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It was just right, wasn't it? For a man who had quite the plethora of reasons for having problems trusting people to be physically unable to stomach the cooking of others. At least that’s the idea Conan had conjured.
He then thought, it’d surely be alright… surely.
Surely it’d be alright if Conan made the desired food with the man himself, no? At least then he’d be assured there were no such of the essential threats: so it be poison, or hidden sharp instruments… or the color red — the man had a shallow disdain for the dye, Conan knew why, but never bothered to pry.
The start was a quick bubble of notion in Conan’s mind that should have passed, but he considered it deeper. It was indeed so that Conan was well indebted to the dear man, not only had the latter helped him on a countless amount of cases; there were disgusting, personal actions as well.
‘Would you mind not mixing business with pleasure?’
…is what Conan would often have in mind.
It wasn’t as if Conan was personally displeased with the man’s displays of light friendliness; he’d merely wished the man kept it to different days, where Conan had the reassurance the man was not only moving with nothing but ulterior motives.
They would’ve gotten along easier — and a lot faster, Conan may’ve assumed — if the man had more of a personality not like a shrew.
When it came to his interactions with the man — Conan, more often than not, found himself doubting how logical of a person he truly was.
It was a simple invitation, it frankly was. There was only a tint of embarrassment when it came to asking for things, truly an emotion that could never have been helped.
“…could you help me make chocolates?”
Tone so innocent, words so simple: merely befitting of his childish appearance. The only shred of maturity that had shown in Conan’s gesture could have been the slight bow he had shown to the man on instinct.
Even in a shrunken body, Conan still could not let go of how he was raised and taught — with lenient Japanese standards, of course.
Only a cruel-hearted soul would have been able to defy a request from that sweet, sweet face of Conan’s… and a cruel-hearted soul, the man was not! For he chuckled, a laugh so hearty, patted the boy’s head and agreed with joy heard clearly in his voice.
Perhaps it was times like these where Conan truly sees the other’s age.
A day passed, and Conan found himself knocking on the man’s door. With all the attempts he had formerly made at ushering the man to give Conan his home address, he wanted to tell his past self to go give up and use that cuteness of his to the max.
The man in question himself agreed, didn’t he?
“Do you think that, just as long as you ask cutely, you can ask anything?”
Those were his exact words, no alterations, and no bias from Conan’s already too-emotional brain. Could it have been the pill that drugged Conan into becoming a more non-logical fellow? Nobody would know. Rather, Conan believed he was the worse of the two — as his response to the former question was:
“Mhm, I do think so!”
A silly exchange. Only nauseatingly impersonal.
‘Maison Mokuba,’ t’was a simple apartment complex, it was not much, but certainly felt fitting for such a plain guy as he.
Conan was promptly allowed entry, greeted with a smile by the prized man as they stepped into the kitchen. Of course, the counters were already ready with the needed ingredients and the right amount of measuring tools, and whatever else niche kitchen paraphernalia Conan did not bother to notice.
In the utmost, cooking was not of Conan’s forte, nor had he ever planned on developing a liking for it; a Detective works better on an empty stomach — such is so that Holmes suggested.
This… this was a different topic; for Conan’s victim of his cuisine was not himself, it was the blasted man who had become so dear to him in just a short amount of time.
Or possibly, it could be under the same principle? The man, too, performed detective work.
Shutting those thoughts out, Conan swished his head, his attention focused on how the man guided and moved him — it was as if the man was a natural teacher.
He was good at anything Conan had ever seen him do, it was to the point it rarely amused him further. Knowing how to strum a guitar was amazing, but when you find out he’s able to learn and adapt to all instruments… the concept suddenly felt so dull.
Crack. Conan wanted a crack in the man’s oh-so-perfect facade, a gap or injury that could deeply change the way one may look at him.
There was that deep burning hatred the man never got rid of for a certain bloke, but Conan found that to not be as entertaining as any of the other human relationships he observed.
Before his body could manage catching up with his mind, all of a sudden: the chocolates were done. Conan was silently, absentmindedly following along the man’s guide as he leered over personal ideals.
With the wrapping that he personally went out of his way to buy at a specialty store yesterday, Conan grabbed the square-shaped chocolates and tediously presented them neatly inside the box. Conan even tied a pretty ribbon.
He even wrote a message on the free included small tag, with a badly drawn heart.
‘I appreciate you. From: Conan. ❤︎’
Truly one of his top 3 most revolting feats.
It goes just below when Conan told Ran that he loved her more than anyone on earth.
The man perked up, curious and peeking over at Conan with a cheeky expression. Conan almost threw all of the bowls at him just because of that face he was making.
“Oho? Who’s the lucky person?”
A wide grin with a hand over his mouth, the man asked Conan in a playful fashion. The boy begrudgingly turned around with a bashful tenor, facing the man with a stern look.
“It’s for you… Zero-no-niichan. Thank you for all you do for me, I’m really grateful for it.”
Conan takes a deep breath in to continue the rest of his damned verbal appreciation letter.
“I figured you’d prefer food made in front of you so that you know there’s nothing bad in it, or whatever… gosh, this is so stupid.”
The man, Amuro, then had a face entirely flushed red. Who could have known the food he helped make was to be consumed by him in the end. Even so, he happily took the gift in his hands; he delightfully appreciated the intricacies that Conan so painstakingly added.
Conan examined Amuro’s actions with eyes squinted. He never veritably knew what the man was up to and whether or not Amuro was pretending.
Elated, Amuro set aside the chocolates and lightly took Conan’s hands in his — the size difference making the smaller cringe — as he sang praises and happy words that went in Conan’s ear and out the other; he was far too flustered to listen to that sort of sickening thing at that moment.
That smile on Amuro’s face was worth burning Japan for.
Conan believed deep down inside himself that he only abhorred Amuro — not only in all his rights, but also in all his wrongs. He so badly wanted to inspect it all.
That pill truly might’ve made Conan more gentle.