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ranpo fidgets with the cuffs of his white dress shirt, fiddling with the gold cufflinks fukuzawa-san had painstakingly helped him affix in the wide cuffs. he feels the shape of them with fingertips numbed by nerves, rough gold shaped like assymetrical lion heads, the great cats’ eyes inlaid with beautiful emerald stones that match – somewhat perfectly – the color of ranpo’s own eyes.
fukuzawa-san had pulled them from the deep confines of his closet, in a box behind boxes, where – this ranpo knew – lived things he did not want to be seen, or to be known. that they were somehow precious and important – and perhaps, that sensing ranpo’s anxiety, he sought to alleviate it – was a distraction in the moment, and a welcome one.
ranpo did not do well with people. this he knew of himself, and though he found it easier at fukuzawa-san’s side, who was a mild-mannered, but firm buffer between him and the rest of the world, ranpo did not know yet the limits of that protection, or indeed, the limits of his own ability to approximate – as closely as possible – average humanity, in a way that would allow him to walk unnoticed among the many-faced monsters that made up the adult world to which he now belonged.
this event – this dinner, set between fukuzawa-san and a dear old friend of his, was meant to help ranpo and nudge him in the right direction. he still wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
friend was not the correct word for the man they were meeting – he knew that much. the way fukuzawa-san’s mouth shaped the word was wrong, inappropriate for the pain and longing it evoked. surely this is not what friendship is, ranpo thought, but he didn’t know enough about friendship to dispute it.
instead, he allowed fukuzawa-san to pick out his clothes and fuss over him before they sat in companiable silence in the back of the black unmarked car that would drive them to the restaurant.
the dinner, he’d surmised, was a chance for fukuzawa-san to catch up with his so-called friend, and – more importantly, an opportunity for ranpo-san to meet someone close to his own age – somewhat younger than him, even.
“i am told that he is a young man of exceptional intelligence,” fukuzawa-san had said, “and he might benefit from your experience… and your instruction.”
ranpo sincerely doubted that. if this other person was as smart as him, there was nothing ranpo could teach him about the world – he’d simply have to muddle through on his own, if his mentor failed to show him the ropes. if he wasn’t as intelligent as ranpo – which was more likely than not, since he could hardly be in possession of a similar ability – then it was a moot point, because he would eventually outgrow his extraordinarity and merge with the masses, once he was no longer considered too clever for his age.
of course, there was another possibility, even worse than the other two, and it was that the other person was neither at his level, nor slightly below it, but rather, was already ordinary in the worst way, and had been simply talked up by a doting guardian, whose words fukuzawa-san would be honor-bound to believe until proven otherwise. that would be the most devastating blow of all, ranpo thought, and if such disappointment came to pass, he’s not sure he’d be able to handle it.
the lights in the restaurant were dim, old-fashioned french lamps casting a warm glow around the room. fukuzawa-san mentioned the name of the reservation, and a host discretely lead them towards a private room.
“your party is already here,” he said, opening the door with a practiced flourish. surely, that would be the case if ‘party’ could be used to mean ‘funeral.’
the first thing ranpo noticed of the other two in the room was that they were dressed, almost wholly, in black.
the older of the two – fukuzawa-san’s friend, was tall and slender, his face a delicate moonlight pale, with high cheekbones and black hair falling around his shoulders in an artless mess of lifeless waves, his eyes glowing in the dim light, a sick contusion mauve. bloodless lips pulled back in a poor affectation of a smile.
“thank you for accepting my invitation, fukuzawa-dono,” he said, voice dripping thick like spoiled honey.
“the pleasure is all mine, doctor mori,” fukuzawa-san says tightly. his broad shoulders are coiled with tension. the doctor pretends not to notice. he has laid a possessive gloved hand on the shoulder of the other occupant of the room – the person ranpo is supposed to meet, and the person whose funeral this probably is, because there is nothing in him to suggest he is alive.
ranpo has seen his fair share of dead bodies. he had never before seen a living body with a dead person inside it.
he meets one dull dark eye, stained in the way gun oil slicks up a marksman’s fingers, and he reads the failed shot that had barely missed its mark beneath the thickly woven medical-grade linen. the face is corpse-pale, the whiteness of one that does not often thread in light, still soft with youth, lips pressed into a thin line of disinterest. ranpo has never before found himself so quickly assessed and then so swiftly dismissed.
he hates that it piques his interest, hates that he itches to take his glasses out, to open his eyes and really see. he wants the dead boy on an autopsy table. wants to cut him open and find out his cause of death, he wants –
“this is dazai osamu,” says doctor mori findly. his fingers curl into the delicate slope of the boy’s shoulder. “he came into my care recently. i have been anxious to introduce him to others close to him in age and … ability.”
the way he says the word oozes with something cloying, an infection that would spread if ranpo lets himself touch it. fukuzawa-san is tightly wound beside him.
“edogawa ranpo,” he says. he makes his face contort into what he hopes passes for a polite smile. he tilts his head to the side in a way he hopes makes him look youthful and cute.
there’s a discomforting sense behind his tight ribcage that says looking youthful and cute is the way to dull the edge of doctor mori’s scalpels.
“i’m bored already,” says dazai. his voice is high, on the precipice of breaking. he moves gracefully out of the good doctor’s touching range. surprisingly quick and agile in his little funeral suit. “mori-sensei, you promised me a nice dinner, i don’t want to just sit around while you talk business with other old men. i can do that at home,” he rolls his one visible eye, and ranpo glimpses the delicate blue tinge of his sclera.
ranpo expects the doctor to reach out and backhand dazai for the insolence. he sees it play out, in his mind’s eye. instead, mori-san looks chastised.
“let’s sit then,” he says mildly, dropping his shoulders placatingly.
around the diner table, ranpo is seated between fukuzawa and dazai. dazai has fallen back into his apathy, though his eye flits constantly towards ranpo curious, searching.
ranpo hasn’t decided what to make of him yet.
he opens his mouth to say something – ask a question, or – when he feels a sharp kick to his shin under the table. he’s about to give the brat a piece of his mind, but dazai just inclines his head – slow and deliberate – towards the adult side of the table.
tension seems to have risen again. mori-san’s pale hand is gripping the stem of his wine glass, and there is, for a moment, unconcealered rage on his face. he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who becomes enraged easily. ranpo looks over to fukuzawa-san, stone cold and unmoveable like a mountain.
“i need her – “ mori-san is saying, mouth curling into a snarl, “i am already – “
“is fukuzawa-san nice to you,” dazai asks in his careful lilt. whatever he meant for ranpo to hear, it’s clearly over.
it’s a fairly simple question, but before ranpo can answer, dazai plows on, “doctor mori said you’re like me, and him – like us – and that means,” he rols his shoulders in a graceful shrug, “ – that adults are not always nice to you.”
“i’m almost an adult,” ranpo says, somewhat affronted.
“you’re only four years older than me,” says dazai. his eye gleams in the light. how did he –
“mori san is a nice adult,” dazai goes on. “it’s easy with him – he understands. he’s clever too.”
“fukuzawa-san is plenty clever,” says ranpo loyally, but dazai regards him under his arched brow.
“you know i don’t mean like that. i mean like us.”
“there is no us.”
dazai tilts his head to the side, a curious, bird-like motion. “you’re an ability user, aren’t you? of course there is.”
ranpo reels back, narrowing his eyes at the younger teen.
“can you tell what my ability is?” dazai asks. “come on… i want to see you use ultra deduction… see if you can tell.”
ranpo reaches for the glasses in his pocket.
“you don’t mind if i touch you, do you?” he asks. the way their hands are laid on the table, his pinky brushes the back of ranpo’s arm, as he takes the glasses out of their case.
fukuzawa-san catches his wrist before he can put them on.
“it’s nullification,” he says flatly. there’s anger beneath the calm, but it’s not directed at ranpo. he’s not sure fukuzawa-san has ever been angry with him. “dazai-san’s ability is nullification.”
dazai smiles thinly, and in that moment his smile looks just like doctor mori’s.
“with my ability,” dazai says, “there is always an us. it’s the great equalizer.”
“i think this evening is over,” fukuzawa-san says.
“they haven’t even brought the appetizers yet,” doctor mori protests, but seems strangely pleased with himself, as though all he sought to accomplish was getting a rise out of fukuzawa-san.
“i filled up on breadsticks, and we have to go home right now,” fukuzawa-san’s grip on ranpo’s wrist tightens. “immediately.”
ranpo doesn’t need to be dragged around to get the hint, and he stands up smoothly.
“i’m sure you’ll see me again, ranpo-san,” says dazai cheerfully, “i’ll make sure you’re invited to my funeral.”
when the door to the private room closes behind them, and the host helps them into their coats, ranpo is sure – this is just the first of many meetings between him and dazai osamu.