So, I don't know where this came from, but I was in the mood to write some really, really horrible angst.

Don't worry, I'm working on in pursuit of victory, but it's taking a while...drabbles like this are always popping up at me instead. But never fear, fellow fandom members! I will deliver the next chapter as soon as I finish it.

Until then.

Bottles line the kitchen countertop before you. The sight of them makes a wry smile wring out of your mouth, a twisted version of the arrogant grin you used to own.

They're all here. You almost laugh at the irony-the last time you all met, it was under very different circumstances, and the last time you met-you lost. This time, you know you will win.

The door opens, and for a moment, you're convinced it's a ghost; that-another wry smile twitches at the corner of your mouth-somehow, she made it back to haunt you, to blame you. You are so thrilled with the anticipation of her ghost that you have looked for her everywhere-the library where she complained about you reading so much, the dining table where she complimented your mother's (Shin-chan~, Yuu-chan~, you hear; Yukiko, the other ghost smiles back) cooking and she wiped her mouth so softly you wanted to know what they felt like, pressed next to yours. She always believed in ghosts. She should be one and prove herself, now. It wouldn't scare you.

Nothing does.

"Kudo…?" a voice whispers, as if this sanctuary of sorts will shatter and that you will, along with the bottles.

It's Hattori, your subconscious registers, even though you don't want it to. Sometimes, you wish you didn't have your senses, you wish you hadn't followed them, or you wish they didn't exist at all. Then you wouldn't have been here in the first place. Then you would not be you.

"Oi, need to talk. I know it, you know it. So talk."

Words...they're just words, you think. In one ear, out the other.

Shinichi...there are lots of things I want to ask you.

You blink-you think you hear her, but you shake it out of your damn mind, because you're close to insane, when was the last time you ate a proper meal? Slept through the night without seeing-

So much blood and her eyes are open, but they don't see anything and-

You don't notice your hands start shaking until you hear Hattori's footsteps, and his hand grasping your shoulder.

Shinichi, please, you need to eat and sleep and I've tried, and I'm here for you, and I'm sorry I couldn't protect her. But you need to talk.

Words, words, words; you've heard them over and over again for the past year; and you've heard the others say that you're not well, and you want to scream at them, but you know it's true.

Another barstool screeches into view, and Hattori plops down onto a seat beside you.

"I'm staying here until you say something," he says, muttering under his breath about being gone for two days, and coming back to see you opening up your own bar in your house.

You almost laugh at that one-you've never wanted alcohol before, thinking you'd give it a sip at formal events, and be back to water. But now?

Alcohol has become an obsession, not to drink, but to observe; not to drink, but to imagine what your life would be without those damn alcohols. You've never hated anything so much before. (Except yourself.)

Without thinking, your hand reaches up to the first bottle. It's tall, skinny, red, and you cannot stop seeing the blood that seeped out of her black clothing when she was exposed.

"Kir," you say, testing out words on your lips. Your voice is hoarse from disuse, and you feel yourself laugh dryly. He knows it holds no humor, yet he humors you still.

"Would you like to get butt-drunk tonight, Kudo?"


The tip of your mouth twitches with the lies, lies, lies, because what else is new?

You're surprised when you put it down gently, lining the front with the labels in the straight line, and moving on to the next one. You don't need to see the colorful name of each alcohol-you've memorized their every scent, color, and taste (the taste of death).

When you say, "Rye," you gag, and nearly rush up the contents of your empty stomach into Hattori's lap. The man who you helped fake his death, the man who your parents welcomed (a bit more than they would you, you think) into their (your-no one's) home, the man who lost the love of his life to them-at least he's alive. Alive, but scarred, sentenced to a life hanging on a cane, wobbling around in incomprehensible sorrow, because you are the reasons all his friends are dead. You are the reason his lover is, too.

The next two burn at your touch, the memories of your failure to ensure your plan would go without sacrifice (none but your own, you planned; but plans never work out the way it should), because "Scotch," already sacrificed his life before, so it was out of your hands, but you can't stop feeling the blood on your hands thicken, because your plan just had to get his best friend, "and Bourbon," killed as well, so who will remember Scotch, now? Who will remember the feeling of dread and adrenaline when you see someone you know die for a cause you were more than willing to die for, but not willing to give their life for?

Your mind rambles and your hands clutch the bottles like a lifeline until your hands start to shake and Hattori has to pull them-no, pry them from your hands and look into your eyes, searching for someone who isn't there.

Kudo Shinichi died a long time ago. You aren't sure exactly when, and you cannot pinpoint the moment when lies burned into truth, because for once, for once, there is more than one damned truth.

But you go on, because you want to drown in failure and memories and alcohol, and you go on, and your voice raises from hoarse, mere words, merely alcohol names, to the shout of their names, and you remember the tall man who almost blew you away with a bomb ("Tequila,"),

and the old man with the handkerchief who almost shot you and Ai to death ("Pisco,"),

and snipers that nearly killed her father but you stopped them with a soccer ball to the window, and you remember the fear that pulsed through you that day when you thought you would have more blood on your wet, murderous, lying hands ("Chianti, Korn,"),

and the girl you almost killed with your bare hands at the mere thought of Agasa-hakase dead because of you ("Sherry," and you bite back a sob as you horribly, guiltily think, Why did she get to survive and she didn't),

and the man who tortured you for three days before the storming of the headquarters, the man who taunted you and threatened her and Hattori and your parents, and you don't know when your parents will wake up either, because they thought you were with them when the bomb in their Los Angeles apartment building reduced it to ashes ("Rum!"),

and you reach the next bottle, and you remember it all, the way she promised you with words, words, words, that they will never reach her and that she would keep her alive, because she was her Angel, but of course she failed, completely and utterly, and it all started with her, after all ("Vermouth!"),

and there is a stout, heavy bottle in your hands, and you can hear his urgent whispers of, "Aniki," and his laughter when he pulled the trigger, when the bullet entered your side and and his shoe dug into the wound, infecting it, and you can feel his knuckles on your face and you can smell the breath of cigarettes and (you laugh at the memory) vermouth in your face ("Vodka!"),


your hands are slick with sweat and you cannot bare to think about the last bottle, because thinking of him means thinking of her and the way she bled in your hands because he got to her and of you and of Edogawa Conan, because that is you, too, even though to everyone else, Conan-kun doesn't exist anymore, Conan-kun was just a mask for Kudo Shinichi, an alias. But you know better: he is very much you.


You fall to the floor.

You didn't even realize you were standing.

You look at your hands, unsurprised there is blood all over them. Looking up, you see the damage you've done.

Shattered bottles, glass cutting into your side, into your unsandaled feet, scarring your hands as alcohol, alcohol, alcohol mixes and drips on the floor.

You turn, and Hattori stands near the doorway, observing you. His eyes are filled with unshed tears, and his hands are clenched, knuckles white. He stayed-through all of that.

You open your mouth, to apologize, or something, damn it, he just stayed through your entire psychotic breakdown, you idiot-but out comes an unearthly, animal-like sound, and the next minute you know, you are screaming into his shoulder, and he kneels in the puddle of blood and alcohol and glass, and he crushes you into a hug that you do not deserve because you killed them, all of them in your stupidity.

You're screaming, screaming into his ears, his shoulder, his chest; what are you, you ask yourself, but you already knew the answer before: you are a monster.

What are you? You are not Kudo Shinichi, arrogant, celebrity detective at 17; you are not Edogawa Conan, genius, Holmes' Apprentice, Sleeping Kogoro's Assistant, leader of the Detective Boys, first-grader at 7. You are a monster, a hybrid; all that is left of you is an empty, used Silver Bullet, smashed into fragments when it entered its target. It did its job-slayed the monsters it was meant to.

But in doing so, it killed the others with its toxicity; a walking demon of death-don't get too close, or you'll end up dead, too, Hattori.

And now it is ruined beyond repair.

Angst kills me. Especially Shinichi angst. Poor BABY WHAT HAVE I DONE TO YOU