Chapter Text
For as long as she can remember, Ren has been the appointed keeper of secrets.
When her schoolmates would argue, Ren was the one they’d drag into the middle of things. She was the outlet they’d use to cry—seethe—curse—rant… even, on the rare occasion, beat a clumsy fist against.
Through it all, she’d borne their moods and outbursts with kind eyes, her signature calm demeanor. And afterwards, when the confessor had finally spent their frustrations, they might grace her with a single acknowledgement—“You’re so easy to talk to, Amamiya”—before tossing her back into the pit of social isolation she’d dwelled in for most of her life.
Ren liked being useful to others. It was the only time she didn’t feel so utterly alone.
But then, the incident.
The street. The night. The man.
And no one had believed her story, not even her own parents—“Where did we go wrong?”—
So she’d been shipped away, and the issue of secrets-keeping had both resolved and confounded itself.
Here, finally, Ren had made friends. Real friends. People she knew cared for her, who would never purposely strike her in a fit of misdirected anger.
The Phantom Thieves—no, not only them, but all of the confidants she had gained since moving to Tokyo—they had her back. That was a gift Ren would never take for granted.
And yet.
Despite the genuine nature of these bonds… Ren found herself occupying the role of counselor more than ever before.
The matters she’d been asked to take on were no longer the mere, fleeting whims of slighted schoolgirls. No, she had somehow become entrenched in a world of horrific debts and deaths, of illnesses and accusations, underground battles, endless traps.
Ren housed dark secrets within herself, and each story—each burden she accumulated only increased the weight that hung permanently from her shoulders.
She liked being useful.
But sometimes it was all just too much.
So, yes—Ren is no stranger to keeping secrets, but something she’s learned over the past twenty-four hours is that keeping her own secrets is a much more difficult task.
It isn’t so much the weight of the secret so much as the itchiness in keeping it disclosed, in not pulling someone aside to say, “You’ll never believe what I did yesterday…”
It’s strange, really. Ren has never once been tempted to share the details of her friends’ deepest, darkest secrets, but she sends one slightly revealing photo to the wrong person and suddenly she’s…
She’s typing, once again, a text message to Ann. Only to, once again, delete it letter by letter.
It’s not, exactly, that she doesn’t trust her friends to keep quiet on the matter.
Ren has run through all the scenarios, and she’s identified three possible reasons for wanting to keep the whole misfire incident a secret.
The first: her friends (particularly, Ann and Makoto) are not good actors. Not even in the slightest. She can just imagine it now: the overtly obvious looks they’d exchange at the next PT meeting the instant Akechi were to speak directly to Ren. The embarrassment, knowing that he would know she’d been talking about it with them. The sheer idea of it all makes Ren cringe in real time. No, no, absolutely not—no sharing with the girls as a whole.
The second reason: It feels unfair to dump even more Akechi-related information on Futaba and Haru. Those two have every reason to hate him, and Ren knows that they only tolerate his presence for the sake of their mission. She’s proud of the roles they play when Akechi is near, convincingly laidback despite being forced to cooperate with their parents’ killer. It would be insulting to ask them to hide even more from his sharp gaze.
And anyways, her “thing” is hardly of significance compared to the conspiracy the gang had recently found themselves sucked into. Which brings her to…
Three: It doesn’t matter.
Ren knows she’s making a huge deal out of nothing. Maybe things could have been different, if she—or rather, if they: her and Akechi, and all the others—had been different.
If life were nothing more than grades and coffee beans and worrying about college…
But of course, they aren’t those people anymore, and life is hardly so simple. Their near-future consists of intricately-planned deceptions, and the fallout could bring their lives to a halt. Death, arrests... those threats loom closer by the day.
A single compromising picture holds no weight to that reality.
Which is why Ren needs to crush this down, get over it already. She just isn’t used to having secrets of her own—that’s all it is, surely.
The next hideout meeting is tomorrow. She doesn’t have much time before coming face-to-face with the boy making her stomach twist into unfamiliar knots, and she’s worried she’ll give something away—a look, or a pause—that will reveal just how flustered she still is.
Flustered is not something Ren wants to ever be known as.
It’s a slow-moving Monday, one of those days that feels long and a bit dreamy. Maybe it’s the warm front they’ve had lately. Ren prefers the chill, but her classmates and teachers seem to be in high spirits.
After class, Ren stops by Dr. Maruki’s office to chat about his research progress. His eyes are sparkling the whole time; he’s close, he says, to a major breakthrough that will improve the lives of many people. Ren grants him a soft smile in return, but on the inside, her heart is swelling. She wishes there were more adults in her life as genuinely concerned about others as the man who will, regretfully, be leaving Shujin within the next few weeks.
She takes the long way home that evening. The sun is already dipping beneath the horizon, casting everything in romantic golden tones. The owner of the secondhand shop calls out and waves to her in passing, and Ren can’t help but feel a rush of contentment when she, after a brief hesitation, returns his greeting.
Back in Inaba, no one ever went out of their way to talk to Ren unless they wanted something from her.
She hadn’t even been in Tokyo for very long, and yet…
Everything is so different. The way she’d always imagined it could be.
Ren’s in a pleasant mood as she swings through the front door of Leblanc, hefting Morgana against her side and humming with the entrance chime—
Her thoughts squeal to an abrupt stop.
Akechi is seated at the bar, a half-drunk coffee cup plated before him. Despite the open book in his left hand, he’s fixed squarely on her, as if he’d anticipated her appearance. Probably saw her through the glassy panes when she’d stopped for a moment to admire the sunset.
His eyes crinkle charmingly as he throws her a warm smile. “Welcome back, dear.”
It’s a game they play.
Ren herself had unknowingly initiated it with that cheeky, “honey, I’m home!”
Meaningless. Harmless.
Unfortunately, the events of yesterday have left her hopelessly depleted in the face of his mock affection. All she can manage is the automatic grin that always accompanies his specific brand of teasing.
Lucky for her, Sojiro has never been one to beat around the bush.
Stepping out from the kitchen, the older man hmph’s and fixes Ren with a steely glare. “And where have you been? I coulda used your help a good hour or two ago, you know.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Ren responds, breezing past the bar stools (and Akechi). “Kawakami kept us a little bit longer, and then Dr. Maruki and I got carried away talking about his research…”
Sojiro's eyes soften at the mention of her school life. “Guess I can’t get mad at you for talking to your teachers,” he relents, his awkward smile helping to soothe Ren’s frazzled nerves.
She sets her bag down near the sink, letting Morgana pop out with an exaggerated stretch. “I’ll be right back,” she promises, glancing at Akechi over her shoulder as she moves towards the attic. “And I’ll get you a fresh cup.”
Akechi smiles and flips his book up in response, like a half-hearted salute.
Immersed in the task of cleaning dishes and refilling water tanks, Ren can’t even be upset about Akechi’s presence. It’s such an Akechi thing to do, after all—of course he would show up a day early, totally unannounced.
They were similar in that regard, weren’t they? Working to surprise one another whenever possible.
She can feel his eyes on her back as she flits to and fro behind the counter, switching from one task to the next. Months of experience have made her movements precise and fluid, even as her unfocused mind spins.
Another thing she’s grateful for on this day: a (shockingly) steady flow of customers. Sojiro really hadn’t been kidding about needing her help.
A lone, elderly woman Ren has spoken to a few times is sitting at the bar today, just two seats down from the detective. Every time she glances over in their direction, she can’t help but press her lips together to suppress a laugh.
She knows that part of the reason Akechi enjoys sitting there—besides having closer proximity to her—is because it affords him space from the other usual patrons. She can only imagine how bitter he is, having that space encroached upon by some random stranger.
Akechi catches her looking and gives a sharp, knowing smirk.
Ren just returns it.
“Excuse me, dearie,” the woman—Ren scrambles to recall her name, if she’d ever given it—gently calls her over. “May I have another one of those mochas? You make them so wonderfully.”
“I’m glad you liked it. Decaf?”
With the woman’s approval, Ren locates the chocolate powder and sets to work on a new drink, quickly losing herself in the simple steps.
She’s worked plenty of jobs before; she knows how easily anything becomes muscle memory. The ease never guarantees fun, though, or satisfaction, or any of the things working at Leblanc gives her.
That sweet feeling of rightness. Of being at home.
It’s hard to remember a time when ‘home’ didn’t conjure the smell of coffee and curry. The scratching sound of pencils on crossword puzzles, the squeaking of booth seats. The way calm gave way to liveliness whenever her friends came over, draped themselves around the cafe as if they’d always done so…
“Here you go,” Ren says, sliding the fresh coffee to the kindly lady.
The woman cups her hands around her mug and beams gratefully at Ren. “Thank you, love, smells good.”
She directs her next statement to Sojiro, who’s just finished putting the finishing touches on someone’s curry order. “It must be difficult for you, Sakura, having to fight off all the young men competing for her heart.”
A strange sound comes from Ren’s side—something between a snort and a light cough. When she meets Akechi’s eyes, he just shoots her a wry grin.
“Oh yeah, it’s a real headache,” Sojiro sighs theatrically. “Have to practically beat ’em out the door.”
Ren does snort at that one, turning to take Akechi’s empty cup. She signals to ask if he’d like another; he shakes his head, but makes no further move to leave.
“Courtship is a beautiful thing,” the older woman muses aloud, clearly lost in some old memory or daydream. She shifts in her seat then, turning to address Akechi. “Young man, are you in a relationship?”
Akechi’s resulting laughter is airy and bright—the shackles of his fake public persona only a cold glint in his eyes. “I can’t say that I am.”
“Well,” continues the woman, leaning forward (and Ren thinks of the dangers in cornering a coiled serpent), “when you pursue the object of your affections, make sure you give it all you’ve got. Don’t hold anything back, you hear? Boys nowadays think that acting aloof will win a girl’s heart, but they’ve got it all wrong. You’ve got to really wow your lady to woo her, understand?”
Akechi’s eyes wash over Ren so quickly, she thinks she must have imagined it.
“Understood,” he smiles, polite as can be.
“No kidding,” Sojiro shakes his head, having listened in on the woman’s speech. “Just the other day, this one—” he jabs his thumb at Ren, “found a love letter in her locker. Flowery as can be, right? But get this, the poor guy had—”
“Boss,” Ren interrupts. Since when had Sojiro become so chatty during work hours?
“Oh, c’mon, kid! You didn’t let me get to the best part—what was it? ‘Ebony curls spilling like midnight—’”
"Sojiro," Ren hisses, as quietly as she possibly can. Her cheeks are aflame now, and that, paired with the way she says his name, finally shuts the man up.
She hadn’t wanted to tell him about the letter in the first place, but Morgana had seized it with his teeth and dropped it on the counter when she’d come home that day. It was embarrassing—not just because of its contents (full of basic spelling errors, and an obvious rip-off of a Shakespearean poem), but because she figured her locker hadn’t been it’s intended designation.
I mean, there was just no way it had been written for her.
Anyway, plenty of girls had dark hair and glasses.
“Like midnight,” Akechi repeats softly. Ren whirls on him, but his eyes are glued to the counter’s polished wood, where his fingers tap out an irregular beat.
“That sounds romantic,” the old woman grins encouragingly at Ren, not realizing how many brownie points she’s lost in a single visit. “You ought to track down whoever wrote you that note.”
“It’s fine,” Ren says, looking for something to busy her hands with. “I don’t have time for dating right now.”
“That’s right,” Sojiro nods, a hint of pride in his voice. “Top of her class. And guess whose food fuels all that brain power?”
The conversation takes a much safer turn then, allowing Ren a much-needed respite. Honestly, she thinks, what is going on? It’s not every day she gets so ruffled.
If she’s poised to die soon, can’t she at least keep her regular routine?
After finishing her second mocha, the intrusive (well-intentioned, Ren mentally corrects) woman takes her leave with a final piece of advice: “Live every day like it’s your last, kiddos,” she winks, hobbling out of the cafe.
Too soon, Ren wants to quip.
When even Sojiro has called it a day, stepping outside to take a smoke, she wonders how much longer Akechi plans on staying. He answers her unspoken question just a moment later with a shutting of his novel.
“It’s already so dark outside,” he marvels, gazing out through the door’s panes. “I suppose I’d best be on my way, as well.”
When he turns back to look at Ren, the glint in his eyes—the flash of ice she sees only when he behaves as the Detective Prince—is gone, replaced by the teasing spark he reserves for her alone. “And my pen?”
“Your—? Oh!” A sheepish look comes over Ren’s face. “I, ah, forgot to—”
“No, it’s alright,” Akechi interrupts her, shaking his head ruefully. “I see what’s going on here.”
Ren lifts an eyebrow, choosing to wait for the punchline.
When she doesn’t rise to his bait, Akechi looks up and grins. “You’re holding it hostage after what happened yesterday.”
Ren almost chokes, but instead opts for dropping the towel with which she’s been drying pots. “I wouldn’t do that,” she retorts, proud when there’s no stammer. “I… appreciate the value of good writing utensils.”
Akechi laughs openly at that, seemingly surprised by her response; his head tilts up, even, revealing a hint of his Adam’s apple. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Ren is remembering some fact she’d heard in class, about body language and how the baring of one’s throat is a symbol of trust.
Vulnerability.
She hates these moments. All these little moments he gives her.
It would all be so much easier without them.
“That’s good to know,” he says, still chuckling, as he fits his book into his bag. “Well, if you can’t find it, no worries. I’ll just have to do a bit of scouting next time I’m at the stationary store.”
“I could give you one of my pens,” Ren offers, “but I don’t think it would suit your standards.”
Akechi just looks at her for a moment, as if considering. “You don’t have to,” he says, though she gets the feeling he wanted to say something else.
“Hold on a second—”
Ren whips her apron off and slings it onto the counter before vaulting up the stairs, unable to hear the huff of laughter that trails after her.
Her desk is a mess of objects: pens and pencils, sticky notes, string, various cords and wires, locks, and all other manner of Metaverse paraphernalia. Yes, she has plenty she could offer Akechi, but—
She hadn’t really expected him to say ‘yes,’ but she’d had a specific pen in mind to give, just in case.
Ren rockets downstairs and comes to a light stop before Akechi, whose expression looks uncharacteristically soft. “Here,” she says, handing the tool over. Their fingers brush, and even through the fabric of his gloves, she can feel the heat from his palms soak into her skin.
“Thank yo—” Akechi breaks off with a confused squint, drawing the pen closer to his face for scrutiny. “Is that… what I think it is?”
The end of the pen is bulbed with a surprisingly heavy Jack Frost head. The phrase “He ho!” is also printed in different fonts and sizes all over the decorative plastic.
Ren swears she sees Akechi’s eye twitch, just a little.
She smiles brightly at him. “It writes really well.”
“I’m… sure it does,” he responds faintly, still examining the pen as if it’ll transform at any moment into the Shadow itself. With a clearing of his throat, he slides the atrocious thing into his bag and gives Ren a weary—but, she sees too, genuinely amused—look. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Trust me,” he promises as he turns to leave. “I won’t.”
Ren finds the red pen only minutes after she and Sojiro turn the sign on the cafe door to ‘CLOSED.’ It was hidden under one of her couch cushions, and she wonders briefly how it even turned up there—maybe Futaba or one of the others had been playing with it.
Tomorrow’s order of business: Palace infiltration. Shadow-fighting techniques. Stealing other people’s favorite pens.
Before she turns in for bed, Ren sends Akechi a picture. She’s grinning at the camera, holding the pen up near her face triumphantly. “i see why you like this thing so much,” she types. “think im gonna use it from now on to proofread Ryuji’s english essays.”
Her phone pings in quick succession.
Akechi : Please don’t subject the pen to such a fate. It hasn’t done anything wrong.
Akechi : And would you look at that? Fully clothed for this one.
Ren’s face is hot, hot, hot.
Ren: !!!
Ren: rude
Akechi: I’m sorry, Ren. Would you prefer I wax poetic over your ebony hair?
Oh, she’s going to kill him tomorrow.