Wishing on Paper
50 sentences detailing the friendship (and a hint of something more) of Kuroba Kaito and Nakamori Aoko. [For 50sentences on Livejournal.]
Act 1/5
.
.
.
Comfort
There's comfort in the deep tenor of his voice as he rakes a shaky hand through her hair, breathing it's alright, it's alright, you're OK, and for one last time Aoko chooses to believe her best friend, forever.
Kiss
Later she thinks about the little bag of American candy in Kaito's room, each chocolate wrapped in individual sheets of shiny, striped aluminum, while working the Salvatore Sapphire case, the gem having been swiped with clever hands from its display case in Beika museum last Tuesday.
Soft
Phantoms are supposed to be insubstantial, she thinks, not solid like this, skimming her fingers over the muscle and fat and layer of skin cells that helped make up this extraordinary being.
Pain
"You don't know pain," she whispers, leveling the gun towards his face, steadying her shaking arm with a palm under the grip, "until your best friend betrays you."
Potatoes
Breathless, he laughed—and laughed and laughed and laughed—because she's won this game (this game he started, this game he wrote the rules for and controlled with the fist of a tyrant) finally; he slumps against the chair he woke up chained and handcuffed to, the taste of her potato soup still faint and imprinted against the roof of his mouth.
Rain
She urges herself to be quicker faster stronger come on Aoko, come on, come on, but soon the rain soaks her through right down to the bone, and she is bleeding a torrent through the hole above her heart.
Chocolate
It only takes two minutes to crack open Hakuba Saguru's locker, ten seconds to stuff the box of chocolate left there by a certain mouse-haired girl at 7AM that morning down the hidden pocket on the side of his shirt, two seconds to shut it close and one to congratulate himself on a job well down.
Happiness
If anyone thought Kaito's face was a little tense he'll just blame it on being Maid of Honor, or the bad wine, or whichever lie no one's going to believe—only one person's opinion matters after all, and he's bitter to note she's on cloud nine.
Telephone
Tension bleeds out of her small frame as she presses the receiver to her ear; she understands not a word he says— in Russian, or Luxembourgish, Korean, Parisian—but it doesn't matter, because he is still there, somewhere in the world, under the same sky as her.
Ears
"Little pitchers have big ears," mother used to say knowingly—he never realised how dangerous that habit would be until the day he sat perched on Aoko's windowsill, locked out on the wrong side of the glass.