AN: Hello~ We're back again with another chapter of Beige after getting a bit side tracked with Front Row and Center. Hope you enjoy! :D

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He's moved himself to the back corner of the classroom, head tucked in between his arms and he recites The Sign of Four under his breath as a constant reminder for himself to breathe.

(But there's that fear sitting and coiling in the back of his head, thoughts twisting— "Look at you, Kudou Shinichi. Look at you. What if people looked at you?")

He's done reciting the end of the novel and moves on to the next, The Hound of the Baskervilles.

(He tries to ignore the curious glances from his classmates because there's no doubt that they've heard or smelled something—but no one says anything yet.)

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table—"

("Look at you. What if people looked at you?")

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Shinichi had never bothered to remember the days of the week.

The week ended when it ended, and started when it started.

He usually misses important dates, because numbers are irrelevant to counting the days when every day is nearly identical to the next.

(Shinichi finds himself staring at the pocket calendar in the back of his notebook, pen tracing X's impressed on the boxes of Monday and Tuesday.)

How many more days until the week ends? Three?

It's only three hours per day but that leaves him with twenty-one hours to replay it until it's burned into his memories.

(It all feels like a long dream.)

Three hours a day.

But a total of ninety-six hours left until the weekend.

(It feels so very long.)

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He usually goes into the police station every Wednesday and Friday. From the afternoon to evening, he'd spend hours hovering over officers' shoulders, working with them to solve cases, crack codes, check theories.

But today…

Megure-keibu sends him home the very second Shinichi reaches the door of the station.

Most officers try to be discreet, but Shinichi feels their stares boring into his skin.

(Staring at the mess he is, the disheveled clothes, how he stares into the space above their shoulders— "Look at you. What if people looked at you?")

—staring at the ghost that he's become.

"Shinichi-kun, we're all right for today," Megure says and he cups his back with a firm pat. Shinichi winces. "No need to worry your head over anything. Why don't you head home to rest?"

He tries to argue. "How about a cold case file? You should have some—"

"Nothing that we can't handle," Megure laughs as he retreats to his office.

Satou sneaks behind him like how she always does and clasps her hands on Shinichi's shoulders. "Good afternoon, Shinichi-kun~"

"Satou-keiji—" He turns to her. "Tell me that you have something— anything I can do?"

She stares at him and tilts her head. "You okay, Shinichi-kun? You look like you haven't slept. Maybe you should go home—"

(—back to the swallowing silence, to the memories that play like a broken tape in his mind.)

He shudders and shakes his head. A nervous smile pulls at his lips, "I'm alright, haha—"

Satou considers him, doubt knitting her brows together.

(—please, please don't.)

There's a comforting squeeze on his shoulder, but it feels like needles stabbing into his skin. Satou gives him a private smile, a quirk in her lip and a softening edge to her eyes. "Get rest."

Whether it's woman's intuition or not, her small sigh seems to say—hang on.

"Okay…" He finds himself deflating.

She's like a mother.

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During the nights, he sits alone and pretends Kaito is with him while time crawls on.

He imagines the warmth of Kaito's hand in his and it's what keeps the nightmares at bay—if only for a few minutes.

(When he stops thinking, there's a heavy breath moistening the skin on his neck— "I'll be watching you, Kudou-kun—" —he startles, skin clammy and pulse erratic.)

So he keeps thinking.

Brain whirring about everything and anything—cold case files, TV series, the discounts at the supermarket—until thoughts cross and nothing makes sense.

(Kaito had gone for a week to America for a relatives' wedding. He's coming back on Sunday night, his plane lands at 8:40 pm.)

Shinichi lugs a chair and sits in front of the large grandfather clock.

He struggles to stay awake, eyes following the ornate hand, ticking and ticking its way around the roman numerals.

He's counting down three days, sixteen hours, and forty-two minutes.

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He doesn't remember when the clock face disappears into darkness.

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Shinichi dreams in a world that has a watery film filtering over it.

He's in the hallway at school looking out smoky glass windows; Shinichi doesn't turn but he knows Kaito is a few paces away and asking about him.

"I'm fine," Shinichi says and he turns to look.

Kaito—or a blur of Kaito—shakes his head and there's something strange in the way he stands, the way he slouches over with a weight on his shoulder—it all looks so familiar.

"No, I'm not—"

"What?"

His dream skips and starts again and he's faced with a mirror and a blur of a figure that he needs to squint to make out.

(Dark shadows under bloodshot eyes, a grimace on his lips, and he's bone-skinny, pale white, this is a portrait of Shinichi—)

"This isn't fine, I'm not okay." The blur says and Shinichi watches him melt into sand—

Rewind a million times and his dream becomes like a broken record.

"I'm not okay. I'm not okay, I'm not ok—"

A wind blows and Shinichi sees a wisp of beige fade into black.

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It's Thursday.

He hardly calls that sleep, but he gets up at seven in the morning anyways because Shinichi is punctual even when his eyelids are heavy and his brain hammers for him to go back to bed.

His bones ache when he steps away from the small armchair; muscles screaming just for relief.

(He ignores it and begins his morning routines just the same.)

Shinichi fixes himself in the bathroom, eyes concentrating on the swirl of water emptying down the drain. He shuts the faucet before stumbling to his room to change.

His uniform lies on his bed; washed, pressed, and clean now. He peels the thin shirt from his back and winces as his skin prickle at the cold morning air.

(Red lines run across white, dark purple peppers down his side—)

He grabs his dress shirt and clenches his eyes shut—he's tired, eyes strained, don't look, don't look—

Shinichi leaves the house by 7:40, Ran stops waiting for him after 7:20.

(It's more convenient that way, because there's a limp he would have to hide from her.)

He gets to school by 8:20, and walks on his limp like nothing happened.

(This is fine, he'll be okay— if he keeps telling himself, he'll come to believe it soon.)

Another day becomes another day.

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Ran doesn't ask questions.

Shinichi is glad she doesn't.

She probably suspects that he's tired from retracing locations of cold case murders or that he's been poring over books during ungodly hours of the night because there's no Kuroba to keep him in check.

(He's doing his best to smile, but she's his best friend, she knows even if she doesn't.)

Shinichi doesn't sit beside her and Ran is okay with that.

(He's in the corner, shoved his desk two inches to the left, ten inches back, and just puts his head against the surface.)

He's counting.

The hours, the minutes, the seconds.

It's almost lunch break.

"Shinichi?" The question hangs in the air and she has his lunch. She's worried but still no questions.

(Ran does make the effort to feed him though, bringing bentos for two even if he only looks at it and won't eat. Can't eat—)

"Sorry, I have to go," he says.

He takes his bag with him, walks out the room, and down the hall.

He's counting.

The tiles on the floor, the steps.

(Twenty steps down the hall, turn left, walk ten more steps and he's in front of the door.)

He's counting.

The breaths, the shudders, the jolts of pain in his hips.

(It's all routine, just routine. This is fine, he'll be okay.)

He's counting.

One day, four hours, and ten minutes to the weekend.

(He twists the doorknob, and a stifling air reaches out to greet him.)

He's counting.

("Good afternoon, Kudou-kun.")

Three days, eight hours, and forty-four minutes.

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Thursday bleeds into Friday just like any other night.

He forces himself awake.

Usually, when he's pulling all-nighters with case files or analysis papers, he brews pots of coffee and drinks nothing else. But now he's holding his first cup, gone cold after three hours, and doesn't drink.

(Can't drink, because he's swallowed enough—)

Shinichi has every light in his house turned on; eyes wide, blue chasing the hand as it ticks down and around.

He doesn't want to sleep.

Two hours pass and Shinichi wakes up, cold sweat on his brow, and he thinks he should eat something.

It's seven.

He can't stomach the slice of bread and ends up leaving at 8:30, when all the sour bile and everything else were flushed down the toilet.

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No one talks to him.

(People open their mouths, but to him they're whispering dirt, laughing at him about how he's all shame with disgust tied around like a little bow.)

He jolts when a hand is on his shoulder, it's light and fleeting—Ran.

He can't see her, she's a mess of pale blue and soft beige against the white of the ceiling.

"Shinichi, I think you should see the nurse and head home—"

("See me at lunch, Kudou-kun. Don't be late.")

"Shinichi—?"

(In his mind, Shinichi is looking at her, smile on his face, and tells her he's perfectly fine and he can't leave, because—"I have to stay." )

Shinichi's eyes float down and nothing but a sigh leaves his cracked lips.

He doubts she heard him because the gentle touch leaves him, and he's feeling cold with nothing but a mantra on his lips.

"I have to. I have to."

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Past the Doyle novels he's memorized and the notes about various poisons, Shinichi finds a door hidden in the dark crevices of his mind.

It's a small door; he has to crawl to get through it.

It's small, dark, cold—perfect.

(Every day, it's the same thing. His mouth is swollen and his hair is pulled. Tears streak down his cheeks and he inhales—breathe, Shinichi, breathe.)

When he gets on his knees, he sees the heavy lock and the tiny key.

("Good boy, keep it up. Swallow everything— that's it, Kudou-kun, just like the dog you are—")

Shinichi disappears into the dark space, wraps himself up, knees to his chest.

The door slams behind him.

(He's counting.)

Shinichi leaves the key behind.

(He's waiting.)

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AN: FF net is being kind of weird so if you see errors with the section breaks, please disregard it! It's a bit annoying to fix. ;_; But anyways, as always, please leave a review! Thank you! :D

-Yoyoboyo Inc.