SUMMARY: Conan's just thinking. The one time he doesn't want company is the time he gets it anyways. Shinichi-centric.

Conan inhales, holds his breath for a second, and exhales a puff of white condensation into the air, shivering underneath his worn, russet scarf. It isn't exactly the warmest, but it's the best he has, and he makes a mental note to go shopping for a new scarf next week. The one he's wearing is the only one he has, and it's been his—Shinichi's—since he was last this same age. Wearing it now is kind of nostalgic, but Conan simply sighs and closes the door behind him with a near silent click.

He's snuck out, and knows that Ran will kill him if she ever knew. She won't, he's sure, though. Ran is a heavy sleeper; her slumber is like the dead, and for no reason will she awaken at midnight to do anything other than get a glass of water. Conan knows his escapade will stay mostly unnoticed.

The winter night air is cool, biting against his cheeks. It's the kind of freezing coldness that makes his skin feel like melting, and he knows he'll regret having gone outside later when his face stings with a thousand needles. Shinichi had never liked the cold weather—too many deaths happening during the winter as opposed to summer—but Conan revels in the low temperature. The outside is the domain of children, he remembers Haibara having told him once, so it's not so off that he would like the cold.

Conan begins to walk a ways from the detective agency, hands shoved in his pockets. He's foregone his glasses for a hood that night in order to maintain anonymity. He doesn't want anyone he knows to see him and tell someone that Conan was out late at night. He figures if he keeps his head down, no one will wonder what a seven year old is doing out so late.

Sometimes, Conan feels a crushing weight bared upon his shoulders, the weight of someone too old for his body, too mature for his age. How Haibara can stand being young he doesn't know, but maybe the fact that she doesn't exactly have a life as Miyano Shiho is why she can be Haibara Ai and be happy at the same time. Conan will never be happy as he is. He might be content, but that is all that he will ever feel. Satisfaction, but not happiness.

Eleven months, and Shinichi misses being happy. Eleven months, and Conan's never felt it once.

He's reached the higher end of his neighborhood now, and he glances up at the stars, sky surprisingly clear on such a night. He see flashes of lights slashing across the sky, and a flurry of—helicopters?—something, making amuck of the general populace. Conan wonders what's going on, but quickly deduces it himself. Kaitou KID has a heist.

A part of him feels regret at having not gone, while another part of him berates him for even thinking about going when he has other matters to think about. After all, with the Black Organization still on his heels, Shinichi has no freedom. Isn't it bad enough that Conan must hide his intelligence behind a façade? But then he sighs, and he scratches his head, casting an effete glance at the street of which he is walking on. The ground is saturated in melted snow.

Conan wonders idly if he will ever become Shinichi again. He wants life to be normal again, dammit, despite heists probably being the most normal thing besides working out perpetual murders.

How long must he wait for Haibara to find an antidote? How long must he wait until he can walk along the streets as himself and not Conan, as Shinichi, like he wants to be? But no, the thought (or is it dream?) is a far one, and unnecessary. Even if he was back in his body, he is still being targeted. He is lucky as it is that everyone thinks he's dead. (Isn't that a happy thought?)

As his legs begin to get tired, Conan sighs irritably. This body isn't as strong as his old one, and fatigues far too quickly for his liking. The young man in a boy's skin settles himself on a nearby bench. He's far from the agency, he knows. These benches appear only after walking a kilometer from the place he's begun to call home.

(But it's not home, because home is a mansion filled with books and people who aren't there anymore. They haven't been there since he was a child. That is his home, but sometimes he wishes it wasn't.)

Conan tugs his scarf more securely around his neck. The temperature seems to have gotten lower. The street is deserted, and he is the sole occupant of the walkway. He finds lonely solace on that bench, and escaping from his thoughts makes him feel at ease. Escaping from his current life relieves his stress, but then again he's still lonely.

(Waiting, waiting, always waiting. Ran waits for him and he waits for her, sometimes he waits for a life he can't have anymore, but he's still got hope.)

A disgruntled shout startles him from where he has begun to doze in the cold, and Conan has his dart watch ready in the blink of an eye, scope pointed directly at the source of the noise. He doesn't make a sound as the figure of a young man appears from the darkness.

"Ah, crap! It's broken, what am I gonna do now? Jii's gonna kill me!" The owner of the voice stomps into view, and Conan blinks, astonished.

He'd wanted to see Kaitou KID. Well, he's gotten his wish.

Kaitou KID, when first prompted to the mind, is a man cast from a flowing white cape, like liquid wings in the darkness, and a monocle accompanied by a fancy white top hat. The outfit itself is ornate and complex, probably a disaster to get into for each heist, and Conan watches the clover charm of the monocle sway in a hypnotizing motion like the swing of a pendulum. This is KID. This is KID, and apparently his hang glider is broken.

Conan wants to laugh. At his vantage point, he has the ultimate chance to shoot his dart and cart the thief off to the police at any moment. KID doesn't see him, and all it takes is the press of a finger.

Oddly enough, Conan just waits. He lowers his wrist and smiles wryly, watching as KID's frustration bleeds into his actions. So this is the KID no one sees. So this is the KID Conan has gotten to witness.

Somehow, the moment seems fragile. He doesn't know why; it's just a boy and his rival. But considering that that boy is really sixteen and that that rival is an internationally wanted phantom thief, Conan can concede to the oddness of the scene. He really should make a move; then again, the boy just wants to be alone. He'll wait for KID to move on.

Suddenly, the thief stiffens, back hardening into a rigid board. He straightens, casting a glance around. "Who's there? Show yourself!" There's a sense of panic in his voice, like he believes a killer is hiding around the corner. Conan recognizes the tone, and compares it to his own. The inflection is like his desperation at hunting down the ones who had gotten him into this mess.

(Pain at the back of his head, blood everywhere, concussion ow stop whatareyoupainpainpainpainpain.)

The detective slowly sits up, wincing at how his legs are numb with cold, and deliberately makes noise for KID to hear. His footsteps are soft, barely audible, but still noticeable with the crunch of snow. The sound reminds Conan of a cat's padding; his shoes are soft on the ground. Shinichi is curious. What could make Kaitou KID sound so urgent and serious?

"It's just me," Conan says dryly, face buried within his scarf. He holds his hands in the air and wiggles his fingers mockingly. "I'm not going to attack you, if that's what you're thinking—if I'd wanted to, I'd have gone to the heist." Somehow, saying it out loud makes it all the more true; if Conan had wanted to see KID, well, KID would have seen him.

KID makes a coughing noise in the back of his throat, one that reminds Conan of a startled cat, and the detective smirks behind his scarf. "I'm not in the mood today, though," he admits. Azure eyes cut through the darkness and shift away. "…Hadn't expected you to be here."

KID's expression, from what Conan can see from his height, is perplexed, and it causes satisfaction to bloom in his chest. Rarely does he manage to pierce the thief's poker face. Even more rarely does he get to see him troubled.

"You're not wearing your glasses," KID mumbles, releasing his mangled cape from his hands. The mechanism drops to the ground but doesn't make a sound, vanishing in a puff of smoke, and Conan's smirk widens just a touch. KID is an entertainer at heart; he can't help but show off.

The fact that Shinichi has no idea how he does it doesn't have a play in his amusement at all. Conan wants him to stop being in denial. He isn't.

He likes Kaitou KID. He can admit that, but things get complicated when he's really sixteen and seven and the person he likes happens to be male. And of an unknown age at that.

There's a light, companionable silence in that street, both figures drenched in silver moonlight and the molten fire of stars. To Conan, KID looks like a spirit, an intangible god. But that insufferable fake smile isn't there, and for once Conan sees a genuine smile on the man's face. KID isn't a god nor spirit nor phantom. He's just human.

(Shinichi can understand. He can understand how people see detectives as gods, but like any person he must have reasoning and evidence down before they can praise him.)

There's a mutual understanding. Now, outside of heists, the two aren't enemies. They've never been enemies, come to think, and are more friends than anything else. Conan likes the equality they share, likes the fact that KID doesn't know who he really is and treats him with equal standing regardless. He's been around Ran and Occhan and the Tantei Shounen enough that he's nearly forgotten what being Shinichi is like. Being with KID gives him a wisp of that memory.

He likes being with KID.

"I wanted to get away from life for a bit," Conan answers easily, lowering his hood. "My glasses are a bit iconic, if you know what I mean." People recognize him by the shape of his spectacles alone. Is the boy around seven? Does he have a pair of glasses and a bow tie? Hey, it's that boy that helped save Suzūki Jirokichi's jewels a couple times!

Conan can see KID suppress a snicker, and the smirk doesn't leave his face until he heads back to his bench. As he sits down, he grimaces; the metal has become cold to touch again.

Kaitou KID's reply is a question. "Why would you need to get away from life, Tantei-kun?" The man behind the disguise cocks his head in a bird-like motion and moves to the bench as well, gliding along the snow. All Conan can hear is the rustling of his clothing as KID sticks a hand in his pocket. Closer now, the boy notices the curiosity of his stare.

"I've got more problems than you'd think," Shinichi answers, voice playful, hiding the tired and sullen quality of his words. His scrawny shoulders bob in a shrug, and he eyes the figure standing directly before him. Conan does not move, small but still taking up all of the space on the bench.

KID's face betrays a hint of annoyance—Conan wants to laugh because he knows the man wants to sit down. It is, after all, the dead of winter, and his legs must be killing him, but the boy sits smugly in his spot.

There is a brief pause of hesitation.

Conan squawks as he is lifted by his underarms and placed onto the lap of a decidedly warm and oh my god I'm sitting in Kaitou KID's lap what the hell? The detective's face warms up, and he scrabbles to get away from the thief, but strong, wiry arms hold him in place, locking around his stomach. The horror! Shinichi feels so mortified that for a moment he stops flailing only to gape at the street and avoid KID's eyes.

In contrast, KID sighs in bliss, because his legs really have been killing him and he wants to sit down, if just for a second. He can't get home by hang glider, and the train stations are all closed at this time of night. Kaito really should call Jii… but he doesn't want to be scolded just yet.

So he'll sit down and laugh at Tantei-kun's reaction instead.

"Kid! Get—get off of me!" Conan wriggles in his spot, trying to get away, somehow turning in his spot until he's facing KID and glaring at him. As a rule, no one may annoy Shinichi in any such a way. The absolute disdain on his face is a testament to how truly irritated he is. Conan knows the cause is because he's physically seven. KID would never put a sixteen year old Shinichi on his lap if his life depended on it, the boy knows, and not for the first time (probably millionth) Conan curses his infantilized form.

KID snickers, a rumbling motion Conan can feel against his shoulder. "I'm not on you, Tantei-kun," he says amusedly, violet eyes sparkling in mirth. "More like under you, so it's you who has to get off of me."

"Then let me go, and I'll get off!" Conan tugs at the arm, not pouting (because dammit, he's sixteen regardless of his body), and begins to bang on the gloved hand with balled fists. It is an action in futility; KID feels nothing, much to his ire. If anything, the grip tightens.

"But I want to hug you some more, Tantei-kun!" KID asserts puerilely, squeezing the breath out of Conan's lungs. "You know you like it! You're my number one fan, after all!"

"Who—the hell's—your number one fan!" Conan pants in between pushing the arm away. It slackens just a bit because KID can see him turning blue, enough for him to gulp in some much needed air but nothing more. "If anything, I'm your anti-fan," he gasps, slumping back onto the man's chest. By gods, KID is a lunatic!

KID laughs—there's that rumbling again—and lays a hand against his chest playfully. "Oh, how you wound me so! You know you love me!"

Conan deadpans, catching his breath. "I do not love you."

"Do to."

"Do not." (Oh god, are they really going to play this game?)

"Do to!"

"Do no—" Conan's eyes widen as fingers dig into his sides. "ot!—awahahaha—stop! Stop—puhahaha–!"

Kaitou KID grins madly as he pokes his fingers into Conan's ribs and stomach, tickling the child until he is blue in the face. "That's right! Say it! You're my number one fan!"

"N-neve—ahahahaha—Never!"

"Say it!"

"No—ahahaha—okay, okay, I give!"

KID smirks in that way that so infuriates Conan, and the boy's blue eyes dig daggers into the young man's own, icy cold and mutinous. "Say it," the thief singsongs, eyes full of amusement and mirth. "Who are you?"

Conan's expression drips with disgust, but KID ignores it, laughing at the boy's plight. "…I'm Edogawa Conan," he says haltingly, lips pressed into a fine line.

"And~?"

"…And I'm Kaitou KID's number…number one fan," he grouses in between mental complains and death threats.

There is a click. A crooked smirk shines on KID's face.

"…And I'm Kaitou KID's number…number one fan." Click. "…And I'm Kaitou KID's number…number one fan."

The expletives suddenly sprouting on Conan's lips do not surprise him at all.

"You recorded me!"

"Hey, hey, it was a once in a lifetime chance! When else will I get to hear my favorite Tantei-kun admit to being my number one fan?" Oddly or not oddly enough, KID's laughter just incites him even further. Conan lunges for the tape in that gloved hand, grabbing for the machine with a furious gleam in his eyes.

"Give me that!" He grasps at the air. KID dodges and flashes away in a puff of smoke, laughing and grinning, a stupid smirk on his face. "Oi! You stupid thief!"

Try as he might, Conan does not get the tape. Instead, the moment his back is turned the magician disappears into thin air, leaving nothing but a little card behind, written in sloppy handwriting with a lopsided insignia of the thief glistening in wet ink at the bottom right corner.

Nice try, Tantei-kun, but this tape is more precious than any diamond out there!

Conan growls in fury, a mixed noise of irritation and frustration tearing from his throat, and he stomps all the way back to the detective agency, cold air not cooling him in the slightest. It isn't until he has closed the door and begun to undress that he notices there is a second part to the message on the back.

Hope you feel better! My number one fan can't stay down for too long!

Try as he might, Shinichi can't keep the smile from breaking across his face, and there's that emotion in his chest that he hasn't felt in a while, that Conan hasn't felt even once.

That little thing called happiness.