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Ever since Gogol rescued Sigma from the Sky Casino, he’s wondered what he’s supposed to do. Gogol seems so sure of himself, so confident, Sigma can’t help but feel left behind. The feeling grows when he hears him talk about Fyodor. When will Sigma feel like that?
He tries, he always tries. At first he thinks he could find some sort of belonging—some sort of love—through his casino. It never seems to be enough. Sigma doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong—he’s staying up late, going without sleep, working himself half to death just to be enough , and no one seems to notice. Maybe love is only for the special ones. Sigma is ordinary, he’s never pretended to be anything else, and he knows there’s no way to change that. The tiger boy offers him a glimpse of hope, but he’s wrong. Sigma isn’t special like them. Sigma is—
He stops himself in that train of thought. It isn’t productive, and he has more important things to focus on. Like whatever Gogol is trying to do right now.
“Sigmaaaaa!” he complains, drawing the man’s attention. “Aren’t you going to guess what I’m doing?”
Sigma, as confused as ever, just shrugs. He knows better than to try to reason with Gogol.
“I’m setting you up on a date!” Gogol twirls and points grandly at a table in the cafe, set up elaborately for two people.
“A… date?” Is that something he’s supposed to know how to do? Is he supposed to have been going on dates? The idea repulses him. Sitting with someone he doesn’t know, making polite conversation, and then what? They’re supposed to fall in love? But Sigma pushes his disgust aside. He needs to learn how to do this if he ever wants someone to love him.
He approaches the table warily. Who is this date supposed to be with? At Gogol’s nod, he sits hesitantly, looking around as the clown disappears. He’s alone.
It doesn’t take long for a woman to approach the table. Sigma categorizes her appearance: long brown hair, gray eyes, about five foot six, dressed neatly. She smiles warmly at him and he instinctively reverts to the demeanor he uses to deal with customers.
The conversation is polite. Sigma is sure he hasn’t made any mistakes. But people can be confusing—somehow the woman seems disappointed. She wants to talk about his past, and he brushes off the questions with polite redirections. Nothing he has done should have been a social error. Right?
But he feels nothing.
He breathes a sigh of relief when it’s over. Gogol reappears by his side, smiling widely. “Sooooo? What do you think?”
Sigma shrugs. He’s kept up the polite facade under close scrutiny, avoiding the smallest mistakes, and somehow he still failed.
“Hmm…” Gogol taps his chin. “Oh! I know!” He claps his hands together. “Let’s try again!”
Sigma protests, but Gogol grabs his arm and pulls him away to another cafe. He’s acutely aware of how this must look to outsiders; a man dressed as a clown dragging a man with dual-toned hair down the street. But he goes along with it so as not to cause a disturbance.
Gogol already has another cafe date set up. Sigma supposes he knew the first one would be a disaster. He pushes Sigma down into a chair and leans close.
“I already guessed you’d prefer men,” he whispers. “Good luck!” With that, he disappears.
Sigma hasn’t considered that possibility. Does he like men? Is that why he never seemed to be attracted to any woman? He can appreciate them aesthetically, of course, but he never wants to do… anything more. Then again, he’s never felt like that for a man either.
The man he’s on the date with is attractive enough, he supposes. Nearly six feet, short dark hair, dressed casually but neatly, as if he’s confident enough not to try too hard. Sigma wishes he could be like that.
He tries to put forth his best effort this time. The man engages with him eagerly, and Sigma forces himself to show the same enthusiasm. When it’s over, the man says he’d like to see Sigma again, to which Sigma only nods. He’s not sure he gets the appeal.
Gogol doesn’t reappear, so Sigma goes back to the small hotel room he’s been staying in. He’s not sure where Gogol stays.
He thinks over the two dates. Out of both of them, the second one went better. He pictures himself with the man—what was his name?—and imagines the two of them going on dates, spending time together… he can’t force himself to keep going. It feels so wrong . He doesn’t know the man very well, but even if he did, he thinks he’d feel the same way. He’s never felt something like love in his life.
Is this a side effect from his memory loss? He doesn’t remember where he came from. Fyodor told him he comes from the Book, which he can hardly believe. He feels real. He is real.
Isn’t he?
Maybe not.
Sigma curls into himself. If he isn’t real, what is he? He can’t love, he can’t be loved, he doesn’t belong anywhere. Maybe it would be better…
He cuts off that train of thought, pushes it to the back of his mind. He doesn’t need that right now. It’s so tempting, though, just to release some of the self-hatred swirling in his mind. His fingers trace under his sleeves, feeling the thin, faded scars. No. He won’t.
When Dazai dances with him, he resists the urge to yank himself away. When Dazai treats him like a person, he pretends not to notice. But he can feel himself drawing closer to the man, and thinks—maybe this is love.
He points the gun at Fyodor out of that love. Fyodor tells him the truth.
“You want to join the Agency,” he says, and he’s right.
Has Sigma ever loved anyone?
Somehow, Sigma survives Mersault. He’s not sure if that was part of anyone’s plan. Still, Gogol seems to have taken a liking to him. He keeps trying to set Sigma up with new people.
Sigma does his best, and cries by himself after each one.
Failure. No one will ever love you.
He doesn’t join the Agency. It doesn’t feel right. But they tell him he has a place there no matter what, and he seems to take a similar role to the man named Poe. Not a member, but still belonging. It fills the hole in his heart a little.
Ranpo mostly ignores him at first, but every so often, he looks at him curiously. One day, he approaches Sigma to offer a stick of Pocky and ask him to open his Ramune.
Sigma opens the soda and hesitantly accepts the snack. The detective is an unknown variable, he doesn’t behave like the people Sigma knows how to deal with. Almost everyone in the Agency is like that. He’s not sure what to think of it.
The two of them sit in silence, Ranpo occasionally offering Sigma another Pocky. After a while, Poe shows up, and Sigma takes it as his cue to leave. Ranpo doesn’t stop him.
He doesn’t expect it to happen again, but it does.
This time, it’s the three of them. Ranpo, Poe, and Sigma. He picks up on some sort of relationship between the two, and, feeling invasive, moves to leave. This time, Ranpo calls out.
“Hey, candy-hair man. Stay here.”
Candy-hair? He supposes his hair is unusual, and nicknames seem to be a habit of Ranpo’s. He’ll take it.
The detective doesn’t speak again when he sits, until he gets uncomfortable and blurts out, “Why?”
Ranpo looks confused. “Why what?”
“Why do you want me to stay?”
He shrugs. “You don’t have to. I just thought you liked my candy.”
Sigma is stunned. Ranpo doesn’t share candy easily, he’s seen. What’s going on?
Poe shifts to make room for him, and he sits down slowly.
The next time, he doesn’t try to leave. Or the next. It keeps happening, somehow, and he begins to feel more comfortable with the two. They aren’t like the customers, or even like the rest of the Agency. They say what they mean. Sigma doesn’t have to puzzle every clue together and hope he gets it right.
One day, he finally gets the courage to ask. “Are you two—in a relationship?”
Poe and Ranpo exchange glances. “I guess so,” Ranpo says nonchalantly.
“Of a sort,” Poe adds.
“Wh—what does that mean?” Unsure, he quickly corrects himself. “I don’t mean to pry.”
“Don’t worry about it, candy-hair.” Ranpo swirls his Ramune. “It’s not a romantic relationship, but it’s still a relationship.”
Sigma doesn’t understand. Poe seems to see that. “It’s a strong platonic connection with some similarities to romance, but it’s not. Neither of us are really like that.”
“Like… that?”
“We’re not into romance,” Ranpo chimes in. “Or at least, I’m not. Poe is.”
“Sometimes,” Poe corrects.
It’s all too overwhelming for Sigma to process. He doesn’t speak for the rest of the afternoon.
So romance is optional?
That’s what he got from the conversation, at least. He wants to ask more but doesn’t know how. Somehow, Ranpo can tell; he always can.
“Aromantic,” he says one day.
Sigma is startled. “What?”
“I’m aromantic. That’s what it’s called. I don’t like anyone romantically, at all.”
“O-oh.” It takes a second to process. Not only is there someone else like him, there’s a word for it as well. “I think—I might be—”
“Aromantic, also? I thought so.” Ranpo sticks a lollipop in his mouth as if Sigma’s world hasn’t just been shattered. “It’s okay, you know. There’s other ways to be close to someone.”
“I want to be loved,” Sigma admits softly.
Ranpo shrugs. “I think most people want to be loved. Doesn’t have to be romantic. I love Edgar, but I don’t love him. You know?”
Sigma doesn’t, but he thinks he’s starting to. Ranpo seems to understand in a way that no one else has.
Maybe he can be human, after all.