Work Text:
Edgar’s study was still and silent apart from the rhythmic press of pen on parchment. The creasing of fabric with every stroke and soft rise and fall of of Karl’s breaths as he wound around Poe’s neck filled the still air with sound as he quietly worked on the latest edition of his most recent work, a fictional newsletter with grim headlines and darker illustrations penned by his dear friend from the Armed Detective Agency. No, not his dear Ranpo-- Gods know his hands were too shaky from sugar consumption to pen a straight line, never mind the stream of disturbingly accurate medical illustrations that Akiko Yosano’s steady hand produced.
Edgar pulled out a pen with ink a shade lighter than blood from a shelf to his left. Poring over the sheaves of parchment scattered across his desk, he identified several weak points in his latest drafts; underlining and crossing out turns of phrase as he skimmed the papers felt like second nature after years of editing and revising his work. As Edgar attempted to ponder the details of his latest plot point, noting adjustments as he made them, his focus meandered back to his surroundings.
Edgar sat hunched over his favourite sitting desk, a large, ornate thing with dark varnished cherry wood he had bought ages ago when escritoires were still popular. His manuscripts were lit by moonlight that poured into the room from a high-set stained glass window and a single low-burning candle that Edgar was certain had been higher moments ago. His well-loved desk’s shelves were laden with used-up pens and candles in the loosest sense of the word- little more than charred wax and wick. Edgar’s eyes traced a trail of dried wax from the candle he had burned the previous night with his eyes down to one of Ranpo’s case files that he had carelessly tossed away earlier that evening. How late was it? Neither he nor his husband kept a timepiece in their- Edgar’s, officially- study. Edgar frowned and blinked tiredly at his surroundings.
Droplets of wax had crusted on Edgar’s lacy shirtsleeves and splattered over his ringed fingers while he had been writing. The warmth of Karl’s sleepy coil around his neck was accompanied by a warm weight draped across his back. Looking down at the manuscript in front of him, then upward and to the left where Karl slept on his shoulders, Edgar decided that he could no longer work on his drafts that night. Instead, Edgar laced his fingers together and stretched by lifting them high above his head. The arch of his back pushed his husband’s body, lolling with sleep, away from him.
“Mm,” Ranpo murmured, burying his face in the dip between Edgar’s shoulder blades. “Stop moving,” came a muffled whine from behind, the arms around Edgar’s waist tightening. Edgar felt Ranpo pout against his back.
Edgar sighed and propped his tired head against a fist, “Did you not tell me to go to bed an hour or so ago? H-” Edgar’s mouth had dried after spending so long focused on something other than eating and sleeping. He swallowed and continued speaking, “Has your mind become so sleep-addled tha-” Edgar’s mouth closed as two fingers pinched it shut.
“I told you to sleep three hours ago, Edgar,” Ranpo grumbled, begrudgingly pulling back from his husband to do some stretching of his own. When he received no response, Ranpo cracked one eye open from where he had been stretching, closed-eyed and cat-like, in the moon’s soft light.
Edgar’s eyes, so often hidden behind a curtain of soft hair, gleamed in the pale moonlight as he watched Ranpo stretch. His expression was something open and admiring, tinged around the edges with an uncertainty that never really left. The corners of Edgar’s lips lifted in a rare unsheltered smile, tugging on Ranpo’s heartstrings. He stretched once more, then leaned forward and lazily wound his arms around Edgar’s neck.
A cheeky smile tugged at Ranpo’s lips, softened by affection for his sleepy husband. “Hi,” he whispered, still rough around the edges from sleep.
Edgar lifted his hands to hold Ranpo’s waist as his forehead dipped to rest on his collarbone. “Hello there,” he murmured against his chest. Ranpo’s fingers threaded through the hair at Edgar’s nape in soft, rhythmic movements that slowed his breaths. His eyes fluttered shut for a long moment, basking in his husband’s warmth.
Soft lips dropped a softer kiss onto the top of Edgar’s hair. “Go to sleep.”
Edgar didn’t reply for a moment; Ranpo began to doubt that his husband was awake. Then, quiet as the still air around them, he murmured, “Come to bed with me.”
Not without affection, Ranpo snickered, “Where else would I go? We’re married, not fifteen, Edogawa-Poe-san. ” Edgar lifted his head to retort- what he would say he hadn’t decided yet- but was interrupted by the quick kiss Ranpo dropped on his lips before dancing out of his grasp. “C’mon, sugar!” he sing-songed, motioning toward the door to the study. The corners of Edgar’s mouth twitched upward fondly, still bemused at Ranpo’s seemingly sporadic bursts of energy after all these years. He stumbled from his seat after his husband. They walked side by side down a long hallway lined with stained glass windows that leaked tinted moonlight into Edgar’s castle, leaning on one another when they (read: Edgar) felt too tired to stand on their own.
As they neared the door to their bedroom, Edgar paused, weaving his fingers together with Ranpo’s, “Do you mind closing the curtains and snuffing the candle in our study?” No matter how officially Edgar claimed the chamber, it truly was theirs, cluttered as it was with both unused manuscripts and old case files. He might as well refer to it as such.
“You did forget that, didn’t you…” Ranpo pouted and leaned up to press a kiss to Edgar’s mouth, “Fine,” he drew out the word petulantly, “but only because you would set yourself on fire if you tried to do it yourself right now.” Even as he complained, Ranpo began making his way back to their study-- for all of his complaining, he knew Edgar would not have asked if he thought himself capable of doing it on his own.
Pushing the door to their bedroom open, Edgar inhaled deeply. The intertwined scents of lavender clothing sachets and synthetic green apple candies, tangled up with something lived-in that smelled like home, planted something warm in his chest. When Ranpo crawled into bed a minute later, the feeling bloomed between his ribs.
Edgar held Ranpo tightly in his arms, his face pressed against Ranpo’s hair. Karl’s tired snuffles at the end of the bed and the pair’s quiet breaths filled the room with something intangibly warm. A long moment passed in that warmth as they basked in one another’s embrace.
Edgar shifted closer to Ranpo, pressing his fingers firmly against the back of Ranpo’s neck- as if he were afraid that Ranpo would disappear between his arms, even after over a decade of sharing in each other’s presences. “Someone’s clingy tonight,” murmured Ranpo against Edgar’s neck. Edgar hummed and pulled Ranpo closer, who laughed softly and snuggled closer to his husband in response. “Did you miss me while I was sleeping on top of you for hours?” he teased.
“Shh…” Edgar murmured, “I just love you…”
“M’kay,” Ranpo whispered. His voice was molasses, thick and sugary with almost-sleep. “Night, Ed. Love you.”
“Goodnight, dearest.”