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His perfect record was marred one time, off the record, of course. Ranpo doesn’t admit to his shortcomings very easily. The slip-up wasn’t his fault either, and he refuses to take credit for it.
He blames horny old men!
↢Three years ago↣
Blood dripped down his arms, stray cuts stinging with the slightest movement, his clothes on their last limbs—he scowled at the fact. His mafia regalia isn’t cheap.
The few opposing strays clinging to life were finally taken care of, though it cost Ranpo most of his subordinates, and he couldn’t locate them. Things progressed too quickly for even Ranpo to catch and remedy.
Everything had been proceeding as planned. Diplomatic assignments aren’t usually handed to him, but this American leader took a liking to him—Ranpo’s spirited attitude apparently livened his loins, and Ranpo used that to his advantage. Promises of profits the man had never seen, out of sweetened lips he could only dream of, and he practically bowed at Ranpo’s feet, begging for the bullet.
The mafia boss had been an ally to the Port Mafia (a connection in the West), and per Mori’s reports, he crossed far too many lines. Ranpo’s assignment wasn’t diplomacy—it was merely the mirage he chose to take out his target. This wasn’t the first organization Ranpo was assigned to demolish; he was confident in his actions (he’d been confident in his first go-around anyhow).
Until the man decided he’d simply take the young executive himself, and Ranpo only took seduction so far. He may corrupt his soul in numerous ways, but submitting to moronic, power-hungry leaders was not one of them.
In a split second, swiping them from the holsters wrapped around his thighs, Ranpo lodged a knife in the man’s throat and a second in his dick—that may have been petty. The man’s gargled choking of complete, quiet agony filled every inch of the space. His subordinates were immediately on the move, and Ranpo’s own were right behind them.
A slip-up out of Ranpo’s realm of control. He didn’t know the man’s blood had rushed south so rapidly! Hopefully he arrived in the pits of Hell without a functioning penis—Ranpo would deny the chuckle the childish thought elicited.
Without the serpent’s head, the organization would soon crumble to dust, but Ranpo had to survive first. One deals the killing blow, they become a blaring target. Snatching up his two knives from the writhing body bleeding out in an excruciatingly slow fashion, Ranpo swiftly jumped into action, agilely taking out as many rogue flies that came his way as he could without running low on stamina.
Analyzing his situation as he fought his way through, ducking and narrowly escaping from close attacks, it became clear, at the rate he was going, he would die along with his underlings. In his mind, his death served no purpose. His men were vastly outnumbered, though they held their own long enough for Ranpo to slip away. Their own survival instincts would be their only saving grace, if they learned anything from him. The Port Mafia did more than kill, after all.
Stumbling into the crisp, cool night, ducking into an alleyway far enough away, Ranpo caught his breath. In the silence, adrenaline rushing out of his system, the injuries he sustained finally surfaced. No direct hits, but it seemed bullets scraped his skin. A few oafs got close enough to strike him, bruises littering his arms and torso. His entire body was one ache after another.
Slumping against a sullied wall, he slid his phone out of his inner coat pocket, only to find it utterly destroyed—must’ve been the brute that kicked his chest. He clicked his tongue, discarding it in the trash container beside him. He then took stock of his predicament.
The rancid smell from the piled up garbage worsened the pain from his injuries, nausea churning in his stomach. He was in a country he couldn’t navigate (to be fair, he couldn’t navigate his own city). The fact settled into his bones: his team had been wiped out—Ranpo had run out of luck. He was known for his impeccable mission record, for being able to get by on wits alone. There was no such chance this time.
Hanging his head, Ranpo sank to the ground, accepting his rotten situation. He’d catch his breath before making his next move, to scour the city for the supplies necessary to make it back home. His current location allowed him the necessary time to formulate a plan (he wasn’t quite as fast as Dazai on this skill, but he easily held his own). Anyone with functioning sensibilities would take one look at him and turn away, danger written in every line of his being—humans were self-preserving, he expected no less.
At least, he did. Until someone decided to take any shred of that presumption and dump it into the dumpster reeking up his nostrils beside him.
A gentle hand landed on his shoulder, Ranpo instantly aiming a knife to the intruder’s neck. The offender seized the weapon, expertly sheathing the blade before Ranpo could swipe—jade green eyes grew wide.
“Apologies, didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just… You’re bleeding everywhere,” a quiet, soothing voice spoke in English, Ranpo slowly turning in its direction.
They were dressed in a dark turtleneck sweater, a long grey jacket hanging on their shoulders, and loose-fitting pants that cinched at their waist, the sweater tucked into them. Long, dusky bangs obscured the person’s eyes from Ranpo’s sight. A small, wavering smile rested on their lips in a poor attempt to mollify him somehow.
Ranpo blinked up at the other. How could he not have heard them? Not once did he pick up the sound, and his hearing was heightened for these sorts of things. This person was no regular civilian, Ranpo could see as much.
Just as he was searching further, the person spoke up, “Um, would you like some help? I live near here,” they tilted their head, hair swaying with the movement—not enough to reveal their eyes, much to Ranpo’s chagrin. Eyes gave away more to him than people could know, or would like. The realities they lay to unfold before him were incomparable, the secrets he possessed endless.
Holding his breath, he could only stare up at his new spectator. Confusion painted every inch of his face, every corner of his mind—he wasn’t a fan of the color. “Are you dumb?”
The person faltered, “I beg your pardon?”
“Didn’t you hear me? Why the hell would you take in a stranger that just put a knife to your neck? You have to be on another level of stupid for that.”
The wind brushed past them, cooling the prickling silence. Then, the person laughed—they laughed—and the breeze itself ceased to be. Hushed chuckles cluttered the small alley, Ranpo’s eye twitching as it continued. He didn’t get this guy at all.
They covered their mouth, their laughter quickly dying down, “Sorry, sorry. I just wasn’t expecting that.” Seems they both didn’t understand the situation (seems neither was used to that).
“Well?” Ranpo probed. They couldn’t still be offering up their home to a shady stranger, could they? Insulting a person’s intelligence usually led to a fist aimed at Ranpo’s face, though he never let them get that far—they should’ve had enough foresight to prevent the situation before they lost their hands to one of his knives. Nevertheless, it got them to leave him be, either painlessly or painfully on their end (Ranpo didn’t mind whichever option they chose).
“Right, your question,” they began with a mirthful smile—it irked Ranpo that he didn’t hate it. “It’s simple, really. It’s not as if you could somehow kill me in your current state,” they gestured to Ranpo’s wounded form.
Looking down at himself, Ranpo could understand why they would believe as much. The adrenaline rush left him drained. He wasn’t at his best, however, he was trained for any situation. Even so, eyeing this person once again, Ranpo could tell he might not be able to take them—he swallowed back the excitement at the prospect.
At first glance, Ranpo could discover any person’s entire history—down to the deepest secrets they held close to their darkened hearts. It was a skill feared, yet respected, by his enemies. Torture may be Dazai’s specialty, but Ranpo is called down there every once in a while for quick information-pulling sessions when the Demon’s out.
None of that seemed to apply to the stranger before him. Ranpo had no doubts he could find every facet of their character with time, and it was that very fact that piqued his interest—he couldn’t just use his ability on this pretty American, he would have to spend time with them to find out just who they are.
Seeing as he had no other options—none quite so appealing—he chose to have some fun in his lousy circumstance.
Huffing, Ranpo pouted, “Fine, you might be right. You clearly won’t kill me either. Not that you could.” He couldn’t see their face, but he sensed their amusement at the comment—he let it slide due to them not having a clue as to whom they were dealing with. “So, I’ll let you help me,” Ranpo gave a self-assured grin.
They recoiled, “You’ll…let me help you? I offered it in the first place.”
Groaning, Ranpo raised an arm, “Ugh, look at me! Let me have this!”
Chewing on their bottom lip, they huffed a laugh. And still, for whatever deranged reason, they kneeled down and threw Ranpo’s arm over their shoulder, lifting him to his feet. Walking out of the alleyway, they idly added, “My name is Poe, by the way.”
Woefully shaking his head, Ranpo heaved a heavy exhale, whispering under his breath, “Seriously stupid…” From beside him, a confused sound left Poe’s throat. “Just call me Ranpo,” he sighed.
He believed this person to lack a fundamental sense of self-preservation, yet he continued to go along with them.
It seemed Ranpo’s luck hadn’t quite run out.
⚔︎
The apartment complex wasn’t anything worth giving a second thought. It wasn’t upscale, modern and lined with wealth, but it wasn’t falling apart either. Ranpo was just about to bemoan the fact they’d most likely have to climb three stories to reach the person’s home when they turned towards an elevator—his luck really was alive and well.
Poe released him as they stepped inside, Ranpo leaning against the wall, his chest heaving (he must have been more injured than he previously thought). Without seeing their eyes, Ranpo felt Poe’s gaze rove his body, studying each cut and bruise.
Questions lied on the tip of Poe’s tongue, aching to be let out, but he refrained. It was difficult keeping his composure. So much about this man piqued Poe’s interest.
From the dark grey cap with a red brim, equally as grey coat lined in more red, the black gloves concealing his hands, to the knife holsters strapped to his thighs—it was far from regular attire. Not to mention the blood caked on his gloves, the nicks across his face, the purples blooming along his left cheekbone. Just where was Ranpo to get this way?
Poe would like to say he was studying the man simply because of all these factors, but he couldn’t. Because beneath the grime, Poe found a beauty he’d never encountered before. People didn’t capture his attention often, yet this man did. His hair was the color of the black ink Poe dipped his quills into, his complexion fair.
They were closed now, but Ranpo had revealed his eyes at Poe’s sudden presence in the alleyway. The memory of vibrant greens, as lush as summer grass, burned into Poe’s mind. He couldn’t forget them even if he tried, the intelligence gleaming within, how they fought to see into Poe’s inner workings—he would have succeeded, if Poe hadn’t been experienced in hiding himself away.
Everything about Ranpo enraptured Poe until nothing but his presence cluttered his mind.
“I can’t see your eyes,” Ranpo interrupted his thoughts, “but I can feel them. See something you like?” Poe’s breath hitched, his eyes glancing down at the other. Ranpo grinned up at him, his verdant eyes narrowed in a daring manner.
Poe felt his mouth water, his stomach growing strangely warm, his cheeks becoming flushed. What is happening to me? he asked himself. The answer was too far to reach just yet…
Clearing his throat, choosing to ignore whatever’s disrupting his system, Poe replied, “I’m not sure you know the state you’re in, Ranpo.”
Ranpo took note of the other’s reactions, drinking and savoring them—he found them delightful. If he were being honest with himself, he’d admit he hadn’t meant to say what tumbled out of his mouth. To be so flirtatious with someone he’s just met? For no gain, no other outcome than pure human desire? People are, more often than not, not worth his time, but Poe had taken so many of his preconceived notions and lit a fire underneath them, forcing them to dance among the flames to see which would survive.
And Ranpo was allowing it to happen.
So he chose to pretend it’d been his intention, to rile this person up. Ranpo reasoned with himself that the results could only be pleasant (and were they ever).
Not acknowledging the blush along their cheeks, he shrugged and said, “Hm, you’re right. I can’t remember the city’s name either.”
Choking, Poe shook his head, “No, I meant-”
Ranpo snorted, “I’m just kidding. Of course I know what you meant!”
Hesitantly nodding to himself, Poe calmly exhaled, only to pause. “For the sake of curiosity, do you actually know which city you’re in?”
Head tilted up to the ceiling, Ranpo curiously tapped his chin, “I think somewhere near Manhattan or something like that. I’m not good with American cities.” He could name every city in Japan, but he couldn’t tell you how to find your way to any of them. Research may have been beneficial before coming to America, but Ranpo couldn’t be bothered.
Poe blinked, eyes practically bugging out of his head (if anyone were to see them). That was all the way in New York—they were in Baltimore, Maryland…
His only response ended up being, “Okay…”
Smiling with anticipation, Ranpo faced him, “Was I right?”
“No…” Poe winced, crushing the other’s brief triumphant elation.
Huffing, Ranpo crossed his arms, muttering in Japanese, “Dammit…”
Hearing the language spill off Ranpo’s tongue, Poe filed certain assumptions away for later examination.
The elevator rang, the doors opening to the fifth floor. Ranpo turned his head up at him, eyes closed, a silent request spoken along the lines of his features—for whatever reason, Poe found himself somewhat out of breath.
He offered his arm, Ranpo shamelessly latching on as Poe led them to his front door. Ranpo never second-guessed himself, taking strides forward without hesitation. Something about Poe caused Ranpo to trust him, and Poe desperately wished to find the reason why.
Poe was accustomed to studying others, finding what makes them tick, more out of a survival instinct than pure inquisitiveness. Ranpo held a similar habit—Poe wondered why.
He wondered and wondered, countless “whys” stifling his throat…
⚔︎
“Sit where you’d like. I’ll grab my first-aid kit,” Poe ushered Ranpo inside, shutting the door behind him and locking it. He left Ranpo at the entrance, wandering into a hallway.
Ranpo stood there for a moment, absorbing every knick-knack and dust bunny sprinkled throughout the place. Quills and inkwells; black and white paintings; dusky curtains; pages filled with scribbles; shelves stocked with books upon books; wax seals on envelopes; and a classic typewriter all met his sharp gaze—Ranpo found himself someone who fancied the dark and gothic.
He listened for Poe’s footsteps, measuring the distance. Deeming it safe for a few seconds more, he ventured into the living room, scavenging for every bit of information he could find, though he’s already learned quite a bit. A long jacket hung on a chair, a scarce amount of personal photos, and very few modern devices…
His seconds passed, and Ranpo took refuge on the ornate couch closest to him—it was comfier than it appeared.
“Here we are,” Poe announced, settling down beside him, kit in his lap, his coat off and tossed elsewhere. Ranpo began shrugging off his own coat, moving to unbutton his vest. “Wait,” Poe started, “I was just about to ask if you’d like to clean your wounds yourself or-”
Ranpo faced up at him. “Or,” he shrugged, continuing with his task—Poe was quickly learning he should simply accept whatever course Ranpo decided to take. Pulling off the vest, untying the gray bow from around his neck, he unbuttoned his torn shirt. “Dammit… My clothes are a mess. I liked this shirt too!” He complained.
Poe was too fixated on the deft movements of his gloved hands to pay attention, how swiftly they did away with the layers upon layers of clothing. Clearing his throat, he opened the kit, setting aside the necessary materials. A rag and water bottle, bandages, and antibiotic ointment. The cuts didn’t appear too deep; Poe decided it wouldn’t take long to clean and treat them.
Finally, Ranpo was bare from the waist up. He smiled, facing Poe, “Alrighty, do your thing, tall man.”
The rag and bottle of water in hand, Poe soaked the rag just enough to be able to clean the shallow wounds. He gently took Ranpo’s arm, tenderly wiping the scrapes. “Tall man…” he quietly repeated. “Should I call you ‘short man’?”
“Maybe I should call you a novelist instead. A mystery novelist. That’d be more fitting, huh?” Ranpo innocently remarked—innocent in a way a cat carrying a dead rat to its owner could be.
Poe faltered, “How did you know? I haven’t said anything that could’ve given me away, have I?” He glanced around the room. His manuscripts were lying about the place, but Ranpo couldn’t have had nearly enough time to study them and find what they’re about.
How strange…
Poe took stock of his own emotions—not even an inkling of fear fled through his nervous system, yet he felt anyone else in his position would’ve been unsettled at having their unspoken traits read out for them by someone they’ve just encountered.
Then again, anyone else would’ve left Ranpo in that alleyway.
His hands began to move again. “Such keen eyes. Could it be you’re a detective, Ranpo?” Poe playfully questioned.
Ranpo’s smile dimmed, a pang twinging in his chest at the other’s comment. Shaking his head, his momentary despondency done away with, he chirped, “Nope! Try again.”
Humming, Poe gestured for the other arm, Ranpo moving his position for easier access. “Do you…have an ability?”
“Ding, ding, ding! You get five points!” Ranpo exclaimed, chuckling to himself.
“Are we playing a game?” Poe mused, an unconscious smile weightlessly lifting his lips.
“Yes. Come on! Catch up, Poe,” Ranpo pouted. “You like a good mystery, yeah? We’re complete strangers. Let’s make a game out of getting to know one another.” After all, he may never find anyone else who could rival him as well as he knows Poe could, even if Poe himself was still unaware of that fact.
Huffing a laugh, Poe nodded, “Alright… I can tell you see more than you let on.” Uncapping the tube of antibiotic ointment, he offhandedly whispered, “Apologies, this might sting.”
Ranpo waved his worries away, “Eh, this is nothing. Anyway, I know you have an ability too,” he said without question, without a hint of hesitance. “So that’s five points for me!”
Sharply inhaling, Poe uttered, “I…do,” squeezing out enough ointment onto each of the cuts. He’d become so used to hiding that part of himself away, denying its existence to anyone who looked in too deep. Ability-users are incredibly uncommon, so much so they’re considered myths by many.
He’d never met another ability-user; he found he didn’t mind being open about it with someone like himself.
“Like you said, I have one too. Wanna guess what it is?” Ranpo daringly simpered, his jade greens glimmering with the challenge he had handed over.
Bandages in hand, Poe moved his eyes up from his work to meet Ranpo’s, a smile slowly seizing Ranpo’s breath from his lungs. A shift in the air caused the shorter to swallow, his hands clenching in anticipation. “You are like a detective, aren’t you?”
“Maybe…” Ranpo muttered, feeling as though the room’s air had been vacuumed into a black hole of his own making—a star that’s collapsed before him. “What gave you the impression?”
“Mm, a detective never reveals his secrets,” Poe lowly replied, his hands deftly applying the necessary bandages. “That’s five for me.”
(Ranpo’s mind chose right then to remember that a collapsed star is the anomalous result of a brilliant supernova—a beautifully catastrophic event).
Slumping in relief, shutting his eyes, Ranpo deeply inhaled as Poe’s attention switched back to his arms—he silently cursed his human emotions and his incapability to withhold them. “I know English isn’t my first language, but isn’t that line about magicians?”
“I assume most people would find your ability wondrous, I think it’s befitting.”
“You saying you think my ability is wondrous, Poe?” Ranpo smirked, grabbing the ball and taking control again.
“Do you just want me to compliment you, Ranpo?” And Ranpo hopelessly witnessed as the ball slipped from his grasp and into Poe’s awaiting hands.
Eyes snapping open, Ranpo’s lips parted, breathless all over again. Poe merely gave a teasing smile, mischief tinting his body language a tantalizing rouge. Whining, Ranpo reached across the other, grabbing the used rag, “Who knew you’d be mean about it?”
“I invited you into my home and dressed your wounds. Does that count as mean?”
“You know what you’re doing, you tease!” Ranpo briskly wiped the cuts along his torso. The other handed him the ointment, Ranpo snatching it up and hastily applying it where necessary.
Just as Ranpo reached for the bandages, Poe moved it out of his way. “Just a second. You’re being too careless with your wounds. Let me properly bandage them.”
Ranpo glared, grumbling, “Only…if you stop teasing me.” It’s been an hour. Ranpo had the distinct feeling time had no meaning in whatever was transpiring between them. He didn’t know what he would do or say if it continued—Poe was much too attractive, and they were simply not there yet.
You’ll probably never see him again anyway, his mind absently murmured. Ranpo chose to ignore the warning…even if he knew it’d end with him adding another ache to his library of eternal scars.
Nodding, smiling complicitly, Poe conceded, “Alright, I promise to stop. Now, if you would face me.” Criss-crossing his legs, Ranpo turned his body completely towards the other, a pout upon his soft lips.
His eyes fluttered open, carefully watching as Poe encircled his torso, pulling the bandages onto the injured areas. Poe kept his sights low, their proximity much too close for his erratic heart to handle—he was certain Ranpo could hear its incessant drumming beat against his chest. Honestly, it wasn’t much better—his options were Ranpo’s searing gaze or his toned, marred abdomen.
Faded scars ran in odd spots around his body, slashes near his stomach, a long one across his chest, and Poe was certain his back fared no better. More and more pieces formed a picture, one grotesque and melancholic. The edges remained unfinished and blurred, and Poe was determined if nothing else.
Hiding away the newest addition to Ranpo’s field of pains in white strips, he sat back, ripping off the end of the bandages and tucking it into place. “There, you’re good to go.”
Head snapping up, Ranpo murmured, “Go?” A sense of dread sunk low in his chest, roiling in his stomach. The thought of his time with Poe ending so soon was more than unpleasant, and he couldn’t, for his goddamn life, figure out why. Excuses and reasons to stay flitted through his mind at rapid speed, Ranpo believing at least one of them could convince Poe.
Wide eyed, Poe slowly nodded, Ranpo’s thoughts dissolving with his next words, “Yes? There’s more to be done, isn’t there? You’re all dirty, and you have no clothes, Ranpo.”
“Oh!” Ranpo breathed, masking his relief with his usual attitude. “Harsh, first of all,” Ranpo grouched, childishly crossing his arms across his chest. “But I guess you’re right.”
Humming in agreement, Poe rose from his place on the couch, “I’ll grab you a towel and some clothes to change into. The bathroom is down this way.”
Inhaling and shutting his eyes, easing the tension out of his muscles, albeit fruitlessly, Ranpo jumped to his feet, following Poe’s pace.
⚔︎
“You have good water pressure.” Messily drying his hair with a towel, Ranpo stepped towards the kitchen, where Poe stood preparing tea for them.
The other chuckled, “I didn’t know you would care about something like that.” Poe looked over at him, and his hands simply stopped moving. Drowning in Poe’s long t-shirt, shorts that reached below his knees, skin dewy and cheeks flushed from the hot shower, Ranpo appeared absolutely ethereal standing in Poe’s home. Poe couldn’t help but stare, tracing the other’s body.
Only a poetic mind could form such a being; one made of fantasies unforetold; one you could only dream of finding in a mystic forest among woodland nymphs, and their divinity couldn’t hope to compare.
Oh dear… Poe thought, instantly turning his attention back to his task.
Ranpo shrugged, discarding the towel on a dining chair. “What’cha making? Tea? You have cookies to go with that?”
“Oh…” Poe halted his movements once more, glancing at Ranpo. “You’re hungry. Of course you are…”
“Starving, actually!” Moving towards the fridge, pulling it open, Ranpo scanned the items and foods. Milks, creamers, jars with jams and condiments, a drawer full of vegetables, jugs of juice, egg cartons…and nothing to snack on. Shutting it, he headed for a closet, and bingo! He found his pot of scrumptious gold. “Oh, oreos,” he hungrily licked his lips, swiping up the wrapped plastic tray, taking it with him to the dining table.
The man easily made himself at home in Poe’s abode, rummaging for food as if he’d bought it, lounging on the furniture as if he’d always been there—the warmth it peculiarly bathed Poe in, the smiles it elicited. He found himself wanting Ranpo to stay, this man he had just come upon by pure chance. One who grins suggestively and speaks deviously, one who readily challenges Poe, one whose bewitching eyes were shrouded with mysteries uncovered—one who was eating Poe’s entire stash of oreo cookies.
Their time was limited, Poe knew, but he couldn’t help but desire something more. What that was, he wasn’t sure of yet.
With a sigh, he returned to pouring the tea into the awaiting cups, dismissing his sentiments for the moment.
Ranpo was fascinated by Poe’s way of being. His hands had been delicate along his upper body, motions smooth and swift, and Ranpo definitely didn’t mind his touch burning across his skin. Even as Poe prepared tea, he moved nimbly on his feet, hands graceful as they perfectly poured the drink (Kouyou would be impressed). His demeanor held a quietude so alluring, Ranpo couldn’t get enough of how it balanced his own—the quiescence balmed his mind’s scalding rapidness like aloe to a blistering kiss from the sun.
Yet he sensed a darkness much like his own in Poe, the capability for blood and violence. He just…couldn’t figure out where it stemmed from.
It frustrated him as much as it intrigued him.
A scuttle on the floor tore through his thoughts, tiny footsteps padding along the surface. Eyes wide, thinking it could be a rat and vehemently hoping otherwise, Ranpo set down the unfinished cookie in his mouth, slowly ducking to search underneath the table. Pointy ears, gray fur, a striped tail, and a twitching nose sniffing the air—there was a raccoon underneath Poe’s table.
“What the fuck?!” Ranpo sprang from his chair, sprinting towards the kitchen, clutching onto Poe’s arm.
“Ranpo-” Poe startled.
“There’s an animal in your house! A goddamn raccoon! How does that manage to get in?!” Ranpo exclaimed, shaking the other’s arm.
“Oh, no! That’s just Karl,” Poe smiled, soothingly patting the hand on his arm.
Face scrunching, brow furrowing, Ranpo disparagingly muttered, “… Karl?” This man…couldn’t have been serious… Could he?
Poe nodded, “My companion, Karl. Come Karl,” he called for the creature, making a clicking sound with his tongue.
“Don’t call for him!” Ranpo released the other’s appendage, hopping onto the counter, hugging his knees to himself. He might be a fearful, respected Port Mafia executive…but it’s a freaking raccoon! A wild animal! After his run-ins with stray hounds, he’s learned to steer clear. For whatever reason, most dogs don’t like Ranpo’s presence.
Fine by him! He doesn't much like them either!
“Karl” scurried over to them, climbing up Poe’s leg to his shoulder. Poe affectionately pet the creature, the raccoon nestling into him. “Ranpo, he’s friendly. He’s my pet, and I promise you he isn’t a wild animal,” he spoke, having plucked Ranpo’s very thoughts from his mind.
Leaned away from the two, Ranpo only stared, studying the pair and their interaction. Poe was quite fond of Karl, and Ranpo could tell Poe only had so many people in his life. Karl was special to him, and if that was the case…
Something within him compelled him—shoved him, more like—to swallow down his apprehension and buck up. If he could get through his lessons with the boss, he can handle getting this raccoon to like him.
Chewing on his inner bottom lip, Ranpo tentatively reached out. “Let me see him.”
Taking a step back, Poe took Karl into his arms. “Are you sure? You don’t-”
“Yes, it’s fine! Set him on my lap,” the other unfurled his legs, patting his thighs. Karl wouldn’t bite him, so long as Ranpo focused on getting along with the animal—they’re good tellers of character, after all.
… Or did that only apply to dogs?
Regardless, Poe carefully placed Karl in Ranpo’s care, Ranpo’s hands awkwardly hovering over the animal’s body. Karl sniffed his clothes (Poe’s clothes), his paws suddenly moving onto Ranpo’s chest until he was almost face to face with the mafioso. “Woah, there,” he smiled, ignoring if it faltered.
Poe stood near them, ready to interfere if necessary. He was worried for both his pet and his guest—if their personalities clashed, the results could be disastrous. Avoiding Ranpo pulling out one of his knives and taking care of the problem would be most preferred. Luckily, they were stashed away for the moment, though the kitchen knives were much too near.
Avoiding Karl snapping and suddenly turning on Ranpo…second to that.
⚔︎
“Has he checked in?”
“No, lad. As I said but a second ago, he has yet to call in-”
“Has his location been tracked?”
A sigh, “His phone has been deactivated, or destroyed. You know how it goes on these assignments-”
“Are we sending-”
Ceramic clashing together struck past their words, Dazai instantly snapping their mouth shut. The sudden, jarring snap forced him to sit up, back straight, legs crossed, hands forcibly settled on his lap. His gaze remained lowered, out of respect for the woman before him—otherwise, he’d have had a riot with anyone attempting to carve any sort of fear into his chest.
No, this woman had already etched an intricate design of fright and compliance onto his form, the webs indistinguishable from one another.
“I know you’re concerned for…Ranpo’s well-being,” she shut her eyes, sharply exhaling. His name was spat from her lips, the repulsive taste evidently too much for her—it always was. “But interrupting me time and time again won’t get you any further in this conversation with me, understood?”
“Yes, Ane-san.”
“Good,” she gently spoke. A carefully manicured hand lightly wove through their dark strands, Dazai closing their eyes, soaking up the comfort. “Somehow, he will find you, he always does,” she soothingly murmured, sending an inexplicable passivity through Dazai’s veins, warming him from the inside.
They would kill whomever to protect her, and they don’t quite understand why. Because among the tremors that await their dues in punishment when they happen to step out of line lays a devotion expelling a warmth that melted the glacial ice surrounding their heart ages ago, enough to keep it beating. Or maybe it was simply difficult for them to imagine a world without her in it—the same would be said for Ranpo.
“Regrettably, not just anyone could take that loon down,” Kouyou finished.
Dazai huffed, a small smile gracing them with its presence, “Will you two ever change?”
Kouyou scoffed, continuing in her mission to smoothen out Dazai’s tangles and stray strands, “Do you believe he ever will?”
“Of course not.”
“There’s your answer.” Chuckles filled their belly, almost succeeding in subsiding their anxieties. He could count on one hand the number of people who could possibly cause him this strife—in their line of work, just one would be enough to leave him bleeding out. How pitiful Dazai becomes when it concerns a person who’s given him any morsel of love.
“Dazai, he will call,” Kouyou interjected. “Allow those thoughts to leave your mind. You have other work to do before then. Where is Chuuya?”
He huffed, griping, “Do I have to work with that hatrack today? I was hoping I didn’t have to see his hideous slug mug for one day.” Apparently, it was too much to ask for.
Hiding a knowing smile behind her sleeve, she patted Dazai atop his head, “Go find him. Maybe seeing your face will pester him just as much.” Someone possessing a brain like Dazai’s wouldn’t succumb to manipulations so blatant, but that all ceases to matter in the face of Double Black’s partnership—their mind could never gain victory over the breathless lightness Chuuya gives them.
Dazai sprang up, “You’re right, Ane-san. Your advice is as impeccable as always!” Getting to their feet, they elegantly bow before her before sprinting from the room.
Her affectionate smile’s brilliance was marred just a tad as they left. She glanced at her phone, waiting for the call that may never come—and it wouldn't have, had it been anyone else. Dazai would never accept such a fate for Ranpo, and Kouyou knew where they learned such stubbornness from. Nothing on this Earth could separate the two—they’d take it upon themselves before allowing any other to do so.
Against all logic, Kouyou felt it—the thread pulled through a needle, waiting to bind the fates. She hadn’t yet gotten rid of the thorn in her side.
⚔︎
His fear was completely unwarranted, evidently. Bellies satiated with tea and cookies, Ranpo sat with Poe on the sofa, cooing at Karl, the raccoon eagerly nuzzling into the tender brushes against his fur.
“What a good boy! Yes, you are! Yes, you are!” Ranpo crooned, smiling sweetly at the pet, Karl chirping happily.
Poe found the sight endlessly endearing, how quickly the two warmed up to each other. He could already see Karl missing Ranpo when he inevitably left. Poe roughly swallowed the lump lodged in his throat at the thought.
It isn’t like him to allow these emotions to sicken him so terribly, though none he’s ever experienced before have been so intense. Attempts to ignore them had failed miserably so far, and his hands ached from repeatedly cracking his knuckles, his bottom lip bleeding from continuously chewing on it—and even then, his stomach continued to unsettle him.
Scratching Karl gently underneath his chin, laying the raccoon comfortably across his lap, Ranpo turned to Poe—and what a thrill it sent down Poe’s spine for those glistening irises to look upon him again. “Poe, you’ve got a burner phone, yeah?”
Crossing his legs, nonchalant in appearance, Poe shrugged, “Not many people own burner phones. It isn’t a regular must-have for a home, is it?”
A chuckle softly rumbled Ranpo’s chest, “Sure, but I can tell you own about six, and each is hidden in a different location. Now, I could go and grab them, but I’m deciding to be polite,” Ranpo grinned, and perhaps his body unconsciously leaned closer to Poe’s lithe presence, but who’s to say?
Glancing away, Poe tapped a contemplative finger on his chin, “Ranpo, do tell, why exactly do you have use for a burner phone? Is it necessary in your line of work?”
Hands brushed through warm, smooth fur, the texture soothing to Ranpo. “Hey, our game is still ongoing. That’s for you to figure out.”
“Alright, alright,” Poe huffed, his smile unwaning as he stood to grab Ranpo a device. Once he retrieved it and handed it off to Ranpo, taking the cuddly creature from his lap, Ranpo headed towards the balcony for privacy. He slid the door open, the night breeze bristling through the apartment.
Arms propped on the balcony railing, Ranpo dialed a number known by few. In the back of his mind, a certain thought had been incessantly prickling his bones, whining and complaining for him to give it attention—a stray puppy he picked up on the street, pulling at his sleeves, clinging to his side, and Ranpo could never help the fond smile that little demon brought to his face.
Three rings, and they picked up—it was always three rings.
“Ranpo-san?” The other on the line called, and Ranpo could imagine their widened, guiltless honey browns—perhaps an image of the past, but it’s what his mind conjured up regardless.
“Of course it’s me! Y’know I always check up on you after a mission.”
Dazai harrumphed, “Oh please, no one here needs to be checked in on. What am I? A child? And besides…” he breathed, his chest heaving with the heavy exhale. “You sure took your sweet ol’ time, Ranpo. You were meant to check in hours ago! I’m getting you back for this.”
“Aha! Your pranks never reach me! You still have a ways to go, Osamu.” They huffed, exasperated with Ranpo, but he was accustomed to it.
Deciding to switch gears, because it’s his job, and he’s never one to pass up on it, Ranpo quipped, “Ne, is Chuuya-kun with you?”
“Eh?” Dazai uttered. “Oi! You do not get to ask me questions! Where are you, huh? Who are you with? Whose burner is this?!” He screeched, and a certain someone happened to be snickering in the background. Something about brothers and their “shitty” habits, Ranpo couldn’t make it out.
“Where am I? You’re better than that, Dazai. You’re supposed to be close enough to my level, and you think I’d just tell you?” Ranpo snorted. “I called you for more than one reason, so figure it out. I’ve gotta go.”
“Fine…” Dazai rolled their eyes, plans and plans for those plans formulating in their head—how bothersome Ranpo could be… “One night.”
A nod. “One night.”
“One night, and yet I have the strangest suspicion you wouldn’t mind if it took longer. Why would that be, Edo?” And that ever irksome smile found its way to the forefront of Ranpo’s mind—he couldn’t give them any noogies until they swatted at his hands to make it go away either.
“Oh, you won’t even see my prank coming, kid,” Ranpo chuckled, and Dazai didn’t get his chance to whine in return before he hung up.
Trees swayed to the tune of moonlit winds, carrying with them an intoxicating and addictive melody. Ranpo’s mind returned to the man waiting for him, those eyes he had yet to see watching him from afar. Turning the phone in his grasp, listlessly tilting his head, he took the SIM card out of its socket, crushing it underfoot. He patted his thighs, before remembering his knives were stored away.
A single blade—not any of his—appeared in his periphery, glinting with washed bloodshed Ranpo could only imagine. “Did you need this?” Questioned his astute, agile host.
Humming, a smile he tried biting off his lips giving him away, Ranpo gingerly grabbed the weapon, his fingers warmly brushing against Poe’s—every millimeter of the night’s air seemed to leave him stranded. “I did,” is all he could croak in reply, promptly sending the blade straight through metal and wires, the phone effectively turned null. Poe collected the trash from his hands, heading back inside.
Following behind him, sliding the door shut, Ranpo flopped back onto the couch, his fingers twitching in his lap. He searched for the little raccoon, to no avail. He settled for fiddling with his shorts, the fabric just enough to give his energy to.
“So you’re Japanese, correct?” Poe asked, returning to his side.
“You don’t get any points for that,” Ranpo dully accused, Poe huffing a laugh. “You heard me speak the language!”
“Fine,” he acquiesced.
“As for you!” The other poked his arm. “You speak more than one language, don’t you? What’s that called again?” Ranpo snapped his fingers repeatedly, the word escaping him. “I only know it in Japanese.”
“A polyglot?”
“Yeah! That! You’re a polyglot,” Ranpo assuredly beamed.
Poe hummed, smiling, “Five points to Ranpo. Do I get points for saying the same about you?”
Rolling his eyes, Ranpo pursed his lips, “Yeah, yeah, you get five too. Or maybe half of five because I said it first.”
Poe’s face scrunched up into disbelief, and Ranpo found himself studying every droplet of emotion glimmering within Poe—for every expression, every sound, every word he said, Ranpo drank it in like a man abandoned in a desolate desert, Poe his precious oasis. He never wanted to leave.
“I don’t recall that being in the rules,” Poe complained. “I get my five points.”
Ranpo pretended to be put off, groaning exaggeratedly, “Ugh, what a sore loser!”
“Loser?! I have yet to lose, thank you,” the taller declared.
They continued bickering over rules and points. Through round after round, one guessing tidbits about the other and vice versa, Ranpo discovered Poe could actually become quite competitive. For every correct guess Ranpo gave, Poe matched him instantly—if it were anyone else scavenging through his life, Ranpo would’ve made them bite the curb, shooting them three times as is the custom, watching as their life seeped out from their wounds.
Instead, Ranpo leaned against Poe, the other’s arm bracing the back of the sofa, Poe laying his head upon it, and Ranpo felt the invisible embrace coat him in a sweetness so tantalizing, he clawed for more. He was certain he would never find a treat so divine again.
Almost everything was given to the air between them, from small things like Ranpo’s love of mysteries, to Poe’s inclination to the macabre. Then from Poe’s surprisingly abundant knowledge of weaponry, to Ranpo’s talents in martial arts. Copious amounts of shared ground, and Ranpo was beside himself. This American relating to a Japanese mafioso…how stupid was that?
How beautifully idiotic that was…
⚔︎
“You goddamn fishy bastard, what shit have you gotten me into?”
“Whatever do you mean, Slug?”
“What- You’re seeing what I’m seeing! If he catches us-”
Dazai scoffed, whisking away those concerns with a wave of their hand—Chuuya could only glare at his idiotic partner. An idiotic partner that had tricked him into going to the states. Hours on a plane, stuck with an octopus who refused to give him an inch of space, all to find a fellow executive in…
Well, to describe this situation in a word would have been impossible. Chuuya could only say he was beyond uncomfortable and on the brink of throwing his partner off the roof of the building they were hiding on, if only it wasn’t something they’d be pleased with.
“Chuuya, just do it, would you? My plans have never failed us before, why would your silly little dog brain question me now?” Dazai sang, hooking his arms over the other’s shoulders, hanging off Chuuya’s body.
Chuuya shoved him back, loudly groaning, “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me. Look at who we’re dealing with. Look at them!” He profusely signaled towards the scene before them, disbelief painting his gaze. “This is disgusting…”
“Chuuya!” Dazai gasped. “Don’t tell me you’re homophobic! Just when I was making up excuses for why you’ve never had a girlfriend. How could I be so wrong?” He cried, a hand placed over his nonexistent heart—at least Chuuya was sure his chest was empty. Chuuya could knock on him, and he’d ring like a hollow log.
“I’m not homophobic,” Chuuya clenched his fists. “I came out as gay to you just a few months ago, the fuck are you talking about?!”
“Internalized homophobia is a thing, silly Chuuya,” they giggled, and Chuuya both wanted to rip their face off and encase the ridiculously beautiful sound in a jar just for him to listen to.
“Oh, fuck you and your ‘internalized’ bullshit. You know what I mean. I can see it in your face, you don’t like it either!” His scowl morphed into a cutting grin. “It’s the reason for this damn plan of yours.”
Dusky amber blinked once, twice, three times before Dazai crossed his arms, a pout clear on his lips. “Chuuya shouldn’t question his superiors.”
Snorting, Chuuya claimed his victory with a winning smile, and gods, did Dazai want to die. Everything about Chuuya made them want to crumple up into nothing and be dispersed into the wild winds, finally be rid of these horrid feelings circling their being. From his dumb, silk-soft hair; his dumb, malicious smiles; his dumb, lucent eyes; to his dumb, brilliant notion towards life—Dazai was so thoroughly grossed out by Chuuya, even his stomach felt all fluttery whenever they looked at him.
“Uh-huh,” Chuuya snickered. “So now what, Mackerel?”
Dazai forced their eye back to the scene of the crime—it wasn’t any easier to digest the second time around.
Within a small apartment, two men resided in a kitchen near a window. One was pouring coffee into two mugs, the other sitting on the counter beside him—both shared smiles bathed in warmth and fragile sweetness. A hesitation was engraved into their mannerisms, as if they couldn’t allow themselves to break through this wall they’ve built and freely take hold of one another, cherishing what preciously lay before them.
And all the infamous Double Black duo could think was: ew.
Because sitting on that counter, openly flirting with the man handing him a fresh cup of coffee, was their fellow executive, Edogawa Ranpo. Never has the man smiled in such a way. A smile that shone so brightly, his eyes crinkled with the mirth. They were used to narrowed, cutting gazes and promises of violence he definitely followed through on.
Were these threats ever directed towards them? Perhaps one or two, after certain pranks that went horribly wrong, but bygones are bygones. Besides, he’d never lay a hand on Dazai, and, by extension, Chuuya—pranks didn’t count in Ranpo’s book, evidently. Those were fair game.
What ran through Dazai’s mind at the sight was how Ranpo’s own mind functioned. Trust, loyalty, calculation—how they twist and turn in that brain that never seems to fill. Why would Ranpo allow this stranger to attend to him? What was it about this tall American that had Ranpo gazing at him without pause? Something must have been different in this man, and Dazai intended to find out.
“Chuuya,” he uttered.
“What?” Chuuya grunted.
“Take the shot.”
Quirking a brow, Chuuya side-eyed his companion. “You sure?”
Tilting his head towards him, Dazai graced Chuuya with a cloying yet acrid as amber whiskey smile. “Trust me, won’t you?”
Chuuya could read between their lines, lay his eyes on the ugly words and dazzling lies, all conjured up to mask their intentions and truths—it was a test Dazai wanted to execute. And well, when it was entertaining for Chuuya, as it usually ended up being when he wasn’t the damn bastard’s target, he didn’t ask further questions.
Digging the stray bullets out of his pockets, Chuuya tossed them in his hand, weighing them, getting a feel for them. Playing with the weight, velocity, and distance in his mind, Chuuya turned to his target. “Alright, white boy. It’s your lucky day,” he grinned.
Dazai swallowed back the laugh the words elicited—Chuuya could be so incredibly dramatic.
Aiming his finger towards the window, a single bullet in his field of gravity, making a little gun gesture, Chuuya fired his soundless shot. The bullet pierced through the air, heading straight towards their target. Time seemed to slow, the projectile streaking across the way, when Chuuya felt the man’s gaze leisurely meet his eyes—glinting blues widened.
The bullet shattered the window; the target minutely tilted his head to the right—Chuuya missed his shot. Ranpo lazily turned his head back, a dreadful, smug smile on his lips as he looked at the pair.
Dazai huffed beside him, “Ranpo would give us a losing game to play.”
“Fuck that! I never miss!” Chuuya growled. “What’s he made of?!”
“It figures Ranpo found himself someone unique,” Dazai reluctantly admitted, derision bleeding through his tone. Losing to Ranpo gives the man rights to brag and boast, and a boastful Ranpo is an uncontained tyrant commanding whoever he wants to do his deeds—well, some would argue this is his normal, but Dazai will be the first to go against his word.
Nevertheless, Dazai had had a niggling, bothersome feeling that Ranpo would win this round since they got on the jet…but damn, if they’d lay down and let it happen without a fight.
Seizing Chuuya’s wrist, Dazai pulled him over to the roof’s access door, “I did not come to the West to lose!”
“Now that you’ve dragged me into this, we might as well fucking win!” Chuuya agreed, ignoring the pleasingly cool touch from his partner’s hand. Then, he paused. “How exactly do we win against him? We almost never beat him! He knows us too fucking well!”
Halting in their steps, Chuuya bumping into them with a quiet ‘shit’, Dazai pursed their lips in thought for a few moments. They then continued to yank Chuuya forward, shouting, “Enough with the questions, Slug! So inquisitive today…”
Chuuya rolled his eyes, so far back his head twinged in slight pain, exhaling through his nose—with those two, he’s come to accept he’ll be shoved into situations he never wanted to be in to begin with. As if Albatross’ impromptu trips weren’t enough!
⚔︎
The situation wasn’t planned, but Ranpo wouldn’t deny he enjoyed it. At some point during their conversation late into the night, the two had fallen asleep. Ranpo was the first to awaken that morning, at around eight, finding himself leaning against a moving surface.
He could’ve slapped himself right there. How is it he let his guard fall so far down?
Slowly, so slowly it became agonizing, Ranpo turned towards the writer he’d been sleeping upon. Ranpo caught himself staring at Poe’s snow-kissed face throughout their night together, how his tresses contrasted beautifully against it, creating a memory of someone he hoped to never forget. All that was left to see were those certainly clever eyes, and lucky for Ranpo, the moment the man would wake up, with his hair parted away in his sleep, he’d get his wish.
There was no surprise there, he usually received what he wanted.
Eyelids blinking into consciousness just moments later, stirring at the other’s presence, Poe quietly yawned into his palm, eyes glancing around the room, and Ranpo could practically hear him questioning his current location. His head then moved down towards Ranpo, who simply smiled.
“Morning, Poe-kun,” he murmured in Japanese, his brain hazy from what his gaze couldn’t move away from. Widened gems of pure amethyst stared back at him, the sunlight creating a glistening pool of lilac petals. Something within Ranpo bursted with a need to touch, to feel, to assure himself this was real. A hand, calloused yet the touch tender, ended up against Poe’s pink flushed cheek. Words stuck themselves in Ranpo’s throat, piling up until he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t either way, Poe’s attention on him and him alone causing him a sweet breathlessness.
“Good morning, Ranpo-kun,” Poe whispered, the foreign language on his tongue marked with years of practice—Ranpo roughly swallowed.
God, who knew his voice was so sultry in the morning?
Biting his lips together, Ranpo forcibly removed himself, standing to stretch out his body—he can’t say he enjoyed sleeping sitting up the whole night. Clearing his throat, Ranpo faced his companion again, who was brushing his fingers through his fluffed up hair. Forcing the words from his throat, Ranpo said, “I’m gonna wash up and all.”
Plum-picked irises glanced back up at him, Poe’s lips parting as he returned his attention to the other. “Oh, yes, of course. I shall do the same. The guest bathroom is yours,” he gave a small smile.
Nodding, Ranpo stepped towards the bathroom, quickly shutting the door and turning on the tap. He splashed cool water across his face, lightly smacking his cheeks. “God, you’re dumb!” He whisper-yelled at his reflection in his native language. “You’ve known him for not even a second, you fool!”
He groaned, his head hanging in despair—what a mess he’s allowed himself to make. It was far too late to get the other man out of his head now. Poe’s memory was to forever be kept locked away in his mind. Ranpo knew once he left that at every turn, he’d come back to this one beautiful night they shared. He’d lay in bed as the memories of Poe’s smiles and laughter caused his heart to constrict. Never again would he feel the silent acceptance the man exuded, because by then, Ranpo was certain Poe knew of his occupation.
Deeply inhaling, Ranpo pushed himself to brush his teeth with one of the spare brushes kept under the sink and wash the sins off his face—his thoughts happened to veer a couple of times throughout the night, causing him to lose his footing, which would simply not do.
Feeling refreshed enough, Ranpo left the lonely comforts of the bathroom, walking over to Poe and Karl in the kitchen. Snatching up the raccoon from the floor near Poe’s legs, Ranpo cooed at the creature, “Karl, you adorable little thief! You sleep well? I bet you did!”
Poe softly chuckled, his gaze on the cups of coffee he was preparing. Ranpo jumped onto the counter beside him, Karl happily in his lap, far enough away from the beverages—he had sticky little paws. “You like your coffee with lots of sweet creamer, I assume?” Poe asked.
“Yep!” Ranpo beamed. His smile then slowly dimmed just so, his attention on petting Karl’s pelt, or anywhere away from Poe. “Ah, you know me so well already…”
“I give credit to our little game,” Poe remarked.
“Speaking of,” Ranpo raised a challenging brow. “Did you get your answer?”
“To what?” Poe absently asked—almost absently.
“Don’t act coy, Poe. Y’know what I mean,” Ranpo huffed.
Laughing under his breath, Poe handed him his cup of coffee, lifting his own to his lips. “I believe I did, Ranpo,” he quietly spoke, the air smothered with their entwined secrets they dared to speak aloud to one another—it should feel stuck to their skin like grime, yet it smelled of fresh dewdrops on a Spring’s morning, promises of new horizons on her tongue.
Then, Poe’s attention shifted. Though he remained looking at Ranpo, Ranpo could tell Poe’s mind had transitioned into something constricting and disciplined—an old muscle being flexed; a survivalist’s trained eyes driven into action.
Split seconds passed in succession, when the window behind Ranpo was destroyed, Poe minisculely moving his head before the bullet could strike him dead—and had he been anyone else, Chuuya would’ve gotten his next kill.
Poe’s eyes met his once again, a clear accusation lying inside, and Ranpo couldn’t help the provocative grin pulling at his lips. He turned to face their new witnesses, finding two teenagers with varying degrees of emotions flashing through their faces—irritation; disbelief; curiosity; and both seemed to end at something akin to competitive rage.
Dazai pulled Chuuya away, and Ranpo could no longer hold in his erupting laughter. Poe finally took his first sip of his beverage, raising a brow at his companion, a smile of his own etched into his features. “They’re your delinquents, I assume?”
Choking on his obnoxious hilarity, Ranpo nodded, slapping his knee repeatedly—he couldn’t stop himself. “Yep, sure are!”
“And based on the looks on their faces, they’re coming here? For you?” Poe raised his mug toward the shorter.
Heaving, willing himself back into a normal stasis, Ranpo shrugged, leaning back to sip at his own coffee. “Me, or you, same difference.”
“Same difference-” Poe’s right eye twitched, his lips settling into a not-quite frown. “Ranpo, that short red-haired boy just attempted to kill me. I’m not certain I’m up for hosting them,” he slightly shook his head.
“Ah, don’t worry your pretty-little head over it, Poe,” Ranpo gestured a nonchalant hand. “You passed their test. They’re just peeved over it. Regular teenage stuff.”
“Oh yes,” Poe deadpanned. “Regular teenagers go around shooting people with their special abilities. I definitely get where you’re coming from.”
Ranpo opened his mouth, only to glance over at the door. He gently patted Poe’s cheek, “Hold that thought,” he smiled. Placing his mug beside him, collecting Karl into his arms, Ranpo headed for the door, pulling it open. Chuuya stood mid-kick, blinking up at Ranpo. Slowly, he lowered his leg.
“Can’t expect you two to know anything about tact, can I?” Ranpo rolled his eyes, striding back over to the kitchen, returning to his place on the kitchen counter.
Yanking Chuuya inside, Dazai bounded toward Ranpo, his dramatics on full-blast for the time being. “My, my, Ranpo-san. So kind of you to let us into this stranger’s home!” Chuuya joined their side, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Double Black put on their deadliest faces, the very eyes their enemies witness before their downfalls given to the two other adults in the room.
Yet not a soul took the bait.
Poe continued to drink and relish his much needed caffeine, Ranpo contently humming as he enjoyed his own. “Poe, your coffee has to be my favorite blend so far.”
“Oh, I’m pleased you like it,” Poe softly spoke, smiling at the other. “It’s a new brand I’ve been trying out. It’s-”
Chuuya loudly coughed into his fist, “Are we gonna talk about the raccoon?”
Dazai quirked a brow at his partner. “Really, Chuuya? That’s your concern?”
Whirling on the other, Chuuya threw up his hands, “Well, what the fuck else do you want me to say?! Want me to focus on Ranpo being ridiculously gay for this man he just met?”
“Oi!” Ranpo complained.
“Or how domestic this shit is?! Come on, Mackerel, spit out your damn thoughts,” Chuuya pushed, his face inches apart from his partner’s—Dazai couldn’t keep the smile from blooming across their features, though they knew Chuuya would misread it as their usual mischief. They hoped as much.
“Perhaps we’ll focus on Ranpo’s disinclination to leave,” Dazai shrugged. Simultaneously, the pair turned towards the other, their smiles mirroring one another's like gleaming reflective pools—Ranpo itched to throw a pebble across the surface, disturbing their suddenly still waters. Almost unheard of for Double Black, until it comes to the two planning out ways to ruin another’s day—or life, depending on how each felt that day.
Quid pro quo; Ranpo pestered them to no end, so they happened to return the favor. It wasn’t fair in Ranpo’s eyes either way, he was the adult here! He reserved the right to mess with them.
Smile whisked away, eyes split open, coruscating virescent knives, Ranpo held Karl out for Poe to take, hopping off the counter as the other did so. Hidden beneath the shorts that were much too long for him, Ranpo seized one of his knives. Leisurely stepping closer to the younger pair, Ranpo cracked a festering grin.
“Do you two,” he muttered in Japanese, his octave reaching pits of Tartarus that have gone unexplored, “wish to tell me how to live?” He flicked his knife in the air, the blade slicing through the atmosphere, again and again. This tactic is one he’s used periodically, to set a seedling of fear to grow within those who believe him to be much weaker than what is true. He grew tired of people underestimating him, though it works to his favor.
With these two, it was merely a scolding from their superior.
Raising his head, though Ranpo was yet taller than him, Dazai smoothed his face into complete, unreadable blankness. “Do you want to make this mistake, Ran?”
“Mistake?” Ranpo barked a laugh. “Am I known for making mistakes?” After a minute, the other shook his head, unwillingness oozing from his every movement. “That’s right. I don’t make mistakes. And how does the saying about me in the organization go again?”
A sneer digging into his skin, Chuuya drawled, “Your word is law.”
“Remind me why that is?” Ranpo’s sharp, bloodsucking smile cracked at the edges with malice.
“You see…everything,” Dazai shut his eye, his right hand imperceptibly twitching where it almost met Chuuya’s. It wasn’t often Ranpo donned this mask—it had never been one Dazai liked. It bled with a clearly set meaning—he’d stepped over the line.
“So what I’m hearing is I couldn’t possibly make a mistake, isn’t that right?” He caught his knife for the last time, letting his hand fall to the side, the weapon loosely in his grasp.
Quietly sucking in a breath, Dazai turned and strolled to the couches. “Fine, Ran. Do what you want.” There was no use in fighting; Ranpo won from the very start.
Chuuya eyed the American; how he drank his coffee, savoring each sip; how still he stood; how silent his aura remained; how his gaze could hardly leave Ranpo. Clicking his tongue, Chuuya went over to his ruminating partner, smacking the top of his head, pulling them from their mind’s hold—he didn’t need them lost in their head right then.
Uncharacteristically, the two bickered soundlessly, leaving themselves stranded and soundly secluded. Their hands made gestures every once in a while, their eyes watching for changes in the other’s expressions—communication unheard of, incomprehensible to outsiders.
Ranpo felt himself relax at the sight, his knife put away. Lifting his mug, Ranpo chugged the rest of his coffee down, leaning back against the counter. Poe let his raccoon roam free, closing the distance between him and his companion. Gently bumping Ranpo’s shoulder, gesturing towards the teenagers with a nod of his head, Poe asked, “Do you always treat these kids you care for like that?”
Glancing away, Ranpo lifted his shoulders, faintly shaking his head. “Care for? Who says I-”
“I’m not one of your fellow mafiosi, Ranpo. I won’t view them as your weakness or liability if you tell me the truth.”
Shakily inhaling, Ranpo lolled his head against Poe’s shoulder, finding such impossible comfort in his presence. “I guess I care a bit about these two disasters. Not that I’d ever tell them.”
Poe shook as a small laugh escaped him. “You’re all incredibly blind, it seems.”
“Yeah, yeah, look who’s talking.”
Peering down, Poe tilted his head. “What does that mean?”
Chuckling, Ranpo stepped away, turning to face the other, a doleful smile dimpling his cheeks. “Maybe we’ll never know.”
Poe’s lips parted, his eyes wide and blinking beneath his bangs. Watching as Ranpo walked away, he found he almost couldn’t breathe past the sudden deepset pang sinking in his chest. Why did it feel as though a piece of him had just been ripped away when Ranpo hadn’t even left yet?
Already, he felt the creeping silence and emptiness settling back into his home without Ranpo’s grandiose presence roaming the hallways.
⚔︎
“Mind if I steal your clothes, Poe?” Ranpo asked, closing the door behind him as he entered Poe’s bedroom. Having been reading as Ranpo gathered his things—simply for not being able to watch as the man prepared to leave—Poe blinked as the other began raiding his walk-in closet.
“No, I suppose not.” Poe closed the book, setting it down.
Quick on his feet, Ranpo left the closet a new man, dressed in one of Poe’s black turtlenecks and loose pants, cinched at both the waist and ankles. Of course, Ranpo was forced to roll up both his sleeves and pants, but Poe quite liked the view before him.
Inspecting himself, spreading out his arms, Ranpo smiled at the older. “Suits me, huh?” Unable to speak, his tongue heavy, Poe merely nodded.
Biting his lips together—Poe watching as he withheld a feathery laugh—Ranpo closed the distance between them, placing a yet ungloved hand on his chest. “I just wanna say…thanks for giving me a place to stay, regardless of how insane you are for doing as much,” Ranpo chuckled.
Cupping Ranpo’s hand in his, Poe smiled, “Worse, I’d do it all over again.”
“You’re crazy,” the other laughed.
“Which reminds me,” Poe recalled. “Did you manage to deduct my ‘secretive’ past?”
“Oh please, of course I did,” Ranpo snorted.
“And?”
Slipping his hand out of Poe’s grasp, Ranpo walked backwards towards the door, giving a knowing, audacious grin. In seconds, he pulled the door open, whisking himself away.
Bewilderment striking his face, Poe lifted himself from his bed, joining the other wanderers in his entryway. “Ran-”
“Did you come to say goodbye?” Ranpo gazed back at him over his shoulder, the doorway letting air breeze into the room. The younger two took one look at the scene, glanced at one another, words passing through the lines of their gazes, and briskly left the apartment—as if they couldn’t escape fast enough.
The quiet air had grown colder than a blistering tundra, the warmth that had drawn breath there just moments before dispersed from existence. Ranpo couldn’t stand it, how it tainted what beauty he’d found in this little place, in this person. He had to leave, lest it get worse, lest the chill seeped into his bones and remained there. He’d never be warm again.
Exhaling, Poe approached, stopping to stand right before the mafioso. Ranpo merely stared, capturing every bit of Poe’s essence for these last few precious moments. “Ranpo…” He whispered, something deep and profound withering his cadence, clogging his throat.
He couldn’t do it.
The more he kept Poe standing there, waiting for some type of response or anything, the more Ranpo couldn’t find it in himself to be selfless. For once, he tried to free someone from himself, regardless of how painstaking it was. The distance already formed between them seared against his skin, marking him for eternity. With every step he took away from Poe, the more his flesh seemed to tear from his body, pieces of himself being left in this very apartment—left with this not-stranger.
Yet he couldn’t do it.
Digging into his borrowed pants pocket, Ranpo procured a phone from inside. To say this was dangerous was an enormous understatement. Giving a civilian—perhaps not a normal civilian, but a civilian nonetheless—his phone number broke law after law in the mafia. He didn’t care.
Taking Poe’s hand, Ranpo placed the device within his palm, laying his other hand overtop. “My number’s inside.”
Wavering, Poe minutely shook his head. “Ranpo, this is-”
A side-smile rose on his lips, Ranpo knowing this was the single stupidest mistake he would ever make, but gods did he not regret a single thing. “I know, I know. But I really don’t care,” he shrugged, Poe huffing a small laugh at his attitude. “Just use it, alright? You have one of your random thoughts at night, use it.”
Lips parting, Poe couldn’t emit a sound.
“You get an idea for a new novel, use it. You go out and find some new antique piece you like, use it. Karl just happens to look cute one day, you better use it,” Ranpo faintly choked. He wouldn’t be there for any of those happenings, wouldn’t be able to see Poe’s array of emotions and reactions or hear his comments. This was as close as he would get. A stray text here, maybe even a phone-call there if he’s lucky.
“You would want me to tell you about such mundane things…while you’re busy being an executive in a crime syndicate?” Poe murmured.
Nodding, continuously, Ranpo pushed past his arms, crashing into his chest, arms wounding tightly around his frame. “Yes, okay? Just do it.”
Please, do it.
Lifting his arms, Poe encircled Ranpo’s shoulders, the scent of his lavender shampoo in the other’s hair filling his lungs. “Alright, I will.” No one else had ever cared enough to even listen to Poe for so long, yet here stood this criminal, embracing him in such softness, ready to give his ear to Poe’s prattling.
He’d never find someone so strange and eccentric again, he was sure.
Pulling away, slowly, Ranpo nodded once more, uttering, “Good.” He sucked in a breath, facing up at Poe. His hands moved up to Poe’s cheeks, gingerly parting away dark and wispy strands from his eyes. Cupping his cheeks, Ranpo gave a small laugh. “I see why you hide your eyes. They’d make any man weak in the knees, huh?”
Poe’s eyes widened—perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Ranpo’s obsidian pupils seemed to swallow his striking emerald irises.
“Goodbye, Poe-kun,” Ranpo spoke in his native tongue.
“Goodbye, Ranpo-kun,” Poe returned in the very same language.
Returning his hands to himself, Ranpo stepped out of the doorway. Without looking, he held out his right hand. Gloves were placed into his palm, Ranpo instantly hiding away his vulnerability again. Dusting himself off, weapons at the ready along his body, mask of assurement concealing him, Ranpo took off down the hall, his two followers following right behind.
Already, Poe could hear Ranpo barking words at them in Japanese, one of them whining while the other argued back angrily.
Arms heavy, Poe pushed the door to a close, his body rapidly weighing him down. The floor collected his remains, Poe curling into himself. Karl slowly appeared from a corner, his paws carrying him toward his owner. Poe took him into his arms, running his hands down his companion’s fur.
“We’ll be alright, won’t we?” He brokenly muttered. “We’ll be alright…”
⚔︎
Endless chatter spread throughout the dining area, champagne flutes glinting against the light of the chandeliers, jewelry embellishing the necks and ears and wrists of every wealthy simpleton filling the place. Concealing wealth has never been and will never be their strong suits, the allure to flaunt it so much more appealing—cash falls from their pockets as they step over their feeble competitors.
But whatever it takes to win, right?
Paying underlings to kill and sin for them wasn’t an oddity but a ritual they continuously partook in. They’re made to believe the Port Mafia was there for their purposes—Ranpo could at least hand it to Mori for that perfectly crafted distortion of reality.
They didn’t need to know they were the ants beneath the Mafia’s soles.
Swirling the drink in his hand, the sweet fruity fragrance to his tastes, Ranpo idly watched the rich have and eat their cake. It was a celebratory dinner for the Port Mafia’s business front, having closed a billion-dollar deal. New benefactors and clientele to keep watch over, Ranpo was thrilled.
In reality, he couldn’t care less. The men gorged themselves on pleasures unknown to the common people, the women taking any measures necessary to keep their place, and everyone was dispensable. He wasn’t for all the masks and faces they played, too fake to even be plastic and too easy for him to see through.
Retrieving his phone from his pocket, he turned on the screen to check for any notifications he may have missed.
Nothing.
His three-piece suit had begun rubbing against his skin the wrong way since hour one, the fabricated laughter grating on his ears, the stench of greed scurrying up the walls, the lights practically blinding, his drink turning to dry ash in his mouth—everything was too much, every one of his senses taken to the brink. He’d been trained for this, to keep face. The backlash to failing on withholding his emotions was always far worse, his mentor had made certain of that. Yet he wasn’t around, and Ranpo’s fellow executives were busy with diplomatic matters. He subtly headed for the door.
Chest heaving, Ranpo almost fell to his knees at the rush of a nightly breeze. Leaning against the nearest wall, eyes closed, senses heightened, Ranpo attempted to regain his functions. If he could, he’d curl up on the floor, hiding from the outside world as best he could because it had grown to be too much.
It was too much, it was too much.
But he couldn’t. He didn’t have that freedom, that privilege—it was taken from him so long ago, he had long forgotten what it was like.
Over the past year, he’d been drowning himself in assignments, traveling across the nations to handle frayed ends the mafia needed taken care of. Missing shipments, finding the culprits, having them dealt with—his ledger was practically black with spilled blood. Cutting necessary ties was also his forte (he got to have a little more fun with those).
Filling his time with work hadn’t done him much good. It didn’t retract from his thoughts and memories—the memories were perhaps the most confusing and most beautiful and most painful aspect. It couldn’t be helped, Ranpo had found. Downing bottle after bottle, trying different poisons disguised for instant pleasures, and nothing to show for it but painful hangovers and migraines. Regardless, he always returned to that alleyway, to that apartment, to that person.
Pathetic, really.
He’d give himself a few more minutes before returning. Loathing masks didn’t mean he didn’t adorn one each and every day, no matter how draining it could be.
“Did you leave the festivities early, Ranpo? Was the food just terrible?”
Ranpo’s eyes snapped open. Something seemed to dissolve in his chest, his shaky hands slowing to trembling every now and again, suppressed urges rising to his fingertips. It couldn’t be real, he’s surely lost his head somehow. The great executive finally devolves into madness as the memory of one man alone breaks pieces of him everyday.
But he felt a presence beside him, that impossible serenity that Poe held about him expanding through the air around Ranpo. Could his own mind be so cruel?
“Poe?” He dared to whisper, cracks finding their way into the name spoken. Or perhaps he hadn’t said anything at all, his throat too blocked up, his mind too muffled.
“Ranpo, won’t you face me?” The voice belonging to one man alone questioned.
Ranpo was…afraid, somehow. Perhaps that was the feeling causing a pit in his stomach. If he turned and found no one there, he couldn’t be held accountable for what he’d do—to himself, to his city.
He glanced over, scrutinizing the air beside him. At the pale light reflecting against dark rings, Ranpo sharply inhaled, fully turning his head, eyes utterly wide. He could say it was a mirage, or some bastard with an ability tricking him over an old grudge.
But no, the view before him seemed crystal clear.
Clad in his usual black turtleneck sweater and long coat stood the man made of the wishful stars from Ranpo’s memories turned reality. He shined like moondust from far off dreams, yet here he stood.
Staggering closer, Ranpo reached a gloved hand out. “You’re…” he mumbled, his voice teetering off. His lungs couldn’t yet breathe properly.
Fingers gingerly intertwined with his, pulling him closer, until all of his senses were just “Poe, Poe, and Poe.” The scent of coffee and quills and lavender, the feel of his calloused hands—from writing, though that wasn’t the case in his past—the sound of his beautiful voice, and the sight of his shimmering eyes.
One last human sense was left.
“I’ve…missed you, Ranpo,” Poe quietly confessed, Ranpo deeply swallowing, allowing him to continue.
Please keep talking. Please be real.
“It’s been so long, and yet you’ve never left my head. You seem persistent on staying there,” he chuckled, Ranpo almost cracking a smile at the sound. “I just couldn’t bear it any longer. Just texting you only made me miss you more.”
“You…missed me, huh?” Ranpo croaked, attempting to lighten the heavy air.
Poe huffed, rolling his eyes, “Oh, of course you focused-”
Arms wrapping around his neck, Ranpo pulled Poe down and into him, unable to bear the separation. “Fuck, just texting you sucked. I couldn’t see you, I couldn’t listen to your voice, I couldn’t be with you,” he rasped, the words spilling from the cavern he’s withheld them in for all this time, the walls crumbling to dust at Poe’s presence. They hid Ranpo’s sentiments away, only to let them corrode him from inside, and what good did that do him?
He could have melted into Poe as he fully embraced him. “You’re always too busy to call, Ranpo-”
“Who cares? You’re more important.” Ranpo squeezed him closer. “Over the past year, you’ve become stupidly important.”
Poe smiled. “You’re important to me too, Edo.”
Ranpo pulled back, eyes dangerously narrowed. “I better be. You don’t say those romantic lines to anyone else, do you?”
Eyes wide open, Poe muttered, “What? I… What are you talking about?”
“Edgar, let’s remember who you’re talking to,” Ranpo cheekily remarked, hands moving to encase Poe’s cheeks.
Unconsciously tightening his hold on Ranpo’s waist, Poe sighed. “There is no hiding from you, darling.” Ranpo couldn’t contain the rising heat from his cheeks at hearing the term of endearment in Poe’s silvery cadence—solely reading it through text messages could never have done it justice.
Leaning closer, Ranpo shook his head, proudly smiling. “No there isn’t. Well,” he hesitated, “except for you.”
“For me? You just confessed my feelings for you to me.”
“Poe, I didn’t know you were in Japan! How did you manage to hide that from me?!”
“Oh,” he blankly uttered. “I simply didn’t tell you. Hiding it from you and not informing you are two different things, dear.”
“Oh, very funny. You know damn well what you were doing.”
“Alright… So perhaps I meant to surprise you. It isn’t often I happen to get one over on the great Edogawa Ranpo,” Poe proclaimed.
“First time I see you in a year and you pull this?!” Ranpo glared.
Bending down until their noses delicately touched, Poe murmured, “Yes, I did. Are you bothered by it?”
Brokenly breathing out, Ranpo’s eyes unable to focus on just Poe’s gaze any longer, Ranpo faintly mumbled, “Poe.”
“Yes?”
“If you don’t do something in the next ten seconds, I will lose-”
Grabbing hold of his face, Poe rushed forward, lips melting into Ranpo’s awaiting kiss. A swarm of emotion flooded Ranpo’s system, his hands moving to grip Poe’s tresses to steady himself. A hand moved down to his waist, keeping him standing, the touch sending a searing tendril up his spine. The world broke apart around them, the two standing in a beautiful disaster of their own making.
Greedy for more, Ranpo selfishly deepened the kiss, Poe eager to give and take just as much. He couldn’t keep in the whimper that escaped him as Poe gave everything Ranpo wordlessly asked for. The taste of his adoration became so addictive so quickly, Ranpo could never tire of the delicacy.
Parting for a split second, Ranpo begged between kisses, “Stay. Don’t leave.”
“I wouldn’t dream of letting this go,” Poe returned, and Ranpo would cause ruin to everything before letting that promise break.
And after minutes they couldn’t be bothered to feel, “Hey, Ed,” Ranpo whispered.
Poe attempted to respond, but gods, were Ranpo’s kisses distracting. His head spun endlessly, his heart hammering against his chest, his cheeks pink with ador. “Y…yes?” He managed.
“Did you…break into my…house?”
Poe released the other, brows raised high. “What do you-”
“You left Karl there, didn’t you?” Ranpo quirked a brow, leaning in to pepper Poe’s neck in sweetened bruises, nimble fingers lowering his high neckline.
“I…I mean… Oh, for goodness sake, how do you expect to hold a conversation like this?”
Rolling his eyes, Ranpo ceased his affections. “This is my way of asking to take you home, Ed. Keep up!”
Scoffing, Poe interlocked their hands again, dragging Ranpo out of the alleyway. “Perhaps be more direct, love. Look at who you’re dealing with.”
Snorting, Ranpo acquiesced, “You have a point. Months of indirect confessions and you didn’t think I’d figure you out?”
Poe only trudged forward, conveniently ignoring the heinous (and completely astute) accusations, hand tightly clasped in Ranpo’s. Ranpo wrapped himself completely around Poe’s arm, nuzzling into him—he could never get enough of the man.
It was enough for Ranpo to release his thoughts from that disastrous party, though he’d have hell to pay the next day. Could he find it in himself to care? He couldn’t bother with giving it even a sliver of his thoughts.