Author's note: I do not own Detective Conan, nor Magic Kaito. All purposes for this fan fiction are not commercial and will not result in a fnmefznd (exasperated author rolls her eyes to the ceiling, chomps in a chocolate bar and goes on typing).

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Belonging (in the city of light)

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On a cool, light-blue morning of October (A/N: crappy way to begin! sorry,) famous magician Takashi Hirota was disturbed in his training (well, it as more something like juggling with plates of apples and oranges and smacking pigeons out of thin air while vaguely listening to the news and fixing the coffee machine, which had got stuck yet again) by the phone. He let it ring a few dozen times, biting in a red apple and glaring at the small wires that intertwined themselves in the delicate pattern of the coffee engine, then the answering machine turned itself on.

A voice, which sounded vaguely familiar but that was probably only because it spoke in Japanese, echoed through the Parisian flat. The young magician fumbled blindly on the kitchen table for the remote, and switched the TV off at the moment the speaker began on the subject of a criminal org–

"Hirota-san? You do not know me…"

Oh, that was an interesting beginning. He let go of the coffee machine and turned his head to the phone. A small, red light was blinking on it.

"… I'm a journalist."

Arrrgh. He went back at the coffee machine.

"I saw your show yesterday night…"

"And I would like to have a few words with you," the magician murmured at the same time that the speaker – a woman, and still very young by the sound of her voice – uttered it.

"I know that you're a very busy person, but I should like to have a talk over some tricks of your show. I am familiar with magicians' business, and your work reminded me extremely of what the late Kuroba Touichi–"

A clash. The reluctant machine was left to its fate as the young magician threw his apple into the bin and, picking up another, approached the phone. He run his hand in his messy, dark hair, and listened more closely.

"–used to begin with. If you wish to contact me by suite of this call…"

Takashi picked up. "Yes? What must I do?"

There was a small gasp, then the voice came again, less deformed. "Are you Takashi Hirota-san?"

"Yes. Sorry, I was having a problem with my coffee machine."

A comprehensive pause. Troubles with coffee machines are universal.

"I've listened to your message. You're right, I'm quite a busy person – but I should be able to place a conversation with him in today's schedule. Are you already taken?"

"No, I'm quite free. What time would most suit you?"

"Would you mind dropping in around five 'o clock? I'll have got rid of any disturbers by then. You probably have my address, if you found my telephone number. Where did you, by the way?"

"Through your manager. Five 'o clock. I'll be there."

The magician smirked a little. She seemed to be a handy person. Her way of talking was slightly familiar too. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't." She marked a short pause. "My name's Nakamori. Nakamori Aoko."

This time the gasp was on his side; but so repressed, so rapidly chocked back, that the journalist, on the other end of the line, wasn't likely to have noticed anything. He pulled himself together enough to tell her good-bye, then put the phone down, dismayed.

-

She was straight on time – that was an improvement, as she had never been very punctual. He felt a pang to the heart as he opened his door to her; she had barely changed… her face was thinner, its previous childish curves having softened with time, and her long hair was carelessly brought up at the back of her head, black locks scattered all around on her shoulders. She was dressed, not with one of the smart, neatly cut suits women in her profession tend to wear, but in a blue shirt and black jeans; she looked a radiant twenty-three-years-old. All tomboyness was long gone by now.

He let her in, wondering if she may have recognised him. Well, of course not, he thought. She could have no idea who he was; if she did she wouldn't be here, talking to him, smiling at him – not after the last words of hate, the last look of disgust she had been giving him five years before.

The usual greetings and formal presentations were exchanged while he served tea. "I'm sorry," he said with an apologizing smile, "coffee couldn't be displayed tonight." He was careful to keep the slightly pompous tone he used for his shows; he had long learned to know that changing one's way of talking was often more effective than disguising one's voice.

"It's okay," she said lightly, laughingly. "I'm very fond of tea."

I know, he thought, while settling on the couch in front of her, pushing away the not-yet open newspaper that was laid on it. He waited for her to speak, which he always did with journalists – he hated it when they began talking of the weather or of something else altogether, when they were here to interview him. However, he was familiar enough with Aoko's ways to know she would go straight to the point.

After a few moments' silence, she slowly put her mug down, got out a notebook and pencil, and laid them on the table, smiling up at him.

"I went to your show yesterday night," she said.

"Really?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "And how did you like it?"

"I shouldn't be telling you that. I'm here to interview you, after all… But, your work deserves praise – so I won't compromise myself by telling that I liked it very much. It reminded me of…" there she stopped, looking thoughtful.

"… Kuroba Touichi, if I got your message OK," he said.

"Yes, in a way. Your show looks like him. Do you admire him?"

He bowed a straightforward bow. "He's my greater source of inspiration." He wasn't taking too much risk by telling that – his father was known all over the world and many other magicians he knew were following in Kuroba Touichi's footsteps. "But I daresay I have my own originality."

Surprisingly, she laughed. "Oh, you sure do," she said, "for instance, the name of your show."

He'd seen that one coming.

"'The Rose…' it's a very beautiful name. Its simplicity and elegance are reflections of the grace of every one of the tricks there displayed…" she laughed again. Her mirth was fresh and limpid, clear of all insinuations. "This is what I'll say in my critic. But if I could have the reason for which it was chosen, I'm certain our readers would appreciate."

She was leading it very well, reading between the lines of his words and his show. She opposed that with frankness and sincerity; her honesty he didn't think he deserved was rather painful. He felt like a criminal, hiding his identity to her for the second time in their lives.

"Well," he said slowly, "roses are very symbolic to me. They…" remind me of you. "… were the witnesses of my first kid tricks; they, in a way, taught me magic. The memories they hold are the reasons why I became a magician."

Maybe it was going a little too far to say that. She looked stricken, and indeed puzzled; her brow was furrowed, as though memories were coming back to her too. The nearest alarm clock thought it clever to choose that moment and ring – though they were no shining bells, its echoes seemed to backtrack time.

It was her who changed the topic, turning her eyes away from the clock and the large window that stood behind it. "One of your tricks," she said with a casual air, professionally taking up her notebook and pencil, "puzzled me exceedingly. That shrewdness with the mirror–"

Aoko was gone – he'd had her under his eyes for a moment – and Nakamori-san was back on track, job-accurate. The conversation went on professionally, asked questions and given answers about his show and his prospects. The young magician replied mechanically to her precise interrogations, enjoying less the discussion in itself than the simple fact of talking to her again. Being with her once more was something he'd only dared dream about. And meeting back with her voice, her perfume, her eyes, which seemed to welcome him back like the old, long-lost friends they were, was stirring emotions from such depths in him she had never suspected.

He was moved by the smallest gesture, that old habit of hers of curling her black locks around her index finger while she was talking… she noticed his gaze upon her hand and laid it on the table with a small smile.

"Silly habit of mine," she said with an apologetic shrug. She gathered her stuff, and Kaito realized that she was going to leave, that they may never meet again, that this could be the last time he saw her. And he thought, like an overflowing blow erasing every other idea in his mind, that he didn't want to, he couldn't let her go. He avidly caught her last gestures, her last words, her last smile, feeling that this sight would pursue him in his dreams if he didn't keep it for himself.

She was already standing on the doorstep, turning to say goodbye, when, without thinking, without even elaborating the sentence, he asked her to dinner.

She seemed surprised, and, at first, reluctant.

"Nothing extraordinary," he hastily added. "I know a very nice Italian restaurant only two streets away. It's a really agreeable place and the food's good."

She looked relieved – obviously she'd feared he'd take her in one expensive French restaurant.

"I should be looking forward to it, then," she said after they'd decided he'd go and fetch her at her hotel at eight on the next day. She smiled at him and was gone, and he was left to close the door on the deserted landing, and to wonder whether he should feel happy or not.

-

Neither of them dressed for the event. He was wearing casual clothes and herself appeared in rather a rush, entering the hotel through its entrance and hastily meeting him in the hall.

"I'm sorry," she panted, out of breath, "I was assisting a reunion, and it, er, lasted longer than I thought." She hoisted back her brown bag on her shoulder and gave him the kind of smile that was certain to make his heart race.

They went their way, indifferently talking about Paris and their common stay there. Aoko seemed very fond of it.

"One really feels that it's an old town," she was saying as they advanced in a large, brilliantly lit avenue. "The buildings and streets speak their age." She laughed. "And I am speaking like a journalist."

Kaito listened to her with amusement, marvelling in her glee and youth. After four years spent in his study training on tricks, and having conversations with few people but old managers and old magicians, it was refreshing to get back in one's time. Answering her felt natural and just, their discussion was the one they would have had if they'd never said goodbye. It was just wonderful to feel her, to talk to her without having too much to hide, to have her presence by his side – and yet fantastic that after five years they should walk here, in Paris, half a world away from where they had met and parted.

The restaurant was a small place in a nearest street, agreeable and warm. Kaito knew it well; he often ate here – and the steward, when he came to take their order, nodded wryly at Aoko and winked at him. Kaito smiled back. He felt more joyful than he'd been in years.

The food was delicious – more, he thought, than it ever was. Aoko had always liked Italian cooking. A few tables away, a couple were noisily talking of a criminal scandal involving people in Japan and the American FBI, but he paid no attention to it as he pointed, teasingly,

"I researched about you, you know. It seems that you're quite well known in Japan – that you're specialised in magician shows and receiving a visit from you is a rare treat. Should I feel honoured?" he asked with a slight, humorous bow of the head.

She laughed. "Nah – those are just gossip. I've been visiting every good magician on the point of becoming famous. I prefer them to those who already are – there are never anything new about them, while the new ones are bringing in some originality and inspiration."

"But you've always stayed in Japan, so far," he remarked. "Why did you bother yourself to travel all the way to Paris and see me?"

"Because I'm working on Japanese magicians – which you are, although you live in France."

He acknowledged this. After a few moments' silence, however, he asked what he knew the stranger to her life he was supposed to be would've wondered.

"You said you could see similitudes between my work and Kuroba Touichi's," he said. "But, if I'm not mistaken, you can't have been more than ten years old when he died. How come you know his tricks so well?"

She put her fork down and looked thoughtful.

"I knew his son."

"His… what?"

"His son. We were childhood friends." Her eyes trailed on her plate. He could see she was biting her lower lip.

The same couple as before kept talking of their scandal, louder and louder, it seemed; they often referred to a Kudo-something. Tantei-kun had probably solved yet another case, he thought with a shrug and an irritated glance at the disturbers.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "This seemed to recall nasty memories."

"Oh – no," she reassured him with a smile. "It's just that we haven't met in years. But–" she began twirling her spaghetti around her fork again. "–we met when we were seven or so, and I used to go at his place rather often. So I knew Kuroba Touichi rather well – even if he died some three years later, still I remember him and his tricks very well. He was an admirable man."

"Was it what decided you to become a journalist specialised in magic shows?" he asked in a light, teasing tone.

"Not really," she laughed. "As a matter of fact, Kaito," her voice faltered a little on the name but soon was firm again," was truly his father's son. He loved magic and he always was doing tricks. Everybody thought he would become a magician as a profession," she added pointedly.

Kaito knew he was supposed to ask the question, and he did, even if he dreaded the answer. "And were you and this young man having a particular relationship?" he asked, choosing his words carefully – he wasn't meant to know the answer –, a mocking smile he was far from really feeling pasted on his lips.

A deep blush immediately spread on her cheeks, astonishing him. Stunned, he watched her as she opened her mouth, closed it, looked sideways with evident confusion. Could it be? he thought, dumbfounded. Could it be that she still…

"It's complicated. We were, er, dating. But something happened, and we… we broke up. That was five years ago." She looked with vague interest at her fork-full of spaghetti and went on, "He left Japan after that. I haven't seen him nor heard from him in…"

"Why didn't you call him?" Kaito asked, his mouth dry.

"What happened between us prevented me. He would probably would've pushed me away… moreover," she added with so sad a smile he nearly heard her heart crackled still more, "I thought I would be able to forget him. Silly of me…"

What Kaito felt then is too deep and strong for description. For years, he'd thought Aoko loathed him more than anyone on earth. Still, he heard this…

He thought about taking her hand, which fingers were tapping restlessly on the tablecloth, but she looked up at him with a smiling apologise. "I'm sorry. I'm bothering you with my life…"

"Not at all," he assured her with pure sincerity. She gazed wonderingly at him and he cursed himself for his foolish carelessness; he'd let Poker Face slip a second too long.

But did he really want to keep it? he thought, changing rapidly the subject. If she still felt that way towards him… if she still loved him…

But he immediately remembered her disgust of him when he'd first hidden her who he was, and realized it would be worse, much worse if she came to understand that he'd lied to her once more. He wouldn't bear to lose her again, he thought, and firmly directed his thoughts elsewhere.

The dinner ended too soon, much too soon to his liking. They stepped out in the Parisian cold night, a few stars visible through the buildings, among the mauve, light-reflecting clouds, and walked silently along the restaurant's street into one of the town's largest avenues. Not far away was spreading the large, shadowy surface of Paris' largest inward park, the Luxembourg. In the distance, its trees were a rustling dark-green.

Kaito peered at it thoughtfully. He had many times lost his path in one of those thin, deeply rooted lanes quite hidden from the wider alleyways, each time finding himself ending up by the garden's greater pool, on the lowest terrace. He rather doubted Aoko, with her over-taking job, had ever found free time to explore.

The want to walk there with her overwhelmed him like a blow.

She wasn't difficult to convince – she had drunk a little and was quite willing to follow him past the open gates of the park. He orientated himself. They weren't far from the pool… one of those large alleys must lead to it. How strange how the night was disturbing one's sense of direction…

They passed long lawns of grass, borded with abandoned chess tables before reaching at last a large, yellowish clearing strewn with stray metal-green chairs. The pool stood in the centre of it, round and wide and silver-blue; only the faintest trace of moonlight was reflecting on its still water.

Kaito lifted his gaze to the upper terrace, where, he knew, were gathered statues of Greek gods and French statues. He had half a mind to go up and see what they looked like at night. He was turning to ask Aoko about it, when he realized she was no longer beside him – alarmed, he finally spotted her halfway up the marble stairs, waving and beckoning him to follow up.

He climbed up the steps, smiling, keeping an eye out for ancient gods; but none sprang out of the darkness as he stepped onto the leaf-covered terrace. He joined Aoko, who was leaning against the parapet, and observed, "It's a beautiful spot."

"Quite beautiful," she agreed, her eyes resolutely fixed on the pool, downward.

As she didn't seem determined to speak again for a moment, he looked around for the statues. They were dispersed a few yards away, but the shade was sweeping out the details; they were spots of white in a misty darkness of black-green leaves and branches, rustling softly under the evening wind.

He was considering the idea of involving such a process in one of his tricks when Aoko's voice startled him. "Don't you miss Japan?" she asked.

He turned a little; she had lowered her head and he could only see her profile, partly shaded.

"Sometimes," he admitted, "but more specially the friends and relations I left over there."

She turned completely – her back pressed against the stone parapet – and her eyes met his. Maybe it was that gaze that pulled Kaito out of his senses, or maybe he'd wanted to do it since the beginning of the evening; anyhow, he felt his lips moving around the words, "Can I kiss you?"

He knew immediately it was a mistake. If she said yes, he would feel betrayed as Kuroba Kaito – if she said no… well, wasn't it obvious? He wanted to taste her lips again.

"No."

He felt the curious sensation of being both extremely disappointed and extremely relieved, and almost missed her next words.

"Takashi Hirota can't. But Kuroba Kaito can."

He gaped. Then, maybe even before his brain had registered what was happening, he pulled himself forward and kissed her.

Her lips were just as soft and tender as he remembered them – perhaps more, it was difficult to say. His senses were presently being overpowered by his hormones, and thinking wasn't really an option. Yet, when she began kissing him back, he nearly gasped in her mouth – this was the last thing he expected her to do, kissing back, kissing the way she did… hooking her hands behind his neck and tilting his head downwards the way she did. He slid one arm around her waist, pulling her closer and closer, until breath came to lack.

They broke off, both panting and staring at one another. Kaito released her slowly, certain it had all been a dream – yet he could still feel her lips upon his mouth, the taste and the shape of them. She slipped farther, rubbing her hands against her forearms as though she was suddenly cold.

"So," he said painfully – each word came out with difficulty, rolling on his tongue before he could utter it –, "you knew, didn't you?"

She nodded.

"All along?"

"All along."

"But–" the situation was escaping him and he liked nothing less than that. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why didn't you?" she asked resolutely, folding her arms as though a shield.

"Because–" of what happened five years ago. But as he thought that he remembered what had happened, her yells while he tried to explain, the disgust in her eyes and more than all her explicit desire of never seeing him again. And still, there she was, only a few yards from him, as pale as the white statues around them, and they'd just kissed again…

"Because I know you hate me," he said flatly. "Remember what you said five years ago?" his voice took incisive accents, while all the original anger at her came back in a breaking flow. "You said you would never meet me again. But you came here to see me. What do you want, break my heart again? Wanna repeat the experience?"

Her lips were quivering. "No."

"Then WHAT?" he shouted. "You dumped me once. You said, Aoko, you said you hated me. You said you wouldn't speak to me again, let alone see me…"

"Don't play that game with me, Kuroba Kaito!" she yelled, and he was so surprised he didn't attempt to protest as she added, her voice growing louder and louder with every word, "Don't act the victim part now! The day after we broke up, Kaito, and all the days after until you left Japan, I called you everyday, I left a thousand messages, saying I was sorry, I didn't hate you, I wanted to know… you heard them, you did!" she shrieked as he opened his mouth as though to retort. "You heard them, but you didn't call me back, you went away without notice – I was waiting for you, I went at your place, I kept calling you even after your mother told me you were gone, but she didn't even know where – your own mother, Kaito!"

She stopped, and began taking deep, long breaths, glaring at him through the bangs that had escaped her bun. He wanted to protest, say that he hadn't heard any message, he'd kept shut in his room for hours with the phone unplugged, his cell deep down in a chest of drawers, until he could bear no more and he left for America first, then France… but she went on before he could utter anything.

"How do you think I bore those last five years, Kuroba Kaito? Not as well as you, of course, I had no talent in particular, unlike you – I had to work, not simply move a hand and wait for food to fall from the sky! I studied so that I could be a journalist, for three and a half long years, hoping every day to get a call from or about you!" She turned on her heels, spreading her arms wide open. "What do you think I became a journalist for? Why do you think I specialised myself in magician shows and new-borns artists? I was trying to keep track on you, Kaito, because it was the only way I could, and I knew you were so talented one day you would make yourself famous…"

For a moment, he thought he'd seen a silver drop shimmer down her cheek. She immediately wiped it away, with irritation.

"And what about you?" she accused, obviously keen as to not letting any weak flank be seen. "What did you think, when I called you? Did you even remember me? Or did you think, 'Oh, great, she's willing to interview me even if she said she would never speak to me again, means I'm getting famous'?"

This appeared to Kaito as a low blow. She knew him enough to see this kind of things couldn't happen – yet she was so angry she seemed able to say anything. But before he could give her a piece of his mind, he felt her hands lay on his shoulders, and suddenly found her mouth pressing against his.

He had no objection. But as he opened his lips and went to slide his arms around her waist, she hastily broke free, and stared at him across the inches apart they were, a look of pure incomprehension stamped on her features. It was that look, those wide, farouche eyes so incredibly blue, which reminded him of everything she was risking without even knowing it.

No more now than five years before was she protected from the Organisation. His Takashi Hirota cover was no better than the identity of Kuroba Kaito. He might be found out any time – and if they found him they found her, if he got himself caught in this delicious trap.

So he shook his head and said coldly, his mouth hard, "I'm sorry. I can't."

Aoko looked as though she'd been slapped in the face. She took a deep breath, stepped back, and murmured, with a slight nod, "I see…" Her expression and voice were so wretched he thought he felt his heart crackle with a glass shatter. "I see…"

He wouldn't be able to stand this. He turned on his heels, dreading that his Poker Face should break if he remained there two seconds longer, but Aoko's voice stopped him cold again.

"Why?"

He looked down, unable to face her. He couldn't explain to her – it would give her too many hopes, and he wanted her to forget him, live her life happily, with the tiniest sting of regret when she should think about her long-lost childhood friend.

But this wasn't what she'd been heading to.

"Why did you accept my interview, if you didn't want to go any further? Why did you invite me to dinner, if you feel nothing for me anymore?"

It was probably this last sentence, those last few words, which stirred Kaito out of the trance-like state of mind he'd been in. Before he could actually know about it, he'd turned around again, had grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him.

One arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other tilting her chin to him, he kissed her yet again – but this time it was no soft and tender kiss – it was a kiss full of the passion he'd succeeded in holding back for all those years they'd known each other. His teeth were racking against her lower lip as he forced hers open, feeling dizzy with the urges spinning in his mind. Somewhere, he was still conscious this was a mistake; it was for Aoko's sake he had been going away, he'd never be able to back after that – but he then felt her arms graze around his chest as she pressed her body against his, and his brain stopped functioning but for his craving want of her.

They broke a second for breath, immediately missing each other's savour, then they sunk again in yet another kiss, forgetting about the lies from the past, the fears that awaited them in the future, forgetting everything…

-

She was sleeping. Her head lay upon her folded arm, and long locks of hair were tumbling down her shoulders onto her face, carelessly black on the creamy bedsheets. Her breath came out of her parted lips in a slow, peaceful way, and, all in all, it was an adorable sight. Leaning on his elbow, Kaito watched her with no smile.

Her beauty, this morning, reminded him only too acutely of the dangers she ran now. Because he'd broken down yesterday, and followed his heart while his head told him to hold back, she was now much more endangered than she'd ever been. The worse was probably that she had no idea of it, and he was going to have to explain it all to her…

But what would she choose? he thought, getting out of bed and pulling on jeans. He passed into the living-room, carefully closing the bedroom door behind him. What would she say, how would she look? With her temperamental character, she was perfectly able to stay and keep up with him…

What about him? What did he want? He could no longer say he didn't want her to stay. His behaviour last night had demonstrated the contrary, both to her and to himself. He wanted her back all right, but he was so afraid of what could happen to her… getting her killed… he would never stand that, never.

He dropped on the couch, burying his face in his hands. The dilemma was too important to be tackled carelessly like he tackled most things in his life. This wasn't an easy choice like deciding to run away from Japan or accepting an interview with her…

He sighed deeply and re-emerged, looking around the room as though he was seeing everything for the first time. For a moment, the crazy idea of running away with her had occurred to him, but he knew she would never break all strings with her past like he could do so easily. His eyes wandered lazily over the walls and the furniture, as though he thought the solution would swoop down from the ceiling for him to catch it.

His gaze fell on yesterday's newspaper, which he had never opened and laid neatly on the coffee table, where he'd dropped it only – was it only so little time ago? – less than twelve hours before. His mind had been too full of the dinner they were to have together to want any exterior news from the world.

Sighing again, he picked it up, more to busy his mind than by real interest. He ripped open the protecting plastic, and opening the paper wide, found himself faced with a face nearly alike to his own.

He gaped. This was Tantei-kun, undoubtedly – but no more in his chibi-form. He was a young man of twenty-four, looking tired and altered, but no glasses, no bowtie, no nothing. This was Kudo Shinichi, not Conan Edogawa.

He interested himself in the articles. The headlines hit him with the strength of a mach-2 wind, big and black and striking,

'CRIMINAL ORGANISATION BROUGHT DOWN'

'MAD SCIENTISTS FIND THE WAY TO JAIL'

'FBI AND JAPANESE DETECTIVES WORKING HAND IN HAND to hit at the bottom of the most alarming criminal organisation ever brought down. If the famous tantei Kudo Shinichi, who had mysteriously disappeared six years ago, looked weary and more than willing to join his family and closest friends when he got out of the FBI quarters in Japan yesterday morning, he found a bit of time to answer our questions…'

And, below, as Kaito's bewildered eyes found them,

'The scientific researches the organisation was leading were heading to nothing less than immortal life…'

'Famous movie-star Chris Vihnyard involved as one of the arrested members…'

'The trials should began to take place in the current week…'

The newspaper fell from the magician's numb fingers, and crumpled softly on the carpet between his feet. He leant against the sofa's back and let out a long, deep breath as the realization of what was really happening slapped him, keeping him from thinking clearly,

For a long moment he remained motionless. Then the first thought that struck him was, 'Aoko.' He'd been altered about her, tossing himself awake half the night, tortured by her closeness and the memories of what they had just done, what they should never have done… or so it seemed at the moment. But now it was all, all useless…

His head was spinning again, harder than the evening before, as he realized all the implications of this. It was over… Aoko… he would be able to keep her by his side… Aoko… it was all OVER…

He began to laugh, almost madly, at the foolishness of all this. The signs had been everywhere around him, on the news, in the papers, even – he remembered with shame – in the restaurant, where people had been talking of it. He could have seen them all, he'd missed them all… and consequently he'd driven himself crazy with his worries. It was silly, all of it, so silly…

It was wonderful, he thought, passing his hand over his sweaty face. He shook his head and felt it get lighter, as though his troubles were falling off like dust.

He strode to the bedroom door, unable to wait for her to wake up. At last he'd be able to tell her everything he'd never been allowed to, at last keep her safe and close to him without fearing every time that she should be endangered by his presence… As he opened the door he heard her stir, and saw her stretch deeply, still in mid-sleep.

Smiling, he sat on the bed, and watched her pull herself awake.

-

Okay, so you have to know this story kept in my head the whole time it took me to write it, and it's been quite a while. I thought about it, acted it, dreamt about it, drew about it (in class, and I don't advice anyone here to do likewise). Well! now it's done… and I feel a bit numb… but I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

To my mind, there aren't enough Kaito/Aoko fics here…