Chapter Text
"Ran and I went shopping today. She wouldn't hold my hand through the crowds. If you know... if you understand... meet me where we first faced off. Please."
The stairwell was lit only by tiny orange maintainence lights, and the glow of streetlamps through a porthole and the door Conan had left open to its room. The light shifted periodically, the passing of a car far below, but other than that it was just the faint city glow.
Conan himself sat halfway down the first flight from the clock's engine room. His shoes, watch, and belt buckle sat three steps below, well out of reach but perfectly visible in the gloom.
The police should be staking out the roof of that hotel by now, he thought. Nakamori had laughed so rudely when he'd listened to the mini-cassette -- told Conan it was ingenious, such a crude lure that Kid might just walk right into the trap out of sheer disbelief. And indeed, Kid might yet do so, if he didn't know...
... but if Kid was the true mastermind he seemed, the genius with a photographic memory for details that Conan counted on in his ongoing pursuit of Kid, he would know that Edogawa Conan was not who he seemed. If he went a step further, just one...
"Tantei-kun?"
Conan's head jerked up. And there on the landing above, face shadowed and hands in his pockets, stood an oddly solemn Kaitou Kid. "You came."
A shrug. "Yes, well... never have been one to resist an invite, have I? What's up?"
"So much, really..." All of which had just sort of crashed down on Conan all at once. "I... may have a couple of favors to ask of you. So do you think you could call me by name? Just for tonight?"
"Only if you don't expect me to return the privilege."
"I don't."
"Okay... Kudo-san."
He knew. He truly, honestly knew, rather than simply following Conan here. "Shin'ichi."
Kid's pause rang with surprise. "... Shin'ichi," he echoed finally.
"Thank you," Conan murmured, letting his head drop back into one hand. He used the other to slide his glasses off and stuff them in a pocket. "I never get to hear my name anymore."
"Ah. Anytime, then."
They fell into silence after that, Kid apparently content to let Conan gather his thoughts. The light sputtered and dimmed further: a streetlamp outside had fizzled out. Timber creaked in the aging clock tower.
There was just so much -- Haibara was starting to hint that it would be easier to just grow up again, instead of step into an adult life with only teen experience. His parents had opened a new college fund, in trust for Edogawa Conan. Ran... Ran...
"You know," Conan began, the words almost surprising himself, "I always thought I'd get a way to fix this, and just pop back into my old life, but... it's been four years."
And that was the crux of the problem, wasn't it.
"So I'm eleven years old. And my classmates..." Gods, and he'd thought Ayumi-chan's crush had been unnerving four years ago. "... are getting pushy." He'd written about Ran, as much as he could... as much as Kid needed to fill in the blanks. He didn't need to open that wound any further.
"But I'm also twenty-one. I can't see my classmates as peers, not that way -- can't see past the law, past their ages and how young they all are. It twists my stomach to try. But I can't..." Conan shuddered at the other option. "God, how could I, with anyone who didn't know about me? The only ones who do are Heiji and you--" And Heiji would have the same problem Conan did. Conan just plain looked eleven.
The silence lasted just a half-beat too long for Kid to pass off as oblivious. "So you think so little of me, Shin'ichi?"
"No!" Conan all but yelped. "You're the only one I can think of who might be able to see past both the law and this... this face." The face and body of an eleven-year-old, and only the fact that it was Conan's own let him glance at it while bathing or changing anymore. Too young for comfort, not young enough to be ignored anymore. "If that makes any sense."
"That you think I can disregard your apparent age," Kid interpreted, "and the risks of doing anything with someone the age your papers say you are, and find you attractive rather than your body."
"Yes," Conan blurted with considerable relief.
Kid considered the boy for a long moment. "Are you even attracted to me?"
Conan opened his mouth to reply, then froze. He... hadn't actually considered that. But... okay, Kid was just the other side of sane, which was rather the point, but he was brilliant. The rush of chasing him was like nothing else -- far more frivolous than Conan's preferred cases, but the mind, and the freedom of knowing nobody was going to get hurt...
Slowly, he pulled his gaze to Kid, letting... making himself really look at the thief for a change.
"Physically..." Kid did cut a fine figure in that suit, didn't he? And he did enough crazy gymnastics in his heists that the suit couldn't be tailored to hide any flaws. "I don't know. I could be. For all I know, whatever face I saw would be calculated to appeal anyway. But mentally..." Utterly mad, barely predictable, eternally challenging... "God yes."
Kid's gaze pressed down on Conan. Then he shifted, the first move he'd made since his arrival, and set a foot on the top step. Conan crossed his arms, face warming as Kid approached -- he'd really said that, he'd just propositioned Kaitou Kid, and for all the evidence there was a chance that the Kid's madness wasn't what Conan wanted.
Kid went down on one knee on Conan's step, the damned hat brim shadowing his face still -- only two glints showed where his eyes were. A gloved hand lifted, brushed soft suede against Conan's jaw.
"This... won't be easy for me," Kid whispered, voice shaking just noticeably.
"Oh thank god," Conan gasped, before his mouth was covered by Kid's.
The Kid's lower lip was chapped, sticky with strawberry chapstick, and his glove warm, and so, so soft on Conan's face... Conan opened his mouth, because that's what people did in the movies 'Conan' wasn't supposed to be old enough to watch, drawing and swallowing the faintest startled sound from Kid.
... the sound wasn't all he'd drawn out of Kid, a flicker of tentative movement against his open mouth sending Conan's eyes flying wide. This... yes, this was supposed to happen, too, but it felt so odd--
Kid's eyes were closed. Conan's fingers tightened on Kid's hand -- Kid's eyes were closed. Conan's hand was centimeters from the monocle, a quick nudge would knock the top hat off, and Kid wasn't watching him...
He could unmask the Kid.
He didn't want to. Not like this. Not with Kid's tongue coaxing soft sounds from his mouth... not with Kid daring to give Conan the one thing he couldn't have.
Conan whimpered when Kid pulled away.
"You've been eating chocolate," Kid observed breathily.
"Yeah... are you okay?"
"Was going to ask you that."
"Good." And Conan pulled Kid down again.
-0-0-0-
It wasn't until Kaito had hung up his Kid costume and tucked the monocle into its velvet case that the evening caught up to him.
His legs gave out, buckling under him, and he landed hard on the floor. Gods. He'd just... and with... he'd just made out with Edogawa Conan. Edogawa Conan, detective, even!
That was not what was supposed to happen. Not that he could've ever guessed the conversation would take such a turn, but when Conan -- Shin'ichi -- had made his insane request, he'd been so sure that it was a trick. A chance to get Kid within reach, to capture and unmask him... Things should've gone as A. Kid accedes to the ridiculous request, goes down on one knee and kisses Conan. B. Conan waits until Kid is 'into it', completely distracted. C. Conan attempts to knock off Kid's hat, grab his monocle, and/or snap handcuffs onto him. D. Kid disappears in a burst of smoke, laughing and unsurprised at the betrayal. E. Kid flies away, uncaught and still masked, while Conan curses his failure yet again.
Conan was not supposed to have been so desperately lonely that his request was genuine. He was Kudo Shin'ichi, great detective of the east, a man whose life had been Sherlock Holmes, cases, and...
And Mouri Ran. Who he'd lost completely. Kaito was an idiot.
He'd gone in expecting Conan to want to talk, use him as some sort of Western-style confessor. Somebody the boy didn't have to face every day, who would keep his secrets and never think to use them as weapons.
Instead, he'd been propositioned. By an eleven-year-old. And it wasn't a trick.
Kaito buried his head against his knees and shook.
An eleven-year-old with the mind of a college boy... a sane college boy, not like Kaito.
Kid was a singular entity, a magician upon the stage. But when the audience packed up and went home, all he was left with was a darkened spotlight and an empty theater. Kid's madness, Kaito's madness, accounted for that. He lived in his heists, an entire Task Force devoted to him, crowds of hundreds cheering his every move. Even outside them, he had the more intimate audiences of passersby, classmates, a mother...
Edogawa Conan... what did he have? His parents couldn't be his own, his friends -- both adults and children -- were cut off by the barrier of his own contradicting ages; the police had enough trouble accepting Hakuba as a valid co-worker, it would be another decade before they thought of Conan as anything but a precocious child...
... but that was rather the point, wasn't it. He wasn't a child. Only in body...
And age of consent was arbitrary as it was, ranging from fourteen to eighteen in Japan alone. Some cultures, both historically and current, thought the ideal arrangement was between a pre- or early teen and an adult. Most of the laws were in place to prevent coercion of the more vulnerable partner.
Conan was damn well old enough to make his own decisions, even if he didn't look it. And he would certainly tell Kid if he didn't like something... so that was settled. What counted morally -- at least to Kaito -- was Conan's mental age.
"Tell me... are you even attracted to me?"
A startled look, slipping into a considering stare. "Physically... I don't know. Mentally... god yes."
Time to ask himself the same question. Was he-- no. No, could he be attracted to Conan?
Not that the evening hadn't proved he could -- narrow hips under his gloves, thin legs straddling his lap, the faintest taste of chocolate, oh gods -- to at least some extent... but he'd seen pictures of Kudo Shin'ichi, he knew how the promise of the child's features would turn out. Conan couldn't have any idea what Kaito looked like, not even a hint of his age... heck, Conan couldn't be certain Kid was male.
So, since 'mentally, god yes' was a good enough answer for Kaito...
"You are such a goddamned thorn in my side, Kudo," Kaito whispered, hearing only Kid's contrary fondness instead of venom in his voice.
... this was still going to be extremely difficult, for however long it lasted.
-0-0-0-
"Home."
The note had appeared in Conan's school locker, just a single word and no signature. He'd barely blinked, though, putting his outdoor shoes on top of the little card before the Shounen Tantei could spot it.
Given their mutual knowledge, the note could only mean one place: the Kudo mansion, all but abandoned -- his parents still paid the utility bills, and Agasa stopped in every once in a while to run the water clear, dust out cobwebs, and check for maintainence problems, but the house was mostly a focus for ghost stories and children's dares these days.
... Conan wasn't entirely sure why he'd cleaned his own room rather than the living room for the meeting. Or maybe he did, leaving his glasses and dart-watch on the freshly-wiped desk, putting fresh sheets on his bed -- his parents would notice strange stains on the dust covers draped over the furniture, and notice them even quicker on the actual upholstery.
Strange stains. If Kid went that far... if Conan...
He smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in the bed's blanket.
"You look nearly as nervous as I feel," Kid murmured. Conan yelped, spinning to find the man sitting on the windowsill, ghostly and rakish. Moonlight gleamed on the monocle and an untamable grin.
... nervous as he felt? Conan felt tension he hadn't realized was there start to drain away. "I don't know what you're going to do," he told Kid honestly.
Kid hopped off the sill, cape swaying. "Plenty of things, eventually," he said lightly. "Nothing you don't like--" he stopped scarce centimeters from Conan, gloved fingers tipping his chin up. The grin vanished. "--since I fully expect you to tell me if and when to stop."
... it figured that Kid, who turned even the most innocent comments on heists into taunts, would be so contrary as to make that condescending wording completely, utterly serious.
Slight pressure from Kid's knuckle and thumb guided Conan to sit on the edge of the bed, Kid following to kneel on the floor, his stomach pressing warmly against Conan's knees. Conan's hands landed on Kid's arms as his mouth covered Conan's.
This kiss, despite the nerves Conan could feel thrumming under his palms, was softer than the previous encounter's had been, long and languid and deep... undemanding, as if Kid's words had belied intentions to only kiss tonight.
Conan's legs parted of their own accord, his ankles crossing behind Kid's thighs, arms trailing up behind Kid's neck, and he pulled himself closer. Muscles flexed under Conan's calf, Kid shying away before pressing back in.
"Please..." Conan whispered, muffled. Don't run, just this once... let me catch you for an hour, a night, a...
Conan's mouth slipped away from Kid's, moving lower, and suddenly the chalky taste of latex and thick makeup exploded in his mouth, Kid's jaw too stiff under his lips. "You're disguised!" he accused.
"Sensible precaution," Kid answered, wryly amused.
Damn, he was right. Kid couldn't risk letting Conan see his true face. Even the dark wouldn't hide it well enough, should the hat and monocle get knocked loose... a situation that would definitely occur, even by accident. Of course Kid had come in disguise.
"It tastes nasty," Conan muttered, more to himself than Kid. There was really only one solution he could think of. "You're a magician--"
"I can't do anything about the taste, sorry."
"Do you have any scarves?"
Kid froze, his breath hitching. "Shin'ichi...?"
"Scarves," Conan repeated impatiently. He didn't want the disguise, so he'd have to compromise.
Eyes wide -- apparently Kid was following Conan's train of thought -- Kid slowly dropped a hand to the opposite sleeve, tugging a string of knotted scarves from inside it. He detached a long, dark one, and dropped the silky length daringly into Conan's lap.
It took only seconds for Conan to fold the silk and slip it over his eyes, hearing Kid's breathing go rough as he secured the blindfold behind his head. "Take off the disguise," Conan said softly, dropping his hands back to his sides. If Kid wanted to flee now, there'd be no stopping him; Conan's legs were draped too loosely over Kid's hips, his ankles crossed rather than locked at the back of Kid's thighs.
Cloth rustled, the faintest rasp of something soft puddling on the floor. A click brought the bitter tang of rubbing alcohol to Conan's nose; Kid must use the childsafe variety of spirit gum to attach his disguises. More rustling, then, a sense of movement -- Kid bending to set something aside, hip pressing against Conan's knee -- and Conan heard plastic snap. A sandwich bag, he'd guess, and hopefully one with a wet washcloth inside...
His hopes were confirmed when Kid's lips returned to his, making Conan gasp -- they were cooler this time, and when Conan tried a careful lick at Kid's face, the skin was damp and only tasted faintly of the rubbing alcohol.
"Better?" Kid murmured into Conan's cheek.
"Much," Conan replied, hands trailing awkwardly up the finely-woven cloth of Kid's suit, suede gloves giving way to the smooth folds up Kid's arm, fabric bunching under the jarringly hard knobs on his shoulders...
Kid twitched again when Conan's fingers fluttered too lightly against the soft skin of his neck, tendons standing out, leaving a slight valley between them and the fine hairs at his nape. Conan's fingers drew upwards, carding through thick hair, short locks curling about his fingertips.
The hat was gone.
A sudden curiosity hit Conan, and his fingers slid lightly back towards Kid's face, discovering soft skin, a closed eyelid and the tickle of eyelashes instead of metal and glass. The monocle was gone, too.
He whimpered. Kid had unmasked -- completely... Conan surged up against Kid, tongue delving into Kid's mouth, swallowing a startled gasp. Kid rocked back on his knees as Conan pressed against him, arms catching around Conan in instinctive surprise, then pushed forward...
They overbalanced and toppled onto the bed, Conan's back thumping against the mattress. The move jarred their mouths apart, and Conan pressed his lips right back to the nearest patch of skin, working his way up the right side of Kid's jaw with tiny, suckling kisses.
"It figures," Kid rasped, as Conan found a particularly soft spot that needed attention, between the corner of Kid's normally-monocled eye and his hairline, "that you'd get turned on by clues. You are such a detective."
"You make that--" Conan curled a leg higher over Kid's hip, pressing a sock-clad heel against the strong curves he found there, "--sound like--", finding a trace of missed stickiness curving towards Kid's cheekbone, which just begged to be nibbled, "--a crime."
"It's certainly a waste," Kid muttered.
Conan made a dismissive sound, and returned to his work exploring the right side of Kid's face. It was probably ridiculous, but it was always hidden by the damned monocle, the glass gleaming solid white and blocking a quarter of that face at any hint of light. He couldn't see it, so he had to touch it, lick and nibble and prove it was real...
With his mouth busy doing that, Conan's fingers were free to rub through Kid's hair, and slide under the lapels of the white jacket, finding warm, hard planes of muscle under thin cotton...
... and the backs of both Conan's hands slammed flat against the mattress on either side of his head, wrists caught in a near-crushing grip. "Don't," Kid ordered, voice flat and harsh. "You don't know what you might set off." A pause. "Besides one of us, I mean."
... Right. Conan had disarmed, his dart watch and belt buckle a few meters out of reach on the desk. Kid's own weapons -- flash bombs, smoke grenades, pellets of sleeping gas, the razor-card gun -- were nowhere in sight, meaning they were still lurking somewhere within his layers of clothing. Though gods knew where, since Conan couldn't feel any suspicious lumps or bulges except the one brushing inside his thighs...
He was not panicking at the knowledge of what that was. He had his own, dammit.
Kid's grip on his wrists gentled -- still firm, but escapable now. "I still expect you to tell me when to stop," he reminded Conan.
Conan took a deep, shuddering breath, more to start regaining control than to quell any panic. That had been a mere flash, there and gone the instant Kid backed off. "I know," he replied. "I should have asked the same -- you're no more ready than I am." Kid had unmasked, not disarmed.
A puff of a laugh. "In different ways, perhaps." He rolled off of Conan, twisting to lay fully on the bed, and pulled Conan to follow. "But I'll say stop for the night, then."
Mindful of Kid's reflexes, Conan buried his face against the knot of the tie, tucking his head under Kid's chin. His freed hands crept up to fist between them, curled fingers turned inward, back of the hands brushing the lapels of Kid's jacket. Kid's arms slid around Conan, fingertips stroking lightly through the few unruly locks at the nape of Conan's neck.
Slowly, the blindfold began to warm from the heat of Kid's throat.
And Conan's mind couldn't just shut up and enjoy it.
"Can I ask you something?" Conan murmured, surprising himself. "Without getting your usual mocking answer?"
Kid pulled up a bit, letting too-cold fresh air hit Conan's face. "I won't promise an answer," the tone sounded almost quizzical, "but no mocking one."
Good enough. "Why did you agree to this?"
Silence. "... maybe someday, I'll tell you."
Conan sighed. That hadn't been a mocking answer, but 'someday'... there might not be a 'someday'. But he'd have to take what he could get.
Which meant not scaring Kid off. Conan curled closer, stomped his curiosity firmly into the depths of his heart, and kept quiet until he dozed off in the wee hours of the night.
When he woke, Kid was gone.
-0-0-0-
A week later, three days after a Kid heist -- in which Conan had wasted two darts, almost gotten a white patent loafer in the face, been teased by Kid about hitting a growth spurt, and bounced off his own soccer ball, in that order -- Conan opened his locker to find another note. This one, however, he didn't manage to hide from the Shounen Tantei in time.
"Lost and found," Ayumi read over Conan's shoulder -- she'd shot up several centimeters in recent months, and currently Conan was the shortest of the Tantei. "Did you lose something, Conan-kun?"
"Not that I know of," Conan replied. Except his mind, for having started whatever-he-had with Kid... whose handwriting this was.
Genta peered over Ayumi. "Maybe it's a case? Somebody wants to meet you to ask for help, but it's gotta be really hush-hush--"
A thin fist intruded into Conan's vision, pinky finger sticking out and wiggling suggestively. "I think it's a giiiiiirlfriend," Mitsuhiko said slyly.
"Conan-kun!" Ayumi wailed, "It's not, is it...?"
"No!" Conan yelped, even as Ai-kun plucked the slip of paper from his hand.
Smirking, she leaned back against his locker, and said, "If I were evil, I'd inquire about a possible boyfriend instead," Conan felt his face flush bright red, as she cast him a wicked sidelong glance, "and then tease you mercilessly. But there's no time on the card, so it's not a meeting with anybody."
"Awww..." Genta and Mitsuhiko chorused, crestfallen.
Conan snatched the paper back from Ai-kun and stuffed it in his schoolbag. "It's just a note for the lost-and-found; I probably lost something with my name on it that's too big to slip into the locker." Because if Kid was crazy enough to be waiting in a glorified closet at Conan's school to make out, he was going to get kicked somewhere unpleasant...
"We'll go with you!" Genta said cheerfully.
... and then in the head, once that initial kick brought said body part within range of Conan's foot.
But when the five arrived at the makeshift office (a former closet in the administrative offices), the small space was empty, save for the usual shelves of lost objects. Most of these were gloves and scarves, scattered with a few notebooks and an assortment of charms and keychains.
Placed prominently on a front shelf, however, right at Conan's eye level and visible from the door, was an old, hardcover book. Somebody had looped a piece of string around it, a tag dangling free with Conan's name on it... again, in Kid's handwriting.
"Oh," Conan said hastily, making a show of checking his bag. "I thought... oops. Must've left it someplace. Thought it was in my bookbag." The other four stared at him, nonplussed, as he grabbed the mysterious book and shoved it in with his homework. "My bad. Sorry, guys."
"You should be more careful with your belongings!" Ayumi began to scold Conan, continuing in that vein as they all headed home, but the book continued to remain on his mind the entire trip.
Once at the Mouris', Conan managed to force himself to do his homework -- quick as it was -- before heading into his bedroom, shutting the door and pulling the mysterious book from his bag.
It was a deep brown hardcover, perhaps 250 pages long and obviously secondhand; its dust jacket had long since gone missing, the brown faded in spots at the corners and where a person's fingers would rest. A quick grasp at the cover proved that said hands would belong to someone older than Conan seemed, or at least larger than he was. The title was embossed in gold along the spine, Roman lettering that wasn't English, and the same was stamped without color on the left-hand cover. Western-style binding, then, to read in the opposite direction as Japanese books.
The first page had been neatly excised, probably with a razor, despite the well-loved condition of the book. The second had Conan's name neatly written under the title... which, unlike the cover embossing, had kana printed below the Roman lettering.
Arsène Lupin contre Herlock Sholmès
Arsene Lupin vs. Herlock Sholmes
Herlock Sholmes being an obvious play on Sherlock Holmes... Conan let the book fall open where it would, discovering -- unsurprisingly -- that a folded piece of paper had been tucked between the pages. The text on said page consisted of rows of the same language, French, alternating with Japanese, annotated with multi-colored grammatical and cultural notes in Kid's same handwriting.
This was... this was more than just Kaitou Kid's book. This was even more than just a favorite book -- this was an insight into the workings of Kid's mind, his own personal notes, marks of what he thought was important, what he needed help to remember, an entire language's worth...
Dear gods. What had Conan done to deserve this?
... somehow, Conan didn't think it was giving up his sight to the blindfold. Or, at least, not just that.
And there was still the folded paper to consider. Which, as Conan found out when he lifted it, was oddly heavy... he opened the first fold to find his two missing darts taped inside, with a rather comically startled-looking caricature of Kid with both darts in the hat.
Apparently, he had managed to hit the guy, if not anywhere the drug would work. Though you'd think that would inspire Kid to not give such over-the-top gifts...
The rest of the note was a sketchy map and a date. Saturday, presumably Saturday night, given Kid's proclivities.
... Conan had a date. The idea was almost laughable.
His gaze fell back upon the book, and he gulped. Almost.
-0-0-0-
Saturday night found Conan boarding leisurely down a sidewalk on his jet-powered skateboard. The jets were off, his foot jabbing occasionally at the increasingly-cracked concrete, as he followed the map into poorer and poorer neighborhoods. Places like this cropped up everywhere; once-fashionable streets giving way to low-income housing as trends moved on.
The streets grew emptier as Conan skated further into the maze of housing, shadows lengthening as the sun sank towards the horizon. But the map showed he only had another turn to make, and then he'd be... wherever it was Kid wanted him, a scribbled square on the map.
He coasted around the corner, slowing to a stop before the "square": a small, boarded-up theater. Grimy, peeling paint coated the building's walls; numerous roof tiles lay scattered about where they'd fallen, rotting leaves and bits of trash caught in their rough corners, unswept and ignored by the locals. About all Conan could say of it was that it didn't seem structurally unsound.
Kid wouldn't direct him someplace unsafe like that. Crime scenes, yes, but that was Conan's field of expertise. A building that was going to fall on his head, no.
So Conan kicked up his skateboard, catching it under one arm, and slipped into the alley, finding -- unsurprisingly -- a fire door hidden in an alcove, the padlock picked and hanging invitingly open. A quick pull on the chain gave him access to a pitch-black hallway. Clicking on his dart-watch's flashlight, he pulled the door shut behind him and headed into the gloom.
Floorboards creaked under Conan's feet, carpet squelching slightly -- the building was no longer weatherproof. His weak flashlight flickered over wallpaper hanging in tattered strips, an alcove with motheaten chairs stacked inside, and then the space opened up into the lobby.
Copper glowed dimly between the slats of the boarded-up front, showing the sun had just minutes left before it sank behind the buildings outside. He mostly ignored the ticket window, only sweeping the light across the floor beneath to see how far its broken glass extended, then switched his flashlight off to save the battery.
Only one place to find Kid in here, really. Conan turned sharply to the right and pushed through the nearest doorway to the theater itself.
The faint light was just enough to see Kid wasn't there -- or, at least, not anywhere visible -- before Conan let the doors fall shut behind him once more. But the light remained, a glance towards the ceiling showing a makeshift lamp made from a flashlight and a large sheet of paper.
Kid was most definitely here. Somewhere.
Conan propped the skateboard up against the raised platforms where traditionalists would sit seiza in their kimono, leaving the watch on the platform above it, then headed down into the aisle between the Western-style seating. He climbed onto the hanamachi stage extension with only the barest edge of unease -- something about this was almost silly, parading along the narrow catwalk like a pageant girl or model for Kid's eyes only...
... though the hanamachi was meant for dramatic entrances anyway.
... and there were a few other details about Kabuki stages that Conan knew. He stopped at the stage end of the hanamachi and crossed his arms.
"If you pop out of a trapdoor somewhere, Kid," he announced loudly, "you're getting a soccer ball in the face."
"What if I crept out of it slowly?" Kid replied, voice echoing through the room. It didn't seem to be coming from below, though, so Conan looked up... and there in the rafters, Kid sat perched on a piece of machinery. The man reached down, catching onto a hidden rope, and swung under the machine. His cape billowed as he glided to the stage floor in a screech of rusting metal, which made them both wince.
And then they were facing each other awkwardly across the stage.
Conan cleared his throat. "Why did you give me that book?"
Kid tilted his head, a hand lifting to adjust his hat brim -- and, incidentally, hiding even more of his face. "Is that the question you want answered tonight?" he asked, voice low.
"Y--" Wait. Did that mean Kid planned to answer something? "... no."
The hand dropped, revealing a smile that wasn't the typical manic grin. Kid crooked his fingers, beckoning, drawing Conan across the stage like a magnet. Then that same hand dropped onto Conan's shoulder, spinning him around and pulling, tucking the boy back against Kid's chest. Kid's arms draped across Conan's chest, and his cheek pressed against Conan's hair.
"Kid...?"
"Do you remember the time I accused you of being nothing but a critic?" Kid murmured, breath warming Conan's ear.
The hotel roof, where Conan had used a bottle rocket to summon the police and Kid had vanished in the glare of a flash bomb... while insulting the entire profession of detecting with a laugh in his voice. "Yes..."
"I hadn't seen you in action on a case before," Kid whispered.
Huh?!
"Don't get me wrong, you're still a critic." A chuckle tickled into Conan's hair. "But you behave like a showman. The crime scene is your stage, the clues your props, the suspects and police your audience... building up tension until you unveil your trick in a grand denouement... it's very classical of you. Holmes and Poirot would be proud."
"Um... thank you?" Conan jumped as teeth grazed lightly over his ear. What the hell... lips tugged, and a shivery jolt shot from his neck to the pit of his stomach. Okay, that was fine, Kid could do that all he liked.
"But," Kid murmured, still talking, that wasn't acceptable, "when the curtain falls, and the audience has gone, what are you left with?"
The chill in Conan's stomach suddenly had nothing to do with the wicked mouth toying at his ear. That was a low blow -- he'd told Kid, he'd said, he had nothing but his crime scenes anymore and that hurt.
Kid's arms tightened against his struggling. "Think, Shin'ichi. I'm not asking out of cruelty."
Conan stilled, tense and ready to twist, to kick, damn the man... fine. Think. He could do that. He stared blindly at the rows of empty seats, barely visible in the gloom.
Think. It was like a case, and Kid must believe he'd given Conan all the clues. So. What was left for him...
... no. What was left for a showman. Which, despite Kid's words, was a term far more suited to Kid himself than to Conan.
When the heists were over, when the crowds had gone home, what was left for Kid?
The answer was right in front of Conan's eyes, and under his feet.
"An empty stage," Conan whispered, "and a vacant theater." Just the week before, he'd asked Kid why he'd agreed... his hands crept up to cover Kid's. This was why: Conan's selfsame reasons for asking in the first place. "And, perhaps, a fellow showman?"
"Very good," Kid whispered.
But... "Why now...?"
Kid tsked. "Only one answer for you tonight, Shin'ichi." His hold gentled, voice lowering. "But I'll give you a clue. Don't expect complex motives from me."
No complex motives...? Conan twisted curiously, and found his mouth covered by Kid's.
Oo... kay. No more questions tonight. Conan opened his mouth under Kid's, one hand sliding into that thick hair and helping to hold Kid in place. The chain on the monocle brushed against his face, the clover-marked charm bumping against his collarbone.
Mm... yes, no blindfold, no disguises, even though one flashlight and a sheet of paper in a space this cavernous was just as effective for keeping Kid's face invisible.
Kid's hand slipped under his arm, gliding slowly downwards, his other hand twining with Conan's own and following. The move allowed Conan to curl closer, his hip pressing between Kid's legs, and almost let Conan ignore the hesitant fingers tugging his shirt untucked.
So not fair, but Conan wasn't going to try sneaking into Kid's jacket again for a while. Not until he knew Kid was disarmed.
Soft, thick, suede-covered fingers slipped under the fabric of his T-shirt, flickering testingly -- teasingly, almost ticklishly -- over a patch of skin. Conan shivered, arching into the touch, but... it wasn't right, wasn't...
"Can't get fingerprints off skin," Conan murmured, hinting. "Or cloth."
Kid hummed thoughtfully against Conan's throat. "Don't like the suede?"
"Yes... but..."
The lips turned up in a smile that Conan could feel, and the hand entangled in his own pulled away from Conan's stomach, fingers wiggling. "Go ahead, then."
Conan's breath caught in his throat. He tightened his hand and pulled, the white fabric sliding from surprisingly slim fingers, and dropped the glove with barely a pause. Kid's hand caught his own again, light calluses scraping over Conan's too-soft skin.
Had it been slightly brighter, Conan would've lifted Kid's hand to see it wrapped around his own. As it was, he angled his head to catch Kid's mouth in another kiss, and just allowed Kid to tow his hand along as long arms encircled his waist once more, Kid guiding Conan down as he sat seiza upon the stage. Conan wound up straddling Kid's lap again, this time facing out, Kid pressed firmly and warmly against his back.
"You... have this thing about me on your lap..." Conan half-complained into Kid's mouth, the angle uncomfortable now.
"Gets you at kissing level," Kid replied, nudging Conan's head to face forward so he could get at the pulse point.
"... oh..." Pulse point good. Pulse point very good, and if Kid started trying to cryptically guide Conan to answers again he was going to shove Kid down and try nibbling in the same spot. "...okay..."
Then warm, bare fingertips were edging under his shirt again, trailing lightly over his stomach and upward.
Conan's head lolled back against Kid's shoulder, the hard knobs of Kid's glider-cape a minor note against the mouth on Conan's throat, the hands pulling one of his own to trace the lines of his body under his thin T-shirt. Who knew that a nipple could catch under his palm, warm and pebbling and rolling in a way that curled in the pit of his stomach?
"You're going to have to borrow someone's concealer," Kid whispered.
And Conan cared... why? His free hand pulled Kid's head back down where it belonged, against Conan's throat.
Kid's hand untangled from Conan's, leaving it pressed against a nipple as Kid's wandered south.
... wait...
Firm and large, they rubbed slowly down along Conan's sides, then back up, shifting inward and down again. A pinky trailed just under Conan's waistband on the downstroke.
... wait--
A finger dipped into Conan's navel, another flicking at the button on his jeans.
--wait!
Conan couldn't ignore the thrum of alarm any longer. "H...how far are we going? Tonight?"
Kid's fingers circled around the button, toying with it, twisting... but not slipping it free. "This far," he said decisively. "A good show never throws everything at the audience at once." A pause. "That okay?"
No, his instincts yelled. Yes, his rational mind countered. "... just fine." Though Kid's hands on the button of his shorts were still indicating otherwise, even as Conan's breathing evened and slowed.
After a few moments, Conan turned on Kid's lap, Kid's hold slipping to hold him loosely, sideways. His hand reached up to touch Kid's face, finding a quizzically-raised brow under his fingertips before his palm slid down to cup the man's jaw.
Conan's final kiss that night was a promise.
TBC