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Freshly printed paper brushed against Sigma’s fingers: warm, crisp. He had meticulously assessed the documents on the screen of his computer, checking for typos and removing wordy sentences, but he still glanced over them, now, ensuring that he hadn’t made any mistakes and that a page or two wasn’t missing. The Armed Detective Agency didn’t have the best technology, admittedly. It was a surprise that they had managed to pose such an issue before.
Distantly, the long-haired man heard a door open, yet he paid it no mind—or, well, only a little bit of mind. He had focused enough to know that it came from the side of the room, worry instilled in his veins. If it had come from the front, he would’ve perked up immediately—a cautious deer.
“I’m getting my yōkan somewhere else,” Ranpo stated, and judging by the form of his words, casual and pliable, the other was likely Yosano or Fukuzawa. Perhaps it was a bit creepy, how Sigma had noted the agency’s interpersonal relationships like he was back at the casino, but ex-terrorists weren’t known for being normal.
“Oh, really?” Yosano asked, sounding surprised. Ranpo must have frequently visited that shop. “Why?”
The man sighed, both irritated and disappointed. He became that way a lot, Sigma noticed. It must have been difficult to be so perceptive. “The new clerk is an idiot.”
Yosano seemed used to the other’s sentiment. “That bad, huh?”
“Well, for one,” Ranpo started, his volume heightening, and Sigma imagined him straightening his slouching posture, “he knocked into Sigma while trying to stock the shelves—completely rearranging stuff.” The fact seemed to aggravate him. He didn’t seem to like unnecessary change. Sigma couldn’t say that he was fond of it, either. “But he dropped a box. Tried to blame him for it.”
Sigma didn’t want to appear nosy, yet he found himself tensing, embarrassment forming in his taut chest and at his soft cheeks. He had thought that their earlier trip would be soon forgotten. After all, Ranpo seemed to possess a habit of taking people shopping—so long as it was for him.
“Did Sigma have to pay for it?” Yosano inquired, and Sigma found himself rereading a sentence that he had already read, the white documents heavy in his hands.
“No,” Ranpo answered, pushing the word out. “That’d mean less for me.”
The doctor breathed out, the sound quick, hushed, and amused. “So, you talked to him, then?”
“Obviously,” the detective returned, without any bite. “But he couldn’t even count Sigma’s change right. She had to correct him.”
At the words, a bullet shot straight through Sigma’s heart.
He understood the confusion, in a way. His hair was long. His eyelashes were thick. His sense of style was androgynous: a result of personal choice rather than teachings.
Yet he had thought that he had known the others long enough for them to have grasped that he was a man. He hadn’t thought, on his first day as a clerk—which wasn’t that long ago, really—that he would’ve needed to specify that he was one. He had been certain that Dazai had mentioned him before he was officially hired.
Unable to help himself, Sigma turned away from the faulty printer, his multicolored ponytail—white and lilac—swaying with the movement. “I’m a man,” he interrupted, as kindly as possible, his voice level.
The pair fell silent. A second passed, and then they glanced at each other, something knowing in their gazes. Twistedly, Sigma’s stomach ached. It was like they were Fyodor and Nikolai, when his questions—like what winter was—were truly genuine.
“He had to correct him,” Ranpo finally said. There was nothing rewarding about it, yet Sigma hadn’t planned for it to be. Quietly, he only worried that his words had come out as disrespectful. It would explain the others’ shared look, at the very least—and wouldn’t it be just like him, to accidentally ruin things?
But he was simply stating a fact. Why would he be faulted for that?
Then again, why did anything happen to him?
Slowly, Yosano turned to look at him, something soft in her magenta-colored eyes. It was wrong—a shadow in the dark. Nonetheless, Sigma still clung to her kindness with all the need and desperation of a man formerly chained. “I’m sorry to hear about your trip, Sigma.”
The man looked away, embarrassed by the reminder of the space he took up—both in the past and in the present. Gradually, however, he forced himself to smile. Negativity wasn’t suited for the workplace. “Well, anything is better than being unconscious.”
★ ★ ★
Ranpo’s mistake lingered in Sigma’s busy mind, even as he entered his modest apartment. It wasn’t his, truly. It was under a false identity, all of the expenses covered by one of Chuuya’s numerous debit cards: a gift after leaving multiple contusions in an attempt to awaken him. Sigma’s back had taken the brunt of it. The ginger was lucky, really, that Sigma had awoken in such an overwhelming, encompassing state of shock and sorrow—Fyodor had suffered; Fyodor had hurt him; Fyodor was dead—that he hadn’t thought to slap him when they met again.
With a sigh, Sigma slid his heels off—white, distinctive—and placed them by the door. It was a custom, he had learned, and it did make his exits quicker. He did not have to worry about losing his shoes. With so much on his mind, it was a minor assist.
Soon, the bathroom door shut behind him. The clerk let a moment pass before he began to undo the buttons on his clothing, tilting himself away from the mirror, where past scars glared—some more recent than others. Only when all of his clothing was carefully dropped into the laundry hamper did the man reach up to undo his ponytail, white and lilac strands—long, soft—kissing his bare shoulders.
With the black hair tie placed on the counter, Sigma stepped into the shower. He did not look at his body anymore than he needed to.
★ ★ ★
“Hmm,” Ranpo hummed from his chair, days later, dragging the sound out. “Have you figured out the plot yet?”
“Mostly,” Poe answered, his voice soft like silk, yet notably shaky. From what Sigma had gathered, he was a rather introverted individual. It was surprising, really, considering his mental capabilities—though, even Fyodor hadn’t been extraverted. “I just need to do more research.”
“Sigma!” the other suddenly yelled, and the eavesdropping clerk jolted, nearly dropping the pad of sticky notes that he had grabbed: his initial target.
“Ah!” Poe gasped, clearly not wanting to expand the conversation. “Ranpo-kun, I don’t think—”
Although he empathized with Poe’s state, Sigma turned to look at the pair, trying not to appear too interested. “Yes?”
“Was Dostoevsky tortured in the 17th century?”
The question, posed without any caution or benignity, threw Sigma off—a deckhand drowning. His eyes widened, lilac focusing on hazel. “I—” The man’s breath hitched, and he paused, something twisting in his abdomen: apathetic, aching. “Yes,” he finally responded, pushing the word out.
“Do you remember what was used?” the dark-haired detective pried. Then, without any tact: “Aside from the typical stuff.”
Sigma did not want to answer—not really. He felt disgusting, in a way, sharing the secrets of a dead man.
Deep down, he knew that they were not truly secrets. Fyodor would not have permitted him to live if he truly wanted his past unknown—but his knife had only gone so far. It was a mercy that Sigma often pondered, especially after his own display of arrogance. It was a mercy that everyone else seemed to overlook.
Fyodor had let him keep his memories—only him—yet Sigma still owed the agency. It took everyone’s approval for him to be able to join, clerk or not, and that included Ranpo’s. So, Sigma tried to think of something unique. In truth, Fyodor was really just stabbed a lot.
Then, it hit him with the force of a train.
“S-Scavenger’s Daughter,” he sputtered, his muscles tensing. He could suddenly see it: the bright red blood coming from Fyodor’s nose and ears. The man had been wordlessly moving his lips—in what Sigma believed was a prayer—and blood had seeped into his hyperactive mouth, staining his tricky tongue. “It crushed him.”
“See?” Ranpo asked proudly, turning to Poe. The lack of sympathy was off-putting, especially since Sigma could tell that Ranpo was caring, but the long-haired man tried to remind himself that Fyodor certainly wasn’t his friend. “That’s something! You can ask Sigma for details. She wouldn’t mind.”
The clerk caught the mistake immediately, overanalytical. Sternly, this time, noting that a different approach might enforce the memory, Sigma corrected, “He.”
Ranpo slowly glanced back at him, his lips in a line. “Oh,” he said flatly—and wasn’t that rude? When Sigma suspected, perhaps, that an apology might follow, because that was normal, the detective added, “I thought you had figured it out already.”
At the words, Sigma froze. What did that mean? the long-haired man questioned, and he found himself scrunching his white-colored eyebrows, confused.
The other did not grace him with an answer, whether he noticed his bewilderment or not. Instead, Ranpo quickly looked back at the author, his mind elsewhere, commenting, “Though, I would have more women in this one.”
Knowing not to press, because Sigma was very easy to irritate and the conversation had never been his own, the clerk stuffed the yellow pad of sticky notes into the pocket of his dress pants and walked away, careful not to seem upset.
He needed a sip of water.
★ ★ ★
Dazai sat on the floor, leaning against the gray-colored couch. Sigma didn’t know why. The furniture was much more comfortable—plush, expensive—and better suited for Dazai’s recovering fracture, but the brunet didn’t exactly keep his own needs in mind. He shouldn’t have been sitting cross-legged. He shouldn’t have walked to Sigma’s apartment at all.
Still, Sigma had learned not to fuss. Slowly, he sat down in front of his boyfriend—though, truthfully, they had never properly used the term—and let out a sigh, matching the other’s position while leaning against nothing. In the depths of his mind, he tried to ensure that his back was straight, knowing his tendency to slouch: an instinct from his enslavement, where pride was poison.
“Edogawa keeps calling me a girl,” Sigma started, watching as the brunet raised an eyebrow at his obvious irritation, “so maybe he isn’t as bright as everyone thinks.”
The taller man paused, blinking. It was a difficult expression to read—and Sigma didn’t like that, so used to seeking answers. Perhaps Dazai knew that, finally stating, “Ranpo-san is very smart.”
The words did not offer any relief. Instead, shock tore through Sigma’s veins, the man falling silent. It was pathetic, maybe, but he had wanted Dazai to agree. The man was supposed to take his side, surely, so why wasn’t he?
With his eyebrows twisting and his mind beginning to race—because Dazai wasn’t voicing that Ranpo made mistakes—Sigma asked, “What does that mean?”
The other merely hummed, glancing up at the ceiling. “What do you think that means?”
Sigma thought, for a moment, anger beginning to bubble beneath the surface. How awful it was, too, that he placed so much trust in Dazai’s bandaged hands. “Y-You think I’m a girl,” he sputtered, his throat tight.
“No,” Dazai retorted quickly, the word soft. It wasn’t helpful. It only left Sigma more confused—and he suddenly hated himself, wishing he was smarter. He suddenly hated Dazai’s ability, wishing he could get answers with his own. He suddenly hated being alive.
The shorter man’s teeth clenched, preventing any words—indignant, wallowing—from escaping. He didn’t want to yell. He didn’t want to cry. Instead, he found himself fidgeting with his fingers, wishing he had a deck of cards on his person.
Something in his chest felt like it was going to pop. It would be shameful to stain the nice flooring.
Dazai shifted, his russet-colored gaze moving away from the ceiling and onto him. Sigma couldn’t tell if it was better, really. He wanted the other to notice his misery, but he didn’t want him to point it out. He wanted to be near the other, but he wanted to hide in the comfort of his bedroom, alone. He wanted to hold the other, but he also wanted to hit him—and wasn’t that evil?
Needing to move, something itching beneath his skin, Sigma scooted across the floor, sitting beside the brunet. Rather than punching his arm, or gripping his shoulder, or grabbing his face, the clerk slid his hand across the clean floor, interlocking their pinkies.
Dazai squeezed. Sigma blushed. With lead on his tongue, he finally voiced, “I want you to be honest with me.”
“Can I ask you questions?” the brunet inquired, and suspicion clawed at Sigma’s insides.
He was not unused to ridiculous questions. Before they were Dazai’s, they had been Nikolai’s, and Sigma had returned those with disgusted looks and loud complaints. Thus, he muttered, “I don’t know.”
“I think it’d help,” the other offered, and Sigma paused. He trusted him. He loved him—even if Dazai hated it; even if it was only going to hurt him, when Dazai finally died.
He thought about that, sometimes, crying about a funeral that had yet to happen, and not leaving his bed until he had stopped. His imagination was too vivid. His mind was too tarnished and chipped.
What made it worse, really, was that he always imagined finding him first.
“Fine,” Sigma mumbled, staring at their warm hands.
He met his boyfriend’s gaze as the man perked up, looking far too excited for someone who had sat so quietly, before. Instead of the blank expression he had once worn, Dazai’s soft lips began to curl, parting. “Would you rather be my handsome prince or my beautiful princess?” the brunet asked loudly, dragging the emphasized word out.
Sigma was unable to stop himself from cringing—his muscles tensing; his face scrunching. “I don’t like this,” he admitted quickly, embarrassed.
“Please?” Dazai begged, a purpose hidden beneath the previous question: translucent. For good measure—or what he believed was for good measure, clearly—he poked his bottom lip out. It wasn’t exactly cute.
Still, Sigma wanted to please him, just as much as he wanted to one day outsmart him: a desire Fyodor had once been the target of. “Prince,” the long-haired man answered through his teeth, with a warmth at his cheeks.
“Noted,” the brunet teased in return, and Sigma huffed.
“This isn’t helpful,” he declared, without any bite. He wasn’t upset, of course, yet if Dazai truly wanted to get his point across, he could find a better way to do it. Sigma wasn’t a genius, but he also wasn’t stupid. Noting that, there were surely plenty of other options.
“Uh-uh!” Dazai argued, tutting. He leaned in closer, the smell of fresh linen tickling Sigma’s nose. “That was one question!”
“But it—”
“Would you rather be called a father or a mother?” Dazai interrupted, his tone different, and Sigma froze. Upcoming words dissolved in his mouth, suddenly tasting vile. He couldn’t breathe, for a moment, and then he could.
“Eww.”
He didn’t mean to say it. It was spoken without thought—without care. Dazai was good with children, he knew, but that wasn’t a skill that he also possessed. He couldn’t sympathize with them, even if he wished to. He had no childhood memories to support him.
“I don’t want children,” Sigma explained, when guilt began to bubble to the surface. He saw no point in sharing a life with a child. He barely felt like an adult. He barely felt like a person.
“Just think about it,” Dazai said, his voice smooth like honey. There was a lack of offense in his words—a lack of shock in his russet-colored gaze. It was relieving in the way that handcuffs unlocked.
However, both answers felt wrong. Sigma did not want someone to call him a mother, yet he did not want someone to call him a father—and, for whatever reason, the latter term felt worse. Was it because of Fyodor’s memories, perhaps—a devotion to a Heavenly Father that had let him be hurt for centuries, and caused him to hurt in return, all under an assumed responsibility?
If fathers were meant to be so cruel—going as far as to kill their own sons, even, pinning them to wooden beams—then Sigma would never bear such a label. Still, the other label was for women, and he was not a woman. There was something terrifying about that realization, yet Dazai knew him. There was no use in lying about his comfortability.
Through the knot forming in his throat, Sigma offered a verbal answer. Deep down, he suspected that Dazai had already expected it, springing the question onto him so quickly. “A mother.”
“I see,” the taller man mused, offering nothing else.
“But that’s not right,” Sigma voiced swiftly, ensuring that Dazai could not mock his knowledge on the subject. He had learned, while engaging with power-hungry individuals, that if he pointed out his flaws first, most would not see them as possible weapons.
Strangely, Dazai didn’t acknowledge his words. Instead, he closed his eyes, thick, dark eyelashes brushing against his soft skin as he voiced, “Are you an actor in this cruel life or an actress?”
Sigma thought, for a moment, swirling his tongue in his mouth. He had heard, once, that it was bad to engage in such a habit, a displaced tongue causing damage to teeth and gums. “Actor,” he decided.
“Would you rather be called dashing or stunning?” Dazai inquired, not missing a beat. It was odd that a mind could move so quickly, yet it was admirable all the same.
What was not admirable was Sigma’s own hesitation. “Stunning,” he answered, only to find himself uncertain of its normality. Should he have said the other one, despite its lack of appeal? “Is that”—Sigma breathed out quietly—“the feminine one?”
“It is,” Dazai answered, his voice level. “Mostly.” The man paused, slowly opening his eyes. “In this case, I would say so, yes.”
Sigma’s worn heart dropped, sinking through the floor, and all he could think to do was blink. It wasn’t easy to pick up a heart.
Frustration, shame, and contemplation slipped into the newly empty space. He had given two masculine answers, yes, but he had also given two feminine ones. Why was that? he questioned, his mind tangled yarn, and he wished that pale, bitten, lifeless fingers would undo the knots. In the case that this was a competition, why would there be a tie? How could both sides win?
The clerk realized, then, that the word was the answer.
He found himself muttering it under his breath, with all the oddity and confidence of a man gone mad. He was in no position to judge. He had distributed bombs disguised as coins, and, when Fyodor wanted information, had stabbed Taneda to get it. Murder was never his intent, but that didn’t make him sane. “Both.”
“Hmm?” Dazai hummed, the sound pleasant—an irritatingly addicting melody, like some that had played in the casino. Sigma would miss it, when it was gone, and he could not regard and haul Dazai’s memories like he had Fyodor’s.
Not without holding him the moment he died, of course, and he would hope that Yosano was there, instead.
“Edogawa thinks I’m both,” Sigma stated, his voice raised. It was incredible, truly, what certainty could do to him—even if it had led to countless mistakes. Fyodor hadn’t been the only one to strike him, when he was self-assured. He had been bruised by both hands and gun barrels, the pain crushing his skin and his spirit. “You think I’m both.”
The brunet nodded at his answer, something akin to pride embedded in his appearance. His lips were relaxed. His shoulders were slack. His gaze was soft. It should’ve made Sigma happy—praise, spoken or not, was like a stimulant—but it didn’t.
“But that—”
The words caught in Sigma’s throat, his chest far too tight. There was a pressure on his form that had not been there prior—a hand pushing him against the gray-colored couch, while Dazai’s bandaged palms rested on the floor. The clerk could barely focus on his boyfriend’s face—his beauty mark blurred; his soft nose hazy.
“That’s not an option,” he gasped, his finger twitching against Dazai’s. He couldn’t be both a man and a woman. He could be a man. He could be a woman. He could not be both.
“Really?” Dazai asked, his gaze tender. Sigma didn’t know why he sounded so surprised. Out of the two of them, he was the most socially adept. If he had managed the casino, instead of Sigma, he wouldn’t have had to stay up late to memorize guests’ personal information. He wouldn’t have shattered after closing his office door behind him, letting out a sob and tugging at his hair. “Who made that rule?”
The shorter man paused. He didn’t know the answer. Nobody had told him that being both wasn’t a choice, but he felt it. The guests at the casino had been men or women. Every now and then, there was an individual that did not consider themself either, and Sigma had responded accordingly, to fit their needs, but no one had considered themself—himself, herself—both man and woman, and Sigma had dealt with thousands of people.
“Everyone has called me a man,” the clerk explained, his words swift, dripping in panic. Then, like he was pointing a sharpened blade: “Even Dostoevsky called me a man.”
The brunet’s expression softened at the mention of Fyodor. Sigma hated it, even if he understood it. Fukuzawa had been right, of course, when he told Sigma that it wasn’t healthy to hang onto the beliefs of someone else—but he didn’t understand. No one could understand. Everyone had a past to cling to. Everyone had interests.
Sigma had nothing, so he placed himself in other people’s hands.
Dazai had control of him, now, and the brunet looked at him like he was bleeding out. “It is an option, Sigma,” the bandaged man finally stated, saying his name so sweetly. It was, surely, some kind of soothing tactic, and, unfortunately, it worked.
Still, it did not erase Sigma’s fright, difference a red-colored target. He was a deer in headlights, his mind scrambled like eggs. In a panic, he thought about everything: his clothing; his heels; his hair. Had the signs always been there? he wondered, feeling ridiculous.
Another inquiry pressed against his rotten skull, nearly making him gag. It slipped from his lips like water from a faucet.
“Would you still”—Sigma wanted to say a certain four-letter word, yet decided against it—“care about me if I was both?”
“Of course, I would,” Dazai answered, without much thought. It wasn’t sugary sweet, but it wasn’t overwhelmingly serious, either. It was somewhere in the middle—the much needed middle—and it was the tell-tale sign of honesty.
Even then, worry was carved in Sigma’s existence. “D-Do you really mean that?” the clerk pressed, uncertain. He would understand it, really, if Dazai would dislike the change. Again, he wasn’t fond of changes, either.
“Yes,” the brunet insisted, with no difference in his expression.
Sigma leaned to the side, then, pressing against her boyfriend’s shoulder. The response was what Sigma needed to hear, yet he found himself tearing up nonetheless, uncertain of what being both would mean—would change. “I need some time to think about this,” the clerk admitted in a hushed whisper, forcing herself not to sob.
“That’s okay,” Dazai returned, and admiration pooled in Sigma’s swirling stomach. At some point, he had gotten his heart back, and it thumped in his chest—only for Dazai. She would never tell him that, of course.
Silent, Sigma tucked his flushed face away, wishing he could hide beneath the other’s scarred skin. It would be comforting, surely, to not exist, yet to never lose him. It would be nice, surely, to die at the same time, so that she didn’t have to mourn.
A minute or two passed before Sigma parted his trembling lips, remembering a fault. “I’m sorry for saying that about Edogawa.”
Dazai breathed out, the sound short and heavy, like Sigma had voiced a joke. “It’s fine, Sigma,” the man said, his lips clearly curled.
Before Sigma could squirm, or huff, or question him, a tender kiss was pressed against her head. His mind melted.