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There’s something printed on Ranpo’s right wrist. It’s only two words.
I know.
Ranpo has never stopped to consider what that means. The only time he asked his parents, they sighed and said softly that he’ll discover it when the time came.
At fourteen, Ranpo met a boy.
Well, to say he met him would be too generous. It was just a second; he didn’t even see his face. There was something, though. Maybe Ranpo’s blossoming interest in dangerous things, dangerous people, thrilling situations. Maybe Ranpo can reflect back on themself and think so there is it.
(Thinking about Oda makes him think of withered flowers and things that die too soon. Ranpo has never enjoyed thinking about the death of precious things.)
He saw a boy. More or less his age, if his suspicions were right—and they always were, that was his whole thing, being too smart and too small and too different. He didn’t know at the time that there was something special about him. He didn’t know a lot of things, back then. He was a child, as Fukuzawa made sure of making him understand soon after that encounter, and there was a whole world waiting outside for him.
(They wonder, now, if it wouldn’t have been better if they didn’t know some of the things they discovered.)
The thing is: he met a boy. Someone fast and talented and, of course, of course, an ability user. A boy that had blood on his hands and a boy that ran away.
He didn’t know a lot of things, back then. Maybe if he knew better, he would’ve guessed where the flutter in his stomach was going to take him.
At fifteen, he met a boy.
A boy with red hair and dark, brown eyes. A boy that sat a few tables away from him in the place Ranpo stopped to eat after missions sometimes. There was something familiar about him, but Ranpo couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was. He ordered the same thing each time: curry, extra spicy. He was a fast eater. It always took him only a moment to eat; then, he’d leave the money on the table and walk away without a word, head held down. It was a small, familiar place, and the chef would always think out loud Ah, such a weird kid.
Ranpo agreed, but he was a weird kid himself. To him, being weird meant nothing. Maybe it was better that way, really! He didn’t want to have anything in common with normal, boring, stupid human beings. He was better than that. He doubted that was that other kid’s case, though. He was simply weird. That was okay; it still made him more interesting than most of the people Ranpo knew.
Still, he was curious. It took him only a glance to know what this guy’s occupation was because it was obvious, but he had a hard time figuring everything else out. Why was he here? Didn’t he fear the police were going to find him? Also, his taste in food… blegh. That was the bigger mystery of them all. How can he eat something like that? The curry might have been good, maybe— Ranpo wasn’t a fan— but he couldn’t tolerate spicy food. At all. That might have been the most intriguing thing of them all.
There he was, now, sitting at his table. He had just arrived and was waiting for his order, head buried in a book. Ranpo couldn’t see the title from this angle, but he got a glimpse of the cover when he walked in. It depicted a house with mountains at its back, the image cutted at the middle by a cherry blossom tree. It was vaguely familiar, but Ranpo couldn’t be sure. Not like it mattered, either. It was, probably, the least important thing at the moment.
He was a little pale and had deep bags under his eyes. If Ranpo had to make a guess, he’d say that guy had spent a few good nights barely sleeping at all.
He still was here, though, waiting patiently for his curry, his tired eyes roaming through the novel he was holding between delicate hands. He had pretty hands, Ranpo thought. It felt unfair, somehow.
He pulled his chair back before he could think better of it, because he was always doing things before thinking better of it. Fukuzawa hated it when he did that, so he was trying to learn to stop himself, but he… Well, he wasn’t doing too well in that department. Not for a lack of effort, he could’ve swore on that! No, he tried, but he was too bored and too curious. His new job kept him entertained, mostly, but sometimes it wasn’t enough.
This was not gambling with his life, though. No, this was just Ranpo going to sit close to a guy to hold a conversation, which was a normal behavior for his age, right? He wasn’t going to school at the time. He needed to socialize with someone that wasn’t an old person or a dead one.
The guy didn’t look up until Ranpo dropped himself on the empty seat across the table. Only then he took his gaze away from the book, turning to stare at Ranpo with a small, confused frown.
He looked younger than he was. His hands (with long, pretty fingers, hands skilled to kill) tightened around the book, but he didn’t close it, like he was expecting the interruption to be short.
This was a fool, if Ranpo had ever seen one.
“Can I help you?” he asked. His voice was soft and quiet. Ranpo liked it.
“I’ve seen you before,” Ranpo pointed out, in case this kid was as foolish as he appeared and didn’t remember having seen him before. He blinked. Okay. Really communicative. “You always order curry and ask—”
“I ask for it to be spicier, yes,” he said, like he couldn’t quite figure out why they were having this conversation.
“Why?”
The guy blinked again. Ranpo sighed. “Why do you want it that way?”
He didn’t reply at first, his head tilted like a confused dog. He had a very puppy-like expression. Ranpo considered patting his head, but thought that might be rude. He didn’t usually care about being seen as rude, but, for some reason, he didn’t want to scare this guy off.
He doubted he was easily scared, though, but better to be safe than sorry.
“I just like it that way,” he said at last.
“Why?”
The guy shrugged, looking down at his book again. He didn’t try to get Ranpo to leave, but he was certainly trying to act like Ranpo wasn’t even there. Ranpo would’ve preferred if he tried to kick him off. He hated being ignored.
“What are you reading?”
The guy showed him the cover. Ranpo read over the title, narrowing his eyes, but he wasn’t really interested in it. He just wanted to get the guy to talk to him. It shouldn’t be so difficult…, except it was.
“You don’t talk a lot, do you?” he asked, defeated.
“I think you might talk enough for the both of us,” the guy replied, his expression unchanged. His voice is solemn, devoid of any evident emotion, but Ranpo knew better. He always knew better. That was his whole thing— he couldn’t turn it off, even if he pretended he could.
Ranpo always knew, so he laughed.
“So you know how to joke!” he said, leaning back in the chair.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but there was something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Amusement, maybe. It made Ranpo chuckle again.
“Edogawa Ranpo,” he said, stretching out a hand. The guy watched it like it was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen, and Ranpo sighed. Usually, he was the one not getting things.
It took him a second, but he shook his hand. “Oda.”
“Just Oda?”
The guy blinked yet again. He pondered for a moment, and then, still holding his hand, he said, “Oda Sakunosuke.”
Oda had pretty hands. The one he was holding was rough, the feel of his calloused fingers almost making Ranpo squirm, but it felt warm. Oda’s hand held Ranpo’s delicately, and for a second, he forgot about all the other things he knew for a fact were true.
There were words covered by Oda’s cuff that only Oda could see. Ranpo knew a lot of things, but he had yet to discover what fate meant.
It was a weekly thing, since then.
Every week, Ranpo would find an excuse to end up at the restaurant. Oda would order his curry until it was no longer necessary for the waitress to ask what his order was. Ranpo would eat only the dessert options, which Oda soon pointed out as unhealthy.
(“I’m not hearing food criticism from you, curry boy,” was the reply he offered, to which Oda scoffed for the first time. Ranpo remembers they enjoyed making him react in any way, as if that were a little challenge of his own. Maybe his curiosity wasn’t sated, but he was entertained either way.)
When Ranpo first talked to him, he wanted to discover details about his situation. Not for any specific reason. He didn’t pretend to jail him up; he didn’t like the policemen he worked with enough to do them any free favors. If they wanted to catch Oda, they’d have to do it on their own.
It was pure intrigue, like he guessed people felt when reading a mystery book. Trying to make the pieces fall in place, tying the strings up. There was a board on his head with Oda’s name as a headline, and he put bits and pieces of information there as he discovered them, but the truth is that it wasn’t his objective anymore. He just…
He wasn’t even sure what he wanted from him.
(He knows, now. He knows.)
When Oda arrived, he had a book in his hand. Every week he brought a different one, though he barely read them there since they talked for the first time. Ranpo didn’t like to share the attention from the people around him with anyone and anything, and that included the books, but Oda was getting used to him, so he was able to talk to him while reading. Or simply ignored him, which Ranpo found so offensive he would whine the rest of the time they spent together. That didn’t change much, though. Oda was really, really patient. He remained there, unbothered, simply nodding and humming along and blinking at him with those brown eyes like a fool.
He was a fool, too. An absolute fool. Ranpo didn’t like dumb people, but Oda was charming, in some way. Not that he would ever let him know. Ranpo would talk to him and Oda would stare like he was speaking in some kind of language unknown to men; he’d ask dumb questions and nod along as Ranpo said even dumber answers. Sometimes, Ranpo would question himself why was he even bothering to spend time with him.
Still, when the time arrived, he would always be there without fail. Maybe dumbness was contagious, like the common cold. Maybe too much exposure was making him a fool too.
The State of the Times, the cover read. Ranpo tilted his head as Oda sat in front of him. He looked as tired as usual. Ranpo asked if he ever slept at night once, and he stared at him for a second as if wondering if that was a hypothetical question before replying with a simple Yes. Ranpo didn’t quite believe him, but he didn’t press the issue.
“Sorry. Have you been waiting for a long time?” he asked, getting comfortable in his chair.
“What makes you think I was waiting for you?” Ranpo shot back. Oda tilted his head. Puppy, his mind provided, and he had to hold back from laughing.
“We have been seeing each other here for a while now,” he replied, full of logic, like he didn’t hear the tease in Ranpo’s tone. He probably didn’t.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he scoffed, because he wasn’t accepting defeat. Oda simply blinked at him.
The girl that worked there approached them. She was young, with long, brown hair braided over her shoulder, and she gave them her best customer service smile.
“Hello there,” she said. She didn’t bother taking out the small notebook she kept in the pocket of her apron. “The usual?”
Oda nodded. Instead of replying, Ranpo said, “Hi, Lena!”
She pursed her lips, bowing her head slightly in his direction. “Hello, Ranpo.”
“How’s chemistry going?”
The girl opened her lips, hesitated for a second, and closed them. Then, with a sigh, she said, “If I think about it for too long, I might have to join a whaling crew.”
With that, she left. Oda seemed to be deep in thought for a moment before turning to Ranpo.
“Why would she join a whaling crew?”
Ranpo shook a hand.
“She doesn’t mean it,” he said, looking at the girl as she got lost in the kitchen, “I guess.”
While they waited, Ranpo started talking about meaningless things. It was easy, talking to Oda. Maybe he was dumb, but he was a really nice guy, and he seemed interested in everything he had to say—when Ranpo wasn’t interrupting his reading time, that is.
While Ranpo was talking, Oda yawned, rubbing his eyes with both hands. Ranpo huffed, leaning over the table to get closer to him. He was always trying to get closer to him.
“You really look tired,” he said, tilting his head. “Did you even sleep last night?”
Oda blinked repeatedly before his eyes focused on him again.
“I had a long night,” he said. “I wanted to take a nap, but then I wouldn’t have made it in time.”
Ranpo frowned. “In time for what?”
“To see you,” Oda said, like it was obvious.
Ranpo was at a loss of words, for a change. Because yes, they went there the same day at the same time every week, and yes, Ranpo would’ve felt like Oda failed him if he didn’t come, but— but…
He coughed in his hand, averting his gaze. The honesty in Oda’s eyes was almost too much to bear. Ranpo considered himself someone who knew humans; everyone lied all the time or spoke in riddles, they hid their intentions, they tried to act like something they weren’t. And yes, Oda wasn’t completely honest—he had secrets, he had bodies in his closet and things to bury he didn’t know Ranpo knew about, but he was real. As real as they come. Ranpo, as much as he wanted to believe himself invincible, wasn’t sure he knew how to deal with that.
“You really are dumb,” Ranpo said, his voice strangely quiet.
“You keep saying that,” Oda replied calmly, like he didn’t really mind. His acceptance felt heavy in Ranpo’s back.
The girl came back with their orders, wearing the same smile as before. When Ranpo took a bite of the cake, he wrinkled his nose.
“Lena! This isn’t sweet enough!”
She poked her head out from the kitchen door.
“The chef said you’re annoying.”
“No, he didn’t! That was you!”
She stuck her tongue out at him, to which Ranpo replied by flipping her off before she was gone again.
“Don’t be rude to her,” Oda said.
“She called me annoying,” Ranpo retorted in an attempt to defend himself.
“Well…”
Ranpo glared at him. “Don’t tell me you agree.”
Oda’s silence was louder than words. Ranpo gasped, but when he started to whine, Oda sighed and picked his book up.
He tried catching his attention again, but Oda kept reading through it all, so in a last attempt to make him look at him, Ranpo took the book away from him.
“Give that back!” Oda said, eyes open wide, and he stood up so he could get closer to Ranpo.
Oda never reacted like this. Ranpo backed away from him, drinking his reaction in. He didn’t give him the book, something like excitement stirring at his chest. This was his personal challenge, and if the book managed to make him react like that then there was no way he would give it back without finding out why.
It didn’t take much work. He looked down, paying close attention to it for the first time, and he saw—
“Oda,” he said, hating the slight tremor in his voice.
Oda let his hand drop as Ranpo opened the book.
The pages, much as the corners of it, were stained with small dark spots. It could pass as a lot of things, but both Oda and Ranpo knew what it was.
Oda left wordlessly, and Ranpo knew better than to try to keep him from going away.
He didn’t see him again in the following weeks. It hurt. Ranpo didn’t understand why.
Ranpo played with the food on his plate. Fukuzawa was sitting across from him at the table, eating in silence. He didn’t press Ranpo to eat. He tried a few times, but it proved to be futile and only upset both of them, and Fukuzawa has always been smart enough to pick his own battles. Trying to convince Ranpo of something is usually setting oneself for failure.
The food smelled nice, but Ranpo couldn’t eat. He didn’t eat the night before, either, although he lied and said he did so Fukuzawa wouldn’t have to worry.
“Fukuzawa-san,” he spoke. The words weighed like sand on his tongue. He tried clearing his throat, but it was in vain. Fukuzawa hummed as an answer, and Ranpo looked up.
There was a lot he wanted to say. I’ve made friends with an assassin, for once. He’s really nice.
I think he could join us, too. He thought Fukuzawa would trust his judgment. He usually did, after all. He could just say it and Fukuzawa, at the very least, would consider it.
Would Oda even want to join? He was a lonely kid. Ranpo thought he knew what was better for him, but would Oda agree?
Ranpo felt his mouth dry.
“I think I don’t want to be referred to as a boy anymore,” he said instead, because he had to say something, and he’d been meaning to tell him that either way.
Fukuzawa hummed again, looking at him with quiet acceptance, and Ranpo felt terribly small.
It wasn’t difficult to find Oda’s house.
Getting there was because they couldn’t count on anyone taking them there, but they asked some questions to the right people and they found themself in front of the door to his apartment. The whole building smelt weird and the neighborhood didn’t look very friendly, but Ranpo believed they’d be okay…, as long as Oda didn’t kick him out of his apartment and left him to his luck.
They doubted that was going to happen, but as they picked on Oda’s lock, they thought that maybe they should’ve considered their options. There was no contingency plan.
After a few minutes, he was in.
The place was weirdly clean, but Oda’s clothes were still on top of his bed and there were some bags in his closet, which meant he was still living there.
So Ranpo lied on the couch. It was uncomfortable, and they could hear sounds coming from the neighboring apartments—loud clashes, voices caught in heated arguments. No wonder Oda looked like he didn’t sleep at all.
He turned on his side.
This was dumb. Dumb and dangerous. Fukuzawa would kill them, if he knew. Ranpo thought he might deserve it, because there was the unspoken promise that Ranpo wouldn’t jump in the line of fire for no reason ever again and he was breaking it now.
But they were desperate. Oda was never going to go see them anymore, that much was clear, and Ranpo didn’t think themself able to accept that quietly.
It hurt to think he wouldn’t see Oda again. He didn’t understand why.
The door opened and Ranpo jumped, sitting up. He couldn’t even take a look at Oda’s expression before a gun was pointed at his head, and he let out a small yelp, raising both hands.
Oda’s expression turned from cold concentration to surprise. He looked so, so young. Ranpo couldn’t help but drink it in.
“I almost shot you,” Oda said, and Ranpo guessed it was supposed to be a reclaim, but he was still recovering from the shock. “You… How?”
“It wasn’t difficult,” they said, shrugging. He took a deep breath as Oda put the gun away.
“The lock was picked. I assumed…”
“That was me,” he said. It was a dumb thing to say. Ranpo couldn’t think of anything else.
Oda nodded, looking at his own hands. “I know that now.”
Silence hung over their heads for a moment. Ranpo had too many things to say, but he didn’t know where to start. He was never as nervous as now, not even with his life in danger.
Feeling their stomach turning on itself, Ranpo closed their eyes.
“I always knew,” he blurted out.
Oda didn’t reply. He must’ve had his confused expression, the one that made him look like a puppy. Ranpo didn’t open their eyes.
“Your… occupation, or whatever. I always knew. You know I’m a detective—I told you I am! What kind of poor excuse of a detective would I be, if I didn’t know?”
They breathed in. It felt as if they were far away, and Ranpo was desperately trying to build a bridge to bring them closer together. It was unfair. Ranpo was never good at bringing people close.
“I am the best detective in the world, and I am not just saying that! You underestimated me both when believing you could fool me and when you thought you could simply get away from me,” he kept talking because it had been weeks, and there were a lot of things he wanted to say, and he might have underestimated how upset this really made him feel.
Oda was just stupid if he thought he could get away from this without hearing Ranpo out. He didn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t—he could imagine the expression on Oda’s face, and he didn’t trust himself to be able to maintain his anger against it.
“Why would you even bring that book to a public space? It had blood! If I didn’t know, then it would’ve been your own fault if I discovered it! How can you be so… so…”
“Ranpo,” Oda called.
Ranpo felt themself melt.
One of their hands was soon taken between Oda’s own. Ranpo would’ve loved nothing more than to take it away, but it felt comforting. Ranpo didn’t realize he needed comfort until then.
“You might want to breathe,” Oda said then.
Ranpo wanted to say that no, he didn’t need to breathe, thank you very much, but he realized he didn’t stop to breathe while talking. Inhale, exhale. It felt stupid now, to have let himself get so worked up about something as irrelevant as this. He didn’t need Oda, and Oda clearly didn’t need him, if it was so easy to simply cut ties.
What was he here for? To beg? It was not like them to drag themself around, to crawl to someone’s door begging for a second of spare time.
Then again, they never had anyone like Oda before. A friend.
“Better?” Oda asked, ever so softly.
“Shut up,” Ranpo replied.
“Okay.”
Ranpo opened their eyes. Oda was kneeling in front of them, holding their hand. There was something in his eyes that Ranpo didn’t know how to interpret.
They bit on their own tongue.
“You’re an asshole.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I bet you are.”
Silence again. Ranpo held Oda’s hand back, tightened their fingers around his. Oda’s hands were warm. They wondered if he killed someone just now, right before coming here. They could discover it, if they tried, but they decided against it. What good would it bring?
Oda seemed like he wanted to say something. They were never patient, but they waited. They wanted an explanation and didn’t feel like interrogating him. It wouldn’t make sense to force the words out of him.
“I panicked,” Oda said. He struggled for another second, looking at their hands. He squeezed Ranpo’s hand between his own lightly. “Not because I thought you would bring me to justice. I… didn’t want you to know.”
There were a lot of things left unsaid in that statement, Ranpo thought. Oda always said what he meant, but sometimes he struggled to find the right words. It didn’t matter: Ranpo knew enough to fill in the gap.
Oda wasn’t looking to keep the secret because of fear. He probably could escape, if he was brought to justice. He was keeping the secret because, for the first time of his life, he had found something akin to normalcy.
Ranpo hummed. “We had met before, though. Or did you forget?”
“You didn’t say anything, so I guessed…”
“You’re bad at guessing. You should stop doing that.”
Oda lets out a sound that falls short of a laugh. “Yes. Yes, I should.”
Ranpo pressed their forehead to the back of Oda’s hand, closing their eyes again. It felt nice. Ranpo wished he could stay there forever.
Crimes of passion were always boring for Ranpo. They were predictable and easy to solve; even a baby could get through them, no matter how hard the murderer tried to hide it.
Ranpo held the theory that there was no way of killing someone you loved without leaving a part of yourself behind.
There was something weird about this one, though. Ranpo already knew the murderer, he was just standing outside of the interrogation room as the official in charge got ready to go with the questions, and Ranpo stared at the woman’s face without blinking.
“Ask her about her wrist,” he said then.
They felt the weight of the officer’s gaze on them, but they didn’t reciprocate the gesture.
When asked about her wrist, the woman broke down crying, and she explained I hoped it was him, but it wasn’t. He said another thing entirely.
Ranpo didn’t think much about the words on their wrist. They’d come to learn that everyone has those; the marking is only visible for oneself, but it’s there, ingrained in everyone’s skin. They knew, too, that the words are supposed to be the last words your soulmate is going to say to you.
That’s a tragedy of its own, they supposed, if you care about that kind of stuff. For Ranpo, it made no difference. So what if they’d only get to know someone was their soulmate at the end of the road? Why would that change anything at all? You either love someone or you don’t. If you’re losing someone you love, it’s going to hurt regardless of what the universe or whichever bigger being is controlling the strings wants from you.
It still made him curious. Later that week, when he went to visit Oda’s new house, he lay with his head on his lap and his fingers trailing a path through the veins in his wrist.
“What does it say?” he asked. Oda looked down at him, humming as a question. “The mark on your wrist.”
Oda looked at his own wrist, where Ranpo’s fingers were still drawing imaginary figures, and he shrugged.
“Does it matter?”
“Not really. I’m just curious.”
“I’d rather not tell, then.”
“Hmm? Why not?”
Oda didn’t reply immediately, getting distracted when their fingers found their way to his palm. That made Ranpo smile.
“I don’t know,” Oda muttered, voice soft, almost sweet. “It’s embarrassing.”
That wasn’t the truth. Ranpo knew that because they always knew everything, even when it’d be better if they didn’t.
They didn’t call him out on it.
(Ranpo wonders if Oda always knew it was going to be them. If he saw the end and waited for it as patiently as he did with everything else.
Oda was always a patient man, after all.)
Ranpo was sixteen when they kissed Oda for the first time.
It was clumsy and a mess, but enjoyable nevertheless. He grinned against Oda’s lips just to watch him blush afterwards. His mouth felt warm and soft and—
Ranpo couldn’t wash the bittersweet aftertaste off of his tongue.
They laid their head on Oda’s chest. Ba-dump, ba-dump, his heart sang. Ranpo drank it in. Oda’s chest rose and fell, following the rhythm of his breath. Ranpo drank it in.
Oda’s hand played with their hair, and it felt wrong. Or, maybe not wrong. It felt like a premonition. Like a disaster waiting to happen. Ranpo had always felt like Oda had a death threat hanging up his head, like it was just a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. It made no sense, truly, because Oda was a healthy sixteen years old boy, and because his ability made it impossible for him to get killed except he allowed it. Oda never talked about it, but Ranpo knew.
(He thinks, now, that he should’ve known what the ending was going to be. It was as clear as water. It was always coming.)
“You’re quiet,” Oda mentioned.
Only then Ranpo realized that they didn’t know when they stopped talking. They felt the need to breathe, take it in, memorize every sensation, every detail. They needed something to… to…
“I thought you said I talk too much?” Ranpo muttered.
Oda hummed. “Never said it was a bad thing.”
Ranpo felt his chest tighten. The feeling was familiar, but it felt wrong, as if the world had been turned upside down.
Oda’s hand stopped playing with his hair and he put a hand on his chin so Ranpo would look at him. It was an invitation to share his thoughts.
Promise you’ll stay, he wanted to say. Promise you won’t disappear.
It would’ve been mean from him, to ask Oda to make a promise they both knew he wouldn’t be able to keep. Ranpo didn’t want to do that to either of them.
“Your heart is beating fast,” Ranpo said instead, and it was true. It was what they had at the moment, and they wanted to cling to it. “I was wondering if that meant something.”
Oda’s expression relaxed ever so slightly, and Ranpo managed a smile that almost felt genuine.
Ranpo was eighteen when he lost a boy.
Oda disappeared like Ranpo would've expected him to: without a trace, without a goodbye.
Losing Oda for the first time felt like waking up from a dream.
It was early summer and it was raining.
Ranpo had a weird feeling about that day. They left the offices even knowing they would have to walk under the rain, a feeling they don’t particularly enjoy even to this day, even with their umbrella.
They rushed on the streets as if they were following an invisible string. They walked, walked, walked, walked,
and then the world came to a stop.
He fell. The ground was wet under him. His umbrella stuttered slightly on his hold and he felt the cold water hit his face. His eyes looked up, lips parting, but any complaint died on his throat as his eyes found the eyes of the person he collided with.
Oda, he thought (he said).
Looking into his eyes felt like staring into a void. Nothingness appeared in front of him and Ranpo dropped themself between its cold, unwelcoming arms, because it was the only thing they had.
Recognition. Then, nothing.
He could’ve asked questions. Where have you been, why did you leave, did you miss me. He could’ve said, I’ve missed you, I waited for you, I still dream of your lips over mine, my hands still long for the touch of your hands, my heart calls your name like a prayer: Oda, Oda, Oda—
Instead, he said,
You shouldn’t go to where you're headed. You should reconsider. If you go, you’ll die.
And Oda replied, expectedly, regretfully,
Yes. I know.
The marking in their wrist started hurting not so long after. It burned, it burned, it burned—
and then it was over,
and Ranpo regretted it;
he regretted it, for the pain being over meant this was the end.
When Ranpo looked down, the words that used to be in their wrist disappeared.
With that gone, what was left behind?
Ranpo was twenty-two when it ended.
Losing Oda for the second time felt like being torn apart.
“The truth is, being around you felt like being around a tickling bomb, waiting for the explosion.
I can’t see the future, but there was a thing I knew was true: the best people I’ve ever met always faded away a little too soon.
There were a lot of things I wished I could tell you, but never said. Honesty is easy when you don’t bare your soul, when it’s someone else’s secrets you’re picking apart. It’s not as easy when it’s your own heart you’re trying to expose.
It’d make no sense to tell you now, but it doesn’t matter. Something tells me you knew.
I knew, too, what the name of the feeling was.
It was
—
I knew you felt the same.”
Ranpo doesn’t like graveyards.
Still, every summer, when it rains, he finds himself standing in front of a headstone.
It reads,
S. Oda
and he crouches down before it, hands held together in a silent prayer. He doesn’t talk, not anymore, because it doesn’t make sense to tell the dead the things you didn’t say to them before it was too late.
As they go, they leave a singular chrysanthemum behind.