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“You’re just a kid.”
“So what? So what? I’ve been living fine on my own all these years.”
“You’ve been hanging on by a thread. You got kicked out of that police academy first, didn’t you?”
“The classes were so boring. I told you. What’s the point in hanging around if I already know everything ?”
The slight tremble in Ranpo’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed. It’s barely there, but it is enough for the older man’s stern expression to fade into something softer, less severe.
“I think,” Fukuzawa sighs out and rubs his temple. “ I think you could use some guidance. ”
And that is why he’s sitting here right now, getting rebuked for his condescending behaviour by a woman he doesn’t even know. Upon questioning that old geezer, he had only gotten an obscure response in return. She’s an acquaintance.
Oh, it’s fine, Ranpo reasons. He didn’t understand these adults, nor did he care for them or what they had to think. His behaviour is shameful? He’s a master detective, for god’s sake! At age fifteen! The most powerful ability user in the world, even, and his usefulness has already been reduced to being called out to the Yokohama Police Dept. once in a while to solve some petty crime – a robbery, or a trespassing.
And it was all that old geezer’s fault.
You’re so young my ass , Ranpo thinks to himself. Perhaps Fukuzawa is simply not equipped to handle someone like him, because none of the adults seem to be able to do so. That is hardly Ranpo’s fault.
Maybe children like him are made to be disposed of after they have outdated their functionality.
And just like that, his days pass by in a blur of monochrome happenings. Time and again, the woman will reprimand him, smooth down his hair, whisper Please behave quietly into his ear and then give him something to eat. These are her ways of showing fondness – Ranpo cannot say he appreciates them, but sometimes, if he squints a little, spots of colour will bloom on her face. The shades will shift and the world will tilt, colouring her cheeks rosy pink.
Ranpo has never questioned her, not once. Her identity is shrouded in shadow; Ranpo’s best blind guess would be that she’s a client of Fukuzawa’s. A great detective like him should certainly be able to figure out the woman’s true likeness with a single glance, no? Sure – if he bothered to look at her for more than a few seconds at a time.
Azari Izumi. A fake name, probably.
He doesn’t care, and that is why he never inquires. Detectives like him have no interest in the identity of such people, such commoners – their countenance devoid of any colour.
Fukuzawa would , however, at least once a week, walk into the modest living room through the back door, a paper bag in his hand (from the nearby convenience store that sells his favorite kind of sweets! Ranpo would notice). The man would clear his throat loudly. Ranpo would look up from whatever he was doing at the moment (no doubt sitting at the corner of the kitchen tabletop, reading a murder mystery or something of the sort. He doesn’t know why he bothers, really – less than thirty pages in and he has already discerned the culprit).
Fukuzawa would hold up the crinkly paper bag and say, “Ranpo.” The boy’s world would erupt into technicolour glory. The hues of grey and kaitoke painting the man in front of his eyes would become all too vivid to bear, to the point the young boy would run into his room and shut himself off.
Here, the walls would start to dissolve into their usual whites and blacks. The warm tinctures would leave his eyes and things would be the way they were before. Azari-san would have to be the one to (try to, at least) coerce Ranpo out – on some days, her efforts would be fruitful; on some days, they would not.
Today is one of the good days. Fukuzawa doesn’t even have enough time to cough his introductory cough before Ranpo jumps up to greet him at the door. “How are ya doing, old man?”
Fukuzawa blinks in silence, looking as if he is contemplating. He shakes his head and extends the paper bag forward, dropping it onto Ranpo’s outstretched palms. He can never figure this kid out.
“What’s in here?”
“See for yourself.”
The boy rummages through the bag intently and Fukuzawa watches his face light up, a familiar feeling of tenderness washing through him. They go up to the dining table together as Ranpo dumps the goodies on it, making loud noises of approval as his eyes practically glitter – konpeito! My favorite indeed, Fukuzawa-san ; you didn’t have to go as far as to buy dango just for me ; or matcha pocky … thank you, old man!
Fukuzawa observes all this with an amused expression, refusing to comment.
Finally, when he realizes Ranpo won’t make any effort to strike up a conversation (alas – he’s already opened two packs of Pocky at once, munching on two sticks of strawberry and matcha pocky simultaneously), Fukuzawa speaks. But not before his signature throat clear.
“You seem to be in a good mood today.”
Ranpo squints up at the man and adjusts his deerstalker once he realizes it obstructs his vision. Fukuzawa fights the urge to laugh.
“I am in a good mood! Why wouldn’t I be?”
Fukuzawa scratches the nape of his neck. “This isn’t the most favourable situation you’d like to be in, I can understand that.”
“Ohhhh,” Ranpo draws out, then laughs. “You can keep your apologies to yourself, Fukuzawa-san. You didn’t have a choice.”
“... Right.”
More silence from Ranpo. The atmosphere in the small living room becomes unbearable and Fukuzawa’s thoughts jumble over the crunching of pocky sticks and a too-loud television programme blaring from a neighbour’s house. Was that malice he detected in Ranpo’s voice a while ago? Likely.
“Ranpo. Where’s Azari?” Fukuzawa asks. Ranpo notes the informal way he calls her name, though before, he’d always referred to her as Azari-san.
Ranpo shrugs and points at a wooden door. “Cooking, probably. I haven’t had lunch yet.”
The older man nods and leaves the topic at that. He rubs his hands together and begins, anew, “I have something to discuss with you.”
The boy doesn’t say anything ( as expected ) but hums a little, and Fukuzawa takes that as his cue to begin. “It’s been four months or so since you solved the Murakami case, and … the police need your help yet again.”
“Oh? They almost always do.”
“Yes. Well, it’s different this time. They’re suggesting you join the police force.”
“I don’t want that,” Ranpo says flatly, stretching his arms over his head – having already finished the two packs of Pocky. He settles down comfortably on the loveseat located right across the television after navigating almost comically past the large dining table, cursing under his breath when he bumps into the glass.
“Then what do you want, Ranpo?”
The boy blinks. The crinkling of paper in his hand momentarily stops before resuming again, this time slowly, surely. The KitKat bar makes it out of the wrapper (which he disposes of behind his shoulder, where it is probably lying underneath the loveseat, much to Fukuzawa’s dismay) and it’s gone just as soon. Ranpo clasps his hands together and leans forward in the seat, facing away from Fukuzawa, who stands still – an unsure expression frozen on his face.
“Perhaps the only thing I’ve wanted right from the beginning is for you to take care of me. But of course! You just had to leave me with this woman! One who looks after me hesitantly, half heartedly. It’s fine, Fukuzawa-san, you don’t need to worry about it at all.”
Realization crosses Fukuzawa’s face. “You don’t mean …”
“I’ve never wanted to be a police officer. It’s all so boring, and then you walk into my life, and you actually stay with me. Till the end of a whole case. That made me happy.”
“Ranpo–”
“And now I’m here with your acquaintance, who doesn’t care about me any more than I do her.”
“Ranpo.” When the grey-haired man notices the mere boy’s eyes glistening, he strides up to him. A soft hand falling on a shoulder. Shoulders that are trying their best not to heave. Air tinged with something heavy, yet not unpleasant. A world characterized by bright hues of oranges and yellows and greens and blues.
Fukuzawa’s arms wrap around the small boy, lightly. Tenderly. “I am sorry,” the man whispers. “I’ve been blind all along.”