I've been feeling really uninspired and unmotivated to write, so this is basically some tropes I slapped into a pile. The working title of this fic was "this is such a bad au idea why" if that gives you any idea of what's to come.

Warnings include shounen-ai, shoujo-ai (implied Ran/Sera), grammar mistakes / possible errors, artist!Kaito, policeofficer!Shinichi etc. I'm completely exhausted right now, so I don't know how good my quick read-through is going to be. Title from Benjamin Francis Leftwich's "Shine" because it's the auditory equivalent of a hug.

Enjoy! – Luna

Shine

Shinichi isn't religious. His parents aren't, so he wasn't raised into any particular faith while growing up, and being as logical as he is, he's never quite been able to believe in an intangible greater power when basically everything can be proven with science.

Regardless, Shinichi is pretty sure that he must've gotten on someone's nerves in some past life. Or maybe the universe just enjoys watching his suffering.

It's the only reason why he would be pounding on Kuroba Kaito's door while shouting, "Open the door," at twelve in the morning on a Tuesday. His actions have led to Kaito's neighbors poking their heads out of their apartments to glare at him, occasionally brandishing kitchen knives of varying sizes. From past experience, Shinichi knows that if he continues for approximately eighteen more seconds, Mrs. Yamamoto from three doors down will sic her tiny, part-demon Pomeranian on him.

Shinichi takes a moment to reflect on the truly pitiful nature of his life. He was respectable once, he mourns as he delivers a particularly hard blow to Kaito's door. He used to – to not be involved in the coddling of a famous artist. He didn't have to worry about being mauled by a vicious lapdog.

Luckily for Shinichi's ankles, Kaito chooses to throw the door open, arms wide and smile ecstatic. He looks far too awake and far too cheerful for twelve fourteen in the morning.

"Shinichi!"

"I hate you so much," Shinichi grumbles as he shoulders past Kaito into Kaito's over-decorated apartment. For someone whose last painting sold for over ten billion yen, Kaito has an appalling sense of aesthetics. Shinichi has two pieces of furniture to his name, and even he knows mustard yellow and baby pink don't go well together. "I'm here on business. To do work." He neglects to add that it's been five years since this "business arrangement" first started and Kaito is unfortunately his best friend now.

"Of course, love," Kaito answers agreeably, shutting the door. He's wearing a shirt that Shinichi thinks might actually be his – in addition to stealing his own paintings, Kaito enjoys stealing Shinichi's wardrobe, keys, and wallet. His sock-clad feet make soft, whispery sounds against the hardwood floors as he saunters into his art room, emerging with a familiar card a minute later. "Here you go, darling."

Shinichi takes it with a sigh. He flips it over to read the riddle Kaito has prepared, which is something about Victorians and perfection, longing, admiration, etc. Par for the course.

"Are you ever going to stop making me do this?" he asks with resignation as he tucks the card into his back pocket.

"Nope," Kaito says, leaning against his kitchen counter with an amount of grace that no human should be allowed to possess.

"Will you at least stop calling me out here at twelve in the morning?" Shinichi tries.

"And miss the opportunity to see your adorable bedhead?" Kaito grins. It's somehow predatory, even in the fluorescent lighting and surrounded by too many cushy armchairs; it makes Shinichi feel as if he's under a microscope, magnified and ungainly. "Never."

"You're the worst," Shinichi mumbles without heat as he stalks out of the apartment. Once in the hallway, he discovers that Mrs. Yamamoto's dog has been lying in wait for him. It's an embarrassing five minutes of yapping (the dog) and under-the-breath swearing (Shinichi) before Shinichi manages to disentangle himself long enough to make a run for the elevator.

Five years ago, Shinichi walked into Inspector Megure's office, expecting to be assigned to some high-profile murder case. Instead, he was told to babysit a famous artist.

"So what you're telling me," Shinichi said carefully, trying not to inflect his words too much in fear that Megure would be offended by the sheer amount of what the hell he was currently feeling, "is that Kuroba Kaito, also known as KID – as in the world-famous artist who made traditional art popular again and whose works occasionally sell for over twenty million yen – likes to steal his own paintings from art galleries. After sending complex riddles to the police. And so far, no one's been able stop him."

"Yes," Megure confirmed, sitting back in his chair. "I'm glad you understand."

"I don't," Shinichi retorted flatly. "What does this have to do with me?"

"You're going to try to keep KID from stealing a painting," Megure began.

"His own painting," Shinichi interrupted. "I'm stopping him from stealing his own property."

"– yes, you'll be stopping him from stealing his own painting, from the Beika Museum of Metropolitan Art," Megure finished, looking pleased when Shinichi gaped at him. "Obviously, KID wants someone to provide some kind of challenge for him, seeing as he does send advance notices to the police. I have faith that you can be that challenge, Kudou-kun."

When Shinichi had managed to regurgitate his tongue from where he'd swallowed it in a fit of pure disbelief, he demanded, "Why aren't people from division three working on this? You know, since they're the theft department and I'm in the homicide department?"

"They're all working a serial purse-snatching case at the moment. They're busy," Megure answered, waving one hand dismissively. "And you like riddles, don't you? I know you keep an advanced Sudoku book at your desk. I've seen you doing it during briefings when you think I'm not paying attention."

"That was a gag gift from Hattori," Shinichi muttered, but he couldn't exactly deny that he did like riddles and puzzles. He had finished nearly two hundred and fifty of the three hundred puzzles in that book. Slumping lower in his seat, he grumbled, "Do we even know why he does it?"

"Kudou-kun, we're talking about a man who got famous over a painting of a dead fish that was apparently 'subtle' and 'rife with symbolism,'" Megure reminded him with fatherly gentleness. "Nobody knows how his mind works, exactly." When Shinichi leveled him with an unimpressed stare, he added, "And he's incredibly rich and famous, so we can't exactly do anything to stop him from doing something that's technically not illegal. All we police can do is try to convince him to stop, if only because his little hobby causes some trouble for the galleries." He paused meaningfully, looking Shinichi directly in the eyes. "I've also heard rumors that KID's tastes lean more towards people of the, ah, masculine persuasion, and you're a young, attractive man who, if office talk is to be believed, is of similar interests –"

"I can't believe you're exploiting my sexuality for personal gain," Shinichi mumbled and dropped his head on Megure's desk so hard that the framed photo of his wife sitting in one corner wobbled precariously and a pen rolled over the edge.

"It's for public gain, technically, but… basically, yes," Megure agreed, patting him on the hand. "Good talk, Kudou-kun."

The first heist Shinichi ever attended turned out to be – well, a bit of a mess, objectively speaking; completely horrible, according to Shinichi; and "the best night of my life, darling, it was absolutely perfect, and I don't know why you'd claim anything else," in Kaito's words.

Shinichi tries to remind him that the whole thing almost ended with a restraining order, but Kaito tends to turn up his recordings of calming ocean noises and pretend to be engrossed in organizing his oil paints in rainbow order when he does.

To be entirely honest, Shinichi hadn't been all too excited the first time Megure slapped one of Kaito's "heist" notices on his desk and smiled widely. Not that the riddle had been insultingly easy or anything – in fact, Shinichi stared at the card for a solid thirty minutes, took a coffee break, and walked around all twelve floors of the police station before he figured it out completely – but because he was in the middle of a series of zombie-themed killings and still wasn't seeing the appeal of keeping an eccentric artist from lifting his own work.

Still, Shinichi ended up going. Mostly because when he subtly hinted at not going to the heist, Megure gave him a Look of unadulterated disappointment. It was the kind of look that only parents and teachers can make work properly, the kind that makes one feel as if they've been caught skinning a bucket of puppies.

That was why Shinichi found himself standing in the middle of the Beika Museum of Fine Art at exactly midnight, just as the note specified. He stood in front of the splashy "A New Addition to KID's Latest Collection! A Deep and Moving Commentary on Social Issues!" exhibition, glancing over his shoulder at the much touted painting. It appeared to be a painting of a single carrot, well-shaded and appropriately realistic. Shinichi truly did not understand.

He looked away from the painting to discover a man standing directly in front of him.

Now, if asked, Shinichi will vehemently deny that he screamed, because screaming is simply not something Kudou Shinichi did or ever does. Privately, though, he admits that he may have released a loud, possibly high-pitched noise of surprise. It wasn't his fault – he hadn't heard anyone walking towards him, and he'd made sure to guard every entrance to the museum with a few spare policemen he'd dragged from various divisions. Nobody should have been able to enter the museum, let alone creep up on him.

The first thing the man said was, "Oh, they finally sent someone who at least guards the right painting." He paused, tilting his head with consideration at Shinichi, who was looking everywhere but at the easy, smooth way he leaned onto one hip and the slick pink curve of his lower lip, which looked a bit as if he'd been chewing on it. "A hot guy, too."

"Well," Shinichi began after a moment of complicated silence, during which he had struggled not to choke on air. "I imagine you're KID, here to steal your painting. As is your wont."

"Quite right, love," KID agreed amiably, taking a few steps forward. "Are you going to let me?"

"I'm technically only here to try to dissuade you, as you cause the galleries a lot of trouble when you do this." Shinichi moved backwards reflexively. KID grinned, blindingly charming. He had the sort of untidy, tousled hair that looked like a mess but also as if it would be soft to the touch.

"Oh, darling," KID sighed, halting in his progress to give Shinichi a too-affectionate look. "What's your name?"

"Kudou Shinichi," Shinichi admitted, a bit grudgingly. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling distinctly uncomfortable underneath KID's gaze. "And you're KID." KID wrinkled his nose. It was horrible and revolting and also somehow endearing.

"I suppose I am, although I prefer Kuroba Kaito." He paused to adopt a crooked smile. "You, my dear, are welcome to call me Kaito." He did something terrible and wiggly with his eyebrows.

Shinichi stared at him for a long moment. "If you think I'm going to sleep with you to get you to stop stealing your own paintings, you're wrong," he said slowly.

KID looked horribly, genuinely offended. Shinichi actually felt bad for suggesting it. "Perish the thought!"

"Right," Shinichi agreed, knowing he sounded incredulous. "Anyway. I'm here to tell you to please not steal this painting." He paused, glancing over his shoulder at it again. "Why do you even do it? Seems pretty pointless to me."

"Well," KID said, looking pensive, "I think it's a way of rebelling against societal expectations, you know? A way of claiming that property is only an abstract ideal that can never truly be attained in today's world, a way of fighting against the system of ownership and proprietary rights. Art isn't something that can be kept locked away in museums; art is something that shouldn't be contained or jailed." He looked soulfully into Shinichi's eyes.

Shinichi nodded. "So basically," he surmised, "you're just bored."

"Yeah," KID agreed, shrugging. He grinned, whiplash sudden and solar flare bright. "But you've made things a lot more interesting, my darling Shinichi."

"All right, I'm not your darling anything," Shinichi informed him, a little waspishly. "And if you're bored, take up a hobby. Go – learn how to crochet or something. Take up yoga." He obviously wasn't picturing KID in yoga pants, of course, because that would be terribly unprofessional.

"But why would I do that when thievery offers the opportunity to meet gorgeous men like you?" KID purred, leaning in close enough to – to kiss, if he wanted, and Shinichi took another step backwards, his elbow knocking into the empty wall next to the painting. KID's eyes had the unprecedented ability to dance, almost, twinkling, like some form of illogical, impossible black magic, and Shinichi could feel himself getting distracted –

And then the painting was gone from the wall, completely disappeared, as in Shinichi's periphery was suddenly and abruptly void of anything but wall, and Shinichi felt dry lips brush against his ear, an exhale of warm air sweeping across the back of his neck, when KID leaned forward.

"Nice try, darling," KID murmured before Shinichi blinked and the room was empty, leaving Shinichi staring blankly out into vacant space. His first thought was Shit and his second thought was I'm going to file a restraining order against him.

He never did, obviously, but it's the thought that counts.

Shinichi is in the middle of rooting through a bed of multicolored camellias when his phone rings, loud and irritating in the quiet one-fifteen stillness. Trying not to disturb a light pink camellia, he reaches into his back pocket to pull it out.

"Kudou," he grunts as his hand comes into contact with something boxy and hard. He brushes dirt and stray flower petals away to see a plastic box peering up at him from between a cluster of red flowers.

"Kudou? This is Hattori," Hattori says from the other side of the line, suspiciously awake and suspiciously unsurprised that Shinichi actually picked up. Odd, but Shinichi doesn't dwell on it. Hattori has always been slightly insane. "You're awake? It's like one in the morning."

"Kuroba sent me on another 'find where I'm displaying my painting so you stop me from stealing it' hunt," Shinichi answers as he pries the box out of the earth and glares down at it. It stares unassumingly back up at him. "I'm currently digging through a planter in a public park, so if I get arrested, it's his fault."

"Are you going to elaborate," Hattori asks after a pause.

"He listed off a bunch of Victorian flower meanings, and they all matched up to camellias. And the first time we really talked was at this bench in Haido Park that was next to a planter box full of camellias, so it was pretty obvious what he was talking about," Shinichi explains as he tugs the lid off the box and stares down into its contents, which is yet another neatly-printed card. Typical.

"Yeah, pretty obvious," Hattori agrees, coughing. "When are you guys going to make it official?"

"Make what official?" Shinichi demands as he plucks the card out of the box, squinting down at the tiny typeface. Timeless something something majestic something. Right. "We've 'officially' been friends for a long time, you know." He narrowly misses saying "best friends" because he knows Hattori will take it as a personal affront – he's never gotten over losing the title to a "guy who sits around painting clocks and flowers and stealing his own art, Kudou; we used to solve murders together; we had a bond."

"That's not what I mean," Hattori says in his you're a complete idiot voice, which Shinichi finds ironic because he once witnessed Hattori try to eat a raw potato once while completely sober, and if anyone's an idiot, it's him. "When are you guys going to, like, move in together and get married and stuff?"

"First of all, stop projecting your secret fantasies of domestic life onto me when you still haven't proposed to Kazuha. And don't even lie to me and say you aren't planning on it, because I saw the ring in your sock drawer the last time you made me visit you guys," Shinichi snaps, shoving the card into his jacket pocket and standing up. He brushes dust from the knees of his jeans. "And second of all, Kuroba and I aren't even like that."

"I told you to stop going through my sock drawer when I'm not looking!" Hattori squawks.

"Of course that's what you take away from everything I just said," Shinichi grumbles as he pulls his jacket tighter around him and hustles down the path towards the park entrance. "When will you and Ran and Kazuha and Hakuba and the entire police force and literally everyone else I know stop talking about how Kuroba and I are a – a romantic thing?" He can't say couple. That would introduce the possibility that a relationship is something that could actually happen, which, considering Kaito is Kuroba Kaito and Shinichi is just Shinichi, is completely impossible.

"We have a betting pool," Hattori informs him primly. "I'm just securing my future portion of the winnings."

"By doing what, exactly?" Shinichi grunts as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and hails a taxi. The clocktower is a bit too far away for him to walk.

"By making sure you're where you're supposed to be. Good luck with your scavenger hunt," Hattori sing-songs ominously before a dial tone bleats mournfully into Shinichi's ear. Shinichi is left staring at his phone with his brows furrowed as a cab pulls up to the curb, its driver eyeing Shinichi warily as he hurries to climb in.

After that disastrous first meeting, Shinichi didn't plan on ever seeing KID again. He told Megure as much the day after the heist, storming into his office to yell about how KID was infuriating and annoying and horrible. And while Megure had only given him the sort of soothing smile that meant he didn't believe Shinichi, Shinichi was going to make sure he never interacted with KID again.

Alas, KID ambushed him in a park two days later.

Shinichi was innocently walking through Haido Park, half-absorbed in trying to drink his too-hot takeout cup of of coffee and half-absorbed in reading an article about a resolved kidnapping in Hokkaido, when he was practically mauled from behind, an arm swinging heavily around his neck. His first instinct was to dump his scalding coffee on the offending hand. His second was to smack his assailant on the face with his phone and twist out of their grasp, whirling to face them.

That was when he realized he was staring straight at KID, who was clutching at both his face and his hand with a pained expression. There was an angry red mark on his forehead, roughly the same size and shape as Shinichi's phone, and his hand had already gone pink and burnt.

"Oh," Shinichi said after a pause. He coughed uncomfortably. "I'm – really sorry."

"Should've known better than to try to surprise a trained police officer," KID mumbled, rubbing miserably at his hand. He tried for a smile, but Shinichi couldn't stop staring at the bruise on his forehead. It was rather prominent. "Anyway, good morning, Shinichi."

"Good morning," Shinichi replied distractedly, concerned as he eyed KID's hand. "Do you need some ice?"

"Are you offering to nurse me back to health?" KID gasped, looking far too pleased at the prospect. Shinichi blinked at him, unimpressed.

"I'm offering first aid because I'm the one who poured hot coffee on you."

"Ah, well." KID heaved a theatrical sigh as he tottered over to the nearest bench and collapsed onto it. He spread his arms across the top of the bench, regally crossing his legs as he tilted his head back and watched Shinichi from underneath his eyelashes as if he fancied himself a GQ model. Offensively enough, he managed not to look like a completely pretentious asshole. "Why don't you take a seat so we can have a proper conversation, love?"

Shinichi eyed him warily. "What if I don't want to have a conversation with you?"

He instantly knew he'd said the wrong thing, because KID adopted a kicked puppy expression as he pouted at Shinichi.

"You're the one who just caused me grievous bodily harm," he began, lower lip protruding, and Shinichi rolled his eyes and sat down beside him. He was careful not to sit too close to him. KID would probably take it as a declaration of some kind.

Grinning, KID extended one lazy fist towards Shinichi. Shinichi blinked at it in confusion for a moment, about to ask what he was doing, when KID flicked his thumb upwards and he was suddenly holding a white camellia, which he extended towards Shinichi.

Frowning, Shinichi took it from his grip. He glanced down towards the right of the bench, where he was sure he'd seen a planter full of camellias – and yes, he spotted the telltale chopped stem amongst the colorful blooms.

"You just killed a flower so you could give it to me," he accused, turning to shoot KID an unimpressed look. "Was that really necessary?"

"I left my rose collection at home, love. I had to make do," KID answered with a careless shrug, and Shinichi sighed – what blatant disrespect for public property, he thought with a trace of disdain – but set the camellia obliging on his thigh. He had just given the man second-degree burns; he could humor him for a little.

"Are you a magician too, then?" Shinichi wondered, reclining against the back of the bench. He waved a hand down at the flower in his lap when KID gave him a politely perplexed look. "I mean, you made a painting disappear the last time I saw you, and you just did… whatever that was with the flower."

"I'd consider myself an amateur magician, yes," KID agreed, head lolling to one side. He had a long, smooth neck, like porcelain or china. "I used to want to go professional, but now, not so much. My dad's actually a stage magician – maybe you've heard of him; he's called Kuroba Toichi – and I don't think there's any way I'd ever surpass him, so. I went into painting instead."

"Oh," Shinichi said, at a loss. He'd been half-expecting some kind of unnecessarily flirtatious joke about how he was a magician in bed or how he had an excellent magic wand or something equally horrific, not a genuine answer.

KID angled a look at him, one that seemed warm and bronzed at the edges. "You probably weren't expecting a straight answer, were you, darling?" He sighed. "I'm aware that I can come across as a bit of a…" He appeared to consider several options before he settled on, "…flirt."

"Well, yeah," Shinichi agreed, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I mean, I don't mean it in a bad way," (except he sort of maybe did? Just a little?), "but… yeah."

"I assure you, I'm more than a pretty face," KID promised him, sounding ever so sincere, and Shinichi glanced over at him quickly before he gave a short nod and looked away. He didn't really believe KID, and he was definitely didn't flush when KID smiled faintly at him. That was fact.

The clocktower stands halfway between Ekoda and Beika, almost as if it carries some kind of symbolic meaning about being the meeting point, the middle ground, between the two of them. Personally, Shinichi thinks it's just a coincidence, though.

He's not sure what the clocktower means to Kaito. To him, it represents the first time he really understood that Kaito wasn't just a cavalier asshole who spewed bad pickup lines at every opportunity. It could be nothing to Kaito, but Shinichi doesn't know. Shinichi isn't a fan of asking questions he really doesn't want to know the answer to.

At this hour, the clocktower is understandably empty, and it's not terribly difficult for Shinichi to break in and climb to the highest point without being seen. It's silent and peaceful save for the regular, periodic ticking of the clockwork beneath his feet and the occasional drone of a car in the distance.

Exhaling slowly, reverently, Shinichi takes a moment to appreciate the view, looking down at the glittery cityscape, which is sleepily preparing to wake up as the sky lightens just a few shades. The clock tolls two in long, pealing tones that make the air hum. The wind ruffles Shinichi's hair with playful fingers. It's peaceful and calming.

That is, until a box descends from God knows where and hits Shinichi squarely on the head.

Shinichi takes a moment to be indignant that Kaito apparently decided to rig a box using some complicated network of fishing line hitched to the hour hand of the clock, which was assembled in a way that caused the box to fall at precisely two o'clock. He takes another moment to rub at the growing lump on his head and wish a fiery death upon Kaito.

Kneeling, he wrenches the lid off the box, scowling down into its depths. His face softens against his will when he sees that the box is apparently a miniature cooler and contains an ice pack. The card, laminated, reads, "If you had the misfortune of standing underneath the box, here's an ice pack," followed by, "Conan Doyle – Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie – ?" Smiling a little, Shinichi picks up the ice pack with more fondness that he'd admit to.

The clocktower heist went something like this.

"KID requested you," Megure announced as he breezed past Shinichi's desk. "He's planning on stealing a clocktower. Do what you must."

Shinichi, in the middle of investigating the suspicious death of a CEO, glanced up at him in complete bewilderment. "How do you steal a clocktower? And isn't that out of character for him?" he called after him, wrinkling his brow. As far as Shinichi knew, KID exclusively stole his own paintings.

"I don't know and probably," Megure yelled back over his shoulder, attracting the attention of several officers he passed. "Good luck."

"If we're pretty sure it's not possible to steal a clocktower, why do I even need to go?" Shinichi shouted, but Megure had disappeared around a corner and all Shinichi received were some disgruntled glares.

So that was why Shinichi ended up huddled in front of a hugely ornate clocktower on a Saturday night, pressed between groups of sign-wielding KID admirers and hating his life a little. Obviously, KID was just being flashy and unnecessary, he thought bitterly as a woman hit him in the face with her I LOVE KID! sign. Maybe since the public had gotten used to his painting-stealing antics, he felt the need to branch out to clocktowers?

"Excuse me," a small voice croaked from behind him. Shinichi turned with some difficult to find a tiny, frail woman, back hunched and eyes pleading, looking up at him with a hopeful expression. "Would you mind showing me where the clocktower is? I would like to see it up close, if possible. And I can't see anything from down here." She gave a self-deprecating little-old-lady laugh.

"Oh, of course," Shinichi answered, momentarily disarmed by her expectant blinking. Taking her by the arm (which seemed surprisingly firm for an elderly woman, but Shinichi didn't want to judge), he led her to the front of the crowd, throwing an elbow into various sets of ribs to clear a path. He skirted around the largest cluster of stationed police, who all nodded at him as he directed the woman to the base of the clocktower. "Here we are," he said when they came to a stop beside one corner of the clocktower.

"Thank you, dearie," the lady said before she appeared to grow a foot and ripped her face off. It took Shinichi a mystified second to realize that no, he had not just hallucinated; KID was standing in front of him, holding a latex mask in one hand and rubbing at his back with one hand as he grinned at Shinichi.

"What the hell," Shinichi muttered faintly.

"Thanks for your assistance around the police cordon, Shinichi," KID beamed, tucking the mask into one pocket as he straightened completely. "Much obliged."

"Nobody said you could disguise," Shinichi hissed, scandalized that he'd been fooled so easily, and KID grinned and reached out to pat him on the cheek.

"Hidden talent, darling," he replied breezily. "Well, I'll see you after I've stolen the clocktower."

"Hold up," Shinichi snapped, regaining his wits in time to catch the hem of KID's sweater. "Are you just going to – don't you have some explaining to do? For example, why you're stealing a clocktower when you've basically never stolen anything but your own art?"

KID shrugged, reaching down to untangle Shinichi's fingers from his top. For a moment, Shinichi worried that he was going to make a break for it, but he continued to hold Shinichi's hand absently even after he'd dragged it free of his shirt.

"It's a revoltingly sentimental reason, I warn you," he murmured, tilting Shinichi's hand to study Shinichi's nails in a distant manner. He had very warm skin. "I imagine I'll lose much of my mystery if I tell you."

"Good thing you've never had much mystery to begin with," Shinichi said, and KID cracked a smile as he let go of Shinichi's hand.

"To be completely honest," he began, eyes soft, "it's because they're planning on tearing down this clocktower, and I can't bear to see that happen, because it was where I met my best friend a long time ago." He paused to shrug, self-conscious. "Maybe it's a selfish, stupid reason, and maybe it says a lot about me, but, well, I couldn't care less about all of that." He offered Shinichi one last grin before he turned and walked away purposefully.

Shinichi stared after him, trying to parse through everything KID had said and failing miserably. It just didn't compute; Shinichi was unable to reconcile the idea of KID actually caring about something beneath that blasé, devil-may-care attitude and the idea of KID trying to save a childhood memory.

He continued trying to figure that out even after KID revealed that he had painted the clock face into a mess of jewel-toned roses, making sure to sign it unmistakably in one corner. The tower owner looked irritated and resigned – he clearly knew it would make no sense to destroy a clocktower that could be considered a work of art by a world-famous artist. Shinichi spent a good few minutes staring up at the mural from the base of the tower, a little wide-eyed. So that was how one stole a clocktower.

The sound of a familiar voice calling to him pulled Shinichi from his thoughts. "Shinichi!"

Turning, Shinichi found KID approaching him, one arm slung around a smaller, messy-haired girl. He was wearing a triumphant grin even as the girl glared half-heartedly up at him, and he extended a hand to Shinichi once he was close enough.

"What do you think?"

"I think it's beautiful," Shinichi admitted with more brazen openness that he would've thought possible of himself. Evidently KID thought the same, because his eyebrows jerked upwards.

"I think it was unnecessary and ridiculous, even if it is where we met," the girl chimed in, looking over at Shinichi. Ah, Shinichi thought, the best friend, and experienced an unexpected pang of jealousy that he quickly smothered. "He's so flashy. He could've just paid the owner off or something." But the way she smiled up at KID gave Shinichi the impression that she didn't quite mean what she was saying.

"How crude, Aoko. Do you think I'm made of money or something?" KID gasped, and Aoko rolled her eyes.

"I know how much your last painting sold for," she threatened. "Don't think I don't."

"Details, details," KID scoffed before he glanced back at Shinichi. His eyes were bright and luminous. "Would you like to join us for dinner or something, darling?"

Shinichi tried not to flush at the appellation (or notice that Aoko was glancing between them with something like interest). "It's past dinnertime."

"Dinner or something, my dear," KID reminded him breezily. There was a startling sincerity to his expression that Shinichi hadn't anticipated, making him look almost vulnerable. "I'd love to have you."

It was mostly the "I" that got Shinichi – I'd love to have you, not we'd love to have you. Maybe it was nothing, but it still made Shinichi bite his bottom lip and give a hesitant, "Usually I don't go for drinks or dinner with known vandals, but I suppose I can make an exception."

"Excellent," KID – Kaito – beamed. He picked up Shinichi's hand, ever so casual, and Shinichi, deciding he didn't want to make a scene, let him. He ignored the inquiring stare he could feel Aoko aiming at his back and the way his ears felt hot and instead focused on the feeling of Kaito's hand in his.

At three-fifteen in the morning, Poirot shouldn't be open. And it isn't – the sign in the door still reads CLOSED in blocky, definitive letters, and none of the lights are on. By all appearances, it has yet to open for the day.

But Shinichi looks closer, straining to see past his reflection in the front mirror, and sees that Ran, of all people, is sitting in a booth in the far corner. She's wearing a dress and strappy torture-device sandals and looks far too polished for four in the morning. As if on cue, she looks up and makes eye contact with Shinichi, raising one neatly shaped eyebrow as she sets her phone down and gives him a what are you waiting for look.

Blinking, Shinichi pushes the door to the café open and hesitantly shuts it behind him. "Hello," he says, scowling.

"Are you not going to sit down?" Ran asks, balancing her face on one hand. Shinichi does just that, sliding into the seat across from her carefully.

"Why are you here?" he wonders as Ran slides a cup of coffee across the table towards him. There's still steam rising from its dark surface. Shinichi narrows his eyes – she obviously knew what time he would be coming to the café, which means Kaito most definitely clued her in on it for whatever reason. "It's three in the morning."

"It is," Ran agrees serenely, lacing her fingers together. "And I'm here to give you your next clue." She leans over for a moment, presumably to pick something up off the floor, and emerges with a wooden box, which she pushes across the table to him.

Shinichi continues to look at her with suspicion, even as he begins to work the lid off the box. "Why couldn't he just leave the box outside? Or left it in plain view, so I could see it from the street? Why are you here?"

"Shinichi," Ran says, reprimanding, "sometimes a girl just needs an espresso at three in the morning, okay? There's no need to be so judgmental." Shinichi stares at her unblinkingly until she adds, "Also, I'm securing my portion of the betting pool. I'm going to take Masumi out to dinner if this goes well."

"Betting pool," Shinichi mutters, obviously questioning (hadn't Hattori mentioned something a betting pool as well? What does this betting pool have to do with his finding Kaito's latest work?), but when Ran does nothing but hum innocently at him, her eyes wide and childlike, he sighs and refocuses his attention on the box. Like most of the others that he's found, it's simple and contains a card that says something about bathrooms and speeches, which makes Shinichi cringe uncontrollably.

Ran, who's watching him with the kind of morbid fascinations one generally saves for documentaries about serial killers, makes an expectant sound when he sets the card back down.

"Well?" she demands when Shinichi doesn't immediately say anything. "Where are you going next?"

"I'm – I'm not going to tell you," Shinichi says, trying to sound lofty instead of as if he's mentally crying. His chair makes a whiny, scraping noise when he stands up. "It's a very important place."

"It's the convention center, isn't it," Ran says, a resigned look in her eye. Shinichi deflates.

"I – okay, yeah," he admits, and flees before Ran can laugh at him.

When he was younger, about sixteen or so, Shinichi used to associate Poirot with Ran, mostly because she lived right above it and on the weekends, they'd get breakfast there when she could convince him to get out of bed before twelve. Later, after Shinichi had the (mis?)fortune of becoming acquainted with Kaito, that changed a little. More specifically, it changed the day Shinichi walked into Poirot a little before work, intent on grabbing a coffee and maybe giving Azusa a quick hello before he left for the station, and instead discovered that Kaito was lying in wait for him, nursing a cup of tea and posing on a barstool.

"What," Shinichi hissed once he was close enough, "are you doing here?" A thought occurred to him, and he blurted out, "Are you stalking me?"

Kaito pressed his hand to his heart, nearly overturning his teacup as he flailed theatrically. "Is that what you think of me?"

He conspicuously did not deny the claim. Shinichi squinted at him, trying to discern whether he was doing that intentionally.

"Right," he said after a long moment. "Right, okay." Taking the seat beside Kaito – and ignoring the way Kaito made a cooing sound and reached out to pet his head – Shinichi raised a hand to flag down Azusa and order his coffee. He didn't miss the way Azusa's eyes flickered between them, as if she was concocting some kind of horrific love story about them inside her head. All the same, she fixed his coffee just as he liked it (black, with one sugar) and set it on the counter in front of him, watching them out of the corner of her eye before she went off to serve another customer.

"Is that black," Kaito asked with feeling, staring down at Shinichi's cup as if it had done him a personal affront. "Are you drinking black coffee, how are you real, you're like a fictional character."

"Was that – was that even a question?" Shinichi blinked at him, downing half his coffee in one go. When he set the mug back down, Kaito was staring at him with something like horror written across his face. "What?"

"Darling, I don't think you're human," Kaito announced sadly, shaking his head as he took a sip of his tea. "I already knew you were far too attractive to be real, but this is just confirming my theory. No real person drinks black coffee."

"Right," Shinichi coughed, unsure of how, exactly, he was supposed to respond to that. He finished his coffee in two more swallows, tipping his head back to drain the mug and feeling his throat work, and when he glanced back over at Kaito, Kaito's gaze hastily moved away from him to focus on the potted fern over Shinichi's shoulder. "I'm going to work now." He reached into his pocket for his wallet, but Kaito intercepted him, catching him gently around the wrist.

"Oh, my love," he sighed before setting his free hand on the countertop. He pulled it away to reveal a flatly pressed thousand-yen bill, which Shinichi scowled at. "I wouldn't make you pay for our first date."

"What," Shinichi managed, brow furrowing. Kaito just winked at him, tapping out a short rhythm against the inside of Shinichi's wrist with his thumb, before he hopped off the stool and sauntered out of the café, hips swaying enchantingly.

"Where'd you find him," Azusa asked from behind Shinichi, in a tone that clearly communicated she would like to go to the same place and acquire one of her own.

"Stealing a painting from the Beika Museum of Fine Art," Shinichi answered absently. He ignored Azusa's confused choke in favor of peering down at his wrist, where call me, darling! xx Kaito, followed by a phone number, was written in solid black ink.

Incidentally, Shinichi did call Kaito later, if only because he knew he would feel guilty if he washed off Kaito's number without doing anything with it. (At the time, he saved Kaito's contact information as KID. Now, for some inexplicable reason, it's Kaito! xxxxxx, followed by a string of incomprehensible emojis. Shinichi doesn't know why, but he suspects Kaito stole his phone at some point. He keeps reminding himself to change it back to something less – distinctive, but he always seems to forget.)

And over the years, they've met at Poirot a large number of times. They met there when Kaito had a breakdown over Aoko and Hakuba's engagement ("That's my sister marrying the devil himself, Shinichi, why don't you care?" Kaito shouted at Shinichi before bursting into tears and crying into his milk tea, Shinichi patting him on the shoulder long-sufferingly) and to celebrate whenever Shinichi closed a high-profile case. In fact, they've been there so often that Azusa gives them a discount, whether because they're such frequent customers or she just enjoys eavesdropping on them and relaying everything she hears back to Ran.

Shinichi does remember one time in particular, though, when he had just gotten out of the hospital after an encounter with a serial killer. He'd only sustained a few scrapes and a sprained ankle from tumbling down the side of a shallow cliff to escape the man, but he was in less than good spirits. The man had gotten away, after all. He'd basically failed as a detective.

To this day, he doesn't know who tipped Kaito off. It could've been Ran or Azusa or any number of people who knew Shinichi well – actually, put that way, it's equally possible that Kaito figured it out on his own. Whatever the reason, Kaito appeared out of nowhere in the middle of Shinichi's second cup of coffee.

"You look broody, darling," he announced as he slid into the seat across from him. It was winter, and his cheeks were rosy and round. He was wearing a hideous, oversized sweater covered in dashes and dots of paint that meant he'd been working and hadn't bothered to change. He looked about twelve. "And while the broody look certainly works for you, I generally prefer your snarky and unnecessarily sarcastic mode."

"It's not the time, Kuroba," Shinichi muttered, swallowing the bitter dregs of his coffee. He looked away, staring out the front window.

"I know you're having an existential crisis or whatever," Kaito continued blithely, waving a hand, "or pondering the state of humanity or lamenting your self-imagined lack of competency, but I'm here to remind you that you're incredible and perfect and really shouldn't be so hard on yourself."

Shinichi didn't respond, too busy tracing Fibonacci spirals on the surface of the table. In his periphery, he was vaguely aware of Kaito digging his phone out of his pocket and clearing his throat magnanimously, but he blocked him out.

That was, until Kaito began, "'Kudou Shinichi saves metropolitan police force again: yet another five-time serial killer behind bars.'"

"What?" Shinichi turned to stare at him. "What are you –"

"'Kudou Shinichi promoted to assistant inspector of homicide division.' 'Kudou Shinichi does it again: another case closed!' 'Kudou Shinichi breaks record; youngest assistant inspector in history.' 'Savior of the police force Kudou Shinichi responsible for resolution of twenty-four percent of homicide cases in the last two years.'" Kaito looked up from his phone to meet Shinichi's gaze. "If you haven't figured it out, those were all headlines from the last week. About you. So if you think you're a failure, or you're not good at being a detective, I – and the public – beg to differ." He set his phone done with an expectant look on his face.

"I…" Shinichi sighed, shutting his eyes. He didn't know how to respond when Kaito looked at him like that, as if he thought Shinichi was worth something. "Okay."

"Good. You can buy me cake to make up for it," Kaito announced, sniffing importantly, and Shinichi rolled his eyes but did buy him cake – two pieces – as well as a cup of tea and a plate of cookies. He didn't know how else to express how much he appreciated Kaito.

Shinichi can't set foot in the Tokyo International Exhibition Center without flinching violently, and today is no exception, really. The reason is equal parts pathetic (on his part) and confusing (on Kaito's). At four in the morning, it's dark and a bit foreboding, clearly not intended to be open to the public, but when Shinichi tries the door, he discovers that it's unlocked.

His footsteps echo once he's inside, closing the door behind him. In the dimness, the shapes of tables and chairs, still set up from some event in the main hall, seem eerie and otherworldly. Shinichi breezes past them, making a beeline for where he knows, absolutely knows, Kaito has left the box.

It is, indeed, in the sink of the men's bathroom off the left of the stage. Shinichi winces as he picks it up, already feeling waves of embarrassment rolling over him. He's pretty sure Kaito is just too much of a gentleman to say anything about – what happened, and Shinichi isn't going to bring it up. Kaito brought it upon himself, though; he was the one who –

"Okay," Shinichi says aloud, trying to shovel the thoughts into the part of his brain where he stores traumatic experiences. He focuses on getting the lid off of the box, setting it on the paper towel dispenser.

The card that he finds inside the box reads simple Home. Shinichi stares down at it for a long moment before he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and heads for the door. At this point, he really doesn't know what Kaito is trying to prove – that they have a lot of history, or that Shinichi is a loser who's completely gone for him.

A few years ago – maybe one or two – Kaito won an award for his painting Mornings with Him. It was a painting of a coffee cup against a pale blue background (Shinichi would never understand how or why he was famous when all he seemed to do was paint random objects on solid-color backgrounds). For whatever reason, Kaito invited Shinichi to the awards ceremony as his plus one.

"I don't understand your art," Shinichi said blankly when Kaito asked. They were sitting around Kaito's kitchen table. Kaito still smelled strongly of paint and had an endearing smear of red paint across one cheek. "Why are you asking me to go? Get Nakamori-san to go with you. At least she pretends to understand."

"I've told you time and time again that I like to focus on the ordinary until it becomes the extraordinary," Kaito reminded him loftily, prodding at a caked bit of of blue underneath one fingernail. Shinichi wondered where it had come from, because the painting of a light bulb he knew Kaito had been working on required neither of those colors. "And I want you to come with me. Aoko has suffered through enough of my ceremonies."

"And I've suffered through enough of you breaking into art museums," Shinichi muttered sourly, slumping in his seat. He tried not to make eye contact with Kaito – he'd long since discovered he would agree to anything if he looked Kaito in the eye. It was a weakness he was still working on.

"Shinichi," Kaito insisted, leaning across the table until Shinichi had no choice but to meet his gaze. His eyes were dizzyingly sincere, and it was basically all over for Shinichi as he asked, "Please?" tone soft and fond as one hand reached out to touch Shinichi's arm.

That was how Shinichi ended up at the Tokyo International Exhibition Center a few nights later, feeling stifled in one of the tuxes his mother had bullied him into purchasing. Kaito had kissed him on the cheek and told him he looked "ravishing, darling," when he'd first picked him up, but Shinichi just felt uncomfortable as he trailed after Kaito, nodding uncomfortably at art critics and Kaito's fellow artists.

"Calm down, love," Kaito murmured at him after the third time Shinichi coughed awkwardly in front of an art reviewer who had a propensity for looking down his nose at them. He reached out to hook Shinichi's arm around his, smiling reassuringly at him. "It's going to be all right."

"Right," Shinichi answered, feeling a little lightheaded as his forearm pressed into Kaito's side. Even though his jacket, Shinichi could feel the furnace-like warmth emanating from Kaito. He cleared his throat, looking away.

"Oh, there's Risa!" Kaito said out of the blue, and dragged Shinichi along with him as he greeted a pearl-wearing elderly woman who smiled placidly at the both of them and said, "You must be Kudou-kun! What a lovely couple you two make." Kaito beamed; Shinichi practically bit his own tongue off as he choked out a strangled, "We're not – we're not like that, ma'am," that the woman just nodded knowingly at. Shinichi got the distinct impression that she was humoring him.

The actual ceremony itself began after a meal of poorly cooked chicken and a mass of something Shinichi suspected may have been broccoli at some point in its existence. A suit-wearing man who Kaito explained was a retired museum director spent several minutes waxing lyrical about Kaito's rise from anonymity to fame, then another half-hour flipping through a slideshow of his art, starting with Kaito's famous painting of a fish all the way to Mornings with Him. Shinichi stared at the screen, wondering why paintings of camellias (?) and clock faces were considered fine art in this day and age.

Kaito was invited up to the stage once the man was done discussing the "grace" and "depth" of Kaito's art. Shinichi made sure to clap the loudest for him as he sauntered up the stairs and onto the stage; he doubted Kaito could tell above the cheering, but irrationally enough, he still wanted to show support for him in some way.

"Well," Kaito started once he was standing behind the podium. He was resplendent under the lights, stars in his eyes and a crooked, charming smile on his mouth, and for not the first time, Shinichi lamented that he'd never gone into stage magic. "To be entirely honest, I never thought I would be able to stand on this stage in front of so many esteemed artists. I've never thought of myself as the greatest artist. I've always thought I loved art more than it loved me." He shrugged. "And I know I cause gallery owners quite a bit of trouble when I engage in my… hobby." There was a smattering of laughter. Smiling, Kaito waited for it to die down before he continued. "But I'm so grateful to that hobby. Not because it's provided me a lot of entertainment – it has, of course, but that's not my point – but because it helped me meet someone very important to me. Someone who's here with me today."

The back of Shinichi's throat closed up. He couldn't be – but –

"I would like to thank the Tokyo Police for sending Kudou Shinichi to convince me to quit my little hobby," Kaito said, and he was definitely looking at Shinichi. His expression was – was indescribable in its depth and affection, and Shinichi's chest was tight. He was finding it difficult to inhale with Kato looking at him like that. "Shinichi, darling, you've revolutionized me and my art. You're more than a muse or an inspiration, and I owe you so much, but mostly I just want you to know how much I –"

Shinichi was out of his chair before he could stop himself. He didn't know where he was going, but when he pushed open the door to the men's bathroom, he finally managed to take a slow, gasping breath, bracing himself against the first sink. A man who had been washing his hands gaped at him before edging around him quickly.

What was he supposed to think? Kaito was always – Kaito was always flirting with him, and Shinichi knew it didn't mean anything, because what had he, Kudou Shinichi, ever done to warrant the interest of someone as talented and beautiful as Kuroba Kaito, and he'd – he'd gotten used to it. But this was a whole new level – what was Kaito thinking, going up in front of a hundred people and announcing that Shinichi was – Shinichi was –

"Shinichi!"

Stiffening, Shinichi turned towards the door to find Kaito storming into the room, brow furrowed and mouth downturned at the corners. He came to a stop in front of Shinichi, hands on his hips. If Shinichi didn't know better, he would've thought Kaito was angry at him, but he knew him well enough to realize that Kaito was more concerned than anything.

"Sorry," Shinichi mumbled, hands curling tight around the edge of the sink. "I just – I wasn't expecting that."

"I should be the one apologizing," Kaito replied. His eyes searched Shinichi's face, and Shinichi resisted the urge to shrink back, even though he felt alarming transparent when Kaito looked at him like that, as if he was mentally disassembling and reassembling Shinichi. "I embarrassed you, didn't I?"

"It's not – it's not that I was embarrassed," Shinichi hurried to assure him. "I just – for a joke, it wasn't in very good taste, is all."

"A joke," Kaito answered flatly. His mouth had taken on a strange, hard quality, as if he were pressing his lips together forcefully.

"Yeah," Shinichi managed in a small voice. "I know that's just what you do, joke around and – and pretend, or whatever, but I – you went too far this time, I think."

"Shinichi," Kaito said, and his voice was curiously un-Kaito-like, tight and controlled and uncompromising, "that wasn't a joke."

"Right," Shinichi mumbled, looking down at the porcelain of the sink. He rubbed his thumb over one corner. "Right, it's never a joke with you. You're always completely serious when you say things like that." He didn't realize how bitter he sounded until he'd already spoken. "I just… I don't know how I'm supposed to respond when you say that kind of thing."

"Shinichi," Kaito groaned, almost pleadingly, before he took two steps forward and wrapped Shinichi up in his arms, clutching him tightly to his chest. All the air whooshed straight of Shinichi's lungs, leaving him limp and clutching at Kaito's suit-clad biceps with numb fingertips. "Shinichi, you don't know how much I adore you."

And Shinichi didn't know what he was supposed to say to that. "Yes, you 'adore' me but you don't love me the way I love you"? That was maudlin and pathetic, and Shinichi did have his pride.

So instead he just clutched at Kaito's back and buried his face in the silk of Kaito's shirt. Outside, the sounds of people moving increased, and the sound of the live orchestra that had been half-hidden in one corner began to play again. Shinichi pressed his forehead to Kaito's pulse point and sighed.

"Uh, excuse me?"

Shinichi jumped and shoved Kaito away so hard that Kaito nearly tripped, staring at the uncomfortable-looking man who hesitantly emerged from one of the bathroom stalls. He gave them both a repentant and apologetic look as he shuffled towards the door. "Sorry, I didn't know if there would be a better time to, uh," he mumbled before flinging the door open and fleeing.

Kaito and Shinichi stared after him for a long, long moment, before Shinichi cleared his throat and announced, "We're never mentioning this again."

"Oh." Kaito glanced at him with something like – Shinichi couldn't quite place it; it was too complex an emotion to classify, anyway, and it was gone in a second to be replaced with a smile. "All right."

And they don't. Neither of them brings up what happened in that convention center. Shinichi doesn't because he tries not to think about how unrequited and pathetic his feelings are, and Kaito because for all his teasing, he respects Shinichi's boundaries and knows when not to push and is basically perfect.

Kaito's apartment door is unlocked when Shinichi tries the doorknob around five, and Shinichi winces. He almost wishes Kaito didn't know him well enough to know that this place is more home to him than his own house; he's spent so much time here over the years, watching Kaito glare at a blank canvas as he himself slogs through a take-home case file or watching the trainwreck Detective Samonji movie that came out a few years ago together on Kaito's hideous couch.

There's no sign of Kaito when Shinichi carefully removes his shoes and pauses beside the kitchen table, glancing around. Nothing in particular jumps out at him – everything looks basically the same as he remembers from earlier that day.

Except – Shinichi hesitates before he moves towards the door to Kaito's art room. He's probably not supposed to look there; he knows it's a private place for Kaito, and Shinichi himself has only been in there a handful of times over the years. But the door stands ajar, the only thing out of place in the entire apartment, and Shinichi swallows before he gently pushes the door completely open.

The room looks as Shinichi remembers it, floor and walls covered in half-minute painted doodles of daisies and stick people and a few splotchy places where Kaito appeared to be testing gradients or blending or some other technique that Shinichi doesn't know. It takes Shinichi's eyes a moment to focus in on the painting sitting on the easel in the center of the room.

For a moment, Shinichi doesn't know what he's looking at – it's nothing like what he's come to expect from Kaito. The canvas is covered in an insurmountable number of colors, everything from muted earthy tones to a brilliant azure that rivals the sky. None of it should work together; there are so many different colors that there should be an inevitable clash; there shouldn't be anything but busy, angry noise – but none of that is true, somehow. Shinichi doesn't understand how, but the whole thing still has an underlying tone of – of harmony, and beauty, and desire. There's the gentle slope of a nose amid the chaos, Shinichi thinks, and the sharper line of a jaw, just along the lower edge of the painting –

It hits him just as he's taking another step forward, and Shinichi almost immediately denies the thought, because it can't be him, there's no way that anyone could ever see him that way, he's not colorful or vibrant or bright – but as he comes closer it's like looking into a mirror, albeit a mirror that reflects in technicolor paint. He reaches out to brush his fingertips over the dried ridge of his own eyelashes, each spider-thin stroke a different shade of vermillion, and feels his heart drop into his stomach. He's not entirely sure he's still breathing.

"Shinichi."

Shinichi isn't sure if he should be surprised when he turns to find Kaito standing in the doorway, watching him with a smile tugging at his mouth.

"You found it," Kaito remarks, straightening. He tilts his head at Shinichi, considering. "I'm either going to call it Mine or Absolute Heartbreak, depending on how what you say right now." His mouth drops a little, in contrast to his light tone. When Shinichi glances down at his hands, he sees that they're shaking.

"Don't call it either of those," Shinichi chokes out, looking back at the painting. "Don't – you can't sell this one."

"And why not?" Kaito asks, lifting an eyebrow at him.

"Because it's mine," Shinichi answers. He finds that he's wobbling across the room towards Kaito, his stomach doing something complicated and his heart thudding against his ribcage. "I don't want to share it with anyone."

"I meant every word I ever said to you. I've been painting that for the last five years, you know," Kaito murmurs. He's close enough now to touch, which Shinichi does – he reaches out to thread his fingers into the mess of hair behind Kaito's ears. "I had to hide it every time I saw you, darling. I was so afraid of scaring you off. And the awards ceremony just proved –"

"We're not going to talk about that," Shinichi declares, and kisses Kaito solidly on the mouth, as affectionately as he knows how. Kaito tastes a little like peppermint when Shinichi teases his mouth open with his tongue, and Shinichi memorizes the way he shudders when Shinichi tugs at his hair.

"All right," Kaito agrees when Shinichi pulls back. He glances over at the painting and grins, crooked and sweet. "All right."

"All right," Shinichi nods and buries his face in Kaito's neck. He has so many questions – how, why – but for now Shinichi allows himself to enjoy the way Kaito rocks him gently from side to side and the scent of paint hanging in the air.

I can barely keep my eyes open, so I think it's a good time to say that I hope you enjoyed this fic (if you did, please consider dropping me a review!) and I'll see you all soon, hopefully! - Luna