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“Shut up.”
Edgar blinks, head lifting up to stare up at Ranpo sitting in front of him with a manuscript on his lap and a bag of candy in one hand. For at least a minute (Two minutes and thrirty five seconds, Edgar counted—) the younger man has been quietly reading.
Until now, that is.
“I didn’t say anything, though?” Edgar says, uncertain.
Ranpo is not looking at him, either. His eyes are still focused on the paper in front of him and he’s happily chewing on a candy. Edgar tried and failed to keep his own eyes off of him, despite trying to not make it seem so obvious that he’s nervous about what Ranpo thinks about the manuscript. And even so, it feels like he’s the one being observed instead of other way around.
“You’re thinking too loud, Poe-kun. It’s distracting.”
Edgar stares.
“How can you even tell?” He asks, “You’re not a mind reader, as far as I know.”
Ranpo snorts, “You’re not stupid, Poe-kun.”
It explains nothing, obviously. And Edgar doesn’t feel like he can think of anything else to say, either, so once again, the silence goes on.
And then, “I like the glasses guy. He’s funny.” Ranpo comments offhandedly.
It’s a little thing, of course. But Edgar slumps back in his seat and breathes out, as if that alone brought his anxieties to a halt. They don’t speak after that, but somehow, somehow, Edgar’s mind clears.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea…” Edgar begins, shifting in place.
Ranpo glances at him, before throwing him a carefree smile and pops another candy in his mouth, “Why not? You’ve published books before.”
How do you even know that—?
“It was a long time ago,” Edgar says, “Way before I met you. And they weren’t that good, either.”
“I’ve read them, though.”
Edgar tears his gaze away from the entrance to the building they’re standing in front of and raises an eyebrow at Ranpo. He knows his own abilities, he’s worked hard to get to where he is now, even with the money from the Guild, he’s always liked to occasionally publish a short story here and there.
This time, though. It feels different. Back then, before the Guild and before Ranpo, writing stories and letting them sell – it was all done to pay off his collage, to spite his step-father never believing in him – it wasn’t as serious or as important as now.
It was just to survive.
This—
“So? Lots of people read them.”
Ranpo sighs, “Use your head a little, Poe-kun. Would I read them if they weren’t good?”
“To criticize them, yes.”
“Ugh, you’re impossible.” Ranpo whines and nudges him in the direction of the door. Edgar stares at it as if they were supposed to open up and eat him. “Come oooon, we already walked all the way here. It’d be illogical to not at least try.”
“But—“
“Nope! Shut up, we’re going. Come on.” And he pushes Edgar right into the glass.
It’s only because Edgar usually reacts fast that he was able to not smash his face into the door and open it in time, stumbling in with Ranpo cheerfully whistling to himself. He turns to glare at him, just a little bit. He thinks it’s a shame Karl stayed at home, otherwise Edgar would have at least attempted to make the raccoon mess with Ranpo’s hair as revenge.
“It’s really not a good idea—“ Edgar tries, one more time.
Ranpo grins, sharp, “Great! Because all the great changes in your life come from bad ideas. Like me, for example.” He makes a waving gesture at someone behind Edgar, “Hello! We made an appointment, could we—“
In the end, Edgar does go through with the idea of publishing his books.
And in the end, Ranpo does get the first printed copy.
Sometimes, Edgar stays at home for too long and in the evening, it doesn’t feel like going out is worth an effort at all.
Sometimes, it serves as relaxation. Other times, it brings Edgar down the spiral, thoughts going from bad to terrible, to horrible and it takes Edgar two episodes of some stupid nameless Spanish telenovela to forget that he’s an actual human being, and adult one at that, and that he can’t just coop himself up in his apartment.
Lately, however—
“Those walls are giving me bad vibes, Poe-kun.”
Edgar doesn’t even stir, covered in blankets on his bed, with Karl curled up on his pillow. Instead, he just mumbles, “Then don’t look at them, Ranpo-kun.”
A pause, then, “Aren’t they making you miserable?”
“It’s a wall.”
“Yeah. A blank, white and empty wall, Poe-kun. Yosano would skin you if she knew you still didn’t do anything with those.”
Edgar sighs and peeks through the blanket. Ranpo is sitting on the cupboard, looking around with bright, green eyes that still manage to give Edgar chills if he looks at them for too long, and he seems to be thinking about something.
He turns away.
“It’s fine.”
“I don’t like them.” Ranpo declares.
As if that changed anything. As if Ranpo’s opinion mattered more than Edgar’s need to wallow in self-pity and hide in his bedroom.
He sits up, slowly. He’s still in his pajamas and he senses Ranpo’s eyes going over the pattern. The younger man’s lips twitch upwards at the sight of black cats all over the shirt.
Ignoring the blush creeping onto his face, Edgar shrugs, “I don’t know how to paint.”
Ranpo grins, “There’s no way you don’t know how to paint, Poe-kun.”
He doesn’t like the mischievous look in the man’s eyes, but he does get up and ten minutes later, there are cans of green, blue and orange paint around the room, furniture pushed in the middle of the room so it doesn’t get dirty, and Edgar is holding the brush.
“It will look terrible.” Edgar says, resigned.
Ranpo’s grin gets wider, his own brush already covered in green.
“Shut up and hurry up. You’re overthinking it, again.”
“I don’t want to make it ugly.”
“Better to be ugly than without a heart and soul. Up we go with that, Poe-kun! Throw it on the wall. Smear it everywhere.”
Then, quieter as Ranpo begins sketching something that looks a bit like hills, “Just make it look like it’s yours.”
Edgar stays silent at that, mind racing even though there’s no reason for it. Ranpo doesn’t speak up after that. There are owls hooting, Edgar thinks, it’s really late.
And yet, Ranpo doesn’t move from his spot. And neither does Edgar as he finally makes some orange lines on the wall. And more, and more, until they look like a dawn’s clouds over the green hills. More strokes, more color – until it feels like home, until it feels like Edgar’s bones don’t feel cold anymore.