Archive of Our Own ^beta

It started with a notebook. A comically fanciful notebook made of faux leather and accented with threaded borders. A notebook of this sort wouldn't have been easy to misplace; yet, when the criminology student found it, abandoned in his father’s cafe, it had been carelessly strewn across the table, pages spilling open and forgotten.

Ranpo prodded the notebook curiously, under the watchful eye of his adoptive dad. Having Fukuzawa living so close to Keio (where he himself studied) proved to be beneficial. He didn't have to pay for student accommodation, and always had a place to go when he was forced to join failing study groups.

He wasn't thick, far from it, Ranpo Edogawa had no reason to join these groups if not for the fact he was constantly pulled into them by his idealistic friends (there's a pitfall with idealism, it doesn't reflect the truth of reality: hence, most of these groups fell flat within days just for Dazai or Atsushi to start a new one. Atsushi because he actually wanted to learn and Dazai because it meant he could piss off more quote on quote 'idiot kids who need my help'). Even so, this Cafe was just the slice of escapism they needed. Small, cozy, closed away. A mundane break in the bustle of student life.

"Fukuzawa" part of his unspoken agreement with his adoptive dad was that Ranpo was within every right to call him by his name. But that didn't mean he sometimes slipped up, on many occasions he had to catch his words, knowing a pitying crease would form on Fukuzawa's face. 'I don't want you to forget your parents Ranpo' he had once said when Ranpo was fourteen.'
I won't.' had been the only response they could agree upon.

The gray haired man turned; pausing as he sifted through the washing up, the Cafe was now closed leaving them with the mess of the day's work to sort through. He hummed, non committedly, before turning back to a glass he was drying. 

"Someone's left a notebook," Ranpo picked it up, unbothered about crumpling the tissue-like pages. He wasn't exactly sure why he was telling his dad this, they had a lost and found box in which Ranpo had deposited many lost keyrings, but there was something about this book… It was so prestigious that he found it funny. Perhaps he expected Fukuzawa to laugh at it with him. 

"Does it have a name on?"

Ranpo wasn't expecting that. Okay maybe a little bit but he wasn't going to ruin a conversation with Fukuzawa by deducing every response. That would lead to tedium. 

He crushed a few more dog-eared pages as he slammed the book closed and flipped to the front cover. Whoever the owner was, their handwriting was exceedingly neat, tiny cursive letters scribed in ink. Unable to deny it, he was growing slightly curious. Who owned this book? What sort of person were they? He could make a million correct deductions, but there was nothing so satisfying as finding out your conclusions are correct. So he shoved the thoughts to the back of his mind. It didn't matter the age of this person, or how they spent their time. It was just a notebook with hundreds of paragraph-less pages. It was insignificant.

'Edgar Allan Poe' the words neatly printed on the inside cover, in a slightly different penmanship. The language too was different, English.. This notebook belonged to a foreigner? 

Something else had flashed before his mind, the name sounded familiar… why..? He thought for a moment. There was a 'Poe' on his criminology class register. It wouldn't be such a far stretch for them to be the same Poe, would it? 

"I'll bring this when the next semester starts," he made an effort to snap the book shut again, for one reason and one reason only… He liked the sound it made. Usually, Ranpo wouldn't allow himself to do something so charitable, believing it to be the victim's fault in situations like this. After all, they were the one to lose their items. Yet there was something alluring about this book, something telling him he had to return it to the owner personally. 

"Alright," Fukuzawa hummed, half listening, still drying the washing up (they couldn't afford a dishwasher after the last hire attempted to 'help' clean up the shop). Ranpo swiped the book off the table and placed it carefully in one of his arms as he wiped the table with his free hand. 

"You know you're supposed to collect the crumbs not push them onto the floor" somehow, despite the fact Ranpo was a fully grown adult, Fukuzawa still had the ability to lecture him like a little kid. In all fairness, occasionally, he had been known to act that way but that wasn't important. Ranpo stuck his tongue out at his dad who responded with a fond roll of the eyes. Cleaning was boring anyways, he much preferred sitting on the counter, eating all the cakes that would go stale by the next day, whilst pretending he was studying. Ranpo didn’t actually need to study, which was proved both by the failed work groups and the fact he still managed to claim A’s in all of his exams. He had been labeled a prodigy; he probably could have entered university at a much younger age if not for the cost and Fukuzawa’s dwindling income. 

They lapsed into silence, whilst usually Ranpo would find silence uncomfortable, it was alright with his father. Fukuzawa never had many words, he was a man of actions, living through motions rather than sound. Ranpo differed, sound was an ever present constant in his life. After all, there’s no way to stop your ears from listening and Ranpo found he had a difficult time tuning things out. He could hear every sound in this cafe, from the sound of the rushing water from the faucet to the distant buzzing of the lights. Life brimmed with activity, lively noise everywhere, electrifying, like the fluttering wings of a thousand tiny bees. It wasn’t peaceful, it was awake, life was its own city and he was the deluded soul living under its lights.

But talking, that was a distraction. He couldn’t hear the buzz over his own words, and besides, he liked it when his words were heard.

But Fukuzawa was the opposite, his world was too loud when filled with chatter, having exhausted his conversations from the everyday socialization of his cafe. He needed the quietness since he couldn’t hear the buzzing of the city.

But Ranpo didn’t mind.
If it was for Fukuzawa, he could deal with the silence.

…

It was night when Ranpo finally disappointed himself by opening the notebook he had scavenged. He lay sprawled out on his bed, with his laptop on its tray, although he had long since forgotten the show running on the screen. Television was boring, everything was boring. It was so easy to fall into tedium without the routine of classes to preoccupy his attention and exhaust his mind. So it only made sense that when his eyes flickered back to that leather book for the umpteenth time he would finally relent and snatch it off his desk. 

Reading was never something he had wholly enjoyed; yes, he would read for his classes and every so often he would read if Fukuzawa recommended something but he never enjoyed reading. He could spot every plot hole, could foresee every plot twist, could see through character’s like they were tissue. It was just so easy. Nothing was interesting when you already knew everything. What was the point in reading a book when you already know the ending? The journey, that’s what Fukuzawa had said when he pressed him with this dilemma, but Ranpo had no idea what that meant. The journey? Was he supposed to pick out every word? Leech them of meaning and savor the taste? It was pointless.

Reality was a little easier: it was harder to know everything. People were more complicated than in books. They always had some hidden motive, but they concealed it better, because unlike in those stories their authors weren’t actively trying to reveal it. In paper, an author wants to show off every aspect of their skill. They want to make their character’s profound, full of metaphor and meaning, they want to showcase their flaws and weaknesses because otherwise no one else would know. Characters live inside an author’s head, no matter how much they’re written about they will never truly find their home in those pages. People however know themselves best, there’s no novelist behind their words. For instance, no one but Ranpo knows that the extra cash in Fukuzawa’s tip jar is actually from his pocket, but everyone knows 1Q84’s Aomame is an assassin and- okay what’s his brain even talking about anymore? He hasn’t even read that book, merely cast a glance over Fukuzawa’s shoulder (his guardian had immediately closed the book turning a bright red as if the material inside was inappropriate).

Ranpo had no reason to justify reading the notebook, which for some injudicious reason had been at the front of his mind since he found it. After all, he really didn’t like reading. But there was something so.. Enticing about that neat, inky scribe, and the name written on that front page, ‘Edgar Allan Poe’, in looping letters. Honestly it was almost begging to be read.. And it wasn’t fair to leave a book waiting. Wasn’t that what every author wanted anyways? For their tales to be shared. Wasn’t that why they wrote? For other people?  

So he glanced over the first page.

He was entranced.

The notebook told the tale of travellers, trapped in a mansion. The protagonist, awakened by a sound, enters a room, and finds a body. So it was a detective novel then? Despite himself, Ranpo felt a grin flirting with his lips. This student, Poe, had somehow written an impossible mystery. There was no way into the room, no way for any murderer to have murdered the corpse. However, what would the point of a book be if it had no reachable ending? 

He turned page after page, finding alibis and clues.. But he didn’t need them. The answer was clear- the murderer was the protagonist, the narrator was unreliable, omitting evidence from the reader. 

Even so, he kept turning the pages, waiting, devouring the information with greedy eyes. He had to know if he was right. This mystery, so convoluted, wouldn’t best Ranpo Edogawa. Time moved but he didn’t notice.
He had found it , he had found a book written in a style that mesmerized him. This wasn’t the sloppy writing of a university student, these were the artful ramblings of a genius- These words, these words, they had encapsulated him. He couldn’t let them go. Even if he found misspelled words, or english slotted in between paragraphs. 

The clock ticked by, Ranpo heard Fukuzawa’s sigh as he passed his room with the lights still glaring. His guardian had long since given up reprimanding him for staying up too late, Ranpo would merely argue that he was nineteen and legally an adult so there wasn’t anything Fukuzawa could do about it. 

Years of letting books sit unopened, had left Ranpo a slow reader. It took him until the early hours to finish the notebook, although maybe that could be blamed on the miniscule scrawl being practically impossible to decipher as well. Even with his glasses, Ranpo had to squint to figure out the meaning behind blurry lines.

But none of that mattered.. He had finally found the thing that could put a stop to all this boredom. The words in this notebook, he would commit them to memory, he would be the first reader to figure it out before the protagonist.. Although what with the murderer being the protagonist maybe that wouldn’t work.. He turned the page, desperate to see if he was right. An unsolved mystery was a fate worse than hell itself. 

It was blank. There was nothing left. A few untidy scrawls in foreign script and nil but the vastness of empty space. White pages begging to be filled, they seemed so lifeless without words. They needed the elegant writing of this student. They needed Edgar Allan Poe’s pen to breathe life into them.

Ranpo let out a shuddering breath, clutching the notebook tightly to his chest as if it were something fragile that could be broken by a gust of wind. A realization had struck him.. Without those pages he would never know if he had correctly guessed the killer. His eyes widened behind thick lenses. His biggest fear was failure, the idea that a case could be incorrectly solved. Or the idea that Ranpo was a lackluster detective, not the perfect prodigy he was born to be. He had to be right because if he wasn’t then what was he? Average? Like everyone else in this university? No. He would never be average, he would be the detective with the unbeatable streak, with not one case in which he made a mistake. Ranpo Edogawa would never fail.

He made a vow.
When he returned the notebook to its original owner, he would ask them who the murderer was. And his deductions would be right.

…

The first semester of his second year began with an appalling start. Ranpo had overslept, giving him exactly five minutes to shower, get changed and trek down to Keio. Safe to say he did not shower and also managed to miss his first lecture. 

It was too cold to soak up the last few days of September. Autumn had come early this year, extending into the last heartbeats of august and threatening to introduce winter already. He wore a scarf over his usual white shirt and a brown jumper had ornamented it. He shrugged into the jacket, wishing he could leech some warmth out of it. His fingers still clutched a flask of coffee Fukuzawa had made him, it was mainly sugar, but the heat had long since dissipated into the air. He squinted under heavy eyelids, finally sighting the reddish front of his university, and released a breath he had been holding. There. He had made it.

Here’s a list of all the things Ranpo forgot on his first day:

1. A coat
2. How to get to Keio
3. His glasses

Here’s a list of all the things Ranpo didn’t forget.

1. The notebook 

With a track record like Ranpo’s, it was surprising he had somehow managed to remember the little leather book that had found a home on his desk for the past few days. When he forgot everything important, it would have made sense if he forgot something he wasn’t even required to bring. Inside his brain however, the reason was clear, the mystery had been toying with his thoughts since he had found it. A mystery without an answer. He needed the relief of knowing he wasn’t a failure.

He was early to his criminology class, which made sense because with the missed lecture he had a free half hour. Usually he would have spent this time grabbing a coffee full of diabetes from the student cafes, but today he waited patiently outside the class, willing the time to waste away. He barely remembered the students in this class, and knew he had no recollection of who Poe was. But that wasn’t going to stop him. His master plan was already made up, he would leave his usual deskmate Dazai -who would be fine with sitting by Nakahara. And he would take the empty seat next to Poe -or kick whoever was sitting there out of it. He would bring the notebook out of his bag and pester the student until he stole the ending from him.

So Ranpo waited, even when Akiko walked past and raised an eyebrow at him. “Ranpo Edogawa, early? Has hell frozen over?”
“Shut up.” 

They had a brief conversation, promising each other a drink after classes, before going their separate ways. It was a short lived interaction but that didn’t really bother him -he had seen Yosano recently anyways, her and her girlfriend’s apartment was practically his second home. Ranpo watched as half the class began to pile up behind the door, he recognized a few faces from last year but he couldn’t quite be sure. He only remembered people if they interested him, otherwise they were another addition to the mundane everyday that this tedious university life had gifted him with. 

Nakahara joined him by the door, pushing through the other students. The red head was complaining, something about ‘the idiot mackerel disappeared again’ and Ranpo snorted into the scarf he had forgotten he was still wearing. He learned the two had spent their summer together apart from when Nakahara had gone to visit his Ane-san (Ranpo had to remind himself that Nakahara's sister was the same Kōyō that was dating Yosano; it was weird how interconnected the world was, like the photos connected by string in old detective movies). He and Dazai both lived off campus, apparently they were planning on finding an apartment together when Dazai’s lease ran out, but they practically lived together anyways, always at one or the other’s residence.

The doors opened two minutes before class started and there was still no sign of Poe. He resigned himself to sitting awkwardly in a seat near Dazai, jumping up at every straggler entering the room. If any tried to grab 'Poe's seat,' Ranpo glared at them.

Yet the mysterious writer never arrived. Instead came a professor, droning on and on about the importance of criminology and why they need it in the real world. Yeah well Ranpo probably wouldn't have studied it if it wasn't important so thank you but this lecture sucked. Drumming his fingers against the desk, he watched the time as it moved ever forwards. Where was Poe? In all honesty, the question Ranpo knew he should have been asking himself was 'why are you so adamant to meet him?' but the notebook digging into his ankles (his laptop bag was pushed right against his legs) was a constant reminder. 

To think, even in university the tedium of classes had continued. His mind flickered back to the idle days of school, where he'd spent his time staring out the window whilst still managing to ace all his exams. University wasn't like that, he was an adult now he couldn't just ignore the words he was supposed to be absorbing. But Ranpo wasn't a sponge, he couldn't soak up the information he already knew. 

Fifteen minutes had passed before the door opened again. Ranpo cursed the tall, dark-haired man entering the room. He wobbled on his feet, drawing Ranpo's attention to his shoes and- damn- they were boots with heels. He made his way awkwardly to the only remaining space, the chair next to Ranpo which had been saved for the author; but oh well, apparently Edgar Allan Poe wasn't going to show his face and- Holy shit this man was Poe wasn't he?

Paying no attention to the droning professor, Ranpo slammed the book down on the desk. The poor writer nearly jumped out of his skin, his eyes barely revealed under a nest of bangs, widening to fill hollow circles. He made no sound, but Ranpo could sense an involuntary yelp escaping him, silently. 

"...My notebook-" The writer gasped, snatching it from the table and hugging the book close to his chest, as if something was threatening to steal it away, "t-thank you."
His voice was low, trembling, but filled Ranpo with a strange sort of comfort. He had the voice of a poet, even his stuttered words were crystalline. 

"So who was the murderer?" Ranpo uttered the question that had been plaguing his mind for the past week. The feeling of it escaping his lips like relief, a burden cast from his shoulders. Finally… he would finally know.

"You read it?" The writer's perfect voice broke, it was sharp, reserved, brimming with nerves. Ranpo couldn't help but feel guilty, although he wasn't sure why. He hadn't done anything wrong, but the accusing notch in Poe's voice seemed to strike through him.

"Well yeah but-" Ranpo immediately went to the defence, trying to save his image.

"Wh-Why would you do that?" Poe clutched the book closer to his chest, Ranpo could hear his breathing growing faster, "it's not even finished yet.. it- it's just a hobby I'm not even a good writer I don't- I don't normally write that badly I swear and- and- you shouldn't have even read-"

"I liked it," Ranpo commented blankly, "I don't normally read books but this one caught my attention. Now. Tell me, was the protagonist the murderer?"

It took the dark haired man a while to respond, the words seemingly not sinking in, as he stared dumbfounded at Ranpo. His face seemed to redden, his lips tracing the words 'liked' with disbelief, as he silently whispered them. As if he couldn't quite believe them. "O-Oh-" he whispered tensely, "um yeah the murderer is.. uh- the protagonist," he smiled awkwardly from behind his bangs.

"I knew it!" Ranpo yelled, before covering his mouth with his hands, a couple faces turned to look at him. 
"But how did you figure it out? It was meant to be a plot twist?" The writer seemed distraught, staring at his hands, well Ranpo assumed that's where he was staring under that thick layer of hair.
"Elementary," Ranpo's voice bore heavy with smugness, "a locked room? and the only person with the key was the protagonist? That was the first sign."
"I only added that for foreshadowing," Poe sighed, "but i see why that happened maybe if i-"

Ranpo gave up listening. Now he knew he was right, he was bored, there was very little that could feed his overstimulated mind. Besides, this wasn't what he had been expecting. 

"Are you going to write another one?" He blurted out, completely interrupting the tangent Poe was going on.
"O-oh… well maybe.."
"When you're finished, bring it to the Cafe." Ranpo spoke resolutely, the expression on his face so stern it knocked any form of confusion at his words away. But…
"I mean- wait what cafe-?" 
"Fukuzawa's," Ranpo deadpanned. It took a few moments before an expression of shock lined Poe's features, his jaw hanging slightly open as if he were an exaggerated cartoon character.
"You know that place?"
"I work there- that's where you left your notebook." 
That shut the writer up. He covered his red face with his hands, although the barricade of bangs were doing a good enough job of that anyways, "I'm such an idiot."
Ranpo couldn't help but laugh at the face of an author who seemed in dire need of an 'anti-blush pill' considering even his ears were tinged pink.

…

It had been a while after his lunch with Akiko when Ranpo entered the Cafe again, swinging his bag off his shoulder and startling the several customers they had when it landed on the floor.

"Hey old man!" Ranpo swung his legs over the counter, kicking his feet against the cupboards. The old man in question turned to him, sighing slightly, the weary sort of sigh he reserved only for his son. Ranpo had always assumed these sighs were the cause of Fukuzawa's premature gray hair. "Ranpo," he acknowledged, warily avoiding his kicks.
"I gave Poe-san's book back today." Ranpo wasn't entirely sure why he was telling this to his dad. But to him this day had been an achievement and he was itching to share it.
"Oh? what did he say?" Ranpo often thought Fukuzawa forgot he wasn't a child anymore. Sure Ranpo knew he acted like one, but that didn't mean he never spotted the accidental infantilizing notch in his father's voice. 
His expression changed, frowning slightly, "I don't know I forgot to listen but he said he would bring his next book here and-"
Fukuzawa gave him the look. A look that didn't quite sit right on features that barely smiled when Ranpo wasn't there, the look that seemed soft, fond maybe.. An expression Ranpo hadn't seen for a while. 
"Is he a friend of yours now?"
"Hm.. I hope so."
Fukuzawa merely shrugged, he was always talking about this.. About Ranpo ‘needing more friends’ or something of the sort. But Ranpo wasn’t lonely and three friends was enough for him. "Alright then, come help me make these coffees."

…

The next criminology class Ranpo had, he plopped himself in the same seat, next to Poe. In all honesty he was intrigued, it had been a long while since his last mystery and  he viewed this writer to be just that. Behind all that hair was a person, Ranpo just had to figure out who.

Safe to say, Poe was stunned, as if he hadn't been expecting Ranpo to come back. In fact, the detective was sure if it hadn't been for him Poe would be perfectly content sitting on his own… What sort of person is like that? Who wouldn't want to talk to someone else? Ranpo had spent his whole life draining people dry of every drop of attention they had left. He was a wild dog searching for scraps, attaching himself to whoever gave him the most. He couldn't imagine not being in the spotlight, having people walk past you without at least knowing your name. It was almost as if Poe were invisible, no one knew him.. He was an enigma, and Ranpo was unsure how to treat this case further. This mystery was proving to be difficult.

"Poe-sann," Ranpo hollered, waving enthusiastically. The writer had almost died of embarrassment again, red ears hidden underneath hair as he put his head in his hands, staring at Ranpo through the cracks in his fingers. 

"What is it?" He asked with a sigh, but this wasn't like Fukuzawa's sigh. It ached of bone weariness, but not frustration. That was a new emotion, one of stress but a different kind. It was refreshing, new… In fact, a lot of things about Poe were new.. The way he wrote, the way he hid beneath his soft hair, the way he talked, like no one else talked, about whatever was on his mind, and then the way he became nervous, picking at his fingers, if he thought he had spoken too much and- “okay” Ranpo told his brain, he had only spoken to Poe for one class he should probably stop.

“How’s your new book coming along?” 

Ranpo seemed to know the words to pull the author out of his anxieties. Gray eyes widened, lighting up like northern skies, as he let every secret fall. It was clear to Ranpo that writing was the one thing the author prided himself on. The one thing he actually believed he was good at. Poe wasn’t wrong.. The idea of anyone else writing like him was fathomless. 

There began the days, time slipping by like water running over rocks. Ranpo found he wasn’t late to his classes nearly as often, and he had come to enjoy criminology. Tedious as the coursework was, and utterly effortless the exams, there was something about sitting next to that writer that failed to bore him.

People had always bored him most. Even Fukuzawa on occasion, could suggest something disinteresting. His guardian had never seen the simplicity in mysteries, spending hours pouring over questions so undemanding Ranpo felt like tearing his hair out. Nakahara and Dazai had fallen victim to an ordinary life, full of the monotony of a relationship. And Akiko had the unfortunate habit of talking about whatever crossed her mind, usually Koyo or her medical studies . Boring, boring, boring. They were intelligent, he had chosen his friends carefully, selected an elite few who were almost intuitive enough to understand him.

It had been much easier spending his time solving cases, they were alright, for the most part interesting. But you can’t really get by solving cases without the proper qualifications, he had Fukuzawa to thank for that lovely piece of advice. But even though they had their moments, some were too easy, some he refused to solve altogether. It didn’t matter if he didn’t solve them, most ‘cases’ were merely stories he had found in the newspapers or from old case files he had somehow managed to find online. Fukuzawa hadn’t allowed him to do freelance work, which had pissed him off but was probably for the best.

In one book, Poe had managed to beat nearly all those cases. Perhaps it was the unbelievability of fiction that had helped him to create such a convoluted mystery. Ranpo wasn’t complaining. He was on tenterhooks, trying to leech Poe of any new information about his new story. And maybe he enjoyed listening to Poe rambling and allowing someone else to talk for once. He liked the way Poe’s stories could fill the silence that pained his ears so often. 

One day he managed to wrangle a phone number from the author and spent an entire afternoon talking about a case he had found on YouTube.
Another day he went to a cafe with Poe after classes and forced the author to buy him a drink full of sugar.
And another day Poe had started to call him Ranpo-kun.

…

“You and Poe-san are getting awfully close aren’t you?” Osamu Dazai was quite possibly the bane to Ranpo’s entire existence. There had been a night where Nakahara wasn’t at Dazai’s apartment, he was studying for finals, or at wine club or something Ranpo hadn’t bothered to remember. No matter how much he pretended, Dazai was afraid of being alone. So Yosano and Ranpo had barged their way into his apartment, holding bucket loads of blankets and candy (Ranpo had stopped by a store on the way there).

"What do you mean by that?" Ranpo asked, chewing on an orange lollipop. The candy cracked in half down the middle, splitting into two perfect semi-circles.
"Oh you know what I mean," Dazai cocked one of his eyebrows, his face radiating smugness.
"Dazai you sound like a highschooler," Akiko sighed, before turning to Ranpo with an insistent gaze, "but he is right."
Ranpo almost choked on the candy. "We're just friends."
"Yeah sure, 'just' friends who go around holding hands?" Dazai shoved his phone in Ranpo's face, revealing a photo on Instagram where they had in fact been holding hands.
"So? My hands were cold," he mumbled, shoving them into his pockets. Curse Dazai, curse this 'sleepover.' Oh who cares they're university students but Ranpo has lost enough dignity today already not to call this a sleepover.
"Keep telling yourself that," Akiko sighed, patting him on the head.

Ignoring the infantilizing nature of the touch, Ranpo quite liked the attention. But it definitely wasn't true. There was no way he liked Poe. Sure, the author was his best friend, sure, Poe was the only person who wasn't boring, and, yes, maybe he wanted to spend every waking moment with him.. okay yeah that's going a bit too far Ranpo. But that didn't mean he wanted a relationship right?

"Aw you've scared the poor thing," Dazai laughed, pointing at Ranpo's wide eyes which had made an appearance from behind the barrier of squints. 
"We were just messing with you," Akiko laughed.

The embarrassment of pink dusting Ranpo's cheeks really wasn't helping matters. He didn't like Poe. He didn't like Poe. He didn't like the man with raccoon stickers on his phone case who named every crow he passed on the street 'incase they were sad.' And he didn't like the man whose hair he imagined running his fingers through countless times…. And maybe he did like the nervous wreck who knew how to perfectly balance seriousness with Ranpo's childishness. And maybe he did like the man who hugged him each time he cried.

Maybe he did like Edgar Allan Poe..

…

It had taken Poe four months to complete his second book. With the addition of still having to finish the first, this came as no surprise, but Ranpo was still itching to read it. One morning, he woke up late to his lectures, as usual, and found a message from Poe on his phone. Poe rarely used his phone, since he spent the majority of his time writing or studying, or hanging out with Ranpo, and had very few people to call. Bloodshot eyes had never opened quicker. Waking up in the mornings was not his strong suit, he still had a teenage body clock at nineteen. So with hair in his face and aching limbs, he tumbled out of his bed and slammed his glasses onto his face. 

Poe was going to stop by the cafe after his lectures.
Ranpo had in fact missed both of his lectures for that day.

A six hour wall of tedium barricaded his path. With the tool of impatience on his side, it was going to feel a lot longer than that. He made his way downstairs, trying and failing to avoid a lecture from Fukuzawa about how he could get kicked out if he kept missing classes. 

“I’m acing all my exams so,” Ranpo shoved a cookie into his mouth, still warm, and kept his head down to avoid a glare from his guardian.
“Ranpo, you have to make the most of this. I don’t want you to go wasting your time when you could be taking advantage of this opportunity and actually learn something.” 
“It doesn’t matter, I know all this stuff already.” Ranpo’s voice was strained, it was the same argument day in and day out. He knew Keio was expensive, and he knew Fukuzawa was disappointed in him but he could barely struggle his way through classes as it was. At least Poe was there some of the time, along with the few people that made it bearable. 
“I’ll let it go today, but just try to get to your lectures on time okay?” 
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, because that’s what he had to say. Even if the words tasted like poison against his lips and even if he barely meant them because he wasn’t sorry. Or.. maybe he was, he knew the student loans were piling up and there was no way either of them could pay it off, and he knew Fukuzawa was struggling with money as it was. Hearing an apology from Ranpo was rarer than tanzanite. Perhaps that’s why his guardian’s face softened, “do you want to help me with the cakes?”

Helping with the cakes consisted of Ranpo taste testing all the frosting and burning the mixture a couple of times. Clearly his dad hadn't taught him very well. After spilling the flour all over the kitchen floor and himself for the third time, Ranpo was sentenced to the dreaded ground work of serving customers and desperately trying not to eat their orders as he brought them out. Fukuzawa was going to have to hire someone else because Ranpo was obviously scaring away the customers. 

The cafe had an old fashioned bell which rang whenever the door was opened. Preoccupied with his work, Ranpo didn’t notice when his nervous wreck of a  ̶c̶r̶u̶s̶h̶  friend stepped into the coffee shop. Poe was talented in the way he managed to make his tall frame seem so small at times. As if he could shrink in on himself and become half the size. He could almost be unnoticeable, if not for the twitchy way he walked whenever he was in a place with people he didn’t recognize, or the sour expression on his face. It was fairly warm outside but he still wore his coat around his shoulders; he found his seat in a booth that had become a regular spot for him. Although he had only promised Ranpo he would stop by the cafe when the book was finished, Poe had come here many times before that. Often just to visit Ranpo at work or to drag him to classes when he was certain his friend was going to miss them. His excuse for going was usually that the coffee was nice, certainly not nice enough to leave a sixty percent tip but they didn’t talk about that. 

Money was a topic Poe knew to steer clear of. Even from his expansive wardrobe compared to Ranpo’s hand-me-downs, it was clear Poe was more wealthy than he was. He had a well off family back in America, Francis’s business was booming (haha get it economic boom and great gatsby?) and he had enough money to send all his children to university with enough money in their wallets to last their entire time there. So yes, Edgar could spare the price of two coffees, or pay for an extra meal every once in a while, if it was near the end of the month and the cafe bills were due.

Deciding Ranpo was busy, he sat down on the plush seats and snapped open a paperback. Edgar was a fan of writing much more than he was of reading, but he still found it fascinating to indulge into someone else’s mind and see from their words how they view the world. He wondered if that was how Ranpo felt when he read Poe’s book. But why anyone would want to see the world from Edgar’s eyes was beyond him. He didn’t have the flowery language to paint his world with butterflies. Gloom leaked from every crevice, filling the pages with melancholy. Although he supposed, sometimes that’s what people needed. Hearing sadness in other people’s voices was stabilizing. In a way, it shows that you’re not alone. But when he read, Poe preferred to read flowery books. Even for a brief moment between a page turn, he gave way to a break in the bleakness.

But Edgar couldn’t focus on the words, for the sole reason of a piece of paper tucked neatly between the sides of his notebook. The very notebook which he had spent a good two months meticulously writing in kanji. English was easier, he found so many idioms and phrases that made no sense in Japanese that the majority of time he took ‘writing’ his book was after it was already written. Painted nails tapped nervously against the table. Edgar had tied his hair back, he had actually made an effort today, and already he was feeling the stares. People were looking at his hair, probably whispering about it, he knew it looked stupid when he had tied it up that afternoon but there was nothing he could do now. Besides, it wasn’t just his hair, he knew it had been a mistake to wear his heeled boots, or maybe the sweater was too much or maybe- maybe it really was the nails and they all knew what he did not. Maybe they knew what Ranpo’s response was going to be when he first saw him and- Shit maybe he should just leave… 

“Ed!” 
Poe was startled out of his stupor by the shorter student gallivanting across the room, speeding right towards him. Edgar could have sworn his life flashed before his eyes.
“R-Ranpo-kun,” he spluttered, struggling to recover from his initial shock as his friend hopped onto the seat opposing him, “you have flour on your nose.”
“Oh!” Ranpo did the unthinkable and licked it off. Rather than being disgusted like most people would be, Poe wondered how it was possible someone could reach their nose with their tongue. 
“I helped with the baking,” he added, after noticing the gray eyes staring at him. For a moment, when he really looked at Poe, Ranpo was speechless. (Mainly because he was a gay disaster staring at his crush who looked somehow more handsome than usual). Ranpo blinked, and somehow managed to go back to normal, “want some? I burnt a lot so Fukuzawa will probably give them to us for free.”

In all honesty, Poe wasn’t actually the biggest fan of sugar but he wasn’t about to tell that to his sweet-toothed friend so he relented, “I can buy some fresh ones so we don’t have to eat burnt ones.” 

“Poe-kun, I will eat the burnt ones anyways, you’re just putting more diabetes into me if you do that.” Ranpo shrugged but he smiled anyway, “alright, I’ll get the fresh cookies- actually I need to tell Fukuzawa to go on counter duty, I’m still supposed to be working.” 
With that, Ranpo ducked out of the booth leaving Poe slightly startled, sitting there like a dumbfounded cat who’s just seen a bird outside the window and who doesn’t understand why it can’t get through the glass to reach it.

When Ranpo came back, he was carrying a tray of cookies and two mugs of what was presumably coffee but knowing Ranpo it may as well be anything. He slid back into his seat, drumming his fingers against the table, as Poe had been doing earlier. Ranpo liked motion, he’d heard people call his tapping ‘stimming’ sometimes, but he didn’t really care to name it. That’s just what he did. Movement was relaxing, comfortable, and it was an output for all the energy stores he gathered from the unlimited supply of candy he ate.

“Fukuzawa insisted on us having the burnt ones, I think it’s punishment for me ruining his kitchen.” Ranpo noticed the uncomfortable expression on Poe’s face but he didn’t comment on it. He knew just as well as Edgar did about their unspoken agreement. He would let it slide every once in a while if Poe-kun bought him something, promising himself that one day he would pay it back even if he knew that would likely never come to fruition. It was easier to let himself believe that, and easier to let Poe believe he was oblivious to all this.

“Poor Fukuzawa-sama,” Poe sighed, but he took the cookies anyways, because Ranpo had made them and Poe liked anything Ranpo made, even if it was made with sugar instead of salt (true story), or if the amount of flour doubled the recipe’s (again, true story), because it was Ranpo and hell would freeze over before Poe thought badly of Ranpo.

Something Edgar had not yet admitted to anyone was that before Ranpo had come into his life, he had been lonelier than he had ever felt before. He had moved to Japan, away from Francis and Lucy, and even though he had made that decision for a reason and knew escaping Fitzgerald was for the best, he still regretted it somewhere. He had been a first year, at a university speaking a language he hadn’t yet mastered. He was isolated from everyone, without even roommates because he was too scared of interacting with anyone. His first year at Keio had been a disaster, full of fake smiles over phone calls with his sister, and online lectures when he couldn’t face going to class. This was not what going to College was supposed to be like, he knew that, and could do nothing to change his situation. College was supposed to be that time in your life where you make core memories, where you have fun before the responsibilities of adulthood came crashing down on you. It seemed life had given him a bad hand, and robbed him of any joy university was supposed to bring.

But Ranpo had been his ray of hope. It had taken everything out of him to leave America again for his second year, even though he knew staying a moment longer in Francis’s house could have turned him into a monster. Watching as Lucy begged him not to go through sunken eyes, as he forced a smile and patted her head, telling her lies about why he couldn’t stay. He knew he was making excuses. It would have been so easy to take a year out, stay with them until Lucy too would start university.. But it all circled back to one thing, he couldn’t stay a moment longer under the roof of a man who treated his employees so horribly, who exploited fast fashion schemes and built a business on fraud. But worst yet, he couldn’t stand to live a moment longer under the roof of a father who was never there for them, the roof of a man who had torn the pages out of Edgar’s notebooks before his very eyes and spat in the face of his dreams. And the man who had told Lucy she was too old to act like a child and had burnt all her dolls. The man who had spat in the faces of their childhood. 

He knew he was grasping at straws here, people had much worse lives with much worse fathers, but that couldn’t erase the years of neglect from Edgar’s memory. And that wouldn’t change the fact that the second she was old enough Lucy would also end up moving to Japan. 

There was another reason he had to go back to Keio of course, he had to find his notebook. Somehow he had lost his writing over the summer, and he needed it back. That notebook was his prized possession, it contained every thought, feeling, every breath he had ever taken, in the form of a few simple sentences. His entire life’s work in one novel. Why? Because this had been a book written in Japan where Francis couldn’t destroy it, this had been a book no one could taint with their criticisms because no-one else would ever read it- 

And then Ranpo had handed it to him on the first day of the semester. His first survival instinct had been fear. This complete stranger had read his book.. He could feel the walls of his shelter crack around him, his safehouse about to be destroyed when.. 

"I liked it," Ranpo had said, and just like that the door of his shelter had opened and emitted someone else inside.

“Did you hear me?” In the present, Ranpo snapped his fingers in front of Edgar’s face. 
The man flinched in shock before laughing slightly and shaking his head, “sorry Ranpo-kun I seem to have gotten a little lost in my thoughts.”
“I said, Dazai-kun and Akiko think I have a crush on you, stupid right?”
The comment, so off-handed, took a long while to sink in. Edgar felt his face flush a bright red, “h-huh?”  

Ranpo was anxiously drumming his foot against the floor, but he wouldn't let Poe know that. He had to see, he had to see how Poe would react because then he would know and have closure on this stupid little crush he definitely didn't have.
Edgar didn't see it that way.
"Yeah," he smiled, his voice cracking slightly, "stupid." 

Ranpo seemed to deflate, but Poe would never notice. Too caught up in his own whirlwind of thoughts, the Armageddon of his life began. His searching eyes darted back behind the safety of his bangs, his tall stature shrunk in on itself once more. He brought his coffee to his lips, the smell and taste making him feel nauseous, to at least give him a moment in which he was allowed silence. A moment to breathe. A moment to let his mind go anywhere other than here.

"You finished the book?" A more observant Poe would have noticed how Ranpo too was seemingly desperate to change the topic of conversation. But Poe wasn't being observant, so he would never think about it. Never speculate that Ranpo thought the idea anything other than stupid.

"Yes," his voice shook slightly, quieter and softer than usual, as he pulled the notebook from his bag. "Here you go.. I hope you can read my writing."

When Poe gave Ranpo the new story, the piece of paper between the pages was missing, crumpled up in his pocket; it was as if the simple action of destroying the paper could erase the words written on it from his mind. But of course it couldn't.
Poe was infatuated with Ranpo.

...

Love letters.

An elementary trope, one he would never use in his own fiction. But as it happened, a romantic couldn't think of a more beautiful way to express his feelings. 
No, not express.
Confession.
That's what it was.

Most of Edgar's ideas of confession were the same, a priest standing behind a box as you uttered your transgressions and let sins ferment into the air. In the past Francis had taken them to a lot of confessions whilst Zelda was still there keeping his decaying morality somewhat in check. 

Edgar had always detested the places. His ears could pick up what others could not. He could hear the despicable, whispering atrocities aloud. He had once wondered if he would become like them, he was cruel at heart. Something he had always known, something he was always trying to avoid.

So why was it that telling someone you're in love with them sent you to the same confessional?
Because it's wrong. It's selfish to love someone.  

He had seen the way love had torn Francis apart, he had watched his father go from a kind man to one who would murder for his wealth. All for the sake of stability. Money was his escape, his way to avoid the death of his wife and pretend that everything was fine. There may be a bottle of prescription pills on the nightstand but there was new furniture in the kitchen so it was fine. There may be a wedding ring at the bottom of a lake, but there was a pond in the garden so it was fine. It was all fine.

Poe couldn't become his father. He couldn't risk becoming a monster. And what if he ended up hurting Ranpo? Poe knew what he was, he knew why he was always alone. He chased everyone away. As a kid, he yelled at Lucy so many times when she had done nothing to be blamed for. He knew it was wrong, he didn't even know why he did it, but it was so easy to take his anger out on her. That red haired girl so full of life, whilst Edgar had been sitting there with his dead mother leering over his shoulder, and Fitzgerald at the other side screaming insults at the two of them.

He had never meant to hurt her.
That was the problem with love, no matter who it was or how you loved them, you'd always end up hurting them.

Edgar couldn't hurt Ranpo. Never. He wouldn't allow himself too. So he wouldn't tell him. He would never tell him that the past months he had fallen in love with him. Except…

It became more and more difficult as days were piling up. There had been a day when Ranpo had introduced him to his friends, Poe had met Dazai-san, Yosano-san and Nakahara-san. He had been mortified of each one of them, but he realized, shaking hands with Nakahara-san, that his world was growing by the day. He wasn’t nearly as alone as he had been. He had integrated himself into this group, found solace in the new people that Ranpo had chosen.. And they were nice. Terrified of Nakahara as he was, Edgar found himself laughing at his antics as he chased Dazai around the grounds. And Yosano always seemed to be able to fill the silence, although not in the same way Ranpo could. Poe liked listening to people talk, it took the pressure off of him to be the one starting conversations.

He even found himself talking to Ranpo’s guardian, sometimes helping the two in their cafe. He still found himself stuttering when he talked to Fukuzawa-sama, but Ranpo’s father had seemed to have adopted him into his life. Once even thanking him for ‘being one of the only good influences for his son’.  Poe had laughed it off, explaining that Ranpo was actually the good influence but Fukuzawa didn’t seem convinced. 

As the days passed, Edgar couldn’t deny it anymore. His crush wasn’t going away anytime soon.

He remembered an idle afternoon, sitting by a lake off campus somewhere, and just writing. Golden sunlight beaming on his face, the last rays of summer turning kind for once. The lake had glinted, water droplets were like tiny crystals. There was a beauty in the day he would never quite be able to capture in his stories. 

And Ranpo was there, chittering away, forgotten words that broke up the lengthy afternoon, filling it with bursts of color. Edgar hummed here and there, offering his input but never stopping Ranpo’s speech. He liked the sound of Ranpo’s voice, he liked the way it had instilled itself into his routine. He liked the way he was used to the sound.. And the way that for a moment, with Ranpo he could forget his fears of being replaced, or becoming his father, or of the sister he left behind. With Ranpo he was just Edgar, nothing more nothing less. The demon in his view was slowly turning into Heaven’s blue.

“Ranpo?” he had paused his friend’s monologue, if only for a moment.
“Hmm?” the criminology student had hummed.
“Have you ever been in love with someone?” 
The detective had flinched, taken to the defense, his voice cracked and words hurried, “Ed what are you talkin’ about? N-no of course I haven’t. Ranpo Edogawa doesn’t have time for love in his life, y’know.”
As a writer, a romantic, a detective in his own right, Edgar could see through people as if they were transparent. But he wouldn’t let himself believe a delusion. Except.. Well.. It was Ranpo and- and he had to believe.
“But you’ve dated people?” Poe asked, aware his questions were probably becoming far too intrusive but.. He had always chased the wrong side of the coin. 
“I’ve never actually dated anyone,” Ranpo had confessed, his face flushing a perfect shade of rose. The notion had actually surprised Edgar, but he didn’t let it show. Plenty of people don’t get into relationships, that much was normal. Still, he needed to know if in some alternative reality, one where he wasn’t a monster, if Ranpo could ever fall for him too.

Edgar merely shrugged in response to Ranpo’s words, allowing the detective to busy himself with talking about the next crime podcast he had found. He wouldn’t deny he had felt his heart crashing against his ribcage, or felt the shift in tectonics at Ranpo’s words.
But he just couldn’t believe it was true.

Selfish
Edgar Allan Poe had always known he was selfish, whether it was leaving Lucy behind when every instinct was telling him to keep her safe, or still using the money his father had practically stolen. 

So he had written that first letter. The words weren’t beautiful, hardly elegant. He had struggled over them… Writing had never been so hard. What if he used the wrong phrase, what if he said the wrong thing, what if he wrote something that finally revealed to Ranpo the devil that had fallen for him? 

My dear Ranpo

Dark circles had never been more black, ash forming under his gaze as he wrote and wrote and wrote. But no letter was perfect enough for Ranpo, no phrase could ever be enough. Why was perfection so difficult to master when he was supposed to be a master with his words? Poetry was his art. Why couldn’t he paint it? 

Words.
He burnt them by candlelight.
Words.
They were vile, a sickness, withering beneath his quill. 
Words.
They were going to be the end of him.

Like a madman in a gallery, staring at an unfinished portrait, Edgar watched the parchment, wishing for the perfect sentences to will themselves into existence. Maybe this was a sign, a sign that he shouldn’t even attempt it. That Ranpo was better off without this failed author and his failed letter. He tore the first paper in two and told himself that would be the end of it. He could forget about this.

But of course he couldn’t, a monster’s heart can never be satisfied.

Another day, after classes, when autumn had begun to spread its wings and cold air bit at his face, he was trying to escape the bustle of the city and find shelter somewhere peaceful. A library perhaps, where he could practice his kanji, or a cafe where he could sit idly and do nothing for as long as it took for his coffee to grow cold.

“Ed?” Edgar still wasn’t used to that name, he had all but forgotten its existence after his one mistaken introduction where he had called himself “Edgar” instead of Poe. He had believed no one would ever grow close enough to him for them to call him by it.. But a nickname? Even in childhood he had been known solely as Edgar. 

“R-Ranpo?” He wasn't sure if he was stuttering from the cold or from nerves but all the same he spoke before he even turned around to see his detective friend waving at him from across the street, covered from head to toe in colorful scarves of all sorts. Of course he had known it was Ranpo, because it always was, because there was no-one else in this world who would ever be close enough to him to call him Ed.. He had smiled, for the first time in a while.

Ranpo flung himself forwards, stumbling into Poe and- and he had hugged him. It seemed so natural, the way he had wrapped his arms around Edgar. And like a child in grade school, Edgar’s heart was racing, his palms were sweaty, his face was red and- and- he was struggling to breathe, there were butterflies- no moths- in his stomach- and- 
Ranpo released him, grinning broadly.
“I was just thinking about calling you cause it was so boring back at Fukuzawa’s, so, I went outside but it’s unbelievably cold so I was going to find a cafe where I could get a drink but I somehow ended up out here and- hey why are you out here?”
“I was going on a walk-”
“Well it’s a good thing I found you then, now find me a food place Poe-kun.” 

That evening, after Edgar had returned home, he had written the second letter. 
In the cool air of his apartment, the autumn chill stealing its way inside through the thin ventilations of the walls, he picked up the fountain pen lying on the table.

My dear Ranpo

Was he really going to write this letter again? After all, hadn’t he discovered last time, just how demonic a person he was. He couldn’t write this letter, it wasn’t what Ranpo would want. It wasn’t going to do them any favors and- and worse yet, what if Ranpo rejected him?

It was the same every time, the same words failing to come to mind, the same letters jumping all around the page. He had written the same paragraph eight times and found each rephrase, each synonym replacement, was futile. 

“Edogawa Ranpo doesn’t have time for love in his life, y’know”

Edgar couldn’t do it.
He had written line after line, word after word.
None of it mattered.

Amber leaves turned murky and autumn fell away like the ashy edges of a letter crumbling under the embers of a dying fire.

Winter was cold, and Poe had been stingy with his money, refusing to buy anything for himself with the funds he viewed as stolen. Like a prissy rich boy, an allowance from Francis rolled in every couple of months, and sat decaying at the bottom of his wallet unused if not for Ranpo or Fukuzawa. Edgar had found himself a job at a small bookshop allowing him a few thousand yen each week of guilt-free money. But minimum wage wasn’t enough for him to buy an extra heater when the boiler at his accommodations broke.

Edgar found himself half frozen that winter, barely making it to classes and spending as long as he could in coffee shops or the library when his lectures had ended. He was being stubborn, but really he could probably make it till the end of winter without buying an electric blanket. It wasn’t that cold- But coming from the lukewarm Virginia winters to the ice of Japan was a change he was struggling to deal with.

But this wasn’t a scene from the secret history, so he pressed on.
That is, he pressed on until the first semester ended, struggling through finals meant he had little time to focus on the cold. (Notably, only Ranpo, Dazai and some guy named Fyodor scored higher than he did on the criminology paper, he’d call that a solid win.)

But when school closed, Edgar was presented with the sudden and very real realization that unless he wanted to go home for Christmas he had to face the fact that he would be spending the holiday season isolated in his frozen apartment once more.

Or at least he would have been forced to face that fact if not for Ranpo and Nakahara-san, or Chuuya as Poe and Ranpo had been instructed to call him at their most recent group outing, all but hammering down his door at eight am on the first day of the break.

A very groggy Edgar, wearing at least two blankets around his shoulders and still dressed in raccoon slippers made his way out into the corridor. “Hello?” he called out, his voice hoarse from lack of use.
“Poe-kunn!” Ranpo threw him into another hug. He was never prepared for those. Touch was almost as foreign to him as a mountain goat was to the sea. His face flushed red. If Poe wasn’t desperately trying to hide his blush behind his bangs he would have noticed the pink tingeing Ranpo’s cheeks. 

Naka- Chuuya rolled his eyes. As usual, the redhead was dressed in a scratched up (but highly expensive) leather jacket. He had his arms crossed, rolling his eyes at them. Edgar could have died of embarrassment then and there if not for the fact that he would be dying of embarrassment in ranpo’s arms which overall would have made everything a whole lot worse and- 

“Why’s your apartment so cold?” Chuuya sniffed, uncrossing his arms and letting his face relax back into his usual frown.
“B-boiler,” Edgar stuttered, mainly because he was still trapped in a hug by the detective, “broke.”

Two sets of eyes turned towards him, staring incredulously, “and they didn’t get it fixed?”
Ranpo slowly released him, his face widening in shock. 
“This really isn’t a big deal,” he mumbled, realizing he was in fact still wearing his pajamas and the fluffy raccoon slippers and- had he even brushed his hair or was it still a bird’s nest atop his head? “They’ll get it fixed eventually everyone else in the building has to deal with it too.”

“Yeah I don’t think so,” Ranpo crossed his arms in a horrendous imitation of Chuuya, “you’re coming to Fukuzawa’s for Christmas.”

So that was how half an hour later, Edgar, finally wearing normal clothes, well normal if normal was taken straight from gothic literature , found himself sitting in the cafe with Fukuzawa , Chuuya and Ranpo, all explaining their plans for the break.

And how twelve hours later he found himself sitting on Ranpo’s carpeted floor in his bedroom in the middle of a totally not sleepover because they’re not thirteen year olds , sleepover. There were only two bedrooms in Fukuzawa’s above-shop apartment. For a moment, his eyes flickered to Ranpo’s sleeping form, watching the slow rise and fall of the blankets over his mattress. He averted his insomniac eyes, and occupied himself with looking around the room. 

Childhood memorabilia lined the walls, school awards and pictures ripped out of books pinned tastelessly to the walls. Poe snorted slightly, gazing fondly at the disorder, he shouldn’t have expected minimalism. There wasn’t much furniture, merely Ranpo’s mattress and a desk in the corner, this too was covered in paper and candy packaging evidently hasility shoved to the side in an attempt to conceal them but instantly forgotten about. 

But there was something else.
A photograph sat haphazardly on the desk, for all the clutter there hadn’t been a single other photograph. The walls, covered in certificates and rudimentarily drawn sketches, lacked even a snapshot. 
But this photograph.

Edgar saw his own eyes reflected in gray, sealed behind glass. He saw his own hands and tense shoulders, and recognized the surprised look on his face as the photo was taken. He saw the detective, only half in the frame, smiling in the squinted way he always smiled. Edgar turned the likeness away, the frame facing the wall, with the strange sense that he had invaded a space he wasn’t supposed to. 
Feeling like an invader in the dimness of the space, lit only by a crack of light under the door, Edgar couldn’t help his author’s mind skipping to conclusions… There had to be a reason for this photograph.. Hadn’t there? Trying to still his racing heart, he sunk into the mattress on the floor and tried to sleep despite his spinning mind.

And when came the morning, something spurred Edgar on to write faster than he had ever written before. 

The story Ranpo had asked for was finished in four months. 
Thousands of words, English and kanji, forming a mystery written only for Ranpo.
Nothing else could do. 
Not with a love letter pressed like a flower between the pages.
Would it ever be enough?

Edgar called Ranpo the day he completed it, anxiety constricting his lungs. Could Ranpo hear the shaking in his voice through the white noise of the screen? If he could, he was ignoring it.. Forwardness was never his strong suit, he didn’t want to ruin this. Couldn’t ruin this- but without Ranpo there was no future. So he placed that damn letter in that damn notebook and went to Fukuzawa’s coffee shop.

“I said, Dazai-kun and Akiko think I have a crush on you, stupid right?”

Stupid just like Edgar.

The poet had lost his words again, he was missing something vital. Moments slipped by in a blur, a haze of dizzy spinning lights. He was sober wasn’t he? …It was almost amazing how dull he felt in that state. Sobriety wouldn’t last long. He spoke words he didn’t understand, sitting opposite Ranpo, staring into space. Hollowness, nausea, his insides seemed to weld together. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Ranpo’s words rang through his head as he pushed the notebook to the detective. 

"Here you go.. I hope you can read my writing."

He wanted to cry. He felt like crying. Childish, infant tears, a tantrum over a lost love. Stupid. Stupid. He knew this would happen: how could anyone fall in love with a monster like him? He was just setting himself up for disappointment.

He didn’t know how he made it home, walking through the rain-covered streets of spring. The pathetic fallacy doing the author no favors as he waded through the puddles, unsure if the water on his face came from the clouds or his eyes. 

Trapped, inside a suffocating wall, trapped, losing oxygen. Stupid right? 

The idea of anyone loving Poe was stupid. He knew that. Ranpo Edogawa was the most intelligent person he knew, of course he wouldn’t love Edgar. He had been empty-headed to even think that it was a possibility. Why had he believed it? Because Ranpo was the first person here to be nice to him? Because Ranpo had given him a nickname? Because Ranpo had a photo of him and Poe together? What did that prove? 
What was wrong with him? Illogical even now. In what far corner of his mind had this idea spawned? And.. and why? Why had he tricked himself into believing that anything could be okay, that somehow.. Somehow.. Someone could love him?

He was back in his apartment. How had he gotten here?

Letters. All he could see, paper on the floor, parchment on the table, envelopes, ink, pens. Letters. Letters. Letters. 

My dear Ranpo,
words can not describe the way-

That had been a bad one, he had struggled to get it right, scrapping the letter after the first word.

My dear Ranpo,
Your smile lights up the room-

No no no. He couldn’t even remember writing that one- 

My dear Ranpo,
My dearest Ranpo,
Ranpo,

It was all wrong it was all wrong it was all wrong. Why had he left these out? Why hadn’t he thrown them away. Why- A muffled sob escaped his throat, desperate hands clawed at the letters, as if somehow collecting them all could fix this. As if it could get rid of the pain in his chest and the blurry room and- and why was there water on his face when he was out of the rain? Why were tears escaping his eyes when he knew this would happen? 

There was a bottle of gin on his kitchen counter, an expensive concoction Francis had sent over from America. You’re not meant to bring booze onto a plane but that couldn’t stop someone with his own private company jets. He had never opened it so it had rested on the counter since his first year: a housewarming gift. He spent no hesitation slamming the bottle onto the table and pouring the contents into a glass.

Just a taste. That could help him- right? Wouldn’t it? A distraction from the humming in his ears. 

Edgar had no recollection of how much gin he drank. Or when the gin turned into something stronger. He hadn't intended to become drunk. It was something so small and insignificant. Nothing new. He had been rejected before. Besides, Ranpo hadn't actually rejected him.. As good as but- at least- at least he hadn't embarrassed himself and-

Edgar could hear a swarm of bees in his brain, the warmth of the liquor felt like it was burning his racing heart. His vision swam, fireworks bursting to life behind closed eyes. 
He took a step, tentatively, and lost his balance. The floorboards were a lot closer than they seemed, he hadn't managed to block his fall before he was on the ground, in the center of the letters.
Letters. Letters. Letters.
Why couldn't he get it out of his mind?

There was something warm and fluid dripping from his nose. Tears ignited his vision but he had no idea why they were there. Was he still on the floor?

His eyes stung, was he still crying? His throat felt gravely and stung and he could hear blubbery noises emerging from it. 

Red on white. 
Blood from his face smeared the corners of pages like flames. 

His words had never been enough. He was a pathetic poet, an even worse author. The hundreds of letters proved that.

Hundreds.

Hell, he was obsessed.

Creep.

Edgar's brain screamed, he bit his lip until his teeth broke through flesh and a swell of blood bloomed out. He stopped sobbing for a moment, focusing on the metallic taste.
He was still on the floor.

His own words were etched into his mind. He could see every one of those letters, remember every word, visualize every pen movement. Lacking a photographic memory, it almost amused him how perfectly he could see every detail of every letter.

Red blood.
Blood smeared on paper like flames.

He should burn them.
If he burnt the letters this could all go away.
Every shred of evidence of his feelings becoming nothing more than ash. Dust that could float away and escape him forever. He wouldn't have to be in pain, it would all be gone.

Poe made it to his feet, his face smarting and coated in a fresh layer of dried blood. He started to gather letters.

…

"Fukuzawa," Ranpo turned towards his guardian, a few minutes after they had closed the cafe, "did Poe-kun seem… off to you? When he was leaving I mean?"
The guardian in question paused his sweeping, humming before shrugging, "I didn't see him I'm afraid."
"Well after he gave me the notebook he pretty much left straight away, and I mean straight away. He didn't really say why or anything just that he had to go and-"
"Maybe he really did have to go, Ranpo. You don't need to make a big deal out of this, Poe-san would tell you if something was up." 
Ranpo grimaced, his dad wasn't listening. He didn't understand, but Ranpo did know when something was up with Poe. 
"Fukuzawa I have a really bad feeling about this," Ranpo didn't often rely on solely his own intuition. It was too unreliable; he needed facts, evidence, deductions. But he had none to go off, so this would have to do.

There was a nagging question in the back of his mind, ' was this my fault,'

"..Fine," Fukuzawa liked Poe-san. So much so that he was his favorite friend of Ranpo's. Poe was polite, Poe talked to Fukuzawa (be it in that awkward, panic-stricken way of an introvert talking to a stranger) and he had even taught Poe how to bake some of their cafe specialties that Ranpo adored so much. And as for Ranpo, Fukuzawa had never seen his son more happy than he had been these past months. So if Ranpo had a gut feeling then by hell Fukuzawa was going to listen. "You can go, I'll finish cleaning up."

Ranpo grinned, leaping off the counter (he hadn't been helping clean anyways) and made his way to the door before spinning, his boots squeaked audibly, and turned to face his guardian.

"What do I do if something has happened to him..?" Fukuzawa had never seen his son so earnest. Ranpo had masks, had layers, Fukuzawa had watched him tear more masks off than most people had seen, but he always knew Ranpo was hiding something. Insecurity. Fukuzawa had always tried to be there, to tell Ranpo what to do. But Ranpo never asked and Fukuzawa never had the right words.
Except today. Today Ranpo had a question he didn't know the answer to. He was finally asking for help. 

"Would you like me to go with you?" Fukuzawa's voice was gentle but not infantilizing, Ranpo wasn't a child who needed a parent escorting him everywhere. 
But the man nodded meekly, and all Fukuzawa could see was that boy he picked off the streets, covered in filth and years of neglect. 
Fukuzawa hugged his son; something he hadn't done in too long, he realized as he ruffled the boy's hair. "Even if Poe-san isn't fine, we'll make sure he will be, okay?"
"Okay," Ranpo's voice was muffled against Fukuzawa's shoulder, quiet and lacking its usual superiority. This was Ranpo, cracked and broken, leaking through the seams. This was Ranpo raw. 

They took the car, in silence, Ranpo too preoccupied in his thoughts to say anything. He was grateful Fukuzawa wasn't trying to start a conversation, he wouldn't really be able to talk right now. The sinking well in the pit of his stomach was deepening. 

It was taking too long to get to Poe's apartment.
Of course his friend was probably fine, Ranpo was probably being weird and he could admit that. He hoped Fukuzawa wouldn't be too upset when he realized there was no problem. Because there wasn't a problem and when he saw poe-kun he would be fine. He would be fine.

Eternity must have passed twice before they reached the apartment block Poe lived in. It was only a half mile off campus. He didn't have any flatmates, which, frankly, made sense, Ranpo could only imagine how annoying being in a house full of strangers could be. Besides if he had the money to pay rent then why not?

"Fukuzawa," Ranpo mumbled as his guardian searched for a parking space in the crammed student lot, "could you wait in the car?" He wasn't sure why he asked this, he had wanted his dad with him hadn't he? But this felt like something he had to do.. alone.

To his relief, Fukuzawa merely nodded and turned off the engine. "If anything is wrong through Ranpo, call me. Don't try to solve it on your own, okay?"
Ranpo nodded gratefully.

He made his way through the lobby, Poe had told him the door code a while ago so he skipped over the buzzing in part entirely, too scared about what he would do if Poe hadn't answered the door. 

There were four flights of stairs to Poe's floor, the anaemic was wheezing by the time he made his way up them and had thrown himself at Poe's door. He unleashed a hailstorm of knocks.
No answer.

"Poe?" Ranpo called hollowly, trying to ignore the shakes in his voice.
There was again no answer.

So what? Maybe Poe had gone out somewhere and he was overreacting. He hadn't even called Poe before all this- Fuck, he really hadn't thought this through. What was he going to tell Fukuzawa? 

…There was light slipping through the cracks under the door.
"Poe open up the door right now."
Nothing happened. 

In a last ditch attempt Ranpo reached for the door handle and pushed it down.
Wait, did he seriously leave it unlocked?
The door swung open.

The second hand of time hesitated. The air stilled. It seemed even the temperature dropped.
"Ed-?" Ranpo tentatively stepped into the room, slowly pushing the door closed. His voice was soft, quiet, coaxing a timid animal to safety.

The apartment was a mess. Broken glasses dotted the kitchen counter, puddles of spilt beverages accented the floor. There was paper everywhere. Ranpo paused, picking one up. It crumbled to dust in his hands, the thin paper blackening like scales. The room smelt of smoke, alcohol and… blood?

There were drops of it, covering the floorboards, covering the letters.. Blood- His head was reeling, his eyes wide, shit shit shit. This looked like a moment from one of those detective documentaries he spent so much time watching. 
For the first time in his life, Ranpo wished that the crime scene hadn’t happened.
Then he heard the sobs, hiccups from the corner of the room. 
Curled up in a ball, Edgar Allan Poe was crying.

Ranpo yelped, making his way through the mess and trying to avoid tripping up on the paper. "Poe-kun?" His eyes darted around wildly. Poe was cradling his hand, Ranpo could make out blisters and scorched red marks running down his fingers. What the hell- He was clutching a pile of paper in his burnt grip. 

"Poe-" Ranpo attempted to coax him out of the corner. His soft voice did nothing, it seemed Poe couldn't even hear him. He was clearly drunk.. why?

He lowered himself down, until he was sitting next to Poe with his back against the wall. He was going to have to be responsible for once, actually be an adult. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. 

What could he do?
Any thought of calling Fukuzawa had long since vanished from his mind.

He ended up wrapping his arms around his friend, holding him in a tight embrace until Poe's sobs subsided a little and he seemed to regain a little awareness. Ranpo felt warm, watery droplets fall onto his shoulder. He didn't care, he let Poe cry.

"What's going on?" Ranpo whispered, softly.
"I'm a m-monster and you don't love me and there are so many letters and I can't do this anymore." The words seemed to bubble out of Poe's throat, hoarse and scratched. 
"I don't love you?" Ranpo repeated involuntarily, the spinning cogs of his mind unable to put any of Poe's gibberish into place. But the author had started sobbing again and Ranpo clearly wasn't going to get an answer out of him.

Letters.
The paper coating the apartment, somehow so horrible Poe decided the only way to deal with them was to burn them.
It was easy enough to find one, still yet untouched by the lighter thrown halfway across the room. They were everywhere after all. His eyes narrowed behind thick lenses as he began to read.

My dearest Ranpo.

His heart thundered in his ears, a fog clouded his mind. Was this his fault? Was he the cause of this…? What had he done..?

It feels like it was by fate I met you or some stroke of luck I didn't deserve. I mean, how could a monster like myself meet an angel like you? Yet I did meet you Ranpo, I did. I met an angel who embraced me as a part of his life. I still don't understand what I did to deserve you. What did I give to bribe fate? 

I can imagine your smug face already as I hand this to you. 'A love letter? What an elementary idea.' I'm sorry if this disinterests you Ranpo but the truth is, I think I’m in love with you Ranpo and-

The rest of the paper was blank: the author had given up writing it half way through.

A love letter? 
In love?
Did that mean Poe was… in love with him?

"Poe-kun-" *Ranpo asked tentatively, his face a flush of color, "can we go to Fukuzawa? He can help you, okay?"
To Ranpo's immense relief, Poe nodded and tried to stand up, only to trip over the floor and land sprawled down on the ground again. Ranpo pursed his lips and extended a hand. Poe accepted weakly, silently pulling himself up.
They began to walk back to the car.

"I'm sorry," Poe broke the silence with slurred speech, but he sounded sincere… distraught.. "You we-weren't meant to see that. I know you don't like me back."
"Poe-" Ranpo turned his head. Poe's thick bangs covering his eyes could barely conceal blush behind as he tripped his way to Fukuzawa's car.
"I'm sorry- I-" his face reddened as he stared down at his boots. The floor was suddenly extremely interesting it seemed, "I suppose Dazai and Akiko weren't wrong.. I do sort of maybe like you Poe."

Gray eyes sunk to the ground, the slumped figure of the drunken writer leaning against the wall seemed all the more disheveled. In some sick, twisted sense, Ranpo wished he hadn’t uttered those words.

He was in love with Poe. That much he had known for a long while.
He hadn’t acted on his feelings. There were things in this world Ranpo couldn’t understand, for all his intelligence, humans made no sense to him. How was he supposed to know someone was sad when they smiled? Or that he wasn’t supposed to respond to a question directed at him? It was better to stay silent. 

There were other things too, like the fact boys were meant to like girls. Ranpo didn’t. He still couldn’t understand the issue with that, even when Akiko had tried to explain that some people are just dicks. Why hate someone for something they can’t control?

That was why he hadn’t told Poe. Maybe. Maybe he was just scared. But what if Poe didn’t like men? Or he hated Ranpo because Ranpo did? Although.. Poe had never seemed upset when Akiko talked about her girlfriend or Chuuya and Dazai walked into the cafe holding hands. Hell… Ranpo had just been scared.

Poe didn’t respond to his words.
That made sense really, but still, it stung. Ranpo sighed, brushing off his pants. The air was thick with an uncomfortable silence.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled, briskly, shoving his hands into his pockets, “forget it let’s just go.. You shouldn’t be alone right now.” 

Poe noddled, feebly, and again Ranpo was struck with the sudden realization that whilst the writer was towering over him, Poe seemed smaller somehow. His head still bowed, shoulders hunched up, hand burnt… stinking of liquor.. He blindly stumbled after Ranpo, leaving the door open behind him. Lights blazed on, the room a mess.. Ranpo closed the door and locked it behind him with a key he had swiped from Poe’s kitchen countertop. 

“Fukuzawa is in the car okay? We just have to get downstairs, then you’ll be alright.”
His eyes darted to the stairs before thinking better of it. Collapsing Poe’s hand firmly in his, anemic ice warmed by sweaty palms, he led him like a child to the elevator.

This had been a much worse idea than the stairs, since Poe spent the descent holding in vomit and Ranpo was standing on the other side of the cube, feeling queasy at the sight of Poe’s green face. Still, the alcohol-addled author managed to refrain from throwing up everywhere and they made it to the parking lot where Fukuzawa’s car was still waiting, warm headlights on in the rain, reflecting transparent droplets.

Ranpo took a breath, and completely forgot he was still dragging Poe with him as he sprinted to the car.

They were only slightly soaked by the time Ranpo had thrown himself into the backseat and pulled Poe into the car with him, slamming the door behind him. He blinked back black spots that had started to form behind his eyes. There was something inexplicably hilarious about the whole situation and Ranpo couldn’t help but break down into silent bubbles of laughter, both Fukuzawa and Poe staring at him, although the former anxiously and the latter in wide eyed astonishment.

“What happened?” Fukuzawa attempted to ignore Ranpo’s laughter but it was just too much for him and Ranpo wheezed into the seat in front of him leaving Poe to fend for himself.
The author had turned very red and cowered behind his hair, his damp jacket hanging off his shoulders, and whispered something muffled into the air. 

If Fukuzawa’s hair wasn’t already gray, he would certainly have found some gray hairs when he next looked in the mirror. These kids were going to be the death of him. He had already narrowed down most of the situation anyways, Poe-san was upset and had probably drank a bit too much. His son, ever the worrier, had decided Poe was going to stay with them that evening. So be it. Fukuzawa could only be glad nothing worse had happened; but really, too many kids were alcoholics these days. He started the ignition and drove them back to the cafe, keeping quiet. Ranpo was talking a lot, blubbering incoherent words to Poe he was certain none of which the writer could understand.

When they got back, Fukuzawa made a bee-line upstairs, he would return later with blankets and water for Poe, but for the time being, he was sure the students needed a while to talk and so he made himself invisible.

…

When they arrived home it was raining. Home.. Ranpo wondered what ‘home’ was to Edgar. Was it his apartment building? With a broken boiler they never bothered to fix.. Was it somewhere in America? With a crappy dad and private planes.. Or could it somehow be here? Wishful thinking, perhaps, but Ranpo couldn’t fail to miss the way Poe’s shoulders relaxed the moment he stepped foot inside. Or the way his eyes warmed at the sight of dustily lit tables. 

Ranpo brought them to a seat by the window. Their usual seats, overlooking the night-time traffic and occasional students holding their umbrellas up to the rain. Poe sat down, his back a little straighter than before.

“I think we need to talk about what just happened,” Ranpo’s voice rang firmly.
Edgar slumped into his chair, shaking his head, “can we wait until tomorrow? Please..?”
“Nope. I’m impatient. Besides you’ve sobered up a little so why not?”
Edgar buried his face in his hands, groaning into the table, he shook his head but allowed Ranpo to talk anyways.
“What happened?”
“I think it’s obvious what happened,” Poe mumbled, “I drank a weee bit too much,” he giggled a little at his own exaggerated words.
“No,” Ranpo sighed, for once the childish veneer had been shed, “the letters-”

There was a silence, ringing out for what seemed like eternity whilst the dark haired writer wilted like a rose dropping his petals. “That was weird wasn’t it?” He finally asked, dejectedly.

“Well yes,” Ranpo tilted his head, squinting up at Poe, “but that’s not important right now… Do you really think you’re a monster Edgar?”
Poe paused, the sound of his first name like always jolting him back to reality, “well yes.. But that’s not important right now either, is it?” 
Ranpo shook his head, his eyes watching Poe’s trembling lips.. “You’re not a monster.” 
A crease appeared on Edgar’s brow as he narrowed his eyes, “it will take a while for me to believe that Ranpo.”
“I know,” Ranpo’s gaze never left Poe’s face, for someone who despised eye contact, he was spending a long time doing just that, unable to tear away emerald from gray. He would help Poe of course, keep him safe, keep him sane. He had known Poe had felt this way before, from the sadness behind the corners of his eye, or the way his lips couldn’t ever seem to form a smile. 

“Ask me what you actually wanted to ask me, Ranpo-kun.”
“But you’re intoxicated.”
Poe laughed a little, it wasn’t a humorous laugh but it wasn’t cold or bitter, “I’ve sobered up enough.”“If you insist.. Uh- w-will you go on a date with me?” Ranpo dug the heels of his palms into his knees, nervous even if he had already deducted the author’s response. This was by no means the way he would have wanted to ask Poe out. It wasn’t romantic, the author was still drunk, but none of that mattered anymore.

“Yes,” Poe spoke without hesitation, his face warm, and for once his lips did form a smile , “yes I will.”

“We could go to a cafe after criminology classes tomorrow?” Ranpo suggested, his heartbeat was racing, a relieved and jovial expression on his features. It didn’t quite seem real, this conversation had to be something extracted from his imagination. He was probably dreaming, because there was no way anything this good could happen in real life.
“We do that anyways, Ranpo,” Poe laughed.
“Yes but-” the detective’s face burned crimson, “it’ll be different.”
“How?”
“Well m-maybe I’ll ask to kiss you-” Ranpo crossed his arms, his voice trembling as he spoke, embarrassed by his own forwardness.
“..You- you don’t have to wait until the date to do that Ranpo-” Poe’s ears were red, as he practically hid behind his hair again, his words muffled and quiet.
Ranpo could have fallen off his chair.
“But w-what if you only want to kiss me because you’re drunk?”
“Ranpo,” Poe laughed, “trust me, my answer will be the same now as it will always be.” 

Ranpo swallowed, his lungs clenched together, his breathing suddenly rapid. A strange sort of nervous giddiness danced in his stomach as the butterflies -no, moths- soared.

“Will you kiss me?”

He felt the blood rushing through his veins, the buzzing in his ears, the swelling of his chest.

“Gladly.”

He felt the soft brush of Edgar’s lips against his own. They were cracked, scabbed, touched with alcohol, Ranpo didn’t care. A warm hand rested against his face, protecting him from any evil force that may try to tear him away from this kiss. Wrapping his arms around Edgar’s waist, he felt his cheeks warm as he grinned into the kiss. Edgar’s other hand tangled in Ranpo’s hair as he tenderly tasted his lips.
It wasn’t perfect by any means, but that didn’t matter because neither were they. 
They broke apart, Ranpo’s breathing rapid as he regained some oxygen. His chest felt light, his lips refused to stop smiling.

“Shit Ranpo I’m sorry was that too forward? I didn't make you uncomfortable did I? I- I mean I’ve never actually.. Well properly kissed someone before and-” Poe ran a hand through his hair, skin pale, but ears still burning with pigment.

Ranpo brought a finger to Poe’s lips, “shut up. No you weren’t, it was all I could have asked for. Now go read your book to me.” 
He gestured to the comically fanciful, faux leather notebook carefully placed on the table.

"Alright," Poe hummed as picked it up, his fingers trembling still, but on his face he wore a grin to match Ranpo’s. Proudly showing the kanji off to Ranpo, he cracked the spine of his own notebook open and began to read.