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Being a detective was indeed fun.
However, when the moon met its highest place in the sky, when the case got solved -usually around sixty seconds after it started-, when it was time to go back home, it definitely got… lonely. Not that he was a lonely person , of course. The agency greeted him every day with their best smiles, Fukuzawa sometimes letting his hand slip to ruffle his hair, a gesture that led to the old man being used to be accidentally called dad at least once a week. Not that he minded. Ranpo could always see a little curve going upwards at the sides of his mouth. But anyways, Fukuzawa’s hidden paternal instincts weren’t the point.
Ranpo felt alone in the way you’d feel alone if you were to find yourself in a room full of people who speak a completely different language than yours, with no dictionary or translator in sight. However, he was somewhat used to not being understood. He had come to terms with it years before, when he realized that it was enough knowing people understood not understanding him, rather than them comprehending every meaning behind his words. When Yosano listened to him talk faster than she could probably process, when they were fifteen and being teenagers with no friends other than the old cat lover that drove them to school every morning was starting to get hard for both of them, she never once said “I understand”. Because she couldn’t, and it wasn’t as terrible as Ranpo thought.
Under the glow in the dark stars glued to Ranpo’s ceiling, that turned out being useless as the little detective always kept way too many lights on when going to sleep, he came to terms with not being like Yosano. He wasn’t like Fukuzawa either, nor like the members that one by one joining the agency, from Kunikida with his annoying math problems to Atsushi. He understood that he’d never fully understand them, and they felt the same towards him. And it was fine like that, because when it came to daily life, he rarely felt out of place with them. He was a tassel, maybe the only black and white one, but still a tassel, in the big and colorful puzzle that was the agency, and he belonged like everyone else into the framed picture hanging on the wall.
Maybe the printer ran out of ink when printing his piece, but the others didn’t seem to mind.
So, when the candles shaped as a one and as a four on his birthday cake became a one and a five, then a one and a six, a seven, an eight, he had already embraced the idea of never finding someone with thoughts on the same radio frequency as him, whether in a friendship or... well, something more, whatever that meant.
With that carved into his brain, he didn’t give the matter much space in his mind. At least ninety-five percent of the problems caused by it, especially when puberty hit him like it does with all teenagers, could’ve been solved by simply sticking his hand in his pants. Quick and easy solution.
Still, five percent of it remained unsolved. Ironic, isn’t it, for a detective not being able to understand his own mind? He watched a little sparkle shine in others eyes and wondered if it ever truly light up for him, if the light ever turned on while he was speaking about something. He was sure it hadn’t light up, not even when he talked about his most recent solved case.
Because it was something different from excitement, different from the passion you can feel towards you own accomplishments.
It shone in Yosano’s eyes, as she talked about the girl she had met a few months before while grocery shopping, and that she was gonna take on their tenth date that night. Ranpo had met her too, and he saw the same little flicker of light in her caramel eyes, as she said her goodbyes to Yosano, with the promise of texting each other later. Yosano spent the rest of her afternoon staring at the screen of her phone, waiting for it to light up with a notification from her, just to give up and texting her first after only an hour. He saw it in Dazai’s eyes, even if it was weak and worn out by the years, when he started making fun of a certain port mafia official, which he always found a way to sneak into conversations when the topic ‘Port Mafia’ came up. “He’s so annoying” Dazai always stated, with one of his dramatic sighs. Ranpo didn’t mention anything about the week before, when he saw both of them sitting on the docks, staring at the fireworks lighting up the sky in honor of a city festival, Dazai’s head leaning on the other shoulders. When he told Yosano and Kunikida, the latter had to offer them the longer debated ice cream they bet on whether there was something between Dazai and his very much hated old mafia partner.
He saw it in Kyoka’s eyes, as Kenji dragged her around the city, showing her his favorite places and telling her tales from his old life back in his parent’s farm. He saw it in Atushi’s eyes as he stared at everything, because the guy was so full of love to give he loved everyone he met, not even aware of how much joy his company brought to the people around him, no matter they were a girl that worked in the cafeteria under the agency with roaring red hair or a twenty-year-old mafia member with serous coughing problems, with a heart so hollow it could take all the love that was offered to him. He saw it into Fukuzawa’s tired but happy eyes, as he stared at the members of the agency eating together, in their usual euphoric chaos that soaked the walls with laughs. And it was also in parents eyes, as they looked at their children grow day after day, and in teacher’s eyes, as they watched their students finally graduate and wave goodbye with a smile on their face.
And him? Well, he convinced himself his light bulb was burnt out. Not that he wasn’t loved. He knew how much the agency members cared about him, and he could name at least five times he found little pink letters in his locker during his time in high school. But he never once felt like he could send back the same love he received, no matter how hard he tried.
Or at least, he thought.
He thought so many things about himself, so many things that went shattering to the ground as a lanky American and his raccoon entered, or to be honest, tripped, into his life, knocking down the door on their way in.
Suddenly, that long lost five percent that sat buried into his mind started to grow. Adding, multiplying itself every time a pair of grey, no, lavender, yeah they were lavender, eyes stared at him, under messy brown hair, reddish when the sun hit them with its warm light.
What did Poe have that the others didn’t, what was it that made Ranpo feel like that? If Ranpo had to be truly honest, when he first saw the man he would’ve never guessed it. Which itself was surprisingly, as he usually was pretty good at getting accurate first impressions of people. But anyways, the thing he realized as he slowly got to know the man better, seeing under every layer, opening every doll of the matryoshka he had put up to shield himself, was that Poe seemed to understand.
It wasn’t a clear connection, but somehow, sometimes, Ranpo could hear him. Someone who spoke the same language as him had finally walked into the room. It became clear to him in many, little gestures that together finally showed him he wasn’t all by himself, after all. Poe never treated him as a kid as most people seemed to do, uncapable of seeing through the façade of fake whines and smiles. Poe always saw through it, and he always saw him for who he really was.
When attending annoying agency parties that seemed to never reach their end, Ranpo had never found a pair of eyes like his, looking through the room to find someone else looking back. When he looked at Yosano, she was always smiling, listening and telling stories with everyone. The few times he caught her glancing at him, it was a quick, genuine smile, an unspoken “hi” before she went back to her narrations.
One boring afternoon though, he met Poe staring back at him. The same look he always threw to the walls, the only ones that had seemed to be staring back at him for all the years before, was now being thrown back at him through dark grey eyes.
Five minutes later, both men were standing in the parking lot next to the agency, as Karl chased some stray cats that were lying asleep under the setting sun. Ranpo leaned against a yellow road sign “it’s not that I don’t like being with them” he said looking at Poe “It’s just… boring? I don’t know, it feels like…”
“Too much and not enough at the same time? Yeah, I know. Thank God, I thought I was the only one” he said, in his usual whisper-like tone of voice. Ranpo laughed at the way Poe slouched against his car, and something in his chest felt… relieved, a little part of the weight lifted at every word that had come out of the other’s mouth. “So, what are your plans for tonight?” Ranpo asked, straightening his back and stretching his arms.
“Absolutely nothing, if I had to be honest.”
“Mind if I join you?”
And Poe understood his silences, even when they lasted for days. When Ranpo didn’t answer, not because he didn’t want to, but because he just couldn’t bring himself to do so, no matter how hard he tried, Poe didn’t get mad or annoyed, nor did he ignore him. Poe just kept talking, thing that he surprisingly did a lot when it was just the two of them. He kept talking, never looking for an answer that was more than a simple nod or a shake of his head, and he waited, never asking for more than Ranpo could give.
It was simple gestures, a hand reaching out for him when he noticed the slightest change of his expression, the right words being always said at the right time. When he desperately needed someone to be there for him, he always happened to find comfort in a now familiar living room, a raccoon curled next to him and a pair of ears there to listen to everything he needed to get off his chest. It was never having to explain himself, because there was no need for him to do so. Poe didn’t need an instruction manual to know what to do, nor Ranpo needed one to understand him and his millions plus one different shades. Poe was so much more than he could’ve have imagined, and he liked that.
Suddenly Ranpo found himself yearning for every small touch like it could’ve been the last one, “accidentally” touching his hand on purpose every time they happened to be walking one next to the other, always spending his afternoons at the other’s house, first with the excuse of helping Poe writing his novels, then just because he liked it, being there.
It didn’t take a genius to realize what emotion was slowly starting to build up in his chest. And if it didn’t take a genius to easily read Ranpo’s feelings, the bar lowered even more when it came to reading Poe’s. At this point, the circle of bets going on through the agency member about them was becoming more intricate than the Yokohama’s illegal trading network.
“You’re doing that on purpose” Yosano said one day, as they were walking home together from the agency. Ranpo shrugged “I have no idea of what you’re talking about” he lied. Oh, if he did. Be damned the day Ranpo noticed how many different reactions he could see on the other’s face by simply staring at him for a few seconds too long with one of his lollipops in his mouth. Yosano laughed, poking him with her elbow “Well, keep it up. Kunikida can’t win this one.”
And Ranpo kept it up, because it was fun, because Poe was the only person that could actually surprise him, always left him wondering about what his next move could’ve been. He kept it up because Poe really didn’t seem to mind. When Ranpo fell “asleep” in his car, as he gave him a ride back home, Poe didn’t even consider trying waking him up. He just picked him up and carried him inside. And if at first Ranpo thought the man could’ve actually thought he fell asleep, the opportunity got dismissed as they finally reached his door. “Keys?” asked Poe, no sign of hesitation in his voice that could’ve indicated he thought the other couldn’t hear him. So Ranpo just reached for the bunch of keys in his pocket and handed them over.
And Ranpo kept it up because he had no idea of what else he could’ve done if, for the first time, his intuitions turned out to be wrong.
That afternoon, Ranpo found himself laying as usual on Poe’s couch, as the other sat busy at his desk, writing furiously something on his laptop.
“Edgar” he called. He liked saying his name, the way the ‘r’ rolled against his tongue.
“Mh?”
“Have you ever kissed anyone?”
Poe let out a sigh. “You have no idea of how much you scare me when you start asking questions like that. What did you do?”
“Not even a crumb of faith in me.” Ranpo whined, his voice causing Karl to hop off the couch and run in the other room, seeking a place to nap in silence, far away from the loud detective. That raccoon probably hated them both at this point, as Ranpo’s presence had taken away the quiet of the usually empty house.
“I wonder why” Poe sighed again, his fingers still tapping on his keyboard, “anyway, yes, I did. Why is that?”
“You did.” Ranpo repeated, sitting up. Oh, come on, there was no way he actually…
“Of course.”
“Who was it”
“I had not been informed we were playing twenty-one questions. What is this, a high school party reenactment?”
“Spit it out.”
“My ex-girlfriend, back in high school and college,” he continued as he was met with untrusting silence coming from Ranpo, “if you still don’t believe me, there should be a picture in the top left drawer” he said, pointing at the big, mahogany cabinet placed next to the living room door. Ranpo didn’t hesitate and he stood up, aiming for the proof. Curiosity killed the cat, Fukuzawa always told him when he stuck his nose too deep in other people’s business, but the tone of voice coming from Poe had caught his interest, hooked it up with a bait made of sarcasm and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of jealousy. As he opened the drawer, he was met with pictures, postcards, letters, scattered and jumbled up in an indecipherable mess, a landfill of untangled memories. “The red album” said Poe, still sitting at his desk.
The “red album” in question was an old, ruined binder, with a big white sticker on the hard cover that said “Senior Year” in Poe’s calligraphy. It was ruined by the years and worn out by the many hands that touched it, but still full of all its swirls and curves written in black ink. He slowly began turning the pages, swiping through blurry pictures with the date written in yellow ink and cubical numbers at the bottom left. The faces in them were unknown to Ranpo, but it wasn’t easy to guess that they were Poe’s old friends. And it wasn’t difficult to understand Edgar was the one taking the pictures, as everyone seemed to look a little bit too short compared to the point of view of the camera.
He had almost got to the end of the album, when a picture caught his eyes. It had a thin, white line in the middle, sign that it had been folded for a long time, to be kept inside a wallet Ranpo guessed, by the way the edges were ruined and crumbled. It was a simple photo, one of those that get taken by surprise and you find out about them the day after, when you find yourself staring at them for hours, wondering if that’s how you really look like. In the end, you never find the courage to throw them away, no matter how much you hate the way you look in them.
Warm light came from a light-pole from above the two subjects of the picture, blurring their outlines, as they were sitting on a bench with a high, dark hedge behind them. There was a girl sitting, legs crossed under a dark blue dress. Red hair all curls and ringlets cupped her face flowing down to her chest, in clashing contrast with the deep blue fabric. Her face looked focused, as she spoke now silent words to the guy sitting at her right. The guy sitting at her right. Brown hair slicked back, even though a few rebellious strands had escaped the comb and wandered free next to his ears. He looked like he was mentally annotating every word coming out of the girl’s mouth with a smile going from ear to ear painted on his face. He looked way too familiar, yet…
“You didn’t tell me you had a brother.”
“Because I don’t?”
“A cousin, then” Ranpo tried again.
“Oh, yes. But I’m afraid it would be pretty hard for you to confuse her with me, since she’s currently fifteen.” Ranpo heard Poe getting up, footsteps coming from behind. Edgar looked from over his shoulder at the album, quickly finding the picture that Ranpo was staring at. He laughed, snatching the picture book from his hands “That’s me” he said, looking at Ranpo’s surprised face.
“You look different.”
“No shit Sherlock, I was eighteen. I’d be concerned if it had been the opposite, no offence, of course.” Poe said. Ranpo looked back up at him, letting the subtle insult slide for once. His hair was tied up, just a few loose strands falling down on his face, his usual go-to hairstyle when he had to write. It definitely wasn’t the first time Ranpo saw him like that, but it was the first time he actually looked at him like that. Same grey eyes as the guy in the picture, same sharp nose, same annoying smirk he hated -and loved- so much... Poe closed the album and put it back into the messy drawer “Anyways, what’s with the sudden interest in my kissing history?”
Ranpo didn’t need to lie for this one. “Simple curiosity. Last week a man was killed by his wife because she put poison in her lipstick. Which would’ve been a genius move, if she hadn’t left the lipstick right there on her nightstand. And on her lips. She had to go to the emergency room, that’s how the police discovered the crime in the first place. I asked Yosano to describe how it feels but she went a little bit too deep into details I didn’t wish to know. Dazai tried to kiss me, thing I’m not really looking forward to, especially since he was still hungover and smelt terribly of smoke.”
“Doesn’t sound like a pleasant experience. Why did you even need to ask them?” Poe walked back to his desk, his hand already on the back of his chair when he stopped to look back at Ranpo, trying not to laugh.
“Shut up,” said Ranpo.
“So, there is something you can’t do, after all.”
“I said shut up.”
“Let me have my moment of glory, it’s fun.”
Ranpo let himself fall back on the couch, kicking down a few cushions in the process. It wasn’t fun, it was… embarrassing. He hated losing. Plus, he had just got himself in an embarrassing situation with the wrong person. The wrong person, because he learned that Poe, other than being extremely competitive, knew how to be absolutely fucking annoying at times, and he did that on purpose, which made it even more infuriating.
Maybe that was the reason they got along so well.
“It’s not fun, you’re acting like a middle schooler” Ranpo complained.
Poe laughed again. He was definitely having too much fun having him at the sharp end of the knife, even if just for once, “seems like someone here is upset.”
“You’re the one making it a big deal.”
“If it helps you feeling better about it” Poe smiled, then sat back down at his swivel chair, taking up with where he left off the writing of one of the thousands of his novels.
Ranpo stared at him, at the way his shoulders moved even so slightly at every letter, word, sentence he wrote, aggressively tapping the keyboard buttons like they were going to escape if he didn’t put them back to their place every few seconds. Ranpo was tired of waiting.
“You know what” he said, standing up.
Poe didn’t even have the time to answer, as his chair got violently brought back and turned. He suddenly found his own head between Ranpo’s arms, as the latter’s hands grasped on the back of the chair, holding it like his whole life depended on that.
Kissing felt… weird? Not in a bad way, of course. What confused him was how an act so simple, so theoretically stupid -after all, it was sticking your lips against another person’s ones, which really didn’t sound that appealing when put into words- felt so… good?
Maybe it was Poe’s hand, reaching up to cup his face and bringing him closer, or maybe his other hand, grabbing onto his arm like a safety handle as he slowly dragged him down with him and the chair, which now dangerously bent back against the desk. Kunikida would’ve spent at least ten minutes ranting about how that was an extremely dangerous action. But screw Kunikida, he never cared about his security guideline and he surely wasn’t gonna start doing that now.
Talk about the devil… the chair’s wheels suddenly, and dangerously, moved forward. It was probably because of the backrest leveraging against the desk, but it would’ve sent both of them to the floor if it hadn’t been for Poe’s unexpectedly fast reflexes. The man grabbed the wood surface behind them, while Ranpo fell forward, saving them by putting weigh on the chair seat and stopping it from further movements. However, he couldn’t save his head, as he ended up banging it against Edgar’s in a silent ‘thud’ that echoed in his skull.
“Ouch…” he heard the other whine, after a few seconds. He opened his eyes, just to be met with lavender ones a few inches away. Eye contact lasted about four seconds before Edgar coughed nervously and looked away.
“I’ll give it a seven out of ten” stated Ranpo “The first point got taken away because we almost died, which isn’t really your fault, but definitely didn’t make this a pleasant experience. The second because you broke eye contact after only four seconds, which is pretty high for your standards. Still, I hoped for at least five considering how much confident you sounded two minutes ago,” he poked him with his finger, a mischievous grin on his face, “the third because you’re annoying and you made me make the first move.”
“Excuse me?!” Poe looked back at him, scandalized eyes on a completely red painted face, making Ranpo laugh at his flustered expression. The more he got close with the writer, the hardest it had been for him to make him embarrassed. Well, seems like he had found a new way to do so, now.
“However, if you think you deserve a higher grade, you can still try again” he smiled, “but keep in mind, this is your last chance.”
The thing is, Poe was competitive. That was definitely a thing they had in common and one of the million details Ranpo had learnt to know by memory about him. He had learnt to recognize his footstep as he walked up the stair of the agency, always followed by a ticking sound made by Karl’s paws brushing against the cold stone steps. He got used to his untamed hair and he got used to his kind, boney and clumsy hands as they met once again his face to bring his closer. He got used to his eyes when he finally opened -or better, tore down- his curtains of insecurities. He got used to his eyes so much that he didn’t need to see them to remember exactly every little detail they contained, whether it was the little scar on his left eyelid or the different shades they took when meeting the midday sun. He didn’t need to look to picture them clearly in his mind, but if he did, he was sure he would’ve been met with a light reflection, shining like a neon light bulb between the dark grey and purple nuances. He didn’t need a mirror to know he could’ve saw it too, in his own eyes.