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Edgar Allan Poe had good days and bad days, and then he had the days where bad came to worse, where he couldn't walk on his own, or eat anything because the nausea was so bad, days where all he could do was sit in bed and try to lift his arms enough to write.
Edogawa Ranpo was frustrated. Whenever Poe couldn’t do it, he never told him, and while—being the great detective that he was—he wanted to respect his partner, having to sit there and watch, watch while his boyfriend was struggling to live in his own body, and refused any help.
What Ranpo truly didn’t understand, and that isn't much mind you, is why. Why can he be in so much pain and not complain! Because Ranpo wants to help. He wants to help his boyfriend so bad yet he can’t.
“Ranpo, love, are you okay?” Poe didn't look up from his laptop, almost feeling his partner's frustrated expression, one he wore often. “Yeah, Ed, I'm fine.” Ranpo let his head fall sideways, resting on Poe's thigh, where he often lays while the other fusses about his writing.
“You’re not though.” Poe blinked, wincing a bit, finally looking away from his laptop and at his boyfriend, focusing his eyes on his shoulder. “Why do you say that, dear—?”
“You're having a bad day and you're not telling me or letting me help—let me finish—and I want to help you. If we’re going to be living together I'm going to help you.”
Poe sighed, closing his laptop with a soft click and smiling softly. “Oh, I'm afraid you know me too well—“ The man sighed again, tangling a somewhat shaky hand in his lover’s hair. “—though i'm afraid I can't take your pity.”
The other made a frustrated noise (one that wrenched another smile out of Poe, finding he sounds a bit like a kitten.)
“Ed, I don't pity you. You're too strong for me to pity you. I want to help you because I love you and I hate to see you like this. Plus, you're starting to smell bad.”
“Honestly, Ranpo, I'm okay.” If Edogawa Ranpo would do anything, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, or in this case, “I’m okay”.
Opening his eyes, he sat up on his hands and knees and crawled to where he could scoop up his—verbally protesting—boyfriend, much to Karls distaste, the raccoon nudged from where he was snoozing on his owner's stomach.
“W—you really don’t have—I can—myself!” Poes' stuttered protests went unheard, Ranpo easily scooped him up, carrying him like a damsel in distress.
“You're too light.” The comment was met with a sigh, Edgar closing his eyes and letting his head rest against his partner. “I’ve been nauseated, love.” It was the truth, Poes world had been swaying around him far too much to get anything down, and had been affecting his sleep too—not that he got much in the first place—resulting in him looking sickly, face paler and more translucent than usual and eyebags more sunken, ribs sticking out too much by Ranpos standards.
He hated seeing him like this. Ranpo didn't say another one word until they got to the washroom, taking a bit too long to do, with Poe's lanky body and Ranpos own limited physical strength.
He set his boyfriend down on the ledge of the bath, not bothering to ask if he could undress himself before pulling off the man's long sleeve. Poe could appreciate how he wasn't being more careful than normal, just minding to lift his arms up for him.
“I'm running the bath.” Ranpo states, messing with the water temperature until deemed fit. “Alright. Would you mind joining me, dear?” Poe asked in that soft tired way of his, tilting his head to the side.
A muttered “yeah” from Rampo as he went about the awkward process of lifting the other up slightly with one arm while attempting to take off the other's pajama pants; which adorned an adorable raccoon pattern. “We have those bath salts, if you want.”
“That sounds nice.” Poe hummed, letting himself be lowered into the tub, thankful for the heat on his sore muscles. He reached up to turn the water off while his lover sifted through the cabinets, something that should not have been as physically taxing as it was.
Ranpo haphazardly scooped some of the salt with his hand, dumping it in the water before getting undressed himself, crisscrossed on the tile. Poe let his head rest back on the small ledge of the tub, stretching his legs out with a wince. “Mm. Scoot up.” Contrary to what he had just said, Ranpo maneuvers his boyfriend's body enough to slip behind him, sitting against the wall. Poe's head fell back on the other's chest, smiling up at him. “Thank you, love.”
Ranpo had shifted him down more, his hair becoming wet and bangs swept out of his eyes. He had closed his eyes, Ranpo starting to wash his hair. “You should grow your hair out again.” Ranpo muttered, combing out the small knots and tangles in his boyfriend's hair from having it lay on a pillow for the past couple days.
He didn't mind the lack of response from Poe, content to feel his lover's breath hit his chest. He knew Edgar wasn't asleep, but the way his eyelids were twitching told him he was drifting off. That's good. He doesn't sleep nearly enough, much less when he has flare-ups like this.
A small smile settled on Ranpos face, the one that only comes out around certain people, the one he can't fake. Long finished with Poe's hair, he turned to play with his fingers. He's always been intrigued by the way they bend, the veins shown on the back of his hand through slightly translucent skin.
He would look better in silver. Ranpo looks better in gold.
What a conundrum.
——
“Ranpo, dear, I assure you you really don't have to go through the trouble.”
“Shut up, Ed.”
Ranpo pursed his lips, pulling a sweatshirt over his lover's head with furrowed brows while on the edge of their bed, straddling the other mans legs.
He did not appreciate Poe's reluctance to accept the help whatsoever. It wasn't cold, per se, but Poe always ran cold, his current state not helping in the slightest. The man felt himself out of breath from just lifting his arms enough to let himself be dressed, something that didn't go unnoticed by the genius dressing him.
“Oh, I am dearly sorry you have to go through all this effort,” Poe began again, Ranpo huffing in annoyance. “I really should just do it myself, you need not worry about—“ He was cut off by a chaste kiss, followed shortly by a flick on the forehead.
“Youre being dumb again. I assumed the second best detective in the world would figure out that I love him and that it doesn't bother me to make sure that he isn't in pain.” Ranpo tilted his head to the side, attempting to maintain eye contact—Poe was one of the only people that he felt remotely comfortable doing that with—to emphasize that he was serious. “I know that . . . It's just . . .” Poe muttered, his sentence going forever unfinished, not sure what he would have even said.
Instead he sighed; head falling onto Ranpo’s shoulder.
A million things could be left unsaid between them—but not a single unheard.