Chapter Text
“Kurusu.” His voice is soft and gentle from across the classroom, which cleared out very early on a Thursday afternoon. “Kurusu, are you alright?”
Kurusu Akira - transfer student, so-called-criminal, and leader of the Phantom Thieves - was still sitting at his desk near the back left-hand side of the room. He hadn’t stood as the rest of class left the room for cleaning duties, after school jobs, or home. In fact, he hadn’t moved at all. Not his hands from where they were folded around his phone in his lap, not his shoulders from where they were tensed and solid, nearly touching his ears, not his eyes from where they glassed over as he stared at the desk in front of him, or at nothing at all.
Mishima Yuuki stood from his seat in the other corner of the room and approached him slowly. This was his friend, a guy he respected and admired (maybe more than that), and though Mishima had seen him in many different ways, this was new and a little scary. As he stepped into the aisle, the phone Kurusu held in his hands vibrated, lighting up red and white.
Surely, that would rouse him.
Yet Kurusu did nothing. Mishima approached him slowly, worried that he would need to call an ambulance. “Kurusu?”
He reached out and tapped the desk right in Kurusu’s field of vision. Still, there was nothing. So Mishima touched his shoulder, lightly.
Kurusu jumped back, chair nearly toppling, hand going for his glasses. His chest was heaving and his eyes were near wild.
“Hey, hey...it’s alright,” Mishima said, instantly lowering himself into the empty chair in front of him, where Takamaki usually sat. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you…”
“Oh...Mishima. It’s. It’s okay...fine. Sorry.” Kurusu was trying to control his breathing, but Mishima could see memories of himself in those eyes, from when Kamoshida had been king of the castle and Mishima had feared for his life every single day. He had never, ever wanted to see anybody look that way.
Especially not someone he was a little in love with.
Kurusu pushed his glasses up and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, Mishima. I was just thinking about...things.”
“PT things?” Mishima asked, just in case someone was lingering near the doors.
“Yeah…a little,” Kurusu let his glasses drop back down, and Mishima felt his cheeks tighten at the soft smile that graced Kurusu's face. That smile faded after only a moment. “Hope I didn’t scare you.
“It’s alright.” Mishima responded with a smile of his own. But he could see the tension still in Kurusu’s shoulders, the bags under his eyes, the lack of light in his gaze. “Here, let me...you mind if I touch you?”
Kurusu blinked, and Mishima thought he was surprised. “Oh...I mean. Yeah, if you want.”
Mishima could hardly believe his...luck? Bravery? Foolishness?
“This is something I found online, when...I was in pain a lot,” he said. “Me and a couple of the other volleyball players learned a little about massage.” He stood up and wedged himself between the back of Kurusu’s chair and the desk behind him. “It’s supposed to be good for stress relief, too.”
Kurusu’s shoulders were like stone; Mishima felt as if he were touching a statue instead of a person. “...this is crazy,” he muttered as he worked his thumbs into that marble-made-flesh. “Is this from all what you do for...work?”
“Not all of it, I guess,” Kurusu said. Normally he was quiet in the “not much to say” way. Today, he was quiet in the completely muted way. “But mostly, yeah.”
Mishima felt more than heard the groan from Kurusu as his hands found a particular sore spot. He made sure to concentrate the efforts of his self-taught massage there. “You must do a lot, huh? I never really knew exactly what you DO when you’re working, but it has to be stressful. And then you’re at school all day, and I know you have some real part time jobs...all of that on top of being on probation has to be taxing, isn’t it?”
“Y-yeah.”
Mishima didn’t know if he felt or heard the sob first. But he knew that Kurusu was crying, one hand rising shakily to cover his mouth. Kurusu, who was always brave, strong, who held Mishima up, who was his rock, was crying. Sobbing.
“...it’s alright,” he said, for what felt like the hundredth time. “Go ahead…”
And as Kurusu let it all go, the sorrow, stress, fear, whatever, crashing over him in waves, almost a palpable thing, Mishima slid his hands down over those tense shoulders, around them, until his cheek was pressed to Kurusu’s hair. He held Kurusu tightly, and felt one hand close around his wrist. “I-I’m sorry, Mishima, I…”
“Don’t be sorry,” Mishima whispered. “You saw me through tough times, Kurusu. Let me help you now.”
Kurusu turned in his seat, and Mishima moved from behind the seat to the side of it, back towards the classroom doors. He wrapped his arms around Kurusu again, tighter than before. Mishima felt wetness on his shirt as Kurusu took his glasses off and buried his face in Mishima’s chest. The sobs wracked his whole body, and Mishima stroked the back of his hair almost on autopilot.
The hands on Mishima’s back made fists in the fabric of his shirt. Kurusu took a shuddering breath but it did not calm the way he cried. “I’m right here,” Mishima soothed, things he wished someone had told him when dealing with Kamoshida. “I’m right here for you, don’t worry about anything, you’re okay…”
“Akira?” came a gentle voice from the door.
Mishima turned as best he could without disturbing Kurusu, who froze at the voice. Takamaki was standing there, face red, watching them. Kurusu’s weird cat was in her bag, his little head poking out, and Sakamoto watched from over her shoulder.
“Uhm,” she said, glancing back at Sakamoto. They took in Kurusu’s red, tear-stained face, the way he clung to Mishima, and rushed into the room. “Akira? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
No answer. She turned to Mishima. She demanded, “Is he okay?”
Mishima cradled the back of his head, reluctant to let him go. “...I don’t think so, Takamaki. I really don’t think so.”
They sat Kurusu on his bed at home, and the cat jumped right into his lap, meowing incessantly. Kurusu looked embarrassed, something Mishima wasn’t used to seeing on him. They had held hands the entire ride home, Kurusu unwilling to let go of him completely. Mishima sat on his bed now, an arm around him despite the way Sakamoto was watching.
“You can all go home,” Kurusu said. “You don’t need to -”
“Like hell we don’t,” Sakamoto said, voice rough with worry. “You’re not looking right, dude! You haven’t looked right for DAYS, I was just sayin’ to Ann that somethin’s UP with you. So here’s your chance. Spill it.”
But Kurusu said nothing. He shook his head and rubbed his temples with one hand.
Takamaki took a tentative step forward. “Akira, please. I’ve...never seen you cry like that. If something’s wrong, you can tell us. We’re here to help you like you’ve helped ALL of us. So if someone did something, or there’s something weighing on your mind...tell us.”
They all waited, Mishima rubbing Kurusu’s knuckles with his thumb.
“I was mugged,” he finally said, and Mishima did not believe him. “Coming home from work at Crossroads.”
“Dude you WORK at that place? In SHINJUKU?” Sakamoto rubbed the back of his head. “No wonder you got beat up, that place is SO dangerous. Don’t let Makoto know, she’ll kick your ass.”
“Not that it’s your fault. Shouldn’t get attacked just ‘cause of your work.” Mishima said quickly.
“Yeah, well. I did. Scared pretty bad, Lala drove me home because I just went back to work, and…” He shrugged. “Guess I’m still shaken.”
“When did this happen?” Takamaki asked after they all listened to that weird cat meow for a little bit. They always stopped talking when the cat meowed, like they were talking to it. Weird.
“Saturday night.”
It was Thursday. Something was not right about this.
“Anyone know about it?” Sakamoto asked, fiddling with a frayed spot on his jacket.
“Just Lala. Boss wasn’t here when I got home so he didn’t see me…” Akira sighed and pushed his hair back from his face. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
But they weren’t having it. Takamaki and Sakamoto disappeared to find some food, taking the cat with them, and Kurusu lay back on the bed, looking blankly up at the ceiling.
Mishima still held his hand.
“Anything you wanna...tell me? About when you were attacked?”
“No.” Kurusu’s voice was raw.
Unsure of what to do, Mishima leaned back on the bed as well. There was a moment of silence and stillness before Kurusu rolled a little bit, head coming to rest on Mishima’s shoulder, arm wrapped around his middle. “...this okay?”
“Yeah,” Mishima said, freeing his arm just to wrap it around Kurusu’s shoulders. “I’m really sorry that happened to you. You’re safe. I...I know I could never do much, but after how you protected me so many times, I’ll protect you.”
Then there was a hand on his cheek, his head was being turned, and there were lips on his. Trembling, needy lips.
All in all, not how he had ever imagined kissing Kurusu. But he would not waste it, and he would not deny this poor, scared guy the comfort he was clearly seeking. This was not Mishima’s first kiss, but it was the first one that had ever made him feel like his soul was ready to burst from his body.
He expected the kiss to stop.
It did not.
As Mishima returned the sign of affection, Kurusu held him closer, held him tighter, kissed him at one angle, pulled away, kissed him at another. Mishima did not know how to move his mouth, but it was clear that Kurusu did; jealousy seeped into Mishima’s joints, jealousy over this person who had kissed Kurusu before him.
It was nearly a full minute of kissing before Kurusu pulled back for good. “I’m...I’m sorry, I just…
“No one ever offers to protect me,” he said. “And I like you a...a lot. I have since the moment I first saw you. I really, really liked you. And it’s only gotten worse...or better.”
Mishima responded with a kiss of his own, gentle and unsure as he always was.
“I think I love you,” Kurusu whispered against his lips. “Yuuki.”
Every bone in his body turned to mush. “What...what’s a nothing like me have to offer the leader of the Phantom Thieves?”
“Everything no one else can. Safety. Softness. Someone who...really understand me.”
Mishima’s face was on fire. “Then, uhm...Akira.” Wow. The name was like a foreign fruit on his tongue, forbidden and sweet. Something he wanted to taste over and over again. “I think I love you, too. You’re someone I looked up to, and then it became more, somehow. I love you, too.”
And Kurusu - Akira now, forever - finally, finally did what Mishima had been trying to get him to do all day. He smiled. It was a small and watery thing, but it was there, and it was true. But it faded. “...can I tell you what really happened?”
“Of course.” Mishima held him close, hand in Akira’s hair, and listened as the guy he loved whispered a story he did not want to hear into his ear.
Akira was grateful for his friends, who had gone all the way to the diner to get him his favorite dinner. He was grateful for Mishima, who held him, comforted him, and took some of the burden of what had happened.
Mishima, who had held his hand tightly that night, even as they ate, who didn’t care when Ryuji gave him that look. When they were alone, Akira would have to explain to Mishima that Ryuji was acting as any brother would, keeping an eye on someone who was clearly very close to Akira.
They all sat together to eat, and to watch a couple DVDs. Well. Akira supposed the others watched the movies - he dozed against Mishima’s shoulder, finally able to get some sleep in the presence of his friends. He hadn’t slept well since that night.
At some point, he must have truly fallen asleep, and for longer than he thought, because when he woke the room was lit only by the TV and Ann and Ryuji were gone.
But laying next to him on the bed, scrolling through social media on his phone, was Mishima. Akira, by force of habit, reached up to push his glasses up only to find they were gone.
“Sorry,” Mishima said, setting his phone down. “When you fell asleep I took them off so nothing happened to them.”
“Where are Ann and Ryuji…?” He moved his feet, and felt Morgana curled up in a little ball down at the other end of the bed.
“It’s late, they went home. I told them I would stay until you woke up.” He rolled onto his side to face Akira. “You were out.”
“I haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Can’t blame you.” Mishima wrapped his arms around Akira, tucking that fluffy head underneath his chin. “But it’s okay. If you want to go back to sleep, go back to sleep. I’m right here...maybe for the night. The last train just left.”
Akira turned his head so he could hear Mishima’s heart beating in his thin chest. “Sorry.”
“...I’d rather be here,” Mishima said.
He nodded and muttered a thanks into Mishima’s shirt. “That means a lot. You mean a lot.”
They fell into silence again, and Mishima traced little patterns into Akira’s back. Everything was warm and soft, even on this rather sad cot being passed off as a bed, and Mishima was content to lay there for the rest of his life, holding Akira close.
“Does this mean we’re…” Mishima asked, voice only halting a little.
“Boyfriends?” Akira asked. The word made his fingertips tingle. “I think I would like that, if you would.”
Mishima took a deep breath. “Yeah. I think I would.”
Akira tilted his head up and kissed Mishima’s chin. He inched up and pressed his forehead to Mishima’s, eyes closed. “Ryuji’s going to give you a talking to, you know. If you’re okay with me telling him.”
“...will he be angry? Does he not like...people like us?” Gay people. Mishima didn’t know if he could say it yet. But he knew he was. He was gay, the boy in his arms was gay, and they were boyfriends. It was terrifying; it was thrilling.
But Akira shook his head. “It’s not that. He just worries about me.”
“I’m glad someone has been.”
Akira kissed Mishima again, clutching him close.
They didn’t let go of each other for the rest of the night.