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Hiro parks down the street from Poirot.
He tore the latex mask off his face around mid-way through the drive, so he takes the time now to tug out the pins in his hair and shake off the blond wig sitting on his scalp. He tosses it to the backseat, combing his fingers through his own hair as he bends tiredly over the steering wheel.
Despite the standstill he’s brought the car to, it still sort of feels like it’s drifting, like the wheels haven’t halted at his command. The reason for it is obvious, of course, but in this case, understanding himself only kind of pisses him off.
What would his brother say at a time like this? Maybe something like, “water doesn’t suffer a ripple for long.” Or perhaps just, “Hiromitsu, sometimes yelling isn’t inappropriate.”
He doesn’t want to yell, is the thing, but the waters aren’t exactly calm either. He doesn’t know what he wants to do, to say, what he wants to feel, but it swells inside his ribcage, only tempered by the patches of Furuya Rei’s skin clinging to his neck.
Rei, who had been right on all accounts. Hiro knocks his head to the leather of the wheel for every piece of the accursed puzzle. Once for Sleeping Kogoro, twice for the brat, three times for that motherfucker.
Hiro stumbles out of the car, slamming the driver’s door shut behind him.
No offense intended to Sherry, but Hiro had had no doubts that she’d walk right into the trap laid out for her. He had the explosives, he had the plan, he had the lure. The only complication was that he was dressed head-to-toe in Zero’s best work outfit and, you know, pretending to be him, but that was honestly more of an entertaining challenge than anything else.
But then there he’d been. Okiya Subaru, playing the part of a careless grad student. He never seemed like much in Zero's photos, but there he'd stood. A laser-sharp glare, Sera's hat in hand.
Alright, alright. Enough waxing poetic about something as vague as a presence. Answer the question, Hiro. Is Akai Shuichi alive?
Probably. Most likely.
Yes.
Hiro shakes a cigarette out of his pack and catches himself midway through the motion, crushing it sharply in his fist. No, no. Grief is one thing, but a living Akai Shuichi is not going to drive Hiro into breaking his seven-day streak. Not when he’d announced his intention to quit to Zero and saw him break into the biggest grin that had graced his face since—
He sets himself walking in the opposite direction of the cafe.
“I’m this way,” a voice calls behind him. “Or do you have a concussion? I heard there was a bomb on the Bell Tree Express.”
Hiro turns, busted.
Amuro Tooru was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the closed café, flecks of flour on his dark apron, the orange-glow of the sunset reflecting off his hair. He is staring pointedly at Hiro’s hands, still clutching the pack.
Hiro pockets it, brandishing the cigarette in his other hand. “Don’t look at that, look at this,” he argues, walking over. “Unlit and unsmoked, thank you very much.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Zero argues back, something defiant in the way his elbow is propped against his broom. Something bitchy.
Hiro accusingly points the cigarette at him like it’s his own finger. “You’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking that you’re setting yourself up, walking around with a pack of cigarettes. Do you also have a lighter?”
“I don’t have a lighter,” Hiro lies. “Give me a break, alright? I’ve had a day.”
Zero frowns at him for a moment. “What happened?” he asks quietly. “Did you fail?”
“No,” Hiro says, looking away. “It’s done.”
His gaze falls on his reflection on the windows of Poirot. Ruffled hair, dry eyes, the white of his button-down and the tan of his pants grayed with dust and grime. The Mystery Train ring sitting on his finger, singed black. Honestly, Hiro’s looked worse before.
The chime of a bell pulls his attention back on Zero, only to find him holding an open door. “Let’s talk inside,” he suggests.
The door is glass, a little bell attached to the top. No cause for how ominous it looks to Hiro's eyes.
He buys some time by tapping a question on his own ear.
“Ah,” Zero reaches into his back pocket, retrieving a small black box and wiggling it in the air. The contents don't rattle, muffled by the thick, signal-killing lining Hiro knows is there.
Hiro raises an eyebrow. “You didn't just crush them?”
Rei sighs, leaning his head back to tap gently on the door. “He always goes on guard for a few days whenever I do. Like it's a sign, or something.”
“The kid?”
“Who else?” Zero flicks his hand. “No point in making him anxious without reason.”
Hiro contemplates that for a second, before holding out his hand. “Can I crush them?”
Zero pauses, his lips stuck between an amused and disapproving quirk, before he obligingly tosses him the bug box. “That bad?”
Snatching it from the air, Hiro sighs, finally striding past him and into the cafe. “Let me sit down, first.”
“You’re not really injured, are you?”
“Just a headache.” He swings himself into one of the barstools, Zero naturally slipping into place behind the counter. “Concussion-free,” he adds after a moment.
His eyes still feel bone-dry from the heat of the blast—he considers the lens case in his gear bag for a second before deciding, “Can I have a glass of water?”
The rush from the tap is startlingly loud in the quiet. He's not used to residential areas, even semi-busy ones like Poirot's district. He hasn't lived in one since he was still hanging with his brother, and that's…
A muted clink from the counter as Rei puts down first a full glass, then a small sauce dish filled with water. He can't help but smile at it a little.
“Thanks,” he says, quieter than he expects himself to. Steeling himself, he reaches up to pinch, and after a moment of stubborn resistance, the coloured contact lens pries loose from one abused eye, then the other. Finally, he dips his fingers into the dish, washing away the remnants of sting in his tear ducts.
The discarded lenses sit carelessly on a napkin—the smoke bomb going off in his face had pretty much ensured he wouldn't be able to reuse them. Pity, really. It'd taken a while to find such a good match for Rei's shade of blue.
“Man, that feels better,” he sighs, taking a liberal swig from the glass. “Here, you can have this back, too.” He buries his free hand in his pocket, before holding out his fist. “It felt weird to wear it, yanno. Almost illegal.”
“More illegal than your holster?” Zero takes his bolo gingerly between two fingers, wrinkling his nose as he inspects it. “It looks like you threw it in a fire.”
“Really?” Hiro deadpans. “Weird, I don't remember something like that. You know, what could have possibly—?”
He hears a snort from above him and straightens to witness the betrayal of Zero's squinted mirth, almost absentminded as he wipes specks of dust off the medallion with the pad of his thumb.
“Yeah, laugh it up, it’s your rep that took a blow, not mine,” Hiro sniffs, glancing down at the green shine between tan hands. He’d almost forgotten because it happened such a long time ago, but seeing Zero not using the handkerchief he definitely has suddenly reminds him that the bolo tie had been a gift from that person.
A gesture rewarding Bourbon for an excellent track record. Back then, Karasuma shot Scotch a single look, but Hiro had been too busy glowing with pride at his best friend being personally acknowledged to decipher what it had meant.
It wasn’t until later that he realized Karasuma had hoped to drive a jealous wedge between them—make Bourbon feel special while sending Scotch scrambling to compete for his approval, effectively securing both their loyalties.
Karasuma Renya had an impossible, delusional dream, and he’d decided to do something about it, and for that Scotch had always nursed a bit of quiet, awed respect for him. Never in a million years could it come before Rei, but Hiro couldn't fault him for trying the impossible.
It was alright. Hiro appreciated it, since it did make his best friend feel special. Bourbon loved that bolo tie. It was a mark of respect, of approval, of self-worth. Hiro had never been able to get him to see that he didn’t need it. He loved the bolo tie.
But Zero doesn’t take out his handkerchief to clean it.
Hiro frowns a little, making a note of it. He sighs, grimaces at the stink of smoke, tugs at the side of his vest. “Hey, you got—?”
“I do,” Zero ducks down beneath the counter almost instantly, resurfacing with one of Hiro’s own long-sleeve shirts.
“...I was gonna ask for your spare set of clothes,” Hiro blinks, bemused, but takes it with a confused frown. “Why do you have mine?”
“I sort of figured this might happen, considering the number of explosives in your plan,” he shrugs, taking the vest and shirt from Hiro as he shakes them both off.
“It worked, didn’t it?” he replies through his shirt as he pulls it on. “She’s dead.”
“Yes,” says Rei, face even when Hiro resurfaces. He doesn’t congratulate him on a job well done, which he appreciates. “It’s a shame you had to see Vermouth be happy about something.”
“She didn’t seem to be, actually.”
“No?”
“Nah.”
There’s a pause, in which they don’t contemplate that. What does Vermouth's happiness mean to them, anyway? Zero makes a hmmm noise like he’s thinking even though he’s clearly not, and Hiro mirrors his vague nod.
To pick a more important matter, he contemplates Zero instead. His black apron remaining in place over his knit sweater, his eyelids drooping in the dim lighting. It’s easy to guess that he’s been here all day.
Ah, man. And Hiro’s got to spring this on him. He’s not gonna sleep again.
“Hey, which one of these booths is the best one?” Hiro asks with a wave behind him.
“Why, all of a sudden?” Rei tilts his head to one side, but obviously he has an opinion on this, because Hiro doesn’t need to answer before he follows up with, “The corner to my right.”
“It’d be nice to lean back.” Hiro stretches his arms out above his head, and his spine cracks satisfyingly under the stretch.
Zero’s eyes light in understanding, and he quickly cleans out the saucer and tosses the napkin before leading the way, Hiro's refilled water glass in hand. It would be more honest to tell him, I want you to sit down, but this is faster. Zero is at his most efficient helping someone else.
Hiro breathes out when they're both seated, loud and obvious, lets his shoulders relax and his head tilt back. He watches Zero unconsciously drop some of the tension in his own frame in response, and smiles satisfaction.
“So…” Hiro starts, and it feels like he’ll never stop saying these words to this guy, “You were right.”
“I told you not to bring up Sherlock Holmes around Conan-kun,” Zero tuts. “He can go on about it for hours, I suspect, not to mention—”
“Not that, though I'm not second-guessing you on that either,” he waves a hand, “I mean Rye.”
Zero stares at him, expression uncomprehending.
“Akai,” Hiro corrects himself, feeling a bit stupid. “He's probably alive.”
Another moment. Zero breathes in, fingers spasming around nothing: clench, open, clench. Then, he breathes out something that's nearly a laugh. “You’d think you’d have fulfilled your bomb quota for the day.”
“I'm an overachiever,” Hiro tosses without thinking about it, cataloging every tight line in Rei's face like debts that need repayment. ”...You're okay?”
“Mm,” is all he responds, before going quiet for a moment. Even his breaths are close to silent, though Hiro can see them slow.
He shuts his eyes, opens them: “I… how did you…?”
“He was there, today,” Hiro sighs. “Which—another point to you. I'm guessing the kid told him.”
“Conan-kun pulled out all the stops, huh?” The tone is amused, the expression is not.
“And still failed. Good to know I'm still better at my job than a seven year old.”
Rei’s lips spread into a thin line, and it makes Hiro squint. “What?”
He shrugs.
“No,” Hiro replies. “There’s no way–”
“If he put together a plan big enough to need Rye–”
“Okay, then it wasn’t Rye. Miyano Shiho is dead. There’s no way she survived.”
“But you said he was there,” Rei counters. “What made you think so?”
Hiro digs his tongue into the side of his cheek. His reply is reluctant. “The hat.”
“The hat?”
“It was Sera’s,” he says blankly. “His sister. It kept falling off her head every time she bent too far over her guitar, so I took it at the start of every lesson.”
Zero stares at him. Nothing in his expression had changed, per se, but his eyes now gleamed with interest. Hiro will never understand how anyone could ever think he's hard to read.
“Sherry was in the train car when it blew up,” Hiro insists. “I saw it. I left her there. The odds that she survived that are—”
“—higher than if you had just shot her in the head,” he cuts off, “like you usually do.”
Realization dawning, Hiro presses his lips shut.
“A non-zero chance means a chance someone can work with,” Zero goes on, now an outward monologue for both of their thoughts. “And with Conan-kun and Rye both there, I think someone did.”
For a long moment, Hiro just stares. And then comes the most pressing and worst conclusion:
“Did Rye… play me?” he asks, blank.
Rei stares back, lip twitching, and puts a very careful, very telling hand on Hiro’s shoulder.
“The first thing he does after climbing out of his grave cannot be to play me, Zero,” he pleads. What. This is so embarrassing. "That can’t be right. No. Fuck! Why were we even—all of that energy we spent on… and on this guy? He sucks!"
Present tense. Shit, he’s talking in the present tense about Rye.
“He does,” says Zero, smile so giddy Hiro thinks he might be getting shaken back and forth a little. “He does. I told you that for two years but you didn’t believe me. What was it, again? ‘He’s a fun guy’?”
“That was because he made that dumb joke about—” Hiro cuts himself off, veering desperately back to the main point. “Doesn't matter. None of this is confirmed. If it's true, that means Sherry’s still alive. Means Kir’s a spy. You realize that?”
“I already said–”
“I know what you said,” Hiro snaps petulantly. He's thinking back to his parking lot meeting with the woman. So many parts of that conversation turn from infuriating into hilariously ironic.
“If it’s him,” Zero says, something like pride shining in his eyes, “I believe it. He’s able to pull something like this off.“
Hiro feels his entire face scrunch. “Rye?”
“No, Conan.”
Hiro considers that, blinking. He’s… actually more okay with the thought of being outsmarted by a seven year old. Just good lord, not Rye. “Who is that kid?” he asks to, predictably, get no answer. Edogawa Conan is a mystery to even Zero, it seems.
He sighs, reaching up to rub at his eyes. His exhaustion is catching up to him, water weight on his limbs. “So what do we do, what's our move? I told Vermouth to dig up our files on Akai. We can go through them. What are you thinking?”
“I'm thinking that you have soot on your ears.”
“Ugh, seriously?” Hiro reaches back to check, and sure enough his fingertips come away grey. “I thought the wig would catch it all.”
“Let’s just go home for now.” Zero inclines his head vaguely toward the window, like Hiro needs the sky to tell him it's late as shit. ”You’ve had a long day.”
He says it so quietly. They've been talking so quietly, Hiro needn't have bothered with the bugs at all. Turning to look out, the brightest light is the nearest street lamp, not a single silhouette of movement outside. No neon, no running engines.
Hiro's really not used to residential areas. He stands up from the booth.
“Might as well take it easy for the next few days,” Zero continues, handing him a jacket. “Conan-kun will think we’re plotting either way, so it’s technically still work.”
Hiro doesn’t make any move to accept it, simply staring at him.
“What?” Zero asks.
“You what,” Hiro shoots back, unimpressed. “I’m going to need more than that. I know you’re already thinking of stuff. I want to know what it is.”
Zero purses his lips, but the only answer he offers is an evasive hum. He shrugs out Hiro’s jacket and holds it out for him to slip into. “Come here.”
Hiro does. “You’re… you’re not clear-headed when it comes to him, Zero,” he says, turning around to slip his arms into the sleeves, “You’re just not, alright? And it’s fine, but you need to keep me in the loop.”
Last time he left Zero alone to work on Rye’s case, he stepped out wearing the face of a guy on the syndicate’s blacklist. Hiro is not making that mistake again.
Zero smoothes the jacket over his shoulders, palms pausing on either side of his spine. “I'm thinking,” he says to his back, “that it's been a really long time since we ordered in.”
That nearly riles Hiro up all over again, but his ire is abruptly cut when he hears and feels the quiet thump of Rei's forehead on the back of his neck.
“I'm thinking,” Zero admits. “But that's one of the things I'm thinking about the most, right now.”
The breath eases out of Hiro in one, slow puff. He hadn't been able to place an absence, these last few months—like a puzzle with so many gaps you can't make out the original picture at all.
Hiro leans his head back, just far enough that the back of his skull bumps the top of Zero's, and the picture is restored.
God, he's missed him.
“‘One of,’ huh?”
A huff of a laugh. “I'm not going to lie to you, Hiro. But I'm okay. I'm clear.”
And the thing is, Hiro believes him. He can see it in the glow in his eyes. This confirmation—it changes things. Rei looks more relaxed than he has in weeks, back in his element, as if he’s been reanimated along with Akai fucking Shuichi.
Bourbon’s already adjusted, calculating his next moves. He’s scary like that. Even way back, when Hiro had confessed the big, chilling thing, Rei had adapted rather quickly, always so flexible, so willing, so—
(“You’re right, he deserves to die. I’m going to help you kill him.”)
—devoted, when he liked a person, when he wanted them to keep liking him back.