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"A bog body is a human cadaver that has been naturally mummified in a peat bog. Such bodies, sometimes known as bog people, are both geographically and chronologically widespread, having been dated between 8000 BC and the Second World War.[1]"
It's late. Danny has been kept up by his "research", sparked by a recent case at the agency. An ability user had been re-animating corpse's to commit crimes for him, abandoning them to die again once he was finished with them. The most recent one had been found in a peat bog, and was initially thought to have been a preserved body that had gone undetected.
Blue light illuminates Danny's slack face as he reads the article for the third time, his eyes drifting to the picture below the paragraph, as he fails to process the words. He stares at the compressed face of a man stained with peat, discovered after centuries of peaceful oblivion almost perfectly preserved.
Danny thinks of that, of a man that died before society had progressed into something he could recognise, and being able to reach out and touch him. His hand being able to feel the wrinkles and creases in his skin, the dip of a frown on his lips, his eyelids. They're closed, they'll always be closed. Danny wonders how much he loved, how many times he had to smile to get the lines in his cheeks. He wonders what his life was like with an almost frantic, insatiable curiosity. He can never know, and that just makes the information more appealing to him.
The idea particularly resonates with him because he has trouble humanising figures of the past. Realistically he knows that the Tollund man existed, but in his mind he attaches as much emotion to him as he does fiction. He has been dead so long the fact he was ever alive begins to fade away to him.
There's a peat bog near the house Danny is currently living in. It's a brown ugly thing which disguises its real size with clumps of long stringy grass which droop over it sullenly. There was a rich earthy smell when he first moved in, but he has since grown used to it, and doesn't notice its presence.
Heaviness always sits in the air there, like a bad odour. It hangs with the curtains and makes itself known with the click of a light switch, ever present and eternal. The house is pleasant enough, but the loneliness and feelings of isolation remind him of his own mortality in a horrifying way. Danny feels the stars gleefully watching each night as he tries to coax his eyelids shut with the promise they'll open again tomorrow. He knocks on wood, he doesn't want to jinx it.
When the agency had picked up the case his proximity to a bog put him on edge, leaving him unable to sleep for multiple nights as he stared at it through his bedroom window, willing something to break the surface. It got to the point the agency searched the area, finding nothing. It did surprisingly little to settle his nerves.
Cursed Is a strong word, and the only thing it applies to in this situation in any sense is himself. Danny's not cursed in the sad pathetic way, although he is certainly sad and pathetic, he is cursed to make brash quick decisions that he later ends up regretting, but can't undo. Like moving into this house, instead of the agency dorms.
When his eyelids attempt to slip closed, thoughts of bog bodies are neatly followed and replaced by the quiet voice of existential dread. He pushes himself away from his desk and stumbles over to the window, lighting a cigarette with a practiced ease. Slumping on the floor and resting his head against the wall, he's just about able to see through the glass. Yosano hates smoking, when she first came down to check on him and smelt the subtle, but unwavering reek of nicotine her face twisted in rage and disgust, informing him almost clinically "you're killing yourself Danny. You're killing yourself and you don't even care". He hasn't stopped, and neither has she.
Danny used to hate smoking too.
A few years ago the agency had gone out to get a few drinks to celebrate a job well done. Dazai had led Danny stumbling on his feet into the crisp air outside, and produced from his jacket a pack of cigarettes. He doesn't remember the brand, but he remembers the picture of the rotting teeth on the front, the gums black and receding. He remembers thinking that could never happen to him. Usually he would refuse, but the drink made it so when dazai held one out for him he took it.
Drooping from Danny's lips, the fag grew damp with spit as Dazai leaned down Infront of him, lighting it and telling him with a smile to inhale. It didn't burn like everyone always described it, it felt like nothing. Smoke glided into his lungs and he wouldn't have been aware if it didn't pool straight out again when he sighed. It lasted a disappointingly short amount of time, and before Danny could properly savour it he was stamping out the lit paper viciously with his shoe. All he was left with was the taste of burnt paper mulch on his teeth and a strange feeling in his throat.
When they came back inside Ranpo's face immediately wrinkled in disgust and he all but forced Danny into the bathroom once they got home to 'wash the smell off him'. He refused to kiss him again for three days.
The more time Danny spends thinking of others the more he becomes aware that people think of him too, and he cannot control their perceptions. One day someone's going to judge how well he's lived his life, the integrity of all his decisions, and no amount of guilt or context is going to change how they see him.
It's funny to think him and Ranpo had started out as rivals, considering how they ended, but they understood eachother on a fundamental level. It was Danny who gave Ranpo silent companionship, who could understand the feelings of isolation that came with knowing things you were never supposed to, and it was Ranpo who Danny called when he couldn't even understand himself.
Danny is sat rocking on his kitchen floor, listening to the rings echo off the tiles. The first call went to voicemail, as did the second and the third. Just as the fourth was about to do the same, a groggy voice flooded the air.
"Danny-?" It asked, cracking halfway through. The surprise hurt more than the annoyance.
"Ranpo.." he gasps, bringing the phone up to his face. He can hear the faint ruffle of sheets as Ranpo sits up in bed, he bites his lip as a cry tries to escape his mouth.
"Danny what's wrong-? What's happened-?" Unease and fear leak into his voice, he's already beginning to piece a narrative together.
A car drives by outside, headlights flashing across the window, illuminating a faint silhouette.
"There's someone outside my house,"
If Danny had been slightly less sleep deprived, slightly less on edge, he would've noticed the purple tinting the edge of his vision. It was his ability, showing him a frankly unconcerning future. As it stood Ranpo had insisted on coming over from the agency dorms, leaving Danny to wonder how he was going to make his way over, considering he didn't even know how to ride the train.
The last time they'd seen eachother Danny's eyes were glazed over and the skin surrounding his mouth had the tackiness of vomit. He'd just killed someone for the first time. He knew it was self defence, that it was kill or be killed, he still wondered what Ranpo thought of him now.
Agonizing silence filled the kitchen as Danny listened to the quiet creaks of the steps outside his door. Ranpo's knuckles had barely grazed the door when it swung open and he was being bathed in the warm glow of light. There's a moment, a sweet and terrible moment, where the whole world seems to go silent, where their hearts must have stopped beating. Ranpo takes a stride forward, stood far too close for comfort, staring at him like he's going to flicker away. He places his hand hesitantly on Danny's cheek, his palm resting against the short stubble of his chin, warming the cold skin there. Lifting his other hand to tuck his hair behind his ears, Ranpo tried to imagine what Danny would look like if it was shorter, cleaner.
"You're such an idiot Danny," he whispers, tucking his face into his neck and slamming a fist against Danny's back, the other tangling in his hair, cradling his head gently. He pulls away, staring up at him steadily.
"I was so worried about you-!" Ranpos face crumples, a sob working free from his chest.
Oh Danny thought, as Ranpo walked into the house, kicking the door closed behind him. That hadn't occured to him before.
Steam rises in undefined swirls from the mug in Danny's hands. The drink had heated the ceramic to an uncomfortable degree, but he still clutched it tight, staring at nothing. Ranpo slumped down beside him, sat so close their legs pressed together. He rests his head on Danny's shoulder, wrapping an arm around him, splaying his hand across his ribs. Danny pulls back his leg to knock their knees together.
When Ranpo mutters "You're not okay Danny," It isn't a question.
Most people found Ranpo's forwardness rude, but Danny appreciated it like nothing else. If given the opportunity he would lie until he backed himself into a corner making sure people thought he was okay. It was better to take the choice away.
Danny puts his cup down on the table beside him, pressing his palms into his eyes. Hanging his head as he allows a small shake of 'no'.
"How long have you been struggling with your ability-?" Ranpo asks, concerned. He knew, of course he knew.
"It's only happened a couple times," Danny muttered "I'm so stupid, I've wasted your time," Danny tried to move away, but was stopped by Ranpo suddenly holding him in place, his eyes pooling with tears. His voice breaks when he speaks.
"Danny, I love you, and I haven't seen you in weeks, please…please don't leave.." Ranpo Edogawa didn't beg. Yet somehow, for some reason, here he was pleading for Danny to stay.
How had they turned into this-?
For years they had been so sickeningly in love it was a wonder they were able to keep it a secret, you never saw one without the other. Now it had been a few weeks and he had to be asked not to leave. Weeks of Danny watching his phone ring and not having the energy to pick it up, of being unable to get out of bed while people pounded on his door, desperately wishing Ranpo would just be there and hold him.
His eyes cleared, and he dragged Ranpo against him into a hug just loose enough to not be bone crushing. Ranpo dug his hands into his hair as Danny tucked his head against his shoulder, pressing his lips against the large birthmark that sat under his shirt, his watery eyes peering over the top. If physics allowed it Danny would melt into Ranpo, they were a tangle of limbs and tear damp skin, just desperately clutching onto eachother in the silence of the room.
Through the fog of the window Danny watches the grass sway in the wind with a growing uneasiness, the all seeing eye of the moon a spotlight which shines outside his house. Back and forth, back and forth it dances, tangling around itself in a slow waltz. A bird soars across the dark sky, and he wishes it would stop, perch on a branch and stay. He wants something to be there and keep him company, while a primal fear takes root inside him.
Purple swarms the edges of his vision. Slowly, Danny stands.
Each shuffle and carefully placed footstep makes him want to move faster, while simultaneously becoming slower to accommodate the dread of being heard. By what he doesn't know, just that it can hear him.
He swipes his keys from the hook on the wall, wincing as the clash together, and eases open his front door. Stagnant air hums around him as he approaches his car, and somehow that scares him more than anything else. If there's no wind, What's moving the grass-?
Ranpo died two years ago. It wasn't even on a particularly dangerous mission. The agency had been sent to investigate a warehouse on the edge of the city the locals suspected was being used for drug deals. The only reason they were even called in over the police was the fact it had previously been owned by the Port Mafia, until a fire had broken out a few years before, rendering it unstable.
Ranpo and Danny had gone to investigate one of the few offices together, much to the amusement of Dazai, who Ranpo still hadn't entirely forgiven for the smoke that still faintly hung to Danny's jacket. The whole place was desolate and empty, nothing inside except a banged up old desk full of dust and crumpled post it notes. Danny remembers thinking it would be a quick mission.
They mulled around the short room together, any attempts at conversation from Danny were met with inattentive hums or the sound of Ranpo chewing his lip, deep in thought as he hunched over the useless desk. He was about to walk towards the door and leave the man with his mind when Ranpo suddenly bolted up with a look of abject fear on his face, and shoved him away in a single swift strong motion.
Danny marveled at Ranpos intelligence for just a second, at how he had managed to deduce the situation before his ability had kicked in, until a future flashed before his eyes he had no chance of preventing. Three shots cracked through the air. Two landed in Ranpos chest, the third running clean through his throat.
Ranpo was jerked to the side with the impact of the bullets, and in his descent his skull connected with the desk. By the time Yosano had run in Ranpo had choked on his own blood, with Danny kneeling over him weeping, as he pointlessly continue to apply pressure to the wounds, desperately searching for a pulse he knew he wouldn't find. Yosano's hands fluttered at her side uselessly. She couldn't save him.
The drive back was the worst of Danny's life. Tacky pop music played quietly through the radio, filling the air with inappropriately sappy songs about love and breakups and problems that don't really matter. Kunikida drove with a clenched jaw and red rimmed eyes, hands clinging to the steering wheel like a lifeline, while Danny stared out through the windshield, blood sticking his jeans to his skin. Ranpo was everywhere and anywhere, anything but dead.
They found the man who killed Ranpo only a few days later. Ryuzaki was 48 years old, and he had been convicted of murder a decade prior, a case where Ranpo's input had been pivotal in his arrest.
Danny knew that he and Ranpo had dated. He knew, but he couldn't remember. Not really. His memories flowed away from him and he was left with only the memory of the idea that they were in love. Ranpo had been everything, they had loved eachother, and now he had nothing to show for it.
It wasn't fair. He wanted to remember more than he could, hoard the memories and hold them close to his chest.
Although Danny's head was positioned to stare attentively into the road ahead, his eyes constantly darted between the view fogged by the condensation on the window and the man driving next to him. He was perfectly normal, tired, and peeling his eyes open every few seconds to avoid falling asleep at the wheel. He was so unremarkable in fact, that the car had been replaced by several others and Danny didn't notice until thinking back on it the next morning. There was something about being in the presence of another human being that made him unable to avert his gaze.
Danny ended up driving in circles for almost an hour, until he finally settled in the upstairs room of a pub. He muttered apologies to purple faced men slumped in their bar stools as he bumped into them and tripped over their outstretched legs. He didn't need to, as their eyes lacked any form of recognition, but it was the polite thing to do. The wooden stairs were soft from water leaks and through the darkness he feared each step upwards.
The room he was in reeked like nothing he'd ever smelt before, the stench so putrid the yellow wallpaper was curling away from the walls, and mould was crawling around the window like it was trying to escape. He threw himself onto the springy bed, scrunching his hands in the sheets and immediately withdrawing them as he heard them crunch. He pulled his phone from his pocket to message Fukuzawa, let him know he wouldn't be in work the next day. Danny hesitates slightly before pressing send, he had taken so many days off in the past few years, it was a wonder he still had a job at the agency at all.
Fukuzawa responded almost immediately, surprising, considering the hour.
Fukuzawa: do you just want tomorrow off-?
It's a simple and justified question, considering Danny's flakiness in commitment to his work, but it still make indignation rise up inside him.
Danny: just tomorrow
He confirmed, watching as 3 dots sporadically popped on and off the screen.
Fukuzawa: are you doing okay-?
Grief is such an easy excuse. Danny knows that if he just told him what was wrong, that he would understand. Fukuzawa would understand because he had existed before Ranpo and never planned to exist after him. He had held him as he cried, given him a place to stay, gotten him ready for his first day at the agency, and he was the one who threw the roses on the casket at a funeral that Danny can't even remember. But he couldn't, because he'd rather die than be the reason for his tears.
Telling Fukuzawa now would create things that needed to be said and understood, but never could be. He would forever live with a fact his son was too scared to tell him, it was harder, but kinder, to never let him know. Ranpo was dead now, and Danny and Fukuzawa were still alive.
Danny closed his phone, leaving Fukuzawa on read. After the click of the switch, the only light to fill the room was from street lamps shining through the window.
Danny woke up in the middle of the night to the turning of a doorknob. There was a succession of whining screeches as the hinges protested movement, a smooth beam of light springing across the room from the hallway and sprawling across his bare chest. Blearily in his exhaustion, he called out to the room:
"Who's there-?"
Followed by the slow quiet click of the door as it closed. Laying there, his eyes scanned the empty room, and he soon succumbed to the drag of sleep again.
The woman at the desk the next morning was energetic and talkative. Bouncy with beaming energy as she stood in front of him.
"So where are you from-?" She asked kindly, looking at him with small brown eyes.
"The marshlands," Danny answered, digging through his pockets.
He waits for her to give him a look, and deliver a story about someone's uncles neighbours son that had died there, and how strange things had been occurring since. Like whatever was wrong with him was the malicious intent of a ghost with unfinished business, and so could neatly be swept under the rug. Instead she gave him a warm smile as she took the key from his hand, her callouses brushing his skin. Gently, unintentionally.
"It's nice up there, must get pretty lonely though," she said, with a dreamy quality to her voice.
One of the world's many real, and more infuriating evils are well intentioned strangers. People that smile too long and talk too softly, while asking about you with concern. 'Keep your advice' Danny thought 'I don't want it.'
"Yeah well I like being alone," he mutters. He doesn't, just recently he can't stomach the thought of company.
Yosano's tough love approach and Atsushi's smothering concern were both equally off putting, it was the unlikely candidate of Dazai who he could stand being around the most. They mostly sat in silence, eating their lunch together in one of the booth's in the cafe downstairs, but Dazai seemed to understand exactly how Danny felt.
The ludicrousy of what Danny had done only struck him when he was pulling up outside house again, and the events of the night before were re-contextualised by the daylight. Blowing what little money he had at a dingy pub was the stupidest thing he could’ve possibly done. Even if some paranormal happening were to occur the only thing Danny achieved by staying in that room was swapping the risk of ghosts for the risk of stabbing. He did not want to become another stain to be washed out of their sheets.
Stood in front of him was the source of so many of his grievances. A house which was deceptively normal. It did not have more or less problems than a usual house, the taps didn’t drip, the doors only quietly creaked and the floorboards did not alert him of non-existent intruders in the middle of the night. But something about the way the roof sloped, the way the path to the door curved slightly and how the ivy climbed the walls, always had Danny on edge.
The grass still moved without wind, he sighed, and opened the door.
Danny was washing up in the kitchen after a lackluster dinner of tuna pasta, he almost felt like a college student again, living off the bare essentials. Darkness spilt across the sky, bleeding into the horizon and corrupting the remaining slice of light behind a small canopy of tree’s. Stars were yet to reveal themselves, and an eyelid of clouds was slowly opening in front of the moon.
Squinting, Danny could make out the shape of the fields curving, an old man walking across them in a haphazard line he hoped wouldn’t take him towards his house. He was hunched over so far he couldn’t have been able to see where he was going, like his head (which was disproportionately large compared to the frailness of his body) was weighing him down. Hobbling along, his legs bent at impossible angles, in places where they shouldn't have been able, like they cracked and snapped with each step.
With a dawning horror Danny stared, unable to look away, as he stumbled and fell down the hill, standing again only to careen against the side of his house. It was not a ‘he’ at all, but a caricature of life, a grotesque fossil. The sight of it paralysed him.
Slamming against the window, it fell under its own weight. The brittle bones of its limbs crumbled and collapsed beneath it, pulling it towards the floor. Leathery, and partially stained by peat, it’s skin stuck to the window, slowly ripping away layers from it’s face as it was dragged down the glass. Even with a face squashed and bent by time, he could see desperation in the way it tried to move it’s stuck jaw, how the eyelids twitched knowing nothing was behind them, eyes long rotted away
It slipped below the window frame, and without instruction from his mind Danny's legs carried him towards the glass in a sprint. Once he arrived however, the thing had disappeared, no matter which way he tilted his head it was nowhere to be seen. The sound of rattling fills the house and Danny's head snaps towards the door, his gaze fixed on the form falling into his hallway, landing folded on the ground, slowly unfurling. For a moment he is filled with the greatest fear he has ever experienced. A pit opens in his stomach, and a sensation floods him that can only be described as cold water being poured over top his organs.
It half crawls half drags itself towards him, Danny's uncooperative legs buckling beneath him as he scrambles to back away. It lands in his lap, but instead of attacking him it gently — almost lovingly— takes Danny's hands in it's own, lifting them to wrap around it's throat, squeezing as if in instruction. It’s empty, concave chest spasming in what would’ve once been sobs.
Danny's wide eyes scan the thing infront of him, before pulling him tight against his chest, pressing a kiss to the large birthmark which could still be seen on what was left of the unstained skin on his shoulder.
Ranpo lays beside him on the mattress, curled around his arm, still. Danny would've worried he was dead, if he thought that was possible for him. Death is a mercy not everyone is afforded. Danny doesn’t know what he would do, if he was cursed to live forever, if his body rotted around him and he was stuck as a husk of skin and bone. Now when he is kept up at night it is thoughts of living, not dying, that stop him from closing his eyes.