A/N: So I read a great letter!fic a few days back. And I don't think this kind of scheme has ever been explored in the DC fandom (except Katie-chan a few days ago, I SWEAR our muses are up to something sinister, it can't all be coincidence), so I thought I'd do it–and then it meddled with another fic idea, the reunion of which somehow twined itself into this.

Warnings–canon characters, yay. (I'm becoming so used to writing AUs I actually have to put in a warning about this not being one… -is hopeless-) Songfic. (It's been a while, no?) Er. Anything else?

Disclaimer–I don't own MK. Gosho Aoyama does. I don't own 'Your Guardian Angel' either. Red Jumpsuit Apparatus does. Don't shoot the respectful fanfic writer.

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And Now For More Dismantled Lights

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"I'm going to England this summer," Kaito said one day, completely out of the blue. Outside, in the college yard, cherry blossoms were going on their painstaking way to withering.

"Oh," said Aoko, and then, "How long?" She carefully slid a finished form inside a plastic sheet and closed the folder she'd been filing with a clap. They'd been stuck in the student council room after student council monthly meeting to try and classify their respective first term notes.

Kaito stood, picked up the folders, and slipped them back on their matching shelves. He came back down with two others. "Three months."

"What about college? How many more are there of these? We can't have filled so many of them in barely three months."

"Two. Not counting those, though. I'll be back for September. A friend of my dad's invited me. Magician. He's great. His usual assistant is on maternity break, so he wants me to replace her during his summer shows."

"But that's great, isn't it? Oh, thanks." She took the soda can he was handing her and applied it to her forehead. It was hot, probably not as hot as summer would be come spring to pass, but yet too hot for May.

"Yeah. You think you can't bear with me so long?" he teased, sitting back down.

Aoko gave him a pointed look. "I only wish you'd stay longer. No Kaito, no teasing, no flipping skirts, my smug grins, no mop chases–"

"No fun," Kaito cut in, and this time his grin didn't quite reach his eyes, and Aoko had come to be able to read him a little too well by now. "It's been a while since we did one of those. Your college skirt is too long for flipping now. As for smug grins, I'm sure Hakuba will willingly give you his share of those–"

Aoko thwacked him with one of the folders. "Will you shut up?"

He whined, and she laughed, and for a minute more everything was back to normal.

Outside, the cherry blossoms kept withering in the delicate pink death that cherry blossoms generally undergo, and summer heat, unbeknownst as of yet in its slow settling in, crept in silently, quietly.

When I see your smile

Tears run down my face I can't replace

She came to see him off at the airport.

"I think I didn't believe you'd come," he said as they headed through the throng toward Boarding Gate–08. "It's hardly seven in the morning. You usually don't get up so early–even to get to college on time."

Aoko snorted. "Right. My best friend leaves for a three-month stay in England and I'm supposed to stay in bed." She smacked him on the arm. "Silly. Is it just you or the airport in general smelling alcohol?"

"What? Oh, yeah–the guys from college set up a bachelor's party for me last night–except of course I'm not getting married, but. I think I've drunk a little over the top." He looked unabashed and vaguely fond. Aoko eyed him suspiciously, looking for signs that would indicate sudden swooning or regular insanity, but he was grinning. Inanely. As per usual.

"Did you sleep at all?"

"Not much," he admitted ruefully. "I'll pick up on that on the plane. It's a twelve-hour flight over Asia–it'll be ten in the morning when I'll get there this evening. I'll write to you."

"Sure," Aoko said absently. "I would've liked to see you drunk. Must have been fun to witness."

"Must have," Kaito repeated, and then laughed. His hand had emigrated, sometime during the way, over to her forearm, and was ostensibly much disinclined to move. About twenty people were waiting with them before the gate; most of them were already queuing to board, passports out. A man in a bowler was purchasing a sports magazine and a sack of chocolates at the store nearby.

"Alcohol is not all bad," Kaito was prattling on, apparently not quite sober. His hand had slid down to her wrist and lean fingers were flexing around it, thumb grazing inattentively over the sensitive skin. "It lowers our inhibitions, teaches us to reconsider–"

"Passengers for the 514 Flight to London are welcome to board," announced the poised voice of the young woman at the boarding gate counter, in not-quite sync with its crackling counterpart over the loudspeaker.

"–and compels us to do what we wouldn't dare do otherwise," Kaito went on unheedingly.

"That's your flight," Aoko remarked.

"Aoko."

"Yeah?"

(This was what this kiss was like: warm and drenched in the bitter taste of liquor chocolate in the golden dawn light that flooded in through the tall glass airport wall.)

Then it was gone, and Kaito was hoisting his bag on his shoulder and strolling over to the queue, calling over his shoulder, "I'll write you. See ya."

Aoko didn't leave the airport terminal till the green, blinking letters clicked from FLIGHT-514 BOARDING to FLIGHT-514 TAKE OFF. It was not cold outside, despite the early hour; it was hot inside the train home. The sunlight hit the glass like white-hot iron.

And now that I'm stronger I've figured out

How this world turns cold–

Dear Aoko,

I've arrived yesterday, so not much to say yet. London looks great–crowded, but great. I'll try to find something for you there before I come back. Anything you'd like?

Dad's friend is a dear old bird, with a huge wife who served me the biggest breakfast of my life this morning. They're also welcoming their grandson and granddaughter for a few weeks–the parents being gone to Tahiti or wherever–and they're awesome. They're twins of ten and they love magic tricks to bits. They almost already know all the regular ones.

How's Tokyo? The weather here is all right–no morning fog over the Thames that I could see, or maybe I wasn't up early enough–or is it because it's summer? I watched the weather report for Japan at noon, though, and they say you're going head-on into a heatwave. But you probably already know that.

Are you going to cram school this year?

Johnson-san (that's Dad's friend. I think I mentioned it before but now I'm not so sure) is taking me to the hall where he's producing himself tomorrow. He's on a week break right now, but he wants me to practise his tricks. Says he won't saw me in two yet though. Too bad. I've always wanted to try that. I could try it on you when I come back.

Miss me yet?

–Kaito

and it breaks through my soul

And I know I'll find...

Kaito, you moronic imbecile.

You DO NOT send me a letter if you have nothing to say. You've hardly been in London two days and you already think of coming back–you do know you'll be there three months, right? Or did you skip that too?

I'm glad you could find a nice family to bear with you. They'll probably be fed up by the end of the week, so try not to be your eccentric usual self. You'll scare off the children. I'm glad there are some, though–you've always liked them, and they'll babysit you better than any adult ever could. As for breakfast, you've always been a gourmet. What's it, bacon and eggs, or plain traditional porridge?

It's blindingly hot here, as you've been kind enough as to inquire after. And yes, I'm going to cram school. SHUT UP.

Hakuba said to send his regards in case you wrote (he looked like he doubted it. What did you two do, make a bet over that? Is that why you're writing me?) so here goes. The Hakuba regards, full with sealed envelope and family crest. I hope you enjoy it. He certainly put much thought in it, which in itself is highly suspicious.

I'm glad you like your dad's friend. He sounds like a nice person, caring enough to get a week break to make sure you can practice. Not that you need it though. You'll probably learn the knack of those tricks in a span of five minutes.

AND NO. You won't. So don't even mention it. Think about avoiding my mop before you start running after me with a saw, you ass.

Enjoy your stay. And if you must write to me, at least find something to say.

(And I don't. Sorry to disappoint.)

–Aoko

PS. Do you really–never mind. You're doing this on purpose, don't you?

deep inside me, I can be the one

Dear Aoko,

I DO so have things to say. And I wasn't thinking of coming back–London is too much fun to want to leave it after hardly a week. I was thinking of you.

Thank the kind thinker.

Breakfast is whatever we want–cereal or toast or coffee or chocolate or eggs or bacon or porridge or everything all at once. Everything's on the table by eight o' clock. I think they're stuffing me to eat me.

The kids are great. They've taken me all over London, and I'm trying to teach them some Japanese. They know lots of magic tricks, so we can practise together–I don't think they'd be able to babysit me, though. You'd do that better, I think. By the way, I told them about you–they wanted to know who I was writing to. They asked if you were my girlfriend.

Johnson-san is a very kind man. His tricks were rather easy. He's doing all the difficult stuff, so I just get to stand by most of the time. He's also a very good teacher. It reminds me of dad's little lessons he gave us when we were eight or so–remember? You liked juggling, come to think of it. That's odd. I never saw you juggling again since dad's death.

We're beginning tomorrow. First show of the season. I don't know if it'll be recorded on tape–if it is, I'll buy one for you to see when I come home. I do appreciate the compliment, by the way. I believe magic tricks are the only reason you bear with me.

Tell Hakuba I say hello. And no, there was no bet between us, so that's most certainly not why I'm writing you. Has he gone and told you that?

Too bad. I already bought the saw. Now I need a cardboard box. Those big size ones.

(You wound me, Aoko. My heart bleeds. I do miss you.)

–Kaito

PS. Yes. I do. And yes. I am.

I will never let you fall

I'll stand up with you forever

Dear Kaito,

You are very kind. I appreciate the thoughts and am reverently thankful to your lordship. Honestly.

It doesn't matter much that they want to stuff you–you stuff yourself well enough. I seem to remember a certain McBurger incident–when the fast food service nearly went bankrupt thanks to your appetite. I'm sure you remember it too.

WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN TELLING THOSE KIDS. They are still innocent and pure. Do not give them ideas. What on earth have you told them about me that they should believe you're my boyfriend? I don't even want to imagine what your perverted mind might have come up with. What did you answer anyways?

I remember juggling with your father. I liked it very much. But after your dad died–well, I thought it might be better if I didn't remind you of him too often. You stopped doing magic yourself for a full year. And then when it seemed safe to do it again, well, I'd lost the knack. I never tried again. I'm glad you can remember it without overmuch pain, now–Johnson-san must be a very good teacher, if he manages to remind you of all this. Tell him I say hello, if he wonders who you're writing to.

(Are you actually writing to someone else than me?)

I wish you luck. I hope it goes well, and I wish I could see it myself. Try and get someone to tape it so we might see it together when you come home. I mean. Back to Japan. Stop messing with my brain, Kaito, you jerk.

Hakuba-kun didn't tell me the two of you had bet you could write to me over the summer. I came to that conclusion on my own. I have a brain, THANK YOU. But if it's not true, then it doesn't matter.

That said, I don't see him much. He's passing his exams to enter the police. What with Akako-chan gone to Switzerland and Keiko-chan with her boyfriend in Hokkaido, it's gotten rather glum around here. The people over at my cram school are nice, but they lack–bounciness. Or something.

Good luck,

–Aoko.

PS. YOU. SHUT UP.

I'll be there for you through it all

Even if saving you sends me to heaven

Two weeks later, there still was no answer from Kaito.

Aoko lay in bed for many nights, inventing crazy scenario after scenario, each more dreadful than the first. The post offices had either lost her letter or his. He'd forgotten all about hers. He'd forgotten all about her. He'd found a beautiful BBC actress and eloped with her to get married in Gretna Green–

Shut up, she furiously told her subconscious. She needed–she needed–to stop reading English romances. And what if he did–that would be none of her business, none at all. She just pitied the beautiful BBC actress–you needed to be used to Kaito if you had to live with him–

Her subconscious helpfully provided her an image of what Kaito might actually be doing with the beautiful BBC actress–if marriage and living together were impossible.

She chased it away resolutely.

Or maybe, she thought, hugging her pillow to her chest in the greyed blues of her bedroom, maybe he'd had an accident–maybe the hall where they were doing their show had burnt down–maybe he'd gotten run over by a car–a truck–maybe he was in the hospital–maybe he was­–Or maybe, she thought, hugging her pillow to her chest in the greyed blues of her bedroom, maybe he'd had an accident–maybe the hall where they were doing their show had burnt down–maybe he'd gotten run over by a car–a truck–maybe he was in the hospital–maybe he was­–

This was getting as ridiculous as the BBC actress. The nonexistent BBC actress.

Her subconscious, who had been plotting in a dark corner of her mind, then staged a come-back and attempted to assault her brain with images of the aforementioned kind, only featuring herself in lieu of the beautiful BBC actress.

She smothered them decisively with her pillow and made desperate attempts to have normal dreams thorough the night.

It's okay–

Dear Kaito, Listen, I don't care to know what's happened to you, if you've been so taken in the showbusiness that you've forgotten all about your best friend back ho–in Japan, or if you've been run over by a car, but the commonest courtesy is to write back when someone writes to you.

I will proceed to ignore you if you come home–back to Japan, damn you, without writing me back. It's not difficult. Just pick up a pen and paper. I know you can do it.

–Aoko.

(This letter, upon reception, astonished Kaito so much he read it thrice over, utterly floored, before he ever thought of replying to it.)

It's okay… It's okay…

Dear Aoko,

I'm sorry. I hadn't forgotten. The shows have been taking too much of my time. I meant to answer your letter earlier, but I never seemed to find the time to.

I wonder what you imagined. You probably thought I'd had an accident or something–or run away with some famous actress–I met one yesterday, by the way, from the BBC–but I'm all right, really. The shows are doing fine. The hall is labelled complete every night; I had no idea Johnson-san was so famous.

He says I'm my father's son. I usually reply it's all thanks to his own teaching skills, and we spend half-hours smothering each other with compliments; until his wife or the twins come interrupt us. When we don't have to produce on stage, we usually spend the evening watching Disney films with the kids, who know them all by heart.

By the way, we took photographs a few days ago. I'm sending you two. The couple is Johnson-san and his wife. They say hello back. The other is me and the kids.

I haven't told them anything. I just mentioned you once or twice, but they immediately picked up the hint and decided we were engaged to be married–apparently writing letters to one another is the Sign of True Love. I dared not disappoint them.

And in reply to your question, yes, I am writing to my mother. Less often, though. She phoned Johnson-san once–I mean Johnson-san's wife–and apparently they discussed me for an hour before his husband and I came home. She told me the two of you had lunch together once or twice. That a new habit?

I got a postcard from Koizumi. I'll spare you the details, but she looks like she's enjoying herself. Though knowing her, that may mean a lot of different things.

So you did juggle at one point, and that wasn't only my imagination going in wild fantasies. I'll have to teach you again when I'm home. The knack is easy to lose, but easy to pick up again. You'll do it in no time.

I bought you a present already, and I could find a tape of the show. Johnson-san dedicated it to you, so I guess you'll be able to boast of it later. Thank me?

–Kaito

PS. Why shut up? It's true.

Seasons are changing

Dear Kaito,

You are without any possible doubt the greatest ass I've ever met. You wrote me first, if I may remind you. This is your responsibility. Deal with it. AND STOP READING MY MIND. IT'S CREEPY.

The shows must be pretty addictive if you actually forget all about me. I mean. I mean, if you forget all about all your friends in Japan, while on the way to Fame, then shame on you, you really are hopeless, you know. I'm glad it works out well, though. It would have been–troublesome if you'd messed up mid-show, wouldn't it?

I like the photographs. Johnson-san and his wife look very nice, and it's very kind of them to say hello. Tell them I wish them all the best. Or something. I'm sure you can work out something amiable–more amiable than can be expressed in a letter.

As for the other picture, well, these are very lively kids, aren't they? It's very nice. I assume this is your room. Still, it's not like you to not have noticed they were going to assault you. What could have absorbed you so much?

And what do you mean, you dared not disappoint them? What EXACTLY did you tell them? You better not have told them anything perverted, Kaito, or it'll be my mop welcoming you home–in Japan, I mean.

I did have lunch with your mom twice over the past month. We talked about you mostly. She's very proud–says you're 'doing what you've always wanted to do and doing a great job of it'–so I guess I can safely say you ARE your father's son. You look a lot like him when he was a young man, or so your mom says. She is an awesome woman, you know. I like her very much.

It's still as hot here. The weather reports keep saying it'll storm, but I've seen nothing of it so far. How is it in London?

I don't know if I'll be able to juggle anymore, you know–it's been something like ten years by now. I'll be willing to try, but I have my doubts. Still, it's kind of you to offer to teach me again.

­–Aoko

PS. What's true, you jerk. Shut up anyway.

And stars are falling all for us

Over the three long months he spent in England, in-between late shows and gargantuan breakfasts and wanderings through town with ten-years-old twins, Kaito generally wrote letters. Some he sent to his mother. Some he sent to Aoko. Some he sent to Nakamori-keibu–anonymous Hawaii postcards mostly, getting irate reactions in Aoko's letters about 'Damn KID taking fucking vacations to the isles'–and mostly for a laugh. One he even sent Hakuba, full of cheeky and infamous, shameless blackmail. Some he never sent.

He kept those in his desk drawer. He eventually had to lock that, after one of the twins took to taking them out and reading them out loud for the whole family to hear.

They ranged from the angstying sort to the saccharine-sweet variety, in quick succession. Most began with Aoko. There's something I've wanted to tell you for a long time… (those generally ended up crumpled in a tight ball and the trash bin).

(He started to hide them in his desk drawer, too, when the twins began to ransack said trash bin.)

A few seemed to head off in the good direction, though they spun out of control more or less quickly. Aoko. We've known each other for a long time. Aoko. I– Aoko. It's difficult to say this. Aoko. I think I need to say this. It may be cowardly of me to say it in a letter, but– Aoko. You're probably wondering why I kissed you that day. Don't you know? Aoko, I, fuck. Why didn't you kiss me back?

Aoko,

I–

Screw that.

One he wrote while he was completely hammered, having gone out for a few drinks with the staff after the show, and having returned, tip-toed rather loudly down the bedroom corridor, closed the door, sat at his desk, gotten out paper and pen.

Aoko,

I so want to get under your skin.

Not only figuratively.

This is a marriage proposal.

You are not allowed to say no.

-Kaito.

Retrospectively, he thought that was one of the two which best expressed his feelings.

Days grow longer and–

Dear Aoko,

Sorry. Can't help it. You are too easy to read sometimes–your letter just screamed, 'oh my god, Kaito eloped with a BBC actress!' or the like. And you know how much I love teasing you.

You are, however, perfectly right. I wrote you first. It is therefore my own responsibility to keep writing.

The shows were actually easier than I'd thought. It's–difficult to explain to someone who has never been on stage before, but the–exaltation you feel before entering on cue all but settles in your chest and you just feel warm, very warm. It's very strange, and totally unlike making tricks for the class back in high school. I don't know what it's due to–the lightless audience, maybe, as though it were only one, enormous face staring at you, waiting for your next move, and not only you mustn't be so scared of them you're paralyzed, but you've got to make advantage of their staring.

The whole profession of a magician is to lure his audience, and let them never see what lies behind those tricks they almost believe in. If they did–well, if they did, then it would be all over.

I did tell Johnson-san and his wife about you–they were the ones who gave me the photos for you. They wish you all the best–especially, they say, since being my childhood friend mustn't be simple business. They also ask if you'd like to accompany me next time I come visit them.

If I remember well, that picture was taken while I was reading one of your letters.

I didn't tell them anything. Much. They're ten, you know, not five. They know more or less what relationships between a man and a woman come down to.

My mom has always liked you. Remember when we had cookies and tea at home when we were nine? She always spoiled you. You always got twice as much cookies at me. Yours are better now, though–you picked it up nicely.

The weather's fine here. Hot, but not as much as it seems to be in Japan. The kids are taking me everywhere, trying to lure me into buying them books and juggling balls. Speaking of which, you really needn't worry. It's like riding a bike. You'll do it fine. With me as a teacher you only can.

–Kaito.

PS. What IS true? I forgot.

–nights grow shorter

I can show you I'll be the one

There were only two solutions, was the result of Aoko's ponderings after two months and a half of mindless correspondence, and they were either that the sun was beating down on her and making her dizzy, or–as absurd as that may seem, as stupidly unfathomable–and why shouldn't she?–she was actually beginning to miss Kaito.

Probably both, she mused as she left for cram school one late afternoon. The sky was synthetic blue, such that one might believe it would cloud and darken over the span of a minute and storm itself away. Probably both. The sun was beating down on her, and thus she felt as though she missed Kaito.

It did not make as much sense as she had trusted it would.

It was not the first time they had taken vacations away from each other. It was not the first time they had been separated–and yet she acted the way a Juliet would when hearing the first night's nightingale sing long after her Romeo had left.

Which was just plain ridiculous. It was just plain ridiculous, she told herself. She could no longer breed the brainless thoughts of the middle school girl she could no longer remember ever being, before even the KID fiasco began–had there really been a time when KID had not ruled over their lives, over hers in taking her father, over his in admiration and morning newspapers she liked shredding to bits?

She could no longer remember being this–the average middle school girl she once had been, with school skirts short and easily flipped–and even the slightly-less-average high school girl who delighted in shredding KID articles to bits and blotches felt swapped away slowly by the summer heat.

It was hot. The lemon trees were rustling like fuurin chimes in the lukewarm breeze that shook the branches. She went on her way to cram school.

'Cause you're my…

Dear Kaito,

Well stop it. I will not have you back to tease me as when we were seventeen.

I'm glad it works out well. I'll enjoy seeing you on tape–it might be quite funny. I bet you added some pieces of your own in those tricks Johnson-san taught you. You bettered even your dad's tricks, and that's saying an awful lot.

Thank them both for their kind words and the pictures. I would accept their invitation with pleasure; only I suppose that will not be until a long time. And they seem to have gotten the gist of our relationship–me bearing with you with the patience of a martyr.

Those twins, however, do not seem to have gotten it. I'm certain you told them things. You… must have implied innuendo or something, and they, in their innocent ten-year-old mind, interpreted it as they willed. Well, maybe not altogether innocent. I'm positive anyone in a family of magicians must be slightly insane and certainly not as genuine as they seem. (I mean. Look at you.)

I dined with your mom again the other day. She showed me pictures she took back when we were kids; she even gave me some. I don't even know if this letter will reach you before you take the plane home, though, so I won't include them. And anyway I suppose you know them all.

She showed me photos of her wedding too. Your dad was a very handsome man, you know. I'd nearly forgotten that. No wonder you mom fell for him.

A girl from cram school asked me about you today. She was in high school with us. I don't think you remember her–I didn't until she told me–but she remembered us. Said we were the famous mop chase couple. What. The. Hell. You made me look like a delinquent!

She asked where you were, and she looked thrilled to learn you'd left for England. Apparently she had a crush on you while at school, never knew that, did you? Or were she part of the broken hearts crowd?

The point of this is, she asked me to pass on a message (I told her we were writing each other. For some reason she found that hilarious). She says you 'had better not waste your chance while you have it,' whatever that means. Probably refers to your future career. Oh dear.

It's no point flattering me. Cookies are for Christmastime. I might make rhubarb pie, though. If you're good.

When exactly are you coming back?

–Aoko

PS. I don't know. JUST SHUT UP.

You're my…

Of the two letters he wrote that he thought expressed his feelings best, the second was even shorter; he had, however, not been drunk while writing. He had been sitting at his desk for a good three quarters of an hour, staring at the thin sunbeams that slanted on the dark-brown window frame.

Gold fluttered on the glass. He never knew what he thought of her just then; why the gold didn't inspire him otherworldly woes of wordless passion and carnations and balcony serenades; why summer heat felt calm and tranquil and not blaring hot, just why why and nothing else beyond the mere stupefied puerile pleasure of the word and god what a wondrous thought.

Aoko,

I love you.

That's all.

­–Kaito.

He never burnt them. He never sent them.

My…

What he did write, however, was this:

Aoko.

We've been turning around the issue for three months.

I think it's enough.

I'm coming back in two days. We'll talk then. My plane lends at six-fourteen p.m., local hour. He would have wanted to add–words of complete, stupid, utter love, words that would burn the paper they were written on, words that were both unforgettable and unforgivable–words more than simply, I think we really need this conversation. We've had for years.

–Kaito.

My true love–my whole heart

Please don't throw that away

She was waiting for him in the airport terminal, in a light blouse and long cream skirt.

He stopped short at the sight of her, bag hoisted over his blue-jacketed shoulder almost the way he'd done while leaving–each step toward the gate carefully calculated, each swipe of the blue eyes over her figure accounting for possibilities and opportunities and the cautious space they left between them–and he grinned surprisedly.

"I think I didn't believe you'd come."

She scowled at him. "The hell are you talking about? You told me to come meet you."

"I didn't."

"Yes you did!" she scoffed, and pouted her face away, half-glaring at the appropriate neighbourhood of the bag strap strained over his shoulder. "Damn it, Kaito, I come to fetch you at the airport after we haven't seen each other for three full months and all you find clever to say is–"

"I just told you my plane landed at six or so," Kaito clarified. "That didn't mean, come get me." Her eyes flicked up to his, glared half-heartedly, and returned to the bag strap. "I would have come to see you anyway," he said gently.

Aoko glared more decisively than ever. "Damn it. Don't say things–don't say things like that."

"Like what?"

"With that voice!" she exploded. "Besides, saying your plane lands at six-fourteen implies you want me to come meet you! That's common courtesy!" she followed him, seething, still glaring at the bag strap. "I even tried to find nice clothes for–"

"I saw that," he said quietly, only barely glancing at her. "You look nice."

She stopped dead in her tracks.

"What?"

"Are you jet-lagged or something?"

"What?"

Her glare had softened slightly, leaving in her eyes something crawling between amazement and suspicion. "'You look nice'? When have you ever told me that? Three months ago you would've said something in the vein of–You see you can sometimes look like a girl–or the like."

The airport was noisy and stuffed, lightful, though redder, brighter than it had been three months before. Aoko stood silent. Kaito hesitated; his eyes locked to her lips, and then lower, when a pink triangle of tongue darted out to nervously lick them, to the lock of black hair strayed on her jawline. It seemed to him he could hear her breathing.

"… yeah. I'm jet-lagged." He shrugged, grinned quickly, and resumed his walk. "C'mon. Home. What about pizza?"

He didn't speak again until they were exiting the airport. Aoko walked quietly by his side, hands in her back, never speaking to ask him how England was or to offer to carry one of the bags. When she eventually did, it was for something so trivial Kaito might have laughed.

"The train station's that way. Or we could take a taxi."

"Train's fine."

She scowled at him, though it melted rapidly. "You're sure? If you don't have change I can–"

"Train."

He gave her a wrapped package when they were seated on the banquette. The sun had made it hot, near-smouldering underneath them; it would be setting soon. Near enough, it set the sky ablaze and shone bright on the train's metallic bars like white iron. There hardly was anyone with them. It was Sunday; Tokyo had remained within the relative comfort of ceiling fans and lemon drinks.

"It's the tape of the show," Kaito explained. "Johnson-san dedicated it to you. He says to tell he hopes you like it."

Her hands closed around it. They were long and pale, fingering the blue ribbon in a rather nervous and probably unconscious manner. "Thank you. Weren't we supposed to watch it together?"

"We are," Kaito said, voice smooth and–praying please please please–never faltering. "But there's a gift inside. And a note from the twins. They insisted upon leaving you a few words after they'd asked me so much about you."

The pale hands closed more firmly around the wrapping paper. "Thanks." Then decisively–"They really look like nice kids, if you don't give them too many ideas to feed their spontaneous imagination. They really did think I was your girlfriend, uh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, they did."

She laughed. "I wonder how they ever came to that conclusion–"

"Aoko."

Something shifted fast as her eyes dropped to the package in her hand, blue wrapping paper studded with stars, then flickered up to his face, settling in the general vicinity of a cheekbone. "Yes?"

"I–"

His voice caught, faltered for an empty second, resumed quickly.

"I love you."

'Cause I'm here for you

Please don't walk away

And please tell me you'll stay

She had been told by Keiko that being confessed to meant feeling either very cold or very flustered.

She felt neither. The red sun, reverberating on the windowpane, was beating hard against her turned cheek. On the far other end of the banquette, close enough to overhear but too far to listen, a businessman was rustling quietly through the evening newspaper. A baby in a stroller was crying softly; the mother was crouching, trying to hush it up.

Kaito was very quiet. His eyes never left her face.

"Oh," she said, and the silence that ensued, punctuated by the metallic clashing of the train hissing to a stop, sounded deafening and burning red. "Oh."

"That's all," he said, and broke off. The blue eyes were eased away. Aoko breathed again.

"I–"

"You don't have to talk about it," he cut her off–his voice was sharp and strangely out-of-tune, on the hoarse side. His glance returned to her for a second, and in the crimson light that streamed in the space between and around them that blue felt crawling and raw– "We don't need to talk about it."

He didn't look at her again. "Alright," Aoko said after a few moments, and was glad her voice didn't split in the middle as she spoke.

The businessman left the train at the next station. He cast them a passing glance–and what must he have seen, a young man and a young woman on the banquette, two inches and a hundred yards between them–and left quickly just as the doors slid shut. Aoko wondered exactly how much he had overheard.

"That's my station," Kaito said, at the next. It was.

She watched him pick up his bag over his shoulder again. "Weren't we supposed to–"

"I think we'd better not," he said. He was looking down at her, an almost-smile on his lips. "Right?"

There was no trace, after he'd gone, that he'd ever been there at all; only the slanted bluish light of dusk on the banquette beside her and a package on her lap, between her hands, that had no right to feel so light as it did.

Stay

Her father wasn't home. For the first time in years, Aoko was grateful.

(Now what?)

She considered the package in her hands. Her name was inscribed on it in Kaito's handwriting. It was square and neat-looking, carefully wrapped up in a paper that was just a little lighter blue than Kaito's eyes. The ribbon curled absent-mindedly around the edges, peels that coiled around her fingers.

Inside was the promised tape, ornamented with a picture of a grinning Kaito and grey-haired, kind-smiling Johnson-san, surprisingly dissimilar in his bright black tuxedo to the beaming father portrait she had seen before. A note fell off when she opened it, seated on the living-room's couch.

Johnson-san had dedicated it as promised. His penmanship was twisted and old-looking, and she wondered vaguely whether it was his real one or his stage one. Her thumb brushed gently the entwining kanjis.

To Aoko-san–

Who, I am told, loves magic and magicians enough to bear with one certain boy for days on end. After three months in the same household as him, I respect you greatly for enduring him since age six.

May you enjoy this.

A flourished signature followed. Aoko smiled slightly and flipped the note open.

This handwriting was on the perilous balance between learning and mastering, and the words were still a bit childish, even if the sentiments behind them were not. Aoko read it straight through, feeling stirred and strangely moved.

Dear Aoko-neechan, it said,

We hope you are well and it is not too hot in Japan. Kaito-oniisan told us he had told you about us, so we thought we would write you a letter, too.

Kaito-oniisan told us a lot about you. He said you had known each other since you were younger than we are, that you liked magic a lot and were very pretty. He also showed us a picture of you. He said his mother had sent it to him, but we saw him take it from his wallet, so we think he had it with him all the time.

We played a lot with Kaito-oniisan. When he wasn't playing with us, or pratc–practic–training with Ojii-san, he usually was reading or writing to you. He always laughed when we asked him why, and wouldn't answer, but once we went to wake him up in the morning and we found him asleep on a letter.

(He asked us not to tell anyone about this, but it's about you, so we thought you'd like to know.)

Kaito-oniisan told us you weren't his girlfriend, but we think he would want you to be. When he talks about you he's always smiling.

Do you love Kaito-oniisan the way he loves you? we hope you do. Obaa-san said you could come spend next summer with us and Kaito-oniisan. We would like that very much. Will you write back to us?

PS. We told him he wasn't allowed to read this letter until you had read it. If he wants to know, you can tell him, but only after you read it.

Had Aoko been but one of the fearless, clichéd heroines from the books she used to devour in middle and high school, she would probably have burst out in tears and run away in the rain to Kaito's house, leaving the ink on the letter to trickle away under the thunderstorm.

Being, however, only human, she ordered pizza, watched a movie, and fell asleep in front of the TV.

And I know I'll be okay

Though my skies are turning gray

After a day and a half of lying on his bed with his hands behind his head and staring at the ceiling lights and very cautiously not falling asleep lest he should find, at waking up, that he had not nightmared it all, Kaito decided that being caged would most likely drive him crazy in the course of a few more hours and volunteered to go get chocolate milk at the nearest convenience store.

The summer night was hot, thick, heavy; as he passed the park he heard the soft chirping of cicadas. The streetlamps shed a yellow glow on his shadow. As he reached town and the lighted streets, the combini's aloof, electric neons greeted him like a slap to the face.

It was cooler inside, and the metallic whites felt mildly reassuring. It wasn't late. People were queuing at the cashier's desk, others were wandering between the displays and bargain prices; other still read magazines and mangas by the shopwindow, near the automatic door.

Kaito smiled at little. He had missed all this. London was vigorous and vibrant night and day, but Tokyo–well, Tokyo felt like home.

He ended up staring gruesomely at the sweet drinks section, eyes fixed randomly on a bottle of soda pop and trying not to think about how empty Aoko's voice had sounded, how empty she had looked when she had said–

"I told you once those sweet drinks would be the death of you."

And there she was, standing beside him–beside him–in jean shorts and a plain white t-shirt, glaring quickly at him and then back at the sweet drinks departments.

He would have wanted to say Hi, would have wanted to say How are you, but it was too late for that, too late for both, too late for everything–and he found it was in a little breathless voice that he said, "What are you doing here?"

She scowled at him. "Buying milk." She held up the plastic bag. "Obviously."

In a combini on the far other end of the town from your house, Kaito did not say. "Uh," was what he did say. Much as he wanted to–just speak, speak away in his usual skilled blabber, pretend everything was alright and he was just fine, smile and smile and smile until his mouth grew weak, he couldn't.

So they stood in silence, each under the neon lights falling down straight onto them and casting a minute shadow on the white, shining floor.

"Walk me back," Aoko said finally, and started off toward the counter without another word. Kaito stared disbelievingly after her and pulled a chocolate milk bottle down from the shelf before he followed suit.

"What?"

"You heard me. Walk me home."

I will never let you fall

I'll stand up with you forever

They were silent as they left the combini and the town's brightest districts and walked up the hill toward Aoko's house. The night felt darker, thicker around them–the heat had never been so striking, coating their bodies with a thin layer of sweat.

Aoko walked neither quickly nor slow, both hands in her back, holding onto the thin supermarket bag. Kaito went beside her, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other curling around the handle of his own bag. He did not look at her.

They reached a crossroads, and cars passed them by, their lights casting sweeping, elongated shadows on the sidewalk behind them. Aoko stared at the blinking red figure on the other side of the street, indicating stop stop stop wait go and turned decisively to Kaito.

"You'll make a good father."

He looked baffled. She would have triumphed over that, only a week earlier. "What?"

"You'll make a good father," she repeated, and stepped forwards to cross the street. They walked before the halted cars, two dark silhouettes in their brightness. "Those twins–they like you a lot. They told me–in their letter, about what you did with them in London. They­'re good kids, I guess."

"Yes," Kaito said, softly. "Yes, they are."

She resisted the urge to look up at him, kept her eyes firmly stuck on the sidewalk before them, a streetlamp. "Kaito. I–show me your wallet."

This time he was utterly floored. "Aoko–"

"Please." There was only a slight inflexion to her voice, the tilt that said it all, and she knew he'd picked it up. She waited for him to say no, to say that's not what I'm waiting for, to say something else, but he, surprisingly, obeyed without a word.

There was a picture of her in there, along with one of his father and mother. She did not recall this time–happy times, smiling times–but it didn't matter.

She snapped the wallet shut and handed it back to him. "Thank you."

"Found what you were looking for?" His voice seemed strained and forced. He slid the wallet back in his back pocket and watched her cautiously for one second or two, then looked back forward and toward the next crossroad.

"Yes. Yes, I did." God help her, she'd found exactly what she was looking for. Was it… normal to feel so nervous, so on-edge as they both walked, just walked side by side and so, so quietly? She paused. "I'll make cookies," she said suddenly.

He face-faulted this time, and lagged two steps behind. "… what?"

"I'll make cookies," she repeated firmly–turned to look at him–looked down. "If you–if you want some."

He kept staring. "Aoko–"

"You don't have to say yes," she said fiercely, feeling heat rush up to her cheeks at an alarming pace. "You don't–you don't have to say anything." She glared at him through his bangs. "Understood?"

I'll be there for you through it all

Kaito kept staring at her, his mind a wind-whirl, wondering whatever this was she had just blatantly lain between them for everyone to see–whether this was a, a–a peace-offering, a truce, or something else altogether.

She looked properly exasperated. "Are you ever going to work out what I'm getting at?"

Oh.

"I–"

Oh.

"Kai–"

"Aoko." He stared her down, eyes stroking affectionately the faint tinge on pink fluttering against her cheekbones. God, he thought, quietly, almost reverently, I am never, ever going to have enough of you. "I would very much like you to make… cookies… for us tonight."

Her blush increased ten-fold. "Kaito–"

"I would," he cut her off again, "very much like you to."

"Would you," she said softly. And then louder, starting to walk again, "I might not make them good, you know. I could make mistakes in the ingredients. Or I could leave them too long in the oven and they'd be burnt." She eyed him warily, cautiously. "You'll have to eat them anyways. If you come with me."

"I will," he said, and grinned, and meant it all the way.

"Good," she said, and there was a not-quite smile threatening to crack on her lips. He pretended not to see it, but leant forward to nudge the plastic bag out of her hands, and she let him without much resistance. The silence was no longer tense and heavy like summer heat, but companionable, familiar–an old friend. Then–

"Nice legs."

"Kaito!"

They took the long way home.

Even if saving you sends me to heaven

-

This last combini-and-walking-home scene was greatly inspired by the Ghibli movie Mimi O Sumaseba (which was translated into Whisper Of The Heart in English), which is beautiful and summer-wise and deals with a girl's problems with boys and writing, in that order. I was watching it and–bang! Letter-fic.

By the way. My muse is on a roll. Would anyone be interested in an Arabian Nights sort of AU setting?

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