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"Say, Fukuzawa-dono
shouldn't you have left already?"
It is of no surprise that Mori is already kicking him out.
Fukuzawa could only give a shallow sigh in response, closing his eyes and turning his head to the side as to avoid the vile smell of the doctor's cigarette, its light leaving a contrast to the dark blue, the damned thing would always make his scarf and clothes reek of it afterwards. Although his zori have a quite decent platform, his feet and the hem of his hakama are still wet which serves to annoy him further, courtesy of the rain that has been pouring since mid evening. Rain season came earlier this year and he forgot his umbrella.
They're both in front of the clinic's door, waiting for it to tone down so that they can both leave. Fukuzawa stands with his back leaning on the wall while Mori squats by his side, a few steps in front of him, seeming uncaring about how the ends of his coat are getting dirty with the pavement's mud— something out of character for a man who is always wearing gloves and placing cleanliness on a pedestal. But Fukuzawa is more than aware of what is happening, he's too busy with his own thoughts, those disturbing and insatiable thoughts of his. 'A young man with far too much ambition' Natsume-sensei had described him once.
They must be clouding his head, the cigarette gives it away.
If he were younger and foolish, he would've perhaps thought it was a display of trust, but Mori Ougai doesn't trust anyone but that disgusting ability of his, which has been lurking around all day as if it were a ghost, dead silent with her big blue eyes and a small smile, she must be somewhere inside the clinic now, haunting it. Elise looked more like a lifeless doll these days, he guessed it has something to do with her wielder, but asking the man about it was the same thing as asking for a fight.
"What time is it, Mori-sensei?"
"18:35." He takes another drag and throws his head back. Fukuzawa makes no effort in hiding the way he looks at his neck, watching every move carefully and pushing away the thought of how Mori knows where is its the exact vital spots, where to cut and where to pierce. For a moment he's glad for not having chosen medicine as his career if it means he'd end up seeing people as nothing more than study subjects like the man before him.
"I should get going soon, then."
"You sure should." Mori lets out a dry chuckle. "Your boy must be missing you deeply."
If the comment was meant to draw a reaction out of him, it worked, he immediately stiffened. While Ranpo isn't stupid—far from it—, he still gets a bit uneasy about leaving him alone for such a long amount of time. It's irrational, but maybe he has just really grown on him and made a weird father figure out of Fukuzawa. He isn't complaining though, and probably never will.
Mori is biting at his nails now, the part where there is blood under them, the hand that holds his cigarette is repeatedly beating at his knee, his wide eyes are glued on the falling rain and blinking irregularly as if he were mesmerized by it. It's one of those days where dealing with him becomes both easy and unbearable, Mori doesn't bother but doesn't talk at all either, the Fukuzawa Yukichi from a year ago would've been crying out of sheer joy, now the silence gives him some sense of discomfort. How foolish had he been when he thought they were something more than simple acquaintances, forced to work together, in days like these, if he doesn't want something from him, Mori doesn't even try to hide that he's fighting the urge to spit on his shoes and tell him to leave. In days like these he actually does it.
Fukuzawa might be what some people call a 'selfless' man, but he has pride, it might not be as big as other's but it still there, existing and strong. So when Mori first did something of that nature to him, he fought back and argued, only to have the doctor shivering like a sickened cat under the grip of his hands. After that, he began to just leave him alone when he noticed things seemed out of ordinary, they both seemed to be grateful for it.
They remain in a somewhat peaceful silence, Mori stands up and throws the ashes of his finished cigarette on the floor, putting what remains of it inside the pocket of his pants. He looks like something out of a painting like this, standing before Yokohama's grey and cold sky, raven hair reflecting the shades of blue. As much as there is a part of Fukuzawa that wishes he could say otherwise, darkness suits Mori and Mori suits darkness— at least in an aesthetic view, the ignorant part of him says. The doctor stares at the falling rain for a short while and turns to face the swordsman.
He won't ever look at him without having a smile on his face, it seems.
Fukuzawa decides to ignore the warm feeling that fills his chest as the man steps closer, cutting the distance between them, there is no time for useless feelings, especially today. The closer he gets the clearer his face becomes, his eyes are wet and his lips are slightly shaky, undoubtedly affected by the cold, he could lend the doctor his haori, he could, and Mori could throw it in the mud of the pavement and walk away. There's nothing he can do at this point, only watch and wait for him to come back to his senses.
Mori stops when he's face to face with the swordsman, looking him in the eye before averting his gaze and stepping to the side, shoulder to shoulder. He places a gloved hand— when did he put them on, Fukuzawa doesn't know— on the lapels of his kimono, trailing higher and higher until his thumb grazes at the skin of his neck, the texture leaves him uncomfortable but the glove is surprisingly dry. He lets out another deep sigh.
"Fukuzawa-dono," Mori says, tone cold and commanding "the rain has quieted down, if you sicken, I shall take responsibility, you won't be working tomorrow.—"
He turns to face him with sharp, sharp eyes. Fukuzawa stares back.
"—so, now, leave."