Chapter Text
Akechi freezes, brain stuttering to a stop. His limbs go completely rigid, muscles spasming futilely.
Morgana is staring at him in astonished bewilderment. He looks as if he’s seen a ghost.
He has, Akechi’s awful, traitorous brain reminds him. He thought you were dead. And now he knows you’re not. And he’s going to ruin everything.
His stomach rolls in horror, wringing itself in wretched knots. His heart slams against his ribs. It feels very much like his organs have been yanked out of his body and replaced with concrete, so heavy it roots him to the spot.
Roughly a thousand thoughts rush through his head, in a rising cacophony of alarm. His mouth opens and closes, no words volunteering themselves to his tongue.
Morgana continues to gawk at him, fur standing on end. Every instinct is howling at Akechi to run or attack but his knees are locked in place, legs completely immobile.
God, he wants so badly to believe that this is just another memory impressing itself upon the present. He screws his eyes shut, counting to five - but when he opens them, Morgana is still there, squinting at him in the harsh light.
There’s a long moment of silence, both of them too shocked to speak.
Then Morgana glances towards the door and Akechi’s panic overrides his fear, pushing him to talk. “Why the fuck are you here?” He hisses, burying a hand in his fringe and yanking it out of his eyes. As if that will make this situation more manageable.
Morgana blinks, caught off-guard by his incensed antagonism. “We’re... That’s my line! You— You’re alive! How? Why? Huh?!”
“That’s not important.” Akechi dismisses immediately, trying to control his breathing. “You are not supposed to be here. Why aren’t you in Tokyo - or Inaba? Why the fuck are you here?!” He’s working himself into a frenzy, repeating and tripping over his words like a madman.
Morgana’s tail lashes, responding to Akechi’s rising volume. “We were offered an apology trip! Akira’s parents chose the location. Why are you angry?! This isn’t— How were we supposed to know you had miraculously risen from the dead or that you were living here?”
Ah. The hopelessness of the situation finally dawns on Akechi. This entire time, Morgana has been using the collective pronoun we, but Akechi had been hanging onto the possibility that he was referring to someone else - anyone except Akira.
Clearly, he’d been deluding himself. What Morgana just said all but confirms what he was praying wasn’t the case. Akira is here - with his parents, apparently. Even through the haze of terror, Akechi feels familiar, smarting jealousy slice through him. It stings, just like it used to. Despite everything, it still hurts.
It’s not fair. The universe always hands Akira the things Akechi wasn’t lucky enough to be given, doesn’t it? An apology from Shido was his raison d’etre for years, and he never fucking got one. His mother died without ever hearing I’m sorry from the piece of shit who ruined her life. And Akechi never heard those words either - no Sorry for abandoning you, Goro. Maybe that was wrong of me. Maybe I shouldn’t have left you to rot, with no friends, no family and no future. Maybe if I’d been there for you, you wouldn’t have turned out so fucking damaged.
The closest he came to receiving an apology was glimpsing the television broadcast on Christmas Eve, of Shido begging for forgiveness from the world for his crimes.
It wasn’t the same. Akechi had wanted specificity and sincere regret, not the grovelling of a man who’d had a conscience forcibly wrangled out of him. He had asked the Phantom Thieves to change Shido’s heart when his back was against the wall - when he was trapped behind the barricade door in the Engine Room, staring death directly in the face. Living to see the results of the Thieves’ actions had never been included in his plan. And strangely, upon rewatching Shido’s repentant speech, he’d felt nothing but disappointment. He was never going to get the I’m sorry that he’d craved, he realised. The abject, remorseful wreck of a man was barely even Shido any more - not really. An apology from him would mean nothing.
Akechi couldn’t even blame Akira and his friends for inadvertently rendering his revenge valueless. He knows now that the real Shido, pre-change of heart, wouldn’t have indulged Akechi with an apology anyway. Except at gunpoint. But maybe not even then.
The anger rising inside of him, upon recollecting Shido’s immorality, curdles into dread when he realises how long he’s been checked out of the conversation. Morgana is muttering something about dates and jail and—
And Akechi knew he should have left the hotel in March, like he’d originally planned. He could tell - he’d sensed - that something terrible was going to happen, but he’d told himself to stay put until he heard that Akira had been released. Well, the news had arrived, only two and a half months late. Finding out that Akira had left the detention centre on the 13th of February, just days after Akechi woke up in Odawara, had felt like looking down and realising the ground had vanished from under him; that he’d been plummeting towards an unknown impact point without even realising it. Sae must have pulled some strings to keep it under wraps - it hadn’t even been recorded in the police databases that Akechi had scanned.
It was a bolt from the blue, with no warning whatsoever. Akechi remembers sitting down to breakfast two days ago, absentmindedly scrolling through documents he’d read a dozen times on his phone, checking for details he may have missed.
The detached mundanity of the whole affair meant that he’d almost skipped over it. But the name had dragged him to attention immediately. There, in the table of released convicts, was a single row, reading: Kurusu Akira. Charges cleared. Probation suspended, 2/13/2017.
The latent realisation hit Akechi like a tonne of bricks. The confidentiality, as a result of Sae’s efforts, couldn’t have expired at a more inconvenient time. Akechi had finally, finally been feeling somewhat well again; his guilt still resurfaced relatively frequently, but he didn’t feel the need to claw his skin off when he thought about it anymore. Progress (however small) was still progress, he’d told himself. No matter how Sisyphean it often felt. But seeing a material reminder of not only his incompetence, but his inaction in letting Akira go to jail in the first place... It was intolerable; a tripwire, sending him spiralling back down to step one.
He’s double-guessing himself. How many warnings had he received in the past few weeks that he’d dismissed as delusions? How could he have been so careless? He’d told himself, again and again, that he was being foolish; that his obsessive anxiety was irrational. He’d stayed at the inn, despite the signs, because he was an idiot with no goddamn common sense who should have known by now to listen to his intuition. And now he’s paying the price.
Fortune truly has a cruel sense of humour. He fled here to avoid Akira and yet here he is, turning up on Akechi’s doorstep by pure chance. A quote nudges its way into his mind - an old saying taught to him in an English class, years ago. A person often meets his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it. How fucking poetic.
Akechi has a strong compulsion to curl up and weep, but he forces himself to make eye contact with Morgana.
This isn’t unsalvageable. He inhales, switching gears and injecting every bit of desperation he can into his next request. “Don’t tell Akira, Morgana. Please.” He’s practically begging and he hates how pathetic he sounds, voice breaking on the last syllable, but he presses on. If there’s even the slightest chance Morgana can be convinced to keep this a secret, then Akechi will fight for it. He’s nowhere near ready to see Akira again.
Morgana snorts in distrust, pawing at the shrine’s stone roof. “In your dreams, idiot.”
“Morgana, I’m serious. Listen to me.” Akechi flounders, scrabbling for an argument he can use to persuade Morgana and coming up empty-handed. He suddenly regrets never making a true effort to ingratiate himself to the stubborn cat. He has no clue how to go about this, so he blurts out the first idea that springs to mind. “I don’t want to hurt Akira. You know how much pain I caused him; you said it yourself when we were playing darts, you don’t want me around him. Seeing me again will reawaken all of the shit from last year - and all the torment from Maruki’s reality.” He gestures between them, trying to appeal to Morgana’s better nature. “This accident can stay between us. Isn’t that for the best? Neither you, nor Akira, will ever have to see me again, I swear. It’ll be like it never happened. Let him forget me.”
Morgana’s lip curls, offering no response. Akechi presses on, voice sounding brittle even to his own ears. “I know he’s better off without me. In the time since I’ve been gone, hasn’t he been happier? After the initial sadness, wasn’t he fine?”
Morgana watches him for a long moment. Then he leaps off the statue, landing lightly on an ornamental rock. “You don’t know anything, Akechi.” He states, expression ambivalent. Then he leans back, head high in the air - and yells Akira’s name at the top of his lungs. “Akira! Akira! Come here—"
“Shut up.” Akechi is across the garden in a second, snatching Morgana up by the scruff of the neck and clamping a hand over his mouth. “Shit!” The little demon bites him and squirms away, bolting towards the exit.
He wriggles through a gap in the screen panel, vanishing in the space of a second.
Akechi sprints after him, nearly tearing the shoji door off its hinges. Morgana is running down the main hallway, hurtling towards the entrance. Akechi growls and turns right, cutting through the staff corridor.
He skids to a stop in the foyer, spotting a flash of black and white scarper around the corner. Morgana’s headed for the guest bedrooms, where Akira is probably—
Akechi speeds up, feet pounding against the wooden floor.
Adrenaline surges through him, lengthening every second into an hour. It feels like he’s running in slow motion, wading through quicksand. There’s only one thought in his head - he has to stop Morgana before he reaches Akira. If he can catch him, he can reason with him; he can make him listen.
He races around the next corner, knocking one of the ornamental plates off the wall. He doesn’t even hear the smashing sound - too focused on the chase. The distance between him and Morgana is narrowing. He’s catching up.
Morgana must notice because he yelps and darts towards the nearest shelf, trying to scramble out of Akechi’s reach. But he mistimes his leap, paws missing the ledge by a scant inch.
Akechi pounces, snatching Morgana out of the air before he hits the ground. He snarls when the cat twists in his arms, claws out.
“Get off me, you bastard!” Morgana screeches, scratching Akechi’s hand. “Akira! Akira!”
“God— Be quiet Morgana, you don’t understand.” Akechi spits, shaking the stupid feline. His mouth tastes like sawdust and the panic is ballooning in his chest, crushing all else and leaving him with only jagged instinct to act on.
“Yes, I do!” Morgana finally stops squirming, glaring at Akechi with derision and pity. “I do get it - you don’t want to see him again because you are a coward. Because you hate the ways you’ve hurt him and you hate yourself for even caring. Right?”
Akechi shakes his head, speechless. He wants to deny it - but every word is true.
Morgana sighs, sounding tired and unhappy. “Ugh. You were right. You are the last person I want around Akira. In my opinion, you are selfish and arrogant and cruel - and I truly believe that he would have been better off if he’d never met you. But my feelings towards you are not his. He cares - and your stupid, self-destructive bullshit affects him too.” His fur bristles when Akechi clenches his jaw, looking away. “I mean, do you have any idea what state you left him in? What these past few months have entailed? If you think I’m going to walk out of here and let you leave without telling him you’re alive, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“I don’t want to see him.” Akechi protests feebly. He’s not even sure if he means it.
Morgana scowls, finally managing to jerk himself out of Akechi’s hands. “I don’t care. Akira deserves to know. Either you tell him, or I will.”
Akechi flounders, trying to think of a response to Morgana’s determined ultimatum.
He’s not given more than a second to mull it over. Abruptly, Morgana’s ears prick up, eyes zeroing in on the end of the corridor.
Akechi notices what he’s listening out for a minute later.
Footsteps.
Oh.
Akechi knows who they belong to immediately. How could he not? He hears Akira’s soft, unhurried tread every time recalls the hours they spent in the Metaverse.
He sways, off-balance. This is the moment after missing a step on the staircase, uncertainty and fright colliding inside of him. He’s suspended, waiting for the vertigo to set in and gravity to send him tumbling down to the bottom.
Time slows. When Akira finally rounds the corner, Akechi is struck with something like relief. It’s ridiculous - totally alien and out of place, given how much he’s dreaded this moment. The only explanation is that a part of him is happy his endless purgatory of waiting is coming to an end; that one way or another, his fears of being discovered will cease.
Akira is distracted, digging through his bag for something. “Mona? You there? I heard you yelling earlier.” He calls, voice just as soft and soothing as Akechi remembered. His gaze flicks upwards. “Are you o—"
The words die before they can leave his mouth. He stops in his tracks, eyes glued to Akechi. Suddenly, after weeks of choking stress and cluelessness, they’re making eye-contact.
A thousand different emotions rocket through Akechi, coalescing into a single, dazed realisation: he has no idea what the fuck he’s meant to say.
In the months since his untimely awakening at the inn, Akechi has pictured their reunion a thousand different ways. Even when he’d resolved to block the last year out of his memory entirely, the questions persisted, coming to him whenever the silence got a little too loud. How would Akira react to seeing him again? What would he do? What would he say?
Anger always seemed like the most plausible option. When he imagined how he would react in Akira’s position, it was always with rage. He’s visualised Akira turning around and walking away more times than he can count; Akira finally deciding that Akechi wasn’t worth it, after being deceived into mourning an empty grave for months on end.
Akechi remembers the pain on his face, back in February. He remembers how much it hurt Akira to say goodbye - the tears and the grief and the sick, grim knowledge that he would never see Akechi again.
He’ll be the first to insist that fate has fucked him over, but he has to admit that it hasn’t been all that kind to Akira either. Forming an attachment to someone like Akechi is already a tricky hand to be dealt - but listening to him die, helpless behind the Engine Room door? Being given the briefest glimmer of hope that he might actually have lived, before having it snuffed out by a twisted, manipulative moron with a saviour complex? Losing Akechi once is rough; losing him twice in a row is bordering on sadistic.
And now this. After seeing him again, it’s only a matter of time until Akira realises that he’s been lied to - that his months in prison were indirectly engendered by Akechi himself. It’s unfathomably cruel.
So yes, anger seems likely. With every hour, week and month that passed, it became more probable.
Everyday, he’d go through the motions expected of him - cleaning, organising, inspecting - and try not to imagine how much Akira would resent him if he knew he’d lived and kept it from him. He expects Akira to cry or shout or knock his teeth out. Akechi has left him alone for so long that you could probably make the case for him deserving all three.
He’s pictured their reunion in a thousand different ways, and every single one failed to do justice to the electricity of the real thing.
Akechi swallows, looking away. “Akira.” He says shortly, not trusting himself to voice anything more. There’s a temptation to slip into his faultless Detective Prince persona, to hide behind it - but there’s no point. Akira has always been able to see through the cracks of that mask, into what lies beneath.
Akira blinks. His lips part, eyes widening. The bag he’s carrying drops from his fingers, hitting the floor with a loud thud.
There’s a moment of absolute stillness. Then he lunges at Akechi.
Akechi doesn’t raise his hands to defend himself. He braces for the strike that’s sure to come - the curses and bruises and anger.
Akira grabs him around the neck and Akechi waits for his grip to tighten. But Akira just holds him there, gaze darting across his body frantically. He raises a single, shaky hand, grazing the curve of Akechi’s forehead with his knuckles. He traces the line of his cheekbone with a hesitant movement of his finger, trailing down to the sharp jut of his jaw. He brushes his other hand through Akechi’s hair, nails dragging lightly across his scalp.
He keeps blinking, screwing his eyes shut like he expects to open them and find Akechi gone. His mouth still hangs open but he hasn’t uttered a single word. An odyssey of emotion flickers across his face.
The silence stretches uncomfortably. Slowly, Akechi reaches up to loosen Akira’s grasp and guide him to step back.
It doesn’t work. The second Akira feels Akechi slipping out of his clutches, he panics. Akechi has just enough time to see Akira’s pupils dilate before he’s knocked backwards by the force of Akira’s body against his.
Akira hugs him with strength Akechi didn’t even know he had, clinging to him like he’s scared he’ll vanish into tendrils of fog. He buries his face in Akechi’s shoulder, chest heaving.
His breath comes out in harsh, stunted rasps next to Akechi’s ear. He’s trembling.
“Akechi.” He breathes, words tinged with wonder and disbelief. “What the fuck?”
“Akira.” Akechi repeats, resting his forehead against the crown of Akira’s head. He doesn’t know what else to say. Morgana is nowhere to be seen, but his absence is the farthest thing from Akechi’s mind right now.
He feels like his heart is travelling up his oesophagus - like it’s going to beat right out of him. And Akira just... keeps holding him.
“You’re alive.” Akira whispers, voice cracking. “Oh my god. You’re alive. Goro, you’re— Oh my god.” Akechi feels a wet patch forming on his shoulder, where Akira’s face is pressed into his t-shirt. His hands hover over Akira’s back, uncertain what to do. Akira continues sniffling, clasping Akechi as close as possible.
This isn’t what Akechi had anticipated. This is wrong. Guilt flares in his chest, roiling and aching and burning through his sternum like acid. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s done nothing but hurt Akira, from the very first instant they became acquainted. Akira should hate him. He should be furious. Shame washes over Akechi, boiling and corrosive. His stomach churns, cramping with so much force that he doubles over. Akira stumbles under the extra weight, gripping Akechi around his waist to stop them from both tipping over. But Akechi’s legs buckle too and he crashes to the floor, Akira following with a yelp.
“Shit— Are you okay?” Akira kneels in front of him, supporting his forearms.
His concern is more than Akechi can bear. He rips himself out of Akira’s hold and jams his hands over his ears, shaking his head frantically. This is too surreal. It’s got to be some kind of trick. Everything is all suddenly too perfect. Akira’s behaving like the sweet, empty cognitions of Maruki’s reality. The real Akira wouldn’t respond like this - would he? Blind panic rocks through Akechi in waves, raking its way up his spine and tearing his restraint to pieces.
He can’t breathe. His eyes sting. The world spins around him, blurring in and out of focus. He’s so fucking dizzy he feels like he might throw up.
Vaguely, he registers that he can taste blood; he must have bitten something, though he’s too disorientated to garner what. The pain fails to recenter him like it usually would. Everything is crumbling, walls collapsing and floor caving in beneath him. A fuse blows in his brain and it all melts into colour without form, molecules detached and nonsensical.
He‘s wheezing now, lungs constricting in a desperate attempt to inhale. If he doesn’t get air soon, he’s going to pass out. His body is screaming at him but the throbbing ache in his head drowns it out. He grits his teeth and somewhere, in his crazed stupor, he hears a muffled groan.
It sounds like Akira. There’s a hand stroking his hair and he tries to jerk away from it, but the grip is firm.
Akira is murmuring something about Tokyo or train maps or luggage, and the absurdity of the conversation jolts Akechi out of his terrified spiral. Why the hell is Akira listing the mundane details of his travel plans? It’s so out-of-place that it brings him abruptly down to earth.
Slowly, the howling in his head fades. His muscles are still paralysed, but he manages to suck in a quick, strangled gasp of air.
The static blocking out his vision clears, little by little. The first thing he sees is Akira’s face.
Akechi looks down. Akira has one of his wrists trapped under his knee. His left hand is patting the back of his neck and his right hand is... buried between Akechi’s teeth. Akechi immediately unlocks his jaw, going limp with shock. Akira winces but he doesn’t break eye-contact. He just keeps watching Akechi, expression concentrated and distressed. “Are you okay?” He asks again.
Akechi stares at the deep red bite mark, blood beading in every indent. “Are you stupid?” He echoes back, voice hollow and empty. “Why would you do that?”
Akira shrugs, twisting his hand and accidentally flicking blood onto the ground. “I don’t know. You were freaking out. You tried to bite yourself and it looked like you were about to tear through your lip... so I stopped you.” He pauses to inspect the injury, hissing sharply. “That hurt.”
Akechi shifts, bracing his palms against the floor and cautiously observing where Akira kneels between his legs.
A moment passes. Then Akira abruptly jerks back. He barks out a hysterical laugh and grasps Akechi’s face between both hands, smearing blood all over his left cheek. “That really fucking hurt! This is real! This isn’t— You’re really here, aren’t you?” His eyes are still glassy and raw, tears clumping in his lashes and spilling down his face. But he’s beaming - giddy like a child unable to believe their joy is grounded in truth, pinching themselves to ensure they’re not dreaming.
He doesn’t wait for Akechi to answer, dragging his fist across his eyes and leaving red smudges on his glasses in the process. Weirdly, it makes them look like an approximation of his Joker mask.
Akechi climbs to his feet and awkwardly steps out of Akira’s personal space. Quickly, Akira follows, throat bobbing. “I can’t believe...” He trails off, shaking his head and laughing again. His mouth opens and closes, trying and failing to give voice to the tsunami of feelings crashing in his chest. “This is insane!”
He’s grinning from ear to ear, lip trembling slightly. The happiness in his smile is unmistakable and beautiful - but it’s fragile too. Akechi recognises, with aching familiarity, the grief underlying his ecstatic expression.
Morgana had asked him if he had any idea what the last few months have been like for Akira - and Akechi does. Of course he does. He’s sure that Akira’s been haunted by the same memories he has. He’s probably laid awake just as many nights, agonising over the myriad of what-ifs and maybes left between them.
If Akechi forces himself to be objective, Akira probably had it even worse than he did. Akechi has very few blessings to his name, but if he had to consider them, then his distance from Tokyo is certainly a notable one. He can’t imagine how Akira has coped, sleeping in the same rickety bed they spent their last night in - or walking through Kichijoji and glimpsing their old hang-out spots. Even miles away from the city, everything reminds Akechi of Akira; he can’t imagine how much harder it must have been for Akira. How could he hope to find peace, surrounded by shops they’d frequented and cafés they’d eaten at, plagued by constant mementos of their time together? Not even sure if Akechi was dead or alive - yet troubled by his memory at every turn, chased by his intangible ghost.
And Akechi just left him like that. Willing to protect himself at any cost, he knowingly kept Akira trapped in that purgatory. How does he even begin to atone for that; for any of the awful things he’s done to Akira?
Akira is unaffected by the tension radiating off of Akechi. He throws his hands up in the air, bursting with excess energy. “Wow. What happened? How did you survive after Shido’s Palace? When did you wake up? Why did you come here?” He doesn’t wait for a response, words tumbling out of his mouth too fast for interruptions. “When I searched for you in Tokyo, I couldn’t find the slightest trace. It was like you’d vanished off the face of the earth. Not even the Phansite seemed to care, beyond the occasional comment thread. I asked anyone I could think of to look out for you, but... nothing showed up. Sometimes, it felt like I was the only person who remembered you - who even cared that you were missing. It was scary. Very scary.” He shrugs, gaze turning distant.
Akechi’s chest seizes like he’s having a heart attack. He’s profoundly unworthy of Akira’s selfless, genuine concern. Especially after abandoning him.
Akira scratches the back of his neck, playing with the loose strands of hair. “So... how did this happen? Were you incapacitated? Injured?” He’s picking up speed, talking so quickly that his voice sounds strained. “Did you know where I was? That I was looking for you?”
Akechi knows that he could lie. He could spin Akira a yarn about Shido’s conspiracy, about agents who pursued him until he was forced to flee to Odawara. Or he could make up a story about falling into a life-threatening coma after the Engine Room, physically incapable of contacting Akira, in a prison of his own unconscious. He could say he developed temporary amnesia, or fell into the Metaverse, or any number of fabricated excuses.
But Akechi is sick of lying. Akira’s sadness makes him feel broken - shattered into tiny little fragments - muscle and seeping arteries and emotions exposed, the truth leaking out of his open mouth. “I knew. I’m sorry.” He whispers, sincerely apologising for the second time in over a decade - to the exact same person.
It’s all he can offer; the only answer he can give to Akira’s barrage of questions. It’s like he’s back in Leblanc on the 2nd of February, finally understanding Akira’s feelings and having nothing to offer but the pale shadow of his own regret and remorse. God, he fucking hates himself for the pain behind Akira’s eyes.
Akira stops cold, startled by the open vulnerability in Akechi’s expression. He blinks. Then his smile starts to shrink, before it drops off his face entirely. He takes a slow, shaky breath inwards, the weight of revelation settling over him. Akechi can see the cogs turning; he watches as Akira gradually puts the pieces together. A brief flicker of affection rises above his churning guilt - of course Akira wouldn’t require a detailed explanation to work things out. He’d expect nothing less from his rival and equal.
Akira looks up, realisation dawning in all of its ugly, crude clarity. “Oh. So... you’ve been here for a while.” He states in monotone, frown pulling the corners of his lips downwards. “You haven’t been indisposed. You could’ve come back to Tokyo. You could’ve sent me a letter or a text message or an email. But you chose not to. Right? You chose not to tell me.” His voice cracks, face crumpling in wounded bewilderment. “Even though you knew I had no way of knowing you were alive - even knowing I was...”
Akechi nods.
Akira mouth purses, chin puckering as he processes the admission. He’s crying again, tears inching down his cheeks, but he doesn’t seem to realise it.
Gaze fixed on the floor, Akechi reaches out, sliding his fingers gently under Akira’s glasses and wiping away his tears.
Akira’s eyes fall shut, leaning into Akechi’s touch without a second thought. Even after the months of absence, the motion feels natural. Akira’s skin against his palm feels right.
“I’m sorry.” Akechi repeats, removing his hand.
Akira grabs his wrist before he can withdraw, thumb quivering where it rests against his pulse point. “It’s... okay.” He says, lashes fluttering as he struggles to keep it together.
Akechi shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”
“No. It’s not.” Akira agrees quietly. He stares at Akechi, seeming lost. “Just— Why? Why did you feel you couldn’t tell me?”
Akechi grits his teeth, fighting the urge to chew his tongue off to avoid the question. “I was scared.” He mutters, even though saying it feels like handing Akira a loaded gun and trusting him not to pull the trigger. “I thought— I think that your life is vastly improved by not having me in it.” He jerks his chin up in challenge, daring Akira to contradict him. Hostility spikes inside of him and despite his efforts to remain calm, he lashes out. “I don’t know why you’re surprised. I’ve always been a self-serving piece of shit. Is it really so shocking that I’d cut and run, and leave you to your deluded misery? Seems pretty predictable to me.”
Akira’s lips twist, making an inscrutable expression. “I thought we were beyond that.” He whispers, scuffing his foot against the ground.
Akechi glares, fists clenched. “Stop kicking the floor, it pisses me off. I hate that habit of yours.”
Akira’s leg stills, immediately going stiff. Carefully, he exhales and drops Akechi’s wrist, crossing his arms. “You can’t just pick a fight with me so you don’t have to deal with this, Goro. I know you’re trying to provoke me, and it won’t work.”
Frustration stews inside of Akechi’s stomach, caustic and unpleasant. He curses Akira for how easily he sees through the walls Akechi has built up, effortlessly bulldozing through his defences.
Akira’s eyes soften, brows tilting upwards. “Look...” he begins, leaning forwards.
Akechi flinches when Akira rests his hand against his shoulder, fingers bunching in the fabric of his t-shirt.
“You keeping this to yourself was really, really shitty. The shittiest. It’s not even close to being okay. But just because I’m angry about that... doesn’t mean I’m any less happy to see you. I can’t—" Akira’s breath catches, throat bobbing as he tries in vain to swallow the tangled knot of emotion working its way up his oesophagus. He smiles weakly, and Akechi feels himself being disarmed, antagonism stripped from him like skin from an orange. “Goro, I can’t even put into words how glad I am that you’re alive. Seriously. No matter the circumstances, I am so, so happy you’re not dead. And I...”
He falters, thumb brushing against Akechi’s collarbone. His fingers squeeze tighter, as if hoping to transmit his thoughts through touch alone. And when Akechi concentrates - when he blocks out everything else and focuses solely on Akira - it works. With every shivering, earnest touch, he glimpses further into Akira’s jumbled consciousness. Every cell of his body is whispering the same truth, over and over again: I love you. I still love you.
It makes Akechi want to punch a hole in the wall. “You’re too good to me. Too good for me, as well.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
Akechi hangs his head. He feels jagged and destructive, like a piece of broken glass that slices open any finger that touches it. Slowly, he grips Akira’s hands, removing them from his shoulders and turning away. He needs a moment to think - and he can’t do that when Akira is staring at him, warm grey eyes making promises that Akechi won’t allow himself to decipher.
Akira clears his throat. “Goro, we just reunited, I don’t want to fight already.” He says gently. It stings worse than animosity would have. “Can’t we just—"
“No. I’m a shell, Akira.” Akechi snaps, cutting him off before he can make this situation any harder. “The entire reason we were only just reunited is because I left you! I knew and I still left! I’ve killed dozens of people, for nothing! I’ve committed atrocity after atrocity, and you don’t seem to fucking care! Don’t you get it? I’m sick! I’m a monster!”
“I don’t give a fuck.” Akira looks angrier than Akechi has ever seen him. His cheeks are flushed, eyes burning with indignation. “I don’t care if you think that about yourself - you’re wrong. A monster wouldn’t call themselves a monster. And even if you were - which again, you’re not - I would still want you.”
“Because you’re an idiot who doesn’t know what’s good for yourself.”
Akira scowls, crossing his arms. “That’s not true.”
“Okay, why then? Why do you keep shoving yourself into my life, despite the red flags and the neon warning signs?”
“Because— Because I like you. I really, really like you, for some stupid reason.” Akira makes an incomprehensible gesture, somewhere between fanning himself and pointing at Akechi. It doesn’t escape Akechi’s notice how Akira stops himself just short of saying I love you.
He sighs, bowing his head so Akira can’t see the way his brow creases. “Why?” He repeats. “I pushed you away for so long - and you just kept worming your way back, like some kind of awful, persistent little parasite. Take a hint; I literally shot you in the head and it wasn’t enough to deter you! I tried so hard to make you think I didn’t care about you - and it never fucking worked! So forgive me for being a little bitter about your ceaseless fucking optimism.”
Akechi grits his teeth, rubbing at his temples. He still can’t bring himself to look at Akira, so it’s anyone’s guess how he’s responding to Akechi’s unhinged tirade. He exhales, feeling limp and battered. “You don’t want to fight; that’s fine, Akira. But go find someone else - because all we do is fight. Is this what you want your future to be? Us screaming at each other?”
“Yes!”
The word rings across the corridor, clear and loud as the chiming of a bell. Akechi’s head jerks up. Akira’s face is pinched, but - miraculously - he’s smiling. “Yes, it is.” His voice lilts upwards and he seems just as blindsided as Akechi is - as if he’s just come to this realisation himself.
Akechi shakes his head, too tired to be frustrated. “You’re... choosing to be miserable.”
“No, I’m not. I’m choosing you.” Akira’s grin is wobbly and sincere. He says it so easily. “You can call me a moron or an idiot or whatever, but it won’t change my decision. If it’s with you, I can deal with the arguments and the fighting. And even if we do end up miserable, I’d rather be unhappy with you than happy with anybody else.” He wrings his hands, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for Akechi but is just barely restraining himself. His gaze is imploring. “We don’t have to be unhappy, though.” He murmurs. “I mean, Shido’s in jail. I know it’s not exactly what you wanted, but I can promise that he’ll never hurt anyone again. The Metaverse is gone. Maruki is, uh, a taxi driver, the last time I checked. Things aren’t perfect, I know, but... it does seem like the worst is over.”
“Ugh. That’s the ceaseless optimism I was talking about.” Akechi groans. He tips forward, resting his head against Akira’s shoulder. Instantly, Akira cradles the back of his neck, clasping him closer and petting his hair.
“Did you say Maruki was a taxi driver?” He mumbles, light-headed. Akira laughs and the vibrations buzz against Akechi’s sternum like tiny, fervent fireworks.
“Sure did. Quite the career change, huh? I guess there’s nowhere else to go but down once you’ve experienced being a god.”
Akechi hums an affirmative, nestling into Akira’s chest. There’s still a voice inside his head, screaming that he’s standing in front of a train; that he’s watching it barrel towards him and making no attempt to get off the tracks; that Akira will ruin him if Akechi lets him. It takes everything he has to ignore it - but each bit of strain is worth it, to feel Akira’s ardent warmth against him.
This is all so new to him. “I don’t know what I’m meant to do.” Akechi admits. He’s flying blind, hurtling head-first into the unknown, with only Akira to catch him. It’s scary and exhilarating and something he can’t fully describe. He’d been so sure he’d severed this inexorable connection between them - and yet here he is, drawn into Akira’s magnetic field again, leaning into his heat and listening to his confessions. This bond is evidently beyond remedy; so maybe it’s about time that he stopped trying to fight it.
Akira gives a bashful shrug, playing with his fringe. “Well, we can take it slow. How about you walk me back to my room?” He suggests, like it’s not the most momentous gift he could possibly offer Akechi; like extending his hand and saying despite everything, I want you in my future is the most natural thing in the world.
It’s baffling. It’s miraculous. Akechi gazes at Akira’s hopeful face, haloed by the sunlight behind him, and reflects on how bizarre this turn of events is. How amazing - that he and Akira even have the option of taking it slow, now. Throughout their entire acquaintance, their time has been limited. There’s always been a ticking clock in the back of Akechi’s head, counting down the seconds until a termination date - be it the day of Akira’s assassination, or their final confrontation with Maruki. He’s reeling, bombarded with possibilities he never before allowed himself to consider.
Akira removes his glasses, cleaning them on his shirt. He’s fidgeting. “If you want to.” He adds, second-guessing himself. “No pressure.”
“I want to.” Akechi confirms immediately, not wanting Akira to misinterpret his silence. This is the kind of plain, honest profession that he used to avoid like the plague, and he’s still struck with the knee-jerk urge to obfuscate - but he pushes through the discomfort. Funny how people can change, when given the opportunity.
Akira smiles softly. “Ok. Great.” He says, rocking back on his heels. He nods down the corridor, waving in the direction of the guest rooms. “Shall we?”
He looks hesitant, despite the flair of his gesture. It’s endearing to realise that Akechi isn’t the only one who is nervously navigating new ground. The thought that they’re exploring this together emboldens him. He inhales, steadying himself - and reaches out.
Akira’s eyes widen as Akechi links their fingers together, striding forwards without a backwards glance. He has to jog to catch up, and he’s beaming as he appears in Akechi’s periphery.
“I’m not... good with this.” Akechi mutters, deliberately walking faster to avoid looking at Akira. “The whole verbal admission thing. But thank you. I think you’re crazy to consider me worthy of... whatever it is you feel. But— thank you, all the same.”
Akira nods, squeezing Akechi’s hand. A thousand sentiments sit unvoiced in the air between them, twin reciprocal confessions echoing across the narrow distance.
It makes Akechi’s stomach clench, adoration blooming and spreading upwards, winding through his ribcage and burrowing into his heart. Against unfathomable odds, Akira still loves him. And he loves Akira.
It’s insane. Perhaps the doctors who treated him in Tokyo were right; perhaps he is lucky after all.
They take the long route to the bedrooms, looping through the garden and strolling along the staff corridors. It’s only after they’ve passed the same collection of ornamental plates three times in a row that Akechi realises they’ve been walking in circles.
He’d been so absorbed in their conversation about Inaba and Akira’s parents - and the firm warmth of Akira’s palm against his - that he’d failed to notice their lack of progress. He shakes his head, directing them through the lobby, feet finally coming to a stop in front of the guest rooms.
Akira does a poor job of disguising his disappointment. His fingers fidget, drumming against Akechi’s knuckles. “You can come in, if you’d like.” He offers. After a beat of silence, he holds up his right hand, displaying the reddened bite mark. “This baby still needs treating, after all.”
Akechi curses, cupping it carefully. He’d completely forgotten. “Stay here.” He orders, switching onto autopilot at the sight of Akira’s blood. “I’ll fetch the first-aid kit.”
He’s gone before Akira can reply, mentally mapping out the route to the nearest supply cupboard. He finds one in less than a minute, rifling through towels and yukata until he uncovers the medical supplies.
He straightens up, snapping the lid off and breathing a sigh of relief when he sees the bandages and disinfectant. Good. An infection is the last thing Akira needs, especially after all the other shit Akechi has put him through. He turns back the way he came, wincing when he spots one of the decorations he smashed during his chase with Morgana. That will need to be cleaned up after he’s finished with Akira’s wound.
When he returns, Akira is perched cross-legged in the centre of the floor, fidgeting with his curls again. There’s a beat of stillness, before he realises Akechi has slid the door open. It’s strangely fascinating to observe Akira when he thinks no-one is watching him. He seems smaller, somehow - less animated. More stuck in his own head.
After a few seconds of uninterrupted perusal, Akechi clears his throat. “I found the medical supplies.” He announces, setting them down on the table.
Akira jumps at the brusque entrance, fingers falling away from his hair. He nods in acknowledgment of Akechi’s discovery, sitting up straighter. “Thanks.” He offers as an afterthought.
“No need to thank me.” Akechi dismisses, kneeling down. He opens the first aid kit, digging out some antiseptic wipes.
Akira holds his hand out to Akechi, turning it so the wound is on display. He begins saying something else, before flinching suddenly, shoulders drawing up around his ears. His arm retreats, snapping back to his side.
Akechi frowns, baffled by the change in demeanour. He follows Akira’s agitated gaze to the table - to the open medical kit. There, on top of a stack of plasters, are two syringes. Their needles glint in the low light of the room, sharp but innocuous.
For a moment, Akechi is perplexed. Then it comes back to him: the Interrogation Room. The empty syringes scattered across the concrete floor. The dark track marks on Akira’s cognitive double’s neck, visible even through the collage of bruising.
Quickly, he pulls out the supplies he needs and shuts the case, pushing it out of Akira’s eyeline. “Give me your wrist.” He instructs, carefully tracing Akira’s movements as he relaxes and obeys. Now the needles are out of sight, he’s noticeably calmer, tension draining out of his stiff limbs. The issue is resolved - but Akechi’s guilt persists as he dresses Akira’s injury.
If Akira winces at the sight of needles, it’s his fault. When he sold Akira out, he’d been dimly aware of the risks. The police force had been humiliated by the Phantom Thieves. Their ineptitude had been spotlighted by each and every criminal the vigilante group took down, and the Thieves’ rising popularity only added to the indignity. Akechi had known about the startlingly personal grudges many of the officers held against Akira and his friends. And he’d made his choice anyway; he’d thrown Akira to the wolves, ignoring how easy it would be for them to tear him to pieces.
He remembers how he’d justified it to himself - with the knowledge that Akira would be dead by the end of the ordeal anyway. The beating and the mistreatment and the drugs would have become inconsequential in the face of certain death.
It was an utterly unfeeling way of evaluating the torture Akira would endure - but that had been the point. Akechi had been determined to sever his emotions from his rationality; to look at Akira as a stepping-stone, effortlessly kicked aside in pursuit of his ultimate victory over Shido; to forget about how Akira represented everything Akechi had ever— That Akira was everything Akechi had ever wanted.
And, because Akira insists on throwing a spanner in the works of every plan Akechi makes, he hadn’t died. He’d clawed his way out of the Interrogation Room by the skin of his teeth, and Akechi has to live with the fact that the trauma he put Akira through is irreversible. He hasn’t even seen the full extent of its impact.
With jerky, disconnected motions, he finishes wrapping Akira’s hand in bandages, knotting them securely in place. The entire task feels very distant - as if Akechi is watching himself complete it in third-person. Akira is chattering about Tokyo, but Akechi can’t make out the specifics. He tries to focus, dragging himself back to earth by taking inventory of his surroundings: the tatami matting beneath him, the intricate kakejiku hanging on the far wall, the soft, recognisable scent of coffee permeating the room, clinging to Akechi’s clothing just like it used to. How Akira still smells like Leblanc eludes him, but he’s grateful for the familiarity nonetheless.
Gradually, the sound filters back in, like a crackling radio finally finding the right frequency. Akira is talking about the recent activities of the Phantom Thieves, darting a few concerned glances at Akechi when he thinks he isn’t looking. He’s obviously troubled by Akechi’s abrupt reticence, but is hesitant to broach the subject.
Akechi coughs, putting the leftover supplies back in the first-aid kit. “Change the dressing every day.” He says, fingers digging into the plastic of the medical case. “Don’t get it wet.”
“Okay.” Akira agrees, toying with the edge of the bandages. Akechi tuts, knocking his hand away.
“Don’t pick at it, either. It’ll take longer to heal if you do. There was already dirt in it, you don’t want to make it any worse.”
Akira snorts, chin tilted down. “Probably cat hair. The surfaces are covered in it.” The amusement in his voice trails off into quiet contemplation. He’s studying Akechi through his fringe, clearly able to tell that something is wrong but unsure how to approach it.
Ugh. Akechi hates how transparent he is to Akira. It’s annoying. He exhales, steadying himself for the inevitable conversation. They were going to have to discuss this at some point, anyway. It might as well be now. “Akira,” he starts, words stinging as they leave his mouth. “How did you...” He swallows, trying to figure out how to phrase it.
Akira waits patiently, lamplight reflecting off his glasses. “How did I...?” He prompts.
Akechi clenches his jaw, glaring at the ground. When he speaks again, he sounds strained. “How the hell did you forgive me for everything - for anything - I did? Not just to your friends, but to you specifically. How can you even stand being in the same room as me right now? And don’t give me some bullshit about it being because you like me, tell it to me straight. How did you even begin to make allowances for the shit I put you through? Because I don’t— I can’t understand it.”
Akira blinks slowly, processing Akechi’s question. He chews his lip, tugging nervously at the flesh with his teeth. “Hm.” He says after a minute of silence. “To be completely honest, I don’t know. I was furious for a while - not really about the betrayal, I saw that coming from a mile away - but about the Interrogation. Especially after being drugged into near incoherency. When I think back on how much danger I was in, I feel... weird. It was difficult to register at the time, but the conversation with Sae was kind of terrifying. Trying to reason with her is difficult at the best of times, but with a system full of sedatives and a grade-three concussion... Sometimes I’m genuinely shocked I made it through that.”
Akechi’s stomach twists. Akira sighs, shaking his head. “I thought I was going to be angry with you for the rest of my life.” He admits. “But time passed and it faded. After that, I was just upset. And then the Engine Room happened, and I couldn’t...” His throat bobs, breath hitching. “All I could feel was regret.”
Akechi remembers Akira holding him on the 2nd of February, babbling apologies and blaming himself for everything that happened. He has no idea how to respond.
“I dreamt about it for weeks afterwards, y’know.” Akira continues, laughing wryly and rubbing his face. “All the different ways I could have stopped Shido’s cognition of you. Every single night, I came up with a new method I could’ve tried. It got to the point that Morgana had to sleep on the couch - because I wouldn’t stop tossing and turning, and saying your name in my sleep. It must’ve been pretty annoying.”
Nausea rushes over Akechi. “Probably.” He mumbles, trying not to dwell on the image of Akira curled up in bed, desperately wishing he could rewind time and save Akechi. It makes his chest ache like he’s been shot.
Akira huffs. “I had so many theories - so many possible escape routes you could’ve taken. I’d love to know the details of how you made it out later. But the point is... I don’t know how exactly I ended up forgiving you. I’m not even sure if I fully have. It’s complicated, I guess.” He shrugs, fingers tapping out a frantic rhythm against his knee. “But beyond that, I know for certain that the way I feel about you outweighs any resentment I might hold. Subconsciously.” The drumming of Akira’s fingers is picking up speed. “And it doesn’t change the fact that I... uh. I...” A bead of sweat rolls down his temple and before Akechi can stop himself, he reaches out to wipe it away.
They sit like that for a moment, Akechi’s hand lingering on Akira’s cheek.
Akira smiles - and as quickly as he used to rip the masks from shadows, he lays a kiss against Akechi’s fingers. “I love you.” He whispers, eyes drifting shut. “It doesn’t change the fact that I love you.”
Akechi stares at him, stricken. It was one thing to anticipate it, but another experience entirely to hear it said aloud. He cups Akira’s face in his palm, wavering between courses of action. He wants so much, so deeply, so urgently, that it burns him to think about it. Every cell of his body feels scorched and hypersensitive, heart slamming against his ribs. A violent shudder rocks through him, body humming with nameless, indefinable need.
“Akira...” he murmurs, voice quivering.
“It’s alright. You don’t have to say anything.” Akira reassures him, lashes fluttering. “I just figured you should know. So. Now you do.”
It hits Akechi, with the force of a subway train, that Akira truly, selflessly expects nothing in return. He’s content to love Akechi, even if the sentiment isn’t returned - without conditions attached. He demands nothing from Akechi, and offers him everything. It’s heady and dizzying and crazy, and Akechi is so, so indescribably glad that Akira was dumb enough to pick a fight with Shido fourteen months ago, because if he hadn’t they never would have met. Without that tiny, split-second decision, they never would have played chess together, or fought together, or tried to kill each other, or fallen in love. Akechi never would’ve opened up about his mother. He probably would have died at Shido’s hand, cold, alone and forgotten, once he’d outlived his usefulness.
Instead, he’s here, surrounded by warmth and love and kindness. His throat tightens, eyes stinging and vision going blurry. He’s— fuck, he’s crying, and he doesn’t even care. Akechi leans forward, until his tears start to fall onto Akira’s hands, and he looks up, startled. Briefly, Akechi watches the way alarm shapes his face, mouth forming a shocked O.
Then he tilts his chin up and kisses Akira, pressing their lips together until the surprise melts off Akira’s face. He lets out a gravelly little laugh and Akechi tastes it on his tongue; he feels the roughness of Akira’s breathing as he threads his fingers through Akechi’s ponytail, tugging until the tie unwinds and his hair falls around them like a curtain.
Akechi grips Akira’s shirt, hauling him closer until they’re so wrapped up in each other that it’s hard to tell where his body ends and Akira’s begins. Akira grins, gasping when Akechi licks across the roof of his mouth. Their teeth click and Akira giggles, the sound bubbling between them, bright and hopeful. It’s the most beautiful noise Akechi has ever heard and it makes him want to kiss Akira, long and deep, until he can swallow that laughter and feel it pour out of his own throat.
Akira’s hand strokes the base of Akechi’s neck, his thumb brushing under his jaw and across the throb of his pulse point. Akechi leans into the touch, his palm coming to rest over Akira’s sternum. He dips right, satisfaction washing over him in hot waves when he feels Akira’s heart beating hard enough to smash through his ribs.
Akechi drags his lips from the corner of Akira’s mouth to the centre, longing to sink totally into the comfort of his unflinching stability. He’s testing the limits of their oxygen supply. His head is starting to feel very heavy, but the unsteady weight is soothing in Akira’s arms. Everything is more manageable when they’re together - even the risk of suffocation.
Eventually, they have no choice but to break apart. Akira is panting, fringe sticking to his forehead. His glasses are fogged up and he looks charmingly dishevelled. Akechi is sure his own flushed cheeks tell a similar story.
“That was unexpected.” Akira comments, trying in vain to smooth his crumpled clothes. “Your hair is longer.” He blurts, gesturing to the loose strands.
Akechi nods, winding down after the burst of passion. “It is.” He confirms, voice a little scratchy.
Akira smiles bashfully, ducking his head. “I like it.” He says. “It suits you.”
Akechi’s eyebrows fly upwards. “Thank you.” He replies, after a minute of delay. Akira’s fingers tremble, still buried in his hair. Slowly, he combs through the knots he made, easing out the tangles with the utmost care. The motion is almost reverent.
Akechi sighs, resting his face against Akira’s shoulder. His lips tingle pleasantly, raw from their kiss. Outside, the sun is setting, sky turning a dusky blue. The cicadas buzz lazily, emerging as the evening draws nearer. It’s peaceful.
Until Akira jerks abruptly, patting Akechi’s back in apology as he springs up.
“I almost forgot.” He declares cryptically, opening one of the cupboards and pulling out a travel bag. Akechi watches with mild concern as he catches a finger in the zipper and curses loudly, rummaging through the luggage like a madman.
After a few minutes of searching, he rises, smiling from ear to ear. “We just arrived today, so I hadn’t unpacked it yet, but... Here.”
Akechi’s lips part in astonishment. There, in Akira’s palm, is his black leather glove. The same one Akechi threw at him back in November, when he’d thought Akira would be dead within the week; when he was angry and scared and spiteful, convinced that Akira barging into his life was one of the worst things that had ever happened to him. He’d been horrified by his own desires - appalled that he was even capable of yearning for something other than Shido’s ruin. He hadn’t known, back then, how utterly his connection with Akira would transform him, reforging his bones and draining the corrosive hatred from his soul. He’d been a moron.
Akira shifts from foot to foot, turning the glove over in his hands. “I’m not exactly a duelling expert, so I’m just going to copy you, okay?” He stands upright suddenly, back straight and posture rigid. “To our rematch.” He intones, voice serious.
Then he hurls the glove across the room, grinning.
Akechi snatches it out of the air on instinct, clenching it in his fist until the leather creaks.
He stares at it in stunned silence. A thousand thoughts flood his mind, crashing in a maelstrom of wary bewilderment. “You...”
“Kept it? Yeah.” Akira shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s trying to be nonchalant about it, but the anxious twitch of his fingers shows he’s fully aware of what it reveals. “It’s been sitting on my windowsill for three months... Or thereabouts. From Tokyo to Inaba to Odawara. Oh, if you want your glove to stay on my window in Odawara, that is. Like I said, I’m not the most knowledgeable about the protocol of all this; I don’t know whether you hold onto it now, or whether I should win it back from you maybe, or—"
Akechi holds up his hand, brow creasing. “Shh. Akira. Shut up for a second. Let me just— You kept it.” It’s not a question; it can’t be, when the evidence is laid out before Akechi’s eyes, clear as day. “You took it with you.” He states, blinking rapidly. “This whole time, you hung on to it.”
Akira’s smile is delicate. “I told you I would, didn’t I?”
Akechi’s breath catches. “You’re so—" Tenderness explodes in his chest, driving out any remaining apprehension. He shakes his head, awestruck and incapable of finishing his sentence.
He wishes he still had Akira’s silver bangle, or one of the other gifts they’d exchanged - some kind of physical proof of how much Akira means to him. He needs to show Akira how much he cares, in the same undeniable way the glove spells out Akira’s devotion. It feels like he’s losing, which is a ridiculous way of seeing a relationship, but the notion gnaws at him nonetheless.
Gradually, an idea begins to form. A reckless, ill-conceived idea that he’s definitely better off ignoring. In past months, he would’ve dismissed it immediately, but now it clings to him. It seems that Akira’s rashness is becoming contagious.
Maybe Akechi is just looking for an excuse to say it. Maybe he’s becoming weak. He used to carry around secrets like they weighed nothing, too used to the burden to take any notice of their pressure. But recently, after unloading a fraction of his baggage, he’s started to feel the ache. Part of him wants to admit it; to finally let go of this last liability.
All of his previous reasons to conceal it have been resolved. Logically, all that remains is for him to open his mouth and let his vocal chords do the trick. It should be simple - if not for the inconvenient fact that he’s fucking terrified.
Still, Akechi Goro does not accept cowardice. He squares his shoulders, tamping down the fight-or-flight instincts racing through his body. He inhales, counting backwards.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Zero.
Minus one.
Minus two.
Minus—
God, he needs to get a grip. It’s now or never. All he has to do is open his mouth. All he has to do is open his mouth. All he has to do is open his mouth.
Akira is gazing placidly at him. His initial embarrassment has ceased, and he watches Akechi with undisguised curiosity. He’s waiting for a reaction.
A beat passes. Akira’s eyes gleam, flashing like spinning silver coins.
Akechi breathes out, and says very slowly, “I’m in love with you, Akira.”
Shockingly, the world doesn’t crumble into dust. They don’t collapse, or die, or disappear in a puff of smoke. The Earth keeps turning. Outside, the cicadas continue to thrum, filling up the silence with their low chirping.
Akira stares at him. Then he nods, his smile doubling in size. “I know.” He confesses, eyes shining gently. He’s the picture of calm, measured acceptance, so happy that it almost hurts to look at him.
Akechi falters. “You... That’s... Okay then.” He exhales, relief surging through him. It’s like fifteen Tarukajas, applied in a single shot. He feels invincible and exhausted at the same time, adrenaline pumping through his veins like molten steel. If he’d known this was what telling the truth was going to be like, he might have done it sooner. It’s a bit of an anticlimax, given his expectations of cataclysmic horror, but it’s a welcome alternative.
Akira shifts forwards, sitting down next to Akechi again. “So.” He prompts, leaning his elbows on the table.
“So.” Akechi echoes, lightheaded.
Akira links their fingers together, glove crushed between their palms. “Wanna go get dinner?” The casual, unguarded affection with which he asks it leaves Akechi reeling.
“Alright.” He mumbles faintly, squeezing Akira’s hand.
Akira smiles, guiding Akechi to his feet. For a moment, they just stand there. Then Akira pulls Akechi into a hug, pressing his face into Akechi’s chest. “I love you, too, Goro - by the way. In case that wasn’t obvious.” He murmurs, tickling Akechi’s neck. “I mean, I literally said it five minutes ago, but I know you like specificity.”
His earnest conviction surprises a laugh out of Akechi. It’s grating and raspy, but Akira reacts as if he just sang the heavenly chorus. “It’s fine, Akira. I got the message.”
Akira draws back, beaming at Akechi. It’s like the light of the sun, warming Akechi from the inside out. “Good.” He whispers, cupping Akechi’s face with so much appreciation that one would assume he was surveying a Metaverse Treasure. “No more misunderstandings. We’ve had enough of those to last several lifetimes.”
Akechi snorts in agreement. Reluctantly, he steps back, pocketing the glove and moving out of Akira’s personal space so he can tie up his hair. Akira’s gaze lingers shamelessly on his throat as he does so, drifting from his lips to his biceps in one fluid motion. Cute.
His eyes trail down to Akechi’s hands and suddenly, he jolts. “Oh crap. Your scratch-marks. Morgana. I’ve got to let him know we’re going to eat.”
Akechi groans. He’d been fortunate enough to have forgotten about Akira’s feline companion, and their earlier confrontation. He and Akira may have reconciled, but Morgana is an entirely different matter. The tension is going to be excruciating.
Akira tuts in fond exasperation, shaking his head. “Don’t grumble. He needs dinner too.”
“You don’t say.” Akechi meant it as a dry joke, but it comes out meaner than intended.
Akira’s brows rise. Then he hums, looping an arm around Akechi’s shoulders reassuringly. “I’m here. Don’t stress.” He reminds him. Of course Akira understands Akechi’s bitterness for what it truly is: awkwardness and nerves.
Akechi makes a noncommittal noise.
Akira gives him a nudge. “C’mon. If you can defy death twice in a row and come back kicking, you can do anything. Including dealing with my talking pet cat.” With a chuckle, he skips forwards, bouncing on his heels. He pauses in the doorway, crossing his arms and waiting for Akechi to follow him.
When Akechi doesn’t, Akira turns around, expression sympathetic. “Goro... It will be fine. I’m willing to place my bets on you, okay? We’ve survived far worse and I’ve never gambled wrong before. I believe in you. You can do this.”
Akechi sighs. “You’re overrating your gambling abilities. The debacle in Sae’s Palace proved indisputably that you have gambled wrong.”
Akira pouts. “I meant metaphorically.”
“Mhmm.”
They lapse into silence; Akira on one side of the doorway, Akechi on the other.
Akechi studies at the small gap in the flooring, where the grain of the tatami meets the wood of the corridor. He swallows. He’s very aware that after all the prior revelations, this is a relatively minor choice. But to him, it seems to compound every decision he made - every confession, every touch and every hesitation blended into one seemingly mundane conclusion. Will he stay as he is, with his head lodged in the past and his feet moving towards what lies ahead without his permission? Or will he fall into stride with Akira and think towards the future they could have together - one of late dinners and quiet conversations, every second underscored with the promise of love?
At the end of the day, it all comes down to a single, fundamental question: Does he trust Akira?
Wordlessly, Akira holds out his hand. He’s smiling, eyes soft - totally open and exposed to his core. He trusts Akechi, that much is obvious. Akechi used to disdain him for it, inwardly mocking his naivety and faith in others, knowing it would only make it easier to take advantage of him. Akira always was a mess of contradictions to Akechi, but that discrepancy seemed to be the most prominent: why on earth did he continue to care for others, when standing up for someone was what ruined his goddamn life? He’d thought it was pure stupidity. But now he sees Akira’s conviction for what it really was: steadfast, selfless bravery.
For years, Akechi has felt like he was hardwired to resent even the concept of trust. It was a weapon; a bargaining chip to cajole others into doing what he wanted. On the rare few occasions he’d considered putting his faith in someone, they’d quickly proven to him exactly why it was a bad idea.
But Akira is different. He took every one of Akechi’s preconceptions and tore them to shreds. And after twelve months in his presence, Akechi is no longer the wretched, angry child that he used to be. With Akira standing before him, he feels invincible - like he can offer his trust and not fear the consequences.
“Dinner sounds nice.” Akechi murmurs, swallowing down the last of his doubts.
He steps over the threshold - and takes Akira’s hand.