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His chest hurts. His chest is tightening and curling into itself and screeching in pain, where his lungs are captured.
It’s killing him.
Ranpo cannot breathe.
“Ranpo-san,” Dazai calls from far off. He approaches Ranpo’s desk and leans a bit into his personal space. His face is etched with concern. “Are you okay?”
Ranpo nods, firm as he can, and takes in a few deep breaths until his lungs catch up to him and aren’t so crushed.
“Maybe you should go home early,” Dazai offers, a genuine lilt in his voice that’s rare.
“Don’t worry about it!” Ranpo cheers, throwing his thumb up and smiling. He shoves down the sick feeling in his ribs and ushers Dazai away and back to his own desk. He can ignore the pain until he gets home.
It won’t be too long.
“Ranpo-san,” Kunikida says from the doorway on his way out, pulling Ranpo from his dread. “The president wants to see you before you go.” Without any further information, Kunikida leaves as the clock hits the large 5. It’s the one clock Ranpo can read, with the big numbers indicating the hour (that’s all he really needs to know, anyway.)
When he wraps up another report, he trails over to Fukuzawa’s office. He can handle it a little while more.
“Ranpo,” Fukuzawa smiles when Ranpo catches his attention upon entry. The man relaxes his posture in his chair and pushes his work away, a clear sign that Ranpo doesn’t have to be so professional — he drops his bag down next to the other chair and takes a seat. Fukuzawa speaks before he can ask. “Dazai told me you seemed to be having some troubles earlier?”
“Troubles?”
Fukuzawa beckons for one of the staff members to bring over the tea, and he pours two glasses prior to answering. “According to him, you seemed to be in distress? I only ask because I,” Fukuzawa considers the next words to his sentence, sipping on the drink as he does so. “Your health is important to me, Ranpo. If it involves any mental or physical issue, you can always come to me.”
Ranpo bites his lip. He knows how obvious he’s being, hiding the fact that he is indeed bothered (he’s always had trouble lying to Fukuzawa, and maybe that’s what makes them so close.) “It shouldn’t be anything to worry about.”
Fukuzawa frowns at his response, but tries his best not to pry. “I see. That’s good to hear. Well, if there is anything you’d ever want to mention, come to me, okay?”
Ranpo beams wide. “Of course,” he promises. He gathers his belongings, leaving the untouched tea on the desk; no matter how many times Ranpo insists he doesn’t drink tea, Fukuzawa will always pour a cup for him, ‘out of courtesy.’
Fukuzawa watches him inch towards the door, eyes expectantly boring into Ranpo’s back. He reaches for the door handle, but he stops himself midway.
“Actually,” he says quickly, his tongue betraying him. “There is one thing.”
Ranpo stares back at Fukuzawa, a foot from the door frame. Neither of them speak for a moment, but then Fukuzawa makes a hand motion to urge Ranpo to continue. The detective sighs and throws his bag back down, returning to the chair and slumping, much more defeated than from beforehand. He huffs, stalling.
Fukuzawa squints at him and looks back down at his tea.
“It’s about binding, isn’t it?”
Ranpo freezes. His entire body tenses up, tight, everywhere. He feels a shock go down his spine at the words, his eyes wide and meeting Fukuzawa’s head-on, like a deer captured in headlights. “How’d you...” he tries to ask, but his throat closes up again. Then, he tries once more. “How’d you know?”
“Sorry if that was so terribly sudden,” Fukuzawa says lightly, as if he wasn’t entirely apologetic, saying the words more as a precaution. “I beg that this doesn’t come off as rude, but Ranpo, I’m aware that you’re transgender.”
Ranpo feels like yelling. Crying. Screaming. He sits and taps his leg anxiously into the floor. “How?”
Fukuzawa’s face becomes more serious, borderline concerned. He sits up a bit straighter, standing barely off his chair until he can see Ranpo’s bag. He points at it — specifically, the shoulder strap. Ranpo follows his eyes to it and sees the pin there: the transgender flag on the metal sphere, attached to the material.
“It wasn’t too hard to find out,” Fukuzawa explains as if he’s breaking melancholic news to Ranpo. “Moving on, regarding how I understood specifically you were binding, is that I also bind. Your posture gives it away.”
Ranpo can’t even count how many times his heart stops beating.
“You’re — sorry, what? ”
“Ranpo,” Fukuzawa sighs out. He’s not irritated, but maybe a hint of disappointment is hidden in his voice. “I put up a flag for Pride Month every year. A transgender flag. The majority of the agency is aware. The majority of Yokohama’s gifted individuals are aware.”
“I thought you were just being really open!” Ranpo defends, throwing his palm onto the table and rattling the cup of tea.
“Mori and I came out. Together. To the entirety of the agency,” Fukuzawa claims, his impatience growing. He reigns himself in, however, and motions for Ranpo to sit back down. “My dear boy,” he says, calmer, more comforting, “now that you know, please feel no hesitancy in asking for advice.”
“Okay,” Ranpo chimes in, his mood changing drastically. His eyes are brighter, and he throws behind the shock in the excitement to ramble. “Okay, now that I know: first of all, how do you bind with bandages? I’ve heard it’s easier. Is that true? Do you think I pass? Do you have any tips for facial hair? And about testostero—”
“Ranpo,” Fukuzawa interrupts. “I would love to answer all your questions, really, but maybe, just a bit slower?”
“Oh! Yeah, yeah, yeah, absolutely,” he pauses, out of breath. “Maybe I should go home now and get this off.”
“Perhaps,” Fukuzawa agrees with a chuckle. “If you want, tomorrow you can come in and I’ll show you how to bind with the wrap I use.”
Ranpo beams again, nodding enthusiastically. “That’d be really awesome!”
He offers a quick goodbye and rushes energetically out of the room.
And yet, his excitement is gone by morning. He realises as he slips on a thinner shirt underneath his vest that it’s not weird, but mildly nerve-wracking to know he’d trust someone enough to show him how to physically bind.
Maybe it’s because he craves a healthy way of feeling comfortable, maybe it’s because he feels a sick sense of trust, or maybe it’s because Fukuzawa is smiling so sweetly that it calms his nerves entirely that he actually enters the room and follows through. There are two rolls of ace bandages sitting on the desk, and Fukuzawa wears a tank top.
“I usually use a generic binder,” Ranpo tells Fukuzawa, picking up one of the rolls and tossing it in his hand. “But it hurts after a while, and the material irritates my skin.”
“That makes sense, it’s hard to find binders that work,” Fukuzawa points out. “I always bind with bandages whenever I do, just because that’s how I learned, and it was hard to get my hands on a proper binder back then. Besides, for some missions and such, I was taught to bind to blend in as a male for roles. Ironic, hm?”
As Fukuzawa speaks, he picks up the other roll and begins to unravel it. “Okay, now watch closely,” he tells Ranpo, pulling the end of one side and placing it flat against his chest. “Don’t make the first wraps too tight. It’s always best to tighten it at the end of the roll so that you can easily adjust it if needed.”
He lifts up one arm and uses the other to snake the bandages underneath it, around his back and to the front of his chest again, repeating the process once. “Start the first wrap at about the middle, and then the next two rounds can go up and down your chest regarding measures.” He demonstrates by making his third ring around go lower on his breasts, and with a tug, his skin flattens moreso.
“Does that make sense?” he asks, looking back at Ranpo before showing the final step. The boy has been half-heartedly following his movements, a bit tangled up in himself.
“It makes sense in theory,” he mutters. “But it’s a bit hard.”
“Naturally,” Fukuzawa reassures him. “Do you want some help?”
Ranpo nods, and Fukuzawa tucks in the bandages under his armpit before unwrapping the bandages twisted around Ranpo’s frame.
“Put your arms up.” Fukuzawa positions the beginning of the bandage on Ranpo’s side, under his own arm, as he trails the length across Ranpo’s chest and to the other side. He circles around his body and adjusts the bandages in places up and down, asking every now and then if they were comfortable.
“I’ll tuck it into the side right here,” Fukuzawa says, and Ranpo drops his chin to see Fukuzawa put the last strip of bandage into the already wrapped sections, where it stays, snug. “Move around a bit and try taking some deep breaths.”
Ranpo nods and drops his arms to his side, doing some basic stretches — he twists his upper torso and then bends down to touch his toes. The bandages stay in place as he repeats each action, and he stops to inhale.
“It feels really good,” he says on the exhale.
“Great to hear,” Fukuzawa gleams. “Practice it at home a bit without the tank top and it should be nice. Make sure to apply some ointment if your skin gets irritated, I could recommend some if that ever comes up—”
Ranpo launches himself into Fukuzawa’s arms, and they stagger a bit, Fukuzawa losing his words. He stays still for a fraction of a second. Then, he brings his hand to pat atop Ranpo’s head, petting his hair once or thrice.
“Thank you,” Ranpo murmurs into his chest, his cheek smushed.
Fukuzawa feels his heart swell, and he remembers just why he ever decided to do this in the first place.
“Of course, Ranpo. I’d do anything to make you happy.”