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Despite being a prolific author and—in his not-so-humble opinion—a master of word choice, Edgar Allan Poe doesn’t really have the proper words for this feeling that encroaches over him from time to time.
The only way he’s ever been able to voice what’s wrong is through a figure of speech, comparing this all-encompassing feeling to that of a deep, dark hole in his chest, right where his heart should be. It devours him, eats him alive, and leaves him feeling nothing but hollow. A ravenous wolf always hungry for more, a pit that gets wider and wider despite his attempts at closing it up.
It used to be more frequent; he’d walk around unfeeling for weeks on end as a child, stormy eyes staring through purposefully long bangs at a world that caused him to feel nothing. To the kids around him, he was an unfeeling monster, a spectacle to poke and prod just to see if they could get a reaction out of him.
These days, it wasn’t so bad- at least he could breathe easy most of the time.
But other times, it would get so bad that he couldn’t get out of bed. Can’t eat, can’t speak, can’t breathe. Which is the situation in which he has found himself right now.
It’s one of those nights again. One of those nights where he is alone—has been alone for days on end—curled up in his bed, unmoving and unwilling to do so. One of those nights where he wants to cry but he can’t, because the whole world is crashing in on him and has been crashing in on him for months, and only now is the deep dark pit he has been vehemently avoiding swallowing him up whole.
He doesn’t have room to breathe with so much of his chest being taken up by a crater. His mouth is dry, his stomach is empty, and despite the fact that he wants to cry, unfortunately, he can’t, because there’s absolutely zero water to waste in his dehydrated body, and there’s no willpower left in him to feel anything.
He doesn’t hear the unlocking of his front door, he doesn’t hear Karl get up from the foot of his bed and skitter across the floor, he doesn’t hear his bedroom door creak open and the sound of a person smarter than him call his name, concerned, questioning. Or maybe he does and just ignores it. Ignores it all, ignores the world around him until the bed sags and someone he is all too familiar with is at his side, and he’s pulled into his dreaded real life.
Ranpo pities him. That has to be it. He doesn’t say anything as the other kicks their shoes off and sits on the bed beside him, but deep down inside, maybe inside that hole that has been growing bigger and bigger, he knows Ranpo finds this, and him, annoying. Who wouldn’t?
His back faces the detective, his face still curled into himself, eyes closed, and his blankets wrapped around him like a cocoon. They’ve done this song and dance before, but he can’t help but be reminded of when the other kids in his classes would gawk at his unfeeling nature; which is partially why he stays in his position even when he can hear Ranpo moving beside him.
But just like every other time, no matter how much he thinks Ranpo finds dealing with him tedious, he is there for him.
The mattress bowed beneath Ranpo as they moved closer, the detective putting a gentle hand on his back. Poe sucked in a breath sharply at the touch.
“You didn’t have to come,” he said, his voice raspy from underuse. He already knew what the other’s reaction would be without needing to see it; rolled eyes and a grimace of annoyance at the fact that he would even suggest something like that.
“Yes I do,” Ranpo said bluntly.
Poe just simply let out a noise in reply, and Ranpo’s lack of words made him think that they didn’t really have anything to say either. The detective had never been the best at comforting others, and this was no exception, words dying on his usually fast tongue.
After a second, the sheets shuffled, and Ranpo was closer to his side. “What’s wrong,” he asked, though it was more of a statement than a question, as if he was pushing the other to speak rather than inquiring.
He didn’t move, letting the struggled rise and fall of his chest be enough of a signal. Ranpo could figure it out. They didn’t need to hear it.
“Poooee,” they whined, letting out an indignant huff at the end. He could picture the detective crossing their arms over their chest, head cast in the other direction in annoyance and fake anger. But he wasn’t really mad- Poe knew that. He never was, not with him. “Fine, if you don’t want to say anything, I’ll just sit here annoyed until you tell me.”
Poe tried his best to swallow down the venomous bile that had been sitting in his throat. “I’m-I’m sure you have already deduced it,” he mumbled, taking his time- it had been days since he last opened his mouth.
He could practically hear the other’s nose crunching in reply.
“Just because I’m a genius and have Super Deduction doesn’t mean I can deduce how you’re feeling,” Ranpo huffed. His mock anger was short-lived though, as a hand returned to Poe’s back very quickly. “Poe, c’mon. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’m just tired,” Poe replied quietly. He could feel Ranpo prickle beside him, knowing fully well the author was lying. An unfortunate consequence of being the detective’s friend was that they always knew when you weren’t being truthful, even in such a sad, grey state as he was now.
Ranpo was growing restless and frustrated, and pulled himself back, Poe immediately missing the warmth of his hand. His weight was suddenly removed from the bed, and socked feet shuffled on the carpet. Then, the detective squat down beside Poe, leaning their head and arms against the bed frame. They put their face close, judging by their hot, sweet breath against the author’s nose, and Poe forced himself to lift his eyelids, tired stormy eyes meeting bright emerald ones.
“Ranpo,” Poe breathed, searching the detective’s face for the pity he knew the other was feeling, but couldn’t find it; just concern and anxiety swam in his eyes.
“Edgar,” he mumbled in reply, taking a hand and gently swiping it through Poe’s unbrushed bangs. The motion was simple, but somehow, it made it just a tad bit easier to breathe.
“I didn’t mean to make you come all this way for me,” he rasped.
It was obvious that Ranpo didn’t agree with him, judging by the upturned eyebrows, but instead, they replied easily with, “you know I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” And they would, because they did it every time, without failure.
Poe hummed in reply again, closing his eyes. Ranpo continued to curl his fingers through his hair as if to unstick his bangs from his sweaty forehead- or perhaps he knew it was calming to the other.
“How long have you been like this?” His voice was edged with concern, his previous distant anger far fizzled out.
Poe thought for a moment, eyes still closed. “A couple days. Tuesday, maybe.” Ranpo’s fingers froze, and Poe’s chest squeezed just a little tighter.
“Why didn’t you say anything? You could’ve texted me.”
“Didn’t want to be a burden,” he replied simply. The fact that it was too hard to just flip himself over in bed, grab at his phone, and type out a sentence went unsaid. Ranpo pulled their hand back, and Poe opened his eyes to see a frown etched on the other’s face.
“I told you, you’re not a burden. Never. Not even when I’m working.”
Poe murmured out an incoherent reply, casting his eyes to look anywhere but at the other. He knew that, but the reassurance didn’t exactly stop the seething dread from crawling up his spine, so much so that it made him feel nauseous just at the thought.
Ranpo moved their hand from Poe’s bangs to cup his face, gentle as they tilted it so the other looked them in the eye. If he’d had more energy in his system, maybe Poe would be blushing.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” Ranpo cooed, this time far less aggravated. He was clearly making an attempt to be more welcoming. And it was working, because Poe’s already soft gaze softened even more.
“It hurts,” he muttered lightly. He hadn’t exactly been able to verbalize this stuff in the past, and didn’t think he was capable of it even now- but Ranpo wanted to know. In the silence, Karl’s footsteps pitter-pattering across the floor could be heard.
“What hurts?” Ranpo asked, their voice low as they rubbed the author’s cheek with their thumb.
“My chest,” he croaked. Ranpo was quiet, listening, waiting for him to go on, and it gave Poe a second to consider his words. Ranpo was a literal person, and anything he said would probably be overanalyzed for hours to come in their head- it wasn’t exactly his chest, he had to clarify. It had never been a real, specific place, just the area. It was a general spot in his person, where a stain grew deeper and deeper until it soaked into the fabric of his very being and caused physical pain. Maybe it was his heart, or his soul, he wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, it felt like it was caving in. It reminded him of what it felt like wearing a binder for too long, or maybe what a bullet wound felt like, embedded deep, deep in his sternum.
“It feels… empty,” he decided on after a moment’s hesitation. The detective frowned deeper, and Poe almost wished he’d kept quiet so as to not see their face in such a sour state. “B-but I’m fine, Ranpo, r-really, you don’t have to-”
He cut himself off at Ranpo pushing himself up with his hands on his knees. “Wh-where are you going?” He asked, fear zipping through him at the thought of scaring the detective off just with his feelings. He never liked to share, and this is exactly why, because people were afraid, they always ran away and-
Poe’s thought process was cut sharply at Ranpo climbing onto the bed and wrapping his arms around him, pulling the author into an upright position for what was probably the first time in a while. Poe cringed at the way his bones cracked, but Ranpo didn’t seem to take notice, sitting back on the other’s lap now that he was in a different position.
“Does that make it any easier to breathe?” They asked, already knowing the answer. Yes, in a sense, but rather it was the fact that Ranpo didn’t seem to mind how disgusting he was and touched him and cared about him despite that.
“You don’t have to be here, you know,” Poe mumbled instead of answering, staring blankly up at the raven-haired man in his lap. Ranpo had to know that he was destined to rot away like the corpse he was- so then why was the detective so adamant that he keep Poe alive?
“I know.” Ranpo leaned forward, cupping Poe’s cheeks again now that he had access to both. “But what if I want to be here?”
To that, the author didn’t have an answer. In no universe did he think someone would want to be at his side like this, taking care of him like this. So instead, he stayed quiet, tired eyes trained on the figure before him.
“What if I care about you, Ed? What then?” The thought made his chest squeeze.
“You can’t.” Poe sat up even more, causing Ranpo to flinch back slightly at the author’s sudden jump forward. “Ranpo you can’t care about me,” he said, desperation in his voice, as if he were pleading for his life.
“Oh yeah? And why not?” Ranpo challenged.
“Because, because you deserve so much more than an awful person. Look at you! You’re, you’re this amazing, wonderful, extraordinarily kind, genius person, you’re Ranpo , the world’s greatest detective , and I’m…” he trailed off, casting his eyes down to his hands. “I’m me. Disgusting, rotten, hollow, shell-of-a-person me.” Despite his words, despite the fact that his voice wavered, no tears came to his eyes. His hands shook, and his chest constricted so tight he could barely breathe, but he couldn’t cry, because there was nothing to feel but empty. Empty and hurting.
Ranpo’s hands crawled into his own, and he looked back up at the detective solemnly.
“Why do you say that?” They were tilting their head like a curious dog, not at all phased by the author’s outburst.
Letting his eyes trail back down, this time to settle on Ranpo’s hands holding his own, Poe uttered, “Because that’s all I feel.”
Ranpo squeezed his hands in reassurance, as if urging him to keep talking.
“All I feel is hollow. It's like a seed that digs into your chest and stays there and grows and grows until it constricts you. You can't breathe, or eat, or cry, or feel anything other than the hole that's made it's home inside your soul.” He sucked in a breath, trying to gasp for air in between his thoughts.
“Sometimes it’s fine, when I’m distracted it’s nothing but a distant memory, but other times it’s so loud and it, it’s all I can think about, it’s all I am.” With another deep breath, Poe moved his hands from Ranpo’s so that he could put his face in them. It wasn’t fair, really. He never wanted this. He wanted to be a human, someone who others could love- but he could barely think without sharp pangs of emptiness filling his soul. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair-
He could feel Ranpo scoot themself off of his lap, crawling up to the headboard so that they could situate themself beside the other comfortably.
Tentatively, Poe picked his head up from his hands, looking over at Ranpo through the bangs that had fallen back in front of his eyes. The other lifted an arm and stretched it around his shoulder, and suddenly he was pulling him closer until the author was burying his face in the detective’s chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it was some sort of lifeline.
“It’s not fair, Ranpo, I just want to be human.” He sounded desperate despite the fact that his voice was muffled in Ranpo’s shirt. The detective squeezed him tighter, taking their other hand and running it through Poe’s disheveled hair.
“I’m not much for words in the form of comfort,” Ranpo began, gulping down what were most likely thoughts of hesitance to speak. Poe looked up from the other’s chest. “But I will always be here for you, Edgar. You may not like it, but you’re stuck with me, because you’re the most human person I’ve ever met, and you make me feel happy. You make me feel alive. I wish to do the same for you.”
Something about those words was enough to crack the shell that had grown tough around Poe’s heart, and the author’s stormy eyes cleared for just a moment, widening before he burst into tears, burying his face in Ranpo’s chest as much as he could. He’d profusely apologize later for snotting up the detective’s button down, but for right now, Ranpo was holding him in their arms, telling him they were going to be there, that he was human- and in that moment, not even that deep dark pit of despair inside him could stand Ranpo’s light.