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Love is nothing but a vague concept thriving on lonely hope and some otherworldly form of sadism, Poe believes. The world proclaimed love to be the one true desire of man; it is the blood in every individual's veins, the one true goal of certainly every beating heart. If it is thought to hold such value, then… why must it hurt so much? Why must it conjure the most agonizing fear and confusion within him?
If there is one word to summarize Poe's current standing in the world, it would be "indecisive". Not only because of his current inhabitance in Yokohama; not only because of his recent defect from the Guild. The core of his indecisiveness rests in another, as there is a single man in the world that can bring him this unrest: Edogawa Ranpo.
Bringing Poe turmoil is seemingly Ranpo's best skill, after all.
If one would ask Poe simply if he loved Ranpo, he would, without hesitation, tell you yes--and he would be a liar. The truth is that he doesn't know. He is indecisive.
Is this feeling he bears in his fluttering chest love, or is it some demon masquerading as it? Poe cannot identify it, for the only love he's ever experienced was of a familial kind--the kind from a mother--that is now long dead just as she. He cannot begin to comprehend the left from right in the matter. It is all an extravagant machine with gears that twist and grind and make such ruckus, but with no end production and which has the sole purpose for decoration. Love is a decoration.
In the case pertaining specifically to Ranpo, the confusion only worsens. Poe cannot say with confidence that he loves him. He believes he does… but that's all a façade, isn't it? How could he possibly love the man who burdened him with so much resentment in the past? The competition, the failure--it made him loathe himself for being inferior. Of course, the self hatred had always been there, yet the defeat had shattered the foundation of the tiny bit of confidence, and thus he let himself drop to hell.
(Ranpo let him drop to hell. He's the world's greatest detective--there's no possible way he didn't detect Poe's suffering. And yet--! And yet he didn't even possess the mercy to spare him! How horrendously cruel.)
He does not love Ranpo. No, he couldn't possibly. Was it the obsession? That had to be it! He had spent six godforsaken years trying to thwart the detective and claim the glory--trying to restore his life with a reserve of pride, yet in the effort of doing so counterintuitively destroyed it. It was all Ranpo's mercilessness and selfishness that led Poe down to the dangerous resort.
He has grown dependent, that's all. Ranpo, Ranpo, Ranpo--the thought of him only fueled his spite, his motivation. He had glorified Ranpo's name in some horrid, twisted manner that it, now in the present, refuses to leave his brain! It's a disease. Ranpo is a goddamn disease.
(And this is what Poe thinks as he's hunched over the ceramic sink of the bathroom, elbows digging into the faux marble counter and hands gripping tightly to his own hair. His knuckles are white. His scalp is burning with the vice grip that pulls his hair.)
His life had been in shambles by the time of the rematch, so of course he had perceived Ranpo's smile and offer of friendship as his salvation. Why, only a devil could lead him into such a disillusioned trap! Ah, but what a fool he was and is--willfully flinging himself into the direction of whoever would take him. How pathetically pitiful.
The ounce of kindness had seemed so promising at the time. But no, Ranpo had no intention to treat him as anything more than a plaything. A laughingstock. Poe is here for whenever Ranpo gets bored with life and wants to tear his manuscripts to shreds, is all. That's fun. That hurts absolutely nobody in the process (except the man that smiles and takes the plot dissection as it is dished, because how dare he speak of his discontentment otherwise. We work on Ranpo's behalf, not Poe's. If Ranpo notices the discontentment--as he notices everything--he sure as hell did not have the heart to stop.).
And where had that left Poe? Aching--aching for someone to only treat him with the gentle, adoring love that he knows he does not deserve. And, of course, as sad and pathetic as he is, he only longs to receive it from none other than Ranpo.
He threw away his life like trash for the man, and he is the only recurring concept still intact in Poe's life. Ranpo's right there. He's in arm's reach, and yet he feels so distant from Poe. But this is only to be expected when you force yourself into another's life, because they're the last thread dangling you above an abyss. He hates it. He hates how Ranpo ruined his life and yet he's the only solution to the despair.
But Ranpo did show him kindness. He keeps coming back. (Why must he come back?) Is Poe ungrateful?
Oh no, the loop has begun again. The whole cycle of love-vs.-hate is whirling in Poe's head. It makes him so, so sick, he can feel his stomach twist and his body numb with the dizziness. This is so, so exhausting; he despises having to think upon this particular subject. It has not granted him anything but depression and fear and the inability to look Ranpo in the eyes. It's unfair. Beyond unfair.
On the other hand, he couldn't possibly despise Ranpo. Poe is not his responsibility--why must he always make himself another's burden? Ranpo has no obligation to monitor him and keep his foolish self from teetering off the edge. He gave Poe a sense of security and friendship where it hadn't been due. Oh Poe, unable to accept even the positive, it seems.
(Is it not true Poe simply wants to claim the benefits for himself and erase all the burdens from his name? Pin the blame on another but claim their love in the process?
Is it not true this is simply him agonizing over the fears of one-sided love, and that this is completely in his own damned head?)
He hates this inability to decipher his own emotions and the confusion that stirs deep within him. The daffodils and marigolds have taken root in his heart, squeezing it severely with a turbulence of conflicting emotions. The uncertainty of not knowing what he wants is overriding--it screams inside of his brain--oh, how he desires nothing more than to uproot those daffodils and marigolds and pluck from them their petals, if to do nothing but play a game of love-me-love-me-not to settle this indecisiveness. If only it were so simple.
It's not that simple. He wishes dearly for his head to be silent. But it keeps screaming and agonizing over all that ails him--oh, and there is no way to silence it all in the quietness of the bathroom!
His breathing has gone unsteady, his iron grip in his own hair strengthens. He just wants to stop thinking--is that so unreasonable to ask? It must be, because pleading only deepens the aching collapse. This is a disgusting downward spiral he wishes to be no part of, but he and him alone is the only soul to be involved. (Not even Ranpo will ever understand this ailment.)
He wants silence.
A forearm slams onto the faux marble countertop, the wrist and hand facing upwards, and the knuckles of the hand hit the countertop for the split second. A fist of the opposite hand is soon to follow, striking the midsection of his forearm in desperate attempt to kill the frantic ideation. If he cannot reason himself out of the ill logic, then perhaps physical pain could provide a distraction instead.
It doesn't succeed with the first hit. But that doesn't mean it won't work with a second--or another after that. (And with the newfound focus on the shaking fist pounding against his arm, he cares nothing for the numbers after seven.)
When his arm is numb and inflamed with splotchy red skin and electricity buzzing in his very flesh, his head has blanked, and with it comes a wave of pathetic relief. The only force capable of ebbing away the turmoil is the utter and overwhelming exhaustion. He has put his energy into mental and physical strain, and no longer has the energy to spare. His hands slip to weakly grip the rim of the sink and the edge of the countertop, and he drops to his knees on the floor, pressing his forehead to the smooth cabinet of the counter to seek a pressure he may latch onto.
His arm is brimming with raw pain and he cannot bring himself to mind. This is regularity to him now (and has been, for as far back as his mind can stretch). Physical pain is and will always be more preferable to mental pain, anyhow. Physical pain dies with time and cold compressions, and thus he will trade it for heartache at any given opportunity.
Within his pocket something vibrates, and it takes a fleeting moment to recognize the source as his cellphone. He does not immediately answer. It's a text message anyways, he can at least conclude that from the fact a ringtone isn't blaring.
When he does find the strength to move his hand to his pocket and turn on the phone, he finds that it's none other than the first and last person he wants to talk to. The message itself is a simple request: for them to meet up after Ranpo has finished with work tomorrow, at either of their apartments is fine.
Never has an invitation been so difficult to answer to, but perhaps that's the side-effect of wrong-time-wrong-place. Half of him wants to decline. He needs space (despite Ranpo doing nothing wrong, and this being a delusion of his own creation). The other half knows we work on Ranpo's accord, not Poe's.
All it takes is an enthusiastic agreement to create a new festering of indecisiveness and doubtfulness within him.
He clicks the phone off and shoves it back into the pocket from which it came. Collapsing again would not be pleasant in the slightest. His spark has died, he couldn't possibly bear to be thrown into another spiral. The best option is to procrastinate his fears--wait until tomorrow because, who knows, perhaps he'll have numbed himself to his issues so much by then, it won't even be plausible enough to bother.
He wonders, if by then, his feelings will change for better or worse. Perhaps tomorrow he won't be able to stand seeing Ranpo's face; perhaps tomorrow he'd want nothing more than to kiss it. Only time will tell.
(And then, he wonders, if Ranpo will detect the secrets under his sleeves--how would he react? Would he be angry? Disgusted? Will he brush it off with nonchalance and never utter even the slightest bit of concern? Or maybe--just maybe--he'd gasp and sympathize and worry more than he's ever worried for anything before.
The middle ground is the safest path. Facing the attention would be most difficult.)
Poe stands, unbalanced, and his head swirls with dizziness. There is scratching on the door from a very worried raccoon, who is chittering with a tone of urgency and fear. Poe did not lock himself in the bathroom with the intent of terrifying his true companion, and for that he is greatly remorseful. He trudges to the door--unlocks it, opens it. Instantaneously a raccoon is at his feet, tugging the material of his slacks. Poe crouches and scoops Karl into his arms, ignoring his weakness, because Karl at least deserves to be held for the trouble. It's getting late, anyways. Karl must be fed.
The thoughts and the fears creep up on him from the darkest corners of his mind, and his exhaustion is the sole fighter pushing them back. If only he could forget his meltdown, but now it is imprinted onto his brain, and there is no chance to erase his wrongdoings. He did this to himself. He must live with it.
He must live with bruises and scars because he can't comprehend the concept of love--he is only left to theorize its existence on the basis of his own skewed heart.