In the early morning, Randou looked visibly exhausted, the toll of a night tormented by his thoughts written plainly on his face.
Asou Akiya stared at him, puzzled. "???"
He replayed the conversation from the previous day in his mind, but nothing seemed unusual.
Japan was a countryside in the eyes of a Frenchman; that was an indisputable fact. Akiya had no intention of defending it—things were as they were. His only duty was to cheer for his homeland across the sea.
"Randou, do you mind that I'm Japanese?" Akiya wondered aloud.
If he did, Akiya might have considered inventing a Chinese aristocratic lineage for himself.
"No!" Randou's reaction was immediate and intense. His eyes widened in panic. "It doesn't matter to me whether you're European or Japanese. What I love is the Akiya I saw at first sight!"
He believed himself free of racial bias; Akiya's Asian complexion had never evoked any negative emotions. If anything, it had a unique freshness—like switching from familiar French cuisine to Japanese flavors. He knew without doubt that Akiya was his first Asian boyfriend.
Akiya frowned. "Then why couldn't you sleep all night?"
Randou hesitated. "I did sleep… but I was prone to nightmares."
Hearing the word nightmare, Akiya's concern sharpened. He placed his palm gently against Randou's forehead.
"Don't let your mind wander."
"Mm." Randou glanced at the clock—half past six in the morning. It wasn't yet Akiya's wake-up time, so his mood wasn't fully ready for morning intimacy. The mix of emotions—guilt for deceiving Akiya, embarrassment—made his fingers curl instinctively.
Randou lay against Asou Akiya's down pillow, very close, pulling the blanket up to cover half his face. "Akiya, tell me again how we first met."
With the tone of someone seeking comfort in the past, he looked at Akiya expectantly. Akiya recounted the story, one he had revised countless times in his mind, running his fingers gently through Randou's long, curling hair.
"Alright."
They had met two winters ago, a chance encounter born of cold and coincidence.
It was January, and fine snow drifted softly through the air.
Twenty-year-old Asou Akiya was out walking when he noticed a foreigner stepping out of a taxi. The long-haired young man shivered slightly in the cold wind, dragging a suitcase. He must have come from the port across the water. He wore a black bowler-style hat, a scarf wrapped around his neck, a long coat over a well-tailored suit—but perhaps because of the hat, his ears were red from the cold, and his cheeks were as pale as the snow around him.
Akiya's first impression was that this person was tall, with a striking, distinctive appearance.
That was their first encounter.
Later, Akiya ran into him again at a bookstore run by foreigners in the Yokohama concession. Both bought the same French book. When they paid, Akiya noticed the young man now wore fluffy white earmuffs beneath his hat, an odd combination. Even so, the youth carried an innate, chilly arrogance, giving off the air of someone not easily approachable.
A Frenchman who didn't follow tradition and who clearly hated the cold?
Instinctively, Akiya spoke in French: "Êtes-vous français?" (Are you French?)
The long-haired youth, bundled against the cold, heard his mother tongue and gave a gentle nod.
Akiya, who had studied French for several years, went to a café afterward, only to see the youth follow him, seemingly choosing the same place to read. As he pushed open the door and warm air brushed his face, the Frenchman's expression softened. No longer clutching his book or shrinking into his scarf, the arrogance melted away in that instant. His smile was beautiful.
Then the Frenchman sat opposite Asou Akiya, as if he had found a kindred soul in a foreign land. Akiya didn't mind. They began discussing poetry and novels, exchanging knowledge of outstanding works from various countries, learning about one another. Naturally, they agreed to meet again.
It was a chance encounter—beautiful, pure, two people bound by shared interests.
At least, that's how Asou Akiya described it to Randou. Randou's heart skipped a beat, hearing a slightly different version from the inside: Did I purposely engineer this encounter with Akiya? Did I even research his interests beforehand?
Randou's spy instincts stirred, and he asked, "Two years ago… had Akiya just joined the Mafia?"
Asou Akiya hooked his finger with Randou's, teasing gently. "No. Didn't I tell you before? My parents were part of it too. After they passed, I joined the organization at sixteen. By the year I met you, I'd already been working nearly four years."
Randou's unease deepened.
That meant Akiya's experience at the time was neither novice nor veteran. With his family background trusted by the port's Mafia and solid skills, he would have risen steadily without making major mistakes.
What a perfect entry point for an undercover mission. In public, a friend; In private, a lover.
With an emotional foundation already in place, Akiya could provide cover…
Asou Akiya teased, "Randou, do you think I was simply attracted to you?"
Randou felt his own secretive instincts flare, but his tone softened. "Maybe… I fell for you at first sight."
Akiya rubbed Randou's fingers, noting the delicate skin, the palms long freed of any calluses.
"Impossible. It was all me pursuing you. You were so cold, so distant—arrogant like a French noble—I still remember it vividly. You seemed completely uninterested in me, yet because you were in a sour mood, you chatted with me to pass the time. I was just a rookie, and after only a few meetings, I had already fallen for you."
In short, Randou was the French beauty tailor-made for Akiya's tastes.
Randou hesitated, asking, "Am I really that arrogant?"
Akiya spoke deliberately, word by word: "You are a rose of France, a beauty from a distant land, fashionably dressed, composed and unhurried. You arrived in my world carrying the biting chill of winter with you."
Randou's ears warmed as he listened to Akiya's flattery.
He could easily imagine that his attitude was probably much like Miss Catherine's—looking down on the Japanese.
A new question arose—was approaching Akiya part of the Port Mafia's plan?
"Akiya, is your organization well-known internationally?"
"No. Not at all."
"…"
"It's neither the most prosperous city in Japan nor a famous tourist destination. Even Mount Fuji is better known. The only thing we have to show is maritime trade through the Port of Yokohama—but we don't even have government-recognized offshore rights."
Asou Akiya scoffed at the shabby Port Mafia.
The boss had built the organization from scratch, but their relationship with the government was weak; they lacked the connections and influence of someone like Mori Ogai.
Reading Randou's odd attitude today, Akiya shifted perspective, turning the significance of the port Mafia and Yokohama upside down. He let slip something unexpected: "Though Yokohama is a small place, I've heard that the site of the previous explosion hides a secret military base. And apparently… we've sealed away a treasure here that can grant resurrection wishes."
Randou's eyes widened in disbelief. "Resurrection? How is that even possible?"
Akiya, with the casual tone of a movie protagonist discussing urban legends, shrugged. "Who knows?"
But Randou couldn't help but believe him. A treasure that grants wishes? Perhaps that explained it…
But it was absurd.
Who in France would take this intelligence seriously?
Having accepted the poet's ordinary life, he even considered that supernatural abilities might be nothing more than a rumor—after all, how could he have lived two years without ever seeing a single person with powers?
Randou buried his face in Akiya's chest, no longer probing for information. To do so now would betray Akiya's trust.
Besides—
Can a spy really be called a spy without backup from above?
Asou Akiya looked down at him and smiled meaningfully. Fill in the gaps in your imagination, Randou.
The black-haired youth's arms wrapped around his lover's waist. In their complete relaxation, the two of them clung to each other like entwined vines, living together in a world of supernatural abilities. Their entwined forms wove a home resilient and strong, a sanctuary of their own making.
As long as you trust me and stand by my side, I fear nothing in this world, daring to face anyone who opposes us.
I am waiting, waiting, waiting…
For the day you will write a poem for me that endures for centuries.
Asou Akiya kissed the hidden side of Randou's face, cherishing his French beauty. His smile was gentle, yet tempered with reason. No matter how many times fear had rooted him in place among the port Mafia, his trembling feet had never taken a step backward.
The closer one draws to danger, the more irresistible its allure becomes. I want to be your accomplice in mischief.
"Love is so wonderful… Shall we continue this morning?"
…
Edogawa Ranpo's second job was chosen by Asou Akiya, inspired by Ranpo's actual part-time work in the original story.
You don't like socializing, do you? Afraid of trouble?
—Then bricklaying suits you perfectly.
Taking the address Akiya had given him, Edogawa Ranpo had spent two lazy days snacking away his provisions. Eventually, he had no choice but to grab his employment certificate. Once it was stamped and he passed the interview, he could claim the government's subsidy for himself.
He ran happily toward his destination, but as he walked, he realized the place was a construction site in Yokohama.
Ranpo looked around, doubt written all over his face, and approached someone at the site.
"Excuse me… what kind of work do you hire for here?"
"Construction labor."
The site inspector, sweating under the morning sun, glanced at the piece of paper in the boy's hand. Seeing the job certificate, he immediately took charge on behalf of the understaffed boss.
"Go buy me two bottles of drinks! You're young—perfect for running errands."
Ranpo froze, completely bewildered. And just like that, he became a delivery errand boy.
"What is this!!!"
Life in the city wasn't easy, and for the first time, the young boy felt it firsthand—through the sweat of carrying bricks!
To escape the fate of hauling bricks all day, he tried to transfer to another position within the site, but most skilled jobs required certifications. Positions that didn't require them were already filled, mostly by honest, steady workers. A few lazy ones didn't even bother competing with a kid Ranpo's age.
The environment was simple, the social dynamics uncomplicated, and everything relied on physical labor. Thinking wasn't necessary.
All of Akiya's teachings in cunning manipulation—his "thick-black" strategies—were useless here.
Work honestly!
In this "work unit," where strength alone could sustain life, Ranpo learned to grab his lunchbox at meal times, pick the dishes he liked, and figure out how to move the heaviest loads with the least effort. Even after escaping the harsh training of police school and the military camp, this unrelenting society continued to train him, body and mind.
Exhausted, Ranpo collapsed in the temporary wooden shack. Once again, he took out the paper with the address written on it.
He stared at the handwriting—Akiya's careful, deliberate script.
The older man had purposely left out the type of work, only writing the address, just to trick him into coming.
Ranpo rubbed his sleepy eyes, yawning. "No matter what, adults always like to tease kids. But… as long as I get fed and have a place to sleep, I'll forgive him!"
Feeling barely able to accept his fate, the boy drifted into a drowsy sleep, completely forgetting about the afternoon's work.
A loud shout pierced the air—someone supervising the workers barked:
"Get up!"
Startled, Ranpo sprang upright as if resurrecting from the dead, taking in the reality around him.
Cat-like lethargy.jpg
...
Meanwhile, in exile abroad, André Gide resorted to shameful means from his past to get hold of French newspapers.
He glanced back at his despondent soldiers, then at the headlines. There was no admission of the government's crimes against them; the Paris strikes were once again the hot topic of the day.
But there was a special report as well.
A French poet had written verses for the fallen, consoling the spirits of the battlefield and insisting that their injustices would one day be righted.
Normally, such reports wouldn't be published prominently. But the poet, Jean Nicolas, had crafted verses of such beauty that they sparked a wave of surrealist poetry, captivating readers everywhere. With so many eyes on the pages, the newspapers had no choice but to publish them.
The French people didn't fear the government's quiet nagging. If the authorities had the guts, they'd speak up loudly—first solving the strike problem, then lecturing the people.
André Gide felt a sudden heat in his eyes as he gripped the newspaper tightly.
Finally, a fellow countryman had acknowledged that they were not traitors to the nation.
"The poetry… where is it?"
The disheveled commander flipped through the pages again and again, anxiety gnawing at him. He couldn't find the poems anywhere. Instead, he came across the publisher's contact information and the bookstores releasing the latest edition of the domestic poetry collection.
Good. Next time, he wouldn't target the armed forces of enemy nations. He would go to the bookstore where French poetry could be found.
André Gide vowed never again to underestimate the timid poets back home. Compared to the brave, outspoken poets, all the colleagues he knew were cowards.
He longed to see, with his own eyes, the poet who had recognized them.
He longed… to go home.