Chapter Text
Warm light cascades onto Poe’s face, settling an enthral glow onto his dark features. The sunlight shines through a crack in the writer's curtains, illuminating the dust particles floating around, a dark bed post creaks and groans in the morning movement. Dark curtains are pulled back from a hooded bed allowing a dark figure to step into the light, the writer lets out a tired hum as he makes his way out the illuminated room and into a shadow blessed hallway. Dark oak stairs creak under the weight of the blessed writer, one after another each take the burden of the last. The creak of each step echoed through the old house, swallowed by high, vaulted ceilings and walls draped in shadow. Cold air coiled up from the carpeted oak floor below, brushing against his bare feet like something half-alive. Dust floated in the shafts of morning light that pierced the stained-glass window at the landing, painting fractured reds and deep purples on the gothic arches. Poe descended slowly, hand trailing along the carved banister, dark wood polished by generations of touch, now cool and slightly damp beneath their fingertips. The house groaned softly, as if disturbed by his presence. A faint, rhythmic clicking broke the silence, soft at first, like rain on cracked tiles.
Then clearer.
Sharper.
The sound of tiny claws tapping against wood, deliberate and slow, the creature wasn’t sneaking, but announcing itself. The nails scuttling on wood grow louder until they’ve reached Edgar, stopping and nuzzling into the tall man’s ankles.
“Mornin’ Karl”
His deep, raspy voice speaks, although the writer doesn't seem to notice the dramatic shift in his voice. The pair descended into the vast gloom of the ground floor, where silence pooled like shadow. To their left stretched a strikingly modern kitchen, an expanse of black surfaces and cold geometry. At its center, a sleek island of noir marble stood like a monolith, its surface veined with silver-grey, polished to a mirror sheen. High-backed chairs bordered its side, perched like sentinels, untouched and waiting. To their right unfolded a lounge steeped in the same shadowesque aesthetic. Vaulted ceilings arched overhead, supported by brooding gothic beams that disappeared into shadow. An enthralling sprawl of books lay scattered across low tables and tufted chairs, as though abandoned mid-reverie. At the heart of the room stood a grand stone fireplace, nestled between towering bookshelves that climbed toward the gloom above. The fire within roared with restless life, casting flickering gold across the spines of forgotten tomes and the polished floor below.
The two walk forward into the kitchen, poe’s garments flow behind him. Black silk pants that sit very loosely on his hips, revealing prominent hipbones, and a trail of dark hair trailing down. A dark satin robe tied lazily around his thin waist, his whole upper body is exposed, uncovering softly defined muscles and adequately sized pectorals. The round muscles surround a soft pink bud on each side, the bundle of nerves exposed to the cold morning air, his sharp, defined collarbone only accentuating his lanky figure. Large billowy sleeves wrap the writer's arms, making his each movement graceful, as if he were a prince of ancient times. Edgar lethargically trudges over to the coffee machine turning it on, and leaning against the counter, waiting. His inky bangs are pinned up away from his head, revealing two raven spheres dipped with a dusty lavender. His long angelic lashes are downturned, tired in sleep. The domesticity of all of it is frightening to Poe.
Imagine. Edgar Allan Poe, voluntarily shackled to a life of domesticity, its simplicity a grim jest,the laughability of it is palpable. To envision him indulging in the tender, hollow joys of freedom from that relentless competition which festers in the marrow of his soul is to paint a raven in white. For such quietude would be but a cruel mockery, a silence louder than madness, where the ink dries and the demons, unchallenged, begin to whisper sweeter lies. Peace, for a spirit like his, would not be salvation, it would be slow suffocation beneath the weight of a world too ordinary to haunt.
The loud sound of the coffee machine whirring to life, grinding beans with such fever that's only comparable to an industry standard bone pulper, pulls Poe from his woeful thoughts.There is a light at the end of the tunnel for him thought, recently Ranpo Edogawa had been inviting Edgar to a cafe to converse regarding recent disappearances in Yokohama. The general theory is that the port mafia has been getting rid of some loose mouthed adversaries, but the armed detective agency has been communicating with said port mafia. The mafia hasn't the slightest idea who's behind the killings, but is adamant in their innocence. Thus leading to the coupling's intertwined investigation, Poe has enough suspicion to deduce that Ranpo already knows the culprit, but for whatever reason is withholding such crucial information. Perhaps it to toy with the writer, knowing Ranpo, it seems likely, such a cruel jest that is. After all Ranpo is his dearest rival, the only one to ever best his supreme intelligence.
Ranpo is the only man, no, the only person to ever capture Edgar's heart like that, perhaps it's just an overwhelming infatuation and obsessive admiration that caused his descent into madness, his blood boiling rage that culminated until the tipping pot was turned into the purest form of motivation.
Ice cold, uncontrolled jealousy.
After all, there is no doubt in his twisted mind that at one point he hated his now adversary, he hated him with all of his body, with his wicked, twisted, corrupted, sinister, grotesque, depraved, perverted, and sinful mind.
Oh~ how in another lifetime he'd send poor Ranpo-kun running, no, screaming, slipping, crawling, pleading, sobbing for the hills of Golgotha. Having his mangled body drenched in the iron of his rival, once sent shivers of pleasure up his spine.
But alas after a long conversation with Fukuzawa (Once Poe started coming around the agency more, he was brought to Fukuzawa for light questions about his intentions, fair point as he is still technically a member of the guild, they has at least a 5 hour chat, in which case Fukuzawa came to the realisation that Edgar is almost completely harmless, and that Mr. Poe was undoubtedly obsessed with Ranpo-kun, in a romantic way. Fukuzawa was very helpful in that sense, making a thought from all of his suppressed feelings. And as embarrassed as Poe was, him being bashful and all, Fukuzawa was grateful. Ranpo has started to pick up some better habits that Poe exhibited, such as: eating fruit, not always interrupting others, and eating in moderation.) Poe had come to the stark realization that he, the tormented writer with a reclusive habit, was utterly undone by love. Even thinking about the shorter man would elicit a perverted thought from the taller man, it was a curse honestly, his creative genius was crushing his ability to day dream about the man without imagining a plethora of highly inappropriate thoughts, accompanied by an unwanted friend arising.
He startled at the sudden hiss of the coffee machine, a ghost exhaling in the silence, just as it completed its alchemy. In the cradle below sat a steaming cup of liquid gold, rich and reverent, as if brewed by the gods themselves. His fingers curled around the warm porcelain, and at the first sip, the world seemed to slow, the bitterness kissed his tongue like a dark promise, smooth and sharp. It threaded through his veins like silk and thunder, coaxing the sleep from his bones, peeling back the fog of morning with every swallow. For a fleeting moment, he felt almost holy, awake, alive, and entirely human. Poe was purely blissed out from the heavenly taste, letting a sinful moan escape his warm, plump lips. As a wake up call from the devil himself, his dormant phone erupted with life causing his pupils to go small, revealing more of that stunning purple. Karl, bless his soul, jumped a solid metre in height at the sudden cacophony of the ravens call. Edgar scrambled to seize his phone from the table, shakily lifting the device to his ear.
“Hel-”
“POE!!!!!! Morning!” Ranpo shouted with such fervour he might awaken the gods themselves.
“Morning, dearest. What is it that you need at this hour” Poe replied in his rough, sleepy voice.
“......ah, nothing much, just wanted to make sure you're free to come to the cafe again with me.” His voice sounded hesitant, that greatly worried Edgar.
“I can, but dearest, forgive me for asking, are you alright?”
“I-i ah, fuck, its nothing. Don’t worry about me Poe.”
Poe hummed through the phone
“Ill see you then, dearest”
Ranpo snickers a bit “yea, yea, goodbye Edgar”
Poe’s face starts to flush a deep crimson, the blood rushing, spreading all over his body until he looked as if he was like a rose blooming too quickly, its color overtaking every petal. In the detective’s mouth, Edgar’s name rang like a hymn, a blade of warmth slicing clean through the ice that had long encased the writer’s heart.
Ah, isn’t it laughable? Ironic, cruel, absurd—take your pick. Me? Edgar Allan Poe, pitiful wretch, pathetic shadow, creature stitched together from sorrow and ink. What business do I have with joy? What right have I to feel anything but the endless ache that has been my only companion? To glimpse something brighter, something gentler, is not a blessing but a punishment, for it reminds me of the gulf between what I am and what I dare to want.
And yet… desire claws at me. Selfish, shameless desire that stains every thought of him. Ranpo. His laughter, his brilliance, the warmth that does not belong to me, that must never belong to me. To give in would be to desecrate the fragile thread of our friendship, to poison it with the rot of my own vile body, my corrupted mind. I can almost see it: ruin, splintering us both, leaving only ashes where something precious once stood.
No. Better I stay bound in suffering, the one element of life I can call truly mine. Let joy belong to others. Let love belong to others. For me, there is only the page, the darkness, the endless gnawing irony of it all—that I, a man that writes of torment, should find my own heart so thoroughly damned by it.
Ranpo’s name still fresh on his mind, he begins the treacherous journey up the stairs, into his room to change. The writer puts layer after layer of pristine white fabric, then a black overcoat, and to top off his protective layer, a cape. Edgar readies himself for the long day ahead. Karl chitters from the corner of the room, paws busy investigating a pile of discarded papers. With a sigh and a fond smile, Edgar shoos the creature away from his drafts and offers a gentle pat on its head. Karl scampers to the door as if already aware of their destination. Adjusting his collar one last time, Edgar gathers his satchel, filled with notebooks and half-finished thoughts, and follows Karl down the narrow hallway. The morning air greets them as they step outside, cool and fresh drifting from the dewy grass of the morning. Cobbled stones crunch beneath his polished boots while Karl trots beside him, occasionally darting ahead to investigate a gutter or sniff at a lamppost. Edgar keeps a steady pace, mind flickering with anticipation. The café lies just a few blocks away, its familiar windows glowing with the promise of warmth and conversation. Today, he will meet his dearest Ranpo. By the time the bell above the café door jingles, Edgar has rehearsed a dozen possible greetings, each one slipping away like smoke. Karl scrambles off the writer's shoulders onto the chair beside him as he finally settles at a corner table, ready for the day’s encounter.