Pieces of heat

      It was another evening of movies going on in the background. Rampo was pleased with that. How else, when an open novel is on his lap and a bag of sweets is next to him. A raccoon is snuffling on his head with the happiest look, having decided that his unkempt hair in the evening is ideal for a sleeping nest. And the writer was hugging him, burying his face in his shoulder. It was an idyll, whatever it was.       The writer was also pleased with this.       Ranpo read the book with pleasure, for the first time he allowed himself to just read the book without thinking about solving plot twists. As it turned out, reading books without trying to solve something can bring even more joy. Besides, he couldn't help but appreciate the fact that his boyfriend tried so hard for him by creating these detective novels. Somewhere in the background, a TV was making noise, showing another TV show. He didn't want to get up and turn off the TV. He was very comfortable. After some hesitation, he gently stroked his head.       Edgar pressed even harder against his shoulder, in turn leaning his head. His breathing was soft and even, his expression expressed pure relaxation. His hair was soft to the touch, it fell in curls around him, as if protecting him from the world outside the cozy bubble.       As the stroking continued, he leaned towards the touch, which made him look even more like a little raccoon. He was just as pleased as his boyfriend, and the weight of his fingers on him was a sweet reminder of affection.       He met his eyes, and his own gaze brightened from the expression on his face. His smile was soft, gentle, filled with admiration, deep. — Did you like the book?       He had to lean closer to hear him, as he was several inches taller.       Rampo chuckled softly, not at all surprised by this question. He had to lean forward a little to leave a supportive kiss on his forehead. He knew how important support was to the writer — books took a lot of time and effort. With all the warm joy he answered him: — Of course, because it was written by a great writer for an equally great detective.       Edgar turned his head at these words, a faint but affectionate smile appeared on his lips. It was too pleasant, too much, sometimes he wondered how he deserved such support at all. He placed his palm on top of it, interlacing his fingers with it—a subtle gesture. One so simple, but it told him a lot.       He looked so tired, but so pleased. Maybe the noise of the movie in the background made it a difficult night to sleep, or maybe he just couldn't close his eyes enough no matter what. His eyes were still downcast, but after yawning, he settled back and smiled. — My little detective...       Rampo admired this calmness on his face for a few seconds. He really missed these moments when it's all about saving the world, messing with vampires and other evil spirits. Before, he somehow lived without attaching much importance to these sweet moments that happened. It was all taken for granted, like the fact that he loves sweets, like the fact that his writer writes books for him. But being literally on the verge of death, he seemed to have an epiphany. All these moments are important because you never know what will happen tomorrow.       Tomorrow he expected to go to the water park with him. So the end of the world will definitely be postponed.       He flinched when he felt a different kind of touch. And he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow questioningly. — What are you?..       Edgar himself did not understand all his emotions. He was so attached to him, and missed him so much these days. A hundred hugs won't be enough. He opened his palm a little and turned it over. A frown crossed his face. The scar left on the inside of the palm. At first glance, something is not essential. But knowing that his detective had been hurt and left a trail caused him suffering himself.       Did not protect from the scar. For obvious reasons, but it didn't get any easier.       He kissed his palm with extreme care. It was revealed to him from a new side. The skin was soft to the touch, and tender. And the palm itself is small, designed to hold books, sweets and evidence of crimes. And it is not created for pain in any way, this whole body is not created for this. He apologized to him, not finding words in person. After a moment's hesitation, he gently kissed the scar. A spark of anger flared up in his soul — he hated the one who had harmed his boyfriend.       Rampo closed his eyes wearily, surrendering to these new sensations. He didn't need an apology—but the scar no longer seemed ugly to him.