Chapter Text
The dream begins with a childhood memory. The sky hangs over them, a floating ocean, a mirror reflection. As Akira and Goro roam about the empty streets, cicadas and crickets chirping a discordant tune around them, Goro leads Akira while the latter trails doggedly behind. It’s hot, but the sun doesn’t slow Goro down; if anything, it invigorates him, causing him to push forward with almost gleeful enthusiasm.
“Will Fumiko-san make those crepes I like?” Goro asks suddenly, anticipation on his face. Akira takes a moment to register the sentence. He struggles to speak, what with the heat and all, and when he does, it’s a slow, lazy drawl.
“Sure, I think so. She knows you're staying over for dinner, after all.”
“How sweet of her.” Goro smiles widely. All of a sudden, he stops, and in the brief pause he catches Akira’s wrist. “… Shoot. I think I left my notebook at the hideout.”
Akira lifts his brows. “Really? Are you sure?” he asks dubiously. He’s sleepy and extremely sluggish, enough that the thought of walking back makes his head hurt, but, not wanting to show his reluctance, he straightens his back and tries to look as attentive as possible. Not that Goro notices anyway—he’s too busy staring at the floor.
“Yes, I was certain I brought it with us… Weren’t we looking through it earlier?” he says.
“Oh…” Akira bites his lip. “Right.”
Setting down his backpack and Red Hawk figurine, Goro says, “I’m gonna go get it real quick. Would you wait here for me?”
Leaving Goro alone for more than five minutes makes Akira anxious. However, he’s in no position to argue; he’d definitely slow Goro down if he tagged along, and anyways, it won’t be dark for a while. It should be safe, shouldn't it? With that, he nods his assent. “As long as it ta—”
The words fuzz out. It’s a sure sign that Akira must be waking up, and he wonders briefly how he could have known that in his state. He slips in and out of consciousness, experiencing the dream in snatches, a strange cross between reality and imagination. And then—
The scenery shifts suddenly, coalescing into darkness. Tears are wet on Akira’s face as he weathers the stinging in his calves, his arms, the rawness of his throat. Before he knows it, Goro is there; he is sobbing in Akira’s arms. His fists are clenched so tightly into Akira’s shirt that they look white beneath the deathly pale moonlight.
“I—I thought you were gone—”
“I told you I wouldn’t leave…”
“I missed you… please don’t leave me—”
Akira’s eyes fly open as he wakes.
Returning back to consciousness, his senses piece back together, and he hazily processes that his phone is ringing. Groggily, he fishes it out of the blankets. That stupid cat ringtone Ryuji made him download (which seems less of a good idea now than it did the first time) shrills and drives him to the point of madness, so he smashes his thumb against the “accept call” button, waiting for the person on the other side to begin speaking.
“Akira-kun, did I wake you?”
“… Mom?” Alert now, Akira sits up and shields his eyes from the sunlight. “Uh, hey, it’s been a while! Wh—Why are you calling? Not that I don’t want you to call, I just—”
“Silly, I know what you mean. I’ve been meaning to check up on you. How’s college?”
“College?” Akira collapses against his pillows, sighing loudly. “College is… college. Just a lot of work, y’know. I’d explain more but I think Dad tells you pretty much everything he sees on my social media, so…”
His mother’s bell-like laughter rings through the speakers. “I know, I know. Typical of your father to not cry during your departure but cling to every little detail about your college life. He reminds me of your grandmother. Always asking questions—”
Akira situates himself so that he is sitting up against the wall, putting his phone on speaker so he can check all of his notifications. His mother speaks volubly about the things he’s missed during his absence, like his neighborhood’s favorite stray having kittens and his aunt inventing the town’s next biggest coffee fad. His cousin met someone over the summer, too, and they’re planning on announcing their relationship to the whole family this winter.
All the while Akira listens intently, pitching in where he needs to. It’s not that he doesn’t care about what’s been happening back at his hometown; he truly does. But it’s hard to maintain focus when his mind keeps drifting off to what happened just weeks before, lingering on the most painful details despite his best efforts. Rejection is not something he can say he’s used to, because his only romantic experience yielded success (at least up until the point Goro went and deserted him). Thinking about how he misread all the signs makes his heart squeeze in shame.
“How’s Goro-kun?” his mother asks suddenly, and Akira does a double-take. He closes the news app he was grooming through (fresh with news about Goro, of course) and stutters through his response.
“G-Good! We’ve been good. Great, actually.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” His mother sighs. “You know, when you told me about him a month ago, I was so shocked to find out he was a celebrity. I’m glad the two of you are still friends, though—I miss the boy terribly. You know that picture you sent me recently?”
“I, uh…” Akira is embarrassed by the pause that follows. “I—I send a lot of photos.”
Much of them taken by surprise, actually—Goro doesn’t seem to mind when he does this (as it happens, he is unsurprisingly photogenic no matter what angle you catch him in) and he even asks for Akira to send them over text.
“I mean the one you took at Inokashira Park. He really looks like his younger self in that picture. The smile is the same—and it looks different than when he’s on TV, you know? I’ve seen some of his interviews, but his smile in the photo you sent me seems a lot more goofy. I like it more—kind of feels more innocent, don’t you think?”
Akira has to stop and consider this. He’d never noticed that—well, as much as his dignity would allow him to, anyway, given how often he forces himself to avoid scrolling through their selfies. Typical of his mother to scrutinize, though. It almost makes him smile.
“Which reminds me!” his mom pipes up, startling him. “I have a suggestion.”
Akira shifts to rid of the discomfort in his butt. “And uh, what’s that?”
“Why don’t you invite him to come with you to visit us this coming October?”
If Akira had been drinking anything, he would’ve spit it out.
“Th… This October?” he stammers, suppressing the surprise that had been rising in his voice. He understands her meaning—this trip, after all, had been in the works since last month. The mere thought of whisking Goro away to visit Yamakita leaves him dizzy with possibilities.
Although he admits being stuck in the same house as Goro for more than one day sounds a lot less delectable than it would have a month ago.
“Yes, I’m sure he’ll enjoy it.” Akira can hear the smile in his mom’s voice. “Akira-kun, I want to see him so badly! He’s grown so much it almost scares me. And anyways, a lot has changed since he left town, and I think it’ll do him some good to leave the city. Pollution and stuff. You can take him around and reintroduce him to everything! Doesn’t that sound fun?”
Fun, sure. Beneficial, maybe not. He’s still having a hard time controlling his beating heart whenever he and Goro hang out (and it truthfully hasn’t dulled at all despite the rejection). Akira crosses his legs and leans his forehead against his knees, considering, fruitlessly, all the things that might come from this. Maybe even more rejection.
He doesn’t wanna think about it.
“I’ll get back to you on that,” he says finally, biting his lip. “It was nice talking to you, Mom. I’ll call you later.”
“Of course, of course. And bring news about Goro-kun’s response, all right?”
With that, he bids her goodbye and hangs up, heaving one big sigh for good measure. Somehow he has the feeling he won’t act on her request until the last second.
For the rest of the morning he goes about his usual routine, pretending his heart doesn’t hurt at the sight of his posters and magazines. It feels kind of pathetic how easily affected he is at the sight of Goro’s face, or the mere memory of it (as almost anything at this point reminds him of something he did with Goro). One time he nearly contemplated taking his posters down. Still, he shirked on that task, always finding something else to do.
“Doesn’t it get weird after a while?” Futaba asked him eventually. “After all, you guys are friends again, and… well, it doesn’t tickle you in the wrong way, does it?”
She did have a point. And, thinking on it now, Akira figures it’s about time to say goodbye to his old Goro collection. They’re remnants of an old era. An embarrassing fixation. He stares at one of his posters—an enlarged version of a magazine cover, with Goro at the forefront, donning designer glasses and an oversized coat—and he feels his face run hot. Why do these posters have to be so stupidly hot? Akira laments. They’re just making it harder for me…
For now, he fixes himself a coffee while he stares off into space. It’s a weekend so he most likely won’t be meeting up Goro today, though the man’s schedule is a trainwreck and highly unpredictable. Not that Akira holds out hope for the slim chance of seeing him or anything. No sir. He slams his mug down onto the counter.
Not thinking about that right now.
“Akira?” The bell chimes, and peeking through the opening is a sleepy Futaba. Akira looks up from pouring his coffee and narrowly prevents it from overflowing.
“Oh—Futaba? What are you doing here so early?”
“… That’s…” She slips through the entrance, her head bowed and face flushed red. Something about her demeanor seems uncharacteristically off, and, clearing her throat, Futaba seats herself on one of the stools and folds her hands in front of her.
“Where did I go wrong… ?” she murmurs distractedly.
Akira furrows his brows, pouring another cup of coffee for Futaba. “What? What are you talking about?”
Futaba doesn’t speak, only to mumble a quiet “thank you” when Akira slides her her mug. Instead, she stares thoughtfully down at her reflection and bites down on her lip. “I… I made a big mistake, Akira.”
“Don’t tell me it’s one of your video games,” Akira jokes, but it’s painfully obvious by the way Futaba winces that it is, in fact, not one of her video games. She sighs mournfully, a sigh that Akira had heard coming from his own mouth earlier. Her eyes are colored with worry.
“Akira…” She hunches her shoulders, then blurts, “I’ve fallen in love with someone!”
“Wh—” Akira, unfortunately, is drinking something at the moment of her announcement. But he doesn’t spit it out. He chokes on it, probably burns his tongue and throat in the process, and spills some coffee over his sleeve and shirt. Coughing, he wipes his mouth with his (clean) sleeve and looks at Futaba. Her eyes are squeezed shut and her mouth is twisted in an uneasy grimace.
“What brought this on?” Akira asks, voice still scratchy somewhat. Futaba unfolds her hands, burying her face in them.
“I-I don’t know! I just thought… y’know… I could ask you. Since you’ve had more romantic experiences than any one of us. Even though it’s just one. And it went… horribly wrong, no offense.”
Way to rub it in… Akira massages his neck, biting back a scowl. “Why not ask Ann?”
“I can’t…”
“How come?”
“I just…” She grows even redder than humanly possible. “Ann-chan is…”
Ann-chan? … Oh. Oh.
“You like Ann?” Akira guesses, and Futaba screeches into her palms. Okay. Right on target, I guess. Akira schools his expression into something more neutral despite the fact that inside, he’s brimming with excitement at the prospect of his friend crushing on another friend. Though it may just be a part of his desire to indulge in a romance other than his own failed one. Anyways. He says, “When did this first start?”
“Uhh,” Futaba answers intelligently. Admitting her crush to Akira seems to have temporarily put her out of service, and she shuts her open mouth, twiddling her thumbs. “J-Just… um, recently, we… um…”
“Uh-huh.”
“We started hanging out,” Futaba mumbles. “God! Do I really need to say any more? The bottom line is Ann-chan is cute and pretty and I’m just a carrot! An ugly, pathetic little carrot!”
“Woah, hey, what’s wrong with carrots?” Akira interjects, earning himself a glare from Futaba. He eases off, putting his hands up in surrender. “Listen, Futaba. You’re not just any carrot. You’re a kind, super smart, and endearing carrot. A sweet mini carrot.”
“Can we stop with the carrot analogy, please?” Futaba lifts her face to pout at him.
Akira shrugs. “You’re the one who brought it up, but okay.”
“Ugh… I just—sometimes it feels like she considers me a little sister,” Futaba continues, sullenly. “She even makes me call her ‘Ann-chan’. I don’t know what to do, Akira! What if she doesn’t take me seriously? What if she rejects me because… I don’t know, I’m not good enough? I mean, a girl as pretty as her needs to have standards, right?”
Akira rolls up his soiled sleeve and wipes down the coffee stains on his shirt. “I don’t know about you, Futaba… But for me, I wouldn’t even worry about that stuff. Standards, expectations, whatever… I just go for it, no questions asked.”
He tastes the lie on his tongue before it even leaves his mouth. Perhaps before Akira hardly fussed over the petty details, but since meeting Goro, his days have been a flurry of indecision and doubt. What if standards were the reason why Goro rejected Akira? No, that wouldn’t be fair to assume—Goro was explicitly clear that it was because they weren’t prepared for any kind of relationship. But maybe if Goro wasn’t being honest with himself…
“I don’t understand how you’re so carefree about this,” Futaba says. “Remember when you were freaking out about Akechi becoming your friend again?”
“He’s different.” It comes out almost instinctively.
“Why?”
Why? Because Goro is a literal celebrity? Because Goro is leagues above him? Goro could have anyone he wanted, and the knowledge of that is troubling, no doubt. It feels like Akira has to earn his affections if he wants to even stand on the same ground as him…
… No. What am I thinking?
“Akira?” Futaba’s voice is worried, now, and Akira shakes himself out of it. He has to breathe away some of the tension on his chest before speaking again.
“Sorry. He just is. Anyways, maybe you’re misinterpreting Ann’s character. She may like you back but not know how to express it beyond the limits of what her personality allows her.”
Dubiously, Futaba squints at him. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe it’s in her nature to shower everyone in affection.” Akira takes a sip of his coffee, pensive. “But that could be all she knows how to do. From what I know about Ann, she doesn’t have any pleasant romantic experiences, so her idea of flirting might be a little skewed.”
“Skewed…” Futaba stares down at her mug. “I don’t know… but Ann-chan is really kind. She doesn’t force me to do anything I’m uncomfortable with. She’ll even go to the arcade with me despite the fact she’s bad at video games. So, I think she has the right idea about love. Well, even if it isn’t love… that’s still how it should be, isn’t it?”
Something about her statement makes Akira’s gut curl inexplicably. But he nods, and says, “Of course. So, I think as long as you’re communicating, it should be fine.” His hands start to get antsy, so he grabs a rag and starts wiping down the counter for no reason. “Well, there’s probably still a long way to go before you can try anything, considering that… you know, you don’t know that much about each other. You should wait first.”
Futaba perks up, sitting straighter in her seat. “You think so?”
“Definitely.” Don’t make the same mistakes I made. “And make your intentions clear if you start pursuing her. Don’t want her to misconstrue it or anything.”
Futaba seems to be scrutinizing him, and Akira, growing more uncomfortable by the second, squirms in his spot. Eventually Futaba takes a long, indulgent sip of her coffee and slams it down on the counter. “Something happened, didn’t it?” she says matter-of-factly.
Akira almost knocks over his mug. Smooth. He is so, so smooth.
“Why do you think that?” he asks, pretending he didn’t nearly betray his intent to keep the counter clean. Futaba, still nursing her cup of coffee, doesn’t respond for a few seconds.
“Nothing. Um, sorry for bothering you,” she mumbles. Then, she inhales sharply. “Actually—about Akechi—”
The bell chimes, and Futaba, startled, scrambles behind the counter to hide behind Akira’s back. At the door stands Goro, crisp and hardly ruffled despite the strong winds outside. He pushes the hair out of his face. “Oh, Akira. I’m glad to see you’re here.” He smiles, and god, it’s so unfair when Akira’s trying to stay upset at him. Goro slides into one of the seats at the bar and glances to the side of Akira. Akira forgets, briefly, that Futaba is still standing behind him as he’s too busy staring at Goro’s hair, but he averts his gaze and clears his throat.
“What’ll it be?” he asks. He hopes it’s not obvious that he’s forcing himself to be casual. Goro smiles at him again, then cups his chin in his hand.
“I still haven’t come enough times to decide on a favorite, I’m afraid. My apologies. Perhaps something sweet to contrast the bitter weather?”
An endearing answer as always, which isn’t doing much to help Akira’s hopeless crush. Also isn’t helping that Goro answers in that suave, honey-like voice. God damn him.
Heaving a sigh, Akira leaves his spot at the counter to start on Goro’s order, his mind still preoccupied with echoes of his last conversation with his mother. Futaba, surprisingly, remains rooted where she stands.
“Um… !” The sound of her voice causes both Akira and Goro’s heads to snap in her direction. Futaba’s face is bright red, and she’s looking down at her neglected coffee rather than at Goro’s face. However, she’s clearly addressing him when she says, “Akechi-san! Y-You’re the one who arrested Masayoshi Shido, correct? You did something good for my mother…”
He furrows his brows. “Mother… ? Oh!” Goro’s eyes brighten in realization. “Are you referring to Wakaba Isshiki?”
Futaba nods vigorously, and the two engage in a hushed conversation that Akira cannot comprehend from this distance. He tears his gaze away to focus on his task. As much as he longs to steal a glance at the chattering detective, the ache in his chest only pulls his eyes away. He doesn’t want to think about him. He doesn’t want to think about anything.
But it’s not like Akira can focus on an entirely different topic either. Preparing Goro’s coffee, he runs down his mental checklist—college is a bust, work is boring, friends are preoccupied and he’s not interested in bothering them…
“I didn’t think someone so young could win the respect of the police,” Futaba is saying, fascinated now. Akira tunes into the conversation as he sets Goro’s coffee in front of him.
“It didn’t come easy.” Goro offers Akira a smile, taking a short sip of the coffee. “I had to fight alone most of the time. My coworkers had no faith me, and the only person willing to protect me was not taken seriously, either, for being a woman.” The concerned frowns on Akira and Futaba’s faces seem to deter Goro, however, as he takes on a defensive stance and clenches his fingers tight around his mug. “I’m fine now, you see.” A forced smile. “I have what I need.”
Something is left unspoken in that sentence, an undercurrent that rings unpleasantly in Akira’s ears. It sounds like more secrets. More hiding. No trust.
“I understand how that can get to you,” Futaba mumbles, her voice thick with emotion. “No one believed me when I told them my mother was murdered. They brushed me off because I was a child and in mourning. Why would they listen to someone like me, someone who probably couldn’t make sound judgements by herself?”
Goro doesn’t answer her, because he doesn’t have to. The two share a look, one of understanding and respect. Akira does not know how to relate to that. In a way, he feels left out—divided from the bowl of experiences that both Goro and Futaba fed on, no way to gaze into the mirror of Goro’s adolescence, where Akira could not be present. He feels useless.
He wants to say something more, but this moment feels too fragile. So he leaves the two alone to whisper about their memories while he drinks from his coffee, contemplative.
Memories.
Like a sudden, strong wave of nausea, a memory rises to the surface. The farthest it gets is the night sky, the sounds of sobbing and trickling water before Akira chases the memory away. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.
“I’m curious, what is your relationship with Futaba-chan, Akira?”
“Hmm?” Minutes had passed since Futaba was last here—she’d enjoined Goro to indulge in a plate of warm curry with her before inevitably disappearing into the streets in search of dessert. Chances are, she’s not going to come back, as episodes of her favorite anime air every Saturday evening; this leaves Leblanc to Akira and Goro, with the exception of Sojiro, who has returned from his smoke break. He quietly reads newspapers behind the counter as Akira and Goro drink another round of coffee in the booths.
“When she saw me, her first instinct was to hide behind you,” Goro points out, amusement in his tone. Akira stirs his coffee with a spoon. That… certainly happened, yeah.
“Honestly, I don’t know why she trusts me so much. I thought we were just friends but she seems to consider me as a brother.” He shrugs noncommittally. “And, ah, she’s Sojiro’s daughter. They live together. That’s why she keeps coming here, so after I moved in, I met her and then we started getting close.”
Goro hums in thought, stirring his coffee too. “I see.”
The topic of family seems to whittle away at some of Goro’s pleasant mask. Akira notices, because a faint, almost sullen pout surfaces on his lips. The origin of it is a mystery, though Akira doesn’t want to get any ideas. The last time he did, it ended sourly. Instead, he veers the topic of family in another direction: “My mom has been asking about you.”
“Your mom… Fumiko-san?” Goro asks, to which Akira nods an affirmation.
“Yeah, she’s been keeping up with the news since I told her about you. She and Dad really wanna see you again,” he admits. Goro raises a brow. He keeps stirring.
“Oh?”
The word itself holds no implications; however, the slight waver in tone, the pause held before it could leave his mouth, says something that Akira couldn’t hope to grasp.
Silently, he weighs the consequences of telling Goro about the invitation or lying to his mother about Goro’s answer. It would be cruel of Akira to keep Goro from experiencing this, to keep his parents from experiencing this, and—if he had to be entirely honest—the notion of visiting Yamakita alongside Goro entices him. To be in the place he loves, with the boy who made his entire childhood… well, wouldn’t it sate this desire of his?
“How are they?” Goro asks suddenly, resting his head on his chin. Not an usual question by any means. However, the weight from earlier is there; it’s in Goro’s eyes, his lips, his voice. It’s entirely distracting, and from the way it’s handled, as if it’s too heavy to keep from spilling, Akira can’t ignore it, either. Meaning swells from those words.
He doesn’t want to disappoint Goro. Picking meticulously for the appropriate vocabulary, Akira eventually answers, “Fine, fine. Pretty much the same as they were before.”
“Really?” Goro presses on.
Akira nods, and the silly, half-repressed smile that tugs at Goro’s lips causes Akira to swiftly look down and fiddle with his jacket. Wow. Okay.
There is definitely, definitely no way to avoid thoughts of that smile now.
In fact, he finds himself wanting to draw it out even longer; he keeps on with his statement, “Mom remembers all the little details about you. She’s always bringing them up when we talk, and it’s really considerate of her, you know? I think she sees you as her second son or something. Which would be weird, because then we’d be brothers, and that’s…”
Goro barks out an actual, honest laugh, and Akira’s responding chuckle starts to lose all of its nervous pinpricks. “How sweet of her!” Goro says.
“Right? And, uh…” Akira cuts himself before he can say it, but Goro is clearly waiting for him to continue. Ah. Shit. He’d almost asked about the trip, and that would be… a very, very bad idea in retrospect. He still needs some time to lick his wounds, and Goro’s presence only deepens them, cuts into the very core of his being.
But is it too much to say that this pain is almost pleasant enough to endure?
Goro’s expectant look becomes too much to bear, and the question tumbles from Akira’s mouth before he can stop it: “Actually,” he says, very slowly, “she was wondering if you wanted to go back to Yamakita with me this October.”
Goro blinks several times. Lips parting slightly, he loses his grip on his straw and it rolls around the rim of his mug before sinking further into the coffee. Akira stares blankly at it, refusing to meet Goro’s gaze.
“… Me?” Goro mutters at last.
Akira massages his neck. “Uh, yeah, I wasn’t talking to your coffee,” he jokes.
Goro appears to be nonfunctional, unmoving and wordless in his spot. Truthfully, Akira wasn’t expecting him to jump at the idea, but seeing the actual thing is disheartening. He nearly considers retracting the offer. However, he holds his ground; he’s done with sitting back and doing nothing, letting the world float idly by him.
For some reason, Goro ignites a flame within him—each day that flame is fanned and fed. He doesn’t want to lose that feeling, whatever it is. He can’t, not after years and years of ashes.
After what seems like forever, Goro drops his gaze and says, “When would the trip be? I’d have to check my schedule for an opening.”
“Oh,” Akira says. “Um. Two weeks from now, Friday to Sunday.”
“I see…” Akira can’t process the fact that Goro is actually considering it. When Goro starts to scroll through his phone, his expression pinched in concentration, Akira stares at him with bated breath, twining his fingers under the table.
“I believe I have some space, as my next major operation won’t be until the week after… I can wrap up preparations before then. Does that sound okay to you?”
Akira’s heart leaps against his chest, and he answers, “Of course! I can send the details to you later. Um—” Somehow, his skin tingles with curiosity at Goro’s unusually-worded statement, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he says, “Thank you for agreeing.”
“Don’t mention it, Akira.” Goro waves him off. “I’ve always wanted to go back, but I never found the time to. I’m hoping this time I’ll be able to quench my curiosity regarding the topic.” He smiles, and Akira smiles, too, nerves buzzing with excitement and anxiety in equal parts. He untangles his fingers to reach for his phone, texting his mother quickly.
“You’re gonna love it there. Things are the same, but some of it has changed…”
“You’ll show me around, won’t you? I may be a little out of my element…”
“Of course I will, Goro.”
“Then please take good care of me,” Goro says, a ghost of a smile on his face.
Akira presses his lips together for fear that his grin will turn lopsided and silly. When he pockets his phone, feeling brighter than he had in weeks, he glimpses the same sort of spirit in Goro’s expression. Something unfettered and real. Goro notices him staring, and the sheepish laugh that escapes as a result makes a familiar ache sing in Akira’s chest.
… What an idiot he was, to think he could get over this so easily. No. There’s no way, absolutely none, that Akira could think to forget what that smile did to him—still does to him, even now—nor how much he yearns for its warmth to fill his every day.
Pathetic. But, still, the truth. Perhaps it’s an ugly truth. Either way, Akira knows that he’s just going to try twice as hard now to win Goro’s affections, even if he has to get hurt again.
Isn’t that what people do for love? Get hurt?
Junji checks his watch. A sigh leaves his lips. “That guy’s taking forever,” he says, irritated.
Ai and Katsue dig into their crepe, Ai shoveling it carelessly into her mouth. “I thought he was with Akechi-kun,” Katsue offers, tilting her head to the side. Junji’s eyes widen.
“Really?”
“Mhm.” Katsue shoots a warning look at Ai before tugging the plate towards herself. “That’s what he’s been doing all day. You know how those two always grab lunch together, right? They’re probably still caught up in something, whatever that may be…”
“I swear we’re seeing Akira less and less,” Junji mumbles. His resignation is clear on his face as he helps himself to his crepe as well. “I mean, not that any one of us would give up the chance to bond with Akechi, but… Akira could at least pretend to care about spending time with us, you know?”
Horrified, Ai reaches across the table to smack Junji on the wrist. “Don’t talk like that! He does care about us, Junji. He’s just so infatuated with Akechi-kun that he can’t bear to focus on anything else. College included.” She rolls her eyes at that.
“I want to support Akira, too. He’s fighting for a position that nearly every teenager in Tokyo wants,” Katsue adds in. Junji, snorting, stabs his fork into Akira’s untouched crepe.
“Fine. You’re right, I don’t blame him. Still, though—isn’t he kind of—”
“Kind of what?”
“You know.” Junji gestures to the air, struggling to put it into words. “Like—”
“Sorry I’m late, everyone!”
Just in time to see Junji retract his fork from Akira’s crepe, the man in question runs up to the group, breathless and a little sweaty. At once, the tension seems to melt from Junji’s shoulders. He sends Akira a teasing smile, saying, “If you were gone a minute longer I would have fed your crepe to the pigeons.”
Akira pouts, tossing his jacket onto one of the empty chairs. “Rude. I’m here now.”
Katsue pushes Akira’s plate towards him as he sits down, chewing what’s still left in her mouth before swallowing it. “I bought you your favorite kind! With extra bananas, of course.”
“Aww, you’re so sweet, Katsue. Junji destroyed my cute little ice cream bear with his fork, though.” Akira glares pointedly at him, a frown on his face, then pokes at the ruined treat before popping one of the chocolate eyes into his mouth. “Anyways, did I miss anything? Don’t tell me you were talking shit about me behind my back.”
“Nooo…” Ai sips her shake suspiciously loudly. Katsue giggles.
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad, okay? Now tell us about your day.”
“So you admit you were talking about me,” Akira counters, prompting the girls to vehemently deny it. Junji sits back in his seat and watches, taking intermittent bites of his crepe.
If Akira were anyone else, Junji wouldn’t be able to tell the difference in Akira’s demeanor. He could hear and see everything and not be able to distinguish the nuances, the shifts. But he can tell that Akira is not the same. There’s no real flavor behind his energy, no actual snark in his words. And yet, when he starts to rattle off about what he ate with Akechi, the things they talked about, some light returns to those eyes. Something alive. It makes Junji smile, but worry still sits at the pit of his stomach, foreboding and so, so wrong.
But he doesn’t say anything, for his friend’s happiness is all he could care about. He just leans forward and listens intently to Akira’s ramblings, brushing off that feeling of concern. He won’t agonize over it for now. Perhaps he’s just overthinking it. Yes, that's it. Overthinking it.