Written for Poirot Cafe's themed competition #9
Theme: "Refuge"
Rated T because I'm paranoid.
I've gotten terribly lazy with titles, as this shows. It has nothing to do with the content of the story at all, but 'Strawberry Hill' is a song by Bronze Radio Return that I have listened to over and over again while writing this, and if you want to, I'd recommend having it play in the background while you read.
Strawberry Hill
It's been a long day. A long week, in fact. You slept through half of your classes and almost failed to dodge the mop that Aoko swung at you because you were so tired. But tired or not, you still noticed the little crease between her brows and the way her eyes shone with concealed worry and you berated yourself for letting your guard down.
You also noticed the curious and almost worried glances Hakuba threw your way. It had taken a second before you were able to deduce why – but then it clicked. Hakuba had been there. You're not sure how much he actually knows – or suspects -, but you know that the detective will be even more observant now and that means that you have to be more careful around him.
You sigh and turn you head, searching for the small bag filled with strawberries you brought with you. When your eyes settle on it, you reach out and grab it, the rustling of the plastic sounding strangely loud in the quiet of the night, and open it.
Without looking you reach inside and your fingers close around one of the small fruits. You take it out and hold it up to examine it in the moonlight. The motion brings back memories of holding gleaming diamonds and jewels to the moon and the feeling of repeated disappointment and sometimes hopelessness.
You shake your head, refusing the depressing emotions. After all, didn't you come here to tonight to get away from it all, to feel safe and secure?
Some people would probably say that sitting on top of a clock tower in the middle of the night is neither place nor time to feel safe – but you do, for some reason you always felt at home here.
It's more home than your own house, where only suffocating silence greets you and it's more home than the house of your best friend, where, despite how close you are, you still feel like an intruder.
Those places, especially the house you used to call home, are haunted by memories of the past, memories you can't stand some days, because they remind you of what you lost.
Your father picking you up, a content smile on his face. Teaching you easy magic tricks, explaining them patiently. Your mom, laughing at his antics while she cuts vegetables for dinner. Once you walked in on them when they were embracing each other. You backed out slowly, didn't want to disturb them – you were too young to really understand back then, but you intuitively knew that this was something private, intimate.
The warmth and comfort of a home that no longer is.
You bring your attention back to the fruit that you're holding between two fingers. It looks fine.
The red seems dull in the dim light of the night sky but you know the vibrant color that hides behind the shadows and for a moment you wonder … you can't help but think that that's somewhat like you.
At day, in bright sunlight, you're vibrant, colorful and full of life. It's your job, you are the class clown, the jokester, the magician that cheers people up, that mocks and pranks them and makes them laugh.
But at night .. you fade, you're reduced to a faint echo of your day self.
You chuckle, quietly, sad. What are you doing, you ask yourself, comparing yourself to a strawberry.
When you tear off the green leaves it almost feels like you're ripping away a part of yourself, and you're quick to tell yourself that you're being silly, identifying with a fruit like that.
You flick the leaves over the edge and watch them fall down. They're gone in a matter of seconds, gravity taking its course, but you still stare after them, thinking back to the hundreds of times you stepped over edges of rooftops, sometimes backwards, facing your enemies – or rivals.
From the first time you did it, it filled you with a thrill, a sense of excitement and freedom that you never experienced before. It's partly adrenaline, you know that, but it's also more than that.
In that first second when you fall, you always wonder. What if the glider malfunctions this time?
It has never happened, of course, otherwise you wouldn't be here now, but you can't help but think that one of those days .. Lady Luck might turn her back on you.
But then that first moment of worry is gone and for the next few seconds all you feel is pure freedom. Nothing is holding you and nothing is stopping you, there are no borders, no confinements. Sometimes you even delay unfolding your wings, just to hold on to that feeling for a little longer.
For a brief second you get the urge to jump down, right now, and you imagine yourself screaming while you fall. But you resist, because you don't have your glider and you're neither stupid nor suicidal. You don't want to die.
You look up again and then down at the forgotten fruit in your hand. Shaking your head, you use your other hand to fish out a small plastic cup from the bag, setting it down in your lap and removing the lid.
You set the lid aside and pick the cup up, holding it up to your nose. The dark, liquid chocolate smells sweet and tempting.
Dipping the strawberry into the brown well of deliciousness is immensely satisfying and you draw it out as long as possible, turning and swirling the fruit around, creating mesmerizing ripples.
And then, finally, when you can't resist the temptation anymore, you pluck the chocolate covered part of the strawberry in your mouth and bite off.
The soft and juicy fruit melts with the rich, bittersweet chocolate and you savor the flavor, rolling the mixture around in your mouth, unable to contain a sound of pleasure.
You don't believe in heaven, but this comes pretty close, you think.
Absently dipping the remaining rest of the fruit in the chocolate, you lean forward and look down.
There isn't much to see – it's dark and the grounds around the clock tower are empty at this hour of the night, but suddenly you remember.
You were exploring the tower while your father chatted with a friend, and when you had checked out every last corner you grew bored and went outside. And there she was, the little girl with brown hair, looking so lost and alone, waiting for her father.
Your childish thought process was simple – she's sad, so you have to cheer her up, because being sad is just not acceptable. And, you can admit that now, over ten years later, you also wanted to show off the new trick your father had taught you. It's a simple one, but to this day it's your favorite, because it never fails to make people smile, even if it's just a small one.
She accepted the rose and smiled and you felt good, you had accomplished your mission. And, though you didn't know back then, you had also met one of the most important people in your life.
The memory leaves a fond smile on your lips, even as you lean back to look at the stars instead, slowly chewing on the second half of your strawberry. It tastes just as good as the first half, but you can't savor it in the same way, distracted by another memory that resurfaces from the depths of your mind.
Another memory made here, at this very clock tower. Weirdly enough, even though you were shot at – kind of -, it's not a bad memory. If anything at all, it makes you smile wider as you recall the first battle of wits that you had with your favorite critic – though, back then you didn't know it was him.
He was just that mysterious stranger that seemed to read your mind, anticipating your every move and forcing you to think on your feet. It was exciting and dangerous – never before had someone come this close to catching you. A new thrill, a challenge .. you found a worthy rival and now, despite how crazy it is, you look forward to every heist that he attends.
You slowly reach into the bag again and take out another strawberry and in one swift motion you drown it in the brown liquid. When you pull it out again it's covered completely in chocolate – a mistake as you discover just seconds later when the slippery fruit glides through your fingers and descends into the darkness below.
Leaning forward, you try to grab and save it, but it's gone and you freeze, even though your position is unstable and you could fall over – but you were reminded of something else … someone else, that you couldn't hold on to.
And just like the red fruit, he fell. You look at your hand, only half seeing it as the scene plays out in your head.
You had tried so hard to hold on, to pull him up even – maybe you would have succeeded if you hadn't been wearing gloves .. maybe your grip would have been firmer.
Maybe, what if .. you shake your head, trying to dispel the image of the lifeless body under you, blood pooling.. but it's not working.
It's what has kept you awake every night for the past week, it's the memory that haunts your dreams when your exhausted body demands rest. It's the image that lets your mouth go dry and that lets the bile rise in the back of your throat when you try to eat.
It's the tragedy that sent you plummeting down in a spiral of darkness and suffocated screams.
You raise your shaking hand to wipe away the tears, but halfway through the motion you give up and your hand falls down into your lap.
It's no use, the tears are streaming down now, a cascade of suppressed emotions. You didn't want to face it, you ran from it .. but now you realize that you can't.
You don't know what's worse either – that the glove slipped from your hand or that he could have held on with both hands if he had wanted to .. he could have saved himself .. but he didn't. For some reason, he didn't.
Not for the first time you wonder if he wanted to die – and if that makes any difference. For him, maybe, but he's dead now, gone, he doesn't have to worry about it.
You on the other hand, you still blame yourself and you wonder how his son must feel .. and then you remember that you know, because you've been there, you lost your own father, you know the agony.
It's sad to watch you right now. One memory leads to another and they pull you down, further and further. You're trying to fight it, because that's just how you are – you're a fighter. But some battles can't be won and it looks like you're losing this one.
On the other hand, maybe it's a good thing that you finally allow these emotions to surface. Even though right now they feel like a tsunami crashing down on you, drowning you, eventually the waves will recede and you'll be able to breath again … and then you can start to heal. You can't heal as long as those feelings are buried under layers of false laughter and fake smiles, where they grow and fester like mold on a rotten fruit.
And even if you can't see that yet, there's no stopping it now. Walls are down, masks shattered, and you cry. You scream and wail, you throw your hands up in the air in desperation, pull at your own hair, you sob and yell until your voice cracks – it's ugly and messy, but for once, you're not holding back. No one is here, there's no need to pretend that everything is okay.
If only there was someone here to hold you .. but you don't want anyone to see you like this. So vulnerable, so fragile – nobody can know.
It takes a long time for the sobs to die down and even longer for the tears to dry. The sky is beginning to light up, streaks of rose and orange painting on the big canvas. It's beautiful and for a moment, you still .. you allow yourself to just be and it's pure bliss. For a few moments, the pain and sorrow are forgotten, everything is forgotten as you immerse yourself in the peace and beauty of dawn.
Alas, the thing with moments like that is, they're fleeting and you can't hold onto them, no matter how hard you try. You may carry an echo of them with you for a while, but the moment will forever be gone.
And as you realize that, the peaceful expression on your face grumbles and falls. For a second, your face is blank as if you weren't sure what expression would be appropriate – you're so used to wearing a mask that it feels strange when you don't have to.
Then you remember, you're alone, no masks needed and you allow the corners of your mouths to fall down, instead of forcing them up like you usually do.
It's weird and strange but at the same .. relieving, liberating. You didn't even realize how badly you needed to be yourself for once.
Something akin to panic flickers across your face – it's there for barely a second because you're quick to squelch it, but it was there and you can't deny it.
You wondered if you even know who you are anymore, didn't you? It's not the first time the question has risen up from those dark corners of your mind. It scares you, more than a gun pointed at your heart. It scares you so much, that you automatically shy away from it, a defense mechanism of your mind.
But just like the grief, this too will come to the surface eventually. Maybe not now, maybe not today. And that's okay.
You will your thoughts away from the identity crisis that's bubbling just beneath the surface and wipe the last remains of your tears away. It's time to move on, in every sense of the word.
Tonight, you came to this tower, your secret haven, to find peace, but for the first time it failed you. And so you climb down, disappointed but determined, and make your way to the only other place that might give you what you need right now.
The streets are empty and silent, leaving you with nothing to distract you from the thoughts that are threatening to run rampage in your mind. You keep a tight leash on them, for now .. but how long can you keep that up? How long until you break again?
Before you know it, you're there. You were so distracted by war raging on inside your head that the outside faded to nothing, it ceased to exist.
So you blink, looking just the slightest bit confused, and wonder silently how you even managed to get here.
And now that you've arrived, your resolve starts to falter. Do you really want to go inside, do you really want to face them now? Do you want them to see this side of you?
Your body is rooted on the spot, but inside you sway back and forth like a leaf in the wind, barely clinging to the branch that's holding it. You don't want to be alone. You don't want them to see you so vulnerable. You can't go on like this. But you've managed so far, right?
The decision is taken from your hands when the door opens.
"Kaito-kun?"
The man who stands in the doorway looks at you with a frown, tired and confused. Then he looks you over properly and you're not sure what it is that he sees, but his frown shifts into something more .. paternal.
He invites you in and you follow, mechanically, your thoughts still trying to catch up to the fact that you no longer have to decide. Just as mechanically, you take of your shoes, not noticing the worried glances the man throws at you, and the both of you venture into the living room.
When you sit down, the man excuses himself to get some coffee and again, you're alone.
With a sigh, you lean back and rest your head on the backrest of the sofa. The ceiling is plain white and does nothing to ease your discomfort.
And you wonder what changed. Back when you were younger, you felt so at home here. After your mother started travelling, you spent a lot of time here, it was your second home.
Now .. now it feels like you're a stranger, intruding.
"Here." The gruff voice breaks you out of your thoughts and you gladly accept the steaming mug of coffee that he holds out for you.
It was a long night and you're tired.
The man sits down next to you on the sofa, fixing you with his eyes. You practically hide in your mug, trying to escape the scrutinizing gaze. It's uncharacteristic of you and you know it, but you're too tired to care.
You're too tired even to put on a mask and that worries you.
It worries Nakamori Ginzo just as much.
"Kaito-kun" he starts and then looks at you with a hint of helplessness. It takes him a good minute to find the right words to continue. He has never been a man of many words or deep, emotional conversations – but he is a father, and he's like a father to you. He cares.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks simply, leaving it up to you to steer the conversation in a direction of your choice.
Simple as that question may be, it kicks your mind into overdrive again.
You obviously can't tell him what is really bothering you – after all, Kuroba Kaito was never even near the site of Jack Connery's death. But maybe you can talk to him about other things.
"I'm tired." you mumble, your voice carrying the weariness you feel. He picks up on it, instantly knowing what kind of tired you mean. There is tired and there is tired.
Maybe you said too much. Now he will ask questions that you can't answer. Kuroba Kaito has no reason to be tired of life, he's just a cheeky teenager that likes to pull pranks on his classmates.
At least that's what you think.
But he surprises you. He doesn't prod further. Instead, he launches into a tale.
"When that stupid thief disappeared, I was devastated." He lets out a husky laugh, trying to cover up his own vulnerability. Then he continues, slowly, carefully.
"I know how stupid that sounds, but I couldn't help it. When he didn't show up for his announced heist, I was irritated. Angry that I had wasted so much time and resources for nothing. A few weeks passed and I got antsy, nervous. It wasn't unusual for KID to wait a while between heists, but in my gut I just knew that something was wrong. Months went by and I .. just..."
He pauses and stares at his cooling coffee in contemplation.
"I'm a fiery man, Kaito-kun. But back then, I lost my fight. It all seemed so pointless. Before KID showed up I hunted down the usual run-off-the-mill thieves, the kind that shoots people and holds hostages. And then he entered the stage and it was like nothing I'd ever seen before. He defied logic and common sense alike, he turned everything I thought I knew about thieves on its head. When he began pulling more and more heists, a special taskforce was assigned to him and from that on, most of my work life centered around him. He made me forget the really bad criminals."
You look up from your own mug when he stops talking. He takes a sip of coffee and cringes at the cold and bitter beverage.
"Don't tell anyone I said this, but-" he gives you a wry smile, "..I really enjoyed those heists. I mean, I was trying my best to catch that blasted man, but at the same it was fun. I respect talent, and that man had talent – his tricks were mind-boggling, and he was probably the most non-violent criminal I've ever met. And then he was gone .. and it just left me feeling...empty, I guess."
You lost yourself in the story, but now that silence fills the room, something nags at the back of your mind. While you both sit in comfortable silence you stare at the cold coffee that still fills up half of your mug.
Then you realize what it is and you sit up straighter, wary now. Should you ask or just leave it alone? Maybe it would be better to not know...
"Why are you talking about him like he's gone? Didn't he pull a heist just last week?"
Ginzo nods his head, as if approving. "You always were a smart one. Tell me, do you think the KID that runs around now is the same as the one that disappeared nine years ago?"
You gulp. This is dangerous territory. Very dangerous. And you can feel his eyes on you, waiting for an answer.
"I don't really-" you start, but it doesn't seem right. "I never really thought about-" sounds just as wrong.
"I don't have enough information about either KID to be able to tell." you finally say diplomatically and throw a careful glance at the other man.
He stares at you over the rim of his mug, brows furrowed. And he doesn't need to say anything, you can see it in his eyes. He knows. You don't know how, or for how long he has known, but he does now and the gears in your head start turning.
You need a good alibi, a better one than the last time he suspected you .. or maybe you should just turn yourself in. Maybe you're not worthy of the title .. but you haven't finished your mission, the promise is still unfulfilled. And you're so very tired.
You half expect him to handcuff you, but he just continues to stare at you. It's unnerving. Maybe you should run. If only your body didn't feel so heavy.
Then he sighs and stands up. Your body tenses, ready to jump up and run, or fight, if it comes to it. Not that you would actually fight him.
Your eyes follow him as he sets down his mug and walks up to you.
Run your instincts scream. I'm tired of running your heart says.
In the end, it doesn't matter.
He stands right in front of you and squats down, putting his hands on your shoulders.
"You're safe here, okay? No matter what."
A light, encouraging squeeze on your right shoulder and then he leaves. You can hear him in the kitchen, presumably making more coffee and preparing breakfast.
Your heart is still pounding fast and hard in your chest, your breathing is uneven, as you stare straight ahead, unseeing.
It takes a few minutes for his words to sink in. And then the realization hits you and your heart constricts with a feeling you have no name for. But it's something you haven't felt in a long time.
You're safe here. He knows. And you're still welcome in his house, he still cares for you. You're safe.
Setting your own mug down, you bury your face in your hands, allowing just a few silent tears to escape. Then you're ready to face the world again and wipe your face with the sleeve of your hoodie. Enough crying for tonight, you decide.
The inspector returns with coffee and food. Without many words you both get comfortable on the sofa and the man turns on the TV, settling on the rebroadcast of an old detective show.
It's not something you'd watch under normal circumstances. But it's okay for now, because you're here and it's warm and safe and nothing else matters.
Before you know it, your eyes start to grow heavy and your head lolls back, eyelids fluttering.
It's another battle you can't win.
But you don't mind. You feel content and at home and so, for the first time in a long time, you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, dimly aware of the weight of a blanket settling over you and with a smile on your lips.
There will be more battles, some you will win, some you'll lose. More days like this one will come, days where you'll sit on top of a clock tower, wishing it all to hell. But now you have a place to go to. A new safe haven.
And maybe, just maybe, you also learned that you don't have to be strong all the time. That it's okay not to be okay. And most importantly, that you don't have to be alone.
Yup, that's it. I'd like to know what you think about it. I've never done this observer style (I don't even know if that's how it's called) before, how did I do with that? It also turned out a little more angsty than what I had in mind, but oh well. And what did you think about the ending with Nakamori? Initially, I wanted Kaito to stay at the clock tower for the entire story, with just a dove for company, but then this just sprung on me and took over the fic. Would you have preferred the other version?
So yeah, I'd love to hear your thoughts, but in any case, thank you for reading!