#sunssmoke

           Continued from here.             [ @sunssmoke ]                ⋯

The only reasons that Ranpo bothers to step away from their desk in the office are for the sake of pursuing investigative cases, or finding something sweet to sate their hunger. Unsurprisingly, they're on high demand. The detectives within the police force don't come anywhere close to meeting their expertise nor their unwavering intelligence, after all, and they aren't sure how they haven't taken enough cases off their hands to put them out of a job by now. This time, however, Ranpo isn't being called upon. At least, not by the Agency's office phone, but rather his own sweet tooth.

It's a miracle in itself to have run out of snacks when they're essentially all he stores in his locker and desk drawer, but he deceived himself with just how many of those were actually empty wrappers. It's no one's fault but his own. And yet he's in a sour mood, lingering by a vending machine.

  @sunssmoke ♥

＊ . Since sundown the night prior , the storm rages. Ango leans his forehead against the window, feeling the chill of the wind and the thuds of rain through it. It is now the next evening. Hours prior, the power went out, and he’d set candles about the living area. One on the coffee table. One by the kitchen. One on the shelf near the doors to his and Kunikida’s bedrooms. Their apartment is small, so it is well-lit by this alone.

An eerie yellow glow bathes his face. He sighs heavily, breath fogging the glass. “ How long did they say it would last again, Kunikida? ” he asks. He straightens his posture, closes his book, and peels himself away from the comfort of his chair. The novel returns to its home among countless others — ordered alphabetically from the day he moved in. His roommate has been kind enough ( or , perhaps diligent enough ) to uphold this organization, too.

“ Two more days? ” He pushes the spine of the book back with his nail. A crescent indent persists in the leather mere moments after. Eventually, its mark fades. Ango takes to pinching his brow instead. Maybe, if he gets lucky, it’ll soothe his headache. “ I hope we get the electricity back soon. I’m going stir crazy without my work. ”

No electronics. No internet service. The storm howls outside. They’re trapped here lest they want to risk driving in dangerous weather, and, well, Ango is no fool. The Port Mafia needs him alive. …So does Kunikida. Together, weight is distributed evenly. Tolerably. With just one load-bearing beam missing, who knows what could happen? They both utilize this balance.

Of course, Ango has been able to do some of his work by phone: answering messages, calls, and emails. The bulk of his archival tasks depend on access to Port Mafia servers, however. He feels behind. Woefully out of sorts. It’s the kind of itchiness that gnaws at one’s skin, carrying with it every intention to pierce through ribs. Thankfully, Kunikida is perhaps one of the few people who will understand.

           Continued from here.             [ @sunssmoke ]                ⋯

The longer he stands over the sink, the redder the ceramic becomes. Dazai is quite the mess, with the blood from his nose rolling down his face and dripping from his chin, staining his hands and slowly seeping into the collar of his shirt. His attempts to plug the flow are rendered useless, because the tissues are too heavy once soaked in blood that they slip free if he isn't tipping his head back. Scattered upon the surface, and partly on the floor, are discarded wads that didn't last nearly long enough to stop the bleeding.