A Shin'ichi fic, in honor of May 4th.

Truth

What do you do when the past catches up to you, but there is no going back?

He should have known better than to go up to the roof. He really should have. But he is considered the faster runner, so he chases after the fleeing mugger while his partner ensures that the man's victim isn't otherwise hurt.

It isn't fair. Muggers are supposed to run until they're caught, disappear into the crowd or reach a getaway vehicle. They aren't supposed to abandon the ground in favor of a fire escape.

-Heights are my territory.- Except they aren't, there's no reason for the echo of half-feeling besides his habit of always finding somewhere to perch rather than somewhere to sit. He hates open heights, or at least rooftops, which are usually all the open heights to be found in Tokyo. Trees, especially the tree in his backyard, don't count.

But there is no time to think about what's on the other end of the fire escape when the mugger jumps onto it in a semi-impressive display of acrobatics. There is only the chase, following his quarry upward with an ease that makes the man curse, until they do reach the top of the five-story apartment building.

That is when it all goes insane.

He is used to rooftops summoning a whisper of unease, like the fear of the dark he's never actually had. But there is something about this one: the moment it sinks in where he is, his feet freeze on the smooth concrete tiles, and his lungs start working double-time without his permission.

He doesn't want to be here.

The feeling is illogical, and a hindrance he can't afford with the mugger now trying the stair access door. Through sheer force of will, he ignores the growing, swirling feel of unnamed dread declaring in blazing neon letters across the back of his skull that this is a Bad Idea, and takes a step forward. His ineffectual shouted order to stop running only sends the man to the far side of the roof in search of escape.

-You don't want to stand there.-

There is no second way down. Pivoting back to face him with all the danger of a cornered wild animal, the mugger pulls a gu—a knife, which isn't that surprising, since guns are illegal in Japan, so why can't he shake the certainty that the man should have pulled a gun?

There is nothing more to say, nothing for him to do but stand guard in front of the fire escape as the man advances toward him, eyes alight with desperation. Retreat is impossible, asking for a blade between the ribs, but it still takes all his will to stay put in the face of the hindbrain-level command to be anywhere but here.

"Move, boy, or I'll gut you."

"…No." He's trembling visibly, but not from fear of the knife or the man. Darkness swirls up around him that has nothing to do with absence of light, the kind in which there prowl Bad Things—

-And unless you get away Right Now, rightnowawayrightNOW it's coming…-

The man lunges, knife aimed—he doesn't see where, because he is already moving, Tae Kwon Do's fluid counters ingrained far below the level of conscious thought. He has done this one before, in practice, though not often, because he's never liked it for some irrational reason—but not irrational now, as familiarity flows over him like coal-black oil. Sound dims, sight dims, and all that remains is movement in the dark, taking momentum and using it to throw the body over his hip… so close to the bearing wall that over his hip means over the side of the building, as well.

As the feel of empty air sinks in, sound is still gone and vision goes… oddly fragmented. There's daylight sky, there, but also the cold, pitiless light of the moon as well, and his bare hands are gloved and his scar hurts like it hasn't since the hospital. All he dearly, desperately wants is to be away, away, away, away… except running from somewhere also involves running to somewhere, and the farther his mind runs the closer he gets until some invisible line is crossed, and when the dam breaks the sudden rush of memory is a crashing flood. He doesn't want to know what he forgot any more, because it's right here now and he knows and doesn't want to know, and oh kami-sama he HURTS…

It doesn't register that he's sunk to the ground, rocking, until solid warmth in the form of two strong arms breaks through the void of –OhshitgetitAWAY– to wrap around him from the side, supportive but not confining.

"It's okay. You're okay. The bastard's alive, I caught him from the fire escape on the way down. All he's got is a dislocated shoulder and maybe some bruised ribs. Just breathe, nice and easy, it's okay, breathe…"

He knows that voice, though the tone of urgent concern is foreign, and latches on to its odd familiarity as the dark slowly recedes. The voice is young, and male, and he wastes a moment trying to place who of the people he knows would worry about him like this. Whoever it is (-Secret-seer-, something whispers), he dimly realizes that this other did not bother to ask what was wrong, just started telling him what he needed most to hear. That familiarity—both his reaction to the voice and this person's disconcerting degree of understanding of him—nags at him, because he doesn't think he's ever let anyone that close. And somehow that part of him that does recognize it knows that this voice is incessantly curious and rarely worried.

Curiosity dimming the vestiges of panic, he tries to focus on his anchor, blinking until blurry vision sharpens to reveal the face of Kaito peering at him in concern—but that's not right, that can't be right, he's Kaito—and the abrupt realization that being Kaito means that is Kudou sends him nearly out of his skin in the opposite direction.

His companion—-hound-partner-rival-friend-, the whispers contradict each other—doesn't try to stop him, though he suspects the detective could have kept him pinned with little effort. Judging by how Kaito (-Shin'ichi?-) feels like a limp noodle, it's the corner of the roof that keeps him from toppling over rather than his faintly trembling limbs.

He is watching Kudou's (-Kaito's?-) eyes from his crouch, trying to predict how the other will react and move, but at first there is nothing but sheer bewildered concern with an undertone of kicked puppy. The eyes are startlingly open compared to those of his memories, free of obscuring shadows, so he has an unexpectedly clear view when, a moment later, something in Kudou's mind suddenly seems to click.

His -friend/not-friend- goes pale, expression flashing quickly through not-precisely-horror and not-precisely-terror to a sort of blankness that is very definitely pain, the numb kind that comes with things like the death of family. And then even the pain is hidden as shadows flood back into those eyes, cutting off everything behind them better than any curtain and turning them at once so much more familiar to his memories and suddenly alien. That watchful, wary look is too still, somehow looking at once at and through him, and it's a moment before a flash of memory clarifies that it's the one reserved for unknown quantities with something precious and fragile trapped in their grip.

Shin—Kai—Kid (-feels right, stick to the title till names make sense-) has never been on the receiving end of that look from this detective before. He only recognizes it because he saw it on his own face, reflected in the mirrored sunglasses of Edogawa Mamoru, when the man came to pick up Conan. Conan who was Kudou, memory insists, but that hurts and gives him a headache because—

-Shin'ichi, this is your cousin, Conan-kun.- The child's face flashes in his mind's eye, looking at him with a combination of dismay, anger, pity, and a very healthy dose of lost, before the boy turns and walks away without a word. It pulled at something in him, then, because even though the others wrote off the snark and odd possessiveness and aloofness in turns as childish jealousy of an interloper, all he really could ever see was the crushing weight of lost in those eyes, a kindred sense of adrift, even if for reasons other than his own blank slate.

He never had a chance to find out those reasons, before his cousin effectively dropped off the face of the planet (-and Kudou never came back, because he is Shin'ichi, but he's also Kaito and the memories are slipping through mental fingers like a sieve-). But he remembers that last look Conan gave him, the same sort of bewilderment seen not a minute ago, and oh Kami he's confused.

As he stares at his not-quite-reflection (-broken mirror, but who's reflecting whom?-), all he can think to do is ask, voice cracking slightly, "Who… are we?"

Kudou's eyes close an instant too late to hide a flash of pain, and Kid is suddenly struck by the gut-twisting sense he's just seen a blade strike home—an invisible sword of Damocles he hadn't realized existed until after his own words inadvertently severed its thread. He sags back against the wall-corner behind him as mixed memory-feelings rise and fall in swells of churning non-answers. All he can decide for certain is he doesn't like the raggedness (-tattered wings-) radiating from his… his. Detective, maybe, they're both that now, no matter who they were. And… lately, he thinks they've been…

"Friends, I hope?" he ventures, a bit more tremulous and plaintive than he'd planned, but this is important. No matter who they are/were/have been, all of him values the unexpected camaraderie that's emerged from the world having shattered and resettled around them. He wants to keep it (-friend-laughter-brother-in-arms-strength-trust-) with such sudden urgency that faint panic stirs at the possibility he might have accidentally destroyed (-lost!-) this priceless thing without ever having had a chance to appreciate it properly.

The detective's eyes snap open as though he's been hit in the head with a two-by-four instead of a question. Kid can't help a breath of relief and hope at the way stunned surprise completely sweeps aside the earlier pain.

"You…" The voice is ragged as well, in a sort of not-quite-broken disbelief, and it trips off another flash of recollection of when the child's voice sounded far too similar to now for comfort. For a split-second back then, memory declares, he'd thought that he'd be dodging a thrown copy of The Sign of Four, but instead his offer of a soccer game was met with the book slamming shut, and Edogawa (-Conan-) running out of the apartment without looking back.

-Conan-kun! I'm sorry, Shin'ichi, I'll go talk to him. Just… stay here, don't go running off again.- It's the second time he's heard the female voice echo in his mind, but this is the first time he actually registers who is speaking. The identity of Ran (-Not Mouri-san, never Mouri-san again-) slots into place with a rush of emotion that knocks him off his feet despite the wall-corner's support, and he half-sprawls on the concrete and simply STARES at the detective.

"How—" his voice is cracking again. "…How could you give me" (-life-freedom-Ran-love-) "so MUCH?"

There is a very, very long silence, and Kid (-Shin'ichi-) cannot read the faint flickers of emotion that swirl in his doppelganger's eyes. Then Kudou—and it is Kudou, false names stripped away, but it also isn't anymore, because Kudou is Kaito now, and Kid isn't Kid any longer, he's Shin'ichi—slowly leans back on his hands and looks up at the clear blue sky. The voice, when he speaks, is little more than a whisper.

"Because you made Ran happy."

It is his turn for stunned silence, trying to reconcile the man before him with the boy-who-was and the boy-who-left. Nothing is as it should be, except it is as it should be because this is better, far better, than the dance of masks in the moonlight… at least he thinks so. And he hopes desperately that his (-friend-brother-other-self-) feels the same, because there's nowhere else for them to stand anymore, the old footholds worn away to sheer cliff-face and he doesn't want to fall again (-please no-)…

He swallows, hard, and looks over the cliff edge into the wind that will not support him. "…Was it worth it?"

He's not expecting an odd little huff of a chuckle in response, as not-Kudou sits up and looks at him. Somehow, the fragility of the other's expression has stabilized (-crystalline-sturdy, not glass-brittle-) and there's a funny sort of peace in the quirk of his almost-smile.

"You tell me. We're in something of the same position now, after all."

He stares in confusion for a split-second. Then memory hits like a bullet train.

-Aoko.-

Images flash by, a torrent of moments Kid-Kaito held as precious—a rose beneath the clock tower, piano notes forming bright background to his magic show; mayhem and moppery on their last 'normal' day; ice cream shared in trust, even if that trust was half-falsely given; smiles that were bright and cheerful, soft and sweet, slow and sad—and as he remembers a missed birthday party and a present whose flash couldn't quite make up for being too late to celebrate with her, he thinks he just might understand.

"You… never lied to her," he murmurs haltingly, searching for the right words. "Never hurt her, even to keep her safe. But you love her, because… you chose to love her, not a memory or a created image, when you were remaking yourself."

He did much the same, though without memories of another time to let go of before he could move on. The choice had still been his though, and standing on the far side of three years together with his now-wife… He will always love Aoko a little, he thinks, but it is easy to hold her as a sister-friend now, precious in an entirely different way from what he'd once hoped to be. He doesn't regret the choice to love Ran in the slightest.

In a funny, slightly twisted sort of way, it's worked out as well as any of them could have hoped, given the nightmare that began all this. He is Shin'ichi, without Conan and all of the baggage attached. And his friend (-cousin-brother-) is Kaito, without the existence of Kid standing as a barrier between him and the woman he loves.

"Is it worth it?" he murmurs again, but this time to himself, and this time he thinks he knows the answer. "If she can be happy, and I can be—if all four of us can be happy the way we are now—" he gives not-Kudou an inquiring look, and gets a nod of acknowledgment in return, "then… Yeah, I think it could be."

He raises an eyebrow, and there's a newly acquired faint sense of glee at knowing that the other will hear the unvoiced, 'No cop-outs. Is it for you?'

"She loved you enough to say yes," is all the response he gets. "Two years is long enough to decide if the person behind a face and name makes you happy." A pause, and then another smile. "You already know my thoughts on Aoko."

Newer memory rises to match the comment, and he laughs. "I wondered why you dragged me instead of Ha—Saguru-kun to Shibuya last month."

The automatic correction to use Saguru's first name rather than surname distracts him for a moment, but Kid's old habit settles beneath his new ones without protest—sometimes they all get odd looks for being business partners on first-name basis, but he likes it, likes the close camaraderie between them that it signifies.

"Saguru-kun had a date that night too, but yeah. It seemed more fitting to have your approval." The quirky half-grin returns. "No one knows quality gems like you, after all."

"Damn straight." The familiar banter wraps around him like a warm blanket, contentment humming through his veins, because this is who-they-are, not who-they-were. "But even if you'd be suckered on price on your own, I'll grant that at least you have a good idea of what she'll like."

The ring once-Kudou found is white gold, a small diamond nestled in the space between two pointed oval sapphires, like a small white flower bud with two blue leaves… or, from another perspective, two blue hands cradling something precious. Kudou-Kaito has always had a weakness for symbolism.

But, speaking of the recipient…

"We're going to have to tell them, you know," he murmurs, arms wrapping around his knees. "Now that I know… they deserve the truth."

He's lied enough, witting and unwitting both. He doesn't want to have to hide. Not from Ran.

…She's already had enough of that for one lifetime already.

There is another long pause. "…Shite. I'll dig up my running shoes."

Kaito, Shin'ichi decides as he laughs half in humor and half in nervous anticipation, has been hanging around Saguru too much.

…So. Three years after the original one-shot, a resolution arc begins. It might not be what you were expecting, or hoping for, but please chime in with your reactions and opinions in a review.

Ocianne

(5/10)