Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

« By wanting to forget too much, we remember constantly. »

- V. H. Scorp -

Tomorrow, it would be six years.

Six years that he thought only of him, six years that he devoted himself body and soul to the one who was his greatest rival.

But when we think too much about a person, when they become our only center of interest, we end up missing them. No matter how much we hate them.

This feeling of lack, as if he were forgetting an important detail of the face painted under his eyelids, Edgar Allan Poe had begun to feel it barely two years ago: When he was still totally obsessed with his revenge - don't get me wrong, he still is, but he's less extreme about it - a reporter had shown up on his doorstep. Edgar had never liked journalists, and this one was no exception: in a cold - but still polite - tone, he asked him what he wanted, to which the man replied with the following sentence.

- Do you know the japanese detective Ranpo Edogawa ?

The mere mention of the name of this show-off had made the writer's annoyance rise, and he had slammed the door in the reporter's face, spitting out a hateful "No."

He remembered locking himself in, leaving his pet - a raccoon named Karl that he had recently taken in - in a state of incomprehension. The little pet had subsequently tried to comfort his owner but to no avail, his common sense was as if plunged into a pool of ink, a sticky and dirty liquid in which it was easy to get lost

In an uncontrolled movement, like a rush towards a lifebuoy, Edgar had grabbed a blank book, and, almost breaking his pen, had scribbled, crossed out, framed, assaulted, in short, written with rage this name that haunted his thoughts day and night: Edogawa Ranpo.

Since then, whenever he needed to let off steam, whether about this subject or another, he would grab the book and start writing again in all its forms, those two little words. Small sketches - based on his memories - even ended up seeing the light of day, and there were not just one or two. About a year later, he unfortunately came across the last page of his "novel"

Conscientious to finish it according to the rules of the art, he decided to write the first sentence that came to his mind in calligraphy. A first stroke, then a second, an arabesques, a wave, another, a point, a trait... Contemplating the beauty of his own work, he was all the more surprised that the sentence that wrote itself on the paper happened to be « I miss you ».

In amazement, Edgar let go of his pen, and the drops of ink that spread over his work only embellished it.

He gently closed the book, a bad feeling had set in, as if it could harm him. Then, heading towards the large fireplace that stood in his living room, he placed the writing there and grabbed a pack of matches. But at the same moment, Karl came to stand between the hearth and him, ordering him to give up his future action.

Touched, Edgar took the small raccoon in his arms and retrieved the book, whose emerald front cover he later began to embroider with gold thread, a few arabesques and the name of the person who occupied it, intentionally omitting his own.

Reading it even today, he sometimes came across pages containing his feelings from that time.

Precisely, today, what had become our dear writer's desire for revenge ?

Well, after thinking carefully, considering the fact that Ranpo would surely come out of his novel unscathed, Edgar had found another form of revenge, a more destructive one, which would make him feel what he had done to him.

So, when Fitzgerald, the head of the organization he worked for, announced that he was leaving as soon as possible for Japan and was looking for members to help him in his quest, he saw the opportunity to put his plan into action: that's how Edgar, almost a year later, was on a train to Los Angeles where he was to board a ferry with his boss and colleagues.

The reflections of the passengers' faces, distorted by the windows, fed his macabre imagination. Having nothing to do, the brunette reread, for the thousandth time perhaps, the now three years old book but whose condition had not deteriorated.

He absently traced the outlines of the embroidered title with his fingertip, letting his gaze drift from the text to the outside.

The carriage was now passing near a magnificent forest with reddish colors, wich reminded him of his hometown, while the tear-soaked window reminded him of his childhood.

He soon dozed off, believing he could deceive boredom with sleep. Sleep... Edgar never really understood what it was for, except to feed his inventiveness during his nightmares.

It's a young employee who had the misfortune to wake him up, gently pulling his book out of his hands in order to make him react. The maneuver paid off because a few seconds later Edgar was up and almost screaming at the poor boy not to touch it.

Scared, he had run away apologizing while the brunette stammered weak excuses.

Half awake, groggy, he then headed towards the dock.

- Good morning, Mister Poe, said a sufficient voice behind me.

- Good morning, Mister Fitzgerald, he answered him in a more hushed tone.

They greeted each other with a handshake and began a rather one-sided conversation, heading towards the ferry.

Except that it was not a boat that presented itself to him; it was a giant mechanical whale that majestically came out of the water before his astonished eyes.

Fitzgerald politely invited him to come aboard, and he discovered a spacious and sparkling interior.

On the order of the meeting, Edgar sat at a large table, between a man with the appearance of a pastor and a young girl with two enormous braids of crimson hair.

After a long summary on their mission in Japan, on the tripartite system that reigned in Yokohama and on the different known members of each organization and their capacities, they finally arrived to speak of the Armed Detective Agency. 

Edgar carefully memorized each member and their ability, down to the last one, the most important, his rival: he had an ability that allowed him to solve any mystery –"doubled with an ego far too big for his small body,” he added mentally– and was very attached to the boss of the agency. 

That was all they knew about the great Ranpo Edogawa. 

The meeting ended, and, frustrated at not having more information, the brunette headed to the dormitories. 

If he hadn't known that the MobyDick was the result of a power, his first glance into the small room would surely have scared the shit out of him. 

The only details that told him that it wasn't his real room were simply the absence of papers scattered everywhere on the floor and his personal library. 

Breakfast, forgotten in the haste of leaving, as well as treats for pets were placed on the bedside table. 

Edgar sat down and, after feeding his raccoon, slowly drank his cup of tea, while thinking about how he would approach Ranpo.

A few minutes later, seized by a strong migraine, he decided to leave the small room and familiarize himself with the ship.

He had barely opened the door that he was blinded by the light, much stronger than the dim glow that filtered lazily through the curtains of the previous room. 

Having a hard time getting used to it, he slowly glanced outside: the corridors were not overcrowd but people wandering around were noisy enough. He quietly, almost like a ghost, walked through the labyrinth that was the MobyDick.

After a while, oppressed by the ambient tumult, Edgar began to worry. No room seemed quiet enough to allow him to calm down, and his own seemed terribly far away. He quickened his pace in the hope of finding somewhere to breath freely, until a large door stood before him. He opened it hastily and rushed into a huge silent room, probably the front of the ship.

Edgar was captivated by the beauty of the place; it was literally the void beneath his feet, as if he were floating, and he could see, through the immaculate clouds, the sea, a calm and beautiful blue plain. Despite he being a fan of nocturnal forests, cemeteries and their dark chapels or tearful landscapes behind a window, this view touched him particularly, differently. 

- Do you like it, Mister Poe ?

The room, which at first seemed empty, was in fact inhabited by an old man, sitting on a very basic chair in the center, a pipe in the corner of his lips. 

He quickly realized that he had surely disturbed him, and, answering with a simple "yes", he apologies.

The man – Herman Melville – was very talkative, a little too much even. But out of politeness and to thank him for letting him relax in this place, Edgar listened to him with a distracted ear, leaning against one of the pillars, and so on until he saw the sun set on the horizon, or in other words, until they arrived in Yokohama.

After receiving quick instructions, an apartment was assigned to each of them, in which they were to remain until further orders, without being noticed. Disembarking from the ship, the first general observation was that the port city looked more like a zoo than the promised quiet city, so Edgar began to walk quickly, already feeling homesick.

"It hasn't changed much in six years," Edgar though.

The city traffic was dense, and people kept talking loudly, between this blond man who was strangling another covered in bandages – both from the A.D.A. according to his memories –, those two redheads, an elegant woman in a kimono and a dwarf visibly on edge, this doctor who seemed gaga over a little blonde who looked like a spoiled brat...

In short, several rare specimens of idiots of all kind.

Yet, without knowing why, he suddenly stopped in the middle of the crowded street.

A presence bothered him, and, as he looked to see who it could possibly belong to, he felt it pass very close to him. Quickly turning around, he barely had time to see a short man with messy black hair, dressed in a strange way. He was speaking in a confident and playful voice to a woman with dark purple hair, in which was attached a butterfly-shaped hairpin.

By the time he recognized his rival, he was already far away in the crow.

Edgar went back into his new apartment and quickly poured himself a large glass of iced water, which he had needed since he had set foot on the pontoon.

"I can't wait for this mission to end, I can't stay here forever... And, of course, I had to run into Ranpo on the first day..."

Suddenly, a realization struck him: since the beginning of the day, of the mission, his mind had literally gravitated non-stop around the young man.

How could he compete with someone who monopolized his attention?

Was there even a chance that the detective would remember him among all of his opponents? 

Would he succeed in defeating him ?

Would he even be enough ?

Air.

Edgar needed air.

He was gradually sinking into his endless questions, which stuck to his skin and pulled him down without giving him the chance to escape.

Although the crowded alleys scared him, he decided to go out, and having seen a coffeeshop on the corner of a street, he decided to go there, hoping that the place would be quieter. Once there, he was warmly welcomed by the owner, ordered a coffee and sat down on one of the benches at the back.

As he quietly began to drink, a small group settled behind him, chatting happily about everything and nothing. Recognizing members of the Armed Detective Agency, Edgar discreetly listened to their conversation.

- You're paying close attention to our conversation, tell me, said the mummy man he had seen a few minutes earlier.

He turned around slowly, looking for a plausible excuse.

- I-I heard you talking about ability, I'm really interested in that subject, he stammered in very approximate japanese and with a strong american accent.

The man stared at him for a long time, and Edgar thought he had made a mistake that would have deceived him.

- You're not from here, are there any nice and painless suicide techniques in your country? he asked him, looking really interested.

Stunned by the question, he remains silent for a second, but before he could answer, the suicidal man was knocked out by his bespectacled colleague and an argument broke out. 

- Easy Kunikida-kun, Ranpo is coming soon and he'll tell the boss if you hurt me, he threatened him in a painful, exaggerated tone.

At the mention of the fact that the guy was heading in the next few minutes, Edgar hurried to finish his coffee. Noticing his agitation, the so-called Osamu asked him the following question :

- What is your job, friend ?

- I'm a novelist, Edgar answered before quickly slipping away, at the moment when the handle of the other door was lowered

If he had stayed a few more seconds, he would have seen a young man overflowing with joy opening the door with a great crash and happily greeting his colleagues.

"And I would have been given a look of disdain or disgust, or he would have simply ignored me... Maybe he wouldn't have even noticed me, like most people...", thinks Edgar, bitter.

But all that would soon change.

In just a week, he would begin his revenge, and in the end, Ranpo would be so broken, so destroyed that he wouldn't even be able to glue the remaining parts back together.

"I would come out victorious and avenged. And he would only have himself to blame for not having been smart enough."

Chapter Text

"There is always a little perfume left in the hand that gives the roses."

- Confucius - 

As so often lately, the best detective in Japan – and probably in the whole world – was bored to death. He thought back to that afternoon at the coffeeshop, when he had made a thunderous entrance, but no one had noticed him. Everyone was immersed in discussions from which he felt terribly excluded. 

Keeping a very slightly forced smile, Ranpo had advanced to their table, forcing himself to keep his usual attitude.

- What's going on ? he had asked, a bit annoyed by everyone's behavior.

- Oh, Ranpo ! We were discussing about a stranger who left in a hurry about thirty seconds ago, had answered a little blond with the country airs, but it hadn't been enough to reassure him.

Ranpo hesitated between what was worse in this situation, being offended or ignored.

What right did this person have to monopolize the attention of his friends, to the point of distracting them from him, him who desperately needed their smiles and their congratulations to continue moving forward ?

- And you need my genius to understand who he is, don't you ?

The members of the A.D.A. stared at him for a few seconds with a strange look, then turned their attention back to the stranger. For him, the silence clearly meant "We don't need you and your so-called ability, we can manage on our own", in other words "You are useless".

Even if he was clever enough to know that they didn't really mean it and that it was only his interpretation of the facts, it had hurted him more than he let on, and he felt inferior, he who was not a gifted.

So he sat down on the bench behind them, and waited with difficulty. A discreet smell of honeysuckle hovered around him. Several times Ranpo hesitated to add his two cents to their discussion, but he understood quickly enough that his colleagues hardly needed his opinion.

He scanned the room - it had become a habit of his - and noticed nothing unusual, except for this little green book.

A book with his name embroidered on it.

As soon as the information reached his brain – which was surprisingly slow compared to his usual reactivity –, he grabbed the book, slammed it against the table and opened it to the first page that passed under his nose.

His eyelids were half-open, he was so surprised – and uncomfortable, I must be said that it is rather creepy to find a work that contains only your name in all possible and unimaginable fonts and sketches of you, what's more without the book being signed by anyone – and he quickly leafed through the "novel", looking for any clue to understand what it was doing here, and by what coincidence it was only talking about him.

Having noticed his confusion, Yosano tried to look over his shoulder, but Ranpo immediately closed the book with a characteristic snap.

- This stranger, did he say or do something odd, he asked almost immediately.

- Not really, he just seemed not to want to linger here, given the speed at which he left, Osamu replied in an indifferent tone.

Even though Ranpo knew he was intentionally omitting some details, he just sighed loudly to express his displeasure and didn't ask any more questions, remaining perplexed by the fact that his intuition told him that this person and this book had a connection, even though it made absolutely no sense.

The next day, sitting in his favorite chair, while all the Agency members had left, Ranpo was still examining the book from every angle. Even though it was a work that exuded aggressiveness – as well as a kind of unhealthy need, to be honest – and which writing had probably spread over several weeks or even months, he couldn't discern the author's true feelings through the lines.

"No! How is it possible to be so slow-witte ?! What if someone finds it ? What if that someone turns out to be Ranpo and he manages to discover my intentions ? How stupid of me, I knew I should have left it home..."

Edgar's careless mistake turned him into a nervous wreck, he was sick in his stomach at the thought that Ranpo would see through him before he even meet him for the second time. He was also very embarrassed because his rival had a piece - very personal, it must be said - from his collection in his hands. He was so glad he had thought about removing some pages.

But if by misfortune the detective came across it, the quality of the paper as well as the type of ink he used as a writer would fool no one, especially not him.

All this had the merit of nibbling at the nerves of the poor writer who was pacing back and forth in his tiny living room. He didn't even know where he had forgotten it, it could have been at the agency's coffeeshop or the book could have simply slipped out of his bag in a moment of inattention, and he could neither go back to get it nor leave it there, wherever it was.

The internal fight he was waging for and against himself was starting to drive him completely crazy, and, carried away by his madness, he banged on a wooden piece of furniture.

The dresser was fine, but he felt a pain sharp enough to make him forget his Cornelian dilemma for a few minutes. His sore hand hanging limply at the end of his wrist was reason enough to stop thinking about his problem, and the kind attention of his raccoon who came to lick his wound managed to bring his tension down.

Edgar stroked his head as a thank you, then went to get something to bandage his fist. "I'll have to go see a doctor... I hate doctors..." he said to himself before looking for the address of the nearest clinic and calling to make an appointment. A woman's voice answered him, and after a good ten minutes he hung up and sighed; this secretary had been unbearable.

So he had an appointment with a student under the responsibility of a certain Doctor Yosano. From what he remembered she was also the Agency's doctor, and Poe cursed himself inwardly for having injured himself the day when the only available practitioner was linked to his rival, whom he wanted to avoid at all costs.

The next day, when he arrived at the clinic, the secretary from the day before greeted him, looking at him slightly askance, which Edgar took relatively badly. "They really have no manners here, when someone's appearance astounds us or we don't like them, we hide it, it's the least we can do !" he thought, gritting his teeth, giving her a hated glance, invisible under his thick fringe.

In the waiting room, he felt the eyes fall on him and hang on like leeches, so much so that he was grateful that the Japanese doctors were less late than the American ones.

Crossing the corridor following the assistant of the clinician of the armed detectives, Edgar heard a slight argument in a neighboring room, and after a while recognized the voices of Ranpo and the woman who accompanied him the other day in the street. He listened attentively, so much that the assistant had to remind him of reality more than once.

- You... not the center of the world !..

- ... know !.. just want to know.... stranger...

- ... don't have... tell you everything... secret... just had to be there...

- If you don't want me, say it directly ! 

He had heard this last sentence very clearly – perhaps because it was one of the sentences that kept going through his head when he was talking to the average someone –, in any case better than the others of which he had only understood bits and pieces.

A door slammed, making the assistant jump. Edgar therefore deduced that this kind of scene must not be common.

Light footsteps quickly resonated in the corridor, emitting a soft melody, a mixture of anger and rejection. Others more hurried, which clicked like heels, were heard a few seconds later.

- Ranpo, wait, said an almost pleading voice.

The assistant looked in the direction of the voice with empathie.

Once the meeting was over, Edgar came out with a prescription for medication to calm the pain in his hand and some ointment, it was nothing serious.

On the contrary, when the doctor had measured him and then put him on the scale, six feet tall for only about sixty kilos and the fact that the only things he ate - or rather drank - were tea and coffee, he had also prescribed him a treatment for anorexia and advised him to go see a psychologist when he returns to America, because this disease could bring anxiety disorders, obsessive compulsive disorders or even addictions or personality disorders. Well, lot of disorders.

Edgar knew it very well, but he didn't care at all, the food was bland and sickening, to the point that he couldn't eat unless he forced himself, and this for several months now.

However, unlike some other anorexic people who often found themselves too fat and were therefore more or less content with their condition, he did not like his own more than that, he often compared himself to a corpse with his skinny body and his huge dark circles from sleepless nights of writing.

To enter the clinic, he had had to leave his pet outside, and Karl had waited patiently. As soon as he saw his master, he jumped on his shoulders, and they both went to the pharmacy.

As Edgar told him about the conversation he had intercepted, his raccoon stiffened, came down from his perch and looked in the direction of a small alley. He started running towards an unknown destination, and Edgar had no choice but to follow him. Arriving at a turning point, he finally heard the rustling of paper coupled with annoyed sniffles.

Curious, he crouched down next to the wall and took a look at the source of the sounds: Even if he suspected it a little, Edgar was surprised to discover Ranpo sitting there, on a bench that had no place in this narrow little alley and most certainly abandoned, leafing through a book.

As soon as he recognized the cover, the author blushed.

He put a hand over his mouth to avoid screaming or making any noise, and slid against the wall, trying to calm his breathing that had become far too fast and noisy. And there it was, he could only hope, pray that the young detective would not use his ability.

Suddenly remembering why he had initially come here, Edgar calmed himself down with difficulty and looked for Karl, without finding him. Worried, he inspected the surroundings as best he could before hearing murmurs that seemed to come from Ranpo.

- At least you don't judge me, huh...

As he began to wonder if those words were not ultimately intended for him, he noticed that Ranpo was petting something to his left. He could not directly see what it was, but he deduced that his pet was this "something”.

- You are surely too intelligent for your species too, I hope that you at least have someone who understands you, he murmured, too low for Edgar to hear.

He continued until Karl greet him with a nod and left, trotting, towards the corner, behind which his owner was hidden. Edgar was surprised that the raccoon had let himself be touched so easily when he was usually so fearful and wary with strangers.

Once far enough, Edgar scolded him severely for having almost made him discover, but quickly stopped by remembering that it was not his raccoon who had forgotten a more than compromising element in a totally random place.

For his part, Ranpo felt a little relieved. After his argument with Yosano, he had almost run away; he had the impression of being back to the time of his fourteen years, before meeting Fukuzawa, when no one wanted him and when he thought he was nothing but a monster.

The doctor clearly explained to him that she found him too self-centered, too curious and indolent, and instead of simply calmly explaining to him the subject of the discussion at the coffeeshop, she had preferred to avoid the subject.

He knew that she did not completely think what she had said, yet her words had hurt his self-esteem. The brown and black mammal's eyes, empty of negative thoughts –well, most likely empty of any thoughts– had comforted him, and contrary to what he had expected when he had seen it approach, it did not give off an unpleasant odor, and its fur was soft and silky.

Ranpo had first thought that it was tamed, before remembering that it was forbidden in Japan. The hypothesis that the owner of this raccoon was a foreigner seemed obvious to him, and he immediately thought back to the one who had left the coffeeshop in a hurry. As if to confirm his theory, the scent of the raccoon was the same as the discreet one he had smelled the day before.

The owner of the raccoon was the one who had monopolized the attention of his friends far from him, but perhaps not the author of this book, the pages did not have the same smell at all, it smelled more like ashes and old books. It’s with this idea in mind that Ranpo returned home, eager to know more. 

Chapter Text

« The most beautiful stories always start with wreckage. »

- Jack London -

The letter Ranpo had received was simple, correct, and in a beautiful and neat handwriting.

However, it was absolutely not the same as in the green book, so he ruled out for good the theory that this stranger and the book were linked.

He had remained in awe, more captivated by the presentation of the text than by its content.

He had not understood the first kanji, which read "dear", followed by his name, but had guessed that it was simply a foreign polite formula.

And then, there was this air of defiance that hovered around this piece of paper: the author was proposing a confrontation, a duel that relied on intelligence.

Frankly, Ranpo was bored, it seemed really simple, almost like a trap, and he did not want to make the effort. But the font intrigued him, it was not common to receive letters written in the style of a novel. So, driven by his insatiable curiosity, he went, with the help of Yosano –because despite his intelligence, his sense of direction left to be desired–, in front of a large building. The walk was made in the greatest silence, some events still too recent.

Inside, Edgar, who had been waiting since the beginning of the day in a dark room, anxious and impatient, was nervously cracking his fingers. While the confrontation between the organizations was in full swing, he was sitting on a chair waiting for the enemy, moreover to give him information that would put the Guild's mission in loss. And to top it all off, he had done absolutely nothing, one could almost have believed that he was not part of the American organization at all.

Feeling useless is a detestable feeling.

"But, hey ! it's nothing new, I'm used to it now... ”

During the first week that Fitzgerald had asked them not to draw attention to themselves, he had been content to gather as much information as possible about Ranpo and the armed detectives, based on the gossip and rumors he heard in the coffeeshop or on the streets. Some of it was very useful while on the contrary there were some things that Edgar would have preferred never to have heard.

When footsteps echoed in the corridor, and the first part of the heavy door moved, his anxiety redoubled in intensity and he immediately came out of his thoughts. The little self-confidence he had melted like snow out in the sun and he had only one desire left, to lock himself in his own story or disappear underground.

But he had to hold on.

Suddenly, the door opened completely and the writer held his breath. He met his rival's gaze and, despite his thick fringe, their pupils locked for a moment.

Some, shining with malice like two aventurines, almost seeming to be able to read the other as in an open book.

The others, elusive, hidden, but of a dark gray resembling the nuances of the stormy sky.

Edgar's lips trembled, no word wanted to escape; he did not expect that seeing his rival would shock him so much. The tiranesque image that he had made of Ranpo had faded a little, but not enough to make him change his mind.

As for the detective, his memory was infallible. As soon as he saw the face of this man that he had not forgotten despite the years, his first reaction was defensive, expecting anyone but him, the coincidence of the raccoon on his shoulders inciting him even more.

A tense atmosphere settled, and after sizing each other up for a few seconds, the taller of the two men began to speak.

[...]

The experience was very peculiar, but Edgar had played his acting game wonderfully, even if he only had to hide certain details and to rant about all the hatred he felt towards the detective. Still a little annoyed by the fact that he had left his story so quickly, Edgar had taken it upon himself and continued his act.

Apart from these few small details, the scene that took place before the eyes of the agency's doctor was authentic; somewhere, the writer really forgave his rival –the fact that he had not forgotten him was the main cause–, but that was without counting the resentment that was slowly eating away at him from the inside.

The first part - but also the easiest - of his plan was completed when Ranpo asked him to come back to see him with another novel. As he left the dark establishment, Ranpo breathed a long sigh of relief, under the incomprehensible gaze of his friend.

- Is everything okay ? she asked after several minutes of silence.

- Yeah, I just didn't expected to see him again after six years and especially not in those conditions. But thanks to me and my ability, we have valuable information on the enemy's HQ, he declared in a tone that was more curt than he had hope

This time Yosano avoided pointing out that he wasn’t a gifted, not wanting to dampen the mood even more than at the beginning of the walk.

Walk during which Ranpo immersed himself in intense reflection on the following subject: what was that feeling of well-being he had felt when the writer had seemed to forgive him ?

Relief over the fact that he had one less enemie ?

Nah, Ranpo had many enemies and one less wouldn't change anything, and besides, it wasn't the first time this kind of thing had happened to him.

The joy of having made a new "friend” ?

Of course not, he already had some and one more wouldn't make a difference, and again, he had never felt this kind of feeling at those times.

An idea then crossed his mind, but he quickly judged it as stupid as the other two and chased it from his mind as quickly as it had crept it.

- Ranpo, I know you don't like working but we're all overwhelmed and the boss is not going to be happy.

Kunikida's voice, both angry and pleading, pulled him out of his daydreaming, and indeed, since he had come back, the whole agency, even Osamu, was sweating body and soul, partly because of the Guild, while he was staring at the ceiling and nibbling on cookies.

Reluctantly, Ranpo looked away from the beams of the partition to the pile of boring paper that was crumbling on his desk.

"With a bit of luck, this will clear my mind." he thought without really believing it himself.

After that, he would have to plan the attack on the MobyDick with Dazai, and frankly, even doing that would be more interesting than the mission reports he was currently completing. There were no more pleasant investigations to solve these days, since for a while now they had all become too easy and boring for the detective. Fortunately, the novels that Edgar would now write for him might be able to get him out of his routin

After barely ten minutes, Ranpo went back to staring at the ceiling, pretending to have a passing migraine and now thinking about why he couldn't find the answer to his previous question.

The next morning, shortly after noon, while Atsushi had been infiltrating the enemy for a few hours now, and the whole agency was moping about the uncertain outcome of the fight while he already knew the end, Ranpo was walking through the streets of Yokohama, looking for the new daïfukus store. He wanted to buy some for Fukuzawa, who was relatively stressed by the events, just to relax him, and for him because apparently these pastries were delicious.

He arrived without too much trouble at the store, and after having his shopping done, the detective decided to take a small walk in the tiny park next to the agency.

"Mmh... I'll have to remember to thank Osamu for lending me Kunikida's savings...”

The young man, under the incredulous gaze of the other children, sat on a small rocking duck, one of the pastries he had buy in his mouth, staring at the clouds that were passing in the sky.

"It's weird though, Edgar had a funny look when I talked to him, like he was afraid I'd bite him, and that way he stuttered, is it because he doesn't speak Japanese well? He really devoted six years of his life to such childish revenge? He was, what... twenty-two maybe, I think I was twenty at the time... Des that mean that for six years, he was torturing himself for something so stupid? People are dumb sometimes... Yeah, no. Not sometimes, often.”

He rocked back and forth on the children's game, which, if it hadn't been so light, would surely have broken a while ago.

A little further away, a man was sitting and watching him, half-amused and half-frightened by this behavior that was too childish for his taste. He too had guessed the end of this story, and felt a little guilty and selfish for having contributed to the imminent loss of his own organization out of pure personal interest.

He was hesitating between going to see Ranpo –which he only half-wanted to do at the sight of the noisy detective– or staying seated there, with Karl for only company –that was more than enough for him–.

In the end, he didn't even have to make a choice because Ranpo called out to him :

- Hey, Poe! Come over here, would you ?

Being exposed like that in front of everyone in the park didn't please him too much, but to accomplish his revenge he had to get as close to Ranpo as possible. He stood up and walked towards him, still keeping a good meter between them. 

- Good morning Ranpo. How are you since the last time ? he asked, trying to sound as friendly as possible. 

- I’m good, whatever, would you like to push me on the swing ? Ranpo replied, almost ignoring his question.

Forced to accept, Edgar found himself playing the role of a nanny in a park intended for under-ten year-olds, listening to Ranpo's countless and oh so unbearable praises of himself. The only reason that pushed him to have a minimum of empathy towards him was the scene he had witnessed in the small alley.

For his part, Ranpo was in no way ashamed of the situation, having another "pusher" than Yosano or Fukuzawa was really fun. Moreover, despite his timidity, Edgar was firmer in his gestures than the other two, being younger than the boss –who had not lost his former reactivity, don’t get me wrong– and stronger in constitution thanks to his status as a man –even if the doctor did not lack brute force–, and therefore allowed the young man to rise higher in the air. His hands were bigger too.

Edgar almost got hit in the head by the seat several times, because of the other's enthusiasm. He could sometimes see his face, which was painted with a real smile of joy, not one of those he reserved for the members of his agency.

They stayed together for the rest of the afternoon, and as the sun began to set on the horizon, and they had gone around all the children's games to the great displeasure of the writer and his pet, the smallest received a call from his boss who announced Atsushi's victory, while Poe received a call from Twain, who informed him of their defeat.

The two sighed, it didn't matter to them since they already knew.

- Are you going back to America? Ranpo suddenly asked, not very envious of the idea of losing his new friend.

- I don't think so, the MobyDick is destroyed, the helicopter to take us back has already left with Steinbeck and Twain, and I can't stand the boat... he hurried to invent.

- And the plane ?

- I'm afraid it might be too expensive.

- So you're staying in Japan ? Ranpo asked with a hint of happines.

- Yes, I guess...

"What a bummer... I would have preferred to go home... Instead I'll have to pretend to be the perfect friend of this little egocentric...”

- Oh, I'm thinking about it, we're celebrating our victory tomorrow at the agency, would you like to come ?

- Well, I'd like to, he lied, but will the others agree ?

- You're not really part of the enemy, and whatever I do they'll agree so we don't have to care ! Ranpo replied proudly.

[...]

The party had started well, even if Edgar had arrived a little unexpectedly. But as Ranpo said, all the members of the agency accepted him, except Yosano, who had some suspicions at first.

"Is this really that overprotective woman I heard yelling at Ranpo last time ?”

Lucky he, the alcohol was a valuable help for her to forget and allowed the writer to be around the one she considered her big-little brother despite their disagreement. Relieved that she didn't interfere more in his plans, he still chose to be wary of her, just in case. Despite this hitch, he managed to forget his reprisals for the evening, and to enjoy it –if enjoying meant sitting in a corner and watching them have fun.

Edgar felt very clever when it was time to sit down at the table: while everyone was eating in peace, he remained still, staring at his plate. 

- Is something wrong, asked a young man with silver hair, who was the first to notice his confusion.

- I-I... I don't know h-how to eat with chopsticks... he answered, his voice dropping to a whisper in his embarrassment. 

While he was expecting to be laughed at and criticized, Edgar was given a lesson on "how to use chopsticks" orchestrated by Kunikida and Kyoka. Although the entire Agency was amused by the situation, Ranpo was the only one to openly make fun of him, which earned him a reprimand from his father figure.

Edgar was somewhat annoyed, because this was the first interaction the detective had with him, having ignored him until now.

"But if that's all it is, I can handle it.”

He forced himself to eat a mouthful or two to make a good impression, and held back his urge to throw up when he swallowed the first one.

By the end of the evening, most of them were drunk. Only Atsushi remained, who didn't have a strong taste for alcohol, Kyoka and Kenji who were too young, Ranpo who had been forbidden to touch it by the rest of the Agency due to a certain incident, and himself, who had only had a small drink, wanting to stay sober. The two youngest were already asleep, the remaining ones carried the drunkest to the agency's dormitories, only Edgar was getting ready to go home.

- You don't wanna stay ? Ranpo asked, already half asleep. I'm sure we have some extra rooms available.

- No thanks, I prefer to sleep at home... he quickly answered so he could leave as soon as possible.

He slowly walked towards Ranpo to greet him with a handshake as he usually did in America, but, to his surprise, the other hugged him.

"Strange way to greet...”

He hesitated to return the hug but finally put his arms around his shoulders –their height difference prevented him from doing better anyway.

- Go home safely then.

Through the semi-darkness, he could see his rival's soft smile.

- Good night, Ranpo, he told him as the other stood on tiptoe to ruffle his hair.

Edgar left in the direction of his apartment, his raccoon in his arms. When the door of the agency’s basement closed behind him, he sighed in relief.

"Air, finally." 

Chapter Text

« Leave my loneliness unbroken. »

- Edgar Allan Poe -

Ranpo was much more intrusive than expected. 

Not only did he jump on the poor writer as soon as he saw him –literally and figuratively– but he also spent his days calling him on the phone, to the point that Edgar regretted giving him his number. 

He had to change his ringtone to something more discreet, because crows calling to wake up to at about six in the morning and to hear all holy day was not the most pleasant thing ever. 

Contrary to appearances, Ranpo was a very early riser, which had surprised Edgar. 

Well, morning was a big word, he spent the few hours before the start of his work staring at the ceiling or doing various activities on his cell phone. 

Edgar himself rose relatively early and went to bed quite late, often immersed in reading or writing a short story. 

At first he was happy to receive a few calls and have some company, but this company –even sound – had quickly become unbearable and cumbersome.  

- R-Ranpo... If you call me every hour like that, I will never be able to finish the volume you asked me to, he tried after two days of telephone harassment.

- But Poe, I've never had anyone nearly as smart as me to talk to except that other idiot Dazai, Ranpo lamented in a largely exaggerated melodramatic tone. Well, if you really want it... On the other hand, I want the new novel in less than a week ! 

After quickly nodding, he hung up.  

"Finally peaceful..." 

The only problem was that he had less than a week to finish a book he had barely started. 

Putting up with the energetic detective was truly the most exhausting thing he had ever done. 

Yet it wasn't a sigh of fatigue or anger that escaped his lips; it was a sigh of joy, of relief: everything was happening almost as he wanted, and luckily Ranpo had quickly latched onto him. 

"How ironic." thought Edgar as he stroked Karl who had just taken up residence on his lap. 

The tip of his quill rested on the blank page, but despite his best efforts to concentrate, his mind was elsewhere. 

He sighed again. 

"I feel like my thoughts are attached to him like a magnet, even though I do everything to avoid that... Well, as that dear Mr. Coulomb said so well, two opposite charges are bound to attract each other." 

He stood up, and as his raccoon climbed on his shoulder, he put on his long black coat. 

As Edgar left his small apartment, on his way to a place that would bring him peace and open-mindedness, he passed a large house with a sign that read "for sale." 

The building –or rather the manor house given its size– was magnificent and sumptuous, all curves and arabesques, of a light marble –almost beige–, entirely to his taste, and despite what he had said to his rival about his rather limited means –which was obviously totally false– Edgar could not help but imagine himself writing in the immense residence. 

The only thing it lacked was a location much further away from the noisy city, but you can't have everything. 

Edgar eventually moved on, silently promising himself that he would buy the house as soon as he had the chance. 

He walked for a long time through the streets, having learned to avoid the crowded ones over the days spent in Japan since the dissolution of the Guild, before arriving in front of a small wall of white stones like the foam of the calm waves that could be seen slightly below. 

Edgar walked through the field of tombstones until he found an empty spot next to a tree that generously provided shade. 

In the background one could see a large white building –a chapel perhaps ?– and even further away one could make out the port, the large bridge that connected the two banks, the five skyscrapers of the Port Mafia and finally the Ferris wheel. 

"It must be an even more breathtaking view than I have right now when we're at the top." he thought, sitting down on the soft grass.

Finally able to give free rein to his imagination, which had been restricted by the tiny Japanese dwellings, Edgar closed his eyes.

- It's quiet isn't it? 

Edgare jumped, that voice was vaguely familiar to him, but he didn't remember hearing it in America or in the Guild. 

He soon realized that it was coming from the other side of the tree, where someone was leaning against the grave of one Oda S. 

- Yes, it's the most beautiful view I have seen since I arrived here, he replied in English as well. 

- Hum... Excuse me, but can we continue in Japanese? I'm not very comfortable with your language. 

- Of course. I've seen you somewhere before, haven't I ? Are you one of Ranpo's colleagues ? 

- Yes, I wanted to talk to you about him. 

"It's like a parasite, even in such a beautifully peaceful place it comes to disturb me..." 

- A problem ? Is he sick ?.. Edgar asked, pretending to be worried. 

- No, on the contrary. I wanted to thank you, Ranpo only talks about you! Lately he had lost his smile, and we found him a little distant... 

- Really? I'm glad to be useful, he smiled in a tone he hoped was natural. .

- But otherwise tell me, what are you doing here ? 

- I'm looking for some peace to write, what about you ? 

- I'm dwelling on my past and my problems with my best friend... he replied with a hint of nostalgia. 

A big blank followed, not an embarrassing one, rather one that allows to refocus on ourselves and reflect. 

Edgar dipped his quill into the inkwell he had placed in the grass beside him and began to write, his quill moving in time with his thoughts, following their twists and turns, so that he had quickly finished half of it.

Unfortunately, blank page syndrome –comparable to the plague among writers– caught up with him, and he had to put an end to his writing, which seemed to be at its peak. 

- Another novel for Ranpo ? 

- Yes, I promised it.

- Your ability is awfully practical, it's worthy of the Guild. 

- Did he tell so much about me ? 

- Oh yes, as if it was the first time he's made a friend haha ! We could have written an entire encyclopedia with everything he told us ! 

Edgar looked down at the still fresh lines, a hint of bitterness in his eyes. 

"He plays his game well, too... Making everyone believe that he likes me when I know very well that he only sees me as an underling... Despite everything, it's nice to have someone who likes me so much..." 

He unclenched his teeth, and while he had tried for a few seconds not to let see anything, his lips relaxed into a slight smile. 

- One last thing. 

- Yeah ?  

- Don't do anything bad to Ranpo, we're happy to see him like this. 

- Of course, what interest would I have in harming him, he said as innocently as possible. 

- None, but I'm telling you so that you don't have the whole Agency on your back, he's its pillar, replied the "stranger" in a suddenly very cold tone. 

- Thank you for letting me know, I will be careful... 

Ranpo smiled, his fears about the American were unfounded. 

He put his phone away after thanking Osamu. 

In fact, he wanted to check that he was not one of those false friends who showers you with praise and flower petals to gain your friendship and then boast about it. 

Ranpo didn't want to deduce the truth, he wanted concrete proof –even if he trusted his deductions completely–, something he would hear directly from Edgar. 

"I'm getting paranoid, the fact that he doesn't want me to call him for some quiet time is just his introverted personality after all !" 

Her suspicions had arisen a few hours earlier, when Yosano had come to apologize. Ranpo had simply answered absently that it was okay, as he always did. She then had sat down next to him, and brought up the subject he absolutely did not want to talk about with her; Edgar. 

- I find him false, you should be wary of it. 

- You're not my only friend, you know? I can have others. 

- That has nothing to do with it. Besides, I can't claim to be your only friend, all the members of the A.D.A. are too, she had decreed. 

- They are not my friends, they are my colleagues. 

- The Ranpo I know wouldn't have told me that, he changed you in the space of a few days.

- Don't involve him in all this ! He has nothing to do with it, he answered, more coldly.

- Oh really ? Then why did you suddenly change your way of thinking, it's a bit of a coincidence. 

- You don't even consider me one of your own, just because you think I have no ability! 

- But you don't have any ability, damn it ! she got carried away in turn. And for the love of whatever is above us, open your eyes ! He's toxic, he doesn't even hide it, he's reluctant to see you or talk to you, he only wants revenge!

- He's already accomplished his revenge, we're friends now ! Stop thinking you're my big sister, I don't need to take lessons from someone who sends people to get killed again and again ! 

She had touched the sensitive chord, and he added the straw that broke the camel's back.

Yosano stared into space, turned her back on him, murmuring "don't come complaining afterwards" like the hero's best friend in romantic-tragic films. 

At that moment Ranpo knew he had gone too far, that this time they were not going to reconcile anytime soon, yet he did nothing to catch her.

For now he needed two things: to prove her wrong and to blame someone. 

Those someone happened to be her and Edgar, because despite everything, the doctor's arguments made sense. 

So he had called Osamu to ask for his help, he needed someone neutral that the writer had only seen a few times.

Ranpo knew that at this time he would be at the entrance to the cemetery, and suspected that the lover of macabre mystery would also go there to find inspiration. 

He had bet right, and had heard their entire conversation through Osamu's phone.

Now he was reassured, and despite his explicit request to leave him alone, Ranpo had a mad desire to go see Edgar. 

It was in some ways his way of thanking him for not being the hypocrite her "best friend" described.

Ranpo didn't even need to get lost to stumble upon Edgar's apartment by the greatest of chances, because he showed up at the same time as Osamu at the offices of the armed detectives. 

Osamu had guessed that Ranpo would see his friend, so he had pretended that his leg hurt and he couldn't walk so that Edgar would carry him to the agency.

Even though he felt uncomfortable, with all those looks fixed on his skin, Edgar discreetly greeted the members before Ranpo pulled him a little further away from the rest of the group, so that they could chat quietly, without the curious people who could disturb them. 

- Thanks.

- For what ?

- For nothing, I just wanted to tell you. 

- Oh, you're welcome then, he said with a half-smile. 

Ranpo returned his smile, then quickly pestered him with questions about his upcoming novel. 

Edgar refused, knowing that with the slightest clue the whole subterfuge contained in his lines could be discovered before he had even finished them. 

His rival's intelligence was such that it almost terrified him. 

He reached into his bag, grabbing something. 

- I noticed you didn't have any in Japan, so I thought you might like it... he said, handing him a small bag of M&M's. 

He had had some delivered from America a few days earlier after visiting various confectioners, having discovered Ranpo's fondness for sugar. 

Coaxing him with treats like a wild animal was a strange technique, but it seemed to work, even if it wasn't so necessary anymore since Ranpo already trusted him, but reinforcing this trust couldn't do any harm. 

Edgar smiled as he saw Ranpo's eyes widen and sparkle with joy as he opened the bag to taste one. 

- Wow, it tastes amazing !

- Glad you like it, I wasn't sure, Edgar explained, scratching the back of his neck. 

Ranpo's eyelids closed –much to the chagrin of Edgar, who found his pupils more than magnificent, bewitching– and he smiled again. 

- Well, you bet right ! A little more and I told you that your talent for deduction is equal to mine ! Unfortunately for you, it will probably never happen haha ! Ranpo exclaimed, patting his shoulder.

Ranpo Edogawa worked like this, he had two ways of thanking: to mock, or to thank for real, but unlike most people he used the first more commonly, while he reserved the second for the most sincere thanks. 

Chapter Text

« A single ray of sunshine is enough to dispel millions of shadows. »

- François d'Assise -

- Poe, this is the fifth time you've been eyeing this place instead of listening to me, when are you going to decide to buy it?

- Hmm? Oh, uh... I'm not sure I can afford it... 

- Stop lying to me, it's useless. But hey, I can negotiate the price, I'm good at that too, Ranpo said.

- I don't doubt it for a second my dear.

- Huh ? Speak Japanese I don't understand your language, it annoys me .

- "My dear" is an affectionate nickname in America, sorry it came out by itself... Edgar apologized. 

His attention was once again drawn to the house, and Ranpo puffed out his cheeks, crossing his arms over his chest to show his displeasure.

As much as he had a hard time admitting it, the fact that Edgar's interest was directed towards something else than him irritated him to a point he wouldn't have even thought possible. 

Karl jumped from his owner’s shoulders to the beret below him.

Although Edgar still had a hard time leaving his precious pet in someone else's hands, he trusted Karl’s judgment and figured Ranpo, despite his clumsiness, wouldn't hurt him. 

It was a pretty cute picture from his point of view, and Edgar couldn't help but chuckle and smile. Ranpo's pout grew, and he gave his friend a small slap on the top of his head, scolding him for making fun of him.

In order to match Edgar's size, Ranpo had to stand on tiptoe, which only made Edgar's shy smile stretch a little wider. 

- Tss... you're lucky to be cute when you smile, otherwise I would already have left you there and took Karl over ! 

The tone of his sentence was kind, it was just a simple joke. 

Yet the writer almost tore his pet from Ranpo's arms, almost yelling at him not to touch it.

His eyes widened in surprise, revealing his beautiful pupils, dulled by fear. 

- Ranpo, wait I- Edgar began, sorry for his too brutal reaction.

An angel passed by. 

- Haha you got me ! I really thought you got mad ! 

Soon that veil had disappeared, replaced by the bright smile that Ranpo displayed most of the time.

How could Ranpo ignore it so easily ? Edgar was shocked by this sudden change, he didn't make a remark.

"- Mood swings or uncontrolled changes, close to bipolarity." 

It was one of the harmful effects of anorexia –and unfortunately not the only one–, Edgar was aware of it, the doctor had written it down in black and white.

Noticing his disorder, Ranpo decided to cheer him up and handed him some candy, which he kept in his pocket in case of unexpected hunger. 

- No, thanks, that's nice, but I'm intolerant to sugar... the writer apologized, awkwardly pushing his hand away.

- I made a monumental effort to offer them to you, so you have no right to refuse ! Plus I know you're lying to me again... 

With that Ranpo grabbed Edgar's wrist and forced him to take them, which surprised him because he thought he was too attached to these sweets to share them.

He nodded and slipped them into his pocket, waiting to throw them away later. 

- You should eat them right away, firstly because they will melt and because eating them really wouldn't hurt you, you're so skinny ! 

A blank settled, Edgar was hurt by Ranpo’s words, even if he knew that Ranpo was a person who spoke openly, saying what he thought or simply making a remark without bad intentions or judgments. 

- I-I have to go, goodbye Ranpo..!

As he walked quickly towards his apartment, the words of his late family came back to him, cornering him from all sides. 

"- Useless, besides being ugly ! "

"- Impossible to marry, who would want that ?" 

"- He won't even be able to procreate, he's so weak, or in the best case his offspring will die at birth, due to lack of strength !"

"- He's not even a man, he has neither muscles nor charisma, he's just a little girl, I wouldn't be surprised if he was a faggot !" 

"- Why did he have to be our only male descendant ?! Even our daughters would be more capable of continuing the line than him !"

"- You're the eldest, take responsibility for goodness sake !" 

"- Edgar, it's high time you got married, you're almost twenty !" 

His family had always been very wealthy, partly due to their abilities, but he was the first to possess literary ability, which made him the Poe's outcast.

He had never really liked them, and one day, without any kind of warning, they all died one after the other, victims of a tuberculosis pandemic, while he had remained locked in the manor's library. 

Rare survivor of this massacre, he lived alone from then on, his mother having rebuilt her life with her share of the inheritance.

This woman –her name was Elizabeth Arnold Poe– had never really took her role as a mother, letting the “dirty work” of raising her son to the maids, while she sent her second son and her daughter to their uncle’s house at their births: Edgar never got to know them, their deaths therefore did not affect him more than that. 

Unfortunately, even if he did not consider Elizabeth as a mother, she kept a share of authority over him. 

Another part of the inheritance was intended for her grandchildren, and since she had none left, this part was likely to end up either in the bank or in her son's pocket.

Having already reached menopause, Elizabeth –who was still very intelligent– placed her hopes on Edgar's frail shoulders, who was the only one who could provide her with grandchildren; she would only have to help herself until they had reached the age of majority. 

She had tried to force him into marriage, but he had fled to Japan. When he returned, and during the seasons that separated him from his next journey, she introduced him to many women.

He refused them all, being neither ready for it, nor tempted by any of them, although he was not very demanding in this matter. He wasn't fooled, he could see the disgust in their eyes, the same disgust he had seen in his rival's eyes during their first confrontation.

Edgar would much rather focus on his revenge than deal with a woman he neither knew nor loved in any way. 

Sometimes, after explaining his thoughts to his mother, he would run away, hide –often in the library of the mansion he had bought– and wait for her to calm down, or simply wait for his anxiety attack to pass.

It was in those moments that he would have needed someone cute and affectionate like Ranpo –despite everything Edgar did not want to admit that he appreciated the presence of his rival– to comfort him, to tell him that he was not as useless and bad as she said. 

Edgar had managed to forget, or rather to put aside in his head all these events but the remark of the little detective that he had left standing had made everything resurface.

When he arrived in front of the door of the building his whole body felt heavy.  Edgar wanted to open it but the world around him blurred, and he spun around in search of a foothold.

People were walking strangely; they were getting closer, moving further away, and getting closer again, to the rhythm of his heartbeat. 

And suddenly the landscape turned, very quickly, so quickly that he only realized it when his eyes closed in anticipation of a shock that did not come, or that was slightly less brutal than expected, surely thanks to the rush of adrenaline.

His name was shouted several times without him paying attention, totally absorbed by the contemplation of the ground next to him. 

Edgar felt like he was floating, cuddled by soft, warm, invisible arms, as if under the influence of a drug.

Moreover, the warm against his temple urged him to sleep, and –obedient as he was– that's what he did, or rather he fainted, without caring about the people who were gradually gathering around him. 

[...]

His blood had only made one turn in his veins when Ranpo had seen his friend collapse, even if he had expected that it would happen. As soon as Edgar had been far enough, he had hurried to follow him, and had arrived just in time to see him fall from the height of his six feet two. 

He ran towards him calling out to him but got no response. Ranpo pushed aside the passers-by, almost shouting at them "Go away, there's nothing to see !" and carried him on his back as best he could to his house, where he hurried to check if he was bleeding or injured. 

Why had he taken him home instead of to the Agency - which was closer and where there was an infirmary and someone probably more capable than him to take care of an injured person?

Ranpo didn't know himself, probably because he didn't want to have to explain himself or see this person again, even less impose on his poor Edgar the treatment he would have the right to with her. 

It was the first time he was worried so much about someone other than Fukuzawa, and it felt weird to react like that. When he saw Edgar straighten up after slowly opening his eyes, Ranpo had a hard time stopping himself from jumping on his neck and shouting how happy he was that he was okay, which he knew was a completely irrational reaction given the minimal magnitude of the situation... Edgar, who was swimming in total incomprehension, didn't take long to notice Ranpo.

- W-we're at your place ? he asked in a hoarse voice. 

Ranpo nodded.

- I thought you lived at the armed detectives' offices. 

The strands of his fringe parted revealed one of his eyes, under which one could see large dark circles dug by the frequent lack of sleep.

- Edgar, do you sleep enough..? 

The person concerned didn't answer, the answer was obvious anyway.

Something bothered him though: Ranpo had used his first name instead of his last name as he usually did. He deduced some interest in the question, and he just lowered his head, embarrassed that Ranpo was worrying about him. Ranpo smiled at his reaction and left, returning a few minutes later with a glass of fresh water.

- Thanks, but there's no need to do that much... 

- Maybe, but know that I have no idea how to take care of a sick person, Ranpo decreed, half-joking.

"How can such an intelligent person be so devoid of common sense? Or maybe he's lost without his ability ?" 

- And, uh, he cleared his throat before continuing; sorry for my remark earlier, it was out of place...

Edgar was flabbergasted; he recognized his mistake and he apologized ? Between that and Ranpo sharing his sweets with him, this day had been full of surprises!

- My... my behavior was too, excuse me, he answered softly. 

A small smile appeared on their respective lips.

"I definitely did well to come back here, even if all this is fictional, just a comedy, it feels good to feel appreciated..." 

Later that night, Ranpo had to fight with his guest to finally deign to eat the only edible and non-sweet thing he had at home: instant noodles.

It must have been about a week since Edgar had swallowed anything other than water or hot drinks. Even though he knew that this snack would do him a world of good, Edgar couldn't help but feel nauseous at the thought of swallowing solid food, and he had to force himself to please Ranpo.

At the end of the "meal", Ranpo had simply let himself fall into his bed fully clothed, telling the writer to sleep wherever he wanted, emphasizing the word "sleep". 

Edgar quickly cleaned the small sofa and settled down comfortably with a pled and a cushion.

He didn't have too much trouble falling asleep, lulled by the smell that the apartment gave off –surely Ranpo's scent, but he was too tired to think about it– and the relaxing atmosphere that reigned there. 

When Edgar woke up early the next morning, the first thought that crossed his mind was to go back to sleep, but the absence of a certain animal was stronger than his laziness. Confused at first, he remembered that Karl had been on his shoulders when he had fainted. 

Edgar knew his pet was fearful but intelligent, which meant he had simply jumped from his perch before impact and was –hopefully– curled up on his landing. 

He quickly scribbled a note to let Ranpo know he was leaving and hurriedly set off for home.

Luckily Karl was there, and one of his friendly neighbors had kindly taken the initiative to put out a bowl of cat food for him. 

- Oh Karl, if you knew how sorry I am, exclaimed Edgar when the raccoon jumped into his arms.

The little animal recognized his owner more when he spoke in his native language, so as soon as they were alone together Edgar began to speak English to him. 

For his part, Ranpo, who had woken up shortly after he left, was just standing there staring sadly at the note he had left him.

He knew that Edgar had gone home to take care of his pet, but he would have also liked to spend a little more time with him, at least to make sure he was eating and sleeping properly... 

Chapter Text

« If I told you about the darkness inside of me, would you still look at me like I'm the Sun ? »

- Harman Kaur -

Why did Ranpo love being transported into his writer friend's novel so much ? 

Firstly, because it took him out of the boredom of his usual routine and made his gray matter work, he sang it to whoever wanted to hear it – or not, he didn't care. 

The second reason was more personal, since it was simply that these fictional stories allowed him to escape from reality. Like a drug in some ways. 

Sometimes, before solving the mystery, he would visit the place, talk to people and have fun leading them on, those who knew nothing about him, those who could only marvel at his talents, his "ability". 

So when Edgar knocked on his door with his new book, Ranpo rushed to open it. 

He really needed to leave, to forget his problems and as soon as possible. Lately, the members of the armed detective agency –some of whom he considered his family–  were not as nice as before with him :

It was selfish, of course, but the fact that no one offered him sweets anymore, that his boss no longer offered him praise in exchange for work, or that no one praised him anymore hurted him. 

He knew it had something to do with his fight with Yosano and his relationship with Edgar, but their lack of attention was pushing him to spend even more time with him, and so on until a vicious circle was created. 

That morning, however, everything had become clear, Fukuzawa had told him explicitly : He couldn't stand it anymore, Ranpo had gone way over the edge. 

When he had arrived at the Agency, it was not the familiar benevolent smiles and admiring glances that greeted him, but the tense faces of his "friends" where anger and disgust were mixed. 

Even Kenji and Kyoka –usually so friendly– seemed to resent him. 

Ranpo had then stepped forward cautiously —he felt even smaller than usual— knowing full well that this was the consequence of his actions —his behavior, his supposedly haughty remarks— that brought about his imminent sentence. 

Arriving in front of Fukuzawa, his mouth had gone dry : the only thing he feared more than finding himself alone was that his adoptive father would disown him, which amounted to almost the same thing in the end. 

Ranpo had felt the weight of the accusing gazes hanging on his shoulders, and all he wanted now was to disappear, erasing all his mistakes. 

His boss had started talking, and Ranpo had to do everything he could to just stand there, still, listening to him. The most difficult thing to do was to silence the loud echos of his own heartbeats in his ears.

According to Fukuzawa, all Ranpo did was to cause chaos in his affairs and sow discord within the Agency, in addition to spending most of his time eating without the slightest politeness and using his intellectual superiority over his colleagues to make them do his chores for him, as if work was just a game to him. 

And to top it all off, Fukuzawa found him simply insufferable, arrogant and narcissistic. 

One by one, all the members of the A.D.A. without exception had complained, and the biggest reproach that was made to him was that through his fault, Yosano was once again tormented by his past. 

"Well she's not the only one !" He wanted to scream it out of his lungs. "I don't even remember my parents' faces, the last time they told me they loved me before they died !" 

But in order not to make things worse, he had kept quiet, as always when uncomfortable, and had put on a neutral face. 

Ranpo had been so hurt and frustrated that it had prevented him from thinking properly, and he had been at a loss to respond to his colleagues' accusations. 

- So I guess I'm fired ? He asked, making a monumental effort to keep his voice from shaking. 

- No, I can't do that, at least not permanently. I'm just temporarily removing your status, you'll be forced to toil like the new employees, Fukuzawa had answered in a cold voice. 

"Of course you're not firing me, my abilities are too valuable. People are really only interested in that..." 

It wasn't the first time someone had made this kind of remark to him, but it was becoming more and more frequent and he couldn't hold it in any longer, he wanted to throw everything away. 

Ranpo had left without saying a word, had started running once he had left the Agency and had sprained his ankle in its corridors, then had locked himself in his small apartment which was located just above and had taken refuge in a corner of his room, his arms folded around his legs that he would be against his chest, his head buried in his knees. 

And there, only there, he let himself go, here are we. 

He cried, he talked about his fears and anxieties to a stuffed animal or to the wall, when he thought the stuffed animal was looking at him askance. 

The throbbing pain that bit into his leg was nothing compared to the anarchy that reigned supreme in his head and the knots in his gut that only tightened with every breath he took. 

Ranpo knew this, he resented the others for not understanding him, but how could they ? 

He never talked about his feelings, he never went to cry in someone's arms, he never complained about his feelings of rejection, his problem with emotional dependency –or when he did, his tone was so light that others took it at face value. 

Yes, it was selfish of him to hold it against them, but he couldn't help it. 

For a moment Ranpo thought that Edgar would be the ideal person to talk to, but he quickly dismissed the thought : he could see that the writer was already struggling to cope with his personality, so talking to him about what was on his mind would only make things worse. 

The writer in question, who was planning to bring him his new novel and thought he was at the Agency, just came across a gloomy atmosphere, everyone was looking at their feet with an air of regret mixed with something indescribable.

When he entered, Edgar was given dark looks, which wasn't exactly common in this place.

He didn't bother to understand and immediately asked where Ranpo was, to which he was answered with a curt "Not here, figure it out yourself." 

Without bothering to greet them —why would he be polite after the pitiful reception he had received ?— Edgar headed toward the candy store, then passed by the pastry shop, not forgetting the park, but nothing. 

He finally called Ranpo to find out where he was. 

When the detective felt the vibrations against his thigh, he ignored them 

He did the same the next two times. 

It was only after the fourth that he decided to look at who was calling him. 

Sa surprise fut courte mais lui réchauffa tout de même le cœur.

- Ah, Poe, it's nice to get one of your calls, Ranpo said in a voice he hoped was as close to his usual tone as possible. Any reason ? 

- I was planning to bring you my new novel, but apparently you weren't in your favorite places, so I called you to find out where you were. 

- Well, I'm at home ! Well, the Agency's home. Hurry up and come, I can't wait to read your book ! 

With that he hung up and wiped his eyes, so that his friend wouldn't ask him too many questions, although that would have pleased him. 

It wasn't so much the mystery that interested him, but rather its author; the mere presence of Edgar and his striped animal greatly boosted his morale.

When Edgar arrived at the detective's house, the first thing he noticed was the way he was behaving : he seemed –no, he was– tense, the underside of his eyes was very slightly red, but enough for him to notice, and he was getting confused in what he was doing. For example, when he offered her tea, he handed him a cup of coffee. 

He was limping too, and Edgar suspected that it could only be a mistake of inattention. 

Yet, as he knew him, Ranpo never made such clumsiness – despite being clumsy as can be – and next to his usual intelligence these little actions stood out enormously. 

- Are you feeling okay Ranpo ? He finally asked him, placing his hand on his shoulder. 

Ranpo jumped, pushing his hand away with a sharp gesture, like a reflex. Surprise immobilized Edgar in his gesture a handful of seconds 

"A trauma ? Was he beaten when he was younger ?.." 

Ranpo lowered his head, slightly ashamed of his reaction. 

- It's nothing, just a passing headache... 

Edgar stared at him, as if to read through his words –the detective was always amazed at his ability to do it so well.

After what seemed like an eternity, he looked away and simply sat down on a chair and patted his thigh, as if to beckon him to come and sit down. 

Ranpo therefore came and sat down obediently, his back to him; he had total confidence –and even a little too much blindness in the eyes of some – in Edgar. 

The latter placed his hands on his back and began to exert light pressure while making circular movements around his shoulder blades. 

His hands then moved up to his trapezius muscles, where they closed to let their phalanges massage, then gradually moved down his spine, always performing the same gestures that relaxed the dark-haired man's back muscles. 

Finally, he moved his skillful fingers up from his hips to his ribs, to loosen the top of his pectoral muscles, being careful not to go below his collarbones.

Ranpo expected something like that, but not for it to calm him down this much.

Les massages étaient quelque-chose de si basique, si usuelle qu'il avait presque oublié leur existence, et contrairement à ce qu'il aurait pût penser, sentir les grandes mains de l'américain sur son dos n'était ni désagréable ni embarrassant, juste apaisant.

They stayed like that for several minutes, until the Japanese man got up and changed position, so that he was sitting facing his friend, the head of one resting on the other's shoulder, arms dangling. 

Edgar was surprised, the tiny distance that separated them was not helping matters, and he stuttered a few words, before Ranpo buried his head even more in his neck, implicitly asking him not to say anything. 

So he simply placed his hands on her head and back, gently stroking his straight hair. 

Again they stood there, without moving, without making any noise, just breathing interrupted by tiny sobs, closer to hiccups than tears. 

When Ranpo was calm, he straightened up and briefly thanked Edgar, embarrassed to have shown himself so vulnerable in front of someone. 

- If you need to talk or just a hug, I'm here, you know that, don't you, Edgar reminded him, also slightly embarrassed to show so much affection. 

Ranpo didn't answer and just nodded silently. Edgar then took out a book with a midnight blue cashmere cover, the title and author embroidered with gold thread. No matter what type of work, he liked to do it in lace, especially when it came to handicrafts.

- Don't you want to sleep before we start ? You look like you really need it. 

- Of course not ! A genius detective doesn't need rest ! 

Edgar smiled for a moment then raised his hand to the younger's face, and stroked his closed eye with the tip of his finger. 

- Before, I would have a whim to submit to you... Ranpo said in a tone that Edgar did not know. Could you speak to me in English? I like your accent, your language is pleasant to listen to. 

- Everything you want honey, and, by the way, don't worry, I'll always be here for you.

Ranpo just listened, focusing on his words so as not to think about the events of the day. 

He didn't understand a word but guessed well over half of it, so he listened to Edgar ranting to himself –without, to his great surprise, his usual stuttering– for a good half hour, before Edgar stopped, cause of a lack of ideas. 

- Even the best detective needs sleep, my dear Ranpo, said Edgar to conclude his tirade, stroking Ranpo's almost invisible dark circles. 

- Not until I solve your mystery, I really can't wait any longer ! 

Ranpo had finally regained his joviality and slightly superior tone. 

As he was impatiently stamping his feet, Edgar decided to end his suffering –sometimes he would have liked to be able to use his power on himself, alas– and transported him to one of these worlds, entirely created by his pen and his imagination, all thanks to his ability. 

As Ranpo disappeared into a bright golden light, he just had time to hear her whisper a shy "good luck." 

- Don't worry about me, try not to get too bored while I'm gone, Ranpo had replied before disappearing completely. 

The book fell gently to the ground, the illuminated pages already beginning to scroll on their own, driven by the strange power of the writer. 

Chapter Text

« People are like books... Some deceive with their cover, others surprise with their content. »

- Henri Loevenbruck -

Ranpo opened his eyes.

Everything was calm, silent, surely deserted. 

It disturbed him for a few seconds, Edgar had accustomed him to hearing a cry of agony, a gunshot or just the click of a bladed weapon. 

But this time; nothing.

Just a deathly silence that would send shivers down the spine of even the bravest. 

The only reassuring thing he saw beside the long, cold road he seemed to be walking was a small inn. 

Ranpo then headed towards, and upon entering what was his surprise to find several dead drunk men lying everywhere. He stepped over the piled up bodies to arrive at a counter, where a man dressed in rags seemed to be sleeping. 

Ranpo sat down next to him and observed his surroundings: a very simple bar, with a sideboard, stools, mostly dead light bulbs and beer mugs or bottles of drinks everywhere. 

On a calendar one could see the date: Wednesday, October 3, 1849. 

The man next to him made a sound, which distracted him from his observation. After thinking about it, the latter seemed to say something, but it was simply incomprehensible. 

Suddenly, two men - one of whom looked particularly like a doctor - entered, panicking.

They rushed towards him and the doctor immediately assessed his clinical condition. 

Ranpo who quickly understood the situation asked the waiter for a room, who accepted without hesitation.

Even if the doctor and his sidekick did not immediately understand why he was helping them, they did not relieve him and were content to take their patient to the room requisitioned on the fly while he sobered up.

When this was done, they were finally able to talk calmly. 

Sitting across from the two men, Ranpo introduced himself first, then it was the turn of the two strangers.

One –the doctor– said his name was Henry Miller while the other –a simple student in training with him– was named Joseph Walker.

They said they had received an anonymous letter telling them to come to the tavern as soon as possible.

Seeing the detective sitting there they had thought he was the sender –which was purely improbable, but Ranpo decided to leave them in their nonsense. 

At his request, the doctor handed him a small letter in question, which was accompanied by a photograph.

« Dear Mr. Henry Miller, there is a gentleman, in rather bad condition. 

He is related to me, his wife died a year ago now, he plunged into drink.

I fear that he is suffering from psychological disorders or that alcohol is the reason for him. 

It has been over a week since he left for your city without any news from us, I assure you that he needs your immediate assistance.

You will surely find him in an inn in East Baltimore. »

It was too simple, Edgar's novels were not simple video games where the characters know everything about everything, they were more complex.

In addition, the letter was incomplete, it lacked a signature, valid reasons to call a doctor and above all it lacked the name of this supposed cousin. 

- It's better to transfer him to the hospital, don't you think, Mr. Miller, asked the assistant.

- As of tomorrow morning, it's too late now. 

Cut off from his thoughts by the assistant's intervention, Ranpo gradually fell asleep, thinking about what the mystery could be this time : the identity of this victim or the thing or person that put him in this state ? Both perhaps ? 

Unfortunately he had too few clues for now, and even if he had enough to solve the riddle he would have forced his brain not to do it, he didn't want to go back to the real world, he wanted to stay in the book as long as possible. 

The next day, they went to the nearest hospital, Miller and his assistant supported the "sick" to help him walk properly.

He had not stopped repeating strange things since he woke up, like "My name is Reynolds", or incomplete parts of sentences, or even simply incomprehensible mumblings, even for Ranpo, then he had passed out again. 

The tavern keepers had provided the man with clothes, for seeing him dressed in pitiful rags was too heartbreaking for them, and the three companions carried them away, unable to change him while he was unconscious. 

When they arrived in front of the imposing medical building, Miller carried him to a room that he booked urgently, and examined his patient once more.

Another doctor, a man named Moran, came to take over a few minutes later and took him to the ward for alcoholic patients 

Ranpo, for his part, stayed with the sick man. The latter reminded him of his writer friend, with his pale mauve eyes and long brown hair.

Even though the man was covered in rags, whereas Edgar often dressed very elegantly, and was completely unconscious, a certain calm characteristic of the writer accompanied him. 

- I'm afraid he'll have epileptic seizures in the coming days. Keep an eye on him.

With that, the doctor left, leaving him alone with the man's irregular breathing. 

After checking his body temperature, Ranpo finally dozed off around 9:00 PM.

Just as his mind began to wander, a dull noise was heard, followed by movement next to him.

He opened one eye, too tired to do anything more.

The man had woken up, looking anxious and panicked, obviously delirious, shaking and sweating profusely.

He began talking to the walls of the room, without even noticing Ranpo, violently turning his head from side to side, like a tic, or rather, like a madman.

The epileptic seizure hypothesis then seemed to prove correct, and, initially tempted to channel the man, Ranpo did as the doctor had advised. 

"- In case of a seizure, be attentive. Do not sit or move the man; instead, remove objects from his surroundings. Do not try to hinder his movements. Do not give him anything to drink, and above all, note the time the seizure began and monitor its duration. If it lasts longer than five minutes, call a doctor. Finally, it is possible that he will have several in a row, it is nothing." 

So he followed the instructions word for word, but the man's condition was a painful sight to behold, and if he hadn't been accustomed to seeing horrors, the sight would surely have chilled his blood, although he struggled to remain calm in the face of it.

After a few minutes, the room became quiet again, the tension eased, and Ranpo helped the man back to bed. 

He had to get up several times during the night, so much so that when morning came, he found it impossible to get up.

His incessant nighttime awakenings weren't the only cause of his exhaustion; his mind was racing to find the riddle to solve, for he felt more like he was following the course of a story than having a mystery on his hands. 

The next morning, when Moran and Miller arrived, their shared patient's condition had not improved.

When Miller's assistant arrived, he assessed the patient and asked, "Why is he in this state ?" 

For a moment, time stood still; no one had thought about it.

It was then that Ranpo realized he would have to find the reason for the man's impending death, because yes, he no longer had any chance of salvation; it wasn't very hard to realize that. 

For the next three days, Ranpo left the hospital to go into town, familiarizing himself with the time and place.

During his research, he couldn't help but think of his writer friend. 

"Does Poe see people while I'm gone ?" 

He also inquired about the man—Moran had found the man's papers, and therefore his address, which had allowed the detective to search—and his first hypothesis was that he committed suicide by putting opium in his drink, a technique widely used at the time.

Why ? Simply because his life had been punctuated by tragedy. 

His mother died of tuberculosis before his eyes when he was very young, and he was subsequently separated from his siblings and adopted by a wealthy family.

During his studies, he remained very isolated and began drinking at an early age. 

His adoptive mother, to whom he was so dear, also died of tuberculosis.

He married, and his wife, with whom he was madly in love, died about ten years later from the same disease that took his mothers' lives. 

It seems likely that all these tragic losses seriously affected his mental health; he may have suffered from depression throughout his life, as evidenced by the dark letters he regularly sent to his remaining loved ones.

A large number of risk factors for suicide were present: the multiple losses that marked his life, the social isolation and financial difficulties that were very significant, the alcoholism from which he suffered, and perhaps, most importantly, a first suicide attempt a year earlier. 

Despite all these facts, something was wrong: Edgar was still writing about murders, and it was necessary to either find the murderer or the manner of the person's death, so suicide—which only involved the person themselves—was not a viable option.

Moreover, there was no clear argument for such a move, especially since his depression had diminished considerably in recent weeks. 

"Does Poe have leave his house since I'm here ?"  

Another hypothesis was that the man was assaulted; one might imagine that a cerebral hemorrhage, secondary to a head trauma, could have caused certain symptoms, such as an epileptic seizure. 

Indeed, bleeding within the brain tissue or between the brain and the skull can compress the brain and disrupt its function, potentially leading to abnormal neuronal excitability and an epileptic seizure.

However, when Ranpo found him in the tavern, he was indeed wearing torn clothes, but he had no injuries or bruises. According to the medical reports, although very brief, he had no fractures that would suggest such an attack. 

He then considered an illness, syphilis or cerebral tuberculosis, or even rabies, but according to Moran, the victim showed no symptoms. 

"Is Poe taking good care of himself ?"

There was the option of "copping": this was an electoral fraud technique that involved drugging a passerby with alcohol, then possibly beating them, so that they would agree to vote—perhaps several times, under several identities—for a designated candidate. 

Indeed, the election for Baltimore's next sheriff was currently underway, and supporters of each candidate were apparently desperate to ensure their candidate was elected.

A doctor had reportedly diagnosed the man with heart disease the previous year. 

The unfortunate man's heart couldn't have tolerated such a cocktail, and he would surely have succumbed to a slightly overly aggressive copping.

"Is Poe eating well while I'm gone ?"

A reaction to abrupt alcohol withdrawal, delirium tremens, was also a valid idea.

As mentioned earlier, they had a long history with alcohol: his father was known to be an alcoholic, as was his brother. 

He started drinking at 17, while studying at the University of Virginia.

His classmates reported that he would drink large quantities at that time, without particularly seeking any pleasure from it. 

The testimonies Ranpo collected were mixed on the subject, but it is likely that the man consumed alcohol regularly at certain times in his life, interspersed with periods of abstinence.

In particular, his consumption increased considerably after his wife's death, as he himself reported in one of his letters :

«I went mad, I was losing my mind. During these periods of total unconsciousness, I drank; God only knows how often and in what quantity.»

"Is Poe worried about me ?"

Ranpo finally go back to the hospital, feeling a bit light-headed.

When he arrived, Miller greeted him with a grave expression and announced the news of their patient's death.

After searching for Dr. Moran to share his theories with him, without much success, Ranpo turned to Miller to share his various theories, and as he explained, certain elements came back to him.

Certain elements, as Moran.

How had he found the man's papers ?

Why, now that he was dead, was he disappearing ?

Why were his reports so vague ?

Everything pointed to him as the prime suspect, especially since he was a candidate for Baltimore sheriff.

After a short pause, Ranpo told Miller that Moran was likely the culprit, while the pieces of the puzzle slowly fell into place. Contrary to what he had thought, his goal was indeed to discover the murderer.

As he began to fade into a soft golden light, he realized that this was surely the most complicated mystery Edgar had written for him yet, and the more he disappeared, the more dizzy he felt, until he lost consciousness completely.

Chapter Text

« If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever. »

- Alfred Lord Tennyson -

It had been three days since Ranpo had been sent into his novel, and Edgar was seriously beginning to think he should call on this Agency member who could annihilate powers.

Ranpo's mental state when he left wasn't reassuring either.

Edgar knew full well he was using his books as a distraction from real life, but he hoped Ranpo was rational enough to realize that staying in a fictional universe for too long wasn't the best idea.

He brought his thumb to his mouth and began to tear off small pieces of his nail, and as he chipped away the keratin, his finger began to bleed, too little for him to notice immediately.

It was only when a metallic taste settled on his tongue that the brunette realized one of his old tics had resurfaced.

Edgar stared at his finger for a few seconds.

"Why am I worrying so much ? In a few hours, he'll be bragging about how easy my novel was to solve..."

He took a deep breath and returned to his contemplation of the gilded pages.

He let his gaze drift along the walls of the large room he found himself in.

During the past three days, he had bought the mansion he'd been eyeing for a while, and had barely begun to move in; most of the rooms were terribly empty.

Edgar was still surprised to have found such a home in a country so attached to its culture, but he had learned from the sellers that it was a wealthy Canadian who had had it built a few decades earlier because he couldn't find any to his liking.

He finally had a home of his own in Japan, a place where he could stay without fear of being bothered by stupid stories of lineage and inheritance.

The next day, there was a knock at his door, and it was no surprise to see two members of the A.D.A. walk in.

- Good afternoon, what can I do for you, he greeted them politely.

One was a medium-sized redhead with a small, shy smile, while the other was a short, blond man with the appearance of a farmer.

After greeting him back, the younger of the two asked him if he hadn't seen Ranpo in the last four days.

Edgar thought quickly: should he tell them? Did they know their best detective was using novels as a drug ? Was it a secret, or did he have the right to tell them ? And if so, how would they react.

It's a good thing his thick bangs hid him, because his eyes were frantically searching for an exit.

- He-He's staying with me for a while, I guess.

- Could we see him? We need to talk to him.

- He's asleep, and I don't think waking him up would be a good idea...

- Oh, I see, could you ask him to come by the Agency when he wakes up ?

- Of course, I'll see to it, Edgar promised before the two young men left.

He closed the door and sighed. How was he going to do it ? If Ranpo didn't come back now, he'd be in serious trouble with the Agency, and now he couldn't ask Dazai to cancel his power, or he'd be exposed.

The sound of the knocker behind him pulled him from his thoughts, and a letter slid to his feet.

"Who could possibly send me a letter? No, rather, who could possibly care enough about me to send me a letter ?"

He bent down to pick it up, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the sender: Elizabeth Arnold Poe.

"What still does she want ?" he sighed, a bad feeling settling in uncomfortably, partially catching his breath.

It was almost scary to see that she was monitoring his bank accounts to the point of recovering his address only a few days after buying the mansion. 

He unfolded the piece of paper, immediately recognizing his mother's neat handwriting.

The content was sloppy, however, and the writer even spotted a few spelling mistakes.

A grimace of disgust crossed his face when he read it all : his mother wanted him back in America as soon as possible, supposedly for a family reunion.

"What family? I never had one," he thought with a bland smile.

All his "mother" wanted was to have him close at hand, him and especially his money.

He rolled his eyes, exasperated by Elizabeth's behavior. Despite everything, she retained authority over him, and he was obliged to obey her whims, no matter how ridiculous.

This unexpected event greatly disrupted his plans, but Edgar knew he could deal with it.

He folded the letter in four and stuffed it in his pocket, intending to throw it away later. After feeding Karl and taking his own medication, he returned to his desk. His gaze slid from page to page, and when the book suddenly closed, the light emanating from it disappeared and settled in his eyes.

He stood up just as Ranpo rematerialized in the room, accompanied by a soft glow. The detective stood upright for a few seconds before beginning to sway dangerously.

Just as he was about to collapse, Edgar rushed over and caught him at the last minute, wrapping his right arm around his shoulder.

The smile he had been congratulating him on instantly vanished, replaced by a look of panic.

Edgar had a slight idea of why and how, but the fact remained that when Ranpo reappeared in the room, his body had suddenly lurched backward, pulled by gravity.

He glanced at his rival's face: his eyes were closed, but not in their usual way.

His first instinct wasn't to take his pulse or check if he was breathing, but simply to look at him, asleep, peaceful, pure beauty.

He could kill him, he could have the victory he so desired, he could snap his neck like a twig, he could take revenge, he could do so many things, but he did none of them: it wasn't Ranpo's death he wanted to see.

It was his face right before his fall.

Ranpo's lack of movement reminded him of his duty, and he laid him down to make sure this harmony wasn't due to death.

After checking that he was only fainted and that he was breathing properly, Edgar slipped Ranpo's arm around his neck, placing his own arm behind his back, while the other went under his legs.

To his surprise, Ranpo was relatively light—he thought he was a little heavier with all the food he was eating at the moment—and he easily managed to carry him to his bed to let him rest.

His discomfort was due solely to the lack of food and hydration, because even though his novels were extremely realistic, food provided little more energy or nutrients than a sheet of paper.

And Edgar still had to remember to write that the food was actually there, because every detail, even the most trivial, had to be described, otherwise it could not exist.

Since Ranpo generally spent less than a few hours on his novels, he never cluttered his writing with such "trivial" details.

Anyway, as long as we remain within the book—in which our physical state is described—we feel neither hunger, thirst, nor fatigue.

Ranpo therefore only needed to sleep, eat, and drink.

Meanwhile, Edgar simply planned to bring the few boxes from his apartment back to the mansion. The trips back and forth took him about fifteen to thirty minutes, and after his sixth box—around six o'clock—when he came home and went to check on Ranpo for the umpteenth time, he had disappeared.

"He must have gone back to the Agency," Edgar said to himself, still a little disappointed.

Suddenly, Karl burst into the living room, a cookie in his mouth.

- Karl ! Don't eat that, Edgar exclaimed, taking the cookie from his pet. Where did you get it ?

The raccoon struggled for a few seconds before letting go and returning to the kitchen, probably to get another one.

Edgar ran after him, anxious that he might poison himself with this inappropriate food.

It was only half a surprise to him to find Ranpo sitting by the cupboards, gorging himself on everything he could get his hands on.

"Who else but him could be so reckless as to give sugar to an animal anyway..."

- Ranpo ! I'm glad to see you !

- Yeah, yeah, if you say so, he interrupted, disinterested. Don't you have anything else to eat? I gave the last cookie to Karl.

- Uh, no, I'd have to go shopping, sorry...

- Never mind, I'll take some from my stash. Otherwise, why does your mother send you letters ?

At this, he pointed to the writer's pocket, who, this time fully surprised, didn't react immediately.

- H-how do you know my mother is the sender ?

- Well, I found some family photos in your boxes, and the closer the dates get to the current date, the fewer people there are, until there's just you and a woman left, too old to be your sister or your wife, Ranpo explained.

- Oh, uh... Sorry, I shouldn't have left those old photos lying around... I was planning on burning them anyways.

- You're dodging the main question, Poe, Ranpo said flatly. I'll ask you again more explicitly if you didn't understand: what's the letter about ?

Edgar remained silent. He didn't want to dwell on such personal subjects with the detective; he knew he was smart enough to exploit the slightest weakness.

Furthermore, he was outraged by his behavior, rummaging through his things, helping himself to the cupboards without asking—even if it was mainly for him, that didn't excuse anything—giving Karl harmful food when he had enough sense to tell himself it wasn't a good idea, and asking him questions about a subject he shouldn't have been involved in.

He felt like he was dealing with a scatterbrained, thoughtless, and rude child.

Despite everything, he carefully concealed his anger and calmly told him it was none of his business, that it was an old family affair resurfacing.

- Hey, can I come with you in the States ? Ranpo suddenly asked. 

- What ? I never said I was going back ! Edgar replied, surprised again by his deductions.

- Do I really need to explain my reasoning to you? I don't particularly want to, so don't make me.

- Okay, I have to go... But it's not until next week! And I don't think Elizabeth will take kindly to me being accompanied...

- I don't give a damn about that old woman, I want to come, he interrupted again.

- And, you know, our social milieu demands politeness, not throwing yourself at the food, having manners, basically...

- Are you implying I'm rude? I know how to behave, I'm not a kid !

Running out of arguments, Edgar thought of a solution to prevent Ranpo from following him to America. He didn't want him to be in his way, and above all, he feared his mother's reaction if she saw him accompanied by such an individual.

For his part, Ranpo felt left out.

Normally, he wouldn't have cared much if his friend left without him, especially since he didn't really care about going to America, but he didn't want to stay alone in his apartment—usually, he slept at the Agency with Fukuzawa or Yosano, but that was proving a bit complicated with recent events.

However, he understood perfectly well that Edgar wasn't comfortable with this Elizabeth woman and that he didn't particularly want to return home either. Despite himself, Ranpo didn't want to leave him alone in his predicament, even though he knew perfectly well that Edgar considered him a burden for this journey.

- Anyway, I don't care about your opinion, I'm coming, period. And you know I'll find a way to make it happens.

Edgar sighed: yes, even if he refused, Ranpo would still be able to follow him, he knew that very well.

So he was forced to accept, but as soon as he saw the mischievous look on his rival's face, he regretted his choice.

- So, which do you prefer, boat or plane ?

After verbally setting up the most important details, the taller of the two told the other to start packing. They would be leaving in six days, for a trip lasting about a week, if not longer.

- Besides, two armed detectives came by earlier; they wanted to see you, Edgar reminded.

Ranpo grumbled that he didn't want to see them, before giving Edgar a look from beyond the grave when the latter told him he'd spent four whole days in his novel.

- All right... I'll go see them, but when I get back, we're leaving ! I don't want to stay here any longer. Oh, and I'll take the opportunity to tell them I'm taking a vacations.

Edgar watched his friend—or rival, maybe both? He himself didn't know anymore—walk away, boasting about how much they would all need him when he was gone.

He sighed for the umpteenth time that day: had he really made the right choice in agreeing to take him ?

Chapter Text

« There is nothing more precious in this world than the feeling of existing for someone. »

- Victor Hugo -

Taking Ranpo with him was definitely and by far the worst idea the young writer had ever has.

And the more he recalled the two reasons he'd agreed to it, the more he realized he should have also thought a little more about the drawbacks.

"It would reassure me to have someone by my side to 'confront' my mother, and I... I suppose it would do her a good change of scenery with what's going on at the Agency right now..."

First of all, the detective had never flown before, but he also had no manners: when a ticket inspector wanted to check his ticket, he refused, snatching it from his hands—after which the poor man had to rack his brains to give an adequate response to his accusations, accusations that boiled down to: "You'll steal it if I give it to you."

Then he refused to let the security agent check his suitcase, and after much hesitation, he agreed, declaring that he had warned them. When they opened his luggage, a multitude of sweets of all kinds tumbled onto the airport floor, under the astonished gaze of the security agent.

Then they had to pick everything up, without Ranpo's help of course, because according to him, he had warned them.

Still, according to him, the airport was a place where people were treated like cattle.

So, under Edgar's protests, he climbed onto a ledge originally used for posting flyers and proclaimed the following speech :

- People who wander around this gray and dull place, listen to me ! You are not animals, stop following this dictatorial system, rebel with me !

Edgar retreated into the dazed crowd, not wanting to be seen, mortified.

Of course, no one followed Ranpo, and some even started to laugh, wondering where such a crazy young man could have come from.

Overcoming his embarrassment, Edgar walked towards the promontory and tugged at a hem of his Inverness cape to signal him to come down.

He finally reluctantly agreed, but when they had to wait quietly to take the flight, it was a real nightmare for Edgar.

At first, it was fine; Ranpo had been fairly calm, but after about ten minutes, he started rocking in his chair, making enough noise to annoy everyone in the room, and giving Edgar a headache on top of that.

And as if his goal had been to make as many people hate him as possible, he had the brilliant idea of spouting random, rather embarrassing or personal facts about them.

After about thirty minutes, someone even went to complain to an officer, and Edgar had to defend his friend while the latter hid behind him, occasionally sticking his tongue out at the officer.

To prevent him from continuing to be unbearable, he had taken him on his lap, like a toddler, and held him there for about three-quarters of an hour.

Leaving the room to head towards the plane, Ranpo had sulked at the poor brunette, but once in front of the enormous vehicle, he had completely forgotten about him and ran around it, until another security guard intervened.

On the plane, the hardest part had been rigging up his cabin suitcase, holding it in place under the front seat until takeoff—making him comply with safety instructions had also been hard work.

Once settled in, Ranpo tilted his seat back and placed his baker's hat on his face, before sinking down completely, immediately falling asleep.

Edgar watched him for a few minutes before his gaze fell on the edge of a green, almost emerald, object, with thin gold lines visible, sticking out of Ranpo's suitcase.

"It's not surprising that something is sticking out of his suitcase, considering how he's crammed it with useless things, but I never thought he'd take a book with him." 

Suddenly, a realization hit him like a slap in the face: this wasn't just any book, it was the one he'd left behind at the Uzumaki café a few weeks earlier.

He waited a moment to make sure the little detective was asleep before reaching out to grab the book.

He gave up at the last second, however: if Ranpo had taken this single book with him and had already leafed through its contents, it would seem suspicious if it disappeared while Edgar was right next to him. Besides, he probably suspected him of being the author, because even though he was a child, he was still far more intelligent than average, and this action would only reinforce, or even confirm, his hypothesis.

" I'll get it back later, too bad..."

Unfortunately for him, Ranpo only slept a tiny hour, even though their journey was going to last about ten, and once they arrived in San Francisco, they'd have to take another plane to Baltimore, which would take another five hours.

Plus, the altitude was giving him a headache, and hearing Ranpo blab for the remaining fourteen hours wasn't going to hell.

- Poe, you smell like verbena.

- Oh, uh, do you mind? Sorry, I like it, but I agree, it smells strong...

- Why are you apologizing ? I didn't even say I didn't like it or anything, Ranpo grumbled in response. Can we switch places? I want to look out the window.

Edgar reluctantly agreed. He really loved watching clouds; he could truly spend hours observing each type of cloud or the ground below.

Ranpo pressed himself against the window, as if he couldn't see well enough just by being next to it, but soon grew tired of it and took out a candy-pink Game Boy.

The constant noise escaping from the console had the gift of greatly irritating Edgar's nerves.

In an attempt to isolate himself from this unbearable noise, he took out his headphones and shuffled his playlist.

For a good hour, he was able to close his eyes, breathe, and relax.

When Ranpo finally looked away from his console, he observed his friend's serene face: his thin, pink lips stretched into a calm and delightful smile, his closed eyes underlined by light purplish circles—they had diminished compared to the first time he had seen him—that could be seen through his scattered brown locks, his pale, almost ghostly complexion.

The sunlight piercing the dark plane traced the delicacy of his features, highlighting his finest features and hiding his few flaws.

He remained more captivated by this scene than by the sublime spectacle offered by the sunset above the clouds.

The detective even made the effort to open his eyes to see the slightest detail that might have escaped him.

Edgar opened one eye, surprised to hear only half of the music.

His cheeks took on a slight crimson color when Ranpo moved closer to him to rest his head on his shoulder and he realized he had taken his headphone.

Edgar remained rigid in the same position—stiff as a board, his fists clenched on his knees—while Ranpo was amused to see him like this.

He had maintained the same position until he developed cramps, under the playful gaze of the detective, who had grown tired of it after about ten minutes and returned to his Game Boy—he still took the initiative to turn down the volume—his head still resting on his shoulder.

"Is this really how I should behave with him as a rival ? Well, since my goal is to get closer to him, I suppose so..."

After ten long hours on a plane, Edgar didn't need to be asked twice to get off, Ranpo at his heels.

He took a deep breath, happy to be on American soil again, happy to hear a familiar language, happy to see native faces.

Unlike him, Ranpo wrinkled his nose, looking at the passersby with a certain disgust.

- Your country stinks.

- Don't be too rude, Ranpo... It just smells of kerosene.

- People have weird faces, they all look like Francis.

- Stop complaining, will you ? You insisted on coming, so take responsibility, Edgar snapped, irritated by the derogatory remarks about his homeland.

His tone was a little colder and harsher than he'd intended, but at least he was sure Ranpo had understood.

At the same time, Edgar couldn't blame him; Ranpo tended to say whatever came to mind.

What surprised him, however, was that he acted like a child hiding in his mother's skirts, because he constantly stayed behind him—he who so loved to show off—tightly holding onto a piece of his jacket, as if afraid of getting lost.

Knowing him, Edgar was sure that once he arrived safely, he'd shout from the rooftops that he was the best detective anywhere, but he didn't.

In the heart of the airport, while he was busy trying to find their next flight to Baltimore, he saw the Japanese man walking towards him, struggling to put one foot in front of the other, clutching his stomach.

- Ranpo? Is everything okay ?

- Do I look okay? I feel like I'm going to be sick...

- Oh, it's nothing, it's just the change of scenery which hit you really bad, you'll get over it.

- Speaking of bad, those guys over there aren't very clean.

He looked in the direction the detective had indicated, and sure enough, three men who must have been about his age were leering at him without embarrassmen

- Yeah, be careful, there's some real trash here, stay close to me, it's better...

- If it makes you happy, he mumbled, not entirely convinced. Anyway, what does "delayed" mean ?

- It means that the plane will not takeoff, why ?

- On the big sign, it says that next to Baltimore.

Edgar remained silent, disappointed at having to wait until tomorrow to go home, but also grateful to have one more night to mentally prepare.

- We'll have to sleep in a hotel tonight, the flight's delayed until tomorrow, he explained.

- That's all well and good, but I don't speak a word of English. How do I even talk to them ?

Edgar stared at him as if he'd just said something absurd, baffled.

- Ranpo.

- What.

- I'm an English speaker.

- And not me. How do I ask for a room at the hotel, silly ?

Edgar pinched the bridge of his nose, tired.

- But I'll ask for you, it's not fucking complicated.

- I just told you I don't understand your language.

He didn't even bother to reply; anyway, he knew very well that continuing this deaf discussion would only annoy him even more.

So he simply left for the nearest hotel, not even checking that the Japanese man was following him.

Arriving in front of the hotel—it was really big and looked luxurious—he walked over to the reception desk and politely asked for two rooms.

Luckily for him, the cliché of "we only have one room left" was a fictional reality.

On the other hand, there were no longer two adjoining rooms available, so they would each be on a different floor: Edgar in room 1-849 and Ranpo in 1-965.

There was a seemingly endless queue for the elevator, so one chose to take the stairs, much to the protests of the other.

Edgar didn't help him carry his suitcase, simply because his was already heavy enough, and when he reached his floor, he saw him arrive, out of breath, dragging his suitcase behind him, his hair a mess, my mouth slightly open, letting out a thin stream of air, his cheeks flushed with exertion.

Edgar went to drop off his luggage and lock his room, before helping Ranpo finish bringing his own up.

After quickly helping him settle in, he was about to go back down to his floor, but the Japanese man held him back and wished him goodnight.

He gave a broad smile, which Edgar returned more calmly.

He then went downstairs to his own room—it was rather small and luxurious, with a double bed in the center, the bathroom in a small room on the right, a glass wall overlooking the city of San Francisco below, and the walls, furniture, and linens were all milky white—and no sooner had he changed than he fell stiff, relishing the warmth of the sheets—he could have, if he were still able to think clearly, compared them to the maternal hugs he had never received.

Despite everything, he only managed to fall asleep until footsteps echoed in the hallway, then the distinctive click of the door's mechanical lock, and finally, more or less discreet footsteps approached his bed.

"He can't let me go, even at night... After all, it's not really as if he woke me up since I wasn't asleep," Edgar thought as he sat up, his hand on his temple.

- How did you get in, he asked, getting up slowly.

- I figured out the door code, Ranpo replied simply, his voice small and sleepy.

- And why are you bursting into my room in the middle of the night ?

- You're going to think this is silly, Ranpo began, clutching a rather old-looking stuffed cat to him, but I can't sleep alone, and I miss Fukuzawa...

- You... You want to sleep with me, right ?..

He nodded affirmatively.

"What the hell did I do to deserve this..."

Edgar lay down and made room for Ranpo, who snuggled up close to him, like a cat.

Contrary to what he thought, his presence didn't affect him too much; his body warmth even soothed him.

- Good night, Poe... Ranpo mumbled, almost asleep.

- Good night, dear, he replied, placing a hesitant kiss on his forehead.

Ranpo blushed slightly, but it went unnoticed in the surrounding darkness.

They eventually fell asleep, enjoying what each other had to offer.

Chapter Text

« One of the hardest battles we fight in life is the war between the mind that knows the truth, and the heart that refuses to accept it. »

- S.Hyun -

Ranpo hadn't woken up this early in several years, and he would surely have done more than curse the raccoon that had pawed his eyes open if its owner hadn't been such a comfortable cushion.

He remained in the same position, ignoring the animal, his head resting on the writer's chest, lulled by the movement of his ribcage and the melody of his heartbeat.

Although he was the type to tire of it quickly, the dark-haired man enjoyed this gentle, endless waltz for several minutes.

It was only when it sped up considerably that he deigned to raise his head, annoyed, to realize that what served as his cushion had changed from beige to peony red.

- I'm not sure it's very good for your nerves to react like that so early in the morning, Ed, he remarked, getting up to stretch.

Edgar didn't respond, too stunned to do anything, whether it was speak or organize his thoughts.

After a long moment of staring alternately at the wall in front of him, his pet, and his friend, the events of last night came back to him: in a semi-conscious state, he had agreed to let Ranpo—who had broken into his room—sleep with him.

Edgar sighed, gradually calming his breathing.

Although Ranpo wasn't the most gifted person when it came to feelings—which bothered him, as he was used to figuring things out faster than average—he understood Edgar's reaction.

Lately, his favorite hobby was finding any way possible to make him react, although the tall, dark-haired man didn't seem to realize it.

He, who was so calm and withdrawn, seeing him blush violently at the slightest, slightly inappropriate, action was ridiculous enough to make even the most stoic laugh—at least from his point of view.

Just as Ranpo had just left to get his suitcase, someone knocked at the door : a neatly dressed man was standing there, two trays containing their breakfasts in his arms.

- Good morning, Mr. Your breakfast and that of your friend. He told me to give it to you.

"Thanks Google Translate," thought Edgar.

- Thank you very much, replied Edgar, bowing slightly, a habit he had acquired during his stay in Japan.

After this brief exchange of courtesies, the waiter gave him the food and left. Edgar placed them on the bed, waiting for Ranpo to return, which didn't take long.

Not really understanding the concept of "one tray each," the latter picked at what interested him, including the orange juice, the waffle, and the sugar cubes—which were originally intended for a coffee.

Edgar watched him do this; it didn't bother him too much since the only thing he was going to consume would be coffee and his medication.

While waiting for the detective to finish eating, he went to get dressed. He entered the bathroom and locked the door behind him, then took off his shirt.
There, as he looked at his protruding ribs in the mirror, the apprehension of returning "home" returned suddenly, accompanied by all the unpleasant memories that this cursed place harbored.

After a deep breath, he got dressed and left, the voices of his deceased family echoing in his mind.

- Poe.

The man in question, who had kept his head down until now, looked up at his interlocutor.

- They're dead, stop thinking about it. Dead people don't talk.

He said nothing, simply putting his things away in silence.

[...]

That was it, they had arrived.

Edgar stood there, on the landing of the family mansion, his hand on the knocker.

A heartbeat, then two, then thr-

- We're not going to spend the night here, come on, Ranpo grumbled behind him.

He stepped forward and rapped three loudly on the door, under his disapproving gaze.

"What a bad idea I had, Ô what a bad idea..."

The wide, solid wooden door opened, and two butlers greeted them.

- Miss Elizabeth awaits you in the secondary parlor, the first announced in perfect English, while the second relieved them of their jackets and suitcases.

The writer had never really appreciated this luxury, nor this rich decoration, which gave the rooms—which were crowded with them—an unbearably heavy atmosphere.

It was with growing apprehension that Edgar entered the famous secondary parlor.

Unlike the other rooms, this one was rather plain, with large windows illuminating it.

At the far end sat his mother, seated on a crimson satin sofa. She was a middle-aged woman, about fifty, skilled with her words and whose presence alone commanded respect, although few remained immune to her charms.

Elizabeth Arnold Poe was nothing like the wrinkled, sour, filthy woman one might imagine when one mentioned the word "wicked mother."

- You're late, she said, walking towards her son, a stern expression etching her features.

- Good morning, Mother.

Not bothering to respond to this futile politeness, her gaze shifted from the young man she shared blood to the one standing behind him, his half-open eyes shining with an unpleasant gleam.

How could such a haughty woman have produced someone as calm, patient, and helpful as the writer ?

- Is that old hag really your mother, he asked in a disgusted tone.

Edgar thanked all the gods that his mother didn't speak a word of Japanese, but he still gave his rival a stern look.

Being stuck between the two people who loathed him the most but to whom he was forced to submit was difficult to bear.

- Who is this, Elizabeth asked, sizing up Ranpo, a disapproving eyebrow raised.

- You don't deserve to know that. Just be content with the fact that you're dealing with the best detective in the world, the latter replied, closing his eyes again, not wanting to give her the privilege of seeing them.

- His name is Ranpo Edogawa, translated Edgar, while the man in question glared at him.

Elizabeth snorted disdainfully, her brown curls dancing lightly on her finely sculpted shoulders.

- Edgar, come with me, she ordered, pointing to another room, much smaller and more cramped.

He nodded and followed her reluctantly, signaling to the detective not to do the same. The American woman locked the door behind them, while her son sat down on one of the benches that flanked the storage room.

The air hung with an unpleasant, sweet smell of molasses and tobacco.

She sat opposite him, crossing her legs, staring straight into his eyes, which she miraculously managed to glimpse beneath his bangs—the writer always felt uncomfortable around people who managed to do so—and began speaking in a dry voice :

- Who is this young man ?

- His name is Ranpo Edogawa, he repeated like a robot.

- No, what I want to know is what he means to you, Edgar.

Edgar jumped; he had never dwelled on that point.

What was the detective to him ?

A rival ?

Of course.

A friend, a confidant ?

Maybe.

More ?

He wasn't really sure, even though lately his heart had been racing at the slightest touch, at the mere sight of him.

- He's a fr-

A friend?

No.

It was fake.

Their friendship was false, the center of his revenge.

He didn't like Ranpo Edogawa.

And Ranpo Edogawa despised him.

That was the essence of their relationship, whatever it was.

- He's my rival. I intend to take revenge, to break him, he had finally said flatly.

It shouldn't have been, but those words stung, even burned, his tongue, his mouth, his throat.

- Break him, you say ? And how ?

- I plan to become one of his friends, and in a few days I'll let him go and tell him everything.

Elizabeth pinched the bridge of her nose, unnerved by the almost candid innocence of the only child she had left.

- Edgar. Do you really think losing a friend will hurt him ?

- Uh... Yes ?

- But of course not ! Think about it, damn it ! You're too naive... He must have so many, one less won't mean anything to him, he'll have forgotten you the next day !

He felt so stupid when he realized his error in judgment that he wanted to laugh at his own stupidity.

Of course Ranpo wouldn't care; he wasn't like him, he was resplendent in everyone's eyes, a prodigy of intelligence whose affection everyone wanted.

He was just a poor writer, barely gifted in his own field, an introvert who became attached too quickly to anyone who paid him the slightest attention and to whom people didn't even speak, for fear of catching all sorts of diseases.

Ranpo surely had in mind to abandon him too, just to push him down even further, to take away what little honor he had left.

- I don't love you, but you're so ridiculous that I'm going to give you some advice.

She picked up a newspaper and tore out a page.

Edgar, slightly hurt by her words, decided to listen to her carefully anyway.

If there was one thing he knew his mother was good at, it was manipulation.

- If you're going to tear it up, you don't want a small relationship to break, she folded and then tore the corner of the page. The more your relationship develops, the harder the breakup will be to take.

She folded the newspaper in half, then in quarters, and tore it again, throwing the largest part in the trash, crumpling the remaining quarter.

- Do you understand ?

Faced with his silence, she continued :

- If you want to break him, you have to take him to the heart, you have to become the most important person in his eyes, so that he can't be without you.

A pause followed, during which Edgar pondered the option presented to him for a long time : it was doable, but who would want someone like him ?

Certainly not the world's greatest private detective.

But hey, after all, nothing ventured, nothing gained, so it was still worth a try.

- I was planning on organizing a ball to find you a companion, but you can use it to get closer to him.

- Y-yes, thank you, Mother...

She responded with an annoyed sniffle and gestured for him to leave, grabbing her hookah and something to light it with.

"I didn't want a gay son, but he'll obviously end up falling prey to that other stranger's charms; he's far too naive. In the end, he'll be so upset when he leaves him behind that he'll take a fiancée to forget him."

The writer quietly and conscientiously closed the door, thinking about the ball Elizabeth had told him about.

- Boo !

He had barely turned around to see where the onomatopoeia was coming from when his poor raccoon was thrown with force.

- Ranpo...

- He bit me ! Karl bit me !

- That's no reason to throw him at me.

- That is ! After a short pause, he continued : So, what did you talk about with the old woman ?

- She asked me to attend a ball, and to bring a dance partner, s-so I was th-thinking that, um...

- You want to ask me to be that dance partner, is that it ?

- Y-yes, he confirmed, embarrassed as hell, his cheeks flushed, clutching his raccoon.

- Fine, since you insist.

With a big smile, Ranpo climbed the stairs, skipping from step to step. The ball was supposed to start around 7:00 PM, and it was only 4:00 PM, so they had a few hours to get ready.

As Edgar headed to the bathroom, the detective began rummaging through his things, looking for something too small that he could wear. He was shocked by the number of outfits, each one more ornate than the last, from silk to velvet, lace, and gold.

He took out a rather transparent white ruffled shirt, black silk pants, and a corset. Ranpo put the first two on without any problem, but when he had to untie the corset and realized he didn't even know how, he sat on the floor and sulked, waiting for Edgar to return.

He arrived a few minutes later, wearing a basic shirt and pants, a gray blazer, and a long black tailcoat. Added to this were several pieces of jewelry of all kinds, and black fishnets gloves.

- Your thing sucks, it's too many threads, grumbled Ranpo.

He handed him the corset, and Edgar couldn't suppress a laugh at his reaction, which made him pout even more.

The writer opened it without much difficulty and put it on, slipping it behind his back, his arms around his waist, leaning over his shoulder so he could see what he was doing.

- It'll feel weird at first, but you get used to it, don't worry, he warned, close to his ear.

The proximity made Ranpo shudder, but he let himself go anyway.

Gently, Edgar tugged on the strings of the girdle, tightening it around his slim waist, readjusting the top and bottom, then he yanked both strings loose.

This action elicited a squeak of surprise from one of them, while the other simply devoured the perfect curve of his hips, enhanced by the corset. Usually he was the one who wore the corsets because of his size —it gave him a slender and elegant look— but he had to admit that it suited Ranpo more than well too.

He finished by lacing what remained of the string before taking Ranpo to a mirror, placing his hand on the hollow of his hip to move him.

- You are very beautiful, my dear.

Chapter Text

« It's impossible, says Pride .

It's risky, says Experience.

It's hopeless, says Reason.

Let's try, whispers the Heart.  »

- William Arthur WARD -

- And will there be food ?

- Yes...

- And will there be music ?

- Yes...

- And will there be g-

- Oh shut up, damn it !

Edgar had spoken so loudly that his voice bounced off the sides of the car, rattling the glass and leaving Ranpo speechless.
Ever since they left, he hadn't stopped asking her questions, as if he'd never been to a ball—which he probably hadn't—and his incessant flow of talk had gradually given her a headache.

- I-I'm sorry, I didn't m-mean to yell at you, I...

Through Ranpo's slightly transparent white shirt, Edgar could see his shoulders slump imperceptibly. He had shifted slightly toward the window, and his mouth was trembling very slightly, a sign that he was blaming himself, or that he was afraid his reaction would be too harsh.

What he had recently realized was that Ranpo wasn't being so self-centered and talkative on purpose; he was doing it to compensate for something he lacked.

What ? He still had no idea, but he had made it his goal to understand his childish attitude.

After a few seconds of silence, Edgar placed a hesitant hand on Ranpo's thigh and began speaking in a soft voice, forcing himself to choose the right words without stuttering.

- Listen, I'm sorry, you can keep asking me your questions if you want. I don't mind, it's just that I don't do well on transport...

Lying to Ranpo was one of the stupidest things you could do, but a little white lie embellishing the bland reality never hurt anyone.

A thin smile nevertheless crept across his face, and he placed his hand on top of hers, intertwining their fingers.

His hand was slender, warm, and soft, pleasant to hold; it nestled perfectly in Edgar's long, cold, and thin hand.

As the minutes passed, more people crowded the sidewalks, his smile faded, while Ranpo's seemed to widen. The latter moved his hand away to press himself against the window and watch the houses passing by, beginning to light up, in time with the streetlights lining the road, leaving iridescent reflections on the surface of the water.

The States were a very different country from Japan, but just as beautiful and colorful.

Edgar could never say it enough, but although he wasn't a big food lover, he was truly happy to be back with his pancakes and meat loaves, far from the overly sweet sushi and mochi, far from the rice, near his wheat and potatoes, with cooked fish, and meat in a form other than dumplings.

The car stopped in front of a gigantic building, angelic white, from which escaped a soft golden light accompanied by pleasant classical and jazz music.

Edgar got out of the car and went to open the door for his partner, extending his hand, gentlemanly.

Although he expected him not to understand the gesture and to get out as if nothing had happened, Ranpo once again placed his hand in his and gently pressed it against it, as if Edgar were made of glass and might shatter at any moment.

Edgar hesitated greatly to take his hips, but held back, thinking it would be inappropriate, especially in their current situation.

They walked into the hall of the building, passing under a magnificent carved granite arch, before entering the main hall, which was already packed with people. It was a spacious and luxurious place, painted in white and yellowish hues, richly decorated, illuminated by large chandeliers placed here and there, whose flames reflected on the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, easily dispersing a soft light.

Faced with this sea of people, Edgar immediately felt nauseous and regretted having come.

Ranpo squeezed his gloved hand a little tighter to comfort him, having felt him trembling a little.

They made their way through the crowd, which moved to the rhythm of Ludwig van Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata."
Edgar was very fond of this German composer; he was a genius conductor and a pianist with a touch of magic.

- Ranpo, there's a buffet with snacks at the back of the room, but don't overeat, the meal will be serv-...

No sooner had he said the word "buffet" than Ranpo disappeared into the crowd.

A little disappointed that he'd left, Edgar decided to move closer to one of the walls of the room to avoid fainting.

- Edgar.

He jumped when he heard his mother's voice.

Elizabeth stood upright on her four-inch heels, wearing a long red dress that opened at her right thigh, revealing the center of her chest.

- Take your hair out of your eyes; it makes you look even uglier than you already are.

She reached out to touch her face, but as she was about to touch it, Edgar instinctively recoiled, and Elizabeth muttered something like, "What a coward..." in an exasperated tone.

She reached out again and brushed her hair back, revealing her mauve eyes, rimmed with dark circles, and her long eyelashes.

He definitely hated being like this, but he had to comply with his mother's wishes.

- You're already less embarrassing. Try going dancing a little; you shouldn't do too badly if you take after your father.

Elizabeth finished her sentence with a more pronounced disdain than usual, but Edgar paid no attention and headed towards the buffet where Ranpo was surely standing.

He was indeed there, doing the exact opposite of what he'd recommended.

- R-Ranpo...

- Yeah?

- Would... Would you f-like to go d-dancing?

- Not now, I'm eating right now. He looked away from the food for a moment to Edgar, whose cheeks had turned pink with embarrassment. And what's with the stupid haircut ? Put that hair back in front of your face, you look much better like this !

Ranpo walked over to him to ruffle his hair and put it back in place.

- Promise me you'll never use gel, please... he begged.

- Y-yes... I promise...

He moved away again, his cheeks burning with embarrassment at having asked his rival for a waltz, but especially at having been refused.

It was soon time to sit down at the table, and Ranpo joined him, happily sitting next to him.

Throughout the meal, dishes of every imaginable and unimaginable flavor passed before the guests' eyes: caviar, mixed salads, meats, fish, vegetables presented with various sauces...

Despite the shared enthusiasm, Edgar only picked at the few meager scraps of food he had plucked from the large silver platters.

The others were far too busy raving about the food to notice him anyway.

A huge cake—which servants had brought in on a cart, so imposing was it—now sat in the middle of the large table.

A childish smile once again crossed Ranpo's face, already relishing the scent of sugar tickling his sense of smell.

The wedding cake was a marvel of creation, and it must have been so full of sugar that anyone would have a blood sugar attack if they took more than one slice.

Seeing everyone standing up to take a slice, he did the same, holding out the plate he'd used for the meal rather than the tiny one brought to him, ignoring the disapproving looks from those present.

For his part, as soon as the colossal cake had arrived, Edgar had felt sick, and he knew that if that horrible sweet smell continued to unpleasantly invade his nostrils, he would throw up what little he had managed to swallow.

Furthermore, the exclamations provoked by the dessert were giving him a headache, and he felt as if a vice was closing in on him, forcing him to soon eat that horrible, sweetish thing.

Feeling violently nauseous, he took advantage of the general crush, and the fact that neither Ranpo nor Elizabeth were watching him, to retreat to a quieter spot, in other words, the balcony—very large and semicircular, it could surely accommodate about ten people—which offered a magnificent view of the sea.

He climbed the stairs with difficulty, clutching his stomach and using the railing as a support, sweating profusely.

When he reached the top, Edgar took a deep breath of fresh air, then gazed at the city to clear his head.

But nothing worked; he felt like a million contemptuous stares were staring at him, he felt as if he were collapsing under the weight of their reproaches, as if he were suffocating.

The landscape blurred and began to sway, so he slid against the railing, feeling his legs tremble, as if they would give way at any moment, and tried to calm his breathing, which was becoming increasingly rapid and ragged, without much success.

He placed his hand on his chest, realizing that his heart was also pounding.

It wasn't nearly as pleasant as when it happened to him while Ranpo was teasing him. No, Edgar felt as if someone had opened his ribcage and were trying to rip out his heart, even if it meant pulling on it repeatedly, harder and harder, more and more violently.

He closed his eyes, hoping to find some peace in the darkness his eyelids offered, but again it was useless.

Flashes of heat rose to his head, making it dizzy and nauseated once again, and he put his free hand over his mouth.

He felt as if the balcony floor had turned into a raging ocean, and as if he were standing on a small plank being buffeted by the waves and the wind.

Just as his upper body threatened to collapse under its own weight, a voice called out to him.

- Ed ! Ed, are you okay ?

At first distant and faint, it became more and more insistent, until Edgar opened his eyes, which were horribly glassy.

- Edgar Allan Poe! Answer me or I'll start to worry for real, the voice shouted at him, almost pleading.

Surprised to hear his full first and last name, the man raised his head a little and realized that the voice calling him belonged to a young man, leaning over him, an anxious glint veiling his beautiful emerald eyes.

He had placed his hand on his cheek, trying in vain to get the slightest sign of life from him.

Edgar placed his own hand on his, pressing his cheek against it.

- I-It's okay, Ranpo... I'm fine... he reassured him weakly.

- I don't like seeing you like this, you know...

It was the first time Edgar had seen Ranpo worried; he really seemed like he didn't understand what was happening to him, and that must have scared him even more.

He stood up with his help and the guard, as a soft melody began to rise from the main hall.

Ranpo smiled and, after checking that Edgar was fit to grant his request, extended his hand, the other behind his back, bowing slightly.

- Would you grant me this dance, my dear ?

The latter smiled, recognizing the music his father used to play on the manor's grand piano: "Comptine d'un autre été, l'après-midi" by Yann Tiersien.

He delicately took the hand that was extended to him, placing the other on his waist, while his partner placed his own free hand on his shoulder.

Lulled by the soft song of the piano, their bodies moved against each other elegantly.

It was restful, relaxing, and soon the only thing occupying the two young men's minds was this tender waltz and the music that accompanied them; nothing else existed, neither the party, nor the building, nor their problems.

Ranpo came to nestle against his chest, inhaling his sweet scent.

Edgar wasn't bothered by the pleasant, sweet scent he gave off.

They danced like this until the sound of the piano slowly faded, but reality didn't return with the silence; they remained in their own world, glued to each other.

Ranpo moved back just a few inches so he could look his partner in the eyes.

He released his hand and slowly slid it down to the nape of his neck, along with the one on Edgar's shoulder, who was looking a little lower than his eyes.

Edgar ran his free hand against his cheek, tangling his fingers with his ashen locks.

They slowly moved closer together, until they could feel each other's breath against their faces.

And, gently, as light as a feather, their lips met in a sweet kiss. 

Chapter Text

« Losing is not my enemy, it is the fear of losing that is. »

- Rafael Nadal -

Between two passionate kisses, Ranpo pulled away a few millimeters to catch his breath, his sweaty hands tangled in his partner's long brown curls, whose large hands comfortably encircled his waist over his corset.

Small clouds of mist rose from her lips, reddened by their exchanges on this cool late summer night.

He wanted to throw himself again on that mouth which—by offering itself to him like that—was just begging to be devoured, but suddenly something changed in his gaze.

Ranpo stepped back a few steps, tearing himself away from Edgar's gentle grasp, who looked at him for a moment, waiting so as not to rush him.

But the Ranpo didn't do anything and looked away, muttering thin, incomprehensible words, before turning on his heel and heading down the stairs to the common room, ignoring the writer who was calling his name weakly, sheepish and lost.

He desperately needed to clear his head and drink something strong, even though Fukuzawa and Yosano had repeatedly told him not to drink alcohol, with only one argument being an obscure event they categorically refused to discuss and which he himself didn't even remember.

The room was still as noisy as when he'd left, although the sweet scent of the wedding cake had been replaced by a more bitter fragrance.

Ranpo moved closer to the counter and examined the menu pinned to the wall.

A name caught his attention: Irish Coffee.

That's what he asked the bartender, curious and aware that it was this "something strong" that he needed.

As soon as he had it in his hands, he took a sip; instantly, the drink burned his lips, his tongue, the roof of his mouth, his throat...

It was so different—bitter, strong, almost sickening—from what his mouth had been accustomed to until then—sweet, sensual, fresh—that he almost choked, spitting it out as if he'd sneezed, under the mocking glances of the people around him.

Luckily for him, he didn't care as much about it as he had about his first investigation, and still amidst those hilarious murmurs and chuckles, he went back to the bar to ask for more sugar.

- Excuse me?

- He asked for more sugar in his Irish, please, a male voice called out from behind him, as he realized that probably no one here except him and Edgar spoke Japanese.

His mind was so clouded by euphoria since he'd kissed him that he couldn't think straight, and even the silliest things escaped him.

He abruptly—stupidly—stepped away from Edgar, knowing full well that the latter would take it the wrong way—that wasn't his intention, obviously, but he only thought of that afterward.

He was terrified by this sensation, by the feeling that he was abandoning himself in those warm arms, against those comforting lips, that all his senses were heightened to the detriment of his critical faculties.

It was so new, so sudden, that when he realized it, he became frightened and cowardly ran away, without further explanation to his poor writer.

- Ranpo you...he hesitated for a moment. You shouldn't drink that, it's alcoholic, and your boss advised you against it.

The man looked him in the eyes, then took another sip—this time after blowing carefully on the drink—still staring at him insolently.

Once again, the taste of coffee, enhanced by the whiskey but softened by the sugar, invaded his senses, making his head spin slightly.

- To hell with their stupid rules, he said with difficulty. They're not here to enforce them, and that's a good thing!

- But Ranpo... Fukuzawa trusted me by letting me bring you with me here to America, and I-

- Oh, Ed! I don't need his approval to do everything, other than to take some well-deserved time off!

- But isn't he like an adoptive father to you? Anyway, from what I understand, I don't know.

- Yes, yes, Ranpo replied, waving his hand in a disinterested gesture, but only children need stupid parental approval.

- Yes, but he said wh-

- But what do you all have anyway?! Yosano, Fukuzawa, and now you! Even if I act like a kid, I'm twenty-six years old, and I'd appreciate being treated like one! He exclaimed, slamming his glass against the bar.

Ranpo must have been very sensitive to alcohol—perhaps because he never drank it—because his cheeks were rosy and his movements a little awkward, and Edgar had never seen him get so worked up.

- We should go home, it's getting late... Edgar tried.

Royally ignoring him, Ranpo ordered a glass of anise liqueur, downed it in one gulp, and set off toward the dancers, his barely audible protests threatening him.

He soon found a date, and for a good half hour he passed from hand to hand, letting the various strangers guide his steps.

As he gracefully swayed against a man whose face he was sure he'd forget as soon as the music changed tempo, that strange feeling of well-being and loss of self returned to him, but the alcohol, which this time gave him, made him forget his insane fear.

Moreover, it made him forget everything, except Edgar's face, which occasionally forced itself into his mind.

He saw his eyes again, yearning for him, through his locks of hair, his shoulders outlined beneath his suit, he felt his hands on his waist again, and that sensation, much stronger than before.

He immediately chased away this wandering thought, annoyed that he'd tried to lecture him.

On his pale face, he saw Yosano's face overlapping, and despite their recent disagreement, he had to admit that he missed her terribly.

For his part, Edgar watched him with a hint of jealousy—which he would describe as unjustified—still troubled by the events, and hurt at having been abandoned on the balcony, still aroused by Ranpo's sweet lips and his sweet perfume.

He had also had an Irish coffee, and for a moment, he tore his eyes away from the dancers to rest on the smoke rising from his glass.

Suddenly, a gunshot.

Then a deathly silence.

Until the bullet fired into the air fell into his drink.

A shrill scream rose from the crowd, and, like the whistle blowing to start a race, everyone began running toward the exit, each one not hesitating to trample on the others to make it.

Edgar stood up quickly and ran straight into the heart of the crush, frantically calling out to his friend, elbowing his way through.

But despite his best efforts, he was quickly swallowed up and swept away by the wave of people surging outside, without having managed to find him.

Bump from one side to the other, unable to take a single step in front of the one before him, Ranpo struggled as best he could to keep up, but he felt as if he were stuck in the ground. The alcohol was numbing his movements, everything was a blur, and panic was gradually rising, overcoming the positive effects of the enormous—at least for him—amount of alcohol he had consumed, leaving only the harmful consequences, which seemed to have appeared all at once, overwhelming him.

His mind didn't return, however, and, unable to do anything, he let his legs give way, dizzy from the hubbub, suffocated by the scent of perfume that barely covered the scent of perspiration. In the distance, he vaguely heard his name being shouted repeatedly, but he was quite unable to recognize the voice, as his eyes fluttered faintly, trying to spot its owner.

Several people stepped on his hands, and soon, with an unfortunate blow from a cane—or a handbag, who knows?—he collapsed, dazed, unconscious, and he would surely wake up covered in bruises, his thin shirt in tatters, for no one paid the slightest attention to him.

"Ed... gar..." he muttered with a gasp.

Having been thrown out like common trash, he carefully scanned the crowd, in the futile hope of spotting a young detective, but nothing.

He desperately tried to reenter the building, in vain. "That's my fault, that's all my fault! I should never have left him alone..." He lamented mentally, like a mantra.

He scanned the crowd again with a worried eye, but still no sign of the man.

Edgar brought his index finger to his mouth and began to tear off the keratin in small pieces, a sign of his nervousness.

Once all the guests had been evacuated, the area was quickly sealed off, making it impossible to see for himself if anyone remained.

He therefore went to make his request to the police, who informed him that special equipment was required, as nauseating smoke bombs had been launched shortly after the shooting.

A few minutes later, a unit equipped with gas masks entered the building, before leaving about ten minutes later, which seemed like an eternity.

During this time, Edgar remained in front of the entrance to the main hall, with growing apprehension and distress.

From where he was, he could see a certain balcony, and multiple questions began to race through his head again.

At the same time, he forced his mind to focus on the reason for this "almost attack," trying to reason like Ranpo would.

When the police officers finally came out, three of them were carrying unconscious people on their backs: there was, at first glance, a woman and two men, one of whom was surely one of the cooks, given his attire.

Edgar immediately rushed over to them, but unfortunately, the other was only a dark-haired nobleman, unshaven and square-jawed, not a rebellious young man with slightly disheveled, inky-black hair and porcelain skin as soft as silk.

As he gradually realized that Ranpo had indeed disappeared, the temperature suddenly dropped, and despite the suit jacket he was wearing, the cold was beginning to sting unpleasantly.

It wasn't a cold caused by the climate, no, but it wasn't the same cold you feel when you're separated from a loved one for an indefinite period of time, not the same cold you feel when you're afraid of something invisible.

Nor was it the cold of crisp winter nights, when all you need to do is curl up next to a comforting fire, nor the cold that chills you to the bone, that makes you feel like soon you won't be able to take a single step in front of another, the cold that chills you, that paralyzes you, the one so unpleasant that you want to run as far as possible.

No, it was the cold that makes you feel empty, so empty...

The cold that annihilates your thoughts, that prevents your nerves from transmitting information about movement and reflection, the cold that makes your stomach ache with apprehension, without you feeling anything.

Edgar knew it well from his writings, when the characters arrived at the murder scene, but this was the first time he'd truly felt it.

And it was truly, truly unpleasant, almost painful to bear.

When he finally managed to move, he set off on foot, dejected, toward the family manor, even though it was several kilometers away.

As soon as he could, he began to think again at top speed, desperately searching for a clue about Ranpo's possible kidnapping.

Despite everything, he knew he didn't have Ranpo's intelligence, and at that thought, his shoulders hunched even more.

Spotting a bench at the turn of an alley, Edgar decided to sit down, without stopping to think.

As he raised his head to pray to the heavens, something pricked him, on the back of his neck, right at the collar.

He immediately placed his hand where he'd felt it, but nothing.

No mosquito, no insect of any kind, nothing but a scrap of paper, which he initially mistook for the label of his shirt that he'd forgotten to remove.

But as he pulled on it, the paper came off by itself, without having to tear it off.

Surprised, he looked at what was now resting in the palm of his hand: a very thin piece of paper, hastily torn from a newspaper, surely folded in four.

When Edgar unfolded the piece of paper, he immediately recognized the sloppy Japanese handwriting.

"We're being followed and watched from Tokyo airport, there's a good chance I'll disappear during the ball."

On closer inspection, the piece of newspaper was actually an ad for an old shed for sale. It barely surprised him; he was used to Ranpo's deduction.

He also quickly realized that he had slipped the note to him when they kissed, and his confused mind began to wonder if he hadn't offered her those kisses solely for that reason.

Then, suddenly coming to his senses, he began to run towards the address, preparing to make a slight detour. 

Chapter Text

« You say you love rain but you open your umbrella.
You say you love the sun but you find a shadow spot.
You say you love wind but you close your windows.

This is why I am afraid when you say you love me. »

- William Shakespeare -

Open your eyes.

That was the first thought that came to Ranpo as he struggled to regain his senses.

Open your eyes, analyze your situation, find a way out if by any chance it turned out to be bad.

A normal person—normal, but no longer very sober—would never have the instinct to want to understand the state of things at all costs, but the detective wasn't the kind of person who fit into society's mold and deserved to be called "normal."

No, he had an ability, a gift for understanding everything faster, a power of deduction.

At least, he had convinced himself of that until now. Having already seen completely drunk special users have their abilities increased tenfold by drinking, or simply remain constantly present, and not be able to use this so-called "ability" because the alcohol clouded their brains had felt like a disillusionment, yet he wanted to continue believing in it, to remain in his golden cocoon in which he was "special," not just a simple intelligent young man.

Ranpo wanted to rub his eyelids, but his hands were held against his chest by a thick cord that cut into his wrists, holding him against a wall, or perhaps a beam.

Ironically, you might say, he who constantly kept his eyes closed couldn't open them now that he desperately needed to. A pain emanating from his left temple gnawed at him, and indeed his whole body ached: his arms ached, his legs felt lifeless, his lungs filled with difficulty with each breath, his jaw was bruised, a metallic taste had invaded his mouth, his ears were ringing, and one of the worst migraines of his life was assailing his poor brain.

Despite everything, recent events gradually fell into place, like pieces of a large puzzle.

The car, the ball, the meal, the wedding cake, the balcony, the kiss—he shuddered at the thought, and at the flood of sensations that flooded him following the memory—the confusion, the bar, the anxiety, the fear...

Then nothing, nothing but emptiness.

Ranpo cursed himself for not having listened to his adoptive father's advice, finally managing to open one eye, a little.

A sharp pain pierced under it, as if a heated needle had been violently inserted into that thin patch of skin, forcing him to close that same eye for several minutes before carefully opening it once again.

As he thought, he was being held upright, against some sort of column that must have supported the ceiling, in a rather dark and plain room, with a few windows and a single door at the far end, surely a garage, given the tools lying on a shelf nearby. His captor—judging by the footprints on the ground—was undoubtedly the man he'd seen at the airport when he'd climbed that bluff to deliver his stupid speech about cattle.

Ranpo had, as he'd written to Edgar on that piece of paper, noticed from the start that they were being followed, but he hadn't wanted to stress him out more than he already was, so he'd kept quiet.

A faint, pale light filtered through small windows, telling him it was still dark.

According to a rough estimate, he must have passed out about an hour earlier, and Edgar must have only found the paper stuck in his collar a few minutes ago.

A sympathetic thought crossed the detective's mind, but he quickly recovered.

"Poor him, left to his own devices because of my absence... And what else?! It's his fault, Fukuzawa told him not to let me drink!"

At that moment, the door at the back of the room opened slightly, revealing a man of medium height with short, wavy hair, his yellowish eyes shining faintly in the gloom, still wearing his ball gown.

Unfortunately for this young man, he had forgotten to bayonet him, and that would cost him time and patience, if not his decency.

- Is that old ransom on me thing still holding? I thought everyone had given up on it, he began to grumble.

The man sighed, then sat down and waited.

- You know, I'm frail in my own way, so if you untie me, I won't do anything. Here, you just have to try it and see, I promise you I won't move!"

- I don't know what ransom you're talking about, the man interrupted in a flat voice, in perfect Japanese, which showed he was of the same nationality as the detective. What we're interested in, however, are your eyes; they'll be worth a small fortune on the black market.

- My eyes? Well, come get them, I'm waiting for you! You can always run for them! They're mine, and at worst, there's only one person who deserves to see them, and you know what? It's not you, nah!

- Are you just as unbearable to this person? If so, I doubt they like you too much, or else they're sticking with you for your reputation, the man declared thoughtfully.

Ranpo didn't reply.

He simply lowered his head, hoping his black locks would hide his dismay.

He didn't often question himself, but his behavior at the ball had been horrible, and he silently blamed himself for it.

He knew Edgar wouldn't hold it against him, that he was understanding and forgiving, but the detective was afraid that, eventually, their relationship would change because of his actions.

The man stood up and approached him, then took his chin with his fingertips to lift it towards him.

- Maybe the rest of you will sell well after all, he said almost in a whisper, squeezing Ranpo's chin until it hurt.

When he stood up, he let go of his head so violently, swinging his head to the side, that Ranpo heard his neck crack with a sharp, sinister sound.

The man walked over to the small shelf the detective had seen earlier and pulled a box out of one of its many drawers.

As he unlocked the box, the detective felt fear rise within him, first clenching his insides, then constricting his lungs, tightening his throat, making his jaw tremble and cold sweat trickle down his temples.

Rummaging silently through the various tools, the man finally extracted a sort of small Swiss Army knife—initials had been engraved on it, but they were no longer visible—with a blade much more like a scalpel or an Opinel knife than the small knife used during World War II by Swiss officers.

The man returned to him, the sound of his leather shoes slapping against the concrete floor, then positioned himself exactly as before, raising the tool to his height.

And when the scalpel was a few inches from his eyes, Ranpo closed them, trembling, silently counting down.

"Five."

A distinctive click of bladed weapons sounded.

"Four."

The blade slid under his eye.

"Three."

Blood flowed slowly.

"Two."

A sharp pain seized him.

"One."

A door slammed violently.

"Zero."

A gunshot rang out.

The bullet stopped in the column to which Ranpo was attached, inches from his temple, then fell at his side.

He opened his eyes and saw the man fall, a hole in his brow.

A metallic clang echoed through the room, and he looked up.

Edgar stood feverishly in the doorway, his face ashen.

He looked at his wit's end, on the verge of tears. His hair was a mess as well as his clothes. He held one pant of his long black suit jacket against his chest, tightening it as if it would help him calm down.

He lurched toward the detective and tugged at the restraints holding him captive: they snapped easily under the impact of another bullet.

Ranpo staggered, rubbing his aching wrists, then turned to face the writer.

A few seconds passed, during which neither of them knew what to say, then the writer began to shout:

- Why didn't you warn me directly?! Why did you put your life in danger like that?! You may have an extraordinary ability, and you can use them to solve cases or fool others if you want, but certainly not to bet on something this important!

- But I knew you were going to come and help me, he exclaimed in response.

- Ranpo! I shoot in such a hurry, the bullet could have easily hit you too without meaning to!

- Even so, it was easy to know you'd be careful not to m-

That was too much.

Edgar's hand came crashing down on the young detective's cheek, his head whipping violently to the side, and the dull thud of the slap echoed throughout the room.

Ranpo brought his hand to his flushed cheek, his eyes wide and his pupils constricted, his mouth half-open, shocked by the violent gesture of the writer who usually—except for rare occasions—was so calm.

The latter put his hand over his mouth, immediately regretting his reaction.

- I-I'm sorry, Ranpo, I-I didn't mean to, I-...

Edgar stopped making excuses when he saw tears rolling down his friend's bruised cheek.

He'd been given a similar speech before, with the same authoritative yet concerned tone, with the same burning sensation on his cheek.

The face that had overlapped Edgar's in his mind was blurry, but the detective clearly recognized the silver hair and the honey-colored haloed scarf.

- Fukuzawa... he muttered to himself.

This scene, these feelings, these sensations, this sense of having disappointed, they were the same, with one exception: he felt them tenfold.

Instead of having his father figure before him, he had a friend, a rival, a person with whom he had the possibility of going much further, but with whom he didn't know how to think, a person with whom he lost all his composure and his fine words, a person for whom he felt he was alive.

And unlike ten years ago, it wasn't he who embraced the other, but the other way around.

Seeing him cry, Edgar had taken him in his arms and was now holding him close, not hoping to be forgiven for the slap but only to reassure him, to let him know that he wasn't alone, not this time, not while he was here.

- I want to go home... Ranpo stammered between sobs. I want to go home, to see the Agency, Yosano, Fukuzawa, I want to leave... I'm sorry...

Waiting for an answer that didn't come, and aware of his selfish request, he buried his face even deeper in the Edgar's shirt, keeping his arms against his chest.

- Yes, we'll go home, don't worry, as soon as possible we'll return to Japan, to Yokohama, he finally murmured, now stroking not the detective's back but his hair.

Edgar pulled him away a little, placed his hand on his cheek, and with his thumb wiped away the tears mixed with blood that were streaming down his cheeks.

He then offered him the most comforting smile he could muster before taking him in his arms, lifting him from the ground to carry him like a toddler.

Ranpo rested his head on her shoulder, just enjoying her sweet scent, and crossed his legs behind her back to make it easier for her.

- Ed... I realized something while I was in that garage...

- What?

- I realized love is for idiots.

- Oh..?

- But I don't want to be an idiot all by myself, so I was wondering...

Edgar's increasingly red and burning face gave him a good reason to continue, despite his heavy silence.

- So I was wondering if you... if you'd be willing to be an idiot with me...

It was awkward, and a bit impromptu given the situation, but Edgar still burst into a soft laugh, while the detective turned crimson in turn, turning his head to the side, feigning annoyance at his reaction.

- Of course, Ranpo, of course I'll be willing to be an idiot with you. As long as my role is by your side, I'll happily accept it.

Despite his sweet words –which were no less sincere– a needle came insert itself deep into Edgar's heart. The sound that this needle produced when his organ tightened around it echoed in his whole body: this sound was the one of anguish.

Chapter Text

« We were never just friends, And we'll never be friends again. »

- Leslie B. -

"- I love you..."

Then the detective fell asleep on his shoulder.

He took him home, right in the heart of Baltimore.

The servants, sleepy as they were, hadn't commented on their late return, even though the sun was already threatening to rise.

After comfortably settling his... lover? He didn't really know how to describe this new relationship, but the fact remains that after settling him in, he turned on his cell phone and bought the first plane tickets he could find to Yokohama, then stripped Ranpo of his corset and shoes, before falling into a deep, restorative sleep himself.

Edgar was afraid, as he was every time he closed his eyes, of seeing himself, younger, telling him he'd never make it, that he was still the same good-for-nothing, that he didn't deserve the detective's candid love. Then he felt cold, a cold accompanied by images he couldn't clearly discern, and often, these nightmares ended in temporary asphyxiation, until he woke with a start.

But that night, there was nothing but the warmth of a body curled up against him, nothing but the detective's warm breath against his neck, the darkness of his eyelids, the softness of his mattress, the oxygen flowing quietly into his lungs.

Edgar couldn't say whether this strange phenomenon was due to a stroke of luck or whether it was the detective's presence at his side that chased away his bad dreams, which were sometimes all too realistic.

[...]

When Ranpo woke up, he was lying on the bunk of a large train cabin.

Sitting on the bench below, Edgar was writing silently.

Well, writing was a big word; the ink dripped from the tip of his quill to the floor, forming a small pool, and he himself was slumped over his work, seeming to be sleeping soundly.

Sneaking downstairs discreetly, Ranpo glanced at his writing, quickly realizing that this book was for him.

One enigma per month, that's what they had agreed on so that Edgar would stop having sleepless nights.

The squealing of a pet in a neighboring cabin made his head spin; he almost expected to see Karl emerge from under the Edgar's long cape, demanding attention or food—a bit like him, as it turned out.

To be honest, he missed the furball the writer had reluctantly entrusted to the Agency almost as much as his precious mystery novels.

He brushed a few strands of hair from Edgar's face, gently took his book and quill, and made him lie down on the bench seat to prevent unwanted neck pain, before covering him with his black velvet cape.

Sliding the cabin door open as quietly as possible, Ranpo left, pacing from car to car, surely looking for something to entertain himself.

He returned with his arms overloaded with food he had stolen—"subtly purloined"—from the front car.

Ranpo placed his possessions in a corner of the cabin, then settled down next to Edgar, waiting for him to wake up.

Finally, it was Edgar who woke him when the train finally stopped.

The flight that followed was so long that Ranpo thought he would die of boredom; unfortunately, his supplies from the train hadn't been sufficient.

During those long hours of waiting, the only thing that brightened the gloomy atmosphere even a little were Edgar's discreet—but nonetheless futile—attempts to retrieve the gem-colored book the detective had been keeping for some time now.

Although he had long guessed its author—despite the lack of a signature—he had never actually opened it, partly out of fear of what he would discover inside, until a few minutes before the ball.

Initially, he had planned to confess his feelings to the writer then, perhaps during a waltz, but his ego had gotten the better of his crush, so he had denied him the dance he had been waiting for.

Earlier, while Edgar was using the bathroom, the detective had taken the novel out of his suitcase, fully intending to discover its contents before confessing anything.

Even though he'd honestly expected something like this, he had to admit that he'd been surprised when he realized how accurate the sketches of him were, as if the writer had always had his image imprinted under his eyelids.

It was almost frightening.

Despite his incomprehension of strong feelings like love—a far too superficial thing, neither biological nor logical, only a strange chemical phenomenon—it had reinforced his opinion about how he felt about Edgar.

It was truly funny to see him try to retrieve it, convinced that Ranpo hadn't noticed.

Then he stopped and started absentmindedly tapping away at his phone screen, smiling softly.

Ranpo tried several times to see who he was writing to and what he was writing, without much success because Edgar skillfully hid it from him.

At one point, when the latter had once again thwarted his attempt to gather information, the detective managed to steal a kiss, albeit a chaste one, and the writer seemed to stop functioning for a few seconds.

Finally, the plane began to descend below the clouds, and in the distance, Ranpo could already see the tall black buildings of the Port Mafia, as well as the Ferris wheel overlooking the port.

When the airport came into sight, Edgar seemed to notice something, which he immediately hid from his companion, closing the shutter of the skylight.

The plane soon landed, with a strange shudder, and Ranpo hurried to grab his suitcase, more eager than ever to set foot in his native land again.

Yet, while he was busily discussing everything he was going to do as soon as he got back to the agency, Ranpo stopped dead in his tracks, standing in the middle of the catwalk.

Edgar smiled; he even thought he saw a small tear of joy in the corner of his eye.

Ranpo began to run at full speed towards the aforementioned group, abandoning his suitcase on the small staircase, then threw himself into the arms of the person furthest forward, the latter's silver locks clashing with his darker, shaggy ones.

The entire Armed Detective Agency was there, waiting patiently for him, and in the front row were Fukuzawa and Yosano.

Behind them, the sun was already beginning to set, lending a beautiful atmosphere to this reunion.

A little something bothered Edgar in their smiles, which seemed completely genuine, but once again the way their lips stretched, distorting their features into a rictus, made him feel a little uncomfortable.

Further back this time was a young girl with crimson hair, and as soon as her greenish eyes met Edgar's, a knowing glint made them twinkle.

Thanks to her, he had finally managed to surprise his rival.

Waiting for the end of this moving reunion, the writer moved closer to Lucy, thanking her discreetly and retrieving his beloved pet. Then they exchanged a few words, more for the sake of it than anything else.

Apparently, the Agency had done nothing but complain about their detective's absence—indeed, the way they phrased it gave the impression that it was only Ranpo's "ability" that mattered to them, not the young man himself—when, according to his memory, his colleagues had had him temporarily expelled.

He glanced at Ranpo; seeing him so happy instantly warmed his heart, despite the animosity of the armed detectives, which, despite their best efforts to conceal it, remained relatively palpable.

Edgar felt that while Ranpo's return was a blessing, his presence was an embarrassment.

Finally, Ranpo came back to him, tugged at his sleeve, and placed him in front of them.

In other words, in front of the two people who seemed to despise him the most.

Although he wasn't at all comfortable, Edgar forced himself to maintain a certain composure.

Fukuzawa extended his hand, visibly unconvinced of the gesture's authenticity—it must be said that handshakes were not customary in Japan, often reserved for the highest-ranking people.

With a stern expression perpetually etched on his face, he didn't utter a single word, his gestures conveying unnecessary words and superfluous formalities.

Then it was Yosano's turn.

At first glance, the latter really struggled to shake the writer's hand, but under Ranpo's gaze, more pleading than inciting, she seemed to make an effort.

Edgar, for his part, knew full well that he would have had a hard time with this woman; she reminded him far too much of his mother, given the disdain he could constantly read in her eyes when they dared to rest on him. But he was willing to overlook this detail and get to know her, if it was for his companion's comfort.

He knew only too well that feeling of being torn apart in a struggle to win, whether for ideals or, in their case, loyalty to different people, and he wouldn't wish that on anyone.

So he was the first of the two to extend his hand to the other, a sign of past impasse and future understanding for a common goal.

Despite the most oppressive atmosphere, only one gaze truly made him uncomfortable: that of the man he had met at the cemetery, cold, profound, calculating, much more intelligent than he let on.

That heavy gaze clung to his skin, as if his dark irises reflected the depths of his own torment, making him sink even deeper, like an endless circle.

It was much worse than Ranpo's, the one that made him feel naked, exposed in a vast green meadow, the soft glow of the sun shimmering in his eyes with a genuine and true light.

Living deep into his pupils, he could sometimes even feel a gentle breeze pleasantly swirling his locks, carrying away his thoughts.

He exchanged only a few pleasantries with the detectives before moving away from the group, leaving Lucy clinging to the arm of a young man with a long side bang—who, incidentally, looked a little lost, as if trying to convince himself that someone else was standing by his side.

Edgar went home alone. They had insisted on spending the evening with Ranpo, and as soon as he stepped through his door, a feeling of melancholy washed over him:
Ranpo had his organization, like a kind of family, his power, a gift beloved by all...

When he was with him, his jealousy—an insatiable nothingness—was tamed by this strange feeling, the one that temporarily changed the eternal rhythm of his pulse.

Yet, now that he was no longer there, Edgar felt terribly alone.

He already missed the sweetness of the vast meadow in his gaze, as much as the subtle, balmy and spicy—but not overpowering—fragrance of the flowers that dotted it.

Carnations, surely, a symbol of beauty, grace, and ardor, blooming, albeit a little lower down, beneath the ashen tips of the pines that framed the angelic landscape that was the detective's smiling face.

He longed to write, to transcribe everything he felt onto a pristine sheet of paper, but despite his vocabulary far broader than his comprehension, words failed him.

Even if he had picked up a quill, the page would have remained blank; the writer would have been unable to blacken it, whether with the expression of his hatred or his love.

Despite everything, he desperately needed them, a need to put his feelings into sentences and syntax, a need to understand.

His mind dug, again and again, but the only thing he unearthed was the frustration of the obviousness he'd had in front of him all along.

Edgar sighed. Maybe finally he could forget his idea of sordid revenge and allow himself to simply be happy with the man he loved ?

Chapter Text

« Sometimes home can be another person. »

- A. J -

Since their return from America—that is, for about three weeks, maybe even a month—Ranpo had been overloaded with work.
In fact, he'd only had a little more than usual, but he didn't give it to Atsushi or Jun'ichiro like he usually did.
His colleagues' words had remained etched in the back of his mind ever since they'd been spoken, and subconsciously, he'd started working much harder.

In itself, he didn't really have time to devote to his boyfriend, and he felt a little guilty about it, knowing full well that he didn't really take care of himself and could shut himself away for days, like a kind of writing exile.
They had only crossed paths a few times, the first time when Edgar came to give him a new novel, but Ranpo had just enough time to thank him before having to return to work.
The second time was by chance in an alley, not far from Edgar's house, when Karl had run away again.
Ranpo had guessed where the animal was hiding, and after a brief greeting –and a small peck on the cheek, they had to part ways again.

Every night, he checked the messages he had received, and most of the time, a short "How was your day ?" or "Sweet dreams, dear", or some other little phrases that showed Ranpo that Edgar was thinking of him.
He didn't often reply, too exhausted from his days to be able to, and fell asleep with those words.

Although he'd been an adult for some time, Ranpo had never—or only very rarely—been in a romantic relationship, so he wasn't sure how to go about it.
Despite his confident and arrogant demeanor, Ranpo was the kind of person who always wondered if he was doing things right: sure, he knew how to put Edgar at ease, he'd learned his tastes and habits, but he didn't know if he was giving him enough, if he was living up to his expectations, or anything else.

This worried him more than he cared to admit, and he questioned it constantly.
Not seeing Edgar for about a month—when they hadn't left each other's side for more than twice as long—was still taking a toll on his morale.
Moreover, since he'd decided to get an apartment separate from the Agency's premises, the loneliness was starting to take its toll on him.

To console himself, he recalled the ball, the surprise at the airport, and the other pleasant moments he had spent with his friend.
Sometimes, Ranpo let his imagination wander, and some of his fantasies resurfaced.
He had been aware of his fantasies about Edgar for a while, but he held back from talking about them, for fear of appearing deranged in his eyes.

All day long, at the Agency, while he worked, he thought about it.
On the way home, he thought about it.
At night, when he went to bed hungry—since he still didn't know how to cook—he thought about it.

He wondered how the writer's hands would roam his body, how his lips would kiss every inch of his skin, from his throat to his pelvis, what the burning sensation would be like when he met his companion's gaze, filled with desire and lust...

His thoughts tortured him, to the point that they invaded his nights, just like his dreams.

And when he woke up, when he left this ethereal paradise and returned to cold reality, when there were only the four walls of his room and their bland wallpaper to welcome him, and not a warm smile, the fire burning inside him would suddenly go out.
And once again, Ranpo would get up, dig into the sweets he had brought back from the Agency the day before, and then go to work.

Moving in with Edgar had already crossed his mind, but there were three reasons why he hadn't:
The first was that his house was too far to walk from the Agency, and he still didn't know how to take the train.
The second was that he didn't want to appear too intrusive; he knew perfectly well that Edgar wouldn't be able to stand having him stuck next to him all day long –he would probably freak out too at some point.
The last ? Ranpo really wasn't sure he could contain his fantasies if he slept at Edgar's every night.

That morning, when he opened his eyes, his mouth dry, the first thing he noticed was the pattering of rain on his windows, a pleasant sound that calmed his already racing mind.
Ranpo therefore spent a few minutes listening attentively to this sound, closing his eyes to better perceive it.
The ringing of his phone soon brought him out of his trance, displaying a message from Yosano asking if he wanted her to come and pick him up by car.
Ranpo looked at his screen before typing a quick "yes," then dressed and waited for the doctor outside her apartment door.
She arrived a few minutes later and drove them to their workplace. During the drive, the raindrops on the car window made him think.

A few months ago, if someone had asked him where he felt safest, he would have said the Agency without hesitation, but now that he'd experienced the embrace of another... No. He shouldn't think about it anymore; his work remained his priority.
Despite everything, the only person he still felt comfortable with within his organization was his boss, with whom he still maintained a strong bond, and perhaps the younger employees, since he had no reason to hold a grudge against them.
In the end, there wasn't anyone he truly held a grudge against, but Ranpo remained someone who—beneath his casual exterior—had a hard time forgiving.

The day was extremely tiring; he only had a short break around one o'clock to nibble on some sweets Kenji had kindly brought him, and then he had to go back to work.

When Ranpo went out around eight o'clock, the rain was still beating down, and a powerful wind had picked up, threatening to sweep away anyone who wasn't careful enough.
His greatest misfortune was having forgotten to bring an umbrella, but on reflection, it would surely have broken or turned inside out with all this wind.

So he started running, holding his Inverness cloak over his head to keep from getting too wet.
The downpour was cold, the drops slapped against his skin and made the asphalt slippery.
As he was crossing a small road, Ranpo skidded on one of the white stripes of the pedestrian crossing and fell flat on his stomach.
Several cars nearly ran him over, the rain was so heavy that it blurred his vision, and the unbearable noise of the horns soon drowned out the water lapping near his head.

It took Ranpo a few seconds to realize what was happening. He was stunned, his blood pounding in his temples, the landscape was blurred, the sounds seemed distant.

And suddenly, in the blink of an eye, everything came back to him. The noise suddenly intensified, the footsteps of the pedestrians around him became more fluid and rapid, and the pain of his fall was felt.
He got up with difficulty, his knee hurting—it must have been grazed—and started walking again.

Ranpo hurried as fast as he could, desperate to find safety, but it wasn't until he was near the port that he realized he must have taken a wrong turn, as he was heading in the exact opposite direction from his original destination.
Exhausted from walking so fast for so long, out of breath, and dripping wet, Ranpo slipped his hand into his pocket, searching for his cell phone, so he could call one of his colleagues to come get him.
Unfortunately, his pocket was empty; the object must have fallen and slid further when he collapsed in the middle of the road. Ranpo mentally cursed himself for not having any sense of orientation despite all the time he'd spent in Yokohama already.

Desperate, he slipped into an alley untouched by the downpour and waited for it to subside, regaining his strength.
Now that the adrenaline from his run had subsided and the ambient temperature was seeping under his soggy clothes, Ranpo was shivering. He had to get home, to the Agency, anywhere as long as it was heated.

He wasn't a person who was sensitive to the cold, but at that moment, the unfriendly wind that bit into his exposed flesh at the knee and tore his lungs apart from the inside was truly becoming unbearable.

And suddenly, a welcome warmth covered his shoulders in infinite softness.

It was a thick, long, black, and warm cloak, and an equally soft fur weight settled on his shoulders.
Just by the faint scent of verbena tea and old books, Ranpo realized who was behind him and turned hastily to embrace him.
The other answered without hesitation, probably expecting it, and the burning kiss they exchanged completely melted the icy layer that mortified his body.

Ranpo had been waiting for this for several weeks, and now that he could capture Edgar's lips without restraint, he didn't wanted to let go, never.

The warmth of Edgar's palm against his cheek comforted him, and the one on his waist was there as if to keep him from collapsing.

When they separated—after what felt like an eternity but seemed like a handful of seconds—Edgar's face changed into a worried expression, and he began to question him, examining him from every angle.

- Hey, it's okay, I'm fine, don't worry, Ranpo affirmed, running his fingers through the long bangs that covered his worried eyes.

- Are you sure ? And your knee, is it okay..?

- What do you think? I'm in agony because of this wound.

Edgar sighed before continuing his interrogation, a small smile creeping on his sweet lips:

- Why are you here anyway ? Don't you live far from here ?

- I took the wrong turn. It happens to everyone, replied Ranpo, who really seemed on edge as well as exhausted despite his light tone.

- Of course, of course it happens to everyone, said Edgar gently, trying to calm him down.

Seeing him insist when he himself had declared everything was fine had a way of annoying the detective. In fact, the fact that someone questioned something he said always put him in a bad mood, but knowing he was wrong gnawed at him even more.
Knowing this, Edgar didn't press the matter further and led him back to his own home, where he lit a large fire to keep Ranpo warm for the night. The next day, he would accompany him to the Agency, helping him take the subway.
He also went to get something to disinfect the detective's still-bloody wound.
The alcohol Edgar poured on it made him squeak, and Ranpo finally convinced him to draw a teddy bear on the bandage he now wore on his knee.

When they went to bed, the wind whistled and drummed against the windows, making the roof seem as if it were about to fly off.

Edgar slipped under his sheets, relishing the warm, soft feel, and was soon joined by his companion, who at first seemed reluctant to sleep with him—perhaps he was embarrassed, or simply not used to it. After all, they had already slept together, but not as a couple.
Ranpo lay down with his back to Edgar, his arms and legs folded against his chest.

It took Edgarl a few minutes before he finally decided to hug him: he put one arm around his torso and the other around his waist, then intertwined their legs, hoping with all his heart not to be pushed away.
To his great delight, Ranpo turned around and hugged him back, burying his face in the crook of his neck, running his slender hands down his back.

- Took you long enough, Ed, he said in a mischievous whisper.

Edgar smiled; at the end, his Ranpo hadn't left, and he was finally rediscovering his true self.
He blew on his hair to tease him, and Ranpo responded with a quiet burst of laughter, and nestled a little closer to him, seeking his body warmth as much as possible.

It was indeed there that he felt safest, most loved, and most comfortable; it was in Edgar's arms that he wanted to stay, forever.

- Ranpo, he asked after a moment.

- Yes ?

- Would you like to, um... come live here ? Edgar finished uncertainly.

- I thought you'd never ask !

Chapter Text

« We loved with a love
That was more than love. »

- Edgar Allan Poe -

When he had told Ranpo to "make himself at home," Edgar hadn't expected Ranpo to actually make himself at home...

For the first few days, everything was fine, too fine in fact: Ranpo had gotten up before him, tried to make him breakfast—tried—before leaving for work, had been well-behaved and obedient, and hadn't made any comments, as if afraid of being kicked out.

But once he'd settled into the big house and they'd gone to get his things, Edgar's place had started to become Ranpo's XXL apartment.
Him walking around in a T-shirt and boxers all weekend was one thing Edgar could still tolerate, but being able to track him by the leftover food and clothes scattered throughout the house was another!

After the first day, Edgar had foolishly believed that his home would remain the haven of peace it had always been, but in the end, the detective seemed to take it more like a giant playground.
The night before, when he was at the top of the stairs and the owner had called him in to eat, he had the brilliant idea of going down using the railing as a slide, and he had obviously fallen before reaching the bottom, insulting and blaming the poor staircase for letting him fall.
Moreover, he needed constant attention, both to keep an eye on him and to keep him occupied so he wouldn't set the building on fire.
Even at night, since Ranpo didn't really like sleeping alone—he nevertheless tried to make the effort to lie down in his own bed—he always ended up slipping under his host's covers, the latter often waking up with a small hot-water bottle firmly attached to him.

Even though Edgar was starting to get used to having someone in his bed, it was still a little awkward, but he appreciated Ranpo's body warmth, which warmed his usually cold sheets.
When one got up, the other always begged him to stay a few more minutes, and then they would stay cuddled, exchanging shy little kisses and complimenting each other.

The perfect cheesy romance, really!

Okay, with a childish adult and a withdrawn writer, but a wonderful story nonetheless.

Even Karl had finally gotten used to his constant presence, so much so that as soon as he came home, the animal would climb onto his shoulders and people would come and rub his legs.

The only problem was that Christmas was approaching, and the American still didn't know what was customary in Japan.
He'd tried to find out, of course, but he was decidedly even worse with cell phones than he was with love, and he was definitely too introverted to ask other people.
He had no desire to celebrate with his mother, nor, for the moment, to set foot in America at all.
If it were like in Western countries, Ranpo would be at the Agency, surrounded by his family, and Edgar wasn't sure he'd be welcome there.
But he definitely couldn't spend such an important time of year alone !

But the worst part was, it wasn't just that: it was probably the most trivial problem in the world, but Edgar had no idea what to get the detective.
He spent his time buying him candy, so it wouldn't be unusual to give him some for Christmas.
Yet the present he was going to give him had to be exceptional, unforgettable, wonderful, and the celebration too, even if there was a chance Ranpo didn't even know what Christmas was.

Edgar sighed, leaning on his desk, his eyes lost in the monotonous painting of the ceiling, a cigarette between his lips.
The smoke hung gently in the room, giving it an atmosphere that was both eerie and a certain ethereal fantasy.

He only smoked when absolutely necessary, to de-stress or to reflect, the nicotine helping his tired brain move forward.
Contrary to what many people claimed, medication and sleep didn't help him.
Unfortunately, Ranpo really couldn't stand the smell of tobacco, and he often got a violent coughing fit when he smoked next to him.

So they agreed that Edgar would only smoke in his office, and would lock the door to warn the detective—who was more than capable of picking the lock if he didn't know why it was locked.

Something was bothering him, however, but Ranpo's strange behavior was really the least of his worries.

The days passed impressively quickly, and December 24th soon arrived.
When Edgar got up, the sun was already high, and in December, the temperatures in Japan were much higher than in Baltimore, which was a bit unsettling.
Ranpo had already had to leave for the Agency, which gave him plenty of time to go into town and buy some decorations for the house before returning.

If he celebrated Christmas Day with the Agency, perhaps he would at least spend Christmas Eve with him?

Edgar dressed warmly and headed for downtown Yokohama, after having a simple cup of black coffee and his medication for breakfast.
When he went outside, Karl at his heels, he quickly realized that the overnight snow had melted, creating large puddles.
As he wandered through the busy streets, a scene caught his attention: a child was tugging at his parents' sleeves, begging them to buy him a wooden toy that was on display.
His parents laughed heartily, and sometimes gave in.
Then, a big smile would break out on the child's face, and he would kiss his parents on both cheeks, showering them with thanks. Then the whole thing would start again, between bursts of laughter and hugs.
He couldn't help but feel nostalgic, thinking that the only things that had offered him a semblance of that love during these Christmas periods had been his books, damaged from over-reading.

Then, he must have spent two or three hours shopping, asking his furball for advice, because the sky was beginning to redden when he passed a window display that immediately captivated him.
Edgar went in, only to come out a good thirty minutes later, a pretty little box in his hands, which he stuffed into his pocket, all smiles.

With his arms laden with bags, he pushed open the wide gate of his home, not even noticing the purple sports car that hurriedly started up as he arrived, too absorbed by the excitement of surprising his rival once again.
However, when the writer crossed the threshold of his door, it was he who gasped in surprise: red, green, white, and yellow lights illuminated the interior, and decorations adorned the staircase railing.

Once again, Ranpo had beaten him to it, but this time he was delighted.
The man in question, appearing out of nowhere, then threw himself around his neck to embrace him, nearly knocking him over.
A scent of spices, chocolate, and citrus fruits floated in the air.
Edgar couldn't get a single word out; he was so shocked that the detective had taken such an initiative; it meant a lot to him, as he often felt somewhat responsible for their relationship.

Ranpo had to leave work much earlier to do all this, and also persuade one or more of his colleagues to help him—because it wasn't humane to decorate such a large home alone, in just a few hours—who probably didn't like him.
Moreover, he had surely started several days in advance, with the utmost discretion, and this simple fact was enough to amaze Edgar.
Placing his now useless bags, he hugged him back.

Ranpo had even made the effort to swap his everyday clothes for a beautiful yukata in festive colors.
No sooner had he let go than Ranpo took his hand and rushed over to a large package, which he handed to him, visibly even more excited than usual.

- Go get changed and let's go, he practically ordered.

Confused by the sudden chain of events, Edgar complied, going up to his room to put on the clothes that should have been in the package.
It was a yukata, similar to Ranpo's, but a beautiful dark blue halfway between duck-egg blue and midnight blue.
On the bottom, from the ankles to the knees, purplish-white hyacinths were sewn, from which rose a flock of snow-white cranes, all embellished with small arabesques of gold thread.
Luckily, it fit him like a glove, and after carefully retrieving the small case, he went downstairs, thus dressed, finding the young man stamping his feet with impatience whom he loved so much.

The cold immediately bit their fingers as they stepped outside, so they intertwined theirs and headed for the harbor, where the funfair surrounding the city's iconic Ferris wheel had been replaced by a Christmas market.
Edgar had never actually had the opportunity to go to one of these markets, but he knew roughly what they looked like.

When they arrived in front of them, the streets were already packed, and the writer flinched slightly.
The feeling of his partner's gentle gaze on him, as well as his hand tightening a little in his own, immediately reassured him, and they finally entered the market.
There were stalls everywhere, and a strong scent of spices numbed their sense of smell here too.
Each stall presented a variety of items, from star anise cookies to puls decorated with horrible Christmas designs, to small, useless trinkets that everyone rushed to buy as souvenirs.
Spotlights decorated the surrounding houses with large illuminations, including stylized snowflakes, snowmen, and even little Santa Clauses.
This place was a strange cultural mix, as the Christmas markets were more Germanic, Christmas itself being a widespread Christian holiday in the West, but there were also typically Japanese objects, decorations, and clothing.

Still, when his eyes moved a little further away from the crowd, past the trees dotted with points of light replacing their leaves, to rise to the sky in which a magnificent moon rose, as white as the snow gently falling around them, everything became more magical, romantic.
Watching this spectacle of rare beauty, Edgar almost forgot Ranpo's complaints about his insatiable hunger.

It was only after several minutes of fascination that they were finally able to tear their eyes away, and one had to empty his pockets once again, buying churros, gingerbread, and hot chocolate for the other.
For himself, Edgar simply had a small cone of hot chestnuts and a glass of mulled wine, because despite his habit of sub-zero temperatures –Baltimore's weather would get freezing in the winter, his yukata was still quite thin.

When they had walked around the various small stalls, Ranpo finally noticed the Ferris wheel overlooking the rest of the square.
He tugged at his companion's sleeves, begging him to take a ride, knowing he wouldn't refuse but finding it funny to beg him like that.
Finally, Edgar agreed, his blood rising to his cheeks when Ranpo admited that more than seeing the spectacular view he loved so much, what he'd wanted all along was being cut off from all that noise in one of those small, narrow booths, in his company alone.

The line seemed endless, so much so that after about twenty minutes, Edgar ended up agreeing to play Ranpo's childish game, one among many, that consisted of guessing passersby's secrets.
After another ten minutes, they were finally able to enter one of the small bubbles that would separate them from the outside world, just the two of them, with only the moon to face them.
They saw the ground gradually recede, as if they were able to fly, and the buildings were slowly replaced by the black sky and its thick snowflakes.

When their little bubble stopped at the highest point, surely letting other people into these cocoons, Edgar felt the small box he had bought earlier in the day against his thigh; he had almost forgotten about it.
He took it out of his pocket, his hands trembling slightly at the thought that his gift might not please his lover.
Ranpo's attention was caught when Edgar discreetly cleared his throat as he handed him the box, hoping in vain that his thick bangs would be enough to hide his embarrassment.
This made Ranpo laugh, as he took the gift with a caution he hadn't known to have.

When he opened the box, it was as if the stars hidden by the clouds had found their way into his emerald pupils hidden beneath his fine eyelashes, which gently lifted to reveal them.
The case contained two fine silver rings, one adorned with amber amd golden highlights, cut in the shape of a sun, yet discreet, and the other, similarly designed, but this time made of several small azurites placed side by side to form a moon.
They were arranged together so that they fitted perfectly.
Inside the one with the moon was written "the riddle" in American characters, while the other was inscribed "the solution" in the same way.
Ranpo took the one with the sun and put it on his ring finger with a beaming smile.

- Merry Christmas, my dearest, Edgar murmured, reassured by his reaction.

Ranpo didn't reply, simply getting up to slip the other ring on his lover's finger, before kissing him passionately.

Then the traditional fireworks exploded, illuminating not only the sky but also their tender faces with a thousand colors. 

Chapter Text

« My darling,
you will never be unloved by me
you are too well tangled
in my soul. »

- Sakshi Verma -

 
Once they got home, around eleven o'clock in the evening, Ranpo had gone to take a bath, while Edgar had simply collapsed from exhaustion and a bit of drunkenness—he must have had two or three glasses of mulled wine in his blood.
He felt himself floating, a beatific smile on his lips, his eyes fixed on his ring finger, where a thin ring glittered in the light of his bedside lamp. He took it off for the night, putting it on the bedside table next to Ranpo's –which had been taked off before the latter went to the bathroom.

Edgar decided to wait for his boyfriend to sleep, but he—even after about thirty minutes—didn't arrive.
He was used to him staying in the bathroom for a long time, but still not this long. Moreover, even if Edgar didn't really approve of this choice, Ranpo often took scalding hot showers.
Even though it was nice and warm inside, the cold outside had been biting, as evidenced by the blue-tinged tips of their fingers.
Edgar slowly became afraid that Ranpo had fainted from the sudden change in temperature, experiencing thermal shock.

He sat up, worried.
Although his vision blurred due to his sudden drop in blood pressure, Edgar stood up and walked to the bathroom in a not-so-well-hidden hurry.
Arriving at the door, he still hesitated for a few seconds.

What if he was worrying for nothing?

What if Ranpo thought he was a pervert, bursting into the bathroom like that?

He knocked timidly on the door three times, but there was no response.
So, Edgar gently lowered the doorknob and then pushed it gently.
The air inside the room was heavy, well, if you could still call the thick water vapor that filled it "air."
Moreover, it must have been as hot as a sona, and the humidity immediately clung to his skin, making it clammy.

No one.

The bathroom was empty.

He quickly calmed down when he finally noticed the wet footprints emerging and retracing Ranpo's path down the hall.
Edgar opened the window to let fresh air in, then followed the traces of passage.
It led him to his own room, and, with a small sigh escaping his lips, he realized that Ranpo had probably done it on purpose. In fact, it was almost certain, given his pronounced taste for driving him crazy.

Upon entering the bedroom, only his small bedside lamp illuminated the large room, making it very dark, but he could still hear the rustling of thin fabric.
He swept his bangs back to see more clearly.
A few seconds of realization passed, with the only background noise being the wind gently blowing at the windows.
The thick tuft of brown hair quickly fell back into place, in a vain attempt to hide his increasingly red face.
Not that he disliked the sight, but once again, Edgar would have found it inappropriate, even obscene, to stand there and watch him in such an outfit.

First of all, where had Ranpo found such an outfit ?

He left immediately, before going down to the living room, where he could calm the frantic pounding against his temples.
When he was finally able to calm his mind, something completely obvious hit him:
He, who had always considered himself asexual—and for good reason, he was twenty-eight years old and yet had never had sexual intercourse—was surprised to find himself feeling the desire to discover this new, more intimate side of their relationship.
Edgar was even surprised to have enjoyed the sight.
It must be said that seeing Ranpo in such a transparent kimono was a scene that would never leave his mind.

Every detail remained etched in his memory, down to the smallest.
Lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, legs bent, reading the book Edgar had left behind with a distracted air, his nose prettily turned up in a pout that seemed to be impatient...
The fabric draped delicately over his body, revealing his graceful curves, but also half-open over his bare torso, stopping mid-thigh...
His pupils shining in a way he hadn't known them to be, the droplets of water trickling down his body, all while seeming to be waiting for him...

Maybe he was imagining things, but ultimately Ranpo's "strange" behavior lately might have had something to do with it all. Had he been too blind to see possible advances?

Despite everything, he found himself increasingly drawn to this sensation that seemed to irrigate his veins, like a hallucinogenic drug rising from his heart to his brain.
The same desire to explore his partner's perfect body that he had glimpsed a few moments earlier wouldn't—couldn't—leave his mind.
So he hesitantly returned to his room, expecting to find a grumpy Ranpo, frustrated that he hadn't responded directly to such explicit advances.
But no, his lover was still reading—well, no, his gaze was just fixed on the text—deep in thought. The only thing that betrayed any possible irritation was the steady thumping of his legs.

Edgar admired him for a few more seconds before daring to approach, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Ranpo, who hadn't heard him, jumped when his large hand came to rest uncertainly on the small of his back.
His skin was burning, it could be felt even a few inches away, and his upper back rose quickly and irregularly, a sign of his ragged breathing.
Seen from this erotic angle, he was nothing like the unpleasant boy most people knew.

No, at that precise moment, he was facing him in a desirable and charming way.

That same young man straightened up and slid into his lover's arms, so that he was sitting on his thighs.
He had understood the fact that he had returned as a response to his advances, and more than anything, an agreement for the night he had forbidden himself to dream about until then.
He then took the initiative that Edgar hadn't yet had the audacity to take, taking his hands and placing them on his waist.
His own arms crossed behind the writer's neck, he kissed him gently, waiting for the slightest reaction.
Edgar was surprisingly quick to respond, slightly tightening his grip on Ranpo's hips, the languid kiss already going to his head.
Ranpo then deepened it, running his tongue into his warm mouth, sensually rubbing himself against him at the same time.
When they pulled away, driven by a newfound excitement, they could only appreciate the sight of each other in this new state.

Edgar's slender hands finally moved, moving up his torso, groping for the areas that would warm his already ardent body a little more.
He found this erogenous spot when his fingers brushed over the hardened points of his breast, eliciting a small sigh of contentment from Ranpo.
His gestures, though filled with lust, were gentle and attentive, eager to give his partner as much pleasure as possible, but also hesitant, as if afraid of doing it wrong.
As he continued to tempt him by rolling his nipples under his thumb, his other hand moved a piece of fabric down his slender shoulder, revealing the milky skin of his collarbone.
He pressed his lips to it, changing its light shade to a purplish blue, while Ranpo pressed a little closer to him, tightening his grip on the fabric covering his chest.

Although he was inexperienced, his movements now came naturally; his hands knew where to place them, as if they had always been there. As he continued to kiss, bite, and suck on his neck, he felt small movements of his hips against his own.
This small involuntary movement on Ranpo's part almost immediately made him swoon, but when he felt his own top open over his torso, which was too thin for his liking, he stopped moving, as if the curve of pleasure that kept climbing the ladder within him had suddenly stabilized.

Edgar didn't want him to see this filth he called "body."

What if Ranpo was disgusted by his physique ?

He couldn't afford to ruin their relationship just because of his unattractive anatomy.

Ranpo's soft hands on his cheeks brought him out of his pointless questioning, and his reassuring gaze tried in vain to catch the one who was trying to escape him.

- Ed, listen to me, he murmured, his voice barely breaking, you're perfect, and you know I'm always right.

- Perfect ? he repeated, ignoring the second part. If I may, you have strange tastes, Ranpo...

- Perhaps, but I forbid you to question them.

- I have a repulsive physique, it's unpleasant to look at... my ribs stick out too much, for example... he whispered, as if to himself.

Seeing that he wouldn't be able to convince him with words, Ranpo made him lie down and, now kneeling between his legs, began to cover his sides with kisses, insistently where his bones were a little more visible.
Without needing to speak, he guessed which parts of his body were subject to the most complexes by the way Edgar shivered when his lips caressed his skin, kissing them one by one with the same tenderness, rejoicing in the shivers of pleasure and the hoarse sighs that he let slip.
When his mouth landed at the lowest point of his stomach, he saw his cheeks flush considerably, along with trembling, dilated pupils begging him to go down further.
But he didn't, and, preferring to keep his lover waiting, he let his mouth pass close to his greatest pleasure point before kissing the inside of her thighs, not hesitating to get revenge on the bites that dotted his neck and torso.

His little maneuver seemed to have an effect, as soon Edgar seemed much less embarrassed by his nudity, but he also couldn't bear the sweet torture any longer.
He allowed himself to switch positions so that he was leaning over his lover, between his legs, which tightened of their own accord around his waist.
Leaning on his elbows, it was Ranpo's turn to look at him imploringly, wanting to move from this sensual stage of foreplay to something more serious.
He rubbed his hips against his again, but the now almost complete absence of clothing heightened the already exquisite sensations.

By a movement of the head, Ranpo pointed to a small bottle of lubricant lying near the bed, on the small dresser where he had left the book.
Without further question, Edgar grabbed it and poured a little of the container onto his fingers.
Leaning slightly forward to kiss his lover, he slid a first finger into his lover's private parts, waiting with apprehension and impatience for some reaction.

Ranpo's entire body shuddered as he felt this foreign presence penetrate him.
It was cold, and the sensation wasn't the most pleasant, but he swallowed and rolled his hips, trying to get used to it.
He didn't respond to his kisses until he was ready for a second, his breathing becoming increasingly ragged.

Feeling his flesh tighten with discomfort, Edgar tried to relax him, making small scissoring movements with his fingers, caressing and kissing him to help him get over the awkward moment.
A third finger soon sank inside him, and only then did the uneasy pain within him begin to fade, gradually giving way to a feeling of well-being, as if the damp sheets had suddenly become the most comfortable place in the world.

When Edgar withdrew his fingers, leaving a kind of emptiness inside him, he straightened up one last time, to make sure that everything was okay, but above all to contemplate the state of ecstasy in which Ranpo found himself.
He lay in a way that made him more than desirable; his cheeks slightly flushed, his mouth half-open, his eyes clouded with desire, his hair a mess, a few strands of which clung to his sweaty skin, his ribcage heaving in a frantic rhythm, his entire body trembling with need.

Obeying his silent command, Edgar leaned down and kissed his forehead, gently penetrating him at the same time, holding him by the hips.
Ranpo's breath caught for a moment, his back arching considerably as a long moan of pleasure escaped his throat.
He crossed his legs behind his lover's back, keeping him deep inside him, clinging to his back until his short nails dug into his shoulder blades.
As he began to move inside him, the deep feeling of sensual pleasure rose so quickly to his head, invading his senses, that he thought he might faint.
While Edgar's lips brought him back to reality for a moment, his increasingly rapid thrusts quickly sent him climbing the ladder to seventh heaven.

The present moment cut them off from all external things; they could only think of each other, of the pleasure each other's movements brought them, as well as the loving glances and passionate kisses they exchanged.
Nothing existed outside their bubble.
They had never felt so good, and never had they wanted each other more than at that precise moment.

Ranpo threw his head back, feeling himself getting a little too high, his pleasure close to blowing like a flower blooming when the sun tickles it too much.
He clapped a hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to hold back his moans.
His breathing was erratic, his heart pounding against his chest with unimaginable force, and his whole body was shaking with tremors as his release was so close.

When he ventured to half-open his eyes, through a curtain of lust, he could see his lover's face, his perfect features drawn into an indefinable expression of love and sweet happiness, his slightly hollow cheeks and lilac eyelids, his trembling lips and rosy cheekbones, his torso perfectly outlined above him, his tense muscles remaining discreet despite everything...
He could feel the dampness of their skin as they collided, he could suspect the cries escaping him, he could guess Edgar's ragged breathing and moans, but no sound reached his ears, his entire attention was absorbed by the cascade of sensations pouring through him.
It only took a few well-placed thrusts for his pleasure to erupt, like a ripe fruit that's been squeezed too hard.
Feverish, his body fell back limply onto the mattress, his tense muscles suddenly relaxing, the feeling of the heated and panting mess he called his lover atop of him.

Once the euphoria of orgasm had passed, a sort of emotional fallout took hold of him, and the uncomfortable emptiness left behind didn't help his condition.
Warm arms encircled him, pulling him under the soft sheets, and once again his neck was covered in kisses. Ranpo shuddered as he felt those lazy lips trace his still-warm, damp skin, and a faint smile tenderly crossed his face.
Fatigue soon got the better of him, and he let himself go, snuggling up against the writer, as usual, the latter whispering a few words in his native language to lull him to sleep.

[...]

Latter that night, Ranpo, panicked, desperately searched for his lover throughout the vast house.

"He didn't abandon me, did he ?"

When he woke up to the icy cold in their room and didn't find him by his side, he immediately panicked.
It was irrational, exaggerated, but he needed to know that Edgar was still there, especially after what he had just given him.

Several times he called his name, but as many times no one answered.

No lamp would turn on, and often the thought that it was just a nightmare crossed his foggy mind, but when he bumped into a piece of furniture, a wall, or some other object in the darkness, he returned to reality and his anxiety skyrocketed.
Ranpo groped for a long time in the darkness, the heavy atmosphere oppressing him, he felt as if he were on the verge of an emotional breakdown.
Breathless, he finally found his lover, leaning on the highest balcony of the building.

When he saw him, the thick fog that had engulfed his mind instantly dissipated.

Edgar stared outside, the lightning illuminating his soft face, from which the wind had swept away the unruly locks that prevented access.
His eyes expressed no emotion, nor did his lips.
Ranpo opened the large French doors that led to the balcony, and the breeze that rushed into the room chased away the last shreds of his torment.

- Edgar ? he asked in a small voice.

No answer.

- Edgar, he insisted, placing his hand on his shoulder.

He jumped, straightening his messy bangs with a panicked and disordered gesture.
Immediately noticing his companion's condition, he took him by the shoulders, immediately making sure everything was okay.

- You have a beautiful profile, you know, Ranpo murmured in a tired but now calmed voice.

- Thank you... Edgar replied in a tone matching his, returning his attention to the landscape.

The sky was black, but not that suffocating black that makes you break out in a cold sweat, but rather that deep, poetic black.
It wasn't cold enough for it to snow anymore, so the wind, which came in short, irregular gusts, made their hair flutter.
No light disturbed this scene, neither the artificial light of the city, absent due to a general power outage, nor that of the moon, hidden behind the clouds.
A light drizzle gently hit the ground, creating a pleasant lapping as it moistened their faces when the wind allowed it to rush inside, without soaking them.
There was something melancholic and fascinating about it all, so much so that Edgar had stayed there for one, maybe two hours, given the coolness of his skin when Ranpo placed his hand on his, intertwining their fingers at the same time.

- Why did you hide your eyes when I arrived ?

- An old reflex, excuse me.

- The wind saw you well.

- It's not the same... It could throw me off a cliff or carry me in its arms, it will never judge me, it makes me feel free, it will stay by my side, until my death...

- And not me ?

His question took him completely off guard; he had never thought about it.
Yet, when he met his lover's uncovered pupils, he couldn't help but think that he was very similar to the wind, it who could do anything and without limits.

- Let's go inside, you'll catch a cold if you haven't already, Ranpo said softly after long minutes of waiting, which shrank his heart a little more with each passing second.

He had offered him everything, and yet he still felt like there was a gap between them.

- To answer your question, Egar finally murmured, without taking his eyes off the outside, to me, you are the incarnation of Zephyr himself.

His soft tone demonstrated the authenticity of his words.
Without knowing it, the very act of saying them had filled the imaginary void that Ranpo thought was real.
He finally tore his gaze away from the spectacle, went inside, and closed the wide French doors that led to the balcony.
Then, gently approaching Ranpo, he placed his lips on his in a kiss as chaste as the breeze. This simple gesture, customary for a couple, meant a lot to Ranpo: it was rare for Edgar to take the initiative, while he was usually the one trying to kiss him.

- I think the moon is very beautiful tonight, my dear.