half-open, hair tousled, he looked slightly childish, and a steady feeling of calm seeped from him as Aoko watched him sleep.

She stood up, slipped in a robe that was straying by on a chair, and went into the living-room.

She there sat on the couch for a long time, trying to anchor her world around. Which was difficult, as it kept flashing scenes from the previous night–Kaito's eyes, Kaito's hands, Kaito's clever fingers, Kaito's face, Kaito's weight, Kaito's voice, Kaito everywhere and everything, pressing her into the mattress with gentle force. There had been moans, and sighs, and little wisps of laughter muffled onto hot, sweaty skin, and kisses, oh so many kisses, as bodies pressed tight together in a glorious finish.

And then, earlier in the evening, the show and its tricks, the pure elation, and she remembered how much she had wanted to own this man, this man who moved and smiled and lured the audience into thinking whatever he wanted with a few well-chosen words. And the breathless thrill–

The walk from the theatre. The bar, the sweet, sweetly bitter liquor, and then–

Oh. Oh god.

She sat huddled on the couch, staring at the flecks of sunshine that mindlessly danced over the coffee table. In the course of one evening, she had quit her job. And slept with Kaito. Her fingers felt very numb, clasped round her knees as they were.

Well, life was screwed.

"Aoko?"

She looked up prudently. Mistake. First of a long series, or maybe just latest. He stood at the doorway, clad only in his jeans, one hand ruffling his hair hesitantly. And as Aoko's eyes met his, she knew–knew, intimate and secret and heart-open–that he'd meant everything they'd done last night, drunk or not.

He must have read something in hers, too, for he sighed, and skirted round the coffee table. "Stay here. I'll make some coffee. And then we'll talk," he said sternly, just as she made to stand, and disappeared into the kitchen.

She felt vulnerable. A bathrobe was not the ideal battle armour, unlike his bare torso. She was fairly sure he knew the effect seeing him half-naked awoke inside her–the same craving as last night, the same hunger, the same oh want you want you want you feel that made her yearn to sob out loud.

"Here you go," he said beside her, after an impossible amount of time, and she felt the couch shift as he seated himself, felt the gentle fingers lifting her head, placing a warm bowl between her unfeeling hands. "Thanks," she muttered. He didn't say you're welcome. He didn't say anything at all for a while, apparently waiting for her to take a sip.

"Okay," he sighed, when she did. "Well–"

"I–"

"Shh." His long fingers closed around her bowl again, forcing it back in her hands. "Drink. Let me talk this time. It might be the last–" fingertips ghosted across her jawline, and then shrank guiltily back, "–so please, Aoko, let me talk this out this time."

She found herself nodding, not quite daring to look at him. He ran his hand in his hair, apparently wondering how to begin.

"Okay… last night… was absolutely wonderful, for one." She cringed a little at his choice of terms, but couldn't help secretly agreeing. It had been. "And yes, it was the alcohol talking, but yes, I did mean it. From beginning to end. Being drunk only … helped, sorta." He looked at her seriously, and she wondered how he could, given the situation and their current conversation, remain so calm, he that was always so hyperactive.

"Exactly what am I supposed to understand here?" It wasn't easy, because it was Kaito. Had it been any other man–had it been– it was only because she had once been so close to him, and he was affecting her so much recently, that this was so embarrassing. Nothing else. Nothing more.

He looked irritated. "Exactly what I mean. You know what it is."

"No," she said stubbornly. It was just any other man­–a quick fuck, nothing else.

"Aoko, stop that." –and with that, one wall crumbled down. All that it took was an angry look, flickering fingertips on the bare skin of her arm, and harsh words. "You're slithering out of this. You're not listening."

"I am–"

"You're not listening. Please. I'm asking for a few minutes of honesty."

"You're not exactly the best person to say that!" she snapped, and regretted it immediately. His face shuttered out in a second, flashed back, and shut again.

"No, I'm not," he said coolly, and she wanted the grab his face and kiss him, kiss him, smother him with kisses until they were both grasping for air. "Which makes it easy for me to see when someone else is doing the same thing I have." And then he sighed. "I've made a lot of mistakes, Aoko. I'm conscious of it. And I've lost you for it. For lies and distrust. I know."

"Kai–"

"I love you."

(And the way he said it–exhaustedly, dejectedly, like one throws a bone to a dog–was what stuck it in midair, what defeated it.) She stared at him, lips half-parted in a name she never finished, and instead, while recovering at least a little, "No, you don't."

Blue eyes glanced at her. "I think I know if I do."

"You don't, Kaito." Known ground now; steady attack, slow but straightforward. "If you did maybe it would be different. It wouldn't simply be–this." Us, sitting on the couch. The morning sunlight. "It would be different."

Blue eyes glanced away. "Withering roses and charming princes?" he snorted. "I've tried that."

"It's lust, Kaito. There's high school still between us–the whole workload of hormones and sexual frustration of back then–and it affects you emotionally, so you think it's love. Love doesn't work like that." Her voice broke, a little, just a little.

He turned back to her, sipping coffee. "Then what would be love to you? Not what you find in books, I believe."

"No. We both know those–those loves–don't mean anything. Life won't be simply resolved simply because we say we love each other. It might have when we were teenagers, but–now… it wouldn't work now."

"Would love be walking away to ease the wounded feelings of both parties?" he prompted.

"Of course not. It would be fighting nails and teeth to–oh…" she trailed off, staring at him, into those beautiful, beautiful blue eyes. It was difficult to realize that the man from last night, the one from the stage, the one who held power inside his very hands, now sat on her couch, shirtless and waiting. And yet–he'd just made her refute her own argument, hadn't he?

He turned away again. (Back, away. Back, away. It seemed to be all that they were doing lately.) "You know," he said tiredly, "when I accepted your deal six years ago, I thought it would be for the best. I thought so long as you were happy, so long as you had your own, wonderful life, I would be happy too."

Easy to say; smoothly going. What you read in books. So long as you're happy, I am. Aoko drank some more coffee, hoping it might bring her on the edge of whatever completion they were treading.

"But I wasn't." Full stare again. "I wasn't happy. Sure, I was, I had my great moments. After I stopped being KID I felt a little down, but then my shows began and–well, those are awesome. It's almost like being KID all over again, only different. But I wasn't happy, per se. Not when it came to you."

He bit his lips, worrying the tender flesh for a moment, and Aoko's eyes strayed down there, reminded of how soft these lips could be, how harsh. "I was glad you were happy. But I wasn't. And when I came back two months and a half ago and saw that your life wasn't as perfect as I'd hoped it would be, well–"

"Please–"

"Please, let me finish this. If you don't want–still don't want me after I'm done, then I'll go, I swear." She nodded bleakly. He gave a half-smile, and compelled her toward her bowl again. "Thanks. Drink your coffee if your head hurts."

She eyed him suspiciously. "You didn't put anything weird in it, did you?" but the tone was only mocking, and he laughed a little.

"The idea did pass me by, but no." He settled down, more comfortably, on the couch, and added, quite conversationally, "Yknow, I spent three years of my life learning how to be selfless." He cast her a look; self-deprecatingly. "From the moment I became KID, I knew all those feelings in the bud for you were just meant to wither out." A chortle. "How romantic. I was certain you would be so much happier if I weren't there… if KID weren't there… that's why it was so easy, letting you go. Not easy here–" one finger pressed to his chest, and then his forehead, "but here."

She put her half-empty bowl down. She wasn't too certain she really wanted to hear all this. Kaito wasn't supposed to rip his heart open for her. He wasn't. He wasn't supposed to be the one who cried and begged–which he did right now, although well-disguised.

"And then after you'd gone–emotionally gone, if not physically at first–I spent six long years learning how to be selfish again. It wasn't always easy," another chortle, "and there were some quite long evenings I spent watching sappy romances on TV and feeling very sorry for myself… writing silly letters to you too." Then his face closed seriously again, and he looked straight at her. "I won't tell you I haven't enjoyed the company of others. I've liked some girls. Some nice ones, some bitchy ones… and none of my dates really ever worked out. But they're here, and I can't take them back, and I don't intend to."

She took one more gulp of coffee, then put it down again, and didn't touch it anymore.

"But now I know what I want." And the blue cleared, miraculously, and something clicked, down there, way down. "I know what I want and I know I can get it. The question is, will you let me?"

She didn't answer straightaway. Her head was bowed. "… Kaito, what is it exactly you want from me?"

"I want another chance," he replied immediately. "Another chance at this. I don't want everything to blow up because I was stupid enough not to take what I wanted six years ago." His hand was straying on her cheek again, and she wanted to slap it away, but. "I want to be selfish, because that's the only way anything is ever going to work out."

His hand fell away. Again, he waited. Waited, she realised. Always waiting. Waiting for her to be ready. Waiting for her to come to terms with this–with this. Whatever this was. "Kaito," she said slowly, her eyes stroking his face very carefully, as though hoping to break and mend, "tell me one thing. Would it–would it break your heart if I said no?"

His face hesitated for a second, and then fell in a prudent grimace. "… I think it would be insulting, both to you and me, to say yes. No, it wouldn't. I would be sad, and I'd probably end up getting very drunk by the end of the day and forgetting all about tonight's show. I would be very sad. But I'd heal, I always do." He paused a moment, collecting the wits they still held between them. "I'll say that if you say yes, I would be very, very happy; Aoko."

She breathed out; in. Watched him, carefully, closely, the way she hadn't watched him–ever–since that last lost day in high school when she had drawn his sleeping figure. Out. In again. Out again. She shivered once, and bent forward.

Her head dropped on his shoulder, and she felt his arms loop up to circle his shoulder and waist, cautiously, not quite certain what this meant. To be entirely truthful, she wasn't either.

"Aoko…" a pause; he swallowed thickly; and it thrilled her, absolutely enthralled her, to think that she was the one who drew these reactions from him; that she was the one he was compelled by, whom every fibre of his being tended toward. "Does this mean yes?"

She buried her face in his shoulder. "… I don't know."

A soft chuckle. "You don't look very reticent to be in my arms," and she couldn't help but smile. Of course he'd feel smug over it. And yet­–yet not. It felt right, the amused tone in his voice, wavering and still unsure, flickering uneasily.

Her hands gripped his arms. "… it means not yet." Her nose nudged his neck. "You're on probation." –and when she heard–felt–heard-felt the low chuckle deep in his throat, she knew they–at least for now at least for today–would be alright. His arms tightened a little around her.

She had no idea how long they remained in that position, crouched rather uncomfortably on the couch, arms around each other as though holding on for simply holding on; to survive. Perhaps, she thought, it was exactly that.

His breathing evened out after a while, and so did hers; she could feel the slow, peaceful rise and fall of his chest underneath her right-hand fingers. The left hand was resting on his forearm, not meaning much; not pulling away either.

"I think," she said after a while, the sentence unfurling slow and lazy, unhurriedly, in the cool warmth of the room, "I think I'm going to see the sea."

"Do that," Kaito murmured, almost half-asleep again.

-o-

He accompanied her to the airport. In the stuffy, noisy palace, they walked about, searching for her train, in almost-silence; in hushed whispers and brushing knuckles, when they strayed closer to each other. It was a wholly new territory they had to explore here, which they both knew, but which seemed wide and breathless now that it came to each other.

"That's yours, I think," Kaito said, stopping before one platform and adjusting the strap of the sportsbag she had stuffed with clothes and a few personal effects, and which he had offered to carry for her. She had said no at first, but he had won eventuallt, and had found the bag unexpectedly light.

"It is," Aoko said, with a slight, hesitant smile. A whole new territory, Kaito thought, and suppressed an urge to pull her to him. Patience would have to suit him for now.

"You should take your bag," he suggested, passing it from his shoulder to hers. "I trust you can find your seat on your own," he added with a sly grin. Not skirt-flipping just yet, but–teasing. Teasing worked.

Aoko glared half-heartedly. "I think I can," she said with dignity, and then strayed off. "Well…"

"Well," Kaito said, grin softening in a firm determinate smile. "I'll see you round."

She nodded. "I'll call you," she said. "Before I come back," and then surprised him by leaning up, one hand hesitantly touching his nape, and pressing her lips to him–uneasily, and featherlight, and Kaito wished less than anything to frighten her off, so he pressed back in kind.

It was over all too soon, but when she pulled back her smile was definitely brighter. Small still, but certain. "See you," she called out, and then spun on her heels and set off determinedly toward the train. "I'll call you."

"I'll be waiting," Kaito said, maybe too soft for her to hear, and in any case she didn't turn. Leaning against a nearby post, he waited to have seen her climb up in her car, and disappear in it with her bag, before he left for a café not far off.

-o-

Aoko had no idea how long she'd stay when she arrived to the small, lone, one-story house on the seaside. She had left Tokyo so fast, after everything that had happened, that she had hardly thought twice about it. An impulse. An urge she might not have followed, had not Kaito encouraged her.

Kaito.

And that was a strange thing too, what she had agreed to with him. In the two days it had taken her to find and rent this house, and buy her train ticket, he had not forced himself on her. He had invited her to lunch the day before, had helped her with her preparations. All the time it had been with gentle, hesitant teasing, as they both tried to find exactly what places they fell into now; when he had asked her whether he could see her off, it had been with that wry shyness of his.

As for touch, they hadn't gone any farther than knuckle-brushing, and the kiss she had pressed to his mouth before leaving. Each time her heart had fluttered like a frightened, delighted bird flying for the second time.

She spent the two first days exploring the house and its whereabouts. It wasn't big, a mere two-room really, with adjacent kitchen and showerplace. Not that she'd use that much. The sea was bright and warm on the other side of the beach.

The nearest town was half a mile away, and she took to walking to it every two or three days, in the morning, to buy some food and necessary items. Otherwise she mainly remained out of other people's way. She had had enough of frenzied parties and hurried crowds in Tokyo; here was calm, and quiet, and peace.

Usually the sunlight woke her up. It grew bright and dazzling as the day continued, but in the morning, early by her own standards, it was still mild and a pale gold, shivering on the house's parquet on which her bare feet whispered. No tight clothes here. It grew too hot for that, and Aoko could often be seen in shortpants, or jeans and the top of her bathing suit, as she wandered lazily on the beach. People were starting to know her there. Often, when she came out on her terrace to have breakfast, a few early strollers would call out to her and wave.

She smiled, and waved back, and offered them coffee or orange juice, which they sometimes accepted.

The afternoon children knew her too. A group of four took a great liking to her, and she had some grand times building sand castles and playing volley-ball in the waves with them. It was nice, and it was fun, and she came home exhaustedly and delighted.

She liked it here. It was an agreeable place, where fitting in was easy, and where no one would come and disturb. It was a large change after Tokyo, but as the days started to elapse by, she began to realize just how much she had needed this. The only vacation she had taken in the last three years had been to an onsen with work friends, and that had been anything but peaceful.

She started drawing again. It wasn't easy at first, as she nearly had to teach herself how to all over again. She began from scratch, from lining and perspective to volume and shadowing, making sketches and studies of whatever was around her, taking her time to work on each fine curve of the pencil. She found she enjoyed it; enjoyed it more than she could remember. The publicist's agency had taken that from her, too.

After a week or so of aborted tries and almost giving-ups and rough drafts, she found that despite difficulty she simply couldn't live a day without sitting, even for a few more minutes, and sketching on the spur on the moment; and though it was nothing like having to draw to breathe, it made her day complete; concrete, solid and warm under her hands. She got used to curling up by the window and drawing as she liked, a little now, a little then, in between listening to the radio and going for a dip in the sea.

It because easier; not always, but often. She found she liked drawing the slanted sunlight on the parquet slats, early in the morning.

The days passed. Aoko sat by them, doing nothing much of them, amusing herself with long walks and bathing and drawing and the slow wave of pines under the wind, a few glorious sunsets on the sea horizon, evenings on the terrace drinking iced tea and watching the night tumble down in greys and blues. In Tokyo, she might have seen it like a clichéd holiday; but there was sand under her feet as she climbed back from the beach, the freezer made random buzzing noises in the midst of the night, her drawing didn't always come out right, and she sometimes wished Chidori, or maybe Kaito, was here with her–yet, mostly, despite of these few mishaps, or maybe because of them, she felt very simply, very genuinely happy.

The days passed quietly and softly.

As August neared its end, most of the vacationers she met daily returned to town, wishing her goodbye in turns. (The children left three days before school started, and they had a wonderful last afternoon building a gigantic sand fortress and catching fireflies as the first stars came out.) The beach emptied. The weather, similarly, grew less hot and less bright–it was still sunny, but the light dimmed and flickered more; the sky was less blue, more cloudy; and one morning Aoko woke to the clatter of rain outside the window.

She stayed a week into September. Then one evening Aoko called up the owner and told him she was leaving, as she had paid the lease at the beginning of each week; packed up, and went down to the train station.

-o-

Kaito was waiting for her when she got to Tokyo. She had called him right after she had found the exact time her train was leaving and arriving at, and had heard his smile over the phone as he said, "All right. I'll come meet you at the station, do you mind?"

You don't have to, she'd thought, but had given a smile of her own, leaned her shoulder against the telephone machine, and said, "No, I don't mind." (She thought, as she got on the train, that it probably meant something, her agreeing to this rapidly, and felt somewhat warm all the way home.)

He was waiting for her, as predicted, in casual jeans and jacket, frowning up at the arrivals' panel. His back was turned at the way she came through, and she strolled up to him quietly, not speaking up just yet.

"You know," she said, chanted, when she got right behind him, "it so happens that trains sometimes are on time."

He turned slowly, smiling already, and Aoko found herself smiling back. "I was looking for the platform," he clarified, and then his tone softened. "Welcome back." He nudged the strap of her bag off her shoulder. "Want help with this?"

"Yes, please," Aoko said, and then stopped a little, blinking.

"What?

"Nothing." She plucked an invisible thread off her sleeve, and grinned up at him. "What now?"

"Well…" he strayed off, hands returning to his pockets, "I suggest dinner. There's this cool little place down near our old high school–Italian. Stuff's great." He grinned back, the wide, malicious grin of their old days that spoke of goofy mornings and red roses. "To be entirely truthful, I already made reservations for us."

Aoko all but laughed out loud. "Well then–what are you waiting for?" and something in her tone made him stop, made him tilt his head to the side and watch her thoughtfully. A near-smile played on his lips again.

"You," he breathed. "I was waiting for you."

Aoko's eyes softened, too, as they started to make their way through the crowd toward the exit and the Tokyo night. "Well–I'm here."

"So I see," he said, adjusted the bag on his right shoulder, and let his left hand carelessly entwine with hers as they stepped out of the train station into the lukewarm September night's air.

-o-

I'm still bloody from last year's war

But no longer drowning in the flood–

And hey you with your stars out

You've kissed again don't you see you've already won

–from Sara Slean, Last Year's War

-o-

… and now I'm glad that's over. It's been eating my head these last two weeks, and I have so many other ideas I'm dying to begin on. *shakes head* thanks for sticking with this! Have many cookies. Thank you.

See you next time.