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Fukuzawa has never been afraid of admitting his weaknesses. His pride is not so brittle and fragile. He’s a flawed man. He’s done terrible things. And admitting that has helped him grow; he can atone and hone his strengths to compensate for his weaknesses.
But, as with all things, life has other plans.
“Old man.” A sickly, pathetic voice croaks from somewhere behind. “I don’t feel so good.”
Fukuzawa turns to look at the sorry excuse of a child leaning against the entrance to his office. Brown locks are stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his typically pale skin is flushed red. It’s hard to see his eyes, but he’s sure if he looked, they’d be glazed over, not nearly as astute and all-knowing as they usually seem to be. Ranpo’s legs shake as he tries to take a step forward, quivering like a newborn fawn.
In a flash, using his once-deadly skills, Fukuzawa reaches Ranpo and catches him before he falls face first onto the floor.
If there is one weakness Fukuzawa is unwilling to admit, it’s this child. Edogawa Ranpo. A fourteen year old pain in his ass, he’s managed to find any possible soft spot left in Fukuzawa and continues to exploit it without even realizing what he’s doing.
It’s part of his charm.
He holds the child in his arms, a moment longer than necessary. He can already tell he’s burning up from the extra heat radiating even through his thin nightclothes. Worry clenches its jaws around Fukuzawa’s heart.
Righting the child, he holds Ranpo’s shoulders and helps steady his balance, then puts his chin to Ranpo’s forehead. He can smell the sweat clinging to his skin. He’s feverish, and the longer they maintain contact, the warmer Ranpo becomes.
“You have fallen ill, child.” Fukuzawa pulls away but keeps his hold on Ranpo firm. “You must rest.”
“Ill? I’m fine! I don’t get sick. I’m Edogawa Ranpo, the world’s greatest—” he swallows thickly, and Fukuzawa has a sneaking suspicion of what exactly that was— “detective.”
“I fail to see the connection,” Fukuzawa deadpans. Yes, the child has powers of deduction that are beyond compare, but he is still human. He is not invincible.
The thought threatens to send a shudder down Fukuzawa’s spine.
“Of course you wouldn’t.” Ranpo’s words are slightly slurred and there’s even a giggle or two as he speaks. “Only I can! Everyone else is just… just too stupid.”
Fukuzawa rolls his eyes. The child is nearly delirious. If it wasn’t for his previously established God complex, it would sound even more egregious than it already does.
“Intelligence does not mean you are immune to illness. You need to rest.”
“If that’s all it is, then I’m good.” Ranpo brushes him off and attempts to make his way out of Fukuzawa’s office. He holds himself against the wall as support. “I’ll be fine. I’ll walk it off.”
Ranpo shuffles down the hallway. His legs barely move and most of his weight presses against the wall as he holds himself up. It’s pathetic. Sad. Yet somehow endearing.
Fukuzawa lasts all of three seconds before he’s scooping Ranpo up in his arms and carrying him to his room. Too weak to protest, Ranpo just wraps his arms around Fukuzawa’s shoulders until he’s being dumped onto his bed.
“Be still and rest. You’ll just make it worse.” Surprisingly, Ranpo complies, unmoving as Fukuzawa grabs additional pillows, knowing that Ranpo often likes to bury himself in a mountain of the things, and a thin blanket. When he’s done, Fukuzawa places his hand on top of Ranpo’s head. “I’ll be right back.”
Fukuzawa doesn’t miss the way Ranpo leans into his touch, and how he seems to chase after it when he pulls away. Something once again clamps down like a vice around his heart. He wants to stay—he doesn’t want Ranpo to feel alone, to want for anything. He wants to give Ranpo the affection and care he’s deserved yet been deprived of for most of his life.
Ranpo is his weakness. Or, more accurately, he is weak to Ranpo.
Forcing himself to move, Fukuzawa searches the home until he’s found a soft washcloth, then runs it under the water and wrings it out before bringing it back to Ranpo.
Sitting next to him and brushing back long, disheveled bangs, he places the washcloth on Ranpo’s forehead. Immediately, the tension in Ranpo’s brows clear and his expression softens. Ranpo lets out a low hum and sinks further into the small mound of pillows he’s amassed.
“Better?” he asks.
Ranpo gives a small, weak nod. “Mmhm.”
More relaxed, Ranpo’s eyes flutter open. At first they’re unfocused, but once Ranpo gets his bearings, a swath of emotions flood Fukuzawa. Ranpo is able to look at him with these large, adoring eyes. It makes it easy for Fukuzawa to feel like he’s doing some good . That despite his sins and everything he must atone for, that here is hope. That if he can give even a little comfort and support to this child, then things can be okay, and there may be hope for some happy ending for him after all. He doesn’t have to be a lone wolf, chained to his past as they drown him slowly.
At first, it feels a little selfish. But then Ranpo draws his attention as he shuffles around on the bed. He kicks off the swarm of pillows, not giving a single thought to the pile developing on the ground, and changes his position. Ranpo finally comes to a stop with his head in Fukuzawa’s lap, the washcloth somehow still sticking to his forehead. The blanket is only covering his legs and there is now not a single pillow left.
As Ranpo hums in contentment, Fukuzawa no longer focuses on the selfish nature of his thoughts. After all, Ranpo is content; he’s happy, he’s cared for, and if that also gives Fukuzawa a reprieve from the self-loathing that is becoming less commonplace, then so be it.
“Mr Bodyguard?”
Fukuzawa huffs a laugh at the nickname the child refuses to stop using. “Yes?”
This time, his voice is hushed, and Fukuzawa picks up on traces of insecurity. “Will you read to me?”
Fukuzawa doesn’t bother to hold back his smile. “Sure.”
Reaching over onto the nightstand, he grabs one of the many books Ranpo likes to keep on hand. He breezes through them as fast as lightning, generally guessing the entirety of the plot after only a page, perhaps two, and yet he continues to ask for more.
There is one that is set aside from the others; it has no bookmark, and so far looks as though it is untouched. The Murders in the Rue Morgue And Other Tales.
Fukuzawa grabs the book and opens to the first page. He stops, looking down at Ranpo who remains still in his lap. He considers repositioning them, considering the position is quite awkward and uncomfortable, but Fukuzawa knows better than to do such a frivolous thing.
Even in this kind of a state—maybe especially in this state—Ranpo is stubborn. It reminds Fukuzawa of something someone once said about cats. If they’re comfortable in your lap, you must wait and leave them undisturbed, even if it means your own demise.
Instead, one hand comes to rest atop Ranpo’s head, gently carding through the messy strands as he begins to read.
“The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis…”
He takes his time reading the words on the page, intermittently letting his fingers curl in and out of Ranpo’s hair, as if he truly was a cat nestled in his lap. Fukuzawa has never read such a dense and odd story, but considering Ranpo doesn’t interject, it seems he doesn’t mind. After several minutes, he realizes that Ranpo’s breathing has evened out, and he hasn’t heard a sound from the child in quite some time—odd for someone who, quite frankly, rarely shuts up.
“Ranpo? Are you awake?” he calls gently.
“Mm.”
Fukuzawa keeps his thumb in the spine to mark the page as he sets the book down to the side. “You’re oddly quiet. Have you figured out the culprit?”
“Of course I have.” Ranpo adjusts himself so Fukuzawa can see the hint of his smug grin. “The author basically spells it out for you before you even get to the story.”
Even in his weakened and pitiful state, Ranpo’s intellect amazes him. “Then would you like me to choose another?”
“No,” Ranpo responds a little too quickly, “It’s okay.” Fukuzawa is about to inquire, considering that isn’t very like him, but Ranpo speaks again in a low, hushed tone. “I like hearing you read it.”
A warmth emanates from Fukuzawa’s chest—pride, affection, and longing—and he continues reading.
Fukuzawa makes it to the end of the story. He pauses, and looks down at the child still resting in his lap. This time, it’s clear that Ranpo is asleep, so Fukuzawa subtly shifts his weight until he’s sliding out from beneath Ranpo’s head. Slowly, he repositions the sleeping child until he’s resting against his pillows. Fukuzawa covers him with the blanket and tucks him in.
A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Like this, Ranpo looks much more innocent and cherubic than he does when he’s awake. Now, like this, he looks like the actual child that he is and not the pseudo-adult he’s been made to be. Fukuzawa removes the old washcloth from Ranpo’s forehead.
Once again, he forgets himself. He forgets just how weak he is to Ranpo, this child that barged into his life, turned it upside down, and managed to come out having made it better. Fukuzawa leans in and presses his lips to Ranpo’s forehead.
“Old man?” Ranpo stirs.
“Just checking your temperature.” He pulls away and grabs the washcloth, folding it in his hands. “I’ll get you a new cloth.”
Before Fukuzawa can stand, a thin, clammy hand grabs his wrist. “Wait.” There’s a beat of silence before Ranpo makes a request. “Just five more minutes.”
Fukuzawa has made up his mind before Ranpo can even finish the sentence. Sighing a heavy breath, he readjusts himself, at least letting his back rest against the headboard. Ranpo climbs back into a similar position, and Fukuzawa returns to carding through his hair.
Ranpo is his weakness. But, as he brushes long bangs away from the lonely child’s face, watching a contented expression settle in as if it has belonged there all along, he knows he doesn’t mind. The drive and conviction it gives him—the bone deep need to protect this child and give him a place where he feels he can belong, to surround him with others who will do the same—is surely to become a strength.
“Five more minutes,” he repeats, knowing full well he will remain there as long as Ranpo desires.