Chapter Text
“Does it get lonely?” Akechi asks. “Being a god?”
Akira snorts. He’s hunched over his own creation, room-sized hands polishing massive bits of metal. One of these days, Akechi should ask him what he’s doing. One of these days, it might make a difference. “I'm not a god?”
“Oh?” Akechi smiles, wide enough for Akira to see. He shifts on the embroidered pillow he’s perched on. The cushion’s larger than his mother’s house. Akechi pretends the thought doesn’t make him cower. “So, the sacrifices, the temple, the cult at your door—all of those are just for show?”
Akira pulls a needle from—somewhere. Hammerspace surrounds him. Akechi'd be lying if he said he wasn’t the most dangerous entity he’s ever seen. It's good thing he’s practiced, then. “I suppose gods’ sacrifices wouldn’t ask these types of questions.”
“Do you mind?”
“No.” Akira shrugs. He threads the needle, adding leather to the handle of something that almost looks like a sickle. At least, if the blade didn’t spiral inward like a fractal. “At least, I don’t think so.”
“You can’t tell?”
“A god would mind. I don’t know. I like hearing about your life.”
All at once, Akechi has the urge to scoot closer to him. He’s sitting on a cushion to the side of Akira's—desk is a generous word, considering it’s the size of a cliff and carved from a species of wood Akechi's never seen in his life. The set-up is enchanting, inviting. It makes Akechi feel special, to be here. It’d be effortless to close the gap.
Akechi freezes, warning lights blaring in his mind. His hand twitches for the sword at his side. With a tremendous amount of effort, Akechi retracts it. He must soften his edges, appear something like innocent, for his mission.
This—flirting is dangerous. The longer his enemy does so instead of showing his true, monstrous colors, the more dangerous it becomes. Akechi shouldn’t be this close.
There’s nothing Akechi can do but persist. “Time is all we have, I suppose. I understand wanting to find ways to pass it.”
Akira snorts again, dropping the needle. “Sure.” Akechi doesn’t flinch as it clatters against the desk, doesn’t move as Akira reaches for a cloth the size of a bedsheet. He can’t stop his palms from sweltering. “I'm surprised I couldn’t convince you to pick up a hobby. It does get boring down here.”
“I can entertain myself well enough.” Studying the giant would be Akechi’s hobby, if it wasn’t already his job. That, and sharpening his skills for the day of reckoning: slashing matchsticks as long as his leg whenever Akira turns his back. He didn’t sacrifice himself to the demon’s dimension without an army as backup, ready to strike the second Akechi finds his weakness. That would be foolish.
Almost as foolish as believing Akira when he says he cares.
Akechi says, for the sake of learning weaknesses and nothing else, “If you’re not a god, then what species are you?”
Akira doesn’t look up, polishing the long, cold blade with a soft cloth. “I’m just condemned, I guess.”
Akechi laughs. He’s self-aware enough, at least, to know his side will lose the war. And then, Akechi will have the commander right where he wants. And then—well. Akechi asks, “By whom?”
“I fucked up.” From this far down, his face is impossible to read. It’s easier to pretend Akechi's at a disadvantage than acknowledging Akira has the most impressive poker face he’s ever seen. “I didn’t mean any harm, but someone thought I did. I'm trapped here for as long as they see fit. We’re all bugs to be squashed by someone, I suppose.”
Fucking rich, considering Akechi's almost been on the wrong side of Akira's boot several times. Still, Akechi smiles. “And, what are you? You didn’t answer my question.”
The blade is otherworldly in the pale light of Akira's room. Akechi watches as Akira finishes, heaving an object that weighs as much as a house into a drawer. When he turns to Akechi, his gaze is readable, sharp. “I don’t think I need to be anything. It’s restricting. What matters is that I'm here, and what I can do with the tools I have.”
Akechi steels himself, trying not to feel like a bug pinned to a corkboard. “Wouldn’t it be nice to define yourself? To describe yourself?”
“For what? For other people? Or for your own sake?”
Akechi rests a hand on his chin, forcing himself to relax, a little, into their usual back-and-forth. “For others, I suppose.”
“You tell me.” All at once, Akechi's veins turn to ice, as Akira tilts his head and says, “You never told me your given name.”
Because Akechi doesn’t have one. Because he remembers his mother—her warnings, the fear in her eyes, the scars, the blood, her cold, limp embrace—and there’s nothing else Akechi wants to honor. There’s no one else he’s doing this for. He’s an Akechi, he’s Akechi, and if Akira peeled back the walls of his heart with a sword-like claw, he’d find nothing beyond that.
The perfect soldier. The unwanted child. The burden of a son—his identity doesn’t matter. He’s here, he’s going to slay this monster, and he’s going to take revenge on the commander who ruined his life. That’s final.
“You’re right, I suppose.” Akira rumbles, snapping Akechi out of his thoughts.
It’s been a minute since Akechi was supposed to respond. Akira's looking right at him, eyes the size of Akechi's head locked onto his pathetic—no, not pathetic, Akira's just freakishly oversized—form. Akechi keeps his tone level when he asks, “What?”
“I didn’t answer your question.” Akira crosses his arms, placing his head in the crook of his elbow. Akechi freezes, instinctually, at the proximity. “It does get lonely, around here.”
Akechi's limbs threaten to tremble. It’s his weakness—all this time, and he still freezes up when Akira when levels his full attention on him. It’s the size. It’s the strength. It’s the fact that he’s taking off his mask to look someone the size of his finger in the eye. All Akechi can manage is, “O—oh.”
“But, it’s not so bad.” Akira smiles, then, unmasked gaze turning soft. “I have you, after all.”
Akechi hunches his shoulders, hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. He doesn’t look back.