Chapter Text
I.
If you told Conan (read: Shinichi) that at some point not only would he be crying into the arms of both Amuro and Akai but also that they’d become like overprotective dads, he’d tell you were amazingly stupid.
After all, Amuro was part of the Black Organization that he’d vowed to take down, and Akai was just... Well… Akai- he didn’t do relationships after the events that transpired between his wife and The organization.
But that’s what happened.
You see, being a detective was an experience for the shrunken teen. But sometimes, it was too much. He saw dead bodies on an almost-daily basis, and while he was often able to save the upcoming victims and sometimes the perpetrator, it didn’t mean it happened every time.
And it killed him on the inside.
He saw a reflection of his failures. His failed attempt to save Asoh Seiji from the burning fire. His failed attempt to give the boy a new start. He cried that night.
After waking up from a nightmare one night, Conan got up from his bed and walked into the bathroom. With the lights off, he quietly closed the door and opened the cabinet beneath the sink and got out a red tub. He shuffled through the items before getting out a boxcutter.
Sometimes, Conan hated himself. (Or was he Shinichi? He didn’t know anymore. He felt like he was in a limbo when it came to his identity…) He mindlessly fidgeted with the metal tool and gave a sigh of resignation. He put the item back, deciding it was better to play it safe so that the FBI agent and BO agent wouldn’t notice the possible fresh scars.
Those two were freakishly observant.
He opened the door only to find Akai standing right outside the door. “What were you doing up?” The man asked.
Conan let out an awkward chuckle, “Ah, nothing, Shuuichi-nii-chan! Anyways- I’m going to go back to sleep now!” The boy quickly shuffled away.
The man raised his eyebrow.
If he noticed the sudden use of his first name from Conan (Shinichi, he told to himself), he didn’t mention it to the retreating boy.
II.
A certain brown-haired, glasses-wearing boy was seated at one of the tables in Poirot Café in a daze as he unconsciously completed the embarrassingly easy homework he had gotten from his homeroom teacher that day. As Kogoro was talking to his daughter and the honey-haired waiter, said waiter noticed the kid glancing out at the street from the window. He politely excused himself and walked over to the boy.
“So, what’s got you in such a blank state, Conan?”
The boy glanced downwards. “I don’t know. Recently I’ve just felt… down. Like, I still am happy and sad and ya’ know, angry, but no matter what, there’s always a feeling of emptiness there.” He mumbled
Amuro lowered himself and tilted his head. “You feeling up to it, telling me more about how you’re feeling?”
Conan gave a noncommittal shrug. “I guess I feel unmotivated and oddly tired despite getting lots of rest- even if they are plagued by the occasional nightmare, here and there. Hey, what do you reckon happens after death?”
Amuro placed his hand under his chin and let out a soft hum. “Well, I’m non-religious, so I suppose I’d say, just death. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I see. Thanks, Amuro-nii.”
Just as he was about to ask him what brought about this question, the Sleeping Detective called out for the kid, to which he replied with a childish “ coming! ”
Amuro felt an odd sense of dread in his gut. He really hoped that Conan was going through what he thought.