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It starts in his shoulders, of all things.
A twinge of warmth slides up his neck and halfway down his spine, spreading out from that one spot in the middle of his back that always holds itself in a bundle of tension and stress. The warmth is so subtle, so barely-there, that he’s never sure whether his body is playing tricks on him.
As Shinichi’s time unapologetically dries up, he tries to spend more of it with his attention on his shoulders. He can’t ever focus on them fully because Kudou Shinichi is never allowed to have a fucking break. There’s always a case or another situation he’s gotten himself trapped in, so the memories of each… episode remain fuzzy afterwards, no matter how desperately he clings to them. In any case: he knows that, when he pays attention, he can predict how much longer he has with an antidote by listening to his body.
Unfortunately, his body is screaming, and he should have listened about forty minutes ago.
Shinichi’s shirt clings to his skin, soaked in sweat, and he feels gross and heavy, on top of the fire pounding against his ribcage. Genta holds Shinichi’s hand while Ayumi digs around in her backpack, searching for a water bottle that Shinichi knows she finished drinking before they actually got lost. Mitsuhiko’s attempting to call Agasa or Haibara with one of the Detective Badges—no cell service (go figure)—and Shinichi just tries not to scream his lungs out in front of his—fine yes they’re his friends.
At least he’s not standing up anymore. The cave wall he’s leaning against is vaguely cool, and the floor siphons off the smallest fraction of the heat Shinichi’s putting out. He pants heavily, sweat dripping into his eyes. His heart spasms, trying to rip free from his chest, and he tightens his grip on his shirt, grinding his teeth into the jacket in his mouth. He’s able to keep everything down to a choked grunt, but once the wave passes, he slumps back against the wall, breath shallow, ribs aching.
He should’ve noticed earlier. Maybe he did, and he just brushed it off. It’s been well into fall for weeks now, yet he got so winded and sweaty that he shed his jacket thirty-six minutes ago. His heart hammered in his chest twenty-nine minutes ago, but surely that was just from yanking Genta out of the way of the rockslide because, you know, adrenaline. And of course he was feeling weak and his muscles were burning. He’d just sprinted up a very steep trail, all but pulling the other two Detective Boys the whole way.
Once the rockslide had passed, Shinichi wiped the sweat from his brow and frowned at the other Detective Boys who still wore their warm jackets. The Great Detective Kudou Shinichi proceeded to trip on a pebble, stub his toe, and let out a shout like someone stabbed him with a white-hot iron.
Of course, his friends freaked out. Of course, he panicked. “Let’s get off the trail,” he managed, despite everything. Even though Genta snuck into this closed-off area of the forest, people would come looking for them soon, and Shinichi would rather prolong the agony of a transformation tenfold than let a stranger find out about this unpleasant scenario.
Ayumi brought them to this cave, Shinichi trying and failing not to lean on Genta and Mitsuhiko for support. She'd spotted it halfway up the trail, a short ways off the beaten path and the entrance nearly obscured by foliage. Shinichi tripped at least once over thorns and brambles, but it was all worth it once Genta and Mitsuhiko helped Shinichi sit against one of the cave walls.
He’d hit the ground a touch too violently, dug his teeth into his jacket, and his friends panicked all over again.
Yes, they know he’s Conan. That’s an even longer story with a rat and mismatched forks and Ayumi’s surprisingly extensive knowledge of aged cheeses, but oh, god, another wave of pain goes through Shinichi’s heart. He’s too focused on biting the hell out of the hood of his jacket and not scaring the life out of these nine-year-olds to remember every detail of that mess.
He isn’t sure whether he wishes he was alone, as Haibara intended, for this part. She wanted notes. She had explicitly asked for notes on his ‘experience’ before handing over the antidote two days ago. Something about controls and consistency and Shinichi had smiled and nodded until the first wave hit and forming coherent thought became a lot harder.
If he was alone, he wouldn’t have to spend so much energy keeping it all in. His friends are scared, and they’ve been solving actual goddamn murders with him for two years. (His parents managed to convince all of their parents to get therapy started early.)(He bullied his parents for at least two months before they realized that yes, the first graders our son hangs around with actually have seen a dead, bloody body.)
Shinichi can count on his hands the number of times that he’s gained his actual body, but he wouldn’t even have ten cents if he had a nickel for every time someone was this close when the antidote wore off. Haibara stalking him into the bathroom didn’t count. Heiji shoving him into a bathroom stall with the best plan he could manage didn’t count, and neither did Ran holding his hand because she’d been unconscious during the worst part (thank God). Being pressed into a backpack while Heiji made up something about porn magazines did, in fact, count, so: five cents.
He isn’t sure if all those times in the hotel room actually count because he and Heiji spent the whole time actively trying to hide the fact that Shinichi was no longer seventeen and was hiding under the bed like some kind of very tiny boogeyman. (Hattori hid some top-of-the-line sports drinks under the bed, and Shinichi went through like three of them before he felt like he could breathe.)
Genta’s hand, his grip tight despite the copious amounts of sweat and steam pouring off Shinichi’s skin, grounds Shinichi. He’s not sure whether it’s a good thing, but it keeps him from falling out and hovering somewhere behind his body. The whole burning-alive-from-the-inside-out thing is easier to manage when it’s a few degrees removed from his awareness, but with Genta here, Shinichi’s having trouble getting to that point.
Don’t misunderstand: Shinichi is in pain. His skin feels sunburned, and every square inch of fabric chafes like sandpaper with every movement, every breath. His breathing is much shallower than Haibara would probably like, because as everyone knows, it’s harder to scream when you don’t have any air in your lungs. The jacket in his mouth tastes like misery, and drool drips down the side of his face. The muscles in his legs burn worse than they did during his sprint up the mountain trail, and he’s so, so grateful that he got his jacket off because a faint breeze blows into the cave and across his arms. It isn't really reflux, but it's exactly like the worst heartburn he’s had in his life and makes him want to throw up. The jacket stuffed in his mouth doesn’t help matters.
Genta’s grip is a beacon as Shinichi is lost in the sheer vastness of burning and fire. The only reason he knows it’s coming from within him is because he saw an AMA on Reddit where a burn victim described what it felt like to have their skin melt.
Though it’s like breathing in glass, Shinichi takes in air through his nose. A whine escapes on the exhale, and Genta squeezes Shinichi’s hand. Either the kids have been deadly quiet, or he’s been somewhere behind his body for a few minutes, Genta's hand his only anchor. Both could be true, really. Shinichi cracks his eyes open, searching their surroundings.
A small pile of snacks sits by Genta: trail mix, fruit snacks, and a pouch of applesauce. Ayumi’s moved on from her bag and searches through Mitsuhiko’s, and Shinichi catches the exact moment she finds what she’s looking for. Her shoulders drop three inches, slumping in relief, as she pulls out Mitsuhiko’s first aid kit. Mitsuhiko himself is silhouetted in the entrance to the cave, the kid’s shoulders shaking.
Shinichi moves. It’s agonizing and slow, but enough is enough. He takes the jacket out of his mouth. “Mitsu—” is all he’s able to get out.
Genta sits up straight, his grip unwavering as he turns towards the cave entrance. “Mitsuhiko,” he calls louder. “Did you reach the professor?”
Shinichi grunts, discontent, because that’s not what he wanted to ask. “No,” he tells Genta, but Mitsuhiko’s already turned around, tears streaming down his face.
“They’re not answering,” he sobs, and somehow a pang shoots through Shinichi’s heart on top of everything else. “I keep trying and trying and they won’t—they aren’t answering, Shinichi-niisan. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I—”
Shinichi finds his game face somewhere deep inside him and wrenches it free. It doesn’t stick, slipping ever so slightly with each breath, but Shinichi forces down everything and pushes himself off the rock wall. His hand slips on the wall—it's coated in his sweat—but Genta catches him by the arm.
“Don't try to move,” Genta starts, voice tight with concern and clear disappointment.
Shinichi doesn't have the energy to give Genta a response. He grits his teeth, failing to tamp down another groan. Mitsuhiko takes Shinichi's other arm, and the two lower Shinichi back to a sitting position. Except it's less gently lowering him down and more 'trying very hard not to drop their friend who is at least a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier.'
Shinichi shuts his eyes again. Easier to focus on one thing at a time, and right now, it's saying the right thing. God knows Ran has cried and hung up on him countless times because Shinichi couldn't keep his big mouth shut.
“You guys are—are helping me so much,” he tells them. He finds Mitsuhiko's hand and gives it a squeeze. “It's okay. Even if Haibara—” he stops, forced to breathe as best he can through another pulse from his goddamn chest.
“There's an ice pack in here,” Ayumi calls out. Her voice draws closer.
“Use it,” Mitsuhiko says, his words trembling. “Will that help, Shinichi-niisan?”
He tries to give a grin. “Won't hurt.” As the pulsing dies down again, a pop echoes throughout the cave, and not a moment later, something blessedly cold presses into the back of his neck.
“When you are overheating, the best placement for an ice pack is on the back of the neck,” Mitsuhiko recites. “It helps cool the blood going to the brain.”
“Right.” Shinichi attempts a smile again. (The kids know what he's going for, but they can't really set aside their worry and panic long enough to smile back.)
“Even if Haibara were here, she—she couldn't do anyth—ngh—thing to stop this,” Shinichi finally says. He has to take a few more breaths before he can add, “Not gonna die. Just,” another breath, “gotta wait it out.”
“But you're,” Genta sniffs, just to Shinichi's left. “You're hurting so much.”
He cracks an eye open long enough to lift his arm and plop his hand on Genta’s head. “Should be over soon.”
“We can't do anything?” Ayumi sounds so, so small.
He wants to respond, but oh, shit. His game face is almost to the floor. With one more gargantuan pull, he drags it back into place and decides he will, in fact, hold onto it as long as he needs to for them.
They need a Task. They need to feel helpful. They've never seen him like this before. Yes, they know he is Conan, but only a few people have ever witnessed the transformation firsthand. None of the Detective Boys know what the change is like—or at least they didn't, until now.
“Haibara said she wanted notes.” In, out. Hold on. “Anyone got a pen?”
“You can barely move,” Genta says, still disappointed and worried and… holding Shinichi's hand again? When did that happen? “You can write it when you—when you feel better.”
“I'll forget. 'S always fuzzy, after,” he admits.
A pen clicks. “I have the best handwriting,” Ayumi says decisively. “What does Ai-chan need?”
“The time right now.” In, out. Keep holding. “And when I, uh, tripped earlier.”
“It's 1:03 pm right now. You tripped around 12:58,” Ayumi says, her voice at last resembling something calm and even.
“No fucking way it's been five minutes,” Shinichi groans, and his friends laugh (shaky and slightly unsettled, but it's laughter and he'll take it).
He continues, because things are already fogging over. Shinichi knows he's been aware this entire time, but it all blurs together, and he's not sure he could recall most of those minutes, each one spanning an hour on its own. He holds on. He continues.
“It starts in my shoulders.”
In, and.
Ow. God, Ow. He doesn't have anything to bite down on, so a groan tears out of him, rising to a yell as he grabs at his chest. God, it burns and burns and
burns and
Hands on him
his friends
“—Shinichi, it’s going to—”
small arms around him
“—will be okay—”
tight
scared and Mitsuhiko cries in one ear. Ayumi whimpers in the other, and Genta is plastered across Shinichi's front, holding onto him as if that could stop the antidote from wearing off.
“Forty-four minutes,” Shinichi gasps out. His shirt is loose, and the ground is closer than before. “Before I tripped. ‘S when it started.”
“I wrote it down,” Ayumi confirms not a moment later (or did minutes pass? Shinichi can't tell). She's all watery and small again.
“Need—” he breathes in, but the breath catches on something sharp and flaming with an aftertaste of alcohol. “Fuck. Jacket.” They don't need to hear him scream any more than he has already. “Need to bite down.”
“It's muddy,” Mitsuhiko cuts in. “Here.”
Shinichi panicks, remembering the pile of snacks on the floor. Sick with dread (they're going to hear)(I'm going to scar them for life)(they'll never look at me the same again), he forces his eyes open, but he never needed to worry. Mitsuhiko holds a crumpled-up ball of fabric just in front of Shinichi's face. His life has been in his friends' hands before, and they’ve come through again.
“Time's up,” he says in between breaths. He opens his mouth, shoves as much of the fabric as he can as far back as he can bear, and bites down.
For the first time, he is held tightly as the inferno rages throughout his bones.
It starts in his shoulders, burning down his spine and then his hips and legs and arms and hands and fingers. Every bone breaks and rebreaks and creaks as the apotoxin eats away at his muscles and ligaments—every single one, all at once. It's like he's some kind of screwed-up caterpillar, his insides melting into fiery goop but he's a human and his insides aren't supposed to do that.
He used to complain about the warm-up drills in soccer, but the way his legs cried out for mercy then is nothing to the way his everything screams, begging for some reprieve that is so far away it's a fantasy. He screams into a piece of fabric, only pausing to drink in more air through his nose and then scream again.
Nothing he does will stop the pain. Any thought other than ow, oh god, it burns, I’m burning, oh god, evaporates before it can even register. He can't do anything but yell until it's over. (Please, god, let it be over soon)
Shinichi knows, in each miserable and molasses-slow second, that Genta holds him together, clinging to Shinichi's back like a koala. He knows that Mitsuhiko latches onto his right side while Ayumi envelops him from the left. It’s almost suffocating, their warmth, on top of what sears him from within.
“You’re going to be okay,” Mitsuhiko says, worlds away. Genta’s arms get bigger, and Shinichi starts to fit into Mitsuhiko’s and Ayumi’s hug. He trembles with the effort of holding his breath when he so desperately needs oxygen, and definitely not because sobs wrack his frame while his friends help him travel back through hell.
He can't hug them back, frantically grabbing at his chest. He inhales fabric and threads and tries not to gag on his one defense against complete and utter humiliation. His knees brush his elbows as he curls into himself, unable to stay upright. He's been able to before, kind of, but Genta notices Shinichi wobble, even amongst all the shrinking. They lay him down, cool stone kissing his skin while someone holds his head in their lap.
He gags on the fabric in his mouth. His skull is still shrinking, but the fabric never changed sizes and now it's far too much. Someone takes it out of his mouth which is fine—the worst part is over, everything just has to settle now—leaving him coughing and hacking up the loose fibers and lint that get left behind.
The 'settling' part is what he's familiar with. He remembers this the most. The fire's died down, leaving an intense ache in its wake as bones and re-sized organs slot back into place. He's learned when and how to hold his tongue, to cut off those pathetic little whines that bubble up with each breath, each return to a new (old) body, but it's so much harder this time.
His shoulders jerk into place, and Conan sucks in a breath, thin and high-pitched. His femurs snap down into their sockets, but the best he can do is reduce the groan to a wheeze. He struggles for air as his ribs grip his lungs just too tight, but his last vestiges of resistance crumple when his kneecaps jolt into place. He whimpers with each knuckle that realigns with its tendons. It’s not the same screams from before, but moans and grunts surge from him in a constant gut-wrenching stream because Kudou Shinichi is not a caterpillar and Edogawa Conan is not a butterfly.
They are the same person. He is only human.
(Each time Haibara Ai tests an antidote, she leaves a letter for Agasa, detailing what to tell each of the Detective Boys. She’s kept her wishes short and sweet, because this life has healed so much in her that she thought would be broken for good. There's one hiding somewhere for Kudou, because he deserves to know everything if she's unable to give him any more hints.)
(She tries not to be surprised when she wakes up after each transformation.)
(She has yet to succeed on that front.)
Water drips onto Conan’s face, something leaking above his ear. Gravity tugs a few of the drips back towards his ear before falling past his jaw and around the curve of his neck. It tickles. Some of the other drops flow down to the corner of his mouth.
He licks his lips. Hm. Salt?
Fingers press into his neck, right at his carotid. “He’s breathing,” someone says, miles and miles and miles away.
The ringing in his ears dies down. He always forgets how much the pain blocks out the sounds around him. If someone told him he passed out every time an antidote wore off, he'd believe it. The way the world swims back into focus, the way pins and needles run up and down every limb as if his entire body fell asleep.
Someone's crying. Multiple people are crying. Three younger adolescents, one girl and two boys.
“That was so scary,” says the girl. She’s somewhere in front of him. “Oh my god.”
“He’s—” one of the boys, the bigger, softer one, sniffles, loud and wet. “He’s Conan sized now, I think.”
The other boy must be standing—sitting?—over him. “Holy crap,” comes the hollow, shaken whisper. “Holy crap. Oh my god. I thought he was going to die.”
Fabric rustles and warmth moves over his head. “He’s breathing,” the girl—Ayumi, it’s Ayumi—repeats, her voice muffled. “He’s okay,” and (he knows them. He knows their names, but he’s sorting through burnt case files because everything was just on fire. (Eons pass.) They’re his friends. He knows who his friends are. Conan knows at last) it’s not just Mitsuhiko and Genta that she’s trying to convince.
Conan’s eyes are glued shut even as sweat flows freely from them. It must be sweat, because he’s never cried from the antidote before and there’s no way he’d start now. He couldn't look around even if he felt like he could move. Yes, he is physically capable of lifting his body off the ground and walking back to... uh... the campsite. Right. The campsite. He could get up and walk back there right now if he needed to, but his already-fading memories contain no immediate fear, no murderer or criminal hovering menacingly. The clearest thing is saving Genta from a rockslide, and it blurs from there on.
He knows he was held, tight and warm and safe and wow. Okay. He grimaces, his entire back all the way down to his hips shifting like a dislocated bone that’s been reset, sickening pop and cracks included. That would be his spine, settling back into place.
“Oh my god,” Genta whispers. “I thought he was—it was done.”
Mitsuhiko doesn’t sound like he’s breathing. “Is it going to keep going?”
Everything is heavy. He’s made of igneous rock, the kind formed deep under the earth’s crust. It tethers him to the cave floor, beckoning him back to his own. His body sinks further and further into the ground while his consciousness struggles to do anything but float. He was almost this safe in Hattori’s backpack, but there’s a hand on his head, gently holding him still. The warm sherpa of someone’s jacket forms the most comfortable pillow he’s ever used. Chilled air gusts in, blowing against the sweat that covers every single part of him. Conan shudders, a low groan sounding through his chest.
Genta’s the closest to Shinichi’s size, so he swaps the oversized jacket from the cave floor with his own. He drapes his thick, insulated jacket over Conan. Just minutes ago, Shinichi stood so much taller than him, and now, Conan’s barely bigger than Ayumi.
Tears well in Genta’s eyes all over again. He shares a look with Mitsuhiko and Ayumi, or he tries to. Mitsuhiko’s breathing is barely there, a faraway stare fixed on Conan’s head in his lap. Ayumi hugs Mitsuhiko from the side, her face turned away from Genta because she’s trying to hug Mitsuhiko as firmly as she can without putting any weight on Conan.
“It has to be done now,” Genta whispers, and of course Mitsuhiko hears him.
“He’s breathing. He can’t be dead,” Mitsuhiko says like a prayer.
Ayumi gives Mitsuhiko one more squeeze before going to Genta. She’s crying, too. If Genta was feeling mean, he’d say something about the fact that she’s always crying, but his heart feels like someone ran it over with a bulldozer and then dumped it into radioactive waste because Conan, Shinichi, one of his best friends in the whole world, just—
He pulls Ayumi into a big fat bear hug. His shoulders and hands shake like crazy. Ayumi turns her head so she’s not talking into his chest when she says, “The way he…”
Genta shakes his head, some kind of pitiful noise leaving him as he hugs Ayumi tighter. “He’s okay now,” he tries, but it is far from a statement.
Ayumi leans back, stepping out of the hug, and Genta follows her to Mitsuhiko’s side, to Conan. As they sit on the floor, forming a fortress around Conan, she murmurs, “He’s still not up. Did he hit his head? He might have a concussion.”
“I don’t think he did,” Mitsuhiko replies, just as soft. “I don’t want to check yet, though.”
Genta adjusts the too-big clothing on Conan, hoping it makes Conan more comfortable. “We need to let him rest,” he agrees.
(The Detective Boys independently remember with frightening clarity the last time Conan was out of commission. Conan isn’t bleeding out this time, though, and no one in a mile-wide radius has a gun and/or murderous intent. It doesn’t help that the cave is cold or that Conan’s breathing is unnervingly shallow or that he still hasn’t opened his eyes, but time stretches in bizarre ways. The notes for Haibara will read that the worst of the ‘episode’ lasted less than a minute.)
“Let’s get him back to Haibara-san once he wakes up.” Mitsuhiko looks up at Genta. “I have some water in the bottom of my backpack.” His voice barely reaches him, he’s talking so quietly. “And some extra clothes. Haibara-san insisted.”
Genta pulls Mitsuhiko’s backpack from the ground into his lap. “Do you think…” he trails off, picking up the spit-soaked thing that Shinichi used to muffle his—wait a minute. This is his shirt. Why did Mitsuhiko have one of Genta's shirts in his backpack.
He shakes his head and shoves it in his pocket to deal with later. His heart pounds in his chest, his ears. “Does he have to do that every time he wants to be Shinichi-niisan?”
Ayumi sounds like she just figured out that the murderer they’ve been chasing was a kind person they met at the start of the case. “He wasn’t surprised by what was happening.”
Genta’s eyes burn with hot tears. On top of Conan’s clothes sits a bandana. He passes it to Ayumi who carefully dries off Conan’s face. “I never want to see Shinichi-niisan again if it means he has to do that all over again.” He clenches his fists. “Ran-neechan would understand. She wouldn’t want him to go through that.”
Mitsuhiko freezes. “But that’s who he really is.” He carefully levels a stare at Genta, and Ayumi’s eyes flick between the two of them. “Genta, imagine if you woke up and you were a baby again. You wouldn’t want to stay a baby and grow up all over again.”
“I—yeah, but—” Genta huffs because he has thought about it. He’s thought about how much he doesn’t like school and how much he hates when adults treat him and his friends like they’re dumb kids who don’t know anything. He’s thought a lot about how much it’s gotta stink to be famous and respected one day and then just a kid the next. (He’s thought about how Conan looks at Ran when he thinks no one else is paying attention.)
Conan breathes evenly into the silence.
“It's not right,” Genta protests weakly.
Conan coughs, his whole body shaking. Ayumi says a word they’re not supposed to say, and Mitsuhiko yelps. Genta also yelps, but he sounds manly when he does it.
Conan’s eyes open slowly once the coughing dies down, and he grins like the little snot he is. “Preaching to the choir, Genta-kun.”
“Thank god, you’re alive,” Mitsuhiko sighs, his eyes watering again.
Ayumi twists the bandana in her hands, wanting with everything to reach out and hug him. Instead, she leans into his line of sight and sniffs, holding back tears of her own. “We thought you were going to die.”
Conan’s eyes slip closed again, but he snorts because he's an arrogant buttface. “You can’t kill me that easily,” but every single one of them hears how his voice is too rough and scratchy for him to be perfectly fine and okay.
Genta taps Conan’s shoulder. “How are you feeling? Do you want anything?”
Conan grimaces, shifting a bit on the rock floor. Genta holds his breath for a moment, worried that Conan’s body is going to do that bad awful horrifying snap-into-place thing again, but Conan’s bones only move like they’re supposed to.
“Sore,” Conan says to the surprise of absolutely no one, “and yeah. Did someone have snacks?” He frowns, his brow furrowing. He looks naked without his glasses. “Or was that back at camp?”
“Mitsuhiko is a packrat,” Ayumi says cheekily, wiping her eyes. “He’s got half the campsite in his backpack.”
Mitsuhiko crosses his arms with a huff. “Shuddup,” he grumbles. “Haibara-san said Shini—Conan-kun was gonna need it.”
Conan hasn’t lifted his head or opened his eyes, perfectly content with staying horizontal. “Doomsday preppers have nothing on Haibara,” he mutters. He pulls the jacket further up his neck like a blanket. “Did she pack anything with salt?”
Ayumi gathers up the pile of snacks. “We’ve got a thing of trail mix,” she tells him. She rips the top off and starts to hand it to him when she pauses, searching his face. “Are you okay? For real,” she tacks on softly.
Conan stiffens, and unbeknownst to him, the others hold their breath, fearing more pain and steam. Instead, Conan lifts a hand, rubs at his eyes, and looks up at Ayumi. Does she want Conan to answer, or is she looking for Shinichi’s blatant reassurance that he's not going to die in the next thirty seconds?
Truth be told, he isn't feeling stellar, but he's felt much, much worse after an antidote's worn off. The back-to-back doses allowed him to build up a tolerance to the pain, but it took something like a week for his heart to stop jackhammering every time he stood up a little too fast (which is part of the reason he hasn't attempted to stand up). The first few times were terrifying thanks to the brand new terror of, Am I dying for real this time? and, Am I going to wake up? He's had to run to safety or a hiding spot or a secondary location so many times after an antidote that he assumed sleeping for at least eighteen hours was an expected side-effect. Until Haibara gave him the most horrified look when he mentioned it to her.
His body is one giant, aching bruise. The back of his mouth tastes like cotton. Sweat's starting to dry on his skin, making him itchy and bringing back that overall gross feeling.
They're off the trail. He isn't in plain view from the cave entrance, and he isn’t trying to solve some high-stakes homicide case. If Conan's right (and he normally is), Haibara put some backup Conan-sized clothes in Mitsuhiko's bottomless pit of a backpack, so he won't have to go all the way back to camp in smelly, too-big clothes.
One of Mitsuhiko's hands rests under Conan's neck. Genta's jacket serves as an incredible blanket. Ayumi holds the trail mix for him.
“Yeah,” Conan says. “Never had help like you guys before. Makes everything easier.”
Mitsuhiko hums and absently rubs his eyes. “You're not hurting anymore?”
A laugh bursts out of him, catching on the ash and aftermath of shrinking until Conan's coughing up a lung.
“Grab the water,” Mitsuhiko says frantically.
Someone shoves a plastic water bottle into his hands. “Here, I already opened it for you,” Ayumi says.
Genta must be the person that takes the bottle before Conan can even think about taking a drink. “Dummy, he's gonna spill water all over—”
“I'm not a dummy!” Ayumi gasps, offended, and Conan finds his fingers wrapped around plastic once more. “I only cracked the seal, dummy.”
Genta's petulant, “...Sorry,” is almost enough to get Conan laughing again, but he's able to rub his chest and hold onto the water instead, finally able to talk.
“The short answer, Mitsuhiko-kun, is no, but I'll be alright,” Conan assures him, and Genta, and Ayumi. “I mean it,” he continues when Mitsuhiko gives a skeptical hum. “It’s just like when you do too many laps, or getting hurt. You heal eventually. I'll be even better tomorrow.”
With that being said, his throat is sandpaper. Conan sets the water bottle down, placing his forearms against the floor to sit up. “Hard to drink laying down,” he explains, but he doesn't even make it an inch off the floor before hands are on his shoulders and back and torso.
They gradually lift him up, but everyone freezes, statue-still, when Conan’s breath hitches. “Just a—a second,” he grits out through clenched teeth. His lungs shudder and shake as his vertebrae forget they're supposed to stay on top of each other. He exhales as hard as he can, clenching the muscles in his middle. After a long, painful second, his back cracks like bubble wrap. Conan breathes a sigh of relief and leans forward again, murmuring, “I'm okay. Back felt… tight.”
He doesn’t miss how their hands shake as they lift him up. He ends up sandwiched between Genta and Mitsuhiko, Ayumi holding him up by his shoulders. Three sets of hands leave him, one by one, until Conan sways under the weight of his body. Genta wraps his arm around Conan’s back in an instant, and Conan fully slumps against him.
“Eat something,” Genta demands. Conan watches through blurry eyes as Ayumi takes his hands and pours him some trail mix.
“Yessir,” Conan shoots back, the corner of his mouth lifted in a grin. Quick motions are easier—the pain doesn’t hit until after. He shoves the nuts and fruit and chocolate chips in his mouth and holy crap, it’s the best thing he’s eaten all week. Conan sort of wishes it didn’t require so much chewing, but Genta holds him up and Mitsuhiko has water ready when Conan needs it.
The breeze picks up outside, rushing into the cave and over Conan’s legs. Oh, no. His waistband isn’t pressing against any part of his lower half. Oh, god. Talk about scarring his friends. His face burns with embarrassment as he swallows down the trail mix. “Um. Please tell me there’s something for me to, um, wear.”
Mitsuhiko digs around in his backpack. “Well, how do you feel about wearing a dress?”
Conan drops his head back onto Genta’s shoulder. “I’m gonna kill Haibara.”
“Mitsuhiko!” Ayumi scolds, and Genta snickers. Smelling bullshit, Conan looks over at Mitsuhiko, leveling his best don’t-mess-with-me face at him.
“Sorry, Shini—Conan-kun,” Mitsuhiko laughs. He holds up a plastic bag labelled In Case of Emergency. Conan recognizes one of his favorite shirts and a pair of sweatpants—which are objectively not a dress. “It was funny, right?”
“Correction,” Conan says. “I’m going to kill you.” He holds out a hand, unsurprised at the faint ache that follows the action. “Give.”
Mitsuhiko passes him the bag of clothes. “Um, are you, uh, gonna need help?”
Conan grumbles, “I’m shrunken, not an invalid.” His heart thuds in his chest. Yes, these are definitely Conan clothes. His oversized pants seem to be covering everything they need to, but he’s not sure they’ll stay that way when he stands up.
“Says the guy who’s putting all his weight on me,” Genta scoffs. “Drink some water already.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Conan mumbles, but he takes a drink anyway.
Refreshing is not a strong enough word for it. The cool water soothes everything, washing away the cotton taste and smoothing out all the rough edges left behind by the antidote. He gulps down water until there’s none left, pausing just once to breathe. Sighing with relief, Conan drops his hands into his lap and dares to hope. “Is there any more?”
Mitsuhiko looks through his backpack. “Sorry. That’s all I had.”
“Applesauce has a lot of water in it,” Ayumi points out. She trades the applesauce for his empty bottle.
Conan cracks off the lid. The applesauce ranks second only to the salty trail mix. He tries not to eat all of it with ravenous fervor, but his body craves nutrition and he must comply. His breathing is a little heavier once the pouch is empty, but his vision has finally cleared, and the ringing in his ears is well and truly gone. He manages to sit up fully with his own strength and pulls the too-big shirt down across his lap.
Genta huffs, all bite and no bark. “Shouldn’t we get you back to camp? Haibara can do more than any of us.” They don’t know that she is also a teenager, but Haibara is great and powerful and, as previously mentioned, is prepared for every eventuality ever.
“Not really. I kind of just need to get food, water, and rest. Besides, I,” Conan takes in a shuddering breath, “don’t want to move if I don’t have to.” He tugs on the hem of his shirt again, glancing down at the bag with fresh clothes.
“Uh, I’ll go keep watch at the front of the cave so you can change,” Ayumi says, pushing herself to her feet.
“Thanks, Ayumi,” Conan calls after her. He catches Mitsuhiko’s eye. “Can you two turn around? I’ll say something if I need help.”
Genta and Mitsuhiko share a look, and Conan knows them well enough to follow the exchange. Something about you trust him? and we’ll catch him passes between them, and Conan puts aside the bag of his clothes.
“I’ll get this side,” Mitsuhiko says, crouching by Conan’s right.
Genta kneels by Conan’s left, moving this jacket out of the way, and Conan holds up a hand. “Wait.” He finds his belt under the mess of fabric pooled around him. Hiking it halfway up his torso, Conan holds out his elbows. “Okay. Ready.”
With hands at both Conan’s shoulders and elbows, Genta and Mitsuhiko lift Conan up, and only two of the three remember the opposite happening a short while ago. It’s much easier this time because their friend is still the shortest of the group, so Genta and Mitsuhiko have no problem helping Conan to his feet. Conan shuts his eyes against the wave of dizziness, spots dancing back and forth under his eyelids while his head spins. He takes more than a few seconds to find his footing. His heels pretend for a second that they’ve never taken on any weight before, and Conan can’t suppress a hiss at the sting.
Mitsuhiko takes on more of Conan’s weight, but Conan grunts in disagreement. “Hold on,” he mutters to them. The headrush finally fades, and he takes stock properly.
His racing heart isn't at a breakneck pace, so it’s definitely not as bad as post-Kyoto trip. Nothing feels like it’s still stuck out of place. His ankles crack as he rotates them, first the left, then the right, but they’ve always done that. His muscles seem to be responding properly, his legs shaking just a bit as he tests his balance.
Slowly, not unkindly, he gets out of Mitushiko’s grip first. Mitsuhiko still hovers, his hands barely an inch off Conan’s arm, but Conan tries not to need the help. He carefully puts his own weight back onto his legs, his heart pounding with dread, but he manages to stay upright. Though his legs complain with the muted ache of too much running, Conan finds his footing. Once he’s sure his knees won’t buckle, Conan says, “Okay. You can let go now, Genta-kun.”
Genta releases him with Mitsuhiko’s brand of extreme caution, and his friends hover like emergency helicopters. “Thanks, guys,” Conan says, leaning to grab his bag of clothes, but Mitsuhiko hands it to him before he can even bend his knees.
Conan sighs, taking the bag a little quicker than is polite. “Please, let me do some things on my own.”
Mitsuhiko crosses his arms. “We’re worried, okay?” he grumbles, embarrassment rising to his cheeks. “You said you’ve never had help before, so let us help you, Conan-kun.”
Genta nods, hrmph-ing in agreement, and Conan’s chest surges with warmth, soft and comforting and nothing at all like the apotoxin. A smile grows across his face, and he sighs again, this time in defeat. “Right. Thanks, you guys,” he says, all soft and mushy.
Sitting back down on the floor, Genta faces the cave front and gestures vaguely to his shoulders. “I’ll be here. You can hold onto me if you need to,” he tells Conan. To Mitsuhiko, he says, “Go keep watch with Ayumi-chan?”
Mitsuhiko’s hands flail briefly as he looks between Conan and Ayumi, but he finally lands on a little salute that Conan snorts at. “Got it.”
Conan waits another moment, making sure his friends are firmly looking away, and he finally lets go of his belt. Well. Okay. His teenager shirt is apparently big enough to cover everything—he’s practically wearing a dress already, like Mitsuhiko was teasing—so Conan never needed to bother with holding up his pants.
Listen. It made him feel better in the moment, and that’s what’s important.
He braces a hand on Genta’s back to stay upright and has no problems pulling on the (thank god) Conan-sized underwear and sweatpants. Chafing can and has and will be the bane of his existence, but not today. His sweatpants are nice and loose, letting his skin breathe, and Conan feels a little more put together with actual clothes on. Shedding his shirt is far less anxiety-inducing (his friends have seen him topless before), and he gives a contented sigh as he pulls on the shirt that actually fits him. It’s one of his favorites: a dark red with sturdy, soft fabric. Very comfortable.
Before he gives the all-clear for his friends to turn around, Conan gathers together his old clothes and folds them into a neat pile. His back muscles spasm weakly when he leans over, but it’s not until he stands up again that he realizes how heavily his legs are shaking.
He drops back to the ground with a grunt, calling out, “All dressed. You guys can turn around now.”
Genta whips around, already frowning. “Did you fall down? You said you’d say something if you needed help.”
“I just sat down, that’s all. I’m fine, Genta,” he tries to say, but Conan’s stomach rumbles loud and clear.
Mitsuhiko sorts through his backpack, Ayumi looking over his shoulder. “Did Ai-chan pack anything else for Conan-kun?” she asks.
Mitsuhiko hums, shaking his head. “It doesn’t look like much else. A few packs of fruit snacks, and this protein bar.” He holds it up. Conan gags, loud and over-dramatic, but it’s just real enough that Ayumi flinches.
Conan holds up his arms in an ‘X’. “Hell no. That brand is nasty. I’ll starve, thanks.”
Mitsuhiko’s brow creases. “I like this brand.”
“I’m very sorry,” Conan says solemnly, “that you enjoy the taste of cardboard and cigarette butts.”
Mitsuhiko pouts, only about thirty percent serious, and Ayumi laughs at the two of them.
“We still haven’t had lunch,” Genta points out, standing over Conan. He takes Conan’s old clothes, stuffing them into the plastic bag, and hands all of it to Ayumi.
Conan squints at the ground, wracking his memories. “Why haven’t we eaten…?” Puzzle pieces slot together, and Conan lets out a shout, pointing at Genta. “You! You went out-of-bounds for our hide-and-go-tag game! We had to come up this closed-off trail to find your dumb butt!”
Crossing his arms, Genta plants his feet and huffs, all indignation and no integrity. “You guys took all the good hiding spots! I’m, like, way bigger than you guys! You would’ve spotted me right away.”
Conan drags a hand down his face. “Genta. I was literally double your height when we were playing. Shut up.”
Ayumi and Mitsuhiko have finished compacting down Shinichi’s clothes into Mitsuhiko’s backpack, and Mitsuhiko rejoins the conversation, handing a pack of fruit snacks to Conan. “See, Genta, all you really have to do is make yourself smaller—”
Conan’s hand shoots up. “Would not recommend,” he cuts in, grinning.
Face flushing red, Mitsuhiko stamps his foot. “Conan-kun!” he complains, but Conan just cackles, slapping his knee. “I meant by—by curling into a ball or staying really still! Come on,” he whines.
“Consider that revenge for making me think I was gonna have to wear girl clothes,” Conan shoots back easily, wiping a tear from his eye.
“Genta-kun, really,” Ayumi says, sugary sweet, “there’s only one way you can win at hide-and-tag.”
Genta eyes her, shoulders braced to take the fall he knows she’s prepping him for. “Yeah? What’s that?”
Ayumi blinks, eyes wide and innocent. She taps a finger on her chin, humming thoughtfully. “Well, have you tried getting good?”
Doubling over with laughter, Conan braces a hand on his knee. Mitsuhiko fails to hide his snickers behind his hand, and Genta stumbles backwards like he’s been slapped, clutching at his chest. “Ayumi, you—you—you—” he sputters, his face shadowed as he curls in on himself. Conan hesitates, laughing uneasily while Genta leans back on the wall of the cave. Mitsuhiko’s laughter dies down, too, watching Genta, but Ayumi keeps her puppy-eyes on at full strength.
“You buttface!” Genta bursts out, trying very hard to look angry and only making it about three-quarters of the way there. He shoves off the wall, reaching for her, and Ayumi squeaks, bolting out of the way. “I’ll get you for that,” Genta calls after her, grinning wide.
“Shit!” Ayumi yelps for the second time that day, giggling. (Conan and Haibara each blame the other for teaching her such words.)(Ayumi learned them from her mother.) She runs from Genta, his arms swinging wide to try and catch her. Mitsuhiko and Conan howl with laughter as they run circles around the cave, Ayumi breaking Genta’s ankles like nobody’s business. Genta skids, losing his balance, and catches himself on his hands. Ayumi turns on a dime, jumps over Genta’s pitiful attempt to grab her, and tackles Genta back to the ground.
The tussle doesn’t last long. Genta might have size and strength on the rest of the Detective Boys, but he scrambles and squeals in rage as Ayumi sits on his back, pinning his arms under him. “Lemme go,” Genta shouts, but Ayumi laughs, pushing his face down into the rock floor. Conan pants for breath, on his hands and knees, but it’s all tinged with joy. Mitsuhiko kicks his feet, cackling, and Conan sucks in just enough air to crack up all over again.
“Apologize to Conan-kun for cheating,” Ayumi demands.
Genta lifts his head. “I’m sorry, Conan-kun!” he wails, Ayumi holding him down with leverage and gumption.
She pinches his shoulder. “And?”
“And I’ll make s’mores for everyone tonight!” he cries out. “Promise!”
“That’s what I thought,” she says, sliding off his back.
Conan just barely manages to catch his breath, thumping his chest with a fist. The tail-end of his laughter turns to coughing, starting weak and annoying, but they turn violent and heavy and Conan can’t get the out the phlegm stuck in his throat. Mirth vanishes in the face of panic. He pounds on his sternum, heaving for air, barely able to get enough to keep coughing. It goes down his throat, into his lungs, too fast and too cold, and Conan hacks up bile. Someone rubs soothing circles on his back while another set of hands hold him up by the shoulders.
The applesauce he ate comes back up, chased by stomach acid and probably most of the water he drank. He vomits, wincing at his friends’ groans and disgusted sounds. He nearly falls forwards into his own sick, but the hands supporting him lift him up. He attempts to walk as they bring him to another area of the cave, but his feet barely scrape the ground with how much he’s being carried. He ends up laying on his side all over again, breathing heavily, Mitsuhiko’s backpack under his head.
“Sorry, guys,” he wheezes. “Not gonna make it back to the campsite.”
“What? No!” Genta shouts, grabbing Conan’s shoulder.
“You can’t die here,” Ayumi cries, and Conan instantly realizes his mistake.
“No, I meant—sorry, no. Not dying,” he assures them, rubbing his aching chest. “I just meant I don’t think I can walk back to the campsite.”
They breathe one big collective sigh of relief. “Dummy,” Genta scolds. “Don’t scare us like that!”
“Sorry, sorry,” Conan says, offering a weak grin. “My bad.”
Mitsuhiko’s behind Conan, rubbing slow, soothing circles into his back. “Genta-kun can carry you back.”
“As retribution,” Ayumi agrees with an impish grin.
“I was gonna offer anyway,” Genta grumbles. His faux-anger gives way to something softer. “We’re pretty far from the campsite, and you still seem pretty bad,” he tells Conan. “Like we’d let you walk so far on your own when we can make it easier.”
“Right!” Ayumi and Mitsuhiko say together.
Mitsuhiko shouts, “Jinx!” half a second before Ayumi, and he pumps a fist. “You owe me a soda.”
“Can we please stay on topic,” Genta begs, and Conan shudders because if Genta is the level-headed one, the world’s probably going to end soon. Ayumi and Mitsuhiko mumble out apologies, and Genta sighs. “Get your stuff, guys. Let’s go back.”
Mitsuhiko offers another quiet apology as he takes his backpack from under Conan’s head. Burrowing into Genta’s jacket, Conan shifts into a vaguely comfortable position and mumbles, “Don’t make me stand up until we’re leaving.”
Genta rubs Conan’s shoulder. “Yeah. Don't worry. We’ve got you, Conan-kun.”