Archive of Our Own

In every dorm in which Armed Detective Agency members reside, there is a single waste bin. 

What a person throws out has vast implications on their behaviour and choices. 

Dazai’s waste bin, for example, is commonly empty—unless Kunikida comes over, after which it’s filled with empty cans that once held crab and dirty bandages. 

Kunikida’s gets emptied once every two days, at 8pm, when he gets off work. Typically, it’s moderately filled with egg shells and other inedible food matter, and a fine layer of dust from sweeping. Anything that could be recycled is rinsed thoroughly and stored in a plastic box; emptied at the end of every working week. 

Before the Decay of Angels, food wrappers were common in Ranpo’s waste bin: crushed chip bags, colourful lollipop wrappers, boxes that held Fuji apples that Poe regularly gifts him. He rarely threw anything else out; he swept maybe once a month and the casings of empty pens — an occurrence hardly achieved—are thrown out in the Agency office building rather than at his dorm. Despite the necessity of emptying it every day, it would always be full by 8pm. 

And then Ranpo returned after proving Dazai’s and Kyuoka’s innocence and convincing Mushitaro to erase Fukuzawa’s crimes. At the end of the day, he realised that he had nothing to throw out. 

There are two unopened bottles of ramune in his fridge. 

Ranpo locks the door of his dorm, exhaustion lining his slouched figure. He shrugs off his coat and tosses it on his couch. The window twinkles with condensed water droplets that methodically drip down to the floor; outside, the night is deep and frigid. And yet, the dorm doesn’t feel much warmer; Ranpo’s checked, but the heater’s working—just not hard enough, he supposes. Dust has settled on most conceivable surfaces, inspired by the days of neglect. Ranpo’s been staying with Poe for a while—but then Poe needed to take care of something back in America, and Ranpo chose to stay in his dorm for the week. 

(“Will you be okay?” Poe asks, fluttery anxiety in his voice. He holds Ranpo’s hand in one of his and the handle of his suitcase in the other. Ranpo smiles at him and squeezes his hand gently; his heart hammers out of his chest.

“Course’ I will be,” Ranpo responds, chipper as he can. Poe kindly doesn’t point out that Ranpo’s hand is shaking, and Poe’s hand is sweating. He wraps his arms around Poe and squeezes momentarily before backing away. “Go have fun!”

Poe smiles at him; a sweet, small, fond thing that he reserves for Ranpo, and only Ranpo. And Ranpo smiles back, big and bright and true.)

The dorm is dim—Ranpo doesn’t bother with switching on the main lights, even if it’s late. He instead trudges into the kitchen and tugs the fridge door open. It sluggishly departs from the rest of the iron box and from within, a cold white spotlight directed at him blinds him momentarily. He blinks, shivering in the blast of chilled air that the refrigerator puffs out, and he studies the contents with a grim gaze. A couple of Fuji apples in a corner, a half-eaten cake slice, an unopened chocolate bar. 

There are two unopened bottles of ramune in his fridge. 

Ranpo stares at them. His gut gnaws at itself, sending sharp pain around his abdomen like a whirlpool. And yet, nothing within him lurches toward the contents. He drags out the cake slice—chocolate, his favourite—and shuts the door. He squints through the shadows until he settles on his couch. He cuts into the soft sponge with a fork and shovels some cake into his mouth. It tastes like cardboard. 

He chews and chews until it turns to dust in his mouth. It takes him nearly an hour—far longer than his usual scarfing down of food, especially when his body complains this much—to finish eating. He finds hardly any joy in it. This cake used to be his favourite, but now—

Well. It’s an odd feeling; really, nothing is his favourite nowadays. 

He tosses the plate and fork onto the coffee table; the ceramic clatters before the sound dies abruptly. He drags himself to his bedroom and collapses into his bed. He curls up, entangled in the sheets, shivering in the strange chill of the dorm. It wasn’t nearly this cold when Poe came over a couple days ago—almost like his mere absence stole away the warmth and made this place unliveable. A house, rather than a home. 

He falls into fitful slumber. 

He doesn’t remember what he dreams of, but when he flinches awake, Fukuchi looms from the corner, eyes wide and skin flayed off of lacerated muscles and blood staining the floor, the walls—

Ranpo practically throws himself to his bathroom to retch up any and all substance from his gut. The porcelain groans under his grip as his stomach and intestines twist and jerk, and following the cake is noxious acid and bile that flare his throat like fire itself is rising out of his body. When his body finally stops rejecting its stomach’s contents, he pulls himself up and staggers and shakes through flushing away the mess and washing his mouth out until his teeth don’t feel weird and his mouth doesn’t make him even more nauseous. He trudges to his kitchen and fills a cup with water, chugging it and grimacing at the shooting pain from his irritated gullet. He glances at a clock he has mounted on the wall: 3:02am. 

Perfect. 

He tugs the fridge door open and drags out one of the bottles of ramune. The cold stabs needles into Ranpo’s palm and fingers; he ignores it as he rips off the seal and crushes it with a sharp crinkle of plastic. He slams the heel of his hand down into the marble with trained ease; it dislodges and drowns in the pink soda inside—gas bubbles latching onto the glass surface. He raises it to his lips and the beginnings of nauseously sweet artificial strawberry flavour attacks his senses. 

Fukuchi’s stare burns into his back. The sun glares down at him. The waves attack the boat. Metal draws against more metal in a horrific wail as a katana is drawn. 

The ramune slips away without struggle, crashes to the ground. It shatters. 

Glass scatters around like many terrified rats. Ranpo collapses to the ground as his lung seize and his skin prickles with cold, the kind of cold a blade imparts when pressed to the soft skin of your neck. The air over Ranpo’s back scalds, contracts, like a presence looms over him. Fukuchi’s breath rustles Ranpo’s hair, slides into hands around his throat. 

Ranpo presses his hands into the floor, fighting in futility for breath. A sudden pain strikes his palms, sharp and cruel in the way nature is. A gasp makes its way through, the sensation jerking him back. When he opens his harshly squeezed eyes and blinks away tears, he notices the glass shards strewn about, the splatter of ramune that is only unconcerning due to not being blood. And, as he raises his shaking hands and turn them to face the ceiling, the few unlucky pieces that stabbed and embedded deep into the soft skin on his palms; from one, a dribble of dark red blood leaks and drips down like tears. 

He sighs, his heart pittering in his chest. He pushes himself to his feet and, without a speck of fanfare, grabs a broom and clumsily gathers the glass into a dustpan and tosses it out into the waste bin. He grabs a rag, dampens it under the steady stream of tap water and, with the water stinging the wounds in his hands, wipes away the ramune from the tiled floor. He tosses it at the sink and heads over to his bathroom, where he picks out the shards almost methodically and wraps white roller bandages around his palms, almost sloppily, with quivering fingers. He leaves the contents of his first-aid kit scattered around his sink as he drags his feet walking out of the bathroom and to his couch. He grabs one of the shitty mystery books he has—because getting infuriated at the stupidity of book characters feels better than getting frustrated at his own patheticness—and crashes onto his couch. He leafs through the book, bored throughout the few hours he spends reading. When his clock strikes 5am, he tosses the half-finished book without bothering with marking the page, and gets ready for work. When he reaches the office building, hurrying down the path he’s taken over a hundred times that now threatens imaginary harm, the sun has begun to sheepishly peek out from the horizon line. 

Ranpo unlocks the office after some effort, and slips into the hollow building. 

Whenever the time reaches exactly 6:30am, Ranpo nearly gives Kunikida a heart attack. 

Not that Ranpo could blame him much. No one ever arrives before Kunikida. The only time in the past five years was the singular day Fukuzawa literally barred Kunikida from leaving the dorms and appointed Dazai as a makeshift babysitter when the frazzled man had gotten himself so badly ill that he collapsed twice during his morning routine. Ranpo himself arrives early, but never earlier than Kunikida. 

So when Kunikida just about crumples to the ground in relief upon barging into the office and spotting no world-rending threat and instead merely Ranpo (and definitely not nearly spiralling Ranpo into a damn panic attack for the second time in the morning), Ranpo can only walk over and cautiously pat Kunikida’s back in wordless apology. 

And, as a consequence, Kunikida is the first to notice his bandaged hands. 

“Did something happen?” He asks, frowning, staring openly at the messy wrappings on his hands. Ranpo flits them into his pockets, attempting a casual grin that Kunikida only studies with worry in the deep wrinkles of his face. Twenty-three, Ranpo reminds himself. Only twenty-three and yet with the worry lines of Fukuzawa, of men twice his age and half his experience. 

“Just dropped something,” Ranpo answers, and Kunikida hesitantly takes it at face value. 

Dazai and Fukuzawa aren’t as easily dismissed. Ranpo makes it a point to shield his hands from Yosano’s clinical eyes, but Fukuzawa raises an eyebrow when Ranpo attempts to do the same with him. Fukuzawa doesn’t overtly say anything or command Ranpo to go see Yosano—a habit that took hold years ago once Ranpo stopped being afraid of seeking him out. But he does stare at the hands stuffed away in pockets that must be transparent, raises an eyebrow, and pauses. 

“Are you alright?” Fukuzawa asks, tilting his head. The question means something entirely different to Ranpo, who smiles. 

“I’ll be fine,” Ranpo responds, kicking his feet up and resting them on the desk. Fukuzawa smiles at the familiar sight, ruffles Ranpo’s hair and slinks away to his office. 

But Dazai waltzes unsteadily into the office after everyone else, half an hour late, and catches a brief glimpse of Ranpo’s hands before they can scamper back to Ranpo’s pockets. He makes no move to say anything, and that smile remains fixed on his face as his eyes sharpen like the scope of a sniper coming into focus. Ranpo can do nothing more than grin like he didn’t notice. 

Dazai doesn’t say anything for a couple hours. Ranpo tries to write a couple of reports, before giving up after ten minutes and observing the developing chaos in the office. Tanizaki, Atsushi and Sigma head off on a case, Kenji and Kyouka slip away on a job to gather information, Dazai and Kunikida discuss in whispered tones over a report for a case that happened before the terrorist incident, of which the events Dazai lost the recollection of.  

At some point, the lunch break arrives. Kunikida heads down to eat, as he always does, and the office falls silent with inactivity. Ranpo tips his hat to cover his eyes, leaning back in his chair in a futile attempt at rest. He isn’t hungry, and he hardly cares enough to eat when he actually is. 

Nearly silent footsteps pad along toward his desk. Ranpo’s hat is snatched away, and Ranpo turns to frown at Dazai standing over him with a blank look on his face and a hand gripping the hat high in the air. 

“What’s with the bandages?” Dazai asks, eyes narrow and sharp like the edge of a blade. 

Ranpo shrugs. “Dropped something earlier.”

Dazai tilts his head. “Did it have something to do with the shattering glass I heard below my dorm at roundabout 3am?”

Ranpo glares at him. His heart speeds up. “What were you doing up at 3am?” He hisses. 

“What were you doing up at 3am?” Dazai shoots back. He leans back on Ranpo’s desk, and Ranpo uprights himself to tuck his knees closer to his chin. “I don’t sleep much at night, that’s a given. But you’re supposed to have a somewhat normal sleep schedule, so.” He gestures at Ranpo with a frown on his face. “What gives?”

Ranpo glares at Dazai, who stares on unperturbed. “I woke up and dropped some glass. Nothing more.”

Dazai raises an eyebrow, clearly sceptical. “Why were you even awake?”

“Just woke up,” Ranpo snaps, unfurling to rise sharply from his seat. Dazai raises an eyebrow at Ranpo’s glare, unperturbed by fear or any of the sort. Residing in his face is a detached sort of curiosity, interest. “Are you quite done, Dazai?”

Dazai pauses, eyes flicking away as they cloud with thought. “Why haven’t you been eating?”

Ranpo startles, mind wiped clean of thought for a harrowing moment. “What?” He sputters. 

“You haven’t eaten any snacks today, and you didn’t eat them yesterday, or the day before that, or…” Dazai frowns, as though rifling through his memories. “At all since I returned. And you haven’t gone down to eat lunch. I thought you’d be hungry by now.”

Ranpo purses his lip, forming a sharp line cutting across his face. Just as quickly as he had risen with molten rage, he wilts into some odd valley of dejection. “Just not hungry,” he says, an affect of nonchalance in his words, a tenseness in his frame that makes the shrug he attempts jerky and robotic. 

Momentarily, the ghost of disbelief and worried disconcertment flashes on Dazai’s face, flickering light in his bottomless eyes like the flame of a candle—his eyes turn to a sageful gaze that pierces through Ranpo, and Ranpo knows Dazai knows he’s lying. 

And then it’s gone with a noncommittal hum, and Dazai wraps his fingers around a lollipop stick—strawberry, as Ranpo prefers—and flicks it at Ranpo. He catches it, grimaces at the shock of pain that seizes his wrapped hand, and rips the wrapping off. He pops it into his mouth as Dazai limps toward the infirmary, turns the door handle, and goes in. 

He bites the candy off its stick, chews it and swallows the dissolving chunks. He ignores the gnawing in his stomach, tips his hat over his eyes, and attempts a meagre nap. 

Key word being attempts, because the door to the infirmary swings open and the sharp click of heels stabbing the floor shoots through the air like bullets. Ranpo lifts a hand and reluctantly tilts his hat to reveal one eye to the surrounding world—and Yosano, stopping in front of him with eyes a blazing. 

“You’re injured,” Yosano says, deadpans almost, and Ranpo hums noncommittally. Yosano sighs, tugging Ranpo out of the chair and dragging him past Dazai, who limps away without a trace of guilt, the snitch he is. “You’re supposed to let me look at stuff like this, Ranpo.”

Ranpo huffs, sitting on one of the infirmary beds and swinging his legs lazily through the air. “I took care of it, see?” He says, lifting his hands up to show Yosano the bandages he’d wrapped himself. 

Yosano responds with a blank expression. Ranpo sees this one a bunch, particularly when he’s said something about eating candy making him more resistant to other threats—Yosano always says that it’s a wonder his insulin hasn’t given up on him yet. “Ranpo, you’ve tied the bandages wrong. Besides—” Yosano pulls a chair up and begins unravelling the mess Ranpo tied around his hands. “I need to know the damage so that I know whether I need to worry about it.”

She holds Ranpo’s hands close to her face as she squints down at them. They look better than they did earlier: the cuts, while still deep, aren’t bleeding anymore, and the bruising is minor enough that you’d miss it rather easily. After a moment or two, Yosano nods. 

“Good news: you won’t need stitches,” Yosano grabs a roll of bandages and begins rapidly wrapping the rough cloth around Ranpo’s hand. A pause, before she begins going slower. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask, Ranpo,” she says, rewrapping a segment she definitely got correct the first time. “How’s everything been going for you?”

Ranpo frowns. “Shouldn’t I be asking that?” He tilts his head. “All that crap with the Hunting Dogs—I’d have thought you’d be less bubbly than you are now.”

Yosano takes a moment to ponder her answer. “I suppose I have nightmares every so often now, but they’re rare. I’m doing a lot better than I was before; I’ve forgiven myself—it’s a nice feeling, y’know. Maybe,” she looks up at him, a sadness in her face as she smiles at him. “You should try it sometime.”

Ranpo’s hands twitch in a barely suppressed flinch. Pain jolts through them. Outside, the wind howls with the warning of a coming storm. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Yosano tilts her head slightly; concern flits through her face. “Ranpo—”

“I’m fine, Yosano,” Ranpo says, watching her finish up with the wrapping of his second hand. “I don’t need to forgive myself; I’ve got nothing to forgive myself for.”

Yosano stares, and stares, and stares. “Ranpo, I won’t pretend that I know everything about what happened at the airport. But I know about what you did to Fukuchi—” (Ranpo feels the urge to gag, to throw up everything he’s got left. The wind outside wails) “—and I know that that wasn’t your fault, but. I don’t know what you think about it. And so, I’m telling you now.” She grips his hands in hers, and Ranpo makes the mistake of making eye contact. Yosano’s eyes flare with determination. “It is not your fault, and you shouldn’t blame yourself for doing what you needed to do. Do you understand me?”

The wind outside—it gusts so harshly against the window panes that they rattle. Ranpo’s throat tightens, aches with the effort of not bursting into tears right there and then. He doesn’t dare respond to Yosano, for fear that he will immediately devolve into a breakdown and he’ll never drag himself back out again. The wind outside howls. 

And then it quietens. Without a word, Ranpo eases his hands out of Yosano’s and leaves the infirmary. 

“How’s America?”

“Dirty. I forgot how much litter gets left on the streets around here.”

“But you’re enjoying yourself?”

“To an extent, I suppose. I’m more concerned with all the paperwork I need to finish.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ranpo dear, don’t be like that. The house has got to be sold anyway—it’ll be easier for us once everything’s taken care of over here.”

“Are you excited to be a citizen?”

“I can hardly wait, dear. Now—I’m so sorry, but I have a meeting to get to. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

The call cuts. The room is so dark. He is so hungry. 

Kenji, bless his heart, makes too many friends for his own good. Or moreso, for others’ good. 

Many would agree, though everyone who does keeps their mouth shut about it—probably for the best. Kenji is held fondly in the hearts of the marketplace goers and select gang members and at least one mafioso—if Dazai’s tip-off about Fancy Hat has anything to say about the topic. Kenji’s far from vulnerable, and if he goes about and finds an ally in some dangerous man down the street—well. An ally’s an ally, Ranpo supposes. 

But the Hunting Dogs were perhaps—perhaps—prancing right over the line in the sand. 

Ranpo, admittedly, is still rather in the dark on how Kenji managed to win over, of all people, the most justice-oriented member of the Hunting Dogs while they were all still technically labelled terrorists. Kunikida’s probably asked, and Ranpo could probably figure it out if he wanted to. But he doesn’t, so it remains one of the seven unsolved mysteries of the Agency, taking up the spot where Dazai’s past job used to be and settling in rather snugly. 

If it had been left at that, Ranpo wouldn’t even bother thinking about it. But instead, Kenji invited a couple of the bastards over, and now they’re standing awkwardly in the office in their nearly-blood-red uniforms as every other worker whose name is not Kenji squints at them. An incident has yet to break out in the office over this—but if it did, Ranpo would elect that Kenji fill out that report and submit it himself. 

Regardless, the lunch break comes as a relief for Ranpo—not for the freedom to eat, but for the inevitable exit of the Hunting Dogs as Kenji drags them off somewhere for a meal. The office gradually empties: Dazai and Kunikida head off together, Atsushi, Kyuoka, Sigma and the Tanizakis hurry out as soon as the time arrives, Yosano stays in her office as usual—as does Fukuzawa. Kenji and Tecchou leave. Jouno doesn’t. 

Ranpo feigns deep sleep in his seat, face covered with his hat. His stomach has stopped incessantly cramping, and the dull edge of hunger has faded into an occasional prod. Ranpo counts out approximately fifty seconds before—

“You’re not off to eat?” Jouno asks, innocently, as though he didn’t attempt to wipe out the whole Agency and nearly succeed. Ranpo remains still in his seat. Silent footsteps start toward him, unfamiliar, and Ranpo jerks up and hurries to grab an emergency switch blade he keeps hidden away in his pocket. His hat flops onto the floor. His head buzzes, black spots dance around his vision, and then both slowly dissipate from his awareness. 

Jouno’s eyebrows are raised, face tilted in his general direction. He frowns. “I didn’t know you were in the habit of carrying weapons. I thought you didn’t know how to fight?”

Ranpo’s fist curls around the handle. The blade snaps out with the push of a button; the light reflecting off the metal glares into Ranpo’s eyes. “It’s none of your business,” he snaps. 

He used to be unarmed. He had this switchblade, sure, always stored away in a drawer after Poe had gifted it to him. But back then, it had been more of an inside joke—referencing when Ranpo and Poe watched a target try and attack Atsushi with a switchblade—a fake one, at that. He’d gone down quick, and Ranpo could not stop laughing at the dismay on the target’s face. 

And then Fukuchi betrayed the Agency. 

“You can put it away,” Jouno cautiously began. “I just wanna talk.”

“You can talk to me with this thing in my hands.”

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But the stupid Hunting Dogs always put him on edge—back when he had to meet them to discuss the future of the Hunting Dogs, and now when Jouno stands in front of him, a space he could cross in the time it takes Ranpo to blink between them. He doesn’t know why; maybe something about the uniform. 

“I heard something from Teruko-san. About the airport, that is.”

A thin coating of ice forms, frigid, in Ranpo’s throat. Breath filters through sharp and ragged. 

“The commander—was that really you?”

He’s not having this conversation. He turns sharply on his heel, knees weak and trembling, his knuckles bone-white. The air behind him shifts, boils with presence, and all Ranpo can hear is the ragged screaming of Fukuchi, oh god Fukuchi—

He slashes wildly through the air, and Jouno leaps back with a yelp. He crashes straight into Ranpo’s desk, and as he hurries to steady himself, Ranpo sprints out with shaking legs. He skids into the bathroom and he bolts the door shut. He sinks to the floor, back against the door, and there’s ice in his throat and it won’t let him breathe, god he can’t breathe, and Fukuchi is still screaming, screaming in his ear, scrEAMING

He spends five minutes retching up nothing but acid and bile. At first, all that comes up is a sickening green colour—and then, when the bile runs out, colourless, and when even the stomach acids run out, he dry heaves. Eventually, he’s too tired to even do that, and he lies, quivering like some little kid, on the bathroom floor, gripping the toilet seat. 

Someone knocks on the door. “Ranpo? Are you alright?” Fukuzawa’s voice filters kindly through the door, of which he knocks on again when Ranpo doesn’t respond. “Ranpo?”

Ranpo exhales shakily. “M’ fine,” he says, just loudly enough for Fukuzawa to hear, just stable enough in vocal timbre to dissuade concern. He flushes away the mess and twists the tap. The water he splashes on his face is frigid—stinging his face, bringing him back down. He staggers to the door and unlocks it, cautiously opening it a sliver. When he spots Fukuzawa standing outside patiently, he allows the door to swing open. 

Fukuzawa’s eyes search Ranpo’s face, and concern seeps into his face. He wordlessly sweeps an arm around Ranpo’s shoulders and leads Ranpo to his office; and Ranpo allows himself to be led—into Fukuzawa’s office, where Fukuzawa gently shuts the door. He turns to look at Ranpo, his face a mild display of worry. It’s exuberant on his face. 

“You look awful. What happened?” Fukuzawa asks, finally, tilting his head at Ranpo. 

Ranpo shrugs. “Just felt a bit sick.” His voice croaks from his irritated vocal cords, and he grimaces as a sharp pain strikes his throat. 

Fukuzawa frowns, moving casually to pour Ranpo a glass of water. “Do you want to go ho—?”

“No!” Ranpo snaps. His heart rate speeds up, pittering like the desperate clicks of a deer fleeing onto the road. His fists crumple his coat. Fukuchi’s eyes linger on his back, car headlights growing hotter and brighter. “I can’t—I—I can’t be—I don’t wanna be alone, I don’t wanna be alone, I don’t wanna be alone, I don’t—I—!”

Ranpo teeters; the world sways violently. Fukuzawa rushes forward and catches Ranpo before he can slam into the floor. Ranpo scrambles to grip Fukuzawa’s yukata and buries himself in Fukuzawa’s hold. “I can’t be alone, I can’t, please don’t let me be alone, please, please.”

Fukuzawa holds him, cradles him so close. He runs a hand through Ranpo’s hair. “I won’t leave,” he says, and his voice is steady and warm. “I promise. I promise I won’t leave you.”

He promises. He promises, and so did Fukuchi years ago, when he promised Ranpo he’d always bring ramune whenever he visits and fight alongside him. He promises, he promised, they always make promises. 

Ranpo wails like a dying animal. 

“How was today?”

“Not great—but a lot of the paperwork got done today. I still have a bit more, but I think I’ll be able to return tomorrow evening. Or—well, it’ll be evening for me. It might be dawn over there.”

“You’re returning early?”

“Of course—don’t sound so guilty, Ranpo dear. I don’t like it much back here, anyway; I’d rather be with you.”

“…ha.”

“How’s your day been, dear?”

“Uneventful, mostly.”

“You don’t have cases?”

“I haven’t been out on a case for ages. Shachou’s making me take it easy or whatever. Between you and me, I think Dazai’s been stealing case files off my desk and slipping them to Atsushi or Sigma.”

“Did nothing else happen today?”

“…the Hunting Dogs showed up. Just two of them.”

“Are you alright?”

“They didn’t attack the Agency.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Just—shaken, is all. I’ll be fine, I always am.”

“Ranpo dear, you know it’s okay to not be fine, right?”

“…”

“…we’ll have this conversation when I get back; I have one last meeting to get to. Will you be able to sleep tonight?”

“Yeah, of course. Have fun at your meeting; love you.”

“I love you too.”

The call cuts. Ranpo doesn’t sleep that night. 

Ranpo hurries home far earlier than he expected to. Work doesn’t end for another hour, and he could absolutely finish up a dozen cases or so before the hour’s over. And yet he’s heading home with shaking hands. 

(Supporting himself with hands gripping his desk, vision going black for the slightest of seconds, head buzzing with wasps flitting around his brain, floor falling falling falling 

When he manages to stay upright and conscious, gasping heavily, he looks up and sees Dazai first thing. His eyes, tar pits glittering with the light of seraph-rims, staring at Ranpo with worry, worry, worry so deep it’s nauseating

Run. Run. Running.)

It’s alright. It’s alright. He’s just tired; perhaps it’s been a day too long without sleep, and he just needs sleep. He’s fine, he just needs sleep. He just needs sleep. He just needs sleep. 

He crashes into bed, curled into himself tightly. He just needs sleep. He just needs sleep. 

He just needs sleep.

The kitchen is a little too bright. The living room is drowned in shadow. It must be night—or maybe it’s day and the curtains that work much too well are drawn. When he twists the tap open, a red liquid spurts out, like blood from a ruptured artery. The air is thick with the miasma of blood; it chokes him. 

The door snaps open. Ranpo turns his head to watch the doorway. 

Footsteps click through the dorm. They sound like death knells. 

A man stalks into the kitchen. Blood pools on the ground around him. 

Fukuchi is in his kitchen. Ranpo can’t move. 

Blood is dripping

    dripping

      dr

ippi

      n

g.

Ranpo can’t move. 

Fukuchi drives a katana into his chest. It hurts. 

Ranpo can’t move. 

Everything hurts. 

Ranpo can’t move. 

Ranpo can’t move. 

Ranpo cAN’T MOVE

Ranpo wakes up in his bed. 

He gasps, hands flying to where Fukuchi drove the katana in. 

His hands shake. 

He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe. 

Ranpo pushes himself off his bed, stubbornly looking down at the floor. His legs shake. Everything’s shaking. He’s safe. He’s safe. 

When he looks up, he’s in his kitchen. He keeps the lights off. When he twists the tap, normal—if a bit cold—tap water rushes out. He cups some in his hands, and splashes it onto his face. He’s safe. He’s safe. His hands are shaking. He’s safe. 

The door clicks open. 

Death knell footsteps ring down the corridor. 

He’s not safe. 

He’s not safe. He’s not safe. He’s not safe. 

Closer and closer. 

He’s not safe. 

There’s an unopened bottle of ramune in the fridge.

He’s not safe.  

His heart palpitates. He can’t breathe. 

He’s not safe. 

He yanks the door open and blindly grasps the neck of the glass bottle. 

Fukuchi is in the doorway Fukuchi is in the doorway Fukuchi is in the doorway

He throws the bottle at Fukuchi with as much force as he can, and and and

Yosano yells as she jumps out of the way.

“Ranpo—what the hell?” She rights herself, inching her feet away from glass shards and the growing pool of ramune. She looks up, and the reproach slips off her face. “Are you okay?”

Ranpo frowns. “Why—why wouldn’t I be?” His voice shakes. 

The concern on her face only grows. “You’re crying.”

His hand flits up to his face, and it comes away wet with tears. He scrubs at his cheeks. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m fine, I swear.”

Yosano stares at him, searches his face like Fukuzawa did. “Ranpo, answer me honestly. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ranpo says. He sucks in a breath. “I mean—I really am fine, ‘Sano.”

“Ranpo, I may not have your brain, but I’m not that stupid.” Yosano toes around the mess on the floor to lean against the kitchen counter. “You just threw a bottle at me—you looked terrified when you did—and Dazai told me earlier that you nearly passed out. You’re not doing okay—or, at least, you’re not taking care of yourself. This isn’t healthy, Ranpo. None of this is healthy.”

Ranpo folds his arms in front of his chest. He looks at the glass shards on the floor. It feels too much like him. “I know.”

Yosano tilts her head. “Then why?”

Ranpo sinks to the floor and curls into himself, digging his forehead into his knees. “I don’t know.”

Yosano sits down next to him. After a moment, Ranpo stiffly leans on her. A moment later, he finally relaxes a smidge. 

If he does cry that night, Yosano doesn’t point it out.  

Poe got back in the morning. 

Ranpo headed over to the airport to greet him. It had been fine, mostly! Just a hand clenched around the switchblade, knees weak, trying to remember to breathe every few minutes. But fine, mostly!

On the bright side, when Poe finally reached the lobby with a small suitcase in tow, he’d given Ranpo the brightest smile he’d ever seen, and for a moment—he could breathe so much easier, and something within his chest swelled. He barrelled over and hugged Poe so tightly. 

Ranpo returned to work after Poe made it home—there’s some cases piling up, and someone needs to work to alleviate that. Poe smiled at him, worry dimming his face slightly as he looked at Ranpo. 

“Call me if you need me, alright?” Poe said as he walked out the door. “You’re looking rather pale.”

Ranpo smiled and waved goodbye. 

In the last hour, he’s finished up twenty cases, and counting. He might’ve done more if Dazai didn’t provide excellent entertainment via tricking Sigma into bringing a cat into the office and placing it in Atsushi’s seat and insisting to Kunikida whenever he returned from a case that the cat was, indeed, Atsushi. It was funnier when Atsushi entered the office and stared, deadpan, at Dazai—before gathering the cat into his arms and placing it in his lap as he sat at his desk. And then he stated, without a single inflection, “There’s two now.”

He’s truly taken after his mentor. Kunikida isn’t going to see the end of this. 

And then Ranpo heads down to a crime scene to take care of a murder case. Atsushi comes with him, like the first case he’d ever had, but his back is straighter and his head is higher now. He looks over at Ranpo on the train ride there, and frowns. 

“You’re a lot paler than usual, Ranpo-san,” he says. Ranpo smiles. 

“It’s nothing much, Atsushi-kun. You’re worrying too much.” He leans back in the seat. 

And Atsushi absolutely hears the spike in his heart rate. But he doesn’t prod; being Dazai’s mentee probably did that. And in all fairness, it’s not like Ranpo would be honest if he did press.

When they reach, at the riverside, Minoura and a couple of his subordinates are discussing furiously. A shroud covers the body, a wet spot growing in the middle where it lies on the corpse. A couple of puddles—small, nearly unnoticeable—form a Hansel-and-Gretel-type trail from the river to the shroud. The body must’ve been in the river. 

“Detective,” Minoura calls out, detaching himself from his group, which falls silent. “We’ve got a real problem here.” He walks over to the shroud and, without theatrics, pulls it off to reveal a man: his face is waxen and pale, eyes glazed over and unseeing, soaking wet from head to toe, a long, thin, red line stretching across his neck—a small laceration in the skin. Ranpo walks over and tentatively touches the body; poking it and picking up the arm before letting it drop—splat—on the ground. The skin is still relatively warm; the corpse is flaccid, soft, not yet stiff; he hasn’t been dead for long. Ranpo straightens up and looks around. 

Next to one of Minoura’s subordinates is a quivering man, covered with a blanket. He doesn’t respond to anything she says—only staring forward with a dead-eyed stare. Ranpo looks to Minoura, pointing at him. “Who’s that guy?” 

“He called the cops; said he’d found a body in the water. He hasn’t said anything since the call, though, so we haven’t got anything more from him,” Minoura says. He glances at the body. “Got any ideas?”

Ranpo shrugs. He pulls out his glasses, unfolds them and hitches them onto his nose. The world sharpens. In his peripheral, he notices the man’s corpse gaze flick to him—his hands grip the blanket harsher. Ranpo looks down at the body. 

The incident could very easily be passed off as an accident or suicide: Dazai’s a perfect example of the people who jump from bridges to try kill themselves, and someone simply falling in isn’t out of the ordinary. However, that small red line across the victim’s neck—it’s fresh. Unless the victim wore a necklace that got torn off midway, the evidence suggests someone choked the victim out with a thin line of material—perhaps a metal wire. Furthermore, the conditions of the corpse suggests that the body itself is fresh—rigor mortis sets in within three hours of death, and the body is still soft and warm. Pallor mortis occurs within fifteen minutes, so the body was found very recently after death. 

“When did you get here?” Ranpo asks Minoura. 

Minoura squints at his wristwatch. “About ten minutes ago.”

“How did the body look then, in relation to now?”

Minoura takes a moment to study the corpse. “A little less pale; I remember the body being warm when I laid the shroud over it.”

…that’s quick. 

Ranpo walks over to the river and sticks a hand into the water. The current offers little force—Ranpo could even say that the river was still. It hadn’t rained much over the last two days; the river being still makes sense. Ranpo straightens up and looks over at the caller, who stares directly at him. He walks over cautiously; Atsushi tails him. 

“How did you find the body?” Ranpo asks. The caller tilts his head. 

“…in the river.”

“Well, yes, I gathered as much. I meant, what were you doing that led you to finding this body?”

The caller looks him up and down. “Takin’ a walk.”

“Describe what the scene looked like when you found the body.”

“Just floating down the river. I thought it was just a weird chunk of debris floating around, so I leapt in and pulled it out. When I did—I realised it was—.” He went quiet. 

Ranpo reaches out and tugs the blanket off the caller. It—and the caller—are entirely dry. Ranpo frowns. 

“Ranpo-san?” Atsushi walks forward. “I can’t smell the river water on him.”

The caller stiffens. 

“Sir,” Ranpo says, calmly, acid lacing his tone. “Please turn out your pockets.”

The caller’s hand drifts into his pocket. The world stills for a moment. 

He lunges. 

Ranpo staggers backward as Atsushi leaps forward and tackles the culprit. The culprit kicks Atsushi’s jaw and leaps out of the way—a metal wire reflecting blinding sunlight as he drops it to the ground. From his pocket, the culprit produces a gun. He aims it at Atsushi; his finger tightens on the trigger. 

Ranpo lunges forward and pushes the arm away—the gun fires and the bullet hits the ground. The culprit rears back his elbow and slams it into Ranpo’s face. Ranpo staggers back, and the gun whirls around to meet him. Atsushi and Minoura attack from both sides—Atsushi knocking the gun out of his hands and Minoura pinning him to the ground. 

Click, and the handcuffs are secured. 

The police provide their incessant gratitude to him, and the culprit gets taken into a police car before he can continue his tirade of swearing at Ranpo and cursing his life and threatening his life and the life of all his family and oh, how he will rue the day they meet again: in short, the regular deal. Atsushi looks a bit horrified as the words keep streaming out and Ranpo resorts to tapping his foot impatiently as the poor police officer attempts to drag the criminal into the car and do her job. 

Ranpo swipes his sleeve across his forehead, and it comes back damp—nearly dripping—with sweat. Minoura glances over and frowns. 

“Detective? Do you need something to drink? You’re awfully pale,” he says. 

“Eh—it’s fine,” Ranpo shrugs. Minoura and Atsushi share a glance—the traitors—and Minoura nods. 

“Thank you for your work here, Detective.”

Ranpo nods, and off he and Atsushi go to the train station. 

And, as he told Minoura, it’s fine. His vision’s going blurrier than it should be, and he can’t stop sweating for the life of him, and the world sways with each step he takes. But it’s fine.

In retrospect, he’s a lot more similar to Dazai than he’d like to admit. 

Atsushi gets increasingly worried with each minute that passes. Of course he does; he’s a good kid. That, and he can probably hear Ranpo’s heartbeat picking up and his breathing becoming rougher and strained with each minute. His eyes grow bigger and more pleading with each question he asks, and it’s starting to get to the point where Ranpo has to consider whether his consistent brushing off of Atsushi comes under animal cruelty. 

“Ranpo-san?” Atsushi begins cautiously. 

“I’m fine, Atsushi-kun,” Ranpo snaps. 

“Oh—no, that’s not what I meant! I meant—do targets usually say stuff like that to you?”

Ranpo blinks—his mind working like putty. Finally, it hits him—the culprit’s kind words. “Oh—Atsushi-kun, when you’re as notorious as me, you get stuff like that all the time.”

Atsushi purses his lips. “Do any of them actually—uh, go through with the—uh—”

Ranpo shoves his hands in his pockets. “A lot more in the past than nowadays, in all honesty. Shachou was always there to stop it, though, so it’s not all that bad. You don’t have to worry too much: criminals know better than to go on revenge tirades on you; you’d sooner kill them.”

Atsushi blinks owlishly. Ranpo can’t tell whether the look on his face is pity or surprise. 

Ranpo blinks harshly as they enter the train station. The lights always seem a bit too bright—but this is a little extreme. His head buzzes, vibrating like a bee’s nest. Black spots dance around his vision, spreading like a virus all around. The floor flips over, as someone cries out ridiculously loud, and everything goes black—

—and it’s still dark when he comes back into awareness on something soft. 

He whines, screwing up his face. It’s cold, he notices, and there’s something pricking in the crook of his elbow. He wants to go back to sleep—he’s so tired, and he doesn’t remember the last time he didn’t have a nightmare, and he wants to go back to sleep without nightmares and—and—

Fingers snap just above his nose. Ranpo’s eyes fly open.

Yosano frowns down at him. “Do you realise how bad your condition was? When Atsushi brought you in, Kunikida nearly thought you’d managed to die, you were so pale.”

Ranpo sighs. “Real kind of you, ‘Sano.”

“I’m being serious, Ranpo.” Yosano draws a chair and sits next to the bed; Ranpo pushes himself up and leans against the headboard. “Hypoglycemia’s one thing, but hypoglycemia so severe you pass out is another; and I know you’re not diabetic, so it should not be so easy for your blood sugar to drop this low. When was the last time you ate?”

Ranpo pauses to count on his fingers. “Four days? Maybe five.”

Yosano stares. “Why?”

Ranpo shrugs. His eyes fall to his hands in his lap; his fingers are pale, thinner than he remembers; they look like Death’s. “Wasn’t hungry.”

Yosano puts a hand in his. She’s warm—Ranpo resists the urge to flinch away. “Why weren’t you hungry?”

Ranpo shrugs again. He can’t really—put it into words? Or at least, explain it and do it justice; it’s almost not worth eating anymore—no joy can be derived from it anymore (joy can hardly be derived from anything anymore) and it’s just—it’s—it’s too much. He doesn’t know how to put it into words. 

“Poe-san’s waiting outside. Can I call him in?”

Ranpo frowns. “Who called him? I didn’t know you guys had his number.”

“Dazai did. As for how he got the number—it’s Dazai. Let’s be honest: he either got it off your phone or found it before you ever got it.”

Ranpo hums, because he’s about ninety percent sure that the latter is correct, but he’s not about to admit that; he doesn’t want to admit he was that obvious in his weird crushing phase (he was, embarrassingly so). “You can call him in.”

Yosano leaves. Ranpo counts out three seconds before Poe comes bursting through, rushing over with an indescribably potent worry plastered all over his face. Ranpo lifts a hand, something bursting in his chest, and Poe takes it and squeezes it; warmth from Poe’s seeps into Ranpo’s; Ranpo’s fingers regain the slightest hint of colour. Yosano smiles from the doorway before she gently shuts it, leaving the two alone in their own bubble—impenetrable, safe. 

“What happened? Dazai-san told me you’d fainted and Yosano-san told me it was hypoglycemia, but—how did it get so bad?” Poe cups Ranpo’s cheek with his other hand; Ranpo lifts a hand to rest on it. 

“I didn’t eat much when you were gone. Or—well, at all, really.”

“Why not?” Poe asks, sinking into the seat next to Ranpo. 

Ranpo shrugs. “Wasn’t hungry, I guess. It’s fine, really.”

“For days?” Poe frowns. “Dear, that’s not fine. That’s not fine at all.”

“It really is. I’ve never been hungry—it’s just—. It was just easier to eat when it made me feel nice.”

Poe tilts his head. His hand never drops from Ranpo’s face. “When does eating make you feel nice?”

“When you’re there,” Ranpo says, and it’s so sappy that if Dazai heard it, he’d never let Ranpo live it down. But—it’s true; it’s something about seeing Poe’s face across from him, that radiant smile; and all of a sudden, the plate’s empty and he’s full. 

Poe smiles at him. And then it falls—slightly, so his face still glows. “Ranpo, about that call—”

“No.”

“Ranpo, dear?”

“Later, alright? Let poor lil’ me rest, hm?”

Poe huffs a laugh. The sound is musical. “Alright.”

He’s here with Poe; everything will be alright.