dont have much to say about this one...
so enjoy!
Kazuha sometimes thinks she's scared of Heiji.
She tries to tell herself it's because she's worried, because that stupid idiot has zero capacity for forethought and rushes headlong into anything that looks like it won't be boring, because she doesn't know how dangerous the criminals are going to be that day, but at night, when she's all alone and the shadows on her bedroom floor are too long, like fingers counting down to the morning, she admits it to herself.
Maybe the terror gnawing at her gut when Heiji's on a case is fear of him. Not fear for him.
She's seen the light in his eyes when he gets to take down a criminal himself. When there's a fight boiling under the rolling clouds, and he's itching to be in the thick of it, every muscle fiber stretched taut in preparation for the battle ahead.
Solving the trick is only half the fun.
The real fun begins when there's a chase to be had.
And Kazuha knows she's scared because she doesn't understand. She'd rather be safe, at home—let those with guns and bullet-proof vests and a death wish go charging after a dangerous, desperate (frightened) villain. Let the others deal with that—
She just wants everyone she loves to be happy.
So why is it Heiji only looks truly alive when he's taking down a criminal with nothing but his shinai and that stupid, idiotic (bright, bright like the stupid, stupid sun) vicious grin on his face?
He's the jaws of a wild animal. He can be gentle, but Kazuha can't ignore the knowledge that those teeth were meant for hunting. Not protecting.
~0~
Ran sometimes thinks she's scared of Shinichi.
She thinks of her life these days as "Before Conan" and "After Conan"—she thinks of Shinichi like that, too.
Before Conan, Shinichi was more like a vibrant wildflower. He was bold, and brilliant—you couldn't miss him. He stood out from the crowd, and bore it like a king. Regal and confident.
But although a king he was, he was still a boy. A boy-king.
Ran finds she misses it.
After Conan, when she looks at Shinichi, he's older, more grown—and there's something dangerous about him, about his every step, his every move, his every smile, sharp, like the curved blade of a katana. That smile is no longer an expression of exuberance. It's a weapon. He's a weapon. A silver bullet.
Shinichi didn't tell her very much about his case overseas, but something about it changed him. When he charges after culprits, foregoing sleep and safety and common sense, she tells him to be careful like she always does and the carefree grin he flashes at her is more a cut in the darkness than the warm glow of the moon that used to make her feel safe at night.
He still does—he still does make her feel safe at night, of course, but that's because she knows he'll have hunted down everything that could possibly hurt her.
She feels safe, but she's still scared.
Because after she tells him to be safe, like she always does, he assures her over his shoulder he will, he'll be safe, he'll be home for dinner—make lemon pie, his favorite, and she'll laugh and yell back at him that she doesn't even have the ingredients for that anyway, but they both know she'll make it because she cares and she loves him, just like they both know he won't be safe because "safe" isn't a concept that makes sense to him anymore.
He'll run off, legs cutting through the wind, and the smallest, smallest, vicious grin playing at his lips.
Ran thinks maybe she wasn't supposed to see.
He revels in it. He revels in the fight, ducking and weaving, striking down his opponents faster than they can process that they've been outmaneuvered.
He's a blade without a shield.
A gun without a safety.
Ran is terrified—that one day he won't come home. That one day, he'll go too far.
Her head is whirling. She doesn't know why she's so scared.
All she knows is that the person she loves—his arms no longer make her feel warm.
~0~
Aoko has always known there was something wrong with Kaito.
And she'll end anyone who calls her blindly loyal—she knows her way around a mop—even though with every swing she can feel her heart sinking as lead dread fills it because she fears her love is blind and so is her loyalty.
She reminds herself that Kaito has been there for her every step of the way.
Aoko isn't stupid. She knows she's not as smart as Kaito. She knows that to someone like him, someone who could reasonably be called a genius, she must be boring. She knows that there must be smarter, more beautiful, more interesting women out there who can challenge him in every sense of the word but for some reason he's her best friend and she… she wants to keep him.
Aoko isn't stupid. Even when she was little she could see that Kaito was uncommon. Whenever he outwitted the adults or received praise, he would smile and show off a little fang, a little bite—it always seemed less like the pleased smile of a child than it was the self-satisfied smirk of someone who knew they were better, smarter, faster.
As they grew older, the little fang, little bite, became a curling miasma that coiled behind his every gesture, every word, like a white glove.
Kaito is, at heart, a performer. Everything he says, everything he does is calculated for the maximum effect of his choosing. If he snaps his fingers in front of your eyes, it's because he knows you'll blink, and in the split second when you open your eyes, you'll be disoriented enough to focus on his long and slender fingers while he performs his subtle trick so it appears like magic.
It's called "misdirection." Kaito told her about it when they were still children and Aoko has kept that one lesson deep inside her heart. She uses it like a lifeline—a north star—a spear in her back to keep her eyes focused straight ahead. She's afraid that if she stops looking, then Kaito will disappear, and only the performance will remain.
Or maybe that's already happened.
After Hakuba arrived—and admittedly after Kaito Kid gained national acclaim—she lost track of Kaito.
She knows she didn't blink. She knows she didn't miss the trick. When he snapped his fingers, she didn't flinch and kept her eyes wide open, staring straight ahead.
But he disappeared anyway.
In his place is a swirling mist, a curved smile, an arched brow, smooth words, so very smooth, aimed to please and comfort. To misdirect. Its name is Kuroba Kaito, but Aoko doesn't recognize him.
Kaito is a performer. From the moment she met him, up until this very microsecond, he's always been a performer, and he always will be. His every move will always be a product of careful calculations and deliberations.
Aoko once thought that if she didn't blink, if she didn't look away, if she never stopped watching, she wouldn't lose him in the maze of smoke and mirrors of his own creation.
There was no misdirection, this time. It was just her. She doesn't know if he was ever there.
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