Archive of Our Own ^beta

Omega pheromones assail his senses at the opposite end of the house. The smell clouds his mind even as a beta. Ranpo’s heat would drive any normal alpha into a rut in seconds.

“Didn’t you say he was fourteen?”

Mori’s voice grates on his fraying nerves worse than ever.

“Fifteen.”

Mori hums. “I’ll bring you suppressants, but that will still leave the question of what to do this time.”

“Can’t he take them?”

“He can, and I certainly won’t try to stop him, but you may have some objections. I see late presentations a lot in my line of work - childhood trauma is rather common in the underworld - and the trouble is that by his age he’ll be having a fully developed heat.”

“Which means?”

He hears the squeaking wheels of Mori’s well-worn chair, the rattle of his desk that doubles as a pharmacy.

“Didn’t they teach you anything in that military school? If an omega takes suppressants during a heat rather than beforehand, they risk making the fever incurable.”

Frustration sears the back of Fukuzawa’s neck.

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you want an explanation or a solution.”

“Solution.”

“The safest solution is to have an alpha to fuck him.” A drawer closes with a bang. “Your other option is to give him the suppressants and risk brain damage and death. It’s only about twenty percent of cases that suffer either, if you’d rather. I’ll let you think on it while you wait for the suppressants and birth control to arrive.”

The dial tone greets his ears. For a long moment the sound is the thought in his mind.

Then he’s cold and hot at once.

How could he have avoided this? How could he have prevented it getting to this point?

No, that won’t help now.

Ranpo cannot be gone- neither in body nor in spirit. He imagines Ranpo’s bright green eyes dim and his heart stutters in his chest.

But an alpha? Anger, burning rage fills him at the thought beside a possessiveness that has no place in a beta like himself. Ranpo is so small and sensitive and young, so weak to the slightest discomfort. Alphas are careless and rough. They won’t know to control themselves-

One will.

There’s a click on the other end of the line before he realizes he’s dialed.

“Hey Fu-”

“Gen’ichiro.”

Explaining something to Ranpo is never hard. Ranpo understands more than he does by the time he’s finished relaying Mori’s verdict. Ranpo takes the pills Mori brings without asking what they are and Fukuzawa decides to let it be “obvious” for the way the words burn his throat when he tries to speak. Mori said they’d be working by the time help arrived. He’d given Fukuzawa condoms, too, said he should be extra safe with Ranpo so young and fertile, then flippantly offered him something to keep his blood pressure down when he’d nearly crushed the box.

There was nothing else to be done. He has to get through this, terrible as it might be. He has to be calm and strong for Ranpo’s sake. He’ll be that person now and find something or someone to tear apart on their next job. If not, there’s still no shortage of crime in the city. A late-night walk would offer him a number of violent outlets.

Ranpo had bypassed nesting completely, seemed to have deduced that no object would be as effective a comfort as Fukuzawa himself. Fukuzawa’s too hot with Ranpo’s tiny body writhing in his lap, his miserable whines and pleading trills sinking their hooks into his otherwise dormant instincts, threatening his tenuous control despite his impotency to provide what Ranpo needs. Ranpo shed his clothes in the first hour, could tolerate nothing but Fukuzawa’s haori against his skin, and seeing it bunched under Ranpo’s nose made him wish for the first time in his life for a volatile secondary gender. But that was the beta’s desire to help speaking, surely. Just as that desire drives him to touch, to offer what help he can, to feel marginally better with Ranpo’s thin waist clutched close and his hips twitching with the careful glide of his surer fingers.

The hours blur together.

Then, at last: a knock on the door.

The yellow light from the hall blasts the lovelier, gentler shine of the full moon off of Fukuchi’s form when Fukuzawa yanks the front door open. Fukuchi stands at the foot of the steps, dressed in his uniform and a wry little smile. 

“Hey, Fukuzawa.”

He can’t ignore how large Fukuchi is tonight. He dwarfs the army-issue sack slung over his shoulder that Fukuzawa knows can fit as much as a suitcase, dwarfs Fukuzawa who could once look him in the eye. Ranpo’s presence fills a room, but holding him has made tangible that it’s only in spirit. Fukuzawa swallows the irrational urge to send Fukuchi away. 

“Whew, you don’t smell that much in civilization,” Fukuchi rubs his neck, a faint flush already dusting his cheeks. “And it’s done a number on you, I can see, Jizou.”

Fukuzawa realizes he hasn’t let go of the door, or invited Fukuchi in, or spoken, or possibly blinked, since he laid eyes on him. Thank you for coming had fouled on the back of his tongue, too light for the occasion, and nothing else had managed to make it even that far. Fukuchi’s hand lands heavy on his shoulder, startling him out of his spiraling thoughts. The scent of alpha floods his lungs, summons memories of warm, peaceful, innocent summers.

“It’ll be alright, Fukuzawa,” Fukuchi murmurs, leaning close. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Fukuzawa whispers in a rush of breath.

Fukuchi gives him a lopsided, reassuring grin, the one he so often flashed when they were children, the one he wielded unknowingly in their twenties, always when he planned to do whatever it took to make good on his word. It’s exactly what he needed to see. Exactly why he called Fukuchi. If he can give Ranpo a fraction of the comfort he brings Fukuzawa, everything will be fine.

“Fukuzawa,” cries a high, distressed voice from the bedroom. “My fingers aren’t big enough!” 

“I’m coming,” Fukuzawa calls. He turns away from the door, clears the path for Fukuchi. 

Ranpo latches onto him the moment he kneels by the futon again, nuzzling into his neck like a blind kitten, whining wordlessly for Fukuzawa to return to their endless lull of almost, but not quite, enough. Ranpo snuffs at his shoulder, grumbles in discontent, tugs at his already disheveled yukata as if it’s offended him.

“This smells bad,” Ranpo informs him.

Fukuchi crouches beside them, his arrival having gone unnoticed.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Ranpo recoils, going rigid in Fukuzawa’s arms, yanking his haori tight around his body and shoving fistfulls of the fabric under his nose. 

“What’s he doing here!?”

“You didn’t tell him?”

“Shh,” Fukuzawa snaps at Fukuchi. His hand travels to stroke Ranpo’s hair, seeking to soothe. He has to do this just right. Has to walk a razor’s edge to coax Ranpo into letting an alpha take him. On the one side of the razor is Ranpo’s discomfort with the concept, on the other is Fukuzawa’s.

“He’s an alpha,” he tries. Ranpo has likely already deduced as much, along with his purpose, and only wants Fukuzawa to provide context and comfort. It’s a very inconvenient time for words to have abandoned him.

“Why does he smell like that?! It’s awful!”

“What?”

“That’s strange.”

Ranpo ignores them both, burying his face in Fukuzawa’s chest with the haori bunched around his nose. He glances at Fukuchi in confusion. An omega as far gone in a heat as Ranpo should be hypnotized by Fukuchi’s powerful pheromones. He’d had to take suppressants in their teens until the omegas’ hormones balanced to avoid triggering early heats.

The sureness of his plan that he’d desperately hoped Fukuchi would bring with him trembles, takes some of his long-understood universal truths along for the ride. Ranpo feels more fragile despite being the source of the destabilization of his universe.

Fukuchi, like Ranpo, has always done better with uncertainty than him. Fukuchi shrugs, doing a poor job of hiding the twinkle of concern in his eye.

“Maybe he hates me more than we thought?”

Right. Nothing’s changed. Ranpo’s heat is well underway, burning him from the inside out. They still have two options for getting through the night. He takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Ranpo,” he calls softly, framing the boy’s small face with his much wider palms to tip his face up. He holds Ranpo’s watery green gaze, imploring. “It’s the safest way.”

Ranpo’s face screws up, his nose scrunching once freed from its layers of cloth protection, his brow furrowing and lips pulling into a tight pout in response to the implication. He looks at Fukuchi, who puts on a winning smile.

Ranpo turns back to Fukuzawa. “There’s an eighty percent chance that I’ll be fine, right!?”

It’s the drug of working with Ranpo running through his veins, that’s what tempts him to give Ranpo the suppressants, to roll the dice and take their chances. He feels invincible with Ranpo so close because they are invincible in any other situation. He’s willing to be reckless if it’s at Ranpo’s direction. Fear can’t hold him, not with this boy in his arms, so it’s his decades of training and sense of responsibility that grab his tethers and yank him down to Earth. They can survive anything. He can survive this.

Ranpo will pick up on any amount of force he applies and push back tenfold. That by itself doesn’t stay his hand. It’s the prospect that he might succeed in making Ranpo go through with this against his will that frightens him into lowering his voice and his guard, though only Fukuchi can appreciate the latter.

“I know… you don’t like him. But,” He steals a glance at Fukuchi, swamped with omega pheromones and challenged by Ranpo’s fierce rejection, reclining calmly beside them. He returns to Ranpo’s gaze, lets it calm him. “I’ve never met an alpha with more control.”

Ranpo’s lips form a rare shape: a frown. He eyes Fukuchi distrustfully, his fingers tightening in the haori near his neck. Fukuzawa recognizes the state. Ranpo is suspending his already-decided judgement, allowing additional arguments to be made at the behest of the one person who can make him do so. He’s going to give Fukuchi a chance. Already he isn’t wincing so much on each inhale. Fukuzawa hopes it’s a sign that his body is catching up with the onslaught of extra input, that, given time to adjust, his secondary gender will settle better on his system.

Fukuchi takes his cue, offering Ranpo his hand. Ranpo flinches at the motion.

“I’ll be here,” Fukuzawa murmurs behind Ranpo’s ear.

Visibly reluctant, Ranpo’s fingers lag in their journey across Fukuchi’s.

Now that he doesn’t need to allay Ranpo’s fears, he’s free to hate himself for doing so. The backlash slams into his chest at the barest reduction of Ranpo’s weight, the sensation of him slipping from his grasp. Ranpo’s fingers look like toys in Fukuchi’s comically large hands. 

Fukuzawa rests his hands on Ranpo’s hips with half a thought of guiding him and half a thought of keeping him where he belongs. It’s impossible not to feel how small and fragile he is, to not know how easily he bruises and tears. He’s devoted his life to protecting the little detective and he can’t tell which thought will do the job better. He needs Ranpo. He wants Ranpo, though he’s tried to quash the desire since the first burst of pheromones left him stricken. He doesn’t want to give him away to anyone, not even his alpha. He wants to be all Ranpo needs.

“Don’t worry,” Fukuchi says to them both, his gentle, coaxing tone aimed at Ranpo. “I know exactly what to do.”

Ranpo goes slowly at first, but Fukuzawa can feel the tension sapping from his body the further he falls into Fukuchi’s gravity. Fukuzawa has always appreciated his size. It was unsettling to look up one day and find himself larger and stronger than everyone around him, the chill of adulthood given tangibility. But there was still one person who could act as a shelter, physically and metaphorically. Fukuchi remained larger than life, shot up to heights unheard of in the little town where they matured. Now when he leans forward, tugs Ranpo to lay him down, he’s a wall of a man, a protective refuge offering the promise of relief and rest.

“That’s it,” Fukuchi murmurs, hovering over Ranpo on the discarded futon blanket, “just relax,” What must it be like, to be so small beneath him? “focus on me,” Fukuchi’s hand dwarfs his thigh, ghosting up delicate flesh, all his power restrained, “and forget about everything else-”

Slap!

The moment shatters. Fukuzawa’s fingers tighten on Ranpo’s rigid hips.

“Stop!”

Sickly ice water floods Fukuzawa’s veins. It takes no effort to haul Ranpo back to his chest, not the least because Ranpo scrambles there once he gains the footing to do so. His bony shoulder jabs into Fukuzawa’s breastbone, his trembling frame collapsed to shove as close to him as possible, his eyes wide and wild.

“Give me the suppressants.” His voice has the quiet, level quality only possessed by men who are on the verge of breaking.

“Ranpo-”

“It’s my choice, isn’t it!? I don’t care if I lose my ability or die!”

“Hey now,” Fukuchi tries kindly, reaching for him.

“Don’t touch me!” Ranpo jerks in an effort to withdraw further. “I don’t want to be an omega! If I can’t make it go away I’d rather be dead or too stupid to care!”

Fukuzawa’s throat constricts. If only they weren’t in this damned situation. He as a fool for blocking out the signs after Ranpo’s heat set in and praying Ranpo’s development was just uneven due to how quickly it came on. But never had he seen an omega rage against their heat so much, nor had he found Fukuchi’s scent unpleasant the way other alphas sometimes did. He can’t think of worse circumstances for Ranpo to have come to his conclusion.

He clings to the hope that Ranpo would feel less violently negative about the sensations themselves if the whole of his secondary gender wasn’t thrust upon him without warning, accompanied by the untenable choices of submitting to a man he takes great offense to or risking life and limb. As long as that’s true, there’s a way through the night that doesn’t run the risk of breaking him.

“If that’s how you feel,” Fukuzawa murmurs, “I doubt there’s much Mori would refuse to do.” And Fukuzawa has ways of encouraging him. “But you have to make it through tonight first.”

Ranpo clings to him so tightly he worries his thin fingers might bruise, the timbre of his words drawing him impossibly closer. His eyes remain too wide with awareness he’s clinging to almost as desperately as he’s clinging to Fukuzawa. He swallows hard.

“What if he hadn’t let me go-”

“I would have broken his face,” Fukuzawa declares before Ranpo’s finished enunciating. He’d almost done it anyway.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Fukuchi chimes with wry humor.

Ranpo’s lips thin. Fukuzawa’s abruptly reminded that he’s fifteen, as if his size and distress weren’t enough to wound his heart. Ranpo glances at Fukuchi, winces, a frightening dampness gathering on his lashes.

“What if I hadn’t snapped out of it!?” Ranpo bursts out. “That awful smell made me forget everything! I forgot I didn’t like him! I forgot who I was! I almost forgot y-” 

“Nothing would have happened.”

Their attention turns to Fukuchi.

He raises his hand as if swearing an oath. With too much solemnitude, he declares:

“I’m not going to have sex with you. I was only teasing.”

For a single beat of peaceful silence, no one moves.

“Wh- What the hell kind of monster would tease someone at a time like this!?”

Ranpo swings his hand through the air as if to cut Fukuchi down, Fukuzawa’s arms around his waist the only thing holding him back from striking. Fukuzawa would be happy to see Ranpo recover so completely if he wasn’t of the same mind.

Fukuchi claps his hands together and bows his head in an apology that comes off as mocking, though Fukuzawa knows it to be a move Fukuchi uses to try to be endearing.

“Please forgive me!! I’m really really sorry!”

“Gen’ichiro,” hearing his own voice is cathartic because it’s much more threatening than Ranpo’s.

"What? He can’t handle me, Fukuzawa. Look at him, he'd be traumatized. And need a hospital." He framed his hands on either side of Ranpo’s slim waist, then moved them over his crotch. They sat well between the blades of his hips. “I’d break him.”

His fingers tighten on Ranpo’s waist without his permission.

“You’re the only alpha I’d trust with him.”

The fear that had gripped him abates at the introduction of Fukuchi tenderest, most adoring smile.

“Don’t give me that look. I didn’t come here to tease,” he chides gently. For a split second Fukuzawa forgets himself, wants nothing more than for Fukuchi to shelter the both of them in his embrace. Then violet eyes drop to the boy in his arms, shining with playful amusement. “Feeling better, kid?”

“Now that you’re over there.”

“I can’t tell if you’re holding a grudge or if this is your usual cheek.”

“It’s not a grudge if you’d do it again! That’s just not being stupid!”

Fukuzawa slides his palm over Ranpo’s forehead while they entertain each other.

“His fever’s gone down a little.”

Fukuchi’s head bobs with pleased confidence. “See? All according to plan.”

“I don’t trust either one of you to make plans!” Ranpo fumes.

“Oh? Then you can make the plans from here on! Might be nice to stop thinking for a while.”

“As if you ever did?!”

“Ranpo,” Fukuzawa murmurs. He’s lost track of the conversation. Without a clear goal he’s adrift, apprehensive of the battered horizon from the quiet eye of the storm. He looks to Fukuchi for an explanation.

Fukuchi reacts as if he’d spoken, folding his legs under him as he always did when explaining things.

“I don’t need to be the one he spends his heat with. As long as I’m here my scent should do the trick. He can spend it with someone else.”

“Like who?”

Fukuchi huffs, raising his eyebrows at him.

“You’ve always had a gentler touch.”

Ranpo stills unnaturally in his arms.

Fukuzawa’s jaw works.

“Doctor Mori didn’t suggest that.”

“Guess I’ve had more sex than him.” Fukuchi quips. He turns the coaxing gaze he’d tried on Ranpo on him to much better effect. “Come on, the worst that can happen is you make him better able to take me after.”

Fear and longing grip him in equal measures. He has no idea how to satisfy an omega. He’d survived the hours waiting for help to arrive by doing anything requested of him, anything that seemed to alleviate Ranpo’s suffering. He can form a knot, but it’s not large and doesn’t happen reliably. Ranpo would be in better hands with Fukuchi.

But he wants to be the one. The desire is so indecent he shies away from it, unseemly in a beta like himself. He struggles to displace it, find some reasonable source for it - the need to be of use to Ranpo, to serve him, is the only desire he has that’s strong enough to compete. It doesn’t feel a lie to think of them as attached.

They’re both spiced with the same selfishness.

But Fukuchi is right, he is gentler, and he knows Ranpo’s moods and signals better than anyone. Ranpo is more relaxed and amenable to him than any other living human. His own wants or needs are unimportant. It’s logical. Justifiable.

“No.”

Fukuzawa’s growing surety shatters. Ranpo’s trembling has returned worse than before.

“Ranpo?” his voice is too soft to his own ears. Too hurt. He doesn’t understand.

“Really? I thought you’d be delighted with the idea.” Fukuchi says.

“No,” Ranpo takes a hiccupping breath. “I’m hot and gross and clothes feel like sandpaper and everything smells so strong and he’s here and it hurts! I can’t take any more, I won’t force you to do that on top of everything else!!”

He ends on a wail, thumping his weak fist against Fukuzawa’s chest. Fukuzawa’s draw back to hover over Ranpo’s trembling form, uncertain if he’s allowed to touch, torn between the desire to hold and the desire to shed his offensive clothes.

“I’ve never seen an omega take to it this badly. Usually they start to enjoy it by now.”

“How does anyone like this?!” Ranpo cries. “Who would want this!? Shouldn’t more people kill themselves?!”

Clarity strikes him like lightning. He’s thinking about this all wrong. It has nothing to do with Ranpo being an omega and everything to do with this happening to Ranpo Edogawa.

Omegas he knows nothing about, but Ranpo Edogawa is his other half.

“Ranpo.” He’d forgotten the haori was his softest article of clothing. He keeps it between his clothes and Ranpo’s oversensitive skin, slides his arm around Ranpo’s waist where he’d missed having it. “Calm down.”

“No! I just want it to go away! You said it was my choice but I’ve made it a bunch of times and you won’t listen so it’s obviously not my choice so why should I listen to you!? If you’ve already made up your mind to do what you think is best then making you feel uncomfortable about it is the least I should be allowed to do!”

The bottle rattles on its way into Ranpo’s small, sweaty hand. Ranpo starts, shocked. Then his other hand flies out from under the haori to twist the cap off with a speed born of desperation.

“Aaahhh Fukuzawa maybe you shouldn’t-”

“It is your choice,” Fukuzawa murmurs. “No matter the outcome, I won’t let you be alone.”

Ranpo freezes. Wide, disbelieving green eyes round on him. He can always count on Ranpo to understand even if he can’t find the right words.

Ranpo’s parted lips close. Then they form a thin, angry line. 

“You” the bottle bounces off his chest and into the dark corners of the room. “suck! That isn’t any better than forcing me, you big jerk! I can’t risk you dying die over something this stupi-”

He’s not bad at understanding Ranpo, either. He sees the lights go on in quick succession: realization of the leveled playing field, an assumption of inferiority, ingestion of a lesson he hadn’t meant to imply.

“It’s not stupid.” Ranpo hadn’t said anything about skin. He glides his hands up, cups the hinges of Ranpo’s jaw with his palms. Ranpo’s hot to the touch, and he lets that be the reason Ranpo’s lashes lower, his touch cooler without the fires of a heat. “But I can’t…” the words stick in his throat. They all seem inadequate. Ranpo can’t grasp what it meant to be raised as a mindless weapon, to find himself dangerous and out of control with no one fit to wield him. To sheath himself forever, only to be dragged back out into the light by so apt a master that he felt human again. He can’t fail that precious person. Can’t lose him.

Ranpo’s face crumples on anguished resignation. He knows Ranpo understood, but then Ranpo tugs away with that look makes him wish he’d spoken.

“Couldn’t Mori have brought sleeping pills or something?” Ranpo mutters. “Then I wouldn’t care if he touched me.”

“Hey!”

“He doesn’t have to.”

“Are you gonna listen to anything I say?!”

Forced into the light again. Ranpo’s picked up on his reluctance and assumed it’s reluctance to spend his heat with him, not reluctance to let it be known he wants to. His hands don’t shake, but his heart trembles. Ranpo’s suffering the worst of the night. It’s only fair he sacrifice some modesty.

“Tip your head up.”

“Why!?”

“Because I want to kiss you.”

Ranpo’s head snaps to look at him in shock and Fukuzawa seizes the opportunity. He worries he’s being too rough, kissing Ranpo’s velveteen lips apart to savor his taste, until Ranpo whines and relaxes for the first time since his heat began.

Kissing him is benediction. Later, after he’s finished drowning in Ranpo, he’ll remember to feel bad about it.

Ranpo’s lips shine sinfully after they break apart, his gaze blissful and befuddled with the effort of staying coherent.

“You’re not forcing me. I want to do it.”

“No you don’t. You’d never do this on your own.”

“Well sure, but Bokuto Jizou here never initiates with anyone.”

“Gen’ichiro,” if he’s more waspish than is warranted at the interruption, Fukuchi only seems amused by it. Ranpo’s interest is piqued, however, his attention revolving between them before settling curiously on Fukuzawa. Fukuzawa sighs. “I’m a beta. I don’t have reason to.”

“People like sex! You like sex! What other reason do you need?” Fukuchi shrugs.

“‘Cuz you’re scared of people.” Ranpo mumbles. “It’s easier not to. That’s why I want this to end. I don’t like this feeling.”

“Mori said it’s worse because of your age.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

They’ve circled around, landed somewhere near Ranpo’s fear of coercing him that he can’t see. Easier not to. But not now, because Ranpo’s presented as an omega. No longer easy.

An inconvenience.

Ranpo has hated every second of his heat, and it’s brought him no end of grief for reasons other than sensation. Fukuzawa hasn’t seen him look this miserable in their entire acquaintance. If he thinks of it that way, would be difficult not to view it as a terrible plight at this late hour.

The thought hadn’t occurred to him. Ranpo’s heat being uncomfortable and unsolvable and out of control is a plight. Ranpo’s heat is intoxicating, hypnotizing, a delicacy unrivaled.

“I don’t think it’s bad,” he says so quietly Fukuchi might not be able to hear, setting his forehead to Ranpo’s.

“But you don’t even like it when I leave my mochi and now I’m causing all this trouble,” Ranpo replies almost as quietly.

“You’re not doing this on purpose.”

“I don’t hate mochi on purpose.”

“That’s not really equivalent to you, is it?”

“No, this is worse.”

“He’s a food snob.” Fukuchi cuts in at full volume.

“Quiet.” Fukuzawa snaps.

“What? You are! Of course you’d act like being picky is a mortal sin.”

Fukuzawa pulls away from Ranpo briefly to flash Fukuchi a threatening glare. Ranpo keeps staring up at him, and when he returns his attentions to his charge it appears he’s tentatively accepted Fukuchi’s reasoning for that particular irregularity in the scale of Fukuzawa’s ire. He would protest, as there are better words for his fine tastes in meals, but it’s not important.

It’s not.

He shakes himself. 

“Ranpo,” he murmurs, intending to ground them both. He fails, his thoughts remaining strangely muddled. “I like you, so I like that you’re an omega.”

“Huh?” Ranpo can’t hide the tremor that shivers through him. Fukuzawa nuzzles his cheek, seeking to chase it away.

“Let me do this for you.”

Ranpo’s pheromones are stronger than Fukuchi’s even with Fukuchi’s growing heavy from the onset of a rut. The scent is as fine as spun sugar, pure as fresh spring water after a thaw. A day of resisting temptation has left him weak. He drops his head to Ranpo’s shoulder, curling around him and biting back a contented moan.

“You smell so good.”

Pressed so close, he can hear the hitch in Ranpo’s breathing perfectly. His scent strengthens and he hums in pleasure, turning his head toward Ranpo’s neck in search of where it’s coming from.

“Wha-!”

His yukata is wet. Ranpo’s right, he should’ve shed it hours ago. But it will smell like Ranpo through a few washes, so at least he has that.

“Fukuzawa,” comes Ranpo’s shaky, high voice. “...please.”

The agitated burn beneath his skin, a torment he’s forced himself to endure since Mori’s diagnosis, washes away in a wave of relief. He doesn’t have to let Ranpo be handled by anyone else. Ranpo can stay where he’s comfortable, where he belongs, until he’s better.

Fear billows up in him like a fog. Ranpo is fragile and sensitive mentally and physically, and while Fukuzawa may be gentler than Fukuchi, he’s always been all hard edges. Briefly he imagines Ranpo as a malleable tower of pudding and himself as a stone golem, a hopeless combination with only one destructive outcome possible. He forces the thought from his mind, focuses on the task at hand. Ranpo’s not as fragile as he looks or acts, and Fukuzawa’s hard exterior has never done him harm.

Still, it’s with the lightest pressure possible that he guides Ranpo to the futon so he can strip off his slick-soaked yukata.

“How close…?” This he aims at Fukuchi. He half hopes he’ll lean over his shoulder and whisper instructions in his ear, but Ranpo’s distaste is palpable in the air and Fukuchi huffs.

“You should start without me.”

Fukuchi levers himself to his feet, wafting his strong, homey scent into Fukuzawa’s welcoming lungs. He strides off across the tatami mats and out through the sliding door that opens onto the fenced back yard, settling to wait in the moonlight that bathes the low porch.

Then, he and Ranpo are alone.

Ranpo, who looks so like a wet kitten his heart aches. His legs bend on either side of him, Fukuzawa’s haori covering him from neck to knee. His hair gives the impression of lowered ears around his fretful, pleading stare. The low light hides his flush and the shine of sweat on his skin, but Fukuzawa knows the warmth and wetness from touch.

He’s old enough to know that success doesn’t require an understanding of theory. He is strong and can be gentle, and Ranpo is brilliant and loud in his complaints. With Fukuchi outside, it’s easy to fall into the quick, spontaneous actions that define their teamwork.

“Ranpo.”

He holds out his hands.

Ranpo clambers into his lap with his usual grace, which isn’t very much, but it’s clear he’s given some thought to the position. His arms slide around Fukuzawa’s neck, his knees to either side of Fukuzawa’s thighs. Fukuzawa catches his haori before it can fall off, his hold light and bracing.

Ranpo glances down at his cock. Getting hard wasn’t difficult in the sea of Ranpo’s heat. He’s been willing away erections all day, all he had to do was stop resisting. Ranpo’s seen him in the public bath before and made off-color comments that ensured he could never return to some of them, but now he flushes and averts his eyes shyly.

“Aren’t you going to put it in?”

He’d been wondering the same thing, a corner of his mind stuck in an infinite loop of worry and uncertainty and fear. As often happens around Ranpo, he’s as surprised by his words as anyone listening.

“You should do it.”

Ranpo’s grown more human under his tutelage. The boy he’d first met was uncanny to look at without some distraction to occupy him, his gaze uncomfortably all-seeing, words painfully revealing. Heaven’s cold light, as it was described to him in stories from abroad. Although, their clients often call him harsh. Maybe he was the one who grew, had to adjust to Ranpo’s blinding brilliance to see the person underneath. Ranpo’s gaze shines now with lonely unease, vulnerable and in need of shelter.

“I’ll help,” Fukuzawa reassures him, “but it will be easier on you if you control the speed.”

His gaze shuttering, Ranpo nods, Fukuzawa ties the haori chain to a hanger loop along the collar to shrink the opening enough to fit him, then settles his hands on Ranpo’s hip and under his thigh. His palms engulf Ranpo’s body, his thumb wrapping to the top of his leg, the fingers of his other hand stretching past Ranpo’s spine. Ranpo shifts to hover over his cock, his brow furrowed in concentration. Fukuzawa uses two of the fingers supporting Ranpo’s thigh to bring his cock into alignment, suppresses a shiver at the kiss of plush, wet heat against the head.

Ranpo’s already prepared. His thin fingers had failed him in the first hour, three buried to the knuckle drawing nothing but whines of dissatisfaction from him. He’d dragged Fukuzawa’s between his legs in the second, and while two of his thicker digits had done a better job, by the time Fukuchi arrived he was again frustrated with three. And he’s drenched with slick to his knees, a drop sliding down Fukuzawa’s shaft already, so Fukuzawa’s fears that he’ll hurt him are unfounded.

He expects hesitation, but Ranpo’s eyes spark at the pressure against his entrance and then he’s sinking into blindingly tight heat.

“Ah- haa…!” Ranpo moans.

The slide is halting but quick, Ranpo’s body catching and adjusting at irregular intervals, his hole hungry to be filled. Fukuzawa grits his teeth so hard his molars squeak to keep still. Ranpo’s hot with fever and so sweet inside, better than anything he’s ever felt. Omegas are reserved for their alpha counterparts; most wouldn’t suffer a beta if one dared be impertinent enough to show interest. Fukuzawa had always kept to his place. Always, before Ranpo.

Ranpo’s hips sink so quickly Fukuzawa has to fight the nervous urge to brace him and slow him down. Ranpo knows what he needs. His thin nails scrape Fukuzawa’s shoulders, his eyes shut and lips fallen open in pleasure. If anything, he seems frustrated that he can’t go faster, his whining cries loud and urgent.

“If feels so good!” He arches when he bottoms out, rocks his hips while Fukuzawa’s trying to slow his heartbeat to stave off cardiac arrest. He grunts, dropping one hand to tear into the tatami mats. Ranpo glances at it, then turns a sly gaze on him. “Is it good?”

Fukuzawa’s breath shudders out of him, his attempt at meditation breathing unraveling him further by forcing him to gulp in a heavy dose of Ranpo’s scent. He smells of springtime mornings, of dandelions and frost, of fall leaves and the first drops of rain. He smells of salt and milk and sugar, of a sweet flavor he can’t name.

“You’re making a pretty scary face,” Ranpo observes, his rocking gaining force and speed. “Do you want more that bad?” He raises himself up and slides down experimentally, his moan vibrating down to Fukuzawa’s core. “What do you want, Fukuzawa? Tell me.”

Ranpo twists and shifts, testing every aspect of his cock, using him as he should, as a tool for his pleasure. He seems to expect a response. Fukuzawa searches for his voice to offer him that, too, doesn’t find it until Ranpo’s teeth catch his neck.

“Ah! I-” His hand twines into Ranpo’s hair. “I want… to serve you.”

“What else?” Ranpo presses. “You want to touch me?” yes, “You want it harder?” yes, “Faster?” yes.

Fukuzawa whines for mercy, trembling with each question, Ranpo making good on them, but not enough. He has a thinker’s body, lithe but not strong, not like Fukuzawa’s trained musculature. Ranpo’s motions are a heavenly torment, a maddening temptation. As the minutes drag on Ranpo starts to falter, his panting breath deepening with exertion. He slows, whining with frustration, then drops to rest on Fukuzawa’s cock.

“Fukuzawaaa! I can’t- my legs are tired!”

Fukuzawa rushes to obey the unspoken request, to take over and use his strength to Ranpo’s ends.

“Wait, hold on.”

It’s good Fukuchi is an alpha. Fukuzawa wouldn’t have stopped if his scent hadn’t triggered his instincts.

“Nooo!!” Ranpo wails. Fukuzawa recognizes an edge of theatre in it, earnest in its frustration but flamboyant in its delivery. The sound would have otherwise catapulted him back into his fiercely obedient headspace, made him drive Fukuchi out and do whatever else Ranpo asked until they both burned up.

“Just a second, you little demon,” Fukuchi chuckles, kneeling in front of them so his knees touch Fukuzawa’s shins.

“You’re the demon! Go back outside! Shoo!”

“Don’t think I couldn’t hear you taunting him from there!”

“Voyeur!”

“What are you teaching him, Fukuzawa?” Fukuchi balks dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.

Fukuzawa’s gaze swims up to him. He’d answer, but he’s uncertain what Fukuchi asked. Fukuchi’s eyes soften, his lips pulling into the rare gentle smile that’s always shot straight to Fukuzawa’s heart.

“Turn him around,” Fukuchi instructs gently.

That he can do. Ranpo tolerates being adjusted, though he goes limp and releases a long, disgruntled sigh to make his opinion on the matter clear. Settled again in Fukuzawa’s lap, Ranpo huddles and holds the haori at his elbows. Fukuchi tugs the fallen robe up over his shoulders, hiding his body from view, prompting Ranpo to glower warily at him. 

“What? I’m on my best behavior! Fukuzawa will break my face if I do anything you don’t like, remember?” Fukuchi beams with brash charm.It’s worked for him often, Fukuzawa knows, but Ranpo isn’t so easily convinced. After a long moment in which Ranpo displays no visible reaction, Fukuchi gives up on the tactic. He sets his hands on his knees, his expression shifting to one of earnest gravity.

“You have my word.”

Fukuzawa wonders if alphas and omegas always negotiate this way, or if his alpha and omega are unique. He knows it’s a silly thought after he thinks it - they’ve always been unique.

“You can trust him, Ranpo,” Fukuzawa rumbles, kissing his neck. “I trust him.”

Ranpo’s cheeks puff in a pout. He deflates a second later, casting a glance over his shoulder in search of reassurance. Then he nods.

Fukuzawa grips his hips and rocks into him.

“Ah-!”

For a moment after Ranpo arches he worries he’s been too rough, but then Ranpo’s wriggling, trilling wordlessly for more in his newfound omega register. Carefully he does it again, testing to see how Ranpo responds. Assuming Ranpo will complain if he’s dissatisfied, as he so often does, he chains down the urge to rut into his delicious warmth and sets a pace similar to the one Ranpo had stuttered into. Ranpo writhes in his lap, rocks his hips as much as his tired legs will allow, drives him out of his head with his keening whines.

“Harder!” Ranpo cries at last, thumping back against his chest.

Fukuzawa hums in agreement, surging into him on his next thrust, drawing a satisfied and satisfying gasp from his lips. The new rhythm is deep and firm and perfect. He bands his arm around Ranpo’s shoulders, tucks his face into his neck and breathes his scent.

Ranpo’s trembling. Fukuzawa can taste his disquiet in the air, a confusing tang of worry that has no place between them.

"Does it feel good? Fukuzawa?”

Delirious, that’s what they’d call him. He can’t hold on to Ranpo’s words long enough to make sense of them.

Fukuchi grabs his chin and yanks his head up so Ranpo can see his face.

“Look at him. You think he’s not feeling good?”

He can see his reflection in Fukuchi’s eyes, his forehead creased, his lips parted. In the corner of his hooded vision Ranpo stares unblinking, fixated on his expression. The space just beyond Ranpo’s entrance tightens and Fukuzawa’s eyes slip closed on a whine he can’t hold back.

“He’s inexperienced in this. He’s never had an omega before.”

He’s not sure what his alpha is doing or saying, but it niggles at his mind. It niggles at a place deeper, in fact. His pride. With the great effort of a competing sin, his wits struggle through his lust back to him.

"It feels good, doesn't it, Fukuzawa?"

Fukuzawa focuses on Fukuchi’s teasing smirk, attempting to scowl.

“Stronger than he looks,” Fukuchi says, apropos nothing until Fukuzawa registers how dark his eyes have become, how the scent of alpha is helping addle his thoughts. He’s referring Ranpo’s omega pheromones. Fukuzawa has no basis for comparison, but he’s never seen Fukuchi so affected. But of course Ranpo, in all his impossible power, would be powerful in this, too.

Ranpo whines, the soft sound and the weak body that made it belying what hides within, drawing his attention. Ranpo’s black eyes are transfixed on him, on how he’s struggling to stay sane.

“Fukuzawa… more,” Ranpo mumbles. He squirms, his back arching as far as his untrained body will allow. “More! I- please!”

He understands what Ranpo doesn’t. The clench around the base of his cock is almost unbearable, Ranpo’s omega muscles locking up to hold a knot that isn’t there. Frustration rises bitter in Fukuzawa’s throat.

“Gen’ichiro,” he breathes, turning pleading blue up to meet violet. “I don’t… know how.”

Fukuchi isn’t Ranpo. He isn’t pure clarity and certainty. But his earnest reliability has always been the next best thing for bringing Fukuzawa comfort. Fukuchi doesn’t waver, doesn’t frown with concern at Fukuzawa’s confession. He looks like he was waiting for it. He grips Fukuzawa’s shoulder firmly, his tone low as he speaks.

“You told me you wanted to be his shield. His sword.”

“What?” Ranpo’s surprise has a delicate flavor, something sweet and yes, he does want to protect him, to be wielded by him.

“You found him. He’s yours.” Fukuchi leans in. “So make him yours.”

Fukuzawa buckles on a shout ranpo echos, his knot swelling into an overwhelming and perfect squeeze. 

Fukuchi falls away, a comfortable wall supporting his omega, all his, exactly as Ranpo wanted and as he should be. Pleasure blasts all else from his head, the completion forbidden for his kind made sweeter for it.

“Does it hurt, little kitten?” Murmurs his alpha.

Ranpo rubs his forehead against Fukuchi’s clothes, a tiny shake of his head Fukuzawa feels in his teeth.

“That’s good.”

He’s a good alpha. He strokes Ranpo’s hair gently, lets Ranpo cling to his uniform and lean on him for strength. Lets Ranpo breathe his scent without demanding reciprocation such a young and fragile omega can’t be expected to give.

His release, echoing on and on and on in a way it never does when he knots in his hand, is especially satisfying for their success. Ranpo is his and will remain his and no one else’s, tonight and tomorrow and on unto a timelier death. The proof bursts in his scent, a waft of clean city summer completing the fragrance and alerting them to the satisfaction of his instincts. When, after minutes uncounted, the tingling in his limbs begins to fade, Ranpo’s temperature has the decency to lower to confirm the tapering of his heat.

Fukuzawa reluctantly pulls his teeth from Ranpo’s neck - and locks up. He hadn’t-

“You didn’t break the skin.” Fukuchi murmurs, returning his stolen breath. “Though I don’t think he would have minded if you had.”

Freed, Ranpo raises his head, unlatching his fingers from Fukuchi’s uniform.

“Are you alright?” Fukuzawa asks, worried for the gaps in his memory as his sense returns.

“Mmm.” Ranpo flops against his chest, shifting so his cock slides out. “Call Mori. I still don’t want to have another heat ever again.”

Fukuzawa can’t disagree after the scare he’d just experienced. If this happened again he might go through with it. But Ranpo appears comfortable and content, so the win remains a win.

“Ok,” he says for lack of other thought.

He finds himself abruptly staring at the ceiling. Perhaps Ranpo’s pheromones maintain their influence over him, because it feels foreign and distinctly alpha-like to be smug that his omega had such a powerful effect on Fukuchi.

“What’s the big idea!?” Ranpo snaps, jamming the heels of his palms into Fukuzawa’s chest to glare at Fukuchi for manhandling him. Irony is clear again, at least. “Hey-!”

Ranpo jerked in his arms, so affronted it’s entertaining rather than concerning. A cursory glance showed Fukuchi’s fingers gleaming with slick, gathered no doubt from Ranpo’s thigh.

“Let me borrow this for him, ok?” The gravel in Fukuchi’s throat undermines his attempt at levity.

“For wh-”

Fukuzawa grunts sharply at the breach of two thick fingers, aided by Ranpo’s slick or not. It would be hard enough to take after several years celibate; pivoting from alpha to omega in the span of minutes has him baring grit teeth, arching his neck, struggling not to bruise Ranpo where his hands lay on his comfortable shape.

“What the heck are you doing!?”

Fukuzawa holds Ranpo back from whatever he planned on doing with his lurch toward Fukuchi.

“Heats induce ruts in alphas,” he grinds out. “It’s the same… as you.”

“Well he’s not going to die if he leaves you alone, is he?!”

“It’s dangerous for an alpha like Fukuchi to be left in this state.” For others, mainly. He strokes Ranpo’s hair, confused by the offense he’s taken to the situation. “It’s alright. I knew this was coming.”

“It wouldn’t have without me,” Ranpo mutters gloomily. Fukuzawa raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t mind it.”

“Oh, yeah, I can totally tell by the look on your face,” Ranpo drawls. 

Fukuzawa’s protest is cut short by the withdrawal of Fukuchi’s fingers. He releases Ranpo, sure he’ll forget himself and hold too tight, and instead grips the disheveled futon to brace himself. Except that leaves Ranpo free to move, which he does.

“Wait wait wait!” Ranpo springs upright, carelessly putting himself in Fukuchi’s way. He scrapes the blade of his hand under his thigh, coating his palm in slick. “That’s not enough, take more.”

Ranpo doesn’t notice the sharpening of Fukuchi’s gaze on him, too busy shamelessly applying his slick to Fukuchi’s cock. Luckily, Fukuzawa does.

“There, that-”

Fukuzawa’s knuckles crack against Fukuchi’s jaw, Ranpo yanked back and held protectively to his chest.

“Focus!” He roars. Fukuchi may be stronger in a rut, but he’s less clever. Nothing Fukuzawa can’t handle, and nothing he’ll hesitate to handle if he turns his attention on Ranpo again.

Fukuchi fingers his jawline, his head still angled from the blow and his eyes in shadow.

“That’s right, isn’t it?” he mutters to himself. He rounds on Fukuzawa with a savage grin. “It’s that fire I like best.”

Fukuchi yanks his legs out from under him, bending him up with Ranpo still clutched in his arms and plunging inside him in one brutal thrust.

“Ahhhah-”

Fukuzawa dares take a hand off of Ranpo to clap over his mouth, his toes curling in the air with the blinding stretch. Fukuchi’s win; though Fukuzawa gave it to him, technically.

“Hey!! Don’t be so rough!” Ranpo shouts.

“Rough? This is how it’s usually done, kitten.”

“Who cares how it’s usually done?!”

“It’s alright,” Fukuzawa rumbles.

Fukuchi’s teasing brought him some comfort: sheathed inside Fukuzawa, he’s recovered enough of his wits to be aware of his surroundings. Not enough to be gentle, but Fukuzawa knew he wouldn’t be. He ignores their little charge’s distress, sets a punishing pace that has his throat tightening and eyes watering, the slapping of their flesh loud and obscene.

“Why? It hurts right? He could just be careful with you!”

It does hurt; it burns despite Ranpo’s shared slick and itches in a way he knows means three-day damage and it’s good, so good, to be full and pushed to his limits.

“The pleasure… is stronger this way,” Fukuchi yanks one of his legs higher than the other, twists his hips and drives in a better angle, jostling Ranpo with each thrust. “I want to feel it faster.” Fukuzawa gasps. “It’s the only way I can after…”

His fingers twitch on Ranpo at the memory of knotting him. He’s definitely leaving bruises, but Ranpo hasn’t complained, and he’d rather keep him from Fukuchi. And he feels better with Ranpo in his arms.

“Isn’t it scary?” Ranpo asks.

He cracks his eyes open, locks his gaze with Fukuchi’s, a little overtaxed and a little brash with it.

“Gen’ichiro can’t scare me.”

Fukuchi chuckles incredulously, his grin widening.

“So that’s how you want to play, is it?”

The taunt earns him harder thrusts, Fukuchi bending his leg over his shoulder, the hand not bracing him dropping to pin him to the floor.

Fukuchi’s gaze is manic, and some part of his brain that enjoys punishment sees it as a rare treat. He’s never seen Fukuchi this out of control. Absently he moves his hand to cover Ranpo’s nape.

“Good thinking,” Fukuchi growls. “But if I was going to bite anyone, it would be you.”

His light hold on Ranpo’s neck becomes temporarily restraining, his detective bristling at Fukuchi’s old joke.

His detective.

It is a joke, isn’t it?

His thoughts are derailed by a catch at his rim, a stretch he’s felt before, but not so quickly. Fukuchi keeps thrusting as he swells, straining parts of Fukuzawa not meant to be so abused. Thoughtlessly he buries his face in Ranpo’s shoulder, gasping his comforting scent into his too-small lungs.

“That’s it. Hold your little kitten, Fukuzawa.”

Fukuchi’s knot swells to the point he’s familiar with, then keeps swelling. He cries out softly when it grows unbearable, arching and drawing short, sharp breaths, his grip on Ranpo tightening.

“Sorry, Fukuzawa. I’m not quite as strong as you’d hoped,” Fukuchi rasps above them. 

“What? What does that mean?” Ranpo’s voice is uncharacteristically small. He’s been strangely quiet and tolerant of Fukuzawa’s manhandling. 

“You do smell good…” Fukuchi nuzzles below Fukuzawa’s protective hand, not insistent, just charmed. “My knot is the biggest… he’s ever felt it.”

“Is it ok?”

Neither of them respond. Fukuchi’s alpha is warring with him, insisting that he assert his dominance and force his mate to lock around him. Fukuzawa’s vision is clouding with darkness for how hard it is to breathe.

“Fukuzawa. Hey.”

Ranpo crawls up, placing his hands on either side of Fukuzawa’s head to lean over him. Ranpo’s big green eyes waver in his vision. Strange skies, but kind ones. With a tired calm he hopes passing out won’t upset him.

Then Ranpo’s lips settle against his, petal-soft and light as a butterfly.

“I like you too,” he whispers.

“Oh.”

“God!” 

Fukuzawa arches, sucking air into his starved lungs, as his muscles lock around Fukuchi’s knot. The pleasure almost knocks him out anyway, the rush too intense through his barely recovered nervous system.

“You feel just as good as an omega,” Fukuchi chokes out, his fingertips digging into his thigh hard enough to bruise.

Ranpo nuzzles his cheek, and somehow that’s too much, too, makes his heart stutter and his eyes damp. But he wouldn’t stop either of them, not if it would kill him.

He’s a beta. He’ll be theirs for whatever they need. That’s all it is.

He’s dazed by the time Fukuchi withdraws. Ranpo’d stayed through it, and while he’s not sure how long it was, his Ranpo clock tells him it was longer than Ranpo could be expected to wait without a distraction.

Satisfied, satiated, and exhausted, he turns onto the futon with Ranpo with every intention of sleeping.

A large, familiar body settles behind Ranpo on the one-person futon, bringing with it a strangely clean blanket. He doesn’t remember showing Fukuchi where he kept his spares. The memory of his first apartment swims into his mind, his blankets tucked in a similar space to where they are now. Ah, of course.

“He really is amazing,” Fukuchi’s voice, aimed at Ranpo, mingles with the silence, fails to interrupt his descent into slumber. “Normally a beta could either take or form a knot, not both. And they couldn’t take a knot as big as mine.”

“S’not that big,” Fukuzawa mumbles.

“No? Where’s all your pretty speech then?”

“Mm.” Fukuzawa nuzzles the top of Ranpo’s head.

“Don’t try blaming it on the kid!” Fukuchi squawked, then, tentatively, “It’s a little big?”

“...It’s a little big,” Fukuzawa allows.

Ranpo’s awake for the sunrise so rarely that the first rays of golden light carry an almost magical quality. If anybody tells him it’s the afterglow he’ll be pissed. The only time they hadn’t looked like that was when he’d been up all night after he was kicked out to live on the streets. They’ll always be beautiful in Fukuzawa’s yard.

Luckily, both the beta and alpha who might say otherwise are over twice his age, so they don’t think to.

Fukuchi has his pack slung over his shoulder. He hadn’t said it, but he has to be back at base for a flight in the afternoon, due for a mission in South America. There’s no telling what might have happened if his heat had come a day later.

“Guess this is goodbye,” Fukuchi tries.

Their relationship is messed up now. At least he’s not alone in thinking so. The knowledge that Fukuchi’s a decent person sits wrong in his chest, especially beside the absolute certainty that he’d be Fukuzawa’s mate if Fukuzawa had the constitution to realize an alpha could want a beta mate. Human decency won’t let him wish death on Fukuchi’s mustached smile, but his heart screams for war.

At least Fukuchi seems wrong-footed by the knowledge that Ranpo’s gaining ground on him.

If Fukuzawa saw them, he’d probably think they were bonding. Alpha and omega, nature’s perfect match. Opposing forces would be a more apt description.

“Thanks,” he hears himself say in his father’s voice. A little mandatory politeness never hurt, supposedly. His parents always wanted him to say please and thank you. Fukuzawa wants him to say more things that are a pain to remember. Fukuchi looks like he’s swallowed a sour pill, so that’s something.

He does, unfortunately, mean it.

“Not for me,” but a little bit for him.

Fukuchi’s awkwardness vanishes. He sighs, stroking his mustache. Fukuzawa isn’t what Ranpo would call a safe topic for them, but he’s a comfortable one.

“You must’ve noticed that he’s a bit of an idiot when it comes to things like this.” Fukuchi offers. “He likes us, he just thinks it’s wrong to show it.”

I know, he wants to say, except he didn’t. He still can’t understand it. It’s another piece of knowledge that doesn’t fit, that Fukuzawa, so easily riled and reckless, so beautiful and perfect, lives in a world where he’s shut out of love. Where he isn’t the center of it.

“Yeah, well.” Ranpo stops. He hasn’t decided what he thinks yet. “I guess that’s one good thing about-” he gestures behind him, where he intends to leave this conversation and Fukuchi’s involvement in his life over the last twelve hours after he’s gone. “He didn’t have to think.”

Fukuchi huffs. He hates to believe it’s with agreement. He hates to think it’s in solidarity, the both of them stuck with more vivid awareness than Fukuzawa and more vivid memory as a consequence.

As if recoiling from their accidental camaraderie just as hard as him, Fukuchi flashes a teasing smirk.

“If you ever want to try it out, he knows where to find me.”

Ranpo levels him with his least impressed stare.

“Don’t come back,” he calls over his shoulder, walking past Fukuzawa into the house.

“I wish you wouldn’t antagonize him,” Fukuzawa sighs.

“I was just joking around! Cross my heart!”

Ranpo stops in the hall to eavesdrop.

Fukuzawa had made sure to protect him from Fukuchi’s mating instincts at every turn. Ranpo’s not sure if Fukuzawa’s ignorance to the fact that he’d left himself wide open to them was just that, or if it was from a desire he refuses to acknowledge. Either way, he doesn’t intend to leave Fukuzawa unguarded any longer.

“Gen’ichiro…” Fukuzawa’s voice is soft, sweet like an omega’s whenever he addresses Fukuchi, whenever he’s not taunting him like an alpha. “Thank you.”

“This happens more than you might think in the field. Bodies do strange things under that much stress. Even betas can go into heat.”

Fukuchi’s voice changes, too. He doesn’t sound like an alpha. He just sounds like he’s in love.

They’re both idiots.

But that’s fine. That’s good, because if they weren’t, Ranpo wouldn’t have the opportunity to steal Fukuzawa for himself.

He’s not an idiot.