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Fighting Shadows made him feel. Better. Stronger. More alive.
Shooting them down, cutting them up, feeling them melt into nothing beneath his hands. Energy coursed through him, raw and unrestrained, shivers of indescribable elation. It was all he could do not to laugh whenever he went into battle, whenever Shadows begged and pleaded beneath his saber. He had to restrain himself, at least a little. He couldn't give the game away too early.
Still, he enjoyed the hunt. He enjoyed it, perhaps, a little too much.
He couldn't deny that when he killed Shadows, it was Kurusu he imagined squirming beneath him, begging for mercy. Kurusu whose blood spattered across his princely attire. He knew the day was coming, and soon. The day he couldn't wait for since the moment he found out Akira was the leader of the Phantom Thieves of Hearts—the day of elimination.
It would be boring without him for awhile, yes, but Akechi was nothing if not adaptive. He'd been molding himself into his surroundings ever since his mother died, changing shape again and again and again to suit his circumstances. It wasn't long until he began altering his circumstances to suit him instead. He preferred it that way, relished that feeling of control he had over people and places. People looking up to him, people needing him—that's what kept him going.
Going into the Metaverse, or even to Mementos, with the Phantom Thieves was tedious, to say the least. Yes, he could kill Shadows, but he could hardly massacre them in his usual fashion with six other people (plus one annoying cat) watching him. Especially not with the way Akira's eyes followed him everywhere he went, as if trying to penetrate the depths of his soul.
It made him uncomfortable, those searching eyes. Those hungry, wanting eyes. Yet at the same time, it was thrilling. To be so squarely the center of attention, to be the brightest star in someone's universe—it was all he ever wanted. Wretched that it had to be Akira, but possibilities abounded in the fact. Akechi could manipulate him as easily as he manipulated his fan girls, because Akira had said it himself, hadn't he? That he loved him.
Even pressed as he was on all sides by the heavy heat of Mementos, Akechi shivered.
“Tired?” Akira asked, keeping his distance, yet still making as if to step forward. “Futaba says there's a safe area not far ahead. We can stop awhile, maybe head back out.”
“Not necessary,” said Akechi. “I could go for hours.” He laced the tones of his voice with as much innuendo as he dared in front of the other Thieves.
It wasn't lost on Akira, clearly. The corner of his lip turned up in a smirk. His gaze gleamed intense beneath his mask. Something in Akechi's very core tightened in response to the intensity of Akira's expression. He brushed it off, as he did most inane things Akira Kurusu did.
Akechi observed him constantly, to be sure—took note of his weaknesses, his strengths, his bad habit of getting a little too cocky in a fight. He searched out things he could exploit when the time came to beat him down. Of course, the way Akechi was picturing it, there would be no instance for a fight at all. Still, it was fun to imagine what beating Akira into dust might be like. He would take Akira's love and show him just how false and stupid it was.
They continued through the dark passageways of Mementos, Akira, unfortunately, determining that they should avoid conflict with Shadows as much as possible.
It made sense, from a tactical standpoint. More than half of them were running low on energy, and their supplies were nearly spent. Ryuji was still reeling from being brainwashed not too long ago, and Makoto was doing all she could to hide the pain she was in from the burns she sustained in their last battle. Akechi could see right through her, though. He knew her well enough to catch the pinch of her brow every time she moved, the tightness in her limbs, the sweat trickling down the side of her face. Ryuji didn't try to hide at all how dizzy he was. He moaned and groaned any time Morgana so much as made a shallow turn. Too bad Akechi couldn't suffocate him with a pillow and be done with him.
There was a more pressing matter at hand though—namely, through circumstance or by design, Akira Kurusu sat right next to Akechi in the car. Akechi was acutely aware of their thighs and shoulders pressed together, keenly felt the warmth emanating from Akira's body. It was maddening, being so close to Akira, flush against his body, and not being able to pin him down and make him plead for his touch. Akechi wanted to kiss him until he couldn't breathe, to bite him until his mouth bled. More than anything, he wanted to kick himself for having such thoughts.
It drove him to distraction, so much so that when the Shadow slammed into the car from behind and he flew forward to knock his head against the front seat, he barely registered it as a problem.
His head throbbed, but the flurry of movement around him made him push the pain down, down, down. He was used to doing this, too. Morgana's sudden transformation back into a cat left them all disoriented on the ground for a moment, but they stood up quickly enough. They had to, if they wanted to survive.
Five Shadows. And they had the Thieves surrounded.
Makoto stepped forward and reached for her gun, but Akechi immediately stepped in front of her and pushed her behind him.
“Don't,” he warned. “You'll only get in the way.”
She stared at him, stunned, before her visible features morphed into a furious glare.
“I mean,” Akechi amended, “that in this situation, we can't afford to worry about you being down for the count. I know your wounds are bothering you.”
Makoto considered a moment before her shoulders sagged, apparently defeated.
“Look after Ryuji,” Akechi suggested, as gently as possible. He didn't like Makoto Niijima, but he had to admire her determination and her intellect. Not many people could keep up with him. She was one of the few.
Nodding once, Makoto shuffled stiffly to where Ryuji stood swaying from side to side, and she slipped an arm under his shoulder. Akechi watched her long enough to see her wince at the effort.
When he returned his focus to the Shadows looming over them, he saw with irritation that Akira was already shooting liberally at one of them, while Yusuke Kitagawa and Haru Okumura double-teamed another. Ann Takamaki had her persona out and was blasting a third Shadow in a blazing inferno. Morgana cast Mediarahan after Mediarahan, trying desperately to keep them alive as the Shadows beat and beat and beat them back. None of the Thieves seemed to be doing any significant damage.
It figured, Akechi thought to himself, that he would be the only reliable one here.
Summoning Robin Hood was painful, and not only because of the throbbing in his skull. He was lower on energy than he let on, and calling forth his persona felt like tearing through his rib cage and ripping his lungs out of his chest with his bare hands. But it had to be done. It had to be done if he didn't want to die in this senseless pit with people he hated.
“Hamaon!”
And what do you know, the Shadows were weak to light. So he cast Hamaon again. And he cast it again. And he cast it again. Three shadows knocked down, two left. He missed the fourth one, and when it retaliated, it retaliated hard. It bore down on Akechi with a snarl, raking a gash across his torso the length of his own arm.
He heard three things before darkness and pain swallowed him whole.
The first was his own screaming.
The second was Morgana, casting Diarahan with a panicked, helpless squeal.
The third (and the thing that turned his heart into lead in his chest) was Akira's voice cutting loud through all the noise, reaching deep into him, beyond the wound, beyond his hatred, beyond even the core essence of whatever it was that made Goro Akechi himself.
“Crow!”
Don't cry out for me, Akechi thought as his vision faded to black. Don't you dare cry out for me.
He knew nothing. He felt nothing.