Work Text:
The day began like any other at the Armed Detective Agency.
Fukuzawa arrived earlier than most, unlocking the office doors with his usual quiet precision. The morning air was cold, the city still half-asleep, and he welcomed the familiar calm. Birthdays were not something he paid much attention to. To him, they were simply dates on a calendar- nothing more.
Yet, as the agency slowly filled with life, something felt… different.
“Good morning, President!”
Atsushi bowed slightly, but his voice was brighter than usual. Before Fukuzawa could respond, Kyouka stepped forward, holding out a neatly wrapped box with both hands.
“For you,” she said softly.
Fukuzawa blinked. “What is this?”
“It’s your birthday,” Atsushi added quickly, smiling. “We thought we should celebrate.”
For a moment, Fukuzawa simply stared at the gift, as though unsure how to react. “…Thank you,” he said at last, his voice quieter than normal.
Throughout the day, the gestures continued.
Ranpo dropped a bag of expensive sweets onto Fukuzawa’s desk with a lazy grin. “Don’t overthink it, old man. Consider it payment for tolerating us.”
Yosano left a bouquet of flowers beside his papers without a word, though the faint curve of her lips betrayed her intent.
Even Dazai, with suspicious cheerfulness, placed a small card on Fukuzawa’s desk before disappearing again- thankfully without causing any chaos.
By the afternoon, Fukuzawa’s desk had become crowded with small gifts, handwritten notes, and quiet tokens of appreciation. He watched his employees move around the office, laughing, arguing, living- and something unfamiliar settled in his chest.
Perhaps birthdays were not so meaningless after all.
When evening came, the agency gradually emptied, one by one, until only silence remained.
The office was quieter than usual when Fukuzawa finally closed the last file on his desk. Outside, the city lights had already swallowed the sky, and the agency felt oddly still- too still, he thought, as he tied his yukuta tighter around his body and prepared to leave.
“Working late again, Fukuzawa-kun?”
He paused.
Mori’s voice came from the doorway, smooth and familiar, as though he had been there the entire time. Fukuzawa turned, faint surprise flickering across his normally unreadable expression.
“I didn’t expect you,” he said.
Mori stepped inside, hands in his pockets, a small paper bag swinging lazily from one wrist. “That sounds cold,” he replied lightly, though his eyes softened. “Today is a special day, isn’t it?”
Fukuzawa frowned slightly, searching his memory. Then it clicked- and his expression stilled.
“You remembered.”
“Of course,” Mori said, as if the answer had never been in doubt. He set the bag on the desk, leaning closer than necessary. “Did you really think I would forget your birthday?”
Fukuzawa looked away for a moment, the faintest tension settling in his shoulders. “You’re busy,” he said quietly. “I didn’t assume you’d-”
Mori cut him off with a soft laugh. “I remember everything about you, Fukuzawa-kun.”
The words lingered in the air—too deliberate, too intimate.
Fukuzawa’s gaze returned to him slowly, searching Mori’s expression for something he couldn’t quite name. Mori only smiled, eyes unreadable, as though he knew exactly what effect his words had.
“Open it,” Mori added, tapping the bag lightly.
Fukuzawa hesitated, then reached for it. And as his fingers brushed Mori’s for a brief second, he realised something unsettling-
Mori hadn’t just remembered his birthday.
He had planned this.
And somehow, that knowledge made his pulse quicken far more than he cared to admit.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The agency felt smaller with Mori standing so close.
Fukuzawa’s fingers lingered on the edge of the paper bag, but he didn’t open it yet. Instead, his gaze lifted- calm on the surface, but sharpened by something deeper.
“You didn’t need to come,” he said.
Mori tilted his head slightly. “That’s not what you mean.”
Fukuzawa said nothing.
Mori stepped closer, slowly, until the space between them was reduced to something far too familiar. The faint scent of antiseptic and cologne reached Fukuzawa before Mori spoke again.
“It’s been a long time,” Mori murmured.
The words were simple, but the meaning beneath them wasn’t.
Fukuzawa’s eyes darkened almost imperceptibly. “…It has.”
For a brief second, the present seemed to blur with something else—late nights that weren’t spent in offices, conversations that hadn’t been professional, silences that had once meant far more than they did now.
Mori’s gaze traced Fukuzawa with quiet precision, as if he were reading something written beneath his skin.
“You haven’t changed,” Mori said softly.
“That’s not true,” Fukuzawa replied.
Mori smiled. “Isn’t it?”
His hand lifted- not quite touching, but close enough that Fukuzawa could feel the warmth of it. The gesture was deliberate. Familiar.
Fukuzawa didn’t move away.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt heavy with things that had never been said out loud- and things that had.
“…You always did look like this when you were thinking too much,” Mori added lightly.
Fukuzawa’s hand tightened around the bag.
“That was a long time ago,” he said.
“Yes,” Mori agreed, his voice quiet, his eyes unwavering. “But not long enough for me to forget.”
The words settled between them, dangerous and intimate.
And Fukuzawa realised something he hadn’t wanted to admit-
Mori wasn’t here out of politeness.
He was here because he remembered exactly what they used to be.