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Ranpo’s glasses were broken.
And, well. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had to buy new ones before. He’d long outgrown the ones Fukuzawa gave him when he was fourteen. But it was different than that. That was inevitable. This, on the other hand, was not.
It shouldn’t have mattered so much. He could, technically, use any pair of glasses. The ones he’d used in Poe’s book had worked fine, despite not being the ones he typically used. Only—he didn’t have an extra pair laying around. And he couldn’t ask anyone else, because that was just embarrassing.
And Fukuzawa wasn’t home.
Even if he was, Ranpo wasn’t sure he wanted to ask him. Fukuzawa wasn’t one to get disappointed about these sorts of things, but— Ranpo was disappointed in himself for it enough.
Plus, people could be unpredictable. They had always been a tricky thing for Ranpo. Maybe Fukuzawa would get mad.
He went to work anyway. Not that he would actually do anything.
For the most part, people left him be in the morning. Unless he requested to see a case himself, they usually handled it on their own until they hit a wall they couldn’t climb.
Then, part way through Ranpo’s third bag of chips that morning, Kunikida asked him if he’d take a case.
“No,” Ranpo said, more flatly than intended.
Kunikida, quite used to this, tried once more. “We aren’t able to find more than what we gathered in these files. Dazai’s on a different case, so we can’t consult him now,” he reasoned.
Ranpo shrugged, licking the salt off his fingers. “Too bad,” he huffed. “Don’t care.”
Kunikida let out a breath. “Alright. What about this one?” he pleaded, holding out another folder.
“Eh. Boring,” Ranpo waved off. “Go away. I’m eating.”
“Ranpo-san…” Kunikida tried.
Ranpo ignored him until he left.
If he told them he’d broken his glasses, Kunikida would probably use his ability for a placeholder until they could buy one. But he didn’t want that. Not their pity. Didn’t want them to see him without his ability, broken down to someone rendered as uselessly stupid as everyone else.
He slipped his clean hand into his pocket, feeling the sharp edges of the broken pieces of his glasses. Yosano wouldn’t be happy if she knew he was carrying around broken glass with him, but what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.
Ugh.
He slipped off his chair, taking the now-empty bags of his snacks and dropping them into the trash. He headed to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. It was empty now, luckily, and he wandered around for a moment before he found himself before the mirror.
He washed his hands once. Then again, just because.
He shook the water off as best he could, wiping them against his pants. The broken glasses were retrieved, cradled in his damp hands. He stared at the pieces for a moment, before bringing them up to his face.
They had snapped in half, and the lenses were cracked. Someone had stepped on them after one of his cases, as he’d been jostled around in a crowd of police and dropped them in the process. He remembered, vaguely, scooping what was left of them and hurrying home. He’d wiped them clean of the footprint, but they were unsalvageable otherwise.
Now, as he tried to peer through them, his vision went crooked with the lines cut through the glass. Distantly, he heard footsteps approaching the bathroom.
He moved away from the mirror, shoving the glasses into his pocket.
Tanizaki entered, saying something to Naomi before the door closed behind him. He nodded towards Ranpo awkwardly, but Ranpo didn’t bother returning the acknowledgement, instead pushing out the bathroom and narrowly avoiding crashing into Naomi.
“Oh— Sorry!” she said quickly.
Ranpo hummed noncommittally, heading towards the door leading out of the office.
“Ah, Ranpo-san!” Kenji said, before he could make it out. “Are you going on a case? Kunikida-san had a list of some he wanted to—“
“Tell him I’m busy,” Ranpo interrupted and left, hearing Kenji’s confused by equally eager assent before the door closed behind him.
Ranpo huffed, shoving his hands in his pockets, feeling skin slice as his finger hit the glasses. Great.
He stalked down the stairs, glancing at the café as he left, spotting Atsushi inside trying to persuade Dazai to stop bothering the waitress. Quickly, before Dazai noticed him, he left the proximity of the building, turning down random streets until he was no longer under the threat of being spotted by anyone from the Agency. Only then, did he slow down, pulling his hand out of his pocket and finding his index finger was bleeding.
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, pressing the bleeding part to his mouth, trying to stop the worst of it. With the other hand, he fished out his glasses, upset to find them with splotches of blood on them. His pocket was probably stained too.
Hopelessly, he looked around, finding he had no idea where he was. That, at least, was a familiar feeling. But usually, someone was with him. Usually, someone was there to find a path in what he thought was a lost way, guiding him until he was met with places he knew.
Instead, he was alone in some busy street—shoved carelessly against a building when too many people tried walking past him—with a finger that wouldn’t stop bleeding, glasses broken and sprinkled red, upset over something so stupid and easily fixed, if only he wasn’t so stubborn.
His throat felt tight, and he shuffled further down the street, wishing he could be alone, but already feeling so lost he wasn’t sure he’d feel better isolated.
And at the same time—he was already alone. In a sea of monsters.
He searched his pockets for his phone, finding nothing, then remembering he left it at his desk. Fuck, then what? He was so dumb without his stupid glasses that he forgot to bring the only thing that he could hope would bring him somewhere where maybe he wouldn’t feel as lost as he did now?
The taste of blood found itself enhanced, and he realized he’d bitten the inside of his cheek, and it throbbed as he moved his finger away, opening his mouth slightly.
He wished he had his candy. Wished he didn’t taste iron, wished his eyes stopped pricking with something he hardly wished to shed. He wished he was at home. He wished Fukuzawa was here.
God, he was pathetic.
He stumbled around a corner, ready to find the nearest bench and collapse in it, when he bumped into someone. Already, a mumbled apology found its way onto his lips, tasting bitter but not wanting his day to get any worse.
Then he blinked, confused, when he was met instead with familiar-looking clothes. He glanced up as hands steading him, finding Fukuzawa there, looking equally puzzled.
“Ranpo? What are you doing here? A case?” Fukuzawa asked, then seemed to notice whatever state Ranpo was in, and his brow furrowed. “Are you alone?”
Yes. Yes, he was, Ranpo started to say. But something about Fukuzawa immediately soothed every worry he’d had, and he blinked wordlessly instead.
“Are you okay?” Fukuzawa asked, when Ranpo said nothing.
Oh. Right.
“Uhm,” Ranpo stammered. “Yeah.”
Fukuzawa’s eyes zeroed in on something, and when Ranpo followed his gaze, he found his finger was bleeding with more intensity than before. Stupid glass.
Before he could make some excuse about a paper cut or whatever, Fukuzawa had produced a bandaid from his sleeve, easily bandaging Ranpo’s finger.
“You should wash that when you get home,” Fukuzawa advised him. Then he returned to the topic at hand. “What are you doing here?”
What was he doing here?
“Got… lost,” Ranpo mumbled. With his other hand, he tried to subtly push his broken glasses into his pocket. They made a soft click as they settled—something quiet enough that anybody else wouldn’t have noticed. But Fukuzawa did, and he brought his attention down to Ranpo’s pockets.
“Your glasses? Are you on a case?” he repeated.
“No,” Ranpo said before he could stop himself. He bit the inside of his cheek, then winced as it only reignited the wound.
“Why are you alone?” Fukuzawa asked, looking around for a possible chaperone. “You’re not supposed to go this far alone.”
“I, uhm,” Ranpo started, feeling awkwardly small. Something about Fukuzawa, about everything that had worked him up until now, and then had crashed upon him when he ran into Fukuzawa, made him want to say everything.
Fukuzawa gently brought Ranpo somewhere less in the middle of the street. He watched patiently, waiting, humming something low and comforting.
“I broke them,” Ranpo continued, his words coming out in a hush. “My— …them.”
“Broke what?” Fukuzawa questioned.
Unwilling to actually say it, Ranpo took out one half of his glasses, lifting it up. Fukuzawa took it gently, and Ranpo got the other half out. The blood had dried on them, which… looked worse than Ranpo had realized, considering Fukuzawa’s sudden flash of worry.
“Is that how you hurt your finger?” he asked.
Oh. Huh?
“N…no,” Ranpo said. Then corrected himself. “They broke before. I got cut later.”
Fukuzawa nodded. “I see.”
Was he not mad?
A part of Ranpo wanted to shout at himself, something like I told you so, but relief overrode the urge, and he sagged. “Mm.”
“We can buy you new ones,” Fukuzawa said, looking up and checking the street sign. “The place I bought your others is in this area.”
“Okay,” Ranpo agreed, not quite comprehending anymore.
Fukuzawa took him through the process of finding the right street, buying him new glasses—the same frame as the previous—and throw away the broken one. Ranpo followed him in a blur, no longer keeping up, only blinking back to present when he realized they were back at their apartment.
“Huh?”
Fukuzawa looked up from where he was removing his shoes. “Is something wrong?”
Ranpo shook his head quickly.
He went to the bathroom, taking off the bandage and washing his hands. Fukuzawa followed, supplying him with a new one and ensuring there was no glass in the wound before he taped the bandaid on.
“Okay,” Fukuzawa said, as they left the bathroom. He handed Ranpo the glasses case, and Ranpo opened it tentatively.
He took out the glasses with care, placing the case on the table. Then he put the glasses on, feeling them cool against his skin.
“Good?” Fukuzawa confirmed.
Ranpo nodded, blinking to adjust to the familiar weight. He glanced at Fukuzawa, letting out a heavy breath.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
Fukuzawa startled. “What for?”
“For breakin’ ‘em.” Ranpo shifted, picking up the case again, opening and closing it.
“It’s alright. It happens,” Fukuzawa assured him. He paused. “Was that why you were out alone?”
Ranpo shrugged.
Fukuzawa’s expression softened. “You could’ve asked Yosano or Kunikida for help.”
“That’s pathetic,” Ranpo grumbled.
“Asking for help is never pathetic,” Fukuzawa said. “They wouldn’t think badly of you for it, the same way I don’t right now. I’m sure they’d be honored you could ask them, more than anything.”
“Master detectives don’t need help,” Ranpo retorted.
“You are more than just a detective. You’re human.” Fukuzawa placed one hand on Ranpo’s shoulder, urging him to look up.
Ranpo lifted his gaze, biting his lip.
“If you need help, ask me. Regardless of the question,” Fukuzawa told him.
Ranpo huffed, looking away. “Whatever,” he mumbled.
Satisfied, Fukuzawa hummed. “You should change from those clothes, it’s best to wash out blood right away.”
“‘kay,” Ranpo agreed, just to get away from all the mushiness.
He started to leave, heading towards his room. He heard Fukuzawa moving too, probably to get ready to go back to work. A thought struck him and, before he could think otherwise, he pivoted and stumbled the few steps towards Fukuzawa, arms flung out.
Fukuzawa startled, arms pinned to his side as Ranpo hugged him tightly from behind, face buried against Fukuzawa’s back.
Fukuzawa relaxed, his hands coming up to rest over Ranpo’s with unspoken understanding.
For a moment, they stayed there, quiet as Ranpo shuddered with something like crying, born from relief more than anything. Then, Ranpo stepped away, turning and hurrying off to his room to change, his glasses skewed on his face from the hug.
Behind him, he could practically hear Fukuzawa’s smile.
He slipped his glasses off, folding them carefully and placing them on his desk. And he thought—everything was okay again.