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He listens.
Listens to the sound of the bullet ricochet as it bounces from wall to wall, each clear clang! echoing throughout the abandoned warehouse
He feels.
Feels the unforgettable shiver that climbs up his spine, teasingly gliding atop his bones before seizing his body in its grasp.
He watches.
Watches as that same bullet effortlessly pierces straight through the coat, the blouse, then finally the skin of the victim.
Not just any victim, but the man who has the ability to turn fiction into reality. A man whose power is quite literally in the palm of his hand in the form of a pen.
A choked gasp is punched out of Poe’s lungs, adrenaline pumping throughout his body as he falls to the ground. It’s as if time slowed down, the earth stopped moving and only him, his lover and a bullet are what exists in this present moment.
Ranpo bolts from his position, diving for the collapsing body, catching him just before Poe’s bleeding back makes contact with the cement. He cradles him in his arms, desperately hugging the limp body close to his chest, as if pulling him in would somehow bring him back.
He knows it's useless, he knows that whatever hope he's clinging onto is futile.
He can’t take this, he can't handle the gut-wrenching pain that's stabbing him over and over again, knife twisting and turning with every repetition, taunting him with its blade.
Ranpo cards his now-bloody fingers through Poe’s hair, brushing it away from his face to show the chocolate eyes that have been hidden from the world for far, far too long. Ranpo always said that it was a shame that no one could see his eyes. They would always burn with passion, this dire circumstance was no different.
He presses soft kisses to the crown of Poe’s head, listening to the pathetic, strained breaths escape the man in his arms. The slightly matted hair acts as a sense of relief, a sickening and disturbing sense of relief that he can use to ground himself from the chaos in his mind.
Both of their clothes are stained with a vibrant red, the metallic scent invading their senses. Ranpo’s vision is blurred as he slowly realises that tears are streaming down his face. He knows, deep inside his mind, he knows that Poe isn't going to make it.
“It’s okay.” lies.
“You’re gonna be okay.” lies.
“We can get through this.” lies.
Lies. Lies. Lies. They’re all fucking lies. The agony that courses through his veins, scalding heat thrumming through him, punishing him, cursing him that it was all his fault, his fault his fault—
Then suddenly, Poe shifts in his hold, wincing in pain as uses all his might to meet ranpo’s gaze.
Oh how Poe loved those emerald green eyes.
Those eyes that stared at him lovingly as they read mystery novels by the fireplace, those eyes that squinted whenever he struggled to open a chip packet, those eyes that he began to fall deeply in love back when they had that untimely reunion on opposing sides of a war. When phrased like that, it's almost as if they knew they were doomed from the beginning, a taboo romance forbidden by fate. But they both turned a blind eye to it, perfectly content with living in blissful ignorance until the inevitable moment that would force them to face reality.
Neither of them knew that moment would be today.
Today, where one half of a soul withers away in the other’s grasp. Fading away into nothing but a memory
He reaches up to cup Ranpo’s face, fingers trembling as they slowly make their way to his cheek. Wiping away the tears as he cracks a pained smile. Ranpo halts his ministrations, fingers frozen in the soft hair, Poe’s hand is so, so cold.
They study each other, memorising each and every dip and curve that graces their features, burning it into their minds. Despite the situation, despite standing on death’s doorstep, Ranpo thinks, Poe remains incredibly beautiful. The dark circles that stain the unders of his eyes, the chapped lips that he picks at whenever he’s nervous, the textured skin of his cheeks, he was the definition of divine.
Poe is grateful, grateful that his lover’s face will be the last thing he sees. As he admires the man he’s grown to love, he gives way to the fog to cloud his mind. if he's going to die, he might as well die in euphoria.
Wuth the last of his strength, with the last of his love, poe swiped one last tear from ranpo’s face before breathing out his last, aching words.
“I love you.”
as the hand falls to the ground, the light extinguishes with one final flicker…
Ranpo screams. He screams for the past he should’ve cherished more, screams for the future he dreams- no, dreamed of, and of course, he screams for the death of his lover. He releases harrowing cries of shame, guilt and unadulterated sorrow.
What about that novel he finally promised to write with him? What about that escape room they've been meaning to visit for the past three months? What about that promise they made that night Poe took them to London? The laughs that could have been shared, the memories that could have been made, the wishes that could have been granted— gone with those last three words.
What went wrong? What went so, horribly wrong that it had to end like this?
Ranpo jolts awake in a cold sweat, eyes blown wide and chest heaving up and down, up and down, up and down. His ears are ringing. He takes one glance at the cold, empty space beside him, and remembers:
Edgar Allan Poe is dead.
Gone. Never to be seen or heard from again. Buried six feet underground. It’s been years since that day, years since he felt his lover die in his arms, yet the wound feels as fresh as the second it was inflicted upon him.
He runs to the bathroom, throwing himself over the toilet seat as he gags and heaves, nothing but stomach acid spilling from his lips. He then rushes to the sink, aggressively washing his hands, his face, his neck. Scrubbing at the skin so hard the skin almost tears. a worthless attempt to wipe the blood of his hands, Poe’s blood off his hands.
“Get it off. Get it off, get it off, get it off!” He’s disgusting. His skin feels like a prison, trapping and suffocating him. The ringing refuses to stop, only pushing him further down this spiral of disorientation. After what felt like eternity, Ranpo turns off the tap with shaky hands and leans against the sink.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
He rubs his eyes, almost pushing them back into the depths of his skull. Ignoring the pulsing pain of his eyelids, he thrusts his hands back to his sides and rushes back to his bedroom, clumsily sitting on the edge of the bed.
The curtains are swaying to the tune of the midnight breeze, the room is glowing from the rays of soft moonlight, it would've been peaceful, warm even.
It would've been warm. But it's cold.
The calm breeze strengthens into something wild, sweet whispers morph into frightening yells, tender touches twist into bruising grips. the ringing gets louder and louder. He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe. It’s too much. Too much, too much, too much, too much—
Then it stops.
The wind ceases its movements, gone as fast as it came. The ringing stops, an eerie silence takes its place. With a newfound sense of calm, Ranpo lets the memories flood his mind.
The reading sessions by the fireplace, faces illuminated by the bright flames. The giggles shared underneath the sheets, sweet nothings shared for their ears alone. The movie nights at ass-o’clock in the morning, hands held in a tight grip underneath the blankets.
This relentless cycle, this endless loop, tortures him day and night, refusing to leave his side. A shadow that clings to his vulnerable soul, gnawing away at the few, fragile pieces left behind. It’s as if a child is playing with a remote. Pause, play, rewind, fast forward. Flashbacks would sporadically jump at him, choke him, only releasing him once he's on the brink of death.
It is so, very cold. The chill reaches under his skin and yanks at every vein, a torture no one will ever understand.
Understand. What a strange word. The apologies, the looks of sympathy, the hesitant touches, none of them were out of understanding, they were all out of pity. Yhe only person who truly understood him, who came to know and love every nook and cranny of his complicated mind, who made him feel like he finally had a chance of fitting into society, was now gone.
He hasn't left his apartment in three months, barely even leaving his room unless it was utterly necessary. His bed had a wretched stench that you could smell from miles away, stained with the thousands of tears shed since the gaping hole in his heart was forcibly carved in.
In short, he’s a fucking wreck. The product of irreversible emotional trauma made of purely skin and bone. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but what if there's nothing there? What if it's just a bottomless abyss of darkness, the light that once shone so brightly now fizzled out, not even the smoke remains in the void.
Ranpo stares out the window, studying the starless sky, a clouded expanse of space with a singular focal point, the moon. Maybe I’m the moon, he thinks. An elephant in the room, a being that doesn't fit in. Isn’t that what the moon is? A celestial being that doesn't fit in?
With a sigh, he stands up from his position on the bed, one foot at a time, and slowly makes his way to the balcony. His joints crack and pop with each movement from being bedridden for basically three days. He’s exhausted, so, incredibly exhausted. Instant ramen packs litter the floor, half-eaten microwaveable meals cover the entire surface of the kitchen island, dirty plates and bowls are stacked sky-high in the sink. He pays them no mind, carelessly stepping on the trash as he passes by.
He passes through the hallway, where they would frame the letters they exchanged over the years. Despite having modern technology at their disposal, the two decided that letters were the only acceptable form of communication. Quite romantic isn’t it? They would pour their heart into every hidden message, every complex metaphor, every intricate euphemism, designed for only the other to decipher. A secret language only the two knew how to speak
He passes through the living room, where ranpo would critique poe’s works, annotating each page with greasy fingers. Where Poe would scold Ranpo for said greasy fingers, only for him to respond with a shrug and a peck on the cheek, effectively reducing the other into a 14 year old on their first date. Needless to say, the greasy fingers would be long forgotten as teasing words and lighthearted banter would be shared instead.
He passes through the kitchen, where Poe would prepare some fancy european meal neither of them could pronounce the name of. Ranpo would be on taste-testing duty, content with quietly watching poe get lost in a new recipe as a spoon occasionally poked at his lips. They would then sit at the dining table, dressed up to the nines, and have small talk over a glass of wine complete with candles and a singular red rose before reciting classic poetry like the pretentious couple they are.
He passes through all the rooms that hold the fondest of memories, each step adding spoon after spoon of salt into the wound in his heart, reaching the deepest crevices of the emotional injury. After what felt like decades, he reaches the glass door.
He opens it, embracing the cold air as it slams into his body, the force so strong it knocks the air out of his lungs and makes him stumble back. As he steps out onto the veranda, he realises for the millionth time how lonely he truly is.
Yes, the agency members visit him. Yes, he has every opportunity to leave his dismal excuse of an apartment. Yes, he has hundreds of ways to distract himself at his disposal.
But will the agency members write entire mystery novels dedicated to him? Will the outside world ease the lump in his chest when he can't breathe? Will those insignificant puzzles and books bring back the one he misses most?
No they won't.
He clutches at the bullet resting around his neck on a chain, fiddling and fidgeting with the metal. Why he kept it is simply unfathomable, even to himself. This tiny, seemingly insignificant piece of metal was the sole cause of ranpo’s downfall. He wanted to crush it, to burn it, to cast it out into the ocean to never see again.
But he couldn't. No matter how hard he tried, he somehow developed an attachment to it.
He thinks back to the funeral, or rather, he thinks back to the onslaught of people knocking on his door when he didn’t go to the funeral. Pitiful isn't it? Not showing up to your own significant other’s funeral for fuck’s sake. He told everyone that it was because he was busy, that he had other matters to attend to. It was the most transparent lie he’s ever told.
In truth, he was afraid, deathly afraid, of seeing the lifeless body again. He saw it once, held it in his arms as he rocked back and forth and screamed into oblivion, he did not need to see it again. If he saw that lifeless body once more, he wouldn't be standing here, on this balcony, today. Instead, he sat on their bed, and stared at the wall. paralysed for hours on end, Poe’s last words playing on repeat in his mind.
“I love you.”
Those three words will haunt him for the rest of his life, three words that used to invoke an army of beautiful butterflies in his chest, three words that now claw at his being, scratching and ripping at his insides.
“I love you.”
Why couldn't he say it back? Why couldn’t he fucking say it back? Now he has to live with the consequences, has to live with the burden of leaving his lover hanging at the time it was needed most.
“I love you.”
With a bittersweet look at the moon, Ranpo finally returns the sentiment.
“I love you too.”