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It’s early morning, the sun is still rising outside. The mix of orange, pink, and yellow peering through the window is magnificent, but Edgar Allan Poe isn’t looking at it. Instead, he’s staring at his partner—his partner! Partner! And his! His heart jumps at that. The younger detective is still asleep next to him, adorably drooling all over the bed, previously over Poe himself.
He’s so beautiful, is all Poe thinks, over and over. So beautiful, so perfect, he doesn’t know what to do with it. Should he write it in a letter? Not sure who it’d be addressed to, as his few friends, which he can count on his fingers, are probably tired of hearing about the green eyed genius he’d somehow pulled. The green eyed genius who, somehow, is on his bed right now and every morning for the rest of their lives. That’s extraordinary enough for Louisa to have to read about it for the thousandth time.
Or maybe a song! Although Poe can’t gather the strength to build his voice up enough so his singing is heard, he’s written poems before. Someone else could sing—but jealousy immediately bubbles up in his chest at the thought of anyone else but him speaking those words for Ranpo. The singer could be singing it to someone they’re actually entitled to love, but whatever words Poe would write… they’d be for Ranpo only. No one else is amazing enough for it to apply. No one else has those green eyes, that messy hair that’s also perfect somehow, is just so sweet and so smart… smart enough to change the meaning of the concept. No, this would never apply to anyone else. If it was about anyone else, it would lose its meaning.
Perhaps, it could be a romance! But well—although it could be for Ranpo’s eyes only, Poe’s audience follows him for a specific kind of story that is certainly not a romance…
A mystery could work, though… yes! Poe’s mind screams and he bites his finger to prevent himself from waking up his partner. Beauty like no other, intellect like no other, so funny it makes Poe’s—no, his lover’s jaw hurt from laughing sometimes, his sweet, sweet scent… everyone else, mere mortals, would walk this earth knowing they would never be as good as this… this… being, and they’d get envious and then… a crime! Yes, a crime! It’s a tragic death, and the lover…
The lover would lose it. And—
No, Poe snaps out of it. Imagining Ranpo… like that—he can’t even think it—is unbearable. They’ve gotten a peaceful life at last. A few crimes… smaller ones, of course. More than a few. Also, one or two… dozens. Of murders. What else would they do with their days? Not solve mysteries? But still, nothing against them, personally, and Poe feels great about it! No harm being done to Ranpo, and he’s intent on keeping it that way.
It could still be a mystery novel, however, but with Ranpo as he is. Bingo!, Poe thinks. Ranpo exactly like he is. The best detective in the world, solving crimes all around Yokohama.
Poe is stuck in his own head daydreaming about a not-yet-written story full of ‘I love you’s when Ranpo starts twisting in bed. The past two hours suddenly come to the writer’s attention with his husband’s sleepy groan.
“Ugh, too much light…” his words are slow, not fully awake yet. “Always up so early, Edgar… Can’t sleep with the noise of your brain just going brrrr.”
“Good morning, my dear,” Poe’s face brightens up. Indeed, there’s too much light in that room, is what he thinks when Ranpo lets his eyes open, just barely, to look at him. “Does my brain really make that sound?”
“Mhm, of course! If I said so, it does.”
Poe smiles. “Indeed. I apologize, my darling.”
Happy enough with the response, Ranpo gets closer to Poe, resting his thumb over his husband’s cheek, then giving him a lazy kiss. “Fine, you’re forgiven.”