Five Sentence (Non-)Stories + Random Word Prompt
- for Poirot Cafe
"Lamp."
Sure, changing color was vaguely reasonable, but Kaito doubted that anyone really expected the gem to actually shed tears. And then actually dare to drink the said unknown substance. People used to think that mercury gave immortality, after all, and look where that ended up! All those thoughts fled, however, when the 'tears' turned into mist in Kaito's hand and swirled around his ears, whispering, "Three wishes - what is your first?"
Kaito decided that it was less of a color-changing and crying jewel and more of a freaking genie lamp as he opened his mouth to speak.
"Rose."
The first time he gave her a rose was in front of a large clock tower. "Hi, I'm Kuroba Kaito."
The second was the same as the first, but several years later and a heist beforehand. "Hi, I'm Kuroba Kaito."
The third was the same as the second, but the hated dove had fallen to gunfire, and his fading blue eyes gleamed as he murmured to her, "Hi, I'm sorry."
"Jet."
Ever since that fateful day, Conan had always hated that color. Even as he chased it into the shadows and desperately reached to catch it, he hated it. Even as he let down the one who mattered the most again and again for the sake of hunting the darkness, he hated it. And when jet black ink stared back at him from the crumpled newspaper, pronouncing the mysterious death of one daughter of a famous detective, he thought that he could not hate the color more.
He was proved wrong at the funeral.
"Tourist."
To be honest, it had become too much of a regular occurrence for anyone else to do much more than gaze at the body tiredly. Then, they'd turn their exasperated eyes to the blue-eyed detective and his dark skinned friend. Of course, those two would already be probing around the scene; they were even more used to it than the police force, even.
Foreigners were another matter, though.
The tour bus erupted into screams and the two detectives winced at the (un)expected cacophony of noise.
"Storm."
Conan stumbled against the relentless wind and pounding rain, shouting his lungs hoarse as he trudged onward. A stream of denial kept running through his mind - he should've known, he should've known - nobody was immortal, no matter what they seemed.
But he'd gotten used to it, he kept forgetting-!
So as he crumpled onto his knees on the edge of the roof, hands fisted tightly against the ground as he glared through the weather, whispers of I'm sorry trickled through the stream of no no no until it was all he could think.
Below, the white cloth of a failed hang glider fluttered.