Archive of Our Own

“I could have sworn he came in here,” Conan mutters. “Second-floor bedrooms just past the west wing… but there are so many doors…”

He doesn’t have to look very far. While the rest of the guest rooms are closed off, the door of one particular room is slanted open, indicating occupancy. The tension doesn’t leave his body even after a careful peer inside reveals a very familiar blond head of hair and not a could-be-terrorist.

“... Amuro-san,” Conan says. It comes out weak and croaky and a lot more awkward than he’d like.

The man in question is sprawled on top of an expensive-looking mid-century modern sofa, legs crossed with his arms resting on either side of his head against the back of the piece of furniture. His eyes are closed, his earpiece has been removed, and his suit jacket has been buttoned up to conceal the gun harness Conan glimpsed earlier.

Conan clears his throat, shutting the door behind him. “You’re angry. With me, or…”

“I must have deserved it,” Amuro laughs emptily, self-deprecation lining every syllable in his heavy words. His head lolls lazily against his left shoulder.

“No…!” Conan slams a fist on a sofa arm, eliciting a rather loud thump. “Even if I were angry at you—which I’m not—that would be a horrible thing to do! You don’t ever deserve to be treated so awfully no matter what!”

Amuro’s eyes crack open and his curious gaze falls onto Conan’s frantic one. “I see.”

It’s not much of a reply.

Rather, it only adds to Conan’s mounting confusion at Amuro’s apparent apathy. “I don’t understand. Does this mean… you’re not mad at me?”

“Mad…?” Amuro sits up straight and turns toward Conan who’s been fiddling with the intricate grooves carved into the legs of a nightstand by the sofa. “Why would I be mad at you?”

Conan instantly averts his gaze, bringing his clenched fists to his sides. “I… did that… with Akai-san…”

“Tell me, Conan-kun.” Amuro tilts his head back to rest his neck on the couch, Adam’s apple bobbing visible when he speaks. “Was it your idea?”

“No, but…” Conan shakes his head. “I still agreed to it! I shouldn’t have… even if I felt…”

“We’re not in a relationship,” Amuro says, slowly. “What you do is none of my business, unless it hurts you. But I watched as you closed your eyes—you looked so peaceful when he kissed your forehead… If you really… felt that way toward Akai Shuuichi, then—”

“—I was thinking of you…!” Conan blurts, surprising himself. “You’re right, we’re not in a relationship. But that’s because we never properly defined anything with each other! T-The one that I like…”

Amuro continues staring in bewilderment, slack-jawed and firmly rooted to his seat.

Determined to make his point, Conan stares straight into Amuro’s eyes, lifting his chin with determination on the peaks of his small shoulders. “The one that I like is you, Amuro-san!”

Stunned by the revelation, Amuro takes a moment to himself, the back of his hand suddenly thrown over his face as though he’s trying to hide his expression. It doesn’t conceal the reddening tips of his ears, though, flushed for a completely different reason than earlier in the ballroom. The man sucks in a breath before he finally manages to respond with a stammered, “I… I didn’t know you felt that way, Conan-kun.”

“I didn’t know I felt that way either,” Conan admits. “Or at least I never tried to acknowledge it. But I guess I felt frustrated tonight because of, um, you know, and… as always, the first person you looked at was Akai Shuuichi. Amuro-san… I really, really like you.”

Amuro stiffens in the chair, freezing momentarily before leaping to his feet, the way animals can sometimes sense an incoming earthquake.

“Amuro-san? What’s wrong?”

The man scans the room with a desperate look, eyes widening when his gaze lands on the fancy wardrobe that seems to match the equally fancy sofa, a piece of furniture reaching just below the height of Amuro’s eyes. “The suspect is coming this way, and he may be armed with something more dangerous than a simple weapon like a gun.”

“Got it.” Conan is already swinging the paneled doors open to check whether or not it could constitute a viable hiding spot before Amuro even finishes his explanation. It’s empty and just large enough for two. Or really, one and a half.

Rapidly approaching footsteps echo down the hallway outside the bedroom.

“Amuro-san, the suspect is almost here!” Conan slides into the hollow space before gesturing for the other man to follow suit. It strikes him as odd, the little bit of hesitation in the stiffening of Amuro’s gait before the PSB agent acquiesces, climbing into the space alongside Conan before promptly swinging the wardrobe door shut from the inside and shrouding them in complete darkness.

Conan switches on the flashlight on his watch, but Amuro immediately clamps a hand on his small wrist, tampering down the sudden brightness. Quickly understanding the risk of a stray beam of light exposing their location, Conan flicks the device off immediately.

Amuro’s firm hold on his wrist, however, doesn’t loosen.

Conan opens his mouth to ask but thinks twice considering their circumstances. Even an overheard whisper could prove to be fatal.

He forgets what must have been dozens of questions on his tongue when the bedroom door swings open with a creak, accompanied by a loud slam.

The suspect isn’t even trying to be cautious. He shuffles around the room in what sounds like an attempt to turn everything upside down and inside out with loud thumps of things being knocked to the ground or kicked around.

He’s looking for something.

Amuro inhales sharply, his face hovering somewhere above Conan’s right ear. There’s not enough room to sit or crouch, so Amuro is inelegantly bent forward such that Conan’s head is much closer to the man’s shoulders than normal. Conan is faring fairly better thanks to his child-like size, but the lack of space width-wise forces him to press uncomfortably close to Amuro’s frontside, to the extent where the point of a knee is digging into the incline of his abdomen, and his face is forced against the side of Amuro’s hip.

“Locked?!” The suspect exclaims, his voice only inches in front of the pair. The handle of the wardrobe jiggles threateningly. “I thought I was in the correct room…”

Conan flinches when wood splinters loudly somewhere above his head from outside. Next is the sound of something more metallic smashing against the crease where the two door panels meet. It becomes increasingly obvious that the various methods the suspect is using to crack open the wardrobe door are all failing one after the other.

It doesn’t add up. When Conan had checked, there were no locks outside. There weren’t even any keyholes!

“Damn! Jammed shut.”

The way Amuro’s labored breathing keeps fluctuating in correlation with the suspect clawing at the doors with some new tool, the conventional wardrobe that’s supposed to house something the suspect is after even though it was empty before they clambered inside, the fact that Amuro was already waiting in this very room with full confidence about the suspect’s timely appearance… It’s all connected.

Conan doesn’t know how exactly, but Amuro is somehow holding the closet door shut from the inside.

“Maybe I should…” the suspect mumbles. “No, this room isn't big enough. I could probably break the doors, but…”

Almost no distance between them means that when Conan tenses from nerves, he also feels a similar reaction in Amuro’s body. Their lives are dependent on how much the suspect values whatever he’s searching for and how much he’s willing to risk destroying it by accident.

“Damn it.” Annoyed tongue-clicking follows. “I’ll just…”

The entire wardrobe shifts several inches with a cacophonous screech. Surprised by the movement, Conan nearly slides forward and smacks his head on the hard, reinforced wood of the inner lining if not for Amuro’s tight grip on his wrist and the man’s entire body padding Conan’s head-first trip. He barely manages to tamper down a yelp, the material of Amuro’s gray suit jacket muffling the initial noise.

Amuro, on the other hand, sucks in a loud, sharp breath, then in the next moment, exhales just as shakily as the faint tremor that goes through the arm supporting Conan.

Sorry! Conan mouths, but under the cover of darkness, he can’t convey his apology properly. He must have collided with Amuro harder than he thought.

“Damn, it’s heavier than I remembered.”

The suspect is… purposely moving the entire wardrobe.

This is a big problem.

With another screech, Conan lurches yet again, uncomfortably closer to Amuro’s lower center of gravity. Something hard bumps against Conan’s temple.

… Gun.

That’s a gun he’s feeling… right…?

Amuro immediately puts as much distance as he can between them in the cramped space they’re sharing, jerking away and even giving Conan’s arm back to him, a reaction swifter than he even has time to blink and ponder the purpose of the sudden extra breathing space.

The inability to see Amuro’s current expression shrouds the last few seconds in mystery, even more so when the sudden extra room proves itself to be of no use when the darkness begins to tilt and a feeling not unlike a small drop on a rollercoaster seizes Conan by the stomach, lurching when the strange tilting sensation makes way for the deduction that they’re physically falling toward the ground—no, the wardrobe itself is toppling over in the direction where Amuro is still presumably holding the doors close against Conan’s back.

The suspect is planning to knock the entire wardrobe over just to break it open…?!

Amuro cursing under his breath is swiftly followed by strong arms wrapping themselves around Conan’s shoulders; it doesn’t take a genius to understand he’s being shielded by Amuro’s entire body in the case of the wardrobe cracking into sharp, lethal fragments, or even worse, the suspect realizing they’re here and acting first with whatever weapon he has on his person.

And maybe, if he’s only armed with a weak gun, the bullets will lodge in Amuro rather than pass through and hit Conan as well, like a living body shield.

This guy…

When will Conan ever be able to get it through Amuro’s thick skull to tone down the reckless abandon toward his life?

He closes his eyes instinctively even though it will do nothing to block out the inevitable moment of impact. Most of his current thoughts are of guilt and concern directed toward Amuro, who is once again putting himself between Conan and danger without any sort of healthy hesitation.

Hitting the ground is nothing compared to the tipsy, shaken-not-stirred adrenaline of tonight. Conan wanted to confess in his own body, with his own mouth and voice as Kudou Shinichi, a serious, heartfelt confession he aches for whenever he has the time to indulge in wild fantasies. Instead, he’s stuck in a broom closet still not knowing Amuro’s response to a child’s declaration of adoration, something he feels more than weird about considering their strange relationship.

Any and all of Amuro’s affection for Conan should be taken as massive red flags. After all, his physical body is that of a grade schooler’s, and he hasn’t yet told the PSB agent about the true reason he’s so involved with the Black Organization’s affairs.

But he wants.

He so badly wants…

“Conan-kun, are you hurt?” The whisper is directly in his ear, close enough for Amuro’s warm breath to fan against Conan’s cheek when the man turns his head a minuscule amount, shifting around while feeling for any injuries. They’re now parallel to the ground. Conan is stuck on his back, the wardrobe doors trapped between him and the floor, and further pinned down by Amuro, who is doing his best not to let his weight crush against the small figure underneath him.

Conan shakes his head, forgetting for a moment that they’re still enshrouded in darkness before he whispers back, “No, I’m fine. What about you? You didn’t have to…”

He’s quickly cut off mid-sentence. “I’m alright,” Amuro murmurs. “More importantly, I think our suspect has given up.”

They pause to listen.

Silence instead of more rowdiness greets them back.

No longer needing to keep his voice down, Conan deduces, “You and your PSB agents removed whatever he was trying to find from this closet, right? This venue was a trap for him and any co-conspirators.”

Amuro bangs his elbows against several areas of the wood surrounding them. He doesn’t have the space to build enough momentum and potential energy for the solid, shattering blow Conan knows he’s fully capable of. “As always, you’re fully on the mark, Conan-kun.”

“I think my phone broke in the fall. It’s not in my pocket anymore.” There’s a good chance it might be by their feet, but it’ll be near impossible to reach with the haphazard way they’re currently jigsawed around one another. “Amuro-san, what about yours?”

Amuro’s voice is strained when he answers, “It should also be in my pocket… but I can’t reach it like this.”

“I can try? Hold on…” Conan's fingers find the wardrobe wall opposite to the one behind his back first before they blindly find what must be Amuro’s familiar suit jacket, gripping the material so he doesn’t lose his place in the dark. “Where am I touching?”

“That’s close to the pocket flap on my right. My phone is in my left pants pocket.” Warm, calloused fingers curl around his small ones, too large to intertwine and weave between them. “Here. Is that helpful?”

Conan makes a shy noise of agreement.

They’re holding hands.

They’re totally holding hands and it’s completely unnecessary.

“That’s my left thigh.”

“S-Sorry.”

“Now that’s my inner left thigh.”

“Sorry!”

“It’s alright.” Amuro’s breathing has picked up again—that strange, strained quality from earlier. “Just… try the other direction.”

Listening to the simple advice, Conan successfully navigates to what appears to be an empty pocket. “There’s nothing there.”

“S-Sorry, I might have misremembered.” It’s rare to hear Amuro so flustered. “Maybe it’s in one of my suit pockets.”

After groping around a bit more and finding no phone, Conan’s hand drifts lower with an intent to check the other pants pocket. Instead, he bumps into a bulge where he’s almost certain is supposed to be Amuro’s crotch. Startled by this, lighting fast, his hand retreats to his chest from the shock of the discovery, as if he’s just been burned.

That’s…!

As a teenager, Shinichi is no stranger to the occasional morning wood, but he hasn’t thought about such things since he’s shrunken into a body that hasn’t even gone through puberty yet.

Amuro’s heavy breathing is unmistakable. “S-Stop moving, don’t…”

To make sure he’s not mistaken, Conan returns to the scene of the crime, fingertips gently skimming against the hardness in Amuro Tooru’s pants.

It elicits a breathy groan from the man, and a shiver shoots down Conan’s spine in response. “... Amuro-san?”

“I beg of you, please stop moving or you could get hurt…” Amuro’s words trail off on their own accord as if he’s suddenly run out of breath.

It's morbid curiosity that incentivizes what Conan does next: his devious palm has a mind of its own when it purposefully rubs against that inexplicable tented area.

This time, a strangled moan falls from Amuro’s lips, partly muffled by what must be the man’s hand pressed tightly against his mouth into the shape of a fist, his hips twitching against Conan’s side.

One, there is currently no one alive who is close to Furuya Rei’s heart. Even Conan doesn’t dare use the name out loud for reasons being: running the risk of slipping the man’s real name in an inopportune moment as well as experiencing genuine feelings of discomfort with his inability to reconcile with all four of Zero’s faces. Much of the man is still an intangible mystery, even after Conan has uncovered so much. And he desperately wants to know more, wants to have everything that Zero is willing to give to him.

Two, Conan many minutes ago basically confessed his love for the man in the most dramatic and straightforward fashion he could at the moment, a severely sincere display he doesn’t think Amuro has gotten to experience in a very long time. Previous to today, the two of them had been dancing around one another in an unnamed waltz of back-and-forth respect, admiration, and affection. If Conan were Shinichi, another onlooker might have even mistaken it for some kind of weird courting ritual or just straightforward dating—no, it essentially was what they were doing, except neither of them was the type to boldly lay their feelings out like that until now.

Three, Amuro and Conan have been trapped in a tiny, enclosed space for a while; it seems Amuro was already half-hard before their situation got worse, especially if what Conan felt against his temple earlier is what he thinks it was.

… Amuro likes Conan back.

Since when?

For how long?!

“You don’t know…” Amuro sucks in a breath. “You don’t know what you’re touching, Conan-kun. This is inappropriate, do you understand? If I wasn’t—If we weren’t—”

Conan blinks blankly in the darkness, still too shocked to verbalize anything. His wandering hands have obediently returned to his sides, not causing any more impulsive trouble.

“H-Has someone made you do this before? Is that why you’re…” Amuro trails off, his voice shakier than Conan’s ever heard it before. “Please, tell me the truth. If any other adult in your life has told you that this is okay…”

“Zero,” Conan vocalizes, his childish lilt completely absent, “what do you mean, exactly?”

Amuro is nothing short of panic-stricken, chest heaving with exertion where it hovers carefully over Conan’s tinier body. “We… We have to find a way out of here so you can get as far away from me as possible!”

Conan almost chokes out a laugh born from disbelief. They’re stuck in this kind of situation and yet Amuro is prioritizing Conan’s safety by jumping to the most obvious yet incorrect conclusion?

A hard punch lands somewhere above Conan’s head, more forceful than any of the other ones thus far. The wardrobe rattles violently in response but refuses to give in to the impact. There’s no way a punch like that doesn’t cause an equal and opposite reaction to its source. “Wait! Amuro-san, your hand… You’re going to hurt yourself!”

“I’m sorry, Conan-kun… You weren’t supposed to find out that I… that I’m…” In a breathy half-gasp as though he’s struggling for air, Amuro spits out, “Disgusting. You’re just a child with an innocent crush, but I still… I’m horrible… I’m the worst sort of man…”

Conan flinches at another sound of knuckle against wood, more splintering. The indiscriminate punches aren't getting them anywhere. “Amuro-san, stop!”

“This was never supposed to happen—You don’t understand… I didn’t need to come into this horribly small space with you. The person we’re after is no real match for me, especially with the element of surprise. Why did I come in here? I should have just let you hide and take down the terrorist myself like we originally planned! Somehow… that FBI… this is all his fault…” Amuro isn’t listening to a thing Conan is saying, continuing to ramble with an unconstrained onslaught of disparagement toward himself. Nearly hysterical, half of what he’s saying is ramblings of an ongoing internal monologue. “No, not just him… This is my fault too… I’m not a p—I don’t like children like that… It’s just that you—only you make me feel so messed up—no, what I mean to say is…!”

Conan licks his lips and finds his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, completely dry. Is this actually happening? Was everything tonight too much? Has Amuro really lost it?

… Conan needs to snap him out of it.

He has to.

“At any moment, that man could return,” Conan says, austere in his quietness. It cuts aggressively into their proximity like a red laser beam in the dark. “Where’s the usual unwavering, reliable Furuya Rei? The most dedicated, resilient, and hardworking man I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting? Zero, right now, at this moment, we need him.”

Zero groans in what sounds like pain. “How can you say that...? How can you say such kind things when I…”

“What?” It’s an inopportune moment, but Conan doesn’t know what else to do. He flicks on the light on his wristwatch.

A lazurite spark of ravenous hunger not too dissimilar to a lion starved for days and thrown into a Roman coliseum stares directly back at him, a profoundly sharpened level of focus and all-consuming intensity that speaks of all the darker parts of him that Conan has yet to learn more about. “I haven’t stopped being hard for a single moment since you walked into this room with such a concerned expression for me,” Zero says.

“... Eh?” The one hand still gripping his wristwatch falls limply to Conan's side.

The climbing fervor doesn’t stop. “It became worse when I got stuck in here with you. I’m so hard right now, Conan-kun. Do you understand what that means? You’re a smart boy… You must know.” The man’s next laugh is a manufactured one.

He’s watching the words being formed and spoken from familiar lips, but the sounds have such strange meanings; Conan swallows audibly, cringing at their bawdy nature. The beast currently laying on top of him follows the movement like a man starved.

“W-Wait, Amuro-sa—mmph…!” A large hand clamps over Conan’s face.

“Don’t scream. Someone might come.” Wouldn’t that be a good thing?!

“I… I don’t know what to do. What have I done? What am I supposed to do?” Zero agonizes, punctuating his words with a slow grind of his hips. Of course, that’s not all Conan ends up feeling digging against his lower belly. “Do you feel that? That’s dangerous. Do you understand? Please tell me that you understand.”

The hand on his face lets up on its debilitating, threatening pressure to instead flip on its head and caress Conan’s cheeks, calloused thumb lovingly stroking one of the corners of his lips. Zero’s astoundingly blue eyes never leave him.

“That’s your…” Flustered, Conan can’t quite find it in him to vocalize the insane situation he’s currently trapped in.

“You can’t even say it?” The stroking of his cheek pauses. “Hah, you are a child, after all.”

“That has nothing to do with it!” Conan argues back.

“Now, stop wriggling around before I really hurt you, Conan-kun.” Zero’s words are icy and distant, more Bourbon than Furuya or Amuro as he eventually fully pulls his hand away from Conan’s face.

“... Is that a threat?” Conan croaks. “You could knock me unconscious in under a minute. Why don’t you just do that?”

Silence echoes around him in response. Not even a sorry explanation for an excuse lingers.

A path of escape clicking together like a puzzle in the back of his head concludes the best way to get out of this situation is to turn it on its tail—to hurl the vicious insults and threats Zero seems to want so badly, to slap him with the reality of how messed up, gross, and illegal this is—but Conan doesn’t want to hurt him.

He doesn’t want to harm even a hair on Furuya Rei’s body.

Zero had been unwavering throughout everything they’d been through together. Conan didn’t foresee this of all things to be the tipping point. “You want to push me away,” Conan says quietly. “Now that this has accidentally happened, you think the best way to resolve it is to make me scared of you and hate you. To make me push you away first.”

Conan doesn’t know how much of Zero’s on-the-spot-rambling were made of some form of truths as opposed to total lies, but he can tell at least this much.

“… Is it working?” Zero laughs wistfully, his voice promptly losing that sharp edge, peeling away like dirty wallpaper under the assault of a heavy storm.

Staring determinedly up into Zero’s gaze, Conan continues, “You haven’t lost your mind at all… though your acting could use some polishing.”

“Of course, I can’t fool you when I need to the most.” Zero closes his eyes to stop his soul from being bared any further.

“Zero—”

“—That’s right… I’m completely transparent to you, aren’t I? Just like my nickname. I’m sorry, Conan-kun. I said all those gross things unnecessarily…”

“Zero, enough!” Conan raises his voice. He knows he must sound like he’s almost on the edge of fuming. “Be quiet and listen to me already!”

Zero blinks down at Conan. He gestures a zipping motion over his lips and mimes handing the key over to Conan, dropping it over the arm with the wristwatch flashlight held near his neck, still lighting up the dark space.

“We don’t know when your agents will decide to look for you. I imagine they’ll prioritize the suspect even if you’re MIA since that’s the kind of work ethic you’d probably enforce. Similarly, we don’t know if he’ll return to this room or why he decided to leave in the first place when he still thinks he has something to retrieve from this wardrobe. The best-case scenario is that your people or Subaru-san catch the suspect and help us. The slightly worse scenario is the suspect returning to this room with an ax.”

“Only slightly worse?”

“The average person doesn’t know how to use an ax properly, and all the suspect wants to do is open this closet up, not destroy it,” Conan explains. “I think you already know that at an event like this, guest belongings are checked for safety reasons. Due to the size and age of this venue, it’s easy enough to guess there might even be fire axes kept in a few areas in cases of emergencies.”

“I don’t know if it’s lucky or unlucky that this wardrobe is so sturdy,” Zero admits. “I understand where you’re headed. We’re stuck here for a while, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Conan replies. “Unfortunately, all we can do is prepare for whatever comes next. I believe you can still overpower the suspect if he decides to come back with some other way to open this wardrobe up. We’ll have a brief window of time. If you at least manage to direct his attention to you, I can hit him with a sleeping dart.”

“It’s not that I’m not flattered by your faith in me…” Zero raises an eyebrow, “but what if he comes back with a chainsaw? Or something similar?”

“... Where is he going to get a chainsaw from?” Conan scowls. “Anyway, again, that would be too powerful. He’s already shown his hand—he doesn’t want to risk damaging whatever’s supposed to be in here. By the way, what is the suspect after, anyway?”

Zero brings a lone finger up to his mouth and cracks a furtive smile. “It’s a secret.”

Conan sighs loudly.

“I can continue to hold myself up if I need to, but as I said before, I don’t want to hurt you by accident.” Zero smiles wryly. “Switch places with me.”

“O-Of course.” Conan nods, another jolt of guilt turning his stomach. Zero’s essentially been holding a plank over Conan’s small body since the wardrobe fell over. He has no doubts about Zero's physical prowess, but just because someone can do something doesn’t mean they should when other more simple and obvious solutions are available, especially when it comes to wasting Zero’s energy. Conan should have noticed earlier. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” Zero waves it off, gesturing for Conan to roll over to one side as he mirrors the action. “I can plank for a few hours if I need to, though, I don’t know the specific duration.”

Conan can’t hide a noise in reaction. A few hours?! The average person can only hold a plank for two minutes, not two hours!

“Surprised?” Zero laughs softly. “I can do many things an ordinary person can’t… except for hiding an erection, I guess.”

The thing in question brushes against Conan’s side as they crawl around each other, eliciting a dismayed yelp from him. “You don’t have to say it like that!”

Every time Conan thinks about it, he feels oddly hot in a way he shouldn’t be able to in his current body, hot in the head and tight in the chest. It’s the most salacious type of compliment possible, and it makes his face feel as though it’s catching fire, all the way up to his ears. Worst of all, he doesn’t even hate it despite how inappropriate it should be.

He likes the way Zero looks at him.

Loves it, even.

Zero braces his arms on either side of the wardrobe in preparation to turn his entire body. “How should I have said it then?”

Conan bemoans, “You didn’t have to say it at all!”

Zero grunts as he finally manages to flip over, his back colliding lightly with the closet doors in the position Conan was in previously as he relaxes his body. “Sorry, Conan-kun. It’s a little bit too fun to tease you… but also, I don’t think it’s going to go away any time soon.”

Conan rests the side of his face on Zero’s chest and sighs again; it rhythmically rises and falls the way you might expect of someone who’s just been holding a plank for so long. A steady heartbeat greets him at a pounding pace high above the average resting pulse. He’s sure his own heart must be racing just as fast. “Is it bothering you a lot?”

“... Do you really want to know the answer to that, Conan-kun?” One of Zero’s hands sneaks its way to the small of Conan’s lower back, remaining motionless but heavy with intent.

“I like you,” Conan says slowly, “and you like me. I wouldn’t mind.”

“I’ll ask again: do you understand exactly what you’re saying?” Zero tips his head back with a short sigh. His idle hand on Conan’s backside begins to gently stroke with aimless but tender caresses. “I’m not sure how you even know about things like this at your age. You’re accepting this a little too easily.”

“It’s going to be you who needs to capture a terrorist and any possible accomplices, group up with his PSB agents later, and drive home all while having dried come in his pants after this,” Conan grumbles. “I’m just going to sit here and look pretty, okay? That’s all.”

“You always look pretty,” Zero compliments, “and I think you look even cuter without your glasses.”

“... Thanks, I guess.” Conan ducks his head to shield his eyes from Zero’s heated gaze, rapidly rising in temperature and intensity. “I don’t have any vision problems. It’s just another gadget.”

The hand on his back continues petting, increasing in pressure and dropping even lower in location, toward Conan’s ass. After two particularly hard pats, one after the other, Zero says, “Scoot up a bit, Conan-kun.”

Conan obediently complies, fingers temporarily digging into the shoulders of Zero’s gray suit jacket as he crawls forward until their eye levels match up and the majority of his body is above Zero’s lower abdomen.

“If we were in a bed, I would take off all your clothing piece by piece and then kiss you everywhere,” Zero smiles. Conan can envision it clearly; as Zero relinquishes all the clothing from Conan’s body, he’d pause to marvel over the hidden inventions that help make up for Conan's the lack of height and power. He’d probably bite and leave awful, bruised marks all over on Conan’s pale, unblemished skin, confidently careless in the moment, a reflection of his deeply buried ferocity. His free hand lightly cups one of Conan’s cheeks; just under half of his entire face nearly sits perfectly against Zero’s palm. “You’re so small… and seriously so adorable.”

Conan feels a pout emerge on his face.

“Don’t make that kind of face.” Zero continues to softly poke and prod at Conan’s cheekbones, jaw, and other tiny features. “It makes me want to kiss you even more. I won’t, though. Not here… Not like this.”

“How thoughtful of you, Zero-no-niichan—” Conan’s dry comment is cut off when he yelps at his ass being palmed roughly. “Hey!”

With mirth, Zero says, “Hmm, I don’t recall you saying no touching allowed?”

A furious blush has crawled its way up Conan’s chest too high on his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears, flushed just as warm as the rest of him. Everywhere that Zero has touched leaves a scalding trail of heat in its wake, and with how his fingers linger on Conan’s skin, Zero knows exactly what he’s doing. “J-Just get on with it! We don’t know when the terrorist is coming back.”

“Alright, alright. Whatever you say, Conan-kun! Do you want to stay like this?” What Zero’s really asking is if Conan wants to turn around and get eyefuls of excellent masturbatory material when Zero is going to jerk himself off a few minutes from now.

Conan’s head spins at the series of images that consequently flash through his mind like a rapid camera shutter going off. “I-I think I’m good.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“... Yes,” Conan mutters. “Just not now.”

Zero hums amicably, “Alright, Conan-kun.”

Then, in an instant, the look in Zero’s eyes shifts into something darker.

When the hefty weight of Zero’s sprawling palm disappears from Conan’s bottom after one final grope, dropping even lower to what he assumes is the man’s tented crotch, the air sparks with electricity the way standing outside during a thunderstorm makes the hair on the back of your neck rise and the nerves of your sympathetic nervous system fire wildly. Conan sees, not hears, the clinks of a belt buckle coming undone with only one hand. The other has moved on to docilely combing through Conan’s silky strands, occasionally switching back to stroke and pinch at his soft cheeks and ears, still flamed bright red.

Zero’s gaze is drooped and half-lidded, mouth slightly parted as his breathing begins to pick up even further. The rustle of fabric followed by the snap of an elastic band can only mean that he’s peeled his boxers down past his hips and untucked his erection.

Conan zones in on the way Zero bites down on his bottom lip to muffle a moan when he finally takes his dick into his hand with an experimental tug, the shadows of movement projected onto the thin walls of the wardrobe from the light of Conan’s wristwatch. It’s easy to imagine the first couple of slow, savored pulls from a man who knows what he likes, maybe swiping the tip of his leaking cockhead on the upward strokes, collecting leaking pre-come into his palm.

The air has begun to smell heady and musky, and there’s no mistaking what’s happening in this closet.

Conan wonders if Zero enjoys some friction or even a little bit of pain; no matter how much pre-come there is to start with, without some kind of lubricant or lotion, it can’t be all that comfortable.

“Your brow is knitted,” Zero notes, pausing his ministrations. His clean hand drifts higher to press his thumb between Conan’s eyebrows, emphasizing his attentive observation. “What are you thinking about at a time like this?”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Conan mumbles. “Doing it dry?”

“Considerate as always, Conan-kun,” Zero looks genuinely surprised, “but there’s not much for me to work with in here.”

Conan licks his lips nervously. As expected, Zero’s eyes, blown wide with arousal, follow the motion like a cat stalking after its unsuspecting prey. “At least use some spit, baro.”

“Hmm, does that mean you’re volunteering?” Zero’s tone is light and joking, but the fingers that were just wrapped around his dick have already begun to drift toward Conan’s mouth, gently prodding at the seam between his lips, on the verge between patiently asking for permission and impulsively pushing through by force. “Open up properly for me then...”

In the end, it’s Conan who parts them of his own volition, allowing Zero to slide two of his fingers into Conan’s mouth all at once, much too large for the much too small space. More fingers curl around the tufts of hair at the base of his neck to tilt his head down as the ones in his mouth begin to press firmly against the flat of Conan’s tiny tongue, rubbing back and forth as if to coax the spit from his salivary glands.

It’s loud, wet, and sloppy—moreover, the salty, musky, and slightly bitter flavor of pre-come from Zero’s fingers immediately assaults Conan’s senses. He wrinkles his nose up at the taste as if he’s just bitten into a particularly sour lemon, but it doesn’t stop him from picturing the image of Zero just moments ago, taking his cock into his hand and palming himself to the sight of Conan, hot and bothered and just inches away from his face, practically hovering somewhere right over his lap.

The thought alone makes Conan surprisingly dizzy, and it doesn't help that Zero's fingers reach so deep into the back of his throat that tears have begun to prickle at the corners of his eyes from his gag reflex kicking in.

“One more finger…?” Zero mutters. “Or maybe not…”

Conan makes a sound of protest, but it comes out as a muffled gurgle instead of anything comprehensible. The wet slurp Zero pulls from Conan’s mouth when he takes his fingers out is near obscene; even filthier is when the man tucks some of his own blond locks behind one ear before he sticks his pink tongue out, drool immediately dribbling down onto his already sopping palm, collecting his gathered spit into the mix before he rubs the fingers of that hand together to spread the collected saliva evenly.

It's equal parts incredibly vulgar and unbelievably sensual.

“Thank you, Conan-kun,” Zero says with a low chuckle, “for getting me nice and wet. This won’t take long—I promise. How could it when I have someone as cute as you by my side?”

Chest still heaving, Conan slumps over into the crook of Zero’s neck. Zero reacts instantaneously, curling his hand around the base of Conan’s neck and drawing him closer as if the space carved there has always been meant to be just for him.

Conan’s eyes snag on the shadow whose movements have sped up as well, mirroring Zero, who seems to have taken his dick back into his hand again, roughly pumping at a faster pace, unlike before. For a brief period of time, an arm slings possessively over Conan’s small waist, holding him tightly as the lewd schlick, schlick, schlick of Zero tugging at his wet cock in even, practiced strokes fills the empty air of the wardrobe, loud and slick sounds interspersed with breathy moans.

As if it can’t make up its mind, the arm shortly returns to the apex of Conan’s head to pet him in long, loving caresses, purposely teasing by scraping the blunt end of neat fingernails along the nape of his neck, lingering there until Conan’s body can’t help but shudder uncontrollably at the tingly sensastion over and over again, as if there’s actually a physical button there Zero keeps pressing.

“Oi!” Conan manages to whine in between the near-overwhelming, shivery stimulation.

Despite his apparent efforts to bite down a wide, feral grin, that very twisted image is plastered all over Zero’s expression when he apologizes half-heartedly, “Sorry… I just couldn’t help myself… since you don’t like it when people touch that spot. A-Ah—but it makes me wonder where else… might I get some pretty noises out of you?”

An apologetic thumb rubs back and forth on the pulse point on Conan’s neck, just below the soft, sloping angle of his jaw; Conan leans into it, a wordless acceptance of Zero’s modest offer of assuagement.

Zero’s breaths begin to come in pants, hitching as his hips stutter, movements that cause the wardrobe to screech and shift from its place on the floor. It’s a wonder they’ve been left alone for so long.

Conan had previously thought Zero would be stoic and composed at something like this; he's never felt happier to be so wrong. He drinks up every minute change in the man's breathtaking, shifting expressions, every small shudder or tremor that Conan feels against his body, every tantalizing catch of breath, winded inhale, choked swallow, everything. He even wants to bend down and lick at the wide expanse of Zero's enticing throat, a rare rush of initiative wildly siezing him.

Accompanied by open-mouthed and ragged exhalations, Zero's face grows slack with pleasure, gaze softening into that of unfocused slivers of lazurite blue eyes. “I think…” he begins to say but doesn’t get to finish when he interrupts himself with a raspy series of inarticulate gasps.

At some point, Zero’s eyes slide close. Conan, watching him with rapt attention, reaches for the man’s unmoving hand, still tenderly curled around the base of Conan’s neck. It takes both of his smaller hands to fully wrap around all of Zero’s fingers, shades darker next to Conan’s. The skin around the knuckles is slightly bruised and scraped up from Zero’s earlier attempt to scare Conan off, but he tugs the man’s hand close to his chest anyway and holds it there reverently.

Zero tenses, his eyes darting open immediately at the touch. “W-What is it? What’s the matter?”

And Conan wants to melt. Even this far in, Zero is still thinking of him first and foremost.

Sighing contentedly, Conan responds, “It’s nothing—Don’t worry. I just wanted to hold your hand.”

If possible, Zero’s face flushes an even deeper red, lips pressing into a severe, thin line, playful smile having dropped off a while ago. “I… see…”

Ah. Conan recognizes that look on his face. It’s one of heightened concentration, a rare sight that emerges with Furuya Rei’s single-minded and unrelenting pursuit of an enemy. Who knew it would come out at a time like this?

Amused, Conan leans forward and murmurs, “You’re close, right? Remember not to get any on me, Zero-no-niichan.”

Zero lets out a staggered chuckle at the playful warning, but his expression remains completely serious when he sluggishly replies, “Nnn, I wouldn’t dream of it… but next time, can I…? Can I… on your face, Conan-kun?”

“Mhm,” Conan affirms, staring at Zero in wonderment from between the gaps of the man’s long, slender fingers. “... You can come in my mouth, too.”

"H-Hold on, I—Don't say a-anymore or else I'll—"

"—You can have anything you want, Zero." Without breaking eye contact, Conan presses a chaste kiss against Zero's bloodied knuckles.

It seems to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. After one final long and deep groan—a gorgeous sound that coils at the nape of Conan’s spine and settles there—Zero comes with his eyes swiftly sliding over Conan like a physical touch, hoarsely moaning, loud and unabashed, “Nngh—Conan-kun…!”

Zero’s pale eyelashes flutter shut as his hips continue to spasm, rutting into his own tightly closed fist to ride the departing waves of the orgasm, spilling messily in his boxers.

His face is still contorted in pleasure when his eyes finally fall open again, dark pupils also still blown wide.

Conan is hot all over and panting just as heavily as Zero, head filled to the brim with soft, flammable cotton, and his cheeks are burning.

Beyond burning, actually. Whether he’s seven or seventeen, Conan is equipped with the same amount of experience—that is to say, none at all, a total lack thereof, zero.

He just said things and followed whatever he was feeling at the time. Quite foolishly he almost hopes and wishes for several beats that he didn’t come off as too amateurish and awkward to Zero until he remembers he isn’t supposed to know anything about this kind of stuff in the first place.

“What a mess,” Zero complains, grimacing. Conan imagines he wipes his hands off on the inside of his pants before tucking himself back into his slacks. It takes even less time for him to re-buckle his belt and sink down against the doors of the wardrobe, mostly spent from their indecent activity.

All in all, the aftermath sounds like an awful time. What if Zero doesn’t even get to go home tonight?

When Conan gestures to voice his concerns, the flashlight of his wristwatch shines directly into Zero’s eyes, causing him to squint, but more importantly, the sight of the man, sweaty and flushed all over, his hair messily tousled in a way to suggest he definitely either got into a fight or engaged in sexual activities, stops Conan right in his tracks.

“Do you have your car?” Conan blurts instead of voicing his original concerns.

“Eh?” Zero blinks in confusion. “I do, but weren’t you the one who said I should finish my job like this…?”

“I changed my mind!” Conan squeaks. “You can’t let anyone see you after that. When the suspect comes back, let’s immediately knock him out, tie him up, and leave.”

“I can’t possibly leave without properly making sure all the terrorists have been rounded up, can I?” Zero tilts his head to the side. “I can just ignore it; it’s not a noticeable problem.” Insane.

“That’s not the issue here…” Conan burns his face into his hands. “I wish I had a mirror.”

“A mirror? What for?”

“Y-Your hair and your face—You’re so…” Conan sighs, loaded with frustration, unable to grasp the correct words to finish his statement. “You can’t go out looking like that!”

Zero’s forehead creases in concern. “Is there something wrong with how I look?”

“Yes!” Conan nearly shouts at the top of his little lungs. “It’s too… It’s too sexy! It’s too erotic!”

“... Eh? Eh?!” Zero’s jaw drops. “Run that by me again?”

“I’m not repeating that!” Conan emphasizes. “Anyway! A-Akai-san—I mean, Subaru-san promised he would deal with it. The terrorists, I mean!” Bringing up Akai automatically invokes a fearsome glower on Zero’s face. It’s amazing how fast the man’s mood can switch at the mere mention of the FBI agent, doubling as effective bait for switching subjects unnoticeably.

“That dog of the FBI…” Zero’s scowl deepens even further, his entire body tensing under Conan’s. “You came here together with him?”

“Yeah,” Conan says, exasperated, “and I’m going to go home with him tonight, too. That is, unless you leave and take me with you. I’m not trying to make you choose between your job or me, Zero. This is just the circumstances of today.”

He’d think Zero would have a more difficult time making a decision, but the PSB agent answers with a mature and resounding, “I understand. I’ll contact Kazami for the cleanup and leave the rest to that... FBI.”

Nervous, hurried footsteps grow louder in the distance.

“Good timing.” The volume of Conan’s voice drops to a whisper as he switches off the light on his wristwatch. “Are you ready?”

The door of the bedroom swings open unceremoniously, creaking from its hinges.

“I was hoping to enjoy being stuck in here with you a little while longer,” there’s an amused grin in Zero’s voice, “but it can’t be helped. I’m ready when you are.”

After several clumsy swings of what must be an ax against the ceiling of the wardrobe, the fluorescent lights of the room finally flood into the space where two individuals have been lying in wait.

Needless to say, they make quick work of the unfortunate soul who made Japan his enemy.