Archive of Our Own

When Ranpo wakes, he’s face-to-face with Edgar.

At first, Edgar is just barely visible in the dim lighting of the room, courtesy of his thick, black curtains blocking out the morning sun. Soon enough, though, Ranpo’s eyes get used to the darkness, and he lets them roam over Edgar’s face as he blinks away sleep the best he can.

In the past few months Ranpo has found himself filing away details about Edgar that he has never worried about in any other person. Noticing the physical characteristics of those he meets has always been a reflex, old and automatic. It’s been ingrained in him for as long as he can remember; he might even have been born with it. It came with being a great detective, after all: anything could be a clue, and anyone a suspect.

However, this is different. These are all useless particulars, features that make Edgar himself and distinct him from everybody else, but Ranpo knows they would never be useful evidence in a case. And yet, his thoughts linger over the information he gathers, and he soon realized that he wants to think about Edgar, about all of these little, incredibly lovely quirks.

Edgar’s wrists are thin and graceful, and he sometimes rubs at them when he’s nervous. His fingers are very long but bony, and Ranpo’s are much shorter but a little thicker. He always runs cold, which Ranpo knows from holding his hand when they go on walks, but because of all of the layers he wears on a daily basis his torso is usually quite warm ― which Ranpo knows from snaking his hands under Edgar’s shirt and resting them on his soft stomach when they cuddle in bed.

Now, Ranpo smooths Edgar’s hair gently. It’s fluffy as always, he notes, feathery and silky, despite how much of a mess it is. It’s so curly it winds around his fingers. It’s falling into Edgar’s face but not like it usually does, this time it covers less of him, just frames his closed eyes and brushes his high cheekbones.

Ranpo’s hand eventually trails down to Edgar’s cheek. He notices Edgar stirs awake at the contact before he can pull back.

“Ranpo...” Edgar’s voice is low and the tiniest bit hoarse from sleep. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his own hand clumsily slides out from under the sheets and slowly finds Ranpo’s. “What is it? Problem?”

It seems he’s not quite as eloquent and well-spoken when he’s just woken up. Ranpo makes sure to note that as well.

“I’m hungry,” he says, though that isn’t much of an explanation or much of the truth. Of course, breakfast doesn’t sound bad at all, but he’d rather stay here and watch Edgar, make sure every single expression and every single sigh that slips from him as he inches towards consciousness is branded inside his mind. He doesn’t think he’d get bored of doing that every day, just to make sure he catches any slight differences from the previous times.

Edgar is very expressive ― so much so it sometimes seems to Ranpo as if whatever he is feeling projects all around him. When he smiles, it lights up the whole room. He tries to be polite with his anxiety or distress but he never hides them successfully. His anger is all-consuming and visibly thrums through his whole body. When he’s confident or determined, it shows in crooked grins and intense, blazing eyes; it pulls Ranpo’s full attention to him as unequivocally as shining a spotlight in a dark theater would. Even now, when he is unguarded and untroubled, warm and comfortable, it seems like time stops and the world becomes hushed, soothed into serenity to match him.

Edgar hums, long and non-committal, and Ranpo moves his hand and pinches his nose shut until Edgar’s face scrunches up in that cute way it always does when he’s miffed.

“Alright,” Edgar slurs, his movements still ungraceful as he bats away Ranpo’s fingers. “I’m getting up...”

“Are you now,” Ranpo says, mercifully retreating his attack, mouth twitching into a smile. Edgar’s only response is a quiet snore.

It’s tempting, the idea of just staying where he is, close to his boyfriend. He even considers bothering him some more until he actually does get up so that they can eat together. But it’s rare for Edgar to have a full night of rest, considering how hard it is for sleep to find him, and he’s been stressing about an upcoming deadline, too, and Ranpo would definitely end up feeling bad if he didn’t let him relax like he deserves.

And unluckily, Ranpo doesn’t have the luxury to spend the entire morning in bed, as the Agency needs him. He lets himself pout at the ceiling for a minute, before finally standing up and stretching.

Warm fur brushes against his legs, and he looks down with a smile. He’s glad to find that at least he will have Karl to keep him company in the kitchen.

“Somehow you have a better sleep schedule than your owner. That’s why you’re my favorite,” he murmurs conspiratorially, leaning down to scratch him behind the ear. Karl wastes no time in climbing up his arm and onto his shoulders, and then he’s finally leaving their bedroom, making sure to close the door behind him, just in case they make too much noise.

After that, he lets muscle memory guide him through the process of making himself breakfast. He grimaces at the coffee that is brewing while he peels a mandarin orange to feed to Karl. He hates the bitterness, and he will have to sweeten it up with sugar and creamer until the taste is actually bearable , but caffeine does help when he needs energy and to wake up fully.

It’s only when he’s pouring it in the cup that he notices he used way too much ground coffee for one person. He could blame it on the early hour, or on being distracted by Karl, but he knows it’s because he’s used to having Edgar here with him, to having at least two cups placed on the table. Well, it’s no problem, either way: Edgar will probably be grateful to find already-made coffee ready to be reheated later.

He guesses it’s true that time flies when he spends it with someone he likes: somehow, he didn’t register that they have been living together long enough to settle into that kind of routine. He thinks back to Edgar bundled up in blankets despite the summer heat and to his soft morning voice, he looks to the still half-full coffee pot and to Karl sitting on the counter munching on orange slices, and then he thinks again, I want to do this every day.

Now that there is the smell of coffee helping him shake the sleepiness away, that realization feels much more clear and meaningful, almost like a shock of cold water but way less unpleasant. He lets his spoon clang against the ceramic of the cup, briefly forgetting about the sugar that still needs stirring.

Huh. That’s interesting.

Very interesting indeed, Ranpo muses hours later, now at the agency. He’s never looked forward to doing chores around the house or preparing meals, and much as he likes Karl peeling or cutting up fruit (to give to someone else, too!) have never been activities he considers fun . But the more he thinks about the coffee pot and the orange slices, the more certain he is about it: even if he had to do that for the rest of his life, he wouldn’t complain.

On any other day, he might have been at least slightly reprimanded for paying no attention to their work, but today he’s hardly the only person thinking about completely unrelated things. The heat makes them all unproductive and tired, and the only one who is on some level still motivated to do his job properly is Kunikida. In trying to keep up with the growing piles of paperwork, however, he has ended up straining his hand. Normally when that happens he still tries to push through until the evening, but even he appears to have less energy than usual, and he’s been glancing at the door pretty frequently. He’s distracted because he’s worried about Dazai, clearly: Ranpo is sure he’s fine, but they have yet to see him, and honestly he wouldn’t put it past him to wear that long trench coat outside to purposely give himself a heatstroke.

As if Kunikida successfully summoned him through sheer willpower alone, the door swings open to reveal Dazai, smiling serenely and dripping wet. He is not wearing the trench coat, after all.

Kunikida’s worry fades and anger takes its place in record time. “I see you finally decided to show up!”

“Kunikida-kun, maybe you should’ve come with me!” Dazai skips inside, uncaring of the drops of water that fall from him. “You look pretty hot, and the river was so nice today!”

Kunikida self-consciously wipes sweat from his brow, but still barks, “You’re dripping all over the floor!”

“It was glittering like a precious crystal under the sunlight, and the water was so calm and fresh!” Dazai continues, sighing wistfully. “Truly the perfect setting for a romantic double suicide! Alas, I could find nobody to join me―”

Kunikida’s frown deepens. “Quit talking about that. Get to work.”

Dazai slumps down on his chair, making Atsushi scoot away from him with a grimace to avoid the water. “Kunikida-kun still doesn’t get it,” he says, pursing his lips and crossing his arms. “I know that your policy is "no double suicides before marriage" and all that, but maybe―”

“Dazai, you―!”

Ranpo almost wants to listen to Kunikida’s lecture for the entertainment value, but his focus zeroes in on one of the words Dazai said, and he ends up zoning their bickering out.

Marriage. He guesses that’s the logical step to take for two people who are going to spend their whole lives together. He’s never thought much about weddings, as romantic relationships as a whole didn’t interest him for years, and he can’t say he understands the point of it― nothing would change about him and Edgar, if not maybe a decorative title, and the months of meticulous planning that come before the ceremony sound like a pain.

He’s ready to dismiss the idea entirely, but it takes him exactly two seconds to deduce that Edgar does care about marriage. A lot. Much as he denies it, he is a hopeless romantic at heart, and a little old-fashioned, as well, and sappy gestures like getting down on one knee and offering up a ring are right up his alley. If Ranpo were to ask him to get married, he would be over the moon.

He chews thoughtfully on a hard piece of candy. They can’t legally get married here, but they could go to America... Ranpo doesn’t like traveling much, though. They could just, well, hold a little gathering with their friends and then say they were married ― as long as Ranpo popped the question Edgar would probably be happy, and it’s the thought that counts, anyway, right? The price of the ring could be a problem: he might have to steal Edgar’s credit card, and then make sure to hide what he bought from him. Should he set a certain mood to ask, or something? Edgar usually appreciates that sort of thing, so he’ll have to consider it.

There are a lot of factors to take into account, and Ranpo isn’t looking forward to dealing with something he has never paid any mind to, but... it is doable. To make Edgar happy, at least.

... has Edgar been rubbing off on him? Ranpo hasn’t become as sappy as him, right?

Ranpo’s train of thought is interrupted by a yelp and the sound of someone slipping. It seems like the puddle of water left by Dazai has claimed its first victim. He lifts his head to find that said victim is none other than his boyfriend, because of course it is.

Edgar is sitting on the floor, rubbing his back with a pained expression and clutching a manuscript to his chest.

Ranpo chuckles. “Everything alright, babe?”

Edgar sends him a glare that is severely dulled by the red flush spreading across his face. Kenji is next to him, offering a sunny smile and a hand to tug him up, and Edgar accepts it with many flustered thanks, scurrying away as soon as he’s free to go.

“Thank you for the help, my dear,” he mutters sourly once he’s close enough, sitting down on the chair next to Ranpo’s desk that is reserved to him. Karl jumped off of his shoulder when Edgar slipped, but he leaps up on his lap now, surveying the empty wrappers sitting around Ranpo.

“It’s too hot to move,” Ranpo complains, leaning closer to the whirring fan he has taken for himself. The Agency’s air conditioning is mediocre at best, so they usually need to fill the office up with heaps of them when temperatures rise. Edgar must share his distaste for the heat, considering he has shown up without his beloved cape and clipped part of his fringe away from his forehead.

“That was mortifying,” Edgar whispers. “Why is the floor of the entryway wet?”

“Dazai.”

Edgar turns to look at a still-damp Dazai, who waves cheerily at him despite Kunikida ranting in front of him. Edgar weakly returns the gesture.

“The river?”

“The river.” Ranpo straightens a little in his chair, motioning to the stack of papers Edgar is still carrying. “Are you done with the new novel?”

“No.” Edgar holds it out of reach of Ranpo’s grabby hands. “In fact, I’m here because I was hoping to... to speak to Yosano-sensei. For research.”

Ranpo pouts. “Ah, so you’re not here to save your boyfriend from this hard, stressful job? How cruel!”

“The hard, stressful job that you’re not even doing?” Edgar lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Before Ranpo can retort and stick his tongue out at him, Edgar’s attention is stolen by Kyouka, who, silent as always, has sidled up to him without being noticed and is softly tapping on his shoulder.

“Hello, Kyouka-chan,” he says, blinking in surprise. “Do you need something?”

“Can I pet Karl, please?” She asks politely, joining her hands under her chin, with a serious expression that almost clashes with the gesture.

Karl chitters at the sound of his name, and Kyouka’s eyes glint as they flit to him. Edgar smiles slightly at her, spinning in his chair a little to face her better. “I think Karl would be more than happy to be petted.” He pauses for a second. “Would you like to feed him, as well?”

“Yes,” she says quickly, her eyes widening. After a second, she adds, “Please.”

“I fed him earlier this morning,” Ranpo butts in. “He’s gonna get fat ― more than he already is, that is.”

“It’s been a few hours. And Karl is not fat,” Edgar says with a frown. “His fur is very fluffy.”

Kyouka nods earnestly next to him. “He’s very soft.”

Edgar sends him a smug smile, knowing that he’s won the argument with Kyouka backing him up. Ranpo shrugs and opens a bag of chips. He doesn’t actually think Karl shouldn’t eat more ― he is pretty round for sure, but Ranpo doesn’t know what the healthy weight for a domesticated raccoon is, and as long as Karl seems to be happy Edgar can feed him as much as he wants. He just thinks it’s cute how defensive Edgar gets over him.

“Let’s go sit on the couch,” Edgar says, now back to talking with Kyouka. “I brought an apple for him to eat. I’ll cut it up for you.”

“You don’t need to. I can cut it myself,” Kyouka says, reaching for the blade she always keeps on herself.

“Uhm, better not! Don’t worry, I’ll do it,” Edgar says, looking panicked for a second, steering her towards the couch.

The couch is not far from Ranpo’s desk, so he can still listen in on their conversation as he eats the chips. Edgar’s interactions with Kyouka are strangely wholesome: he’s surprisingly great with kids, for someone who can be so skittish around people, and she seems to look up to him. Maybe because she sees him as someone who is really good with animals.

Edgar places his papers to the side and slips an apple and a pocket knife out of the bag that he brought with him. As he starts working, he asks, “You really do like animals, do you not, Kyouka-chan?”

Kyouka stops petting Karl’s head to take the first apple slice. A small smile blooms on her lips when Karl reaches up for the treat and squeaks, and her expression turns to one of wonder when he takes it in his paws and brings it up to his mouth. She seems to remember Edgar’s question after a few seconds, when she nods almost timidly.

“Do you have a favorite?”

Kyouka thinks for several moments, her face becoming solemn, as if this answer is the most important thing in the world. “I like cats a lot. The President takes me to cat cafés sometimes. But my favorites are rabbits.”

Edgar stops halfway through cutting another slice. “Rabbits?” He looks at Kyouka, then down at the apple in his hands, then back up. He smiles at her. “Have you ever tried apple bunnies?”

“Apple bunnies?” Kyouka looks at him with interest, before shaking her head.

“Oh, they are nothing special,” Edgar flusters a little, starting to cut the skin of the apple in a v-shape. “They are... just apples, really, but... I think they are cute.”

Ranpo has to hold back the urge to make it known that he was the one to first tell Edgar about apple rabbits ― his parents, and later Fukuzawa, used to always cut apples like that, because it was the only way Ranpo would accept to eat fruit when he was younger. He says nothing instead, because he doesn’t want to interrupt their conversation.

When Edgar holds out the slice for Kyouka, she takes it gently, placing her fingers carefully so that she doesn’t press down on the raised peel of the apple, which now resembles a pair of ears. She stares at it attentively, her eyes intense when she tilts her head to look up at him. “Thank you very much. I’m going to show this to Kenji-kun.”

And then she’s off towards Kenji, leaving Edgar on the couch, too far for her to hear when he says, “You’re supposed to eat it...”

Now that he’s by himself again, Ranpo decides to get up and plop himself down next to him to keep him company, even if that means leaving his chips behind; it is way too hot to cuddle here, but he guesses he can stand to lean against Edgar’s side. Karl climbs over Edgar’s legs and into Ranpo’s lap, poking his nose around his pockets. They are empty, but Ranpo still takes hold of him to tug him away. “Your little demon here is still hungry.”

“Maybe you didn’t give him enough food this morning,” Edgar teases, pressing closer to Ranpo as he goes back to cutting the fruit in his hand.

“Ranpo-san does tend to be stingy when it comes to food,” comes Akiko’s voice from a few feet away.

When Ranpo turns to gawk at her in offense, he finds her dropping an ice pack on Kunikida’s desk and grinning at him. “Excuse you,” he protests, “I’m not stingy! And I gave Karl plenty of food.”

“Sure, sure.” Akiko shrugs, her heels clicking as she crosses the room.

“Being condescending is forbidden.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She gives them a sharp smile, placing a hand on her hip. No gloves today ― as long as she doesn’t need to touch bodies, she probably wants to avoid her hands sweating through the dark fabric. “Good morning, Poe-san. Everything alright?”

“More than,” Edgar says weakly, stiffening in his seat.

He’s slowly getting more and more used to every member of the Agency, but Akiko still intimidates him a little. They get along fine, and Akiko has long since stopped holding a grudge against him due to that one time she died in his novel, but that doesn’t mean she completely gave up on teasing him. The opposite would be strange, considering she likes to mess with just about any one of her friends ― honestly, Ranpo believes that her occasionally threatening Edgar is a good sign, but Edgar is hardly convinced.

“Good, good,” she says, though she doesn’t look too pleased. She drops on the couch as well, on Edgar’s free side, leaning back against the cushions as she crosses her legs. She observes Edgar’s fingers as they cut one last apple slice and extend it to Karl, and then she pipes up again. “Say, Poe-san, do you have any recommendations on nail polish?”

“Nail polish...?” Edgar repeats, uncertainty lacing his voice.

Akiko holds up one of her hands. Her nails are painted a dark red, but the coat of color on her index finger is slightly ruined. “The nail polish I use gets chipped so easily.” She purses her lips. “Somehow, yours is always perfect. You need to tell me your secrets.”

Ranpo glances at Edgar’s nails, even though he already knows how they look. They’re long and painted black, as they usually are, shiny under the artificial lights of the office. Edgar says that doing his nails helps him relax, especially when he’s struggling with one of his works. Sometimes, Ranpo lets him paint his own nails and ramble on about which parts of the plot were bothering him, but he often ends up forgetting that he’s wearing nail polish and that he should be more careful with how he handles things, and it doesn’t take long for it to get damaged. He can admit that watching Edgar go through the slow process of applying the coat of paint is soothing, though.

Edgar chuckles. “Well, I’ve tried my fair share of nail polish from different brands. The one I use now is really good! It lasts for at least a week, usually.” His voice lowers, then, clearly getting more shy. “I wouldn’t mind pointing it out to you in a store, if you’d like.”

Akiko smiles. “That would be nice. I’m sure Ranpo-san here will be happy to help us find a day when we can meet up.”

Ranpo narrows his eyes at her. Is his best friend planning to whisk his boyfriend away for a whole day? To go shopping? That can’t be good. In fact, knowing Akiko, it sounds like a recipe for disaster. Usually, going shopping with her means trailing behind her and acting as a bag holder and little else; considering how Edgar is, though, generally willing to be helpful and also admittedly desperate to be well-liked by what Ranpo considers pretty much his family, he would not object at all.

“It did take a while to find one this durable,” Edgar goes on mumbling, voice low but not quite so much that Ranpo or Akiko can’t hear him. “But I had plenty of time to experiment and test new ones when I was working for the Guild. It was uncommon for the paint to last. After all, sometimes things could get...” His brows knit as he looks for a fitting adjective. “... Messy?”

To say the least, Ranpo thinks as Akiko barks out a laugh. “Oh, I know exactly what you mean,” she says, that distinct glimmer in her eyes that usually means you should run as far away as possible.

Edgar pays no mind to that and perks up instead, lips curving into a smile. He always does get visibly more comfortable after easing into a conversation through familiar topics ― nail polish and work getting "messy" , in this case. “I hope I’m not overstepping with this,” he starts, rummaging through his bag until he emerges with a notepad and a fountain pen. “And you don’t have to humor me if you don’t want to, but― I was wondering if I could ask you a physiology-related question? It’s for my new novel. I have done some research, of course, but so far all results have been contradictory, and... embarrassingly enough, I must admit that my deadline is approaching, and I should send a finished draft over as soon as possible. Given your expertise, I would be really grateful if―”

Edgar tends to ramble when he is a little uneasy, and he becomes even more talkative when the subject matter is related to his writing and novels; but when he realizes he might have been talking too much, he often ends up clamming up and getting so self-conscious that he sometimes avoids speaking entirely. Ranpo is good at noticing when that might happen and at stopping him before it gets to that, but this time he doesn’t need to.

Akiko waves a hand, cutting him off gently. “Don’t fret, Poe-san. Ask away.”

Ranpo still curls a hand around Edgar’s elbow as he breathes out slowly. “I cannot thank you enough. How long, exactly, is a person’s brain technically active after "death" ― that is, after the heart stops? Considering your ability, as well, I reckoned you would be the most qualified person to answer this.”

The grin that takes over Akiko’s expression has an unsettling edge. “That is a very good question.”

Before she can answer Edgar’s query properly, someone clears their throat, catching her attention. It’s Kunikida, fingers rubbing slowly over the back of one of his hands and wearing a pinched expression. “I apologize for the interruption,” he says. “But the ice you gave me has melted. Do you have any more in your office?”

“What, already?” Akiko sighs, but she does get up, smoothing out her skirt. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Hey, why does Kunikida get ice? That’s not fair,” Ranpo complains loudly. He huffs and reaches up to loosen his tie even more, suddenly more aware of the heat. “I want ice too.”

“It’s for his hand,” Akiko says, flicking him on the forehead as she goes. Ranpo pouts after her, rubbing the offended spot. “You’ll get ice when you also strain your hand.”

“Oh.” Edgar winces from beside Ranpo. When Kunikida sends him a look, he raises his hands, dropping notepad and pen into his lap. “Ah, I mean, I know what that is like! When I was younger, I used to hurt my hand often from writing too much.”

Ranpo snorts. “"When I was younger", really? You were complaining about your wrist getting sore just a week ago.”

“Well, I-I didn’t strain my hand,” Edgar protests, though his tone isn’t particularly firm. “I’ve learned to be careful and not push myself too much.”

Ranpo finds that to be a very good thing. Edgar’s hands are precious. He wouldn’t want them to be seriously hurt.

“Actually, now that I think about it―” He goes back to rifling through the contents of his bag, this time producing a different type of pen. His attention returns to Kunikida, and though he starts twirling the pen between his fingers, fidgeting as he’s wont to do when agitated, he seems to be doing fine when Kunikida makes direct eye contact. “I found that pens with padded grips can be of great help. Of course, you shouldn’t go back to writing now while your hand is still injured, but... you could try to use this in the future, if you need to work for longer periods of time.”

When he tries to give Kunikida the pen he’s holding, Kunikida shakes his head, but his trademark scowl softens considerably. “I can’t possibly accept this.”

“Oh, no, it is fine, really,” Edgar insists. “I prefer using quills anyway.”

“And we have way too many pens at home,” Ranpo can’t help but tack on. He earns an almost-offended glance from Edgar, but even he knows that it is the truth: Ranpo keeps a mental list of places in which he found pens when they shouldn’t have been there ― inside the bathtub, under his own pillow, right next to one of Karl’s food bowls.

Kunikida still hesitates, but Edgar is quite stubborn. He wins out in the end as Kunikida reaches out to accept the gift and pocket it. He nods his head to express his gratitude, and when he tips it back up he looks somewhat touched. “In that case, thank you for your generosity.”

Kunikida was initially the most cautious around Edgar ― an attitude mirrored by Edgar himself, whose typical jumpiness doubled in front of someone as uptight and intimidating as Kunikida. However, Kunikida quickly developed a sort of soft spot for Edgar ever since he noticed how productive and energetic Ranpo became when he was around. At that time Ranpo may or may not have worked harder on purpose specifically to reach that goal (but he probably would have anyway even without it in mind, as it is difficult to put up a fight against Edgar when he smiles at him like that and promises him snacks and kisses later). Kunikida looks tough on the outside, but it is surprisingly easy to get into his good graces; he’s tender at his core.

When Akiko returns with a brand-new ice pack for Kunikida, and while they are distracted talking to each other, Ranpo turns his head into Edgar’s chest so that his voice is muffled by Edgar’s shirt when he says, “Be honest: you said that you used to hurt your hand often when you were younger and so you learned to be more careful, but that’s not all. What else did you do?”

Edgar makes a disappointed noise at being put on the spot like that. Ranpo doesn’t intend to tell him, but he always stutters when he keeps information from Ranpo. “Well, I couldn’t just stop writing... so I taught myself how to write with my left hand. But I wouldn’t recommend that .” He claims that he wouldn’t, but really, he sounds complacent.

Ranpo snorts. Edgar certainly is stubborn.

“I was thinking we could try to make space here,” Edgar says, stretched on his tiptoes to fiddle with a few books on their highest shelf in their living room. “Maybe move these to our room...”

“Uh-huh,” Ranpo says, staring directly at the way Edgar’s fingertips trail down the spines of those books. Ink blots dotting his skin stand out starkly against it.

“And then we can put the cacti up here, so there’s less of a chance for Karl to reach them and knock them down or hurt himself...”

“Uh-huh.” Ranpo has always found Edgar’s hands pretty. He likes the way his fingers move, graceful and slender like flower stems, purposeful and considerate like every motion is essential. They’re gentle when they curl around quills and when they run through Ranpo’s hair, but they’re powerful too: Ranpo is well-acquainted with the incredible worlds they can create. If Ranpo were to pick out a ring, it would have to be perfect: it’s only reasonable because Edgar’s hands are.

“They don’t need much care, right? So they should be fine.”

“Uh-huh.” What color would suit him the most? Ranpo isn’t really an expert in the materials used for jewelry. A warm gold band would have an emphatic contrast, but a silver-colored ring would definitely compliment his style more. Plus, he knows that most of the jewelry Edgar owns is silver... or white gold, maybe? That exists, right? Either way, Edgar’s belongings are damning pieces of evidence.

“Ah... Goodness, these are squeezed really close together, huh...”

“Uh-huh.” Great, he has deduced that a silver ring would be the best ― or white gold. Whatever. That’s a lead! The next step is―

“Ranpo.” Edgar gives up on trying to grab the books and drops back down on the soles of his feet, his pretty hands falling to his hips. Ranpo’s eyes snap to his face. Edgar’s looking down at him with a small frown, one eyebrow raised. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Sorry,” Ranpo says after a beat, hoping his cheeks aren’t coloring. “I was distracted. I’m thirsty.”

The truth, and after that just a half-lie. He could go for a drink right now. The summer heat is implacable, especially in the late afternoon.

Edgar tilts his head like he’s wondering if he should question him more, but he leans down to place a kiss on Ranpo’s forehead, and when he straightens up again he’s smiling. “Well, I don’t think I can take those books down at the moment, so I’ll prepare something for you now. I’ll try again later with a stool, but you will have to help me so I don’t fall.”

“Sure,” Ranpo answers, beaming up at him. “I’ll hold your hips real tight.”

Edgar rolls his eyes. “Yes, and you will not tickle my sides, shove your head under my shirt and blow raspberries on my back while you’re at it.”

“I will not do that.”

Edgar stares at him for a few seconds, looking wary. “I’m not sure if I believe you, but fine.”

Edgar is off to the kitchen then, and Ranpo is free to fall on their couch, sprawling as he faces the ceiling. Karl, who was napping on it before Ranpo disturbed him, chitters as if to berate him for what he did but crawls closer until he can nestle against his side.

“Karl, can you help me pick out a ring?” He whispers to the dozing raccoon. Clearly the heat is driving him insane. He used to make fun of Edgar for asking for Karl’s advice as if he was a person. He huffs, crossing his arms. “I’m supposed to choose a stone now, right? It’s too hard. There are so many different ones for no reason. Do I have to do research? That sounds like a nightmare.”

It’s not like he expected an answer, but he still feels sort of betrayed when the only noise that comes from Karl is a sleepy purr.

“How does tea sound?” Edgar calls to him from the kitchen.

Ranpo sits up abruptly, yelling back, “Ugh, it’s too hot for tea! Do we have ramune?”

“Do we ever not have ramune?” Edgar is muttering when Ranpo steps into the kitchen, while he retrieves drinks from their fridge.

“I heard that,” Ranpo says, snatching a bottle from Edgar’s hands and offering him a wide smile when Edgar turns an unimpressed look on him. “Ramune’s a blessing on earth, I tell you. It’s not my fault your taste buds are defective!”

Edgar dislikes all kinds of fizzy drinks, and, worse than that, he’s not particularly keen on sweet things. Ramune is definitely included, but he still stocks up on it when he goes shopping for Ranpo, so he is forgiven.

Edgar shakes his head, but he looks fond. “Whatever you say, my love. Try not to hurt yourself if you want to take the marble out of it while I go look for our stool.”

“It was one time!” Ranpo whines. It was two. Edgar has an incredibly good memory, and the unconvinced hum he leaves Ranpo with shows that he recalls both instances perfectly.

By the time Ranpo has gulped down every last drop of ramune and broken the marble out of its glass confines (with no injuries, might he add), Edgar is back and they can try to free up some space on their highest shelf again.

Edgar moves a chair in front of the bookcase, instead of the infamous stool, because he couldn’t find it. At least, that’s what Edgar claims: the truth is he hid it in one of the two closets in their basement to avoid a repeat of the last time they needed it, because using a chair would force Ranpo to hold onto it for stability instead of Edgar’s hips. He told his lie with a straight face, but Ranpo can see right through him, of course; and Edgar can see right through Ranpo, so they both know. Edgar stared him in the eyes, challenging him to do or say something. Ranpo just shrugged. He certainly has no intention of descending the dozens of stairs leading to the basement all to recover a stool to prove that he knew Edgar was lying, though it was tempting.

With the added height, it’s easier for Edgar to carefully slide the set of old books out. The chair doesn’t wobble at all, but he insists Ranpo keep his hands on it because he is an incurable worrywart. But it is probably a good thing that Ranpo is holding it steady when he casually remembers a conversation he had with Fukuzawa in the morning, right after arriving at the Agency.

“Oh, by the way,” he pipes up, “The old man wants to meet you.”

Edgar’s whole frame jolts and Ranpo has to tighten his grip to still the chair. “What?!” Edgar exclaims, free hand now holding onto the bookshelf in front of him, as if he needs that added security to not fall to the floor. “ What? When?!”

“I don’t know, tomorrow?” Ranpo lifts his shoulders. Fukuzawa didn’t specify a time, but the sooner the better, right?

“ What,” Edgar squawks again, now placing his free hand on his forehead, pushing away his bangs. “Oh, that is― why did you only tell me this now?!”

“I forgot,” Ranpo says bluntly. “Will you get down? My neck hurts from talking to you like this.”

“Oh, this is very bad,” Edgar frets, clearly not having heard him. Ranpo would snicker at him for the adjective choice ― something that Edgar’s writer’s pride would not usually let him say ― if he wasn’t busy huffing and slumping forward, leaning his elbows on the back of the chair.

“Why? Are you busy tomorrow, or something?” Ranpo knows he isn’t. And if he does have something planned, it’s probably something that won’t take up much time or that isn’t all that important.

“No, no, but― oh, I am not ready for this!” Edgar cries out, suddenly dumping the stack of books into Ranpo’s arms (it is a miracle he manages to catch them, honestly) and clumsily jumping down. He starts pacing the room then, wringing his hands together. “This must be a test of some kind! Surely he expects something from me, but what could he possibly wish for? I need at least four days to prepare properly and devise the best possible step-to-step plan for this to go perfectly― no, scratch that, at least a week! No, no, I cannot take such a long time when he has asked―”

“Woah, okay,” Ranpo says loudly, slamming the books down on the chair (if he was in his right mind, Edgar would probably chide him for being indelicate) and hurrying towards his panicking boyfriend. “This is not a test, he doesn’t expect anything in particular, and you don’t need to prepare. It’s just an... official meeting, or something like that.”

He grasps Edgar’s shoulders and spins him around, opening his eyes to catch his stare. It’s possible to do so, since Edgar has messed with his fringe. The look Edgar gives him is distraught, his hands anxiously clasped near his chest. “Official meeting... Will he challenge me to a duel? I’m done for.”

“Alright, you are getting ridiculous,” Ranpo deadpans, leaning back and reaching up to squish his cheeks. Usually, when Edgar acts this dramatic, it is fairly easy to shake him out of his funk. “Listen: the old man is sentimental like that, so he wants to get to know you a little. Yes, it is because I’m dating you,” he says when Edgar opens his mouth to retort, squeezing his face firmly before letting him go. “And yes, I do care about his opinion. But even if he ended up not liking you, which will not happen, by the way, that won’t really matter.” He gently disentangles Edgar’s hands, rubbing his own thumbs on his skin. “Because I love you, and―” He plants a kiss on Edgar’s knuckles. “―you’re the one I want to spend my life with.”

Edgar’s lips tremble, just barely, and for one second exactly Ranpo is worried he might cry before they split into a huge, enamored grin. “Oh, Ranpo, that was so sweet!”

Ranpo grimaces. He feels a little ridiculous himself now. “Yeah. Wow, that’s usually your thing.”

Edgar chuckles, intertwining their fingers. “It’s a nice role swap.” He closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath. When he speaks again, it’s with the soft smile and mellow tone that Ranpo is fond of. “I... can’t help being nervous. Fukuzawa-san is important to you, and you’re important to me ― more than important. I’m afraid I might do something wrong... but you are right, as you always are, my dear.”

“Obviously,” Ranpo says, grinning back at him.

“Obviously,” Edgar repeats, amused. “Still, I hope not to disappoint his expectations...”

“He has no expectations, Ed, I promise,” Ranpo assures him. He’s being literal: Fukuzawa didn’t even think Ranpo would ever date seriously and settle down with a person. And Ranpo talked to him numerous times about how deeply Edgar understood him, how frequently he still blew Ranpo away with his brilliance and ingenuity. He won’t say that now because he’s hit his sentimentality quota for the day.

Edgar is in a good mood for the rest of the evening. He lets Ranpo climb onto the chair to set their several cacti on the shelf, and he doesn’t even complain when, instead of hopping down normally, Ranpo jumps onto him with no warning, making them both tumble to the floor.

The following day, Ranpo has breakfast alone once again. This time he does his absolute best not to disturb Edgar: he stayed up late last night, bustling about downstairs in their kitchen and living room; Ranpo only felt him crawl into bed with him in the early hours of the morning. On top of that, he’s supposed to meet Fukuzawa today, so it is best to let him rest and charge his social battery.

Other differences found: Ranpo has to wait a couple of minutes for Karl to join him, he only makes coffee for himself (better not to encourage Edgar to drink caffeine when he’s already jittery), and Edgar’s face was smooshed farther into the pillow than it was yesterday.

Fukuzawa is in good spirits when he greets Ranpo at the entrance of the Agency’s building; he sends a quick text to Edgar about that for him to wake up to, just in case his fear grows and he considers standing them up. The cases the police send over to him are surprisingly interesting, and time slips by so smoothly Ranpo doesn’t notice they are halfway through the morning until Kenji shows up with drinks for everyone from Café Uzumaki. Kunikida even manages to pester Dazai into doing some paperwork, now that he can’t fill reports out himself with his injured hand. Really, all circumstances suggest that this will be a very, very good day.

Finally, there is a faint knock on the closed door. Since Kunikida is already on his feet ― standing behind Dazai to oversee his progress as he was ― he’s the one to walk over and open it. Ranpo tilts to the side so that he can properly see how his boyfriend is doing.

Edgar looks quite nervous, and a little like he’s not completely sure he should be here ― not much different than usual, to be fair. Unlike all the other times he has visited the office, however, the sight of Ranpo doesn’t seem to make him relax, and even Ranpo’s loud greeting isn’t enough to finally make him step inside.

Kunikida likely notices Edgar’s state, so he moves to the left so that Edgar can enter and greets him with a voice that is firm but somewhat tentative.

Edgar clears his throat. “Uhm. Hello, Kunikida-san.”

He is standing with his back straight, not hunched like it usually is, and he’s holding a closed box, out of which wafts a sweet, pleasant smell. Cookies, or maybe cupcakes. Ranpo sniffs the air discreetly and concludes that it is the former: chocolate chip cookies, to be precise, a recipe that Edgar has known for a surprisingly long time. Ranpo hasn’t yet been able to deduce where exactly he learned it, but he doesn’t care all that much as long as the cookies turn out well, which they always do, and Ranpo gets to eat them, which he always does.

Edgar’s bangs still cover his eyes, though they fail to conceal the slight, nervous flush to his cheeks, and his hair is still a wild mess of thick waves, but it does look more... purposeful. It curls elegantly around his neck, and there are less flyaway strands sticking out, like he’s spent more time brushing it down. Ranpo wonders if it would feel more or less fluffy than usual.

His attire is different, too. He’s lacking that old jacket with ruined edges, and he doesn’t usually wear ties. Ranpo searches for Edgar’s beloved cat-shaped pin and is pleased to find it fixed to the pocket of his vest: that is a smart move, given how dearly Fukuzawa adores cats.

“Do you need something?” Kunikida crosses his arms, obviously starting to get impatient. He is sizing up Edgar’s outfit with an appreciating gaze, though, likely happy to see him wear something less dramatic.

“Oh, n-no, not really, I― I am supposed to see Fukuzawa-san,” Edgar says quietly, his hold on the box tightening. “Is he here...?”

“Ooh!” Dazai smiles from ear to ear, jumping at the chance to talk about something else other than paperwork. “So that’s why he was so stony-faced earlier when I saw him! I’m sure he can’t wait to meet you, Poe-san. I’ve only ever seen him so focused when he’s readying for a challenging mission!”

It’s a clear trap, one that Ranpo shoots Dazai a glare for, but his boyfriend isn’t yet accustomed to his sometimes mean pranks and his mouth twists into a grimace.

“On second thought,” Edgar squeaks, looking more sickly pale than usual, “I’d better go―”

“Good morning, Poe-san,” Fukuzawa says from behind him.

Edgar jumps a little in place, but turns around to return the greeting all the same. His body is taut as a bowstring. Now that he’s drawn to his full height and wearing those heeled boots on top of it, he is an inch or so taller than the President, and yet he seems to want to shrink under his steely gaze.

“Good morning, Sir.” Kunikida nods respectfully, his arms now straight down his sides. “You weren’t in your office. Did something happen on the ground floor?”

“Nothing of import. I was attending to some business behind the building,” Fukuzawa says solemnly, his eyelids slipping shut.

Fukuzawa’s hands are tucked into the sleeves of his yukata, the dark green fabric littered with fine white hairs. Kunikida clears his throat as inconspicuously as he can, subtly raising one of his arms and fiddling with the cuff of his shirt.

Fukuzawa coughs lightly in surprise, politely placing his fist in front of his mouth to muffle the sound. There are some angry red scratches on the back of his hand, but for now he’s more preoccupied with trying to deftly brush away the cat fur clinging to his sleeves. “Let us go to my office to talk, if that is alright with you.”

“Y-Yes! Yes, of course,” Edgar stammers, absent-mindedly handing the container to Kunikida without turning to face him. Before he can follow Fukuzawa into the hallway, he seems to remember something, and spins around again. “There is, uhm, a small bag in the corner of the box that is meant for Kyouka-chan.”

Kunikida looks down at the box and up at him again. “Alright, then. We will see you later.”

Edgar nods with a little smile, before taking a deep breath and leaving the bullpen to go after Fukuzawa.

Dazai springs up from his seat immediately, basically dancing over to Kunikida to pluck the container out of his hands. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

He twirls around before Kunikida can take it back, but when Kunikida barks a stern “Dazai!” he sighs and simply places it down on his own desk. “Yes, I know, Kunikida-kun. I just kindly wanted to open it for all of you. After all, you shouldn’t do anything strenuous, what with your hand and all!”

Ranpo holds back a sigh of his own, standing up himself. Kunikida softens a little, inclined to believe in Dazai’s benevolence as usual. “I see. Remember to give Kyouka her own―”

“Of course, of course.” Dazai waves a flippant hand, flicking the box open. “Oooh, how cute! Come here, Kyouka-chan.”

Kyouka comes close, trying to peek at the contents of the box. Dazai leaves her some space so that she can retrieve what Edgar left for her, which Ranpo can just barely see is a small, nondescript plastic bag which holds a stack of cookies. They don’t look much different from the ones Edgar typically bakes, so he wonders if he changed the recipe for her specifically.

At the moment, he cares more for the other cookies, which are clearly up-for-grabs for anyone else. Dazai is the first to reach into the box, but his hand is slapped away by Kunikida. Dazai gasps. “Kunikida-kun, how brutish!”

Kunikida glares. “These are for everybody, and some members aren’t here yet. Don’t be greedy.”

Tanizaki, looking a little uncomfortable, moves towards the door. “I’ll go call Yosano-sensei...”

“After I carried the box all the way over here and opened it for you all out of the goodness of my heart!” Dazai whines, pursing his lips and holding the hand Kunikida slapped to his chest dramatically. “It’s only fair that I be the first one to eat!”

“No chance,” Ranpo says firmly, poking Dazai’s side to make him squirm away from the cookies. “Ed is my boyfriend, so I should eat first.”

“Shouldn’t you be the last exactly because he probably makes these for you regularly...?” Atsushi mutters, not quiet enough for it to go unheard.

“Correct,” says Akiko, the sound her heels make coming closer. “Plus, if we let Ranpo-san eat first, nothing will be left for anybody.”

“Very funny.” Ranpo pouts. In the end, it’s Akiko herself who gets to have a cookie first, since nobody has the courage it takes to stop her.

As she lifts it to her mouth, Ranpo finally notices something that had escaped him so far, since he wasn’t looking at the cookies too closely. They are not the same as the ones Edgar typically bakes, after all: these ones are shaped like cats. He barely holds back from bursting into laughter. He sincerely hopes at least a few of them will still be here by the time Fukuzawa can join them again; he really would like these, even if they are a little lumpy.

Cat-shaped or not, the recipe must still be the same: Akiko smiles and nods approvingly, humming. “These are really good.”

That’s all it takes for the others to crowd around the box and reach inside: everybody does, except for Kyouka, since she was lucky enough to receive a personal gift. Interest suddenly piqued, Ranpo turns to her while still chewing on a (delicious as always) cookie. “How are your cookies, Kyouka?”

Kunikida sighs. “It’s not polite to speak with your mouth full, Ranpo-san.”

“There’s chocolate on your chin, Kunikida,” Ranpo counters without looking at him.

Kyouka answers after swallowing her own bite, speaking over the sound of Dazai’s laughter. “They are good.” She holds up one to show it to him. It’s shaped like a rabbit. Of course. This time, Ranpo can’t completely stifle a chuckle.

“Ranpo-san,” Dazai says abruptly, very serious. Immediately, alarm bells go off in Ranpo’s head ― that tone of voice is too exaggerated for Dazai to not be trying to mess with him ― but he still turns around. Dazai looks thoughtful even as he munches on his own cookie, his eyes piercing when he asks, “When do you plan on marrying him?”

... Dazai and his terrible timing. Ranpo doesn’t usually mind it, since he can just ignore him, but he’s been thinking about that enough without any reminders. Ranpo wishes he had an empty candy wrapper to throw at him. He does have some candies in his pockets, which would hurt more if they hit him, but Ranpo isn’t going to waste perfectly good candies because of Dazai and his nosiness.

Thankfully, Kunikida doesn’t seem to be too mad at Ranpo for pointing out the chocolate earlier. He smacks Dazai’s shoulder. “Oi, it’s none of your business!”

“I’m just saaaying,” Dazai sing-songs, smiling, “it wouldn’t be so bad to have these for the rest of your life, riiight?”

“No, no, it’s a good question,” says Akiko, turning a sly smile on Ranpo. “You have been together for a while, haven’t you? To be honest, Poe-san is so head over heels for you I’m surprised he hasn’t already asked you to marry him. You have my blessing if he does.”

“He was a bit intimidating at first,” Atsushi says. “But he is actually very nice.”

“I like the stories he writes!” Dazai chimes in, and then he sighs dreamily. “So many dead, beautiful women―”

Kunikida nods. “He is a little strange, and morbid, sometimes, but he is quite reliable. And I can respect how passionate he is about his work.”

That really is his Edgar. Odd and gloomy and wonderful in so many different ways.

Ranpo isn’t quite sure what to say ― that doesn’t happen often. He shrugs and tries to sound nonchalant when he answers, “I don’t really care much about marriage.”

It’s not a lie, and the others don’t need to know about his plans anyway. He still doesn’t understand the point of it, and he was right in thinking that the time spent preparing would be a hassle. He really hopes Edgar’s reaction will make up for it.

Before anybody can continue the conversation, the loud cry of a raven’s caw resounds through the workplace, followed by the firm thuds of hurried footsteps in the hallway and of a door shutting.

“What the hell was that?” Kunikida asks, visibly rattled.

“Ed’s ringtone, I’m pretty sure,” Ranpo says, now curious. Edgar doesn’t receive phone calls very often, and most of his acquaintances are in the same room as Ranpo right now. Mushitarou hates phone calls way too much to initiate one, and Lucy Montgomery would probably personally walk up to him if she had something to tell him, considering she’s just a few flights of stairs away.

The answer comes with Fukuzawa when he quietly enters the bullpen. He’s covering his mouth with a hand, but one corner of his lips is still just-barely tilted upwards when he lowers his arm.

“Did something happen with Poe-san?” Atsushi asks, looking just slightly concerned.

Fukuzawa shakes his head. “It seems his editor needed to talk to him.”

“Writer stuff. So complicated. More importantly!” Ranpo slinks close to Fukuzawa, his chest puffed in pride. Fukuzawa is usually stoic, but Ranpo is finely attuned to reading the subtle changes in his facial expressions, and that look he is wearing already gives it all away. His question is unnecessary, but he asks it anyway. “Ed left a good first impression, didn’t he?”

Fukuzawa glances at him from the corner of his eye, before beckoning Kenji closer with his hand. As Kenji approaches them, Fukuzawa’s head cocks slightly to the side in a manner that is almost pensive. There is well-hidden playfulness in the quality of his voice. “First impression? Truth be told, the first thing he did when he came into the office was trip over the potted plant.”

... right. Edgar’s occasional clumsiness is endearing at times but always unfortunate.

“The weeping fig? I’ll go fix it!” Kenji exclaims, carefree as always, skipping away.

“... second impression?” Tries Ranpo.

Fukuzawa allows him one of those tiny, rare smiles. “He is a nice boy.”

“Would you like a cookie, Boss?” Akiko calls, pushing the box across the desk toward them with a smile.

Fukuzawa doesn’t appear all that interested until he takes a better look and notices how the cookies are shaped. He stares at them for a few moments, before turning back to Ranpo and repeating meaningfully, “He is a very nice boy.”

He’s also not a boy , but he guesses that, to Fukuzawa, many seem younger than they actually are. Regardless, that is something Edgar will definitely be happy to hear. Ranpo almost regrets not being present when they talked now, because he can’t help but wonder just what their conversation was about; luckily, he can probably just deduce it or get it out of Edgar later.

Edgar returns from his phone call with his editor after a few minutes. The humidity of the summer weather has seeped into his hair, making the strands curl up and stick out as they usually do; it has rendered his efforts to style it useless, but Ranpo thinks this suits him better anyway.

Edgar bows to Fukuzawa in a flurry of apologies, both for interrupting their meeting and for the incident with the potted plant. “Can I do anything to help? I could buy another one...”

Fukuzawa raises a hand to stop him, likely sensing another incoming string of apologies. “It will be alright. Kenji knows the right way to deal with this.”

By now, Kenji is already back from his trip to the President’s office and looking no different than when he went in, except for the dirt staining his hands. His smile is no smaller than usual, which is a good sign. “I will do my best to make sure everything is fine!” He assures. “Weeping figs are some of my favorite plants, too, so I will be extra careful!”

“Kenji, all plants are your favorite plants,” Akiko says, clearly amused.

“I guess that’s true, but that’s because every plant has its own strengths!” Kenji responds brightly, clapping his hands. “For example, I love the vibrant color of sunflowers, but also the sweet scent of the oleander, and―”

“I like the oleander too!” Dazai chips in, suddenly excited. “I heard that it’s very poisonous. I should try eating it!”

“I like lilies,” Kyouka says softly, mindlessly reaching up to touch the pins fixed to her pigtails.

“I think cherry blossoms are the prettiest!” Naomi says, turning to her brother. “You agree, don’t you?”

Amidst the noise of the various agency members giving their own opinions, Ranpo can just barely hear Atsushi’s quiet hum. His brows are slightly knitted, as they are when he’s thinking hard about something ― or, this time, someone.

Edgar, from his place right next to Ranpo, seems to notice as well. Ranpo can almost see the gears turning in his head, and he only has to wait a few, eager seconds before Edgar smiles and inches just a little closer to Atsushi to tell him, “Lucy’s favorite is the rose.”

As Atsushi turns beet red and stammers his way through some kind of explanation, Ranpo can feel a wide grin bloom across his own face.

That brief conversation he had with the agency members rings inside his head for the entirety of the following week. But it’s a free day today, which means that after they eat lunch they get to laze around in bed together until the later hours of the day ― until they’ve finished discussing Edgar’s latest work or the incompetence of the police, or until Ranpo’s stomach grumbles; whichever comes first.

Very few things can successfully distract him during days like these, and he needs the serenity of them now more than ever. The meeting with Fukuzawa went well, but after that it’s been a mostly-miserable week, and when he got home yesterday evening his skin was itching from the feeling of clothes stuck to his body through perspiration and from the time he had to spend surrounded with people and their noise and the roar of the train that took him home. As it usually is, the silver lining was knowing Edgar would be specially doting after noticing his distress ― the silver lining was the loose shirt Ranpo borrowed from him and Edgar’s mellow voice and the safe, familiar quiet of their home.

Time leisurely crawls on while they talk and kiss, slow as molasses in their bedroom. One of Ranpo’s legs is stuck in the tangle of the sheets and there is a stubborn knot in his hair that Edgar keeps accidentally tugging at as his fingers comb through it, and there is nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

Unfortunately, his body doesn’t agree, and makes its hunger known with a low growl. Edgar laughs softly into their kiss, breaking away. “We should eat something, hmm?”

Ranpo frowns, leaning in to tuck his face into the crook of Edgar’s neck. He nuzzles the warm skin there until he feels Edgar squirm and snort from the tickling. “I don’t wanna get up.”

Edgar pulls away and up in a sitting position suddenly, letting Ranpo slump forward in the empty space that’s left. He can’t go far because of the hold Ranpo has around his torso, but it’s enough to make Ranpo huff and look up at him with a pout. “ Edgaaaar― ”

Edgar strokes the side of his face and ducks down to kiss his ear, the brush of his lips sending a pleasant shiver down Ranpo’s spine. “We should have dinner soon. Otherwise, I―”

Before he can finish, he’s interrupted by a huge yawn. As he scrambles to cover his mouth and his now-pink cheeks, Ranpo snickers. “Oh, yeah. You need some coffee.”

Edgar’s wry smile peaks out from behind his hand. “Perhaps not coffee. Something is still bothering me... I’m afraid caffeine might make it worse.”

The new novel. Despite Akiko’s help and his editor’s encouragement, Edgar still isn’t entirely content with the state of his final draft, and the frustration has been getting to him. Ranpo noticed, of course ― not because of his deductive abilities, but because of the cumulation of papers scattered across Edgar’s desk and from the stiff line of his shoulders, the curl of his fingers into loose fists when he’s silent: as always, Edgar’s emotions are difficult to hide. He hasn’t talked to Edgar because he knows Edgar prefers not being pressured on such occasions, and if Edgar wanted, or needed, his support, he would outright ask.

Still, Ranpo would like to find a way to relieve his irritation. He gets an idea while they try not to trip over Karl on their way to the kitchen. “I could order take-out. Or I could have food delivered to us.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry,” Edgar says quickly, but Ranpo knows he’s actually considering the offer. “It’s nothing, I just need some rest... and it’s better if we eat something homemade, after all.”

“You shouldn’t cook when you’re in a bad mood!” Ranpo insists, pointedly crossing his arms and breathing out loudly. “Then all your bad feelings will get into the food, and it won’t even taste good!”

He doesn’t believe any of that, obviously, but it’s fine to say something ridiculous as long as it convinces Edgar to let him handle this. Edgar has long since stopped trying to argue with Ranpo when food is involved, even if he is usually the cook of the house. He doesn’t mind doing chores, but when he’s been worrying about other matters the tasks tend to put a strain on him and pile up until the tension snaps. When Edgar is genuinely upset, there’s this pit of acid in Ranpo’s stomach that makes everything he eats taste sour; and it’s the worst when the original cause is Edgar’s disappointment with his work, because Ranpo doesn’t understand how to cheer him up efficiently. Is pointing out the obvious ― that his novels are unparalleled, that his genius puts any other writer to shame, that he’s leagues above anybody else Ranpo has ever encountered in every way imaginable ― enough?

“Alright, then,” Edgar says finally, his smile looking more genuine this time. “Thank you, dear. I’ll set the table while you make the call.”

Ranpo keeps looking at him from the corner of his eye even as he speaks on the phone. His bangs are parted and kept away from his forehead with two hair clips, and he can see that his brows are furrowed. His movements in their kitchen are mechanical, and Ranpo can feel that his mind is wandering elsewhere from feet away.

Once Edgar is done, he goes to sit down on their couch, reaching for the notebook that he keeps on the coffee table, and Karl is quick to scutter up his leg and curl into a furry ball in his lap. Ranpo purses his lips as he pockets his phone. He wanted that spot, but he guesses he’ll content himself with leaning against him.

Edgar looks to him when he does just that, his fingers stilling from where they were leafing through the pages. Their faces are close, and Ranpo looks at his mouth while it curves into a soft smile.

“You have freckles,” Edgar says, his voice low as he lifts his hands from the notebook. He delicately runs one fingertip down the slope of Ranpo’s nose. “Here.”

Ranpo’s eyes cross a little as he tries to follow the path traced by Edgar’s touch. “Oh, yeah, it happens in summer, I guess.”

“They’re charming,” Edgar murmurs. “They suit you.”

“Yeah? Enjoy them while they last!” Ranpo raises his own hand and taps Edgar’s nose, grinning crookedly. “How’s your nose, Ed?”

Edgar’s nose is now pink, burnt from the sun. A few days ago, they spent the entire afternoon strolling around in the park ― which means, they intended to take an hour-long walk with Karl but Edgar was abruptly struck by inspiration for a short story, so he spent the entire afternoon furiously writing on a notebook that he had on him while Ranpo spent the entire afternoon watching him and cuddling their pet.

After so much time outside, Ranpo’s skin just became more tan. The sun wasn’t as kind to Edgar, and when Ranpo saw him the following day he laughed at him for whole minutes though in truth he found it almost cute. If anything, it makes him smile first thing every morning, when he opens his eyes and looks at Edgar’s face.

Edgar leans back, brows furrowing again. “It stings slightly,” he mutters. His gaze doesn’t leave Ranpo.

In the buttery light of the sunset, Edgar’s eyes gleam. Now that Ranpo has been doing some research into gemstones and jewelry materials he can say that they remind him of mother-of-pearl, with the way their color seems to shift based on how Edgar angles his head. Stormy gray or pale lavender ― captivating either way.

His thoughts are interrupted when Edgar glances away with a sigh. “You belong under the sun and the light. I don’t.”

It’s just like Edgar to casually say something that would fit best in one of his flowery poems, but, somehow, Ranpo feels as if this time there is more beneath those words.

“You get sappier every day,” he ends up telling him, keeping his tone playful despite how he wants to question Edgar about it.

The doorbell rings, so he doesn’t add anything and just stands to get their food. But he thinks about it throughout dinner, which goes by quieter than usual. It’s not uncommon for Ranpo to be the one carrying the conversation ― quite the opposite, in fact ― but Edgar only intervenes through hums and short phrases, as if he’s a little tired. It’s easy to conclude that this is, once again, a consequence of how much he’s been brooding over that new novel; if the solution to ease his troubles is letting him relax instead of doing chores, like earlier with the food, Ranpo can help. He doesn’t usually commit himself to things that aren’t interesting, but if they are going to live together for a long time, it’s only fair to share the housework like that, instead of leaving it all to Edgar, right?

When they’ve just finished eating, and when Edgar lays his hands on the table to push himself up from his chair, Ranpo springs up from his seat and says, proudly, “I’ll clear the table.”

Edgar eyes him with a raised brow, looking surprised for a few moments and then skeptical. However, there is the smallest spark in the lavender of his irises, something like... mirth? “Oh, really?” He says, but he does fold his hands in his lap again.

“Yes, really,” Ranpo answers petulantly. To prove his point, he snatches the plates, piling them one on top of the other for efficiency, and grabs their glasses as well. Then he collects the cutlery, and it all follows the rest in the sink. For a moment, he looks at them. He hates washing dishes: it’s a boring task, and more importantly he’s sensitive to the strong, pungent smell of detergents, and the idea of possibly touching wet food makes his skin crawl. But they are just a couple of plates, glasses and forks, and he’s seen Edgar use rubber gloves to wash dishes before, so he can give it a try with those. Later. Maybe. And he will spend the time it takes complaining about Edgar’s house being so old-fashioned that it didn’t come with a modern dishwasher.

He turns back around. Only the wine glasses they didn’t use are left: Edgar always places them on the table out of habit, but they rarely actually make use of them. They’re still completely clean, so he takes them and goes to put them in their rightful place, which is the highest shelf in their cupboard― oh. That’s probably where Edgar’s amusement came from.

“Is there a problem, Ranpo?” Edgar says, and though Ranpo can’t see it with his back to Edgar, he hears a smile in his voice. Asshole.

Ranpo glares up at the offending cupboard. They keep the wine glasses out of Karl’s reach, as high up as possible, in order to prevent him from pushing them down and making a mess ― it’s the same technique they’ve employed to protect their cacti: Karl is definitely capable of climbing to the top, but he’s fairly lazy, and would get tired before actually getting there. The cupboard is affixed to the wall, well above their stove, and Ranpo has no way of reaching that spot without using something else to boost his height. He doesn’t mind his shorter stature, especially not on occasions like these since it is generally Edgar who takes care of their kitchen and utensils, but he momentarily forgot about this... inconvenience. Ugh. Curse Edgar’s giant mansion and its giant proportions.

“No,” he grits out. “I’ll go get that stool you hid in the basement.”

Edgar huffs when Ranpo exposes his lie, disappointed, but he also says, “Don’t be silly. Thank you for clearing the table. I’ll put those away.” And then there’s the distinct noise of the chair scraping across the floor when Edgar gets up.

“No need,” Ranpo tries to say nonchalantly. “Nothing is impossible for a great detect―”

“Yes, yes,” Edgar says mildly, right behind Ranpo, judging by how close his voice sounds. “Except growing five extra inches in a couple of seconds.”

The wine glasses are slipped out of Ranpo’s grasp smoothly, and he pouts but doesn’t otherwise protest, moving aside to let him deal with the contents of the cupboard. He was trying to at least act annoyed, but it turns out it’s impossible when he lifts his gaze to Edgar.

The fading sunbeams filtering through the curtains cast their soft, warm glow on him, painting him gold. You belong under the sun and the light. I don’t, he said earlier. But now Ranpo looks at Edgar, with his pink nose and his wild curls and his mother-of-pearl eyes, with his pretty svelte fingers worrying his bottom lip as he mutters about dust collecting and needing to sweep, with those lovely hands that bake cat-shaped cookies and cut apples into bunnies and hold plants and old books with care, and he can’t help but disagree.

“Will you marry me?”

Edgar freezes and turns a wide-eyed look on him. Ranpo doesn’t really register the reason behind that until a few silent seconds later. Heat crawls up his neck, dangerously close to his face. It was honestly appalling, that he said that so suddenly, so thoughtlessly ― except that descriptor isn’t fitting at all, because it’s not like he hasn’t thought about it: rather, he has thought about it too much, to the point of bursting now.

To hide his embarrassment, he makes a show of crossing his arms and tapping his foot on the floor. “... Is that a no?”

Edgar’s mouth drops open. “N-No! I-I mean― You― I...” And then, he stops again. And then he bursts into laughter.

“Hey!” Ranpo exclaims, now torn between wanting to be offended and wanting to stay silent ― Edgar’s loud, genuine laugh is an unfairly rare and unfairly beautiful sound that has always had Ranpo completely smitten. “What’s so funny?!”

“I-I apologize.” Edgar can barely speak between deep breaths. His cheeks are very pink, matching his nose. “This is just so... I mean, Ranpo, not even kneeling, and you don’t even have a ring―”

“Is that the problem?” Ranpo says, doing his best to stop his lips from opening into a smile. At least Edgar is not thinking about the novel anymore. Maybe he really did just need something to take his mind off of it. “I might have a ring pop somewhere.”

“No, that’s not the point! R-Ranpo, I—” Edgar’s shaky voice breaks off into another peal of laughter. He has to wheeze and press a hand to his chest to calm himself down. “ Of course I will marry you.”

Edgar said yes ― naturally! Ranpo knew he would, which is why he decided a ring wasn’t really necessary, right now, after all. But he doesn’t have the time to preen.

“I was under the impression that rhetorical questions are rude, Great Detective,” Edgar continues, now grinning.

Ranpo’s cheeks warm again. He’s lucky his blush isn’t visible, or the teasing would get worse. “ Well, I still wanted to ask. Aren’t you happy?”

“Of course I am!” Edgar says. “That’s a second rhetorical question. How come you’re being so rude tonight?”

“Stop it,” Ranpo complains, making Edgar chuckle once more. “It’s just... I thought you would cry or something.”

Finally, Edgar’s amusement fades slightly, and he stops poking fun at him. He tilts his head a little. “Under most circumstances, I probably would have,” he admits. “But, well... I’ve been... thinking of us as already being married, so―”

Ranpo blinks. “Really?”

Edgar looks a little sheepish as he nods. “We’ve been living together for a while, and I’ve been trying my best to fit in with your family― and I hope it has been going well…”

"Well" is kind of an understatement. The Agency loves to have him around ― but it is in Edgar’s nature to be anxious about interpersonal relationships. Is that what he was worrying about, when talking about belonging? Ranpo will reassure him about it later. For now, he just nods along, waiting for Edgar to finish.

“And...” he finally adds, “I thought you didn’t want to get married.”

Of course Edgar deduced that. Ranpo shouldn’t expect any less from his brilliant, beautiful mind.

Still, he can’t hold back an outburst. “But you do! I don’t care about getting married, but I guess it’s different when it’s you.” He pauses. It always seems to be. “I knew it would make you happy.”

“That’s your motive?” Edgar says softly, searching Ranpo’s face. He must find whatever he was looking for, because he smiles again and steps closer. “Oh... that’s very thoughtful.”

Ranpo feels a smidge of pride at Edgar’s affectionate tone, but he retorts, “Not really. It’s just what a great boyfriend ought to do.”

“Well, by Ranpo standards,” Edgar says, “it’s very thoughtful.”

“Hey!”

Edgar laughs again, wrapping a hand around Ranpo’s wrist and tugging him closer. He looks gorgeous and happy, with his head tipped back and haloed by the sunset. Ranpo links their fingers together and brushes one long lock of hair away from Edgar’s face. It was covering part of his smile ― a punishable criminal offense, in his expert opinion.

He watches fondly as Edgar lifts their joined hands to press his still-grinning mouth against Ranpo’s knuckles. “And I’m afraid I must remind you,” he says, “that it’s fiancé now.”