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Fukuzawa
Fukuzawa nearly misses Ranpo at first.
The apartment is quiet—too quiet for a boy as sharp and lively as Ranpo usually is. It’s only by chance that he finds him: tucked between the end of the hallway and the wall with a blanket haphazardly bunched around him, knees up, chin buried, sleeves tugged over his hands. His hair is a wild mess over his eyes, and he isn't crying, but his shoulders quake every now and then, breath shuddering out in little huffs. Three candies, lined up with obsessive neatness, glint in the weak afternoon light.
For a long moment, Fukuzawa just observes, hesitant. Ranpo isn’t reading or muttering, not fidgeting with a puzzle. His eyes are wide and unfocused, distant, his mouth set in a line too soft for irritation, too blank for concentration. Every so often he makes a quiet, almost involuntary sound—a whine, a little huff—almost like a trapped animal’s noise.
Ranpo has only lived with Fukuzawa for a little over a month, but the boy has made a science out of acting older than he is. Clever, cocky, sharp-tongued—never fragile, never helpless, never anything that might look like childhood.
But now, he’s small. He’s quiet. He doesn’t even look up when Fukuzawa crouches down nearby.
He’s so young like this, Fukuzawa thinks, but the thought feels delicate, not pitying. Maybe it’s just that he finally has space to feel young.
Fukuzawa clears his throat gently so as not to startle him. “Ranpo?”
Ranpo’s head jerks up. He blinks, uncertain, and then immediately looks away, shoulders curling inward. His lips press together, and he doesn’t say anything.
Fukuzawa stays a safe distance away. “I'm going to sit here, if that's alright.”
No answer—just a small, twitchy movement as Ranpo nudges one of the candies closer to himself with his foot, like he’s building a barricade out of sweets. He doesn’t look at Fukuzawa, but doesn’t turn away either.
Fukuzawa keeps his distance, remembering every skittish look Ranpo has given him when startled, but he allows himself to settle cross-legged on the floor, careful and slow. The silence is weighty, and they stay like that for a while—Ranpo’s breath hitching, Fukuzawa silent, the low afternoon light spilling across the floor. Ranpo glances at him, frowns, and then tugs a little at his own sleeve, as if grounding himself. Every so often he lets out a soft whimper—a noise of discomfort or confusion, not quite directed at anyone. After a minute, Ranpo’s hand twitches toward the candies, then curls into a fist. He rocks a little, side to side, and Fukuzawa watches, waiting. Not intervening. Not pushing.
When Ranpo finally glances up, it’s a flicker—eyes shiny, expression unreadable. He stares at Fukuzawa for a long moment, as if trying to figure out if he’s in trouble.
Fukuzawa feels quietly, deeply unsure. He’s never seen Ranpo like this—closed off, not with anger but with need. He wants to ask “Are you alright?” but it feels wrong, too adult a question for the mood.
Instead, he lowers his voice, gives a small, reassuring nod. “You don’t have to talk,” he says. “I’ll stay here as long as you need.”
Ranpo’s gaze drops. He reaches, tentatively, toward the hem of Fukuzawa’s sleeve, just his fingertips ghosting over the fabric. A question.
Fukuzawa shifts a bit closer, still careful to move slow, and Ranpo's grip tightens on his kimono. After a long moment, he lets go and leans a little, shoulder pressed into Fukuzawa’s side. He emits a breathy sigh—a whine, half-gratitude, half-relief, eyes glassy with it—and rocks, once, then stills.
Fukuzawa lets the quiet fill the space between them, lets Ranpo have his silence. For a moment he hesitates, and then he places a steady hand on Ranpo’s back. Ranpo doesn’t flinch. If anything, he shifts closer, body softening. After a bit, he lifts his hand and taps—twice, then again—on Fukuzawa’s knee. A request, a code.
Fukuzawa isn’t sure what it means, but he nods and taps back, keeping the rhythm. Ranpo’s lips quirk, just barely. He goes quiet again, nestled at Fukuzawa’s side.
For a long while, they sit like this—Ranpo quiet and folded in on himself, Fukuzawa a silent, steady anchor. Ranpo relaxes by degrees. His rocking slows, and eventually, he lets out a soft whine, nuzzling his head gently against Fukuzawa’s arm. Not words, but an answer. By the time the hallway lights fade, Ranpo’s head is nodding, nearly asleep, still clutching Fukuzawa’s sleeve.
Fukuzawa feels the strange, uncertain pride of being trusted with something fragile.
“You can be as small as you need,” he murmurs, not sure why—but it feels right.
Ranpo’s eyes finally close with a little exhale, and for the first time since arriving, he looks almost—almost—at peace. Fukuzawa thinks, not for the first time, how strange it is to see a genius this young—this burdened—finally let go. So he sits perfectly still, keeping watch, grateful for the trust that weighs warm and heavy against his side.
—
Ranpo
It’s too quiet, and Ranpo can't stand it.
The walls in this apartment are thick, the doors soft when they close, not slamming like he’s used to. He’s still not used to so much silence, or so much space.
Ranpo drags his blanket down the hall and curls up in his favorite spot, the place where the floor is warmest in the afternoon light. He sits with his knees pulled to his chest, chin tucked down, and lines up the candies he always saves for last: green, green, green, neat and perfect.
He doesn’t want to do anything. His skin feels wrong, his mouth tastes sour, and when he tries to think, his thoughts are just fog. Words feel heavy—too big for his mouth.
He tries making himself small instead. If he sits very still, maybe the world will stop needing things from him.
Sometimes Ranpo whines, a little, without meaning to. He catches himself doing it and bites the inside of his cheek, embarrassed. But he can’t quite stop—his body wants to say something for him, even if he can’t. He loses track of time, gaze tracing lines on the floor, rocking when the light shifts or when the quiet gets too sharp.
Then footsteps—Fukuzawa.
Ranpo tenses, hoping not to be seen, but of course he’s seen. He doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to explain. He keeps his face turned away, arms wrapped around his knees, sleeves pulled over his hands so tightly they ache.
If he’s small enough, maybe he’ll disappear.
But Fukuzawa crouches down, far enough not to crowd him. “Ranpo?”
Ranpo peeks, only for a second, but it’s enough. Fukuzawa’s voice is soft, not prying. He waits. Ranpo likes that about him—he never rushes.
Fukuzawa asks if he can sit, and Ranpo doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t say no either. When Fukuzawa settles beside him, Ranpo feels a little less cold.
He still can’t find any words. Everything’s stuck. Too sticky to sort through.
“You don’t have to talk,” Fukuzawa says, like he somehow knows it's what Ranpo needs to hear. “I’ll stay here as long as you need.”
Ranpo tugs his sleeve further over his hand and just—reaches out. He’s too shy to really touch, just holding onto the edge of Fukuzawa’s kimono, barely there, light as a cat’s paw. It’s just so he knows someone’s there. So he doesn’t float away.
Fukuzawa doesn’t move or pull away. He shifts closer when Ranpo leans into him for more, says, “You can be as small as you need.” It makes Ranpo’s chest hurt, in a good way. He wants to say thank you, but it won’t come out.
He shuffles even closer, rests his head lightly against Fukuzawa’s side, listening to the steady sound of his breathing. He wants to ask for more—for touch, for weight, for comfort—but all he can do is whimper, soft and low. It’s embarrassing, but Fukuzawa doesn’t make him feel strange for it. Just sits, patient and solid.
He taps out a pattern on Fukuzawa’s knee—two taps, then three, then two again. Fukuzawa taps back, not quite the same, but trying. Ranpo almost smiles.
He stays like that, folded close, letting himself be little—letting himself need, just for a while. When Fukuzawa murmurs soothing reassurances and praise against his hair, Ranpo believes him.
For the first time since he can remember, Ranpo doesn’t feel like he has to be big again right away.