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He supposed it was only natural something like this would happen, every once in awhile. Fame had its downsides, to go along with the steady stream of ups.
He staggered backwards, one fist closed against his mouth to staunch the bleeding, the other gripping his briefcase. A group of boys surrounded him (boys from his own school, the idiots), laughing. They'd cornered him on the way to school, roughly corralled him into an alley.
“Think you can do whatever you want, don't you?” said one of them, cracking his knuckles. “Think you're some kind of hot shot?”
I could kill you and you'd never know what hit you, Akechi thought, restraining himself to a guarded yet largely neutral expression.
“You know,” said Akechi, smiling a little, “it's a bad idea, what you're doing. This is assault. You could go to prison.”
“What,” huffed a short kid with a stocky build, “you a squealer? You gonna turn us in?”
Akechi made what he thought to be a perfectly baffled expression.
“Why wouldn't I? That is, unless you stop what you're doing right now. I'll let you walk away unscathed. How does that sound?”
Unscathed. A deliberate choice of words. There was a threat there, not that he was likely to follow up on it. He could hurt them, if he really wanted to, but not without blowing his cover in so many ways. No, he had to be innocent. He had to be a lamb, even if it also meant being a sacrifice.
The fist that connected with his stomach bothered the wound he sustained in Mementos so much, he thought he might throw up, or maybe even cough up blood. Luckily, he bit back the wave of pain and nausea that shook him. Still, falling to his knees was pathetic enough. His briefcase slipped out of his hand, spilling papers everywhere.
The group of boys laughed. It took everything in Akechi not to snarl. They were scum, all of them. Refuse of the earth, picked raw by crows of jealousy. They couldn't know what Akechi had gone through, all he had done, just to achieve where he was now. He didn't think they were planning to kill him—at least, he hoped they weren't that stupid—but even a maiming was something he very well couldn't afford. He had an image to keep up, and a task to complete.
The sound of shattering glass distracted him, just for a moment. It was so far down the alleyway, though, that it only registered as a faint blip on his radar. That was why, when the boy gripping him by the collar suddenly shrank back, hissing in pain and clutching his right cheek, Akechi could only gape.
He was quick, though. Seeing his opportunity, he swung his briefcase around and slammed it into the head of one of the remaining gawking boys, the stocky one who'd called him a squealer. Ironic, since he was the one squealing now. Like a pig, Akechi thought, barely stifling a grin.
Jumping to attention, the remaining boys threw themselves on their new assailant with idiotic bravado. Considering their attacker had a broken bottle in hand, though, their attempts were, at the very least, sorely misguided.
Akira Kurusu cut gashes into at least three separate hands before the boys drew back, growling their frustration.
“Hey, you're that delinquent from Shujin,” said one of them. “Doesn't this violate your probation? We'll send you to prison for life!”
“Firstly,” said Akechi, standing up and dusting off his knees, “that's not how probation works at all. Secondly, you won't be telling anyone anything unless you'd like me to share what you've done here as well. Now, I am very well known, and I'm sure the media would have a field day tearing your lives to shreds, assuming those lives exist at all. I'm sure you'll come up with adequate excuses as to your...scratches.”
Akechi waited until the last of his disgruntled assailants staggered out of the alley before doubling over, coughing up a fit. As he feared, blood did come up his throat after all. Akira was beside him in a moment, worrying his hand in circular motions over Akechi's back.
“I'm fine,” Akechi lied, swallowing back as much blood and saliva as he could. “That was stupid, what you did. If those boys did tell anyone, you'd be sent to juvenile hall for sure.”
“But they won't tell anyone,” Akira said, voice quiet, soft, so self-assured. “You made sure of that.”
Akechi shook his head, over and over. The more time he spent with Akira Kurusu, the less he understood him. Either Akira Kurusu really was the biggest fool this side of Japan (which Akechi didn't believe for a moment), or he knew everything about Akechi and simply didn't care. Akechi also didn't believe that for a moment. How could Akira not care, when his teammates were relying on him? What was he planning? And why?
Another wave of pain and nausea rattled him, made him shudder and gasp. His stitches stung, but he didn't think they'd been torn. At least, he hoped not.
It was a little alarming, and a little infuriating, when Akira lifted his shirt and prodded at his midsection. It tickled about as much as it hurt.
“Stitches are fine,” Akira confirmed, dropping Akechi's shirt and helping him stand up. “Still, should probably take you to Dr. Takemi, just in case.”
“Your...your doctor friend?” Akechi managed between breaths.
Akira nodded, once. Akechi didn't think he could really stand to miss more school than he was already missing on a daily basis, but he wasn't about to die for some stupid reason, either.
He let Akira half-guide, half-carry him onto the subway, all the way to Yongen-Jaya, all the way to the woman called Tae Takemi.
She took one look at him and hurried him into the exam room, where she had him drink some awful tasting liquid and lie down. Whatever he drank, it made him feel worse than before, made his brain pound against the backs of his eyeballs. At the same time, it put him into a sort of floating stupor. The room swam in running waves around him, which made him glad to be lying down. Tae Takemi (he was hesitant to even call her a doctor at this point) put a cold hand on his forehead and regarded him a moment before shuffling off to do...something.
Her silhouette was replaced by that of Akira, who sat beside him, gripped tight his hand.
“Sorry I didn't get there sooner,” Akira lamented, and Akechi laughed.
He couldn't help himself. Maybe it was whatever drug he'd just imbibed.
“I'm amazed,” said Akechi, “that you got there at all.”
How could Akira have known what was happening, anyway? How did he always, always know?
As the world grew dark at the edges of his vision, the last thing he saw, clear as day and inches away from him, was Akira's face, frowning down at him.
It was a stupid, ugly face. Someday, he'd erase it.