Author's note: This is from Kaito's point of view – for once – and it's kinda sad… well, I wanted to see the situation from his side and know what he thought about it, and it came in while I wrote this. The characters are writing this story… as always…

And I own nothing but a total lack of inspiration for those disclaimers.

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Mirroring the truth

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Kuroba Kaito hated mirrors.

He hated mirrors and the unnerving habit they had of reflecting his eyes and face – not the way he wanted people to see them but the way himself saw them. 'Himself' was the only person whom he couldn't lie to, the only person whom he couldn't hide from. 'Himself' was the only one who could see right through him and point out his weaknesses with the coldness of a computer program. 'Himself' often screamed in his head at night, and he woke up with a start, covered in sweat… 'Himself' was a very annoying person.

He'd removed from his flat every mirror it contained the night he'd gone and told Aoko who he was. There, at least, within the quiet boundaries of this domain, he was the only inhabitant, the only living one. Everything was peaceful and steady; every piece of furniture was a point of reference which he could rely on. There was no labyrinth into which he could lose his path, no overhanging memory from a past he didn't want to remember.

His flat was a haven, away from the difficulties and troubles of reality. It was the only place where he could still dream, and wonder how his life would've turned if he'd worked it out differently. No one could get at him there. No one could hurt him, if not himself.

But when he went out he was surrounded with mirrors. He could see himself in the shop windows, in the cars that blurred past him, in the puddles of water that laid on the pavement. He saw a young man of twenty-three, dark, wild-haired, rather tall and lean. He walked quickly by, glancing only at his reflection who seemed to be eluding himself as much as he did.

He saw himself in eyes, too. Gazes and stares that were directed at him or simply brushed against him, with either interest or indifference. He knew girls were watching him when he strolled by, but they were seeing someone else. They saw a ghost, a phantom he displayed to their eyes and senses. They couldn't find, in a second's meeting, the fugitive buried in his heart, under layers and layers of appearances and well-performed comedies.

He was playing, to his acquaintances, to his friends, even to his mother, the same act of well-being and well-feeling. He saw that guy, in their gazes and speeches, the one they knew and he ignored, the one he'd invented casually and who had slowly become an unbreakable façade.

With all he was Kuroba-kun, who amused them with his irony and magician tricks. They thought he hadn't changed a hair since high school. If they met Kaito, the real Kaito, they'd be aghast.

But there was no real Kaito. There had been, once. Now it was a total stranger.

He slumped on a bench, his hands dug deep in his pockets, and sighed. In front of him, a shining storewindow showed him his distant, shaded figure for a moment, then the sun swept behind a cloud and the glass turned dark grey.

Around him, behind him, passers-by and cars were rolling about one way or another, each of them preoccupied with their own, carelessly important problems, and too busy to pay attention to a young man sitting on a bench. He began to study their faces and gestures with forced amusement, but almost immediately lost interest.

He leant back, and, tipping his head up, stared. It was a nice, cool November day and the sky was a very pale blue. There seemed to be no clouds, but southward, where the sun was trying, with difficulty, to shine its way through thin rays of smoke-like white. A mild wind was blowing, rushing against the trees planted all along the avenue. When the branches swayed gently, rustling, a light, green mist came into Kaito's sight and blurred for a short moment his small portion of sky.

Somebody sat on the bench beside him and he was propelled back onto earth. It was a little girl of seven or eight, with messy dark hair and a short blue dress. She turned to look at him, and he was overwhelmed with sensations and memories of an evening under the clock tower. She looked so much like Aoko.

The both of them stared for a little while, then the small girl asked with a very serious face, "Ne, niisan, why are you looking so sad?"

Whatever he'd thought she would say, this wasn't. He then remembered that children often were more sensitive than adults, and in general less tactful.

"I'm not sad," he said. "And what are you doing here alone? Are you waiting for anyone?"

"My cousin," she said, and gave a little pout. "But she's busy and she told me to wait."

This reminded Kaito of so many almost identical words a certain little girl had said some fifteen years before that his body reacted instinctively. His hand went up in front of her face and, with a snap of his fingers, produced a fine, fresh, neat red rose. Her reaction, her wide eyes and delighted smile, were so exactly what Aoko's had been that he felt a painful pang in the heart.

She took it gleefully, and, as her fingers grazed against the flower's silk-like petals, he wondered if this couldn't be some sort of dream. Such a likeliness could not simply be chance, and yet… and yet…

"Hiro-chan!" a well-known voice shouted behind him, "I told you not to go too far-away…"

The small girl looked up, and pouted again. "But, Aoko-neechan," she began, but Kaito had lost attention on her.

And there she was, in her blue police uniform, standing only two steps away from the bench. Her eyes immediately locked with his, then trailed on her little cousin's. They widened just a little at the sight of the rose, and he could make out her thoughts then – she knew by heart that trick, and the slow, settling delight that now openly showed on Hiro-chan's face.

She bit her lip – shook her head imperceptibly. Then, seizing Hiro-chan under the arms, she hoisted her up against her, with a severe reprimand, "Didn't I tell you not to speak to strangers?"

Strangers. That was an attack directed straight to his heart, but he tried not to pay attention to it. If he did, he would probably go insane.

"Buuuut, Aoko-neechan…" Hiro complained. "He's not a bad guy…"

"You've no idea," Aoko replied, with the first gleam of irony in her voice he heard for the day. He wasn't disposed to laugh. Mockery and criticism were all right when he was Kid, but he was Kaito, even if she was trying to pretend he wasn't. He didn't look like Kid right now. He looked like her childhood friend.

She turned on her heels to leave and, doing so, met his gaze again. Neither of them said anything – nothing was exchanged but a slight bow of the head – but for a moment he felt the way she saw him. Not like the other girls did, nor even like a police officer would towards a criminal, but like himself did. She looked right through him – she was able to look right through him, through his masks, through his tricks. That was probably due to the endless nights of purchasing him among his disguises, but… but…

She was leaving, and Hiro was shouting over her shoulder, "Good-bye, Mr Magician!"

"Good-bye," he replied absently, responding to her wave with a vague move of the hand. He was feeling sick.

When he got back home that day, he felt for the first time that this flat wasn't really the haven he dreamt of. It was too empty, too big, too dark. He walked down the corridor, without switching the lights on, and wondered how it would have been, if. Aoko, maybe, would have been waiting for him, welcoming him with a yawn and her arms around his neck. They would have had a quiet evening, a good supper, an old movie – and then to bed. Not the kind of thing they were having now, catch-me-if-you-can chases down the streets on handglider and police car.

He went in the living room, where the walls were dark-grey and the furniture light-grey. There were no colours, no shades, nothing. Just good taste and a lot of nostalgia.

He stared at the black window in front of him. He could see himself in that frame, a tall figure standing blankly at the door. He could see himself, an unwilling reflection of himself, the way Aoko had probably seen him this afternoon.

He was a young man of twenty-three, dark, wild-haired, rather tall and lean. Some physiology specialist would have showed how much his shoulders and the way he held his head expressed tiredness. He would also have pointed at the eyes, blue, wonderful deep eyes, but empty and blank and feelingless.

He smiled ruefully and leant against the window, resting his hot forehead against the cold surface. Outside, he could see the complicated pattern of lit streets, entangling themselves one way and another, like a labyrinth. He drowned himself in that sight, trying not to pay attention to his mournful reflection, right through the looking glass.

He hated mirrors, because they confronted him with his own, fragile truth.

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Well? What do you think? Does it fit? I wasn't really sure, but I liked the way Kaito is really numb and, and… desperate in this, but no one can see it except Aoko and himself.