Disclaimer: "Detective Conan" belongs to Gosho Aoyama, and "Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon" belongs to Naoko Takeuchi.
This is an alternative story to my other fanfic "Encounter in Venice" and one of the possibilities of what could have happened if Ai had taken the antidote before Shinichi brought down the Organization.
Thanks a lot to my friends and betas Rae (Astarael00) and SN1987a and the Aicoholics on LiveJournal, without whom I would never have started this fic.
FS
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Ghost at Twilight
(edited version)
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Despite myself...
Despite myself, I laugh, whereupon stranger-san, who is still caught up in his role of "Kudo Shinichi the mystery-obsessed sleuth", raises a quizzical brow at me.
"Sorry!" I raise my hands to appease Kudo No. 2, as my laugh must have been an unwelcome interruption to his performance. "I've never noticed how awkward Kudo's speech would appear to a suspect who is actually innocent!"
To my infatuated eyes, Kudo's dramatic way of presenting his deductions has always seemed most impressive: concise, efficient, memorable, tinted with a dash of romance—a combination of Holmes's sardonic wit and Poirot's flair for the theatrical. Even Kudo's few mistakes, which are inevitable because he is only all too human just like me, doesn't take away from his accomplishments. To Seiya, however, who encountered Kudo under the most unfortunate circumstances and who has been declared culprit by Kudo even before Kudo bothered to try his tea, Kudo's attitude was barely tolerable.
"Since I didn't reply, your detective continued to strut about the living room in stony silence. And when I began to sip my tea because I was at a loss for words and seething with anger—I felt the wish to destroy something in view of the great detective's blundering incompetence!—he sat down in front of me to fix his cold, hostile gaze on me with a disapproving frown, which expressed his indignation all too well, while I wondered how he got the preposterous idea that he had the right to express his withering contempt for me here, at my apartment, when he didn't even care enough about my case to give it an hour of his precious time!" Stranger-san instantly reverts into Kudo again to deliver Kudo's lecture on murder and love, gesturing in the air like Kudo does whenever Kudo is especially concerned about getting his point across. "'How could anyone kill the woman they claim to love? I could never do it no matter how much I wanted to be free! If you really loved her—or at least believed to have loved her—your crime would be even worse! Your only excuse is that you must have thought you were helping her to escape an ordeal which was even worse than death!'"
Shedding the part of my detective within a fraction of a second, my stranger kicks at another pebble, sending it straight into the pond, which is now glittering in all shades of green, red, and lavender like a liquid fairytale mirror.
"Long story short: I escorted him out of my apartment without saying much—I can't even remember whether I've commented on his theory at all—although I'd have preferred to toss him out of the window right then! Under different circumstances, I might have laughed at his inept handling of the case or pitied him for it, but that night I was thoroughly sick of his condescending attitude and his smug face! My world was in ruins but the great Sherlock of the East didn't care—to him, it was just another easy case! Kakyuu was dead—I was still trying to grapple with the reality that I was never going to see her again. I knew how hard it would be for Taiki and Yaten—especially for Yaten! I knew I had to let go if I wanted to stay sane, but there was nothing in my apartment which wasn't connected to her. I told myself that I had to keep myself occupied. If Kudo wasn't interested in the case, I'd rather try to solve it alone."
It's peculiar how different the same scene will look from another angle, with a different lighting solution and set to a different background music. While the novel of my life is dear to me because it's filled with my individual interpretation of the world—the only version of the truth which matters when all is said and done—I must admit that, like most unhappy narrators, who have no energy left to deal with grief that isn't their own, I've skipped and glossed over the many clues which would have helped me comprehend the world of the people I loved. Hidden in the gaps are the many different versions of the One Truth, a chameleon which will continually be changing its taste and colours like that person's favourite cocktail. Kudo and I have been circling each other for years without touching, forcing ourselves to take the difficult and conventionally right decisions at the cost of our own happiness as if our feelings for each other could be taken for granted. Whenever the obstacles seem insurmountable and one isn't even sure that one's feelings are being reciprocated, it's easier to do without the connection one craves and endure a life of self-defeat than to take the plunge and fail. Recalling Kudo's frustration with me and his emotional outbursts, I'm sad to see that now that our time has run out and love is lost, I will never know how our story would have sounded from Kudo's point of view.
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My stranger will never learn about my version of the truth either—neither about how our chance encounter has simultaneously saved and ruined my life nor about what a crucial part he has played in my story. Our relationship has become rather unbalanced, for he has helped me find the answers to my questions while I've only given him a mystery in return. I wonder how many errors are littering the book of his life or the book of Kudo's life—fundamental misunderstandings which will never be cleared up when the time for the epilogue comes.
Usually, Death will be knocking at one's rickety front door or rattling at one's dilapidated windows for years or decades before it arrives at last—tormenting the inhabitants of the house and warning the future corpses so that they can get their matters in order. But sometimes Death will come swiftly and unexpectedly, like a fall or, even more horrifying, a subtle slide down the gentle slope at the place which was once used for what Tiziano Scarpa coined the torture by hope: the fourth pillar of the Doge Palace, where the Venetians were said to give the prisoners condemned to death the very last chance (or rather the very last illusion of a chance) to escape their execution.
I prefer to call fourth pillar of the Doge Palace "the Torture of Hope"—not only because it sounds better than "Torture by Hope" but also because I believe that hope is not the tool but the torturer. Resignation is breeze without hope—to me, it's not death but the losing fight for happiness in times of despair which is truly terrifying.
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"Why didn't you agree to marry Kakyuu when your foster parents asked you to do it?" I ask Seiya, as it's still a mystery to me why he didn't agree to marry Kakyuu if he loved her so much and she was deeply in love with him. They would have been the perfect couple who had met as children and spent their adolescence together. Seiya wouldn't have been kicked out and wouldn't have fallen in love with Odango, who is now married to someone else. Even if Odango were the loveliest woman on earth... Kakyuu was graceful and talented and one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen.
"I simply didn't want to," my stranger says in a low voice as though he is facing a terrible truth. "She thought that I didn't care about her enough to marry her—but I did love her. Perhaps she was too good."
Maybe he wasn't aware of it while she was still alive, but Seiya must have loved Kakyuu more than he was able to express—adored and admired her with the pure, selfless love which seldom exists between lovers and partners but only between siblings or comrades who had gone through hell together or grown up with each other. It was a love which would have lasted forever but would never have ended in a functional marriage. A physical union, as tender as it can be, always has an aggressive, wild side to it—perhaps because a certain amount of wilderness is necessary for survival in nature.
Platonic love, which will eventually transcend one's adoration for one person into a love for all which is beautiful, doesn't require (and might even repel) any physical release beyond a hug or a chaste kiss. In contrast, the mysterious chemistry which hurls complete strangers into each other's passionate embrace can compel even experienced agents to reveal confidential information to the enemy. Romantic love, a combination of both, will always torture and hurt its victims—a truth which the ancient Greeks must have known when they feared Amor or Eros, the irresponsible prankster whose flaming torch or arrow lit the flame of love in the hearts of humans and gods.
Perhaps marriage is such a feat because one—or rather two, who are chained to each other by society's tyrannical manacles—would have to perform the sheer impossible balancing act of oscillating between all types of love and continuing to cherish what they have with each other even when (or especially when?) the currents of life are unpredictable and rough. And yet some people prefer being stuck with a stranger on the same bench and staying there until death do them part to watching the sunset all alone.
Fastening my gaze on the horizon, which is now a lambent purple band of light glittering with distant stars, I fight down the impulse to ask Seiya whether he will accept the movie offers since the reasons why he mustn't decline them should be self-evident to any halfway sensible person. Procrastination is an art, says the stubborn voice in my mind. Just push it away from you! Forget about it as long as you can, don't look at your watch! Just stall for time and filibuster Fate's victory by delaying the inevitable!
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