vellichor

"It wasn't a question!" Ranpo clarifies, frown deepening, though admittedly he feels a little less thwarted with sugar on his tongue. His brows furrow, and he digs the prongs of his fork into sponge until it breaks apart. "I literally never see you eat. Like, how do you function?"

It isn't really their problem. But, since taking it upon themself to invade Poe's space more often when they feel like it, it's difficult not to notice the smaller intricacies. Regardless, their demands come from a place of vying rather than sincerity. Probably. There's reason to doubt the puzzles handed to them if they were crafted by unsteady hands and a sluggish mine. "For the record! I will not be reading any of your letters of ciphers that seems half-assed because you couldn't focus properly, soooo…"

＊ . How does Edgar function ? From under heavy bangs, eyes scan the assortment of buffet items. “ I am not often hungry. ” Perhaps it’s safe to say he doesn’t eat much. His mind is always elsewhere, running miles a minute, and he rarely slows down. Even now, with the topic of food apparent, he has to stop and process: Is he hungry? He dismissed it so immediately earlier. 

Ranpo sets an ultimatum — a refusal to read anything Edgar writes while unfocused — and that does the trick. Edgar slumps into himself and tries to find a small portion. He settles for a cupcake, complete with a light swirl of frosting and topped by a cherry. The cherry goes first, suckled on until he is able to tie the stem with his tongue. 

He doesn’t mean to get ahead of himself. Really, he doesn’t. Sheepish, he grumbles something unintelligible, sighs, and takes his first bite of the cupcake. Using a fork instead of his fingers keeps his hands clean. The stem of the cherry is discarded on the plate beside the half-undone wrapping. “ You said maybe, ” he begins, “ and I said imagine. All hypotheticals for your consideration. ” But he hardly wants them to be.

Karl chitters. Edgar sets his fork down to pet him. “ You won’t practice with her now? ” he asks. Of course. There’s a stubbornness in Ranpo that one might consider childish, but truthfully, Edgar would do something similar if a secret of his got out this way. “ Forgive her. She meant well. ” She meant to help Edgar, in her words, talk to more people. Or so he thinks. Despite how blunt she is, she also regularly goes back on herself.

…If the former is the case, maybe he’s meant to offer his service in her stead. “ I could try to take her place for you, ” he suggests. Is that too soon, too sudden, given the maybe? He cannot tell. Social cues elude him, especially when what he desires is just within his reach. Banter between rivals is long overdue, in his opinion. 

              • • • 𖤓              [ @vllchr ]

Doppo can feel his likeminded roommate’s eyes on him but he doesn’t yet return the gaze, staring instead out at all the misery the sky has opened up and drowned the streets in. The tension in the air is strong and without direction, a frenzied, stir-crazy thing that Doppo and Ango have been cultivating from the very first hour of being locked away like this. Neither of them deals well with idleness and disorder — it’s part of what has made them such good housemates to one another. 

He lets out a tight, unhappy sigh, crosses and uncrosses his arms, and tries to think of something to fill the time with, all work tasks null and void without power or access to the base. 

Ango shares his distress and distaste, leveling a dry refusal Doppo’s way, though Doppo knows him well enough to read the way he’d actually considered it: going out in this miserable weather. Both of them surely would if they could. Unfortunately, they both value their lives… as well as direct orders, of course. 

The presence at his side floats off in a slow path towards the kitchen, and finally Doppo tears his eyes from the window and watches Ango’s candlelight-wreathed silhouette. He asks if Doppo is hungry, already on his path to the cupboards and pulling out cooking utensils. 

“… Not particularly.” Doppo admits. He’s a nervous snacker, much to his own chagrin, and the recent locked-at-home circumstances had kept him clutching at various granola bars and packets of nuts and the like with fervor. “But I’m happy to help.” In other words, please let him keep himself busy. 

In all honesty, neither he nor Ango spend much time in the kitchen — overtime has them both in its clutches too often, and takeout is terribly easy to order nowadays. If Doppo were anyone else, he’d have forgotten where all the pots and pans even were (he is not the forgetful sort, however. And he and Ango had established the proper order and location of things long ago, from which they have not even once deviated). 

＊ . The kitchen serves as a home for their displacement , and Ango recognizes it immediately. Both he and Kunikida crave to restore order in a world which has, for the time being, taken it from them. The storm outside might as well be atmospheric for how Ango feels these days — with himself, with others.

He is glad he learned to coexist with Kunikida. They do not collide. He sets down a pot with a punctuated sound. “ Then we’ll prepare something anyway, ” he says. His voice carries that particular quality of control he’s cultivated. Not cold, but contained, endowed by methodology.

Hunger, really, doesn’t mean for food. Not for Ango. He hungers for occupation. Experience tells him Kunikida must feel the same. They both learned to measure their worth in productivity: tangible evidence of tasks completed, reports filed, and orders maintained. To be stripped of that framework, even fleetingly, leaves Ango uncomfortable. Vulnerable. Disgusted.

Bit by bit, Ango catalogs ingredients. A one-pot pasta is simple enough. They have canned sauce, and while normally he’d elevate it, he is uninterested in fancifying the flavor. Just wants to keep busy. His hands move with purpose.

“ Cut the vegetables? ” he asks, already knowing Kunikida will approach the task with that fastidious care he admires. Here, working alongside someone who shares his particular brand of odd, he feels something meditative. A silent understanding slopes his shoulders. This has nothing to do with cuisine and everything to do with maintaining their sense of selves.

The storm continues outside, but in the warm sphere of candlelight, they are building something smaller, something manageable. Ango lights the stovetop manually and pours water into the pot. Bliss will be temporary. But Ango is grateful for Kunikida’s presence regardless. Even after they’ve plated their food, he’s confident they will find some other way to pass the time. Together, they are capable. Right? Right.

              • 𖤓              [ @vllchr ]

There are spreadsheets, actual paper spreadsheets filled in by actual pen ink, scattered in vaguely organised heaps on the table. Doppo’s got his pen aimed at one of them, ticking and cross-referencing budgets with a speed and ease borne of years of familiarity. His nondominant hand holds his cheek as he leans on it, slumped over from the weight of the time he’s spent hunched over the sheets like this. His eyes are straining under the flickering candlelight, and all their conflicting scents have driven a headache into his temples. 

Sighing frustratedly, he lets his pen fall from his lax grip and leans back in his seat, wood of the chair creaking in complaint. “Two days, yes... I pray the weather reports are wrong," he says, a little too desperate to truly reach dry. 

Doppo has always been a bit of a homebody, but the thought of having two more days of this, digital spreadsheet-less and unable to go into the office (where the important ledgers are kept), his meticulously kept schedule in horrific disarray… well… it sounds like a nightmare. He comes to a stand, winces at the series of cracks his back lets out, and joins Ango near the window. 

“I don’t think I have ever wanted to discuss a contract this badly in my life,” he admits. At least the likes of that would bring him out of the house and back to some sense of normalcy, even though business-talking his way into deals was his least favorite work task. “… Do you think we could make it to headquarters anyways?” It’s barely worth asking, with all the treefall and misery out and about…. and the explicit demands from their boss to not come in, of course. But still. A man can dream.  

He fiddles with his fingers, then clasps his hands in front of himself to stymy the fidgeting. It’s at times like these that Doppo realises it might be nice to develop some more hobbies. There’s some solace, at least, that Ango is looking to be feeling just as frazzled as he is.  

＊ . An analog clock, which Ango had meticulously cleaned the weekend prior, ticks in tune to his dismay. He nods solemnly — Kunikida’s wishes are his own. If the weather lets up soon, even without fully stopping, they may be allowed back into the office. Backup generators are surely whirring there this very minute. He mourns what could’ve been.

Ango lifts his attention and lets it drift to Kunikida’s face as he speaks. Everything about today feels slow. Painfully slow. He is a quick worker, unused to interruptions this severe, reliant on uniformity. Working from home never served him well. He much prefers a separate space for, as they say, work-life balance.

The tension along his shoulders reminds him of this fact. He is an incompetent remote worker. For it, he wants to crawl back into bed. The heavy curls of storm clouds darkening the air make that plenty feasible. It’s not like their boss can expect them to do much while they’re here, disconnected from the internet, trapped with whatever they had at home to work on.

Unfortunately, Ango is a workaholic. Not doing anything sits poorly with him. He toys again with the idea of going into the office even still after Kunikida mentions it. His smile turns wry. “ If we have a death wish, perhaps. ” Which Ango decidedly does not.

Fingers string through dark hair. His own type of fidget. Ango stretches and moves to the kitchen. “ Are you hungry? ” he asks. They should still have gas, which means their stovetop is operational. Cooking for the two will keep him occupied. Ah, if only he were a Michelin chef. …If only they could order takeout. He’ll settle for something homemade, because if nothing else, he can trust the repetition of memorized recipes.

It isn't doubt that they're plagued with. Rather, everything is laced with a little bit of that competitive thrill when it comes to their well-matched rival. Poe is plenty capable, they know, of helping them practice, which is why they want to pursue this road on their own. It's something of a long overdue favour; there are novels, poems and other promised media that Ranpo isn't yet privy to just because they lack the comprehension of another language, and it doesn't sit very kindly with someone of their impatience.

＊ . Truth be told, Edgar isn’t particularly compelled to help. He shouldn’t be. They’re rivals, and teaching Ranpo his native tongue only opens paths that were formerly blocked off. This could be detrimental. It could also be… entertaining. That’s what he settles on, steeling his resolve and slipping after Ranpo’s coattails.

The banquet table is packed high with treats and drinks aplenty. Edgar can only focus on them after he has made it through the gaggle of other merrymakers. He looks over his shoulder when he hears a loud cackle of laughter. It makes him forget to give Ranpo his mentally rehearsed justification. What’re they doing over there? What could make them so boisterous?

He will deny startling when Ranpo presses food in his and Karl’s. The smile he wore earlier is now woefully twisted, nerves raising the corners. “ Huh— Oh, um. ” Food. Yes. This is a celebration. A party. And these snacks, of course, are for all partygoers. Karl happily takes the strawberry between his paws. He sniffs it before he bites, delicately devouring the sweet treat.

Edgar watches, then shakes his head. “ I am quite all right, ” he says. “ But, thank you. ” Karl readjusts on his shoulder, nuzzling closer to his hair, and he worries for a moment the raccoon may catch some of his locks between his teeth. …Ah, well. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Hope restores when Ranpo mentions what they both already know: options are limited. Edgar takes the ‘maybe’ with less grace than he’d planned. “ Splendid. Imagine all the letters I could one day write you! The ciphers I could share! ” He scratches Karl’s face. “ I do enjoy a good cryptogram. ” And it is yet another avenue through which he can ( attempt ) to outsmart his rival. What more could one ask for?

[ ❀ ] VALLEYOFLOSTSOULS — a creative hub for a series of multimuse sideblogs, writing and creating primarily bungo stray dogs, windbreaker, and haikyuu. indie, selective, 18+ interactions only.

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Ranpo: See ya!

If it weren't for Karl's awfully persuasive chitters, they'd be storming off to sulk right about now. Poe is smiling the way people do when they achieve something unfathomable. Like he has named a new star, or fashioned a heart that will beat forever. In response, Ranpo rolls their eyes. Hard. Along with vaguely grumbled disbelief, because if he really meant nothing by it, he wouldn't be practically preening right in front of them.

＊ . Getting hopes up too much implies there’s disappointment tiptoeing at the horizon. Edgar, however, doubts anything could ruin this news — he is already amused enough by Ranpo’s efforts. The only risk would be Ranpo giving up, and thankfully, they are stubborn on a level Edgar admires.

Seems Miss Montgomery isn’t as ideal a teacher as Ranpo hoped for, though. Surprising. She can be a little hotheaded or loud, but surely she’d persist, especially for someone genuinely interested in learning.

Maybe it’s just… difficult? Edgar had a troublesome time first learning Japanese, as it were. He’s still told he speaks too formally, even for such a respect-based culture. No language is a walk in the park. That’s to be expected. The mere fact that Ranpo is trying would set them apart by leaps and bounds over everyone who doesn’t bother. Except, Ranpo struggling with anything doesn’t sound correct.

☆ “Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.”

- Edgar Allan Poe