Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

when i first saw you
the end was soon
to bethlehem it slouched and then,
it must’ve caught a good look at you

— hozier; nfwmb

The small room reeks of wet fabric and mould.

The steady rumble of the washing machine puts you in a lazy, tired state; the words on the page in front of you merge into a blurry line, the letters shifting and eating each other. Squeezing a study session between your last class and the shitty part-time job at the Wilton Hotel buffet as a way of killing time until your laundry’s ready wasn’t one of your brightest ideas, but it’s the only open window to catch up with a much needed study session.

You’d probably execute it a lot better, were it not for the dim light in the room withholding any possibility to actually see what’s in front of you, and the sound of buzzing cicadas drilling into your head and stopping you from thinking. Everything would be a lot easier if you could do your laundry in your dormitory, but well … you don't feel necessarily responsible for contacting the janitor each time they break.

It’s past 10pm. The small, red numbers on the washer tell you with very lacking interest there are still 13 minutes left before you can buzz off. The night is calm, somewhere outside a cat hisses, and despite it all, you feel strangely at peace. Maybe it's because you’re alone and no one’s talking. Maybe it's because it’s the first time today you can sit and think about nothing at all. Someone tugged your brain into a cozy blanket and accidentally left it there even though there’s all kinds of stuff you should rather focus on. “Well, a break is important,” no one says, because actually, you really can’t afford it, so you slap your brain awake and look back at the page, only to have your eyes fix midway on something else in front of you.

In the doorway of the tiny, cramped Laundromat is a tall guy standing, a wash basket in his arms. Behind round glasses, dark eyes scan the room for a free machine, before they land on you, and he just remains there for a moment as if he needs your permission to enter. You give him a lazy wave, and eventually his legs move and he decides to take the machine farthest away from you, loading it with wrinkled clothes. “Stupid dormitory washers, right? You see the janitor all the time on his break, but when does he actually fix something,” you open the conversation, happy to have something to distract your mind after unsuccessfully convincing yourself to continue studying. He throws a quick glance your way, then nods.

Settling back, your eyes scan the page and the yellow marked sentences, but they don’t make any sense to you. Cognitive processes involved in the updating of current task goals, in their shielding against irrelevant information and action tendencies, and in the dynamic switching between goals or foci of attention* … Sure. Whatever. You yield, snap the magazine shut and shift your focus back on the guy. He’s lanky with slumped shoulders (it’s such a bad posture you can feel your grandma— may her not so gentle soul rest in peace, claw at her grave to get out and smack him over the head), and a mop of curly, black hair that’s probably never made acquaintance with a comb. Judging from how he avoids looking at you, he seems like the shy, nerdy type unable to start a conversation with a girl because all he knows are the 2D models of young, pretty girls in his video games. At least he washes his own clothes and doesn’t live with his mom. Or maybe he does and he’s just starting to look after himself. You stop with your shameless prejudices as he finally manages to look up at you, considering you with reserved but palpable interest until his eyes fall on the magazine on your lap.

You wave it in his direction like a leaflet. “Really boring, if you ask me. But our professor swears the Advances in Cognitive Psychology has the best articles in the field.”

He keeps staring at you, and you realize he’s probably giving two shits about whatever you were reading.

“You’re a first year?” you ask, shifting the conversation back to him, because people like to talk about themselves. “I promise, college doesn’t suck later as much as at the beginning.” What a blatant lie, shame on you, your family and your non-existent cow.

He hesitates, then nods. “Is it interesting?” he asks, and your first instinct is to say, “So you can speak,” but instead you just shrug. If he wants to play a game of back-and-forth, then you accept the challenge. “Sort of. If you’re into that stuff.”

He hums approvingly like it’s self-evident, then leans his slim hips against one of the dryers. “So you’re a psychology student?”

“Look at you, Sherlock.” You smile at him. “Guilty as charged. What about you?”

“Law,” he immediately replies, and you try not to show the surprise on your face because you definitely expected something like game design or IT.

“Cool,” you say, because that’s what one is supposed to say about every major even when it isn’t. Not that law isn’t cool. It’s just … it isn’t something you want to dwell on. “Then I guess I’ll see you either on the street, Mr. Police Officer, or in the courtroom. Hopefully not because I’m the one charged, but…” You gesture with your hand like that might actually help. “You know.”

He nods, though you’re pretty sure he doesn’t, because even you don’t know what the hell you’re saying (who’s the one unable to hold conversations now, huh).

Luckily, the soft beeping of your washer signals that you can unload your laundry and go. You smack the magazine on top of your wet clothes and heave the basket up. Unable to wave him, you just awkwardly nod and make your way past the law student. “Well, maybe we’ll see each other around,” you say but you’re pretty sure you won’t because you a) don’t know where he studies, and b) don’t know him.

But he goes along, and nods, hands tugged deep inside the pockets of his black jeans. “Maybe.”

--------

The clinking of cutlery and chatter around you cuts through your napping plans, which aren't even well-conceived in the first place (really, sleeping in the canteen is a dumb idea, don’t do it), so you have to settle for the worst doze in the history of mankind. With your head on the table and eyes closed, you pick up a few conversations varying from gossip about professors, complaints about classes and work, and worst of all: desperate tries to have intellectual and mind blowing discussions no one really cares about. That's college for you.

Suddenly, there’s a thud and the table shakes after someone walks into it. You flinch, your head snaps up at the soft “Fuck,” as you watch Yuu Narukami limp to the chair opposite from you, slumping into the seat. He has probably just finished a class and was heading to the next when he saw your pathetic form. There’s no tray with him, only a steaming cup of coffee you know he’s able to down in one go because Narukami is a crazy man.

“I am so done with this week,” you say instead of greeting him properly.

Narukami blows into his cup. “It’s only Monday.”

“Exactly.”

He gives you a weary smile, but doesn’t comment further on it because he’s an actual angel who endures all your whining, and that makes him easily one of your top three greatest friends of all time, right next to your grandma and rice cooker.

“You wanna head over to Jinbocho this weekend?” you ask, turning your head so you’re resting on your chin, ignoring the awful pain in your back but you really can’t bring up the energy to sit properly. “There this reading our professor wants us to attend, and I really can’t endure all that by myself.”

Narukami thinks about it, sipping on his coffee. He picks his phone out of his pockets and tabs through it, eyebrows drawing together. “I’m heading back to Inaba for this weekend,” he says. “Sorry.”

“Ohhh, seeing someone?” you ask, wiggling your eyebrows.

He gives you one of his silent smiles, and somehow Narukami has always been good at making them louder than words. A sigh wedges between your lips, a weekend off away from the city sounds so great but is unfortunately unaffordable, so you don’t even start imagining it.

“All right, all right. But you can bet I’ll spam you once I’m bored,” you warn him. Narukami nods, and maybe that’s the worst thing, that you know he’ll spend time with someone, and you’ll still annoy him because you know he’s too kind to not respond to your texts. Maybe it would be easier to meet up with some of your classmates and end the day getting wasted in one of the student’s pubs. As if you needed another reason to drown in alcohol with all the bills and essays coming up.

Eventually, Narukami gets on his feet and glances at his watch. He picks some leftover food from your tray and pulls at some of your strands in way of saying See ya (it’s staggering how much of older-brother material he is, and it never fails to tug at certain strings in your heart you thought you’ve cut off long ago). But he manages just a few steps before he U-turns and stops right next to you.

“By the way, I saw this and thought you might be interested.” Narukami picks a folded paper out of his bag and puts it on your head, the world’s worst waterproof roof, ignoring your protest. “It can’t be worse than your current job, so hurry, or someone else will take it.” Narukami gives you a lazy wave, then disappears. You really can’t stand to hunt down another underpaid, exhausting job, but persuade yourself to do him the favour, suffer through it, and then burn it and use it to light a cigarette.

You pull the paper from your head, unfolding it and read the tiny, curvy writing.

          2nd year high school student looking for a home tutor in following subjects:

         • Math
         • Social studies
        • Contemporary Japanese and English Literature

But then comes the last line and you nearly choke on your spit. Meeting twice a week, cash (7,000 yen) on hand after each session. If interested, please contact 090-xxxx-xxx.

The payment is like a neon sign drilling into your eyes. “What the fuck,” you whisper, quickly calculating how much you’ll make by the end of the month and it’s so much more than with your current shitty part-time job. You quickly pull out your phone, ignore the dozen texts from a few classmates, two from your mother, and seven from your floor neighbour living opposite from you (though you’re pretty sure the last just completely consists of cowboy emojis because Junpei is a guy like that).

You quickly type an introduction and ask for a day to meet. The chance of nailing such an amazing job fuels you with energy you thought was long gone just like your motivation to care for a healthy diet. After cleaning your tray away and getting into line for some much deserved coffee, your phone vibrates in your pocket and you hurry to get it in your hands, ignoring the others in line complaining about your elbows almost clocking them.

[unknown number]: Hello, nice to meet you. If it’s possible, can you please come this evening?

Now, that’s what you call polite. 2nd year high school students should be around 16 or 17 years, and you know all too well how much of shitheads those teenagers can be. Apparently, you’ve really hit the jackpot.

[you]: Hi! Sure, I can come around 7pm! Let’s meet somewhere public, there’s no need for me to enter your home if it doesn’t work out, plus it will save your parents from worrying about a stranger knowing your address. I’ll bring bring some quizzes with me to see what you can already do and where you need help.

[unknown number]: Okay, thank you very much. Please come to the cafe Leblanc in Yongen-Jaya. The owner will know.

 

You pause and wonder. The cafe is foreign to you, but what an amazing coincidence the student lives in the same district as you. Well, you consider yourself lucky, it’ll definitely save you travel time, and with a positive outlook like that you easily manage through the last three hours of classes.

___________________________________________

Finding Leblanc wasn’t as easy as you'd expected. At first, you walked twice past it, not even paying attention to the dimly lit, small shop tugged between two large, grey buildings, and then you weren’t even sure if this was the right place. Then again, after asking Schmoogle you saw there really is only one Leblanc in Yongen-Jaya (and wow, it’s actually opposite the Laundromat, you’re so daft), so now you’re finally entering the little establishment. The smell of coffee and something sweeter you can’t immediately place hits you, reminding you that you haven’t had diner yet. You push that thought far away, doubting you'd find anything considered as food in your fridge, and search for the student, but the cafe is empty save for the barista leaning against the counter, perking up at the sound of a new costumer.

“Evening,” he greets. “What can I bring you?”

Remembering the last bit of your student’s text, you fish the paper out of your back. “Well, I’m here for this,” you say. “The job offer.”

“Ah, that thing,” he says, and suddenly all the politeness is gone, sucked out of him and in its place remains a deep scowl belonging to a man that wishes for many things but having you here isn't one of them. He leans back, gives a gruff nod towards a table as invitation for you to sit down. Before you can make yourself comfortable, his voice thunders through the shop. “Kid, come down! Your tutor’s here!”

Thumping comes from the ceiling like someone’s thrown over a heavy object, then steps from somewhere behind you, and you turn around to see your student reach the end of a staircase, hidden in the very back of the cafe.

Only it’s not a 2nd year high school student, it’s the lean, tall guy from yesterday, the one with unruly black hair and glasses who is a 1st year law student and—

Oh.

The boy closes the distance and slides in the seat opposite from you, throwing little, sheepish glances at you from behind the glasses (good, he has enough decency to be ashamed of his lies), and suddenly his young features are so fucking obvious, it punches you in the face like a hot iron. The clang, though soft, is like a gunshot beside you; the barista (owner since he knew you’d come?) grumbles something like “This time is on the house,” and leaves the cup of coffee next to you, retreating back behind the bar.

“So,” you start. “First year law student, huh.”

The boy massages the back of his neck, but when he looks up at you from behind his thick curtain of black lashes, there’s something sharp in his eyes. “Well, you just assumed I was a student, didn’t you? I just chose not to correct you on that.”

He’s got a point, and you bite your tongue before you add the rest of the impolite things that crossed your mind yesterday besides that. “Let’s just forget that, okay? I’ll help you, but you better be serious about this. If I give you homework, you'll finish it before our next session, got it? We’ll meet Wednesday and Sunday, but I don’t want you whining about studying on your free day, or you can find someone else,” you say as if you are actually the one who can decide that; who has the power to make demands. As if you don’t depend on his money.

“Got it.” Well, at least he seems sincere about it. “It’s a deal then.”

You look up at those words and don’t miss the slight curl at one corner of his lips, like he’s sharing a secret with you.

“Okay.” Not strange at all. “Sure.”

He leans back in his seat, shifting slightly as he crosses one leg over the other. “So, you said you’d bring quizzes with you, teach?”

“God, please don’t call me that.”

“Not God. It’s Akira,” he says nonchalantly. 

“What?”

“My name.” He grins. “Akira Kurusu.”

___________________________________________

After an hour of going through what you’ll cover with Kurusu in your next sessions, just as promised he pushes 7,000 yen in your hand and you will yourself to act cool about it, and not like you’ve been handed the last desert of a busily visited buffet—which reminds you, it’s time you hand in your letter of resignation. Saying your goodbyes to Kurusu and Mr. Sakura (who’s been quiet all the time, but there was never a moment you didn’t feel his observant eyes on you), you finally leave the cafe and speed dial Narukami’s number. Before he can say anything, you greet him with, “You’re a fucking saint, Narukami.”

He gives you one of his deep, throaty laughs that never fail to make your toes curl. “If you only knew.”

“What?”

“I said, good for you,” he says. “If there’s someone deserving that job and payment, it’s you.”

“Aww.” You smile. “Stop it, you.”

“Oh, we’re finally at first name base?”

And just quickly as that, your smile disappears again. “Never mind, I take it back.”

Narukami laughs again, and until you reach the dormitory near the train station you just chat about unimportant things and decide to meet for lunch tomorrow. It’s the best you’ve felt since a long time, and even though your classes don’t really allow you to put in some extra time to prepare lessons, you’re pretty confident you’ll manage it somehow. Still, it feels like you’re ripping off that high school student. 7k bucks is really too much for one hour of going through simple stuff (and it doesn’t feel like Kurusu’s dumb, maybe he’s just lazy), but you’d be really stupid to point that out. Well, here’s to hoping he doesn’t figure it out for as long as possible. Cheers to the wild, dumb youth.

I am Thou, Thou art I…
Thou hast acquired a new vow.

It shall become the wings of rebellion
That breaketh thy chains of captivity.

With the birth of the Saint Persona,
I have obtained the winds of blessing that
Shall lead to freedom and new power …

Chapter Text

The morning starts as usual.

You sweet talk your water boiler into working so you can poison your body with disgusting instant coffee, and throw some fried eggs in a pan since it's definitely better than starving during the first two classes. Across from your one room apartment, you can hear loud rock music and Junpei Iori sceaming like someone is trying to stab him. The student living in the apartment beneath you is knocking at his ceiling with the end of a broom, trying to make you stop the noise. This whole building is shit with walls thin as a pad, and he thinks it’s actually you with the bad music taste and a death wish this early in the morning— all in all, the day starts like any else. Even your phone blinks with unread messages you’re ignoring until you sit down for breakfast and finally give it the attention you probably should invest into something like the morning news or yoga.

Everything is pretty much the same save for an unknown number sitting in your inbox.

[unknown number]: hey, you forgot your notebook @ my place

[you]: And who the fuck is this?

[unknown number]: language, teach :o

 

You groan. It’s too early, it feels like you’re chewing through cardboard and your coffee is so bitter you feel your mouth is turning inwards. How in the world do the Gods think you’re capable of dealing with this bullshit just after waking up.

[you]: So you are able to write like a normal teenager after all.

[unknown number]: ? :D

[you]: Never mind.

[you]: I'll pick it up tomorrow. It’s probably just scribbles and notes.

[unknown number]: i dunno. “impact of bullying on child personality” sounds p important 2 me

[you]: You snooped through my stuff???

[unknown number]: no

[unknown number]: maybe

[unknown number]: sorry

[you]: Surprisingly honest. Like I said, I’ll manage today without it.

There’s no reply, so you focus back on getting ready. Your first class on Tuesday starts around 8 and since you’ve started this weird habit of getting this stupid overpriced but ridiculously delicious green tea each day, you make sure to get there on time before it’s sold out. Maybe they put some drug in there and it got every student addicted to it.

Outside, you can smell the early summer’s heat. It’s uncharacteristically warm for late May and you feel sorry for high school students who still have to wear their winter uniform for another two weeks. Maybe you should consider to move once summer really kicks in and settle down somewhere really cold like the Antarctica. You’re pretty sure you don’t have to worry about getting a heat stroke there. Only it’s not even the worst outside, the real Hell starts when you enter the train station and the smell of sweat and cologne punches you in the face. Yongen-Jaya station is a bowl currently in danger of overflowing with the people trying to squeeze through the station gates to get to their trains. Experience taught you to go with the flow, let the crowd carry you to your destination; the less you move, the faster you get where you want to be— survival of the fittest? More like survival of the laziest.

Popping a chocolate filled with coffee (because after one cup in the morning you’re still unable to function properly) in your mouth, you scroll through your phone, ignoring the unread messages from your mom dropping into your mailbox like dead flies assembling on your windowsill. If it’s urgent, she’ll call, you tell yourself. The crowd pushes you forward, right in front of the white line that separates people from a painful death. Subway workers try to maintain some sort of order, and fail spectacularly as the train arrives and people force their way in, pushing and pulling at each other. You feel someone’s hand trying to get into your pocket to steal your chocolate. The world truly is a cruel place.

Finally inside, you don’t even try to hold onto one of the grab bars above you, and simply lean against someone behind you, ignoring the complaining grunts and the pushing of an elbow against your side until it becomes very hard to ignore because they practically shove you against the windows, and magically you manage to bring up a hand and catch yourself before smacking your face against the glass. A swear is already getting comfortable on your tongue until you look down and see a familiar face staring back up at you with big eyes.

“Oh, it’s you,” you observe the obvious, apparently lacking every form of proper manners your parents taught you.

Akira Kurusu gives you a small nod, his arms holding his school bag tightly like he’s carrying the world’s greatest treasure. Maybe he’s robbed a bank? There’s an open book laying on top of it but the letters are too small for you to recognise anything. His eyes follow the trail of your neck, then shoulder until they rest on your arm, and you realise how awkward this is with the person behind you still pushing and if they keep that up, you might land in Kurusu’s lap and now that would probably make both your mornings excellent, but you rather stay where you are so you just try to shimmy out of the way before said elbow breaks one of your ribs. The train keeps going and the people around you talk but it becomes white noise in the back of your head until you hear the meowing of a cat somewhere. Maybe it sneaked inside somehow and is now regretting all life decisions that led him to this moment. Kurusu clears his throat, and you look back down when you notice the black blazer and the white emblem on his chest.

“Wait, you’re a Shujin student? Wasn’t there this legal case with the PE teacher a couple of weeks ago?”

Kurusu closes his book with confidence like he’s been waiting for someone to talk to him about that speficic topic, and now you see that he’s been reading Buchiko’s Story. Aww, a soft boy through and through.

“Three weeks, actually,” he says. “He had a change of heart.”

You saw the news and pretty much everyone around you talked about it. Just like the majority, you wondered how someone would just admit doing all that horrible stuff after covering it up for so long, which brings you to Kurusu’s words: “Change of heart? You really think his consciousness couldn’t bear it all of a sudden and he decided to be good? Just like that?” you ask, doubt oozing out of your voice. Sure, exceptions confirm the rule, but it’s never just out of nowhere. Usually perpetrators subconsciously start showing signs of remorse towards confidants before deciding to admit to their crime, not to mention dropping a bomb like that in front of the whole school? Hypnotherapy maybe? Or a forced hard reboot? It certainly would make an interesting case study for a future assignment.

“No,” Kurusu says, stopping your train of thought. A thick, black curl is between his fingers and he keeps tugging at his hair. “The Phantom Thieves came after him and stole his twisted desires,” he adds, and looks up at you with surprisingly keen, sharp eyes like they might come after you as well and maybe you’d feel at least something like a shudder if you’d actually know what the Hell he’s talking about.

“Phantom Thieves? Are they a new band?” you ask, though you’re not really into contemporary music. Kurusu blinks at you, then his hand falls on his book. He opens it and goes back to reading, ending the conversation like it’s no one’s business, which is rude much? Scratch ‘soft boy’, he’s probably growing up to be a hipster who is only reading classics to feel sophisticated and annoys people with trending bands and music hits. You pretend it doesn’t bother you to be dismissed like that, and read through the ads popping up on the screens. You don’t know why anybody would pay that amount of money for adhesive bandages but you’re also very stingy when it comes to it.

Finally, the female voice announces Shibuya as the next station where you’ll board another train. Kurusu doesn’t move, and you faintly remember Shujin Academy is somewhere further east from Shibuya. The train vomits its passengers onto the platforms but the next wave quickly gets back inside. A tingle in your neck makes you turn around, and from across the platform you see Kurusu looking at you. An impulse takes you by surprise and the moment you lift your hand to wave at him, he decides to look down and focuses on his phone. Teenagers and their addiction to stay up to date and available on social media. You shake your head and take out your own phone, checking Twitter because you are a hypocrite, scrolling through the tweets of fellow students gushing over the exhibit of a famous artist.

@charli_xoxo says: stop praising him, that dude is plagiarising

@burnedchickennugget says: @charli_xoxo the hell, how about you don’t spread baseless rumours??????

@Rise_Fan says: His art is unlike anything Japan has seen before. But if we want to contest with our Western rivals, we need to acknowledge Madarame-sensei’s talent more!!!

@toby says: his art’s p cool

@jackspedicy says: @toby not as good as bobby rossie tho

@toby says: @jackspedicy bobby who?

@jackspedicy says: @toby remove yourself from this conversation. right now.

 

Sometimes you wonder how many brain cells people lose by engaging in those conversations, and with that thought you say goodbye to one of yours and reply “@toby @jackspedicy rip”.

Crossing the last traffic lights, the university looms like a drop into the sky before you, it’s dark glass windows reflecting the early morning sun. It’s busy as usual, students rushing to their classes with cloth bags bulging with books in one hand and a cup of coffee in their other. Just like you expected, the green tea is sold out and you have to wait until lunch to get your fill. On your way to class, your eyes throw daggers at everyone drinking it. The first two classes pass with little specularity. One of them is actually one of your favourites because this professor doesn’t know the concept of personal information. Professor Yanagihara shares every little detail about his life with his students, talks about his vacations and more than often drifts off topic to engage his students in philosophical arguments. Out of everyone, he’s your favourite because he doesn’t appear fake— a bold claim, because maybe that is his actual act and he’s hiding something completely different behind his polite smiles and motivated speeches. Or maybe you’re just paranoid because the knowledge of your mother’s text waiting for your is taking its toll on you. Nonetheless, Yanagihara gives you the feeling that he’s an actual person, not just academic knowledge cramped into flesh. Thanks to that, you go into lunch break feeling surprisingly good and refreshed for a change. Today’s meal is something vegan that will hopefully be a nice, healthy change for you. The canteen is a minefield as always, hungry cadets everywhere, but you success in your mission to secure an empty table for you and Narukami.

“Oh no,” you say when he finally joins you shortly after you chase away first years trying to take the seats. “Someone’s not happy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, giving his meal a doubtful look like it might jump at him at any second. Still, he claps his hands together and starts eating.

“You’re angry,” you specify and point first at your forehead, than at this. “You always have this crease between your eyebrows.”

Narukami stops and smooths said wrinkle with his thumb, muttering something like “Freaking shrinks” to which you wink at him. It takes another two minutes of him sorting through his food like he might find a cockroach hidden in the pile of rice before he finally says, “My professor gave me an internship offer. It’s from Tanaka’s Attorney Office.”

You smile, though it feels hollow, like you’re a pumpkin and someone carved it into your face. “That’s great.”

A shadow settles over Narukami’s eyes. “No, it isn’t. They defend criminals. People so entitled, so certain they won’t be caught that being caught, that very concern doesn’t even occur to them. People who think the laws are written for them, that they are protected by it.”

“So?” you counter, noticing the tension in Narukami’s shoulders. Today must be one of your bad days because you’re really getting into it. Something hot, ugly slithers on your tongue, demanding to get free. “Who cares? If you do good, they’ll want to keep you and you’ll be set for life.”

“And protect criminals? Knowing I’m destroying lives of innocents?” You know exactly where he’s going with those words, and you brace yourself, but not for the first time, you underestimate Narukami like the fool you are. “As if you’d do the same to your future patients,” he says quietly, and with that, you already know you’ve lost. Still, you try a comeback.

“You want to land somewhere big later? You take this internship,” you say. All appetite is gone and you feel like you’ve eaten moulded paper, the words leaving a bitter tingle on your tongue. “Don’t be stupid, Narukami.”

He settles back, and taps the end of his chopsticks against the table until you feel the urge to grab and break them. “I won’t take it,” he says eventually, calm like a saint when you really wish he’d lash out at you. “I’ll go somewhere where I can make a difference.”

It’s such a Narukami thing to say; words suited to a hero, or an anime protagonist that you can’t help but bark a laugh in his face. “There is no such thing as making a difference. No one will take you seriously with that kind of attitude, you know.”

“Why?” Narukami asks, and he sounds so honest about it, you don’t notice his eyes flashing like a sudden bolt of lightning. “You think you know all about it because your dad works in a place like that?” He doesn’t say it like an insult, it’s nonchalant, there’s no malice, and still it’s like a poisoned dart drills into your chest and spreads the deadly substance through your whole body, making you grow cold and nauseated. You decide to play along and give him a crooked grin. “Absolutely. No one gives a shit about the truth, not when cash is involved. People rather sacrifice their morale than money.”

Narukami considers you with his trademark blank expression, then proceeds scooping more rice on his chopsticks. “You’d know everything about it, wouldn’t you.”

You mutter a silent “Fuck you” but it’s lacking the venom you’d usually pump into those words to signal people they better stay away from you or their face will be acquainted with your fist. Narukami is unapologetic when it comes to the truth, but somehow it’s never bothered you with him. Maybe it’s because you know that he knows that for all the foul things your mouth sputters you also want to make a difference; you also want the world to change. You’re just lacking his confidence to do so.

It’s a clear defeat in your book, so you retreat to safer grounds and decide to change the subject. “By the way, heard anything new about this case with the teacher from Shujin? Kamo-something…”

“Suguru Kamoshida,” Narukami offers, then pauses and places his sticks down. “He’s still in police custody. From what I’ve heard, he’s refusing lawyers’ offers to defend him, and pleads guilty even though they tell him he won’t go to jail if he apologises.” His voice drops, and with it any good mood that might have been left inside you.

“They can’t do that. He physically abused his students, raped one for fu—” You stop, because there’s no need to get angry at Narukami for this. Instead, you breathe in, you breathe out. It doesn’t help.

“He’s a first-time offender on top of that,” Narukami continues, picking on the hem of his left sleeve. “They won’t sentence him. They don’t know what to do with him, because he wants to take responsibility.”

“As he should,” you hiss, and you don’t even want to get into this argument because there’s a thirty pages essay collecting dusk in one of your USB folders on how rapists fail to see their fault and have trouble acknowledging the gravity of their actions because they dissociate with the victim and their action. A pretty, neat easy that was graded F because a lecturer found the topic too sensitive and poorly argued (which you know is bullshit because the very same lecturer has praised your writing, thorough research and argumentation on more than one occasion).

“And he will,” Narukami says. “But I’m just as interested in knowing how The Phantom Thieves managed to make him confess.”

There it is again. The Phantom Thieves. Grey eyes behind round glasses come to your mind, sharp like a dagger’s blade. It smothers the fire inside you, dulls it to a weak flicker.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Narukami shrugs. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Why should you? It’s impossible. Probably just a dumb prank the students played on that guy.”

“Maybe it’s a prank.” He leans back and crosses his hands behind his neck, rubbing the stiff muscles. “Maybe it’s someone trying to do the right thing.”

“Stealing someone’s twisted desires?” you quote Kurusu’s words from this morning. “Let’s go wild and say that’s possible. How is that ethically right?”

Narukami considers you. Instead of answering, he asks, “How do you know that?”

“A Shujin student told me.” And just when you say it, somehow you feel you shouldn’t have. “The one I’m tutoring.”

Narukami nods like he already expected that answer. Eventually, he says, “I don’t know. What happened, why Kamoshida behaves like that. What will happen to him. I really don’t know.”

It would be a real surprise if Narukami did, but the way he said it made it sound so final, so defeated. You don’t know about the battles Narukami has fought or is fighting; you can’t say if they are related to this, if the repetition of subject, emotions and pain tires him. The truth that there really is little you know about Narukami sits like a stone in your stomach as you both sit in silence, not eating, not looking at each other. Suddenly, you just really want to go home.

___________________________________________

Evening advances faster after an awkward goodbye to Narukami and the last two classes you barely pay attention to. With only a little time left before tutoring starts, you cram the hastily printed quiz papers for Kurusu in your bag and beeline out of the library before staff notices you still haven’t paid your copy-fees. The ride back to Yongen-Jaya lulls you into a semi-coma, luckily you’ve avoided rush hour and managed to grab a seat. How heavenly this ride could be if it wasn’t for the grandma snoring on your shoulder, drooling on you.

When you enter Leblanc you find Kurusu sitting on a stool at the bar, head down resting against the surface like he’s given up on life and you really, really, really want to say what a mood. Instead, you summon all your will power to appear like a responsible adult. A curious glance towards Mr. Sakura doesn’t give you any insight because he just shrugs and turns around, instead focusing on a crossword puzzle he balances on one thigh.

“Don’t expect too much. He’s been like this all day,” Mr. Sakura says, scratching his chin with a pen.

You unpack all your stuff on the table where your forgotten notebook already waits for you, and you welcome it before looking at Kurusu’s back. First day in, and he’s already defeated. Maybe he’s actually your spirit animal because you’d definitely be up for cancelling the tutoring and just hang out, maybe watch a movie. But then Narukami’s face flashes in the back of your mind, considerate and hard-working Narukami, and you really don’t need him guilt tripping you without even being present. You grab Kurusu’s shoulders and pull him from the bar stool, ignoring his protesting grunts. In the booth, he slouches again, and you send a silent prayer to your grandma, hoping she can forgive an ignorant youth like him.

“Come on, we don’t have all night,” you say, spreading the teaching materials. “When are your next exams?”

“July,” Kurusu mutters against the wood, head down again as if he’s hoping his face becomes one with the table. “Finals.”

Well, that’s still plenty of time, you think.

“Two months will pass faster than you can anticipate and then what?” Mr. Sakura says, and thank God he can’t read your mind—or maybe he can and that’s why he said it.

“Exactly,” you agree, doing your best to look strict and authoritative, and totally not called out.

Kurusu looks like he wants to flip both of you off but his manners are stronger than his grudge, so he finally sits upright and pulls the materials in front of him, grabbing for a pen. While you instruct him, Mr. Sakura places another cup in front of you and gives you a wink. “Since you’re putting this much effort into helping him out, I can put a little extra in for you too,” he says with a little smile, which is a blessing because you definitely won’t say No to delicious coffee you can’t afford in the first place, and at the same time is extremly creepy because you sure he’s flirting with you on some kind of level even though he’s old enough to be your dad.

The session starts with some easy questions about post WWII literature, but Kurusu doesn’t really know anything about it, so you proceed with giving an overview of the most important historical and cultural events. Kurusu is good at connecting both sides to see their impact on literature, and you’re somewhat proud that you don’t fuck up all this education stuff. Maybe you should have become a teacher instead? Quickly, you move on to social studies, but throughout that your phone starts to buzz in your pocket with incoming messages, and once Kurusu is occupied with the next task, you quickly sneak a glance at your phone, barely holding back the groan working its way out of your mouth. It’s this small group you’re in, consisting of some fellow students you’ve worked with over the years. Some you know better, some less. They remind you of the upcoming reading in Jinbochi you still don’t feel an inch excited about. You groan and lie your head on the table while scrolling through the messages, reading how everyone’s looking for someone to go so they don’t have to. Borrowing notes isn’t your piece of cake, so unfortunately there’s no great outcome for you. You wonder what Narukami will be up to in Inaba at that time, but asking about it feels a little too intrusive, and you haven’t reached that level of friendship yet. If you don’t stick your nose into his business, he won’t do the same to you and that’s exactly what you want.

Suddenly, Kurusu’s poking at your head with his pen. You raise your head to see what he wants, and he pushes his paper under your nose to check his answers. You skim the text, cheek squished against the cool table. They aren’t the world’s most clever replies but you think he’s doing pretty good for a high school student (suspiciously good for someone claiming he needs tutoring), so you just give him some tips for structure and elaborate a little about compulsive behaviour you’re pretty sure is a topic his teachers won’t even touch. Kurusu keeps nodding like a good student and takes notes, though you can’t see if he’s really writing everything down or just repeats the same word over and over again. At some point, he looks up at you and interrupts your monologue by asking “Is everything all right?” which makes your brain stumble and your train of thought trip.

“Ah, yeah?” You consider asking where that came from, but you decide on a question in return. “Hooow about you?”

Kurusu looks down at his notes, then nods, though something in his voice doesn’t sound convinced. “All good.”

What a meaningful conversation.

“Good,” you say. “That’s good.” Maybe a TV crew is just seconds away from striding inside and filming what must be the world’s most awkward conversation since the dawn of time. From behind the bar, Mr. Sakura agrees with your thoughts by giving a strained, fake cough to fill the silence, probably ashamed of you both.

Your phone goes off again, and you consider dunking it in the cup of coffee Mr. Sakura has very generously provided but you’re broke and can’t afford paying for a new cup, much less a new phone.

This time, Kurusu is a lot more forward. “Someone bothering you?” he asks, folding and opening a corner of his paper.

You want to tell him it’s none of his business but at the same time there’s no need to be an asshole. “Just some classmates. There’s this reading coming up on Saturday and everyone’s kind of freaking out about it. I really don’t want to go, but meh.” You shrug. “It’s sort of mandatory.”

Something about Kurusu’s posture relaxes, and he nods. After a moment of silence, with only the quiet TV noises in the background and the scratching of Mr. Sakura’s pen, Kurusu asks, “What kind of reading?”

“The kind of reading not suited for high school students,” you say. “It’s about Reed’s edited anthology about the theories and empirical data in the field of cognitive psychology. Nothing really interesting for you.”

“Actually,” Kurusu says, tapping his fingers against the table in an even rhythm, “I think that’s very interesting.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’d want to go?”

Kurusu just shrugs. “I’m free after school, I think.” Without waiting for a reply, he gets his phone out and looks at his calendar, but you can see in the reflexion of his glasses that the screen remains black. Usually, you call people out on their bullshit, but you have to admit, you’re interested in Kurusu’s plan. Eventually, he nods. “Yeah, no plans yet.”

“Ooookay.” A grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Sure. Why the hell not.”

From behind the bar, Mr. Sakura clears his throat. You wince, feeling the urge to argue you’re an adult and are allowed to swear but challenging him might not be the brightest idea. “Why the heck not,” you correct yourself. “If you’re interested in that stuff, be my guest. Let’s meet at 5pm in Shibuya and head over to Jinbocho together.”

“Jinbocho?” Now Kurusu’s screen lights up as he looks up the location. From Mr. Sakura’s direction comes an approving sound, but you wonder how Kurusu’s never heard of it before, living in Tokyo.

“It’s also known as a book town for a very obvious reason, but you’ll see for yourself,” you say, checking the time. The lesson is almost done anyway, so you wrap up and assign him to read a few chapters you’ll discuss on Sunday. Kurusu jots it down sloppily, his eyes hidden behind half-closed lids. You’re pretty sure he’ll forget it the moment he puts down his pen.

Suddenly, something brushes against your ankles. You jump in your seat and hit your knees against the table, choking on a bad curse you’re sure will make Mr. Sakura manhandle you into washing your mouth before throwing you outside. Kurusu flinches as well, looking a lot more awake now. His head disappears under the table and when he returns, there is a cat in his arms, meowing and flailing.

“He says he’s sorry,” Kurusu translates, wiggling the tiny paws, fearless of the sharp claws waiting to meet his skin. You give the cat a nasty glare and rub your throbbing knee. There goes your non-existent track career.

“Sure he is,” you mumble. Those big, innocent eyes can’t fool you. The cat notices that as well and struggles out of Kurusu’s grasp, jumping on a bar stool to beg Mr. Sakura for some food.

In the meantime, Kurusu has already slid across your payment for tonight (that sounds so wrong), his head back down on the table.

“Maybe you shouldn’t stay awake too long,” you suggest the obvious, but Kurusu doesn’t answer. Maybe he’s already asleep.

You say your goodbye to Leblanc's owner and make your slow way home, buying some groceries on the way. It’s somewhere in the back of your mind, but you don’t want to think too much about how you’re now looking forward to the weekend.

___________________________________________

Saturdays are skipping days, or so you falsely assume, standing between two advertising kiosks in Shibuya, waiting for Kurusu. There’s still about an hour left before the reading starts and even though the city and subway is crammed with tourists and residents, you’re sure you’ll make it on time. Your phone buzzes and you sort of expect Kurusu to ditch you at the last second, but when Narukami’s nickname flashes on your screen, a wave of relief fills you. You haven’t seen him for the rest of the week after your strange conversation and somehow you feel like you should apologise, but you don’t know what for or how. Seeing him contacting you first (as always) in such a light, friendly manner (as always) eases your tensions and every possible blame you convinced yourself you bore in making things awkward.

[Naru-man]: [arrived_InabaStation.jpg attached] have fun (:

[you]: Yeah, you too. Don’t forget souvenirs!

[Naru-man]: :thumbsup:

 

You push your phone back into your pocket, smiling stupidly. If Narukami thinks you don’t see the orange shock of hair peeking into the picture in one corner, he definitely underestimates your stalking skills. When it’s close to 5.20 and your train leaves in about ten minutes, you start looking for Kurusu. In the end, he finds you and claims you walked past him twice which you call bullshit— then again, he’s still wearing his school uniform and there’s something about Kurusu that makes him drown in the crowd. He just looks so ordinary. Compared to yesterday he looks a little more rested, but dark shadows beneath his eyes betray him and tell you that he probably didn’t heed your proposal and had a long, restless night.

“Come on, we’ve got thirty minutes until it starts,” you say, pulling him out of the way and down to the subway station. At first, you imagined it would be impossible to start a conversation with him, but Kurusu surprises you by initiating small talk, asking about your rest of the week and what you’ve been up to today. It’s unnervingly normal, comfortable even when you fall into easy banter you didn’t expect from him.

“Did you finish the homework I gave you for tomorrow?” you ask after you finally reach Jinbocho, turning around to face him because a lot of people exit the train and it’s crowded. Kurusu’s front is pressed against your back, and you’re not sure if it’s because there really is no space for him to walk or if he’s ensuring that he doesn’t lose you with that method. The aroma of coffee and something sweet drifts between the sweat and perfume and you unconsciously lean more into him.

Kurusu bats his eyelashes at you, smiling like an angel. “Of course.”

“You’re not even trying. Did your parents teach you to lie to someone’s face like that?”

“I would never,” the Liar continues lying.

The bookstore is only ten minutes away from the station, tugged between a cafe and an antiquarian bookshop. Big signs advert the event and a line already waits in front of the entrance. You recognise some students immediately from classes, but your motivation only suffices for a lazy wave in their direction. Unfortunately, the queue moves slowly so you’re forced into more small talk with Kurusu who’s busy looking at all the book stores rowing side by side down the street.

“So, are you planning to go to college after high school?” you ask.

Kurusu turns back to you and nudges his school bag with his elbow. His hands disappear in the pockets of his pants and you notice his weird habit of shifting his weight from side to side.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I wouldn’t know what to study.”

“I mean, you still have some time to think about it. And college isn’t the ultimate answer anyway,” you admit, staring at a point above his shoulder, doing your best to ignore a fellow student who’s been waving in your direction for the last two minutes.

“Why psychology?” Kurusu returns a question as the line finally moves on. You’ve heard it so often, you don’t tense up anymore and scramble for a good answer.

“To help people, obviously,” you lie when the truth is you never want to wonder what’s going on in people’s heads. You don’t want to be afraid of them, and especially of yourself. But that’s a selfish reason. No one wants to hear that. Somehow, even Kurusu doesn’t look satisfied with that answer. He hums and nudges your back to move forward as the line continues to disappear in the shop. When you’re finally inside, you find two free seats near the wall with a clear view at the small podium. Kurusu takes the chair behind you, and once you sit, he leans forward and props his elbows on his knees.

“You could have studied medicine,” he resumes the conversation. “Or social work. You went for psychology.”

“I didn’t know I owe you my life story,” you respond a little too fiercely, and Kurusu waits a full three seconds before he leaves your personal space and leans back. He’s really too smart for his own good, but you also underestimated him. Before, you wouldn’t have expected Kurusu to be this straight forward. You thought he was shy and reserved, but that’s not true at all. Ordinary and Boring is slapped on his forehead, so you can imagine people letting their guard down around him. But he’s listening carefully and uses words like ammunition he stores until the right time comes to load his mouth and unleash a blitzkrieg on his opposite, not giving any time to built up defences.

When Joseph Reed finally enters, followed closely by a Japanese translator, the audience’s chatting dies and he starts by introducing himself briefly, and then quickly moves on to the editorial changes and additions he’s made since the first published edition. The research intensity and development skyrocketed in the last couple of years and definitely won’t stop so soon with how much there is still to learn about the brain. But when he starts explaining each chapter individually, your own brain shuts down and you lose your focus. Instead your mind wanders to a more unpleasant territory, wondering how much a person’s cognition could be altered, even toyed with. If you change the way a person sees a certain event or person even, could you actually make them forget something entirely? Could you make your br— No. You forbid yourself following that train of thought.

The rest of the reading flies by. Whenever your thoughts don’t spiral into depressing depths, you manage to jot down notes that might come in handy in future lectures (naively assuming you’ll be able to read your scrawling later, you fool). When the end approaches, Reed raises his arm and encourages the audience to ask questions. Multiple arms raise immediately and you swallow a groan. This is going to take a while.

Eventually someone asks Reed if he’d consider lecturing at their college. You didn’t believe someone could suck dick that much, but Reed isn’t shy to show how delighted he is about that question. Maybe he’s prepared himself all day for that exact one because the power point behind him jumps to the next page and shows the picture of a tiny rabbit cleaning its face.

“Oh, I would love to go back to teaching,” Reed says dramatically, “but then there will be no one looking after my precious Bunsbuns and he’ll succumb. I can’t let that happen.”

“This is so sad,” Kurusu suddenly whispers, his warm breath tickling your ear. “Alexa, play Despacito.”

You choke on your saliva, fighting the laughter that crashes over you like a tidal wave. To chide him, you push your elbow in his side until he finally leans back, but you don’t miss the little, content smile on his lips. He didn’t notice you spacing out, did he? If this was his attempt to make your feel better, it’s good but the fact that he saw through you and tried to comfort you in the first place leaves you with an undefinable feeling that sits heavy like a stone in your stomach. Until the Q&A ends you try not to think too much about his presence behind you.

When it’s finally over and you spill outside into the night life of Jinbocho, it’s still full of people strolling around. You stretch until your backbone cracks and with that breathing feels a little easier. The harsh neon light of shops and advert signs hurts your eyes and you can’t wait to reacquaint your face with your pillow. But before you can promise your body the sweet bliss of sleep, it demands to be feed when you reach the subway station filled with the smell of fried food and freshly baked bread. Kurusu follows your eyes and points at a food stand selling yakisoba.

“Want some?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for your response, already heading for it. You’re thinking really hard about whether you have some coins in your wallet when Kurusu orders two servings and pays both. Instead of waiting for your protest (that won’t come because you won’t complain about free food), he pushes the warm container into your hands.

“Are you an angel?” you ask, digging in and your stomach thanks you by not eating itself.

Kurusu adjusts his glasses, nodding solemnly. “It hurt pretty bad when I fell from heaven.”

“And so modest as well.”

Slowly you make your way underground, arriving a few minutes before your train to Yongen-Jaya reaches the station. After stuffing your mouth with food and staring at the destination board, a great idea comes to your mind.

“Wait, you’re living in Yongen-Jaya, right? We could start meeting at your place instead of that shabby cafe,” you suggest, already searching for your phone in your pocket to note down his address. Kurusu pulls at the bangs falling into his eyes, staring intently at an advertisement about a movie coming out in a couple of months.

“Actually, that’s where I live.”

“What?”

“The cafe. There’s an attic above it, and that’s where I live.”

“Oh, okay.” The award for being rude goes to you, you want to thank your friends, not your family— “Okay, cool. So is Mr. Sakura your uncle?”

A tiny snort leaves Kurusu as he drops his hand and shoves it back into his pocket. You wonder if he just doesn't know where to put his hands and hiding them is just easier. “Just call him Boss. And no he isn't, but he is looking after me. Sort of.”

“And your parents are rolling with it?” you ask, too late to realise how indelicate of a question that is. What if he doesn’t have parents? Or they can’t see him because of some serious issues? And just like you expected it, his answer is short, terse. “Yeah.”

Congratulations, now you’ve made it even more awkward. You walk side by side, the silence setting heavy around you while people pass you, merrily chatting and you wish you could dial back time to avoid that unpleasant moment. You pick at your food and watch him out of the corner of your eyes, noticing that he doesn’t seem to be hungry himself. After the train arrives and you both manage to grab a seat, Kurusu saves you both from further embarrassment and awkward silence. “We could go to your place though,” he says, giving you a quick side glance, but immediately avoids eye contact when you look back, calculating how serious he is about it.

You raise both eyebrows, using the let’s-make-fun-of-it-to-save-face-method you’re unrivalled at. “How about you invite me to dinner first?”

Kurusu looks from his meal to yours, then up to your face and raises an eyebrow in return. Damn, he's good.

“Noope, it has to be something fancy with a waiter and those ridiculously tiny, overpriced entrees.”

Kurusu has his phone out faster than a paparazzi seeing a celebrity wearing a tutu and twerking on the open street. “When and where?” Now he’s putting all seriousness he can muster in that gaze, it’s heavy on you but you can’t help but laugh, waving your hand around in a generally considered we-both-are-definitely-joking-gesture. You hope he is joking.

“Never mind. Leblanc is actually nice, and I get free coffee.”

Kurusu nods and puts his phone away, trying really hard to not look disappointed, and his face is doing a splendid job, but his body betrays him. You want to tell him that maybe in two or three years he can try again, joking of course (are you though?), and luckily you are refrained from thinking more about that when you reach Yongen-Jaya. The empty food container lands in the trash bin when you leave the station. With a lot less people around to bump into, this district feels like a different world. There’s a quiet, underlying hum of activity hiding in the narrow alleys but it doesn’t feel like a beast seconds away from pouncing you with promotional offers or shop invitations. The hasty city rollercoaster slows down to a pleasant boat tour on a shallow river, carrying you to safe shore.

That is until your phone goes off in a very specific tune that makes your blood freeze. Immediately, you turn away from Kurusu, the little smile on your face when he was telling you what he thought most interesting about the reading dying. Without looking at the display, you accept the call.

“What do you want?”

You mother sighs at the other end but does a good job at acting indifferent. “Hello to you, too. I was wondering when you’ll show up again.”

The titled grin on your face feels like a straight cut made by a blunt knife. “How about not at all?”

“Stop being so immature,” your mother snaps, then clears her throat to regain composure. “Your father and I have been talking about the situation and are willing to come to a consensus. Will you behave?”

There’s a bunch of other stuff you’d rather do like reach into your phone, and curl your fingers around her throat. Instead you lower your voice. “If this is you trying to make peace, you really suck at it.”

There’s a sharp inhale. You know how much your mother hates swearing; or rather pretty much everything that doesn’t suit into her notion of a perfect, conservative family— oh, the things your parents do to appear flawless, better than anyone— You catch movement in the corner of your eyes. Kurusu shifts his weight away from you, his attention lying on something in a shop window but again his body is making it quite obvious that he’s listening into your conversation.

“— ceasefire at best,” your mother’s words carry to your end, and you focus back to the problem at hand, unfortuantely completely unable to deal with it.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll call you back,” you say, and without waiting for her reply you end the call. Kurusu has still his back to you, so you join him and look through the brightly lit glass to see what is holding his fake-attention.

“Sooo you’re into crossdressing?” you say, checking out the frilly, pink maid outfit that adverts its suitability for both genders. Kurusu gives a thoughtful hum, but his focus settles on you. For a second you worry he might actually ask you about the phone call, but when Kurusu starts heading towards Leblanc he asks you out of nowhere, “Are you interested in arts?”

As you squint up at him, you think about a way for him to lead his questions somehow to your phone call with that starting point. You really are paranoid. “I mean it’s pretty, right? But that’s about all I can say.”

“Yeah, it’s nice,” Kurusu agrees. “I’ve met someone who’s really passionate about it. An artist.”

“Okay.” What else is there to say? “And?”

Kurusu shrugs. “Just making small talk.”

“Dodging my question, huh,” you joke. Kurusu manages a little, half-hearted smile. It makes you wonder if there is something specific he is expecting out of this all, something that exceeds your tutor-student deal in a way you can’t decipher yet.

“The reading was really interesting, so thanks for inviting me,” he says after you turn into the narrow alley leading to Leblanc, its orange light the only warm source on the neon lit walkway.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll see you in one of the psychology classes in two years.”

“I’m not sure if that’s possible.” There’s a smile on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Frowning, you try to get a better look if it’s just the lights playing a trick on you. “Why shouldn’t it be? If you’re really into it, nothing should stop you from following that dream.” Oh God, now you sound exactly like Narukami.

Kurusu considers your words, tugging at bangs falling into his eyes. “I mean, I may not be the one who gets to decide that in the end.” Another ambiguous statement. Again, you think about Kurusu’s parents, and wonder what events led him to live in an attic away from home.

Eventually, you end up in front of the entrance. Behind the windows, you can see Boss cleaning cups and occasionally looking at the TV screen. The view is blocked when Kurusu takes a step forward.

“Thanks again for today,” he says. “Next time, I'll think of somewhere to go.”

“Bold of you to assume there’s a next time.”

Kurusu looks like a kicked puppy, but quickly recovers with a slightly crooked smile. “Fortune favours the bold.”

“She’s also a fickle friend.”

Kurusu presses his lips into a thin line, probably thinking about a witty comeback. But then he succumbs to a yawn forcing its way out of him.

“You really shouldn’t stay up too late, you know,” you propose. “I mean it’s Sunday tomorrow, but don’t make the same mistake as me. Sleep is important, you know.”

“Yes, mom.”

“No, really! And you better be prepared for tomorrow and do your homework or I’ll think about a nasty task for you.”

“Yes, teach.”

“Go in already, Kurusu. You’re not funny at all.”

He smiles, but it’s tired. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that he disappears into the cafe, and you’re left to return to your own home where no one greets you with a little smile and a warm cup of coffee. Only the run down walls in an empty, cold room wait for your return.

Chapter Text

Open mouthed, you stare at the little screen in your hands, the voices reaching you through a little bud in your left ear. Narukami does you the favour and taps a finger against your chin, successfully telling you to close your mouth.

“What in the world is happening,” you mutter, pausing the news coverage of Ichiryusai Madarame’s confession of child abuse and plagiarism. That in itself is uprooting the foundation of the art world but two words keep replaying in your mind like a broken record. Phantom Thieves. Either their music just really really touches people’s souls and pushes the word catharsis to a whole new level, or this really is an organisation capable of changing people’s hearts.

“I don’t believe this,” you say. “Can you believe this?” You shove Narukami’s phone in his face. He gently pushes your hand down, the enthusiasm about being blinded by the blue light his screen emits akin to a cashier working the third night shift in a row. “Freaking unbelievable,” you mutter, pulling your hand back to rewind the video to rewatch it just to make sure you’ve heard right.

“Something tells me you don’t share the mass’ enthusiasm,” Narukami says, reaching into the bag of sweets. One leg is leisurely sprawled over your lap as he switches through the TV channels, looking for an interesting documentary. “Why do you think this is so unbelievable?” That’s a lot of 'believe' you guys are throwing around at 10 in the morning on a Saturday, and something about it makes you feel really jittery.

“A change of heart? Do I have to spell it out for you?” Your voice reaches uncomfortable heights, and your hands begin to flutter in anxious gesticulation like excited butterflies. “Let’s say hypothetically they’re capable of doing it with orthodox methods. Why would anyone shit deep into illegal stuff like Madarame even go along with it?”

“I believe the news leaked a calling card saying they’d steal his twisted desires. Doesn’t sound like he gave it up voluntarily,” Narukami says matter-of-factly and you can see him exactly like this, ten years from now, sitting in the court, and dealing the accused person blow after blow with his arguments, infuriating them with his stoic expression. Somehow you thought he’d be a tad more passionate about this topic. Is stealing hearts even legal? Eventually, you lean back and put the phone away, pulling the bud out.

“Well, good for the kids who are out of that crappy place. Hopefully now they’ll get something like a future,” you say, grabbing for the bag, but Narukami wrestles it out of your grip, and orders you to eat something decent that’ll get meat on your bones. You flip him off.

“We’ll see how the case will be treated. One of my professors tries to study it as much as the responsible prosecutor allows.” Narukami stops at a documentary about spotted hyenas. You watch them play around and bite at each other, the narrator’s monotone voice quickly putting you back into a sleepy state. Out of nowhere, Narukami suddenly asks, “How’s tutoring going?”

“Good. It’s fun. I just don’t really know how to feel about my student.”

Narukami raises an eyebrow. “Feel?”

“Think, I mean,” you quickly correct yourself, though right now everything points toward his existence as a brat in your dictionary. Who else just scribbles into someone else’s notes, not to mention bad cat puns. “He went to the reading with me last Saturday. I think he’s alright, but sometimes I can’t really say what he’s thinking.” It’s a little like with Narukami, but you keep that to yourself.

Narukami gives a quiet hum and you’re glad he doesn’t ask further. There’s not much you can say anyway. The silence between you is filled with the narrator’s explanation of hyena’s nutrition, but you aren’t listening anymore. It’s been a while since you and Narukami had a full free day, and it’s started just like one might expect it: you haven’t done anything except laying on your couch and watching TV. A great start. You nearly doze off when a sharp slap on your left thigh gives you a heart attack. Narukami doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Come on, let’s go outside.”

“But it’s Saturday!” you whine, and curl away from him. If you close your eyes, maybe he’ll disappear, and you won’t have to move at all today. But Narukami won’t have any of it. He starts pulling at your ankle, and before you can plant your face on the ground, you surrender and kick him.

“Then see if there’s something interesting going on in Shibuya or Harajuku,” you say, and don’t miss the smug grin on Narukami’s face, so you throw a pillow after him. Swiftly, Narukami dodges with an easiness that might suggest it isn’t his first time. Showoff. Just before you’re about to get up to get ready, your phone buzzes in the cushions next to you. The very first letter on the screen is enough to make you automatically press on the red button. Beside you, Narukami watches you from the corner of his eyes, but doesn’t comment on it.

It’s quiet outside, which is surprising because usually people spend their day off roaming through the streets. That is until you reach Shibuya Central Street and people are overrunning the shops and restaurants. The diner is packed, but you manage to bully some kids away from their table after making sure they’re done with their food. You humbly accept Narukami’s disapproving head shake, and order two bowls of Gyuudon, Narukami’s with extra meat because he’s still growing and that’s what boys his age need. After he judges you long enough for that decision, you move on to comfortable banter and chat about some of your fellow students; about pretty much anything except his upcoming internship he still hasn’t decided on where to go, and you don’t want to start an argument with telling him he should go to Tanaka’s Attorney Office.

Around an hour later you’re ready to hit the streets. There are some shops you want to visit, and you should do that before Narukami decides to leave and with him your chance of someone carrying your bags. When the waitress comes to get the money, you place your hand on Narukami’s, who’s holding his purse, and push it away.

“It’s okay,“ you say. “It’s on me.” Narukami’s suspicious eyebrow-raise is really uncalled for, and yet you can’t blame him. “Let me be your sugar daddy for an exchange.” He still looks very, very unimpressed.

“It’s a thank you,” you finally say, pulling your hand back. “For putting up with me.”

“There you go.” He smiles, and it does wonders to your belly. As kind as Narukami is, somehow his genuine smiles are a rarity. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Okay, you take back the ‘kind’-part, but there’s only so long you can be dissatisfied with him, when he gets up and ruffles your hair. He excuses himself to the restroom, and you wait for the waitress to bring the receipt, when a familiar curly, black haired head peaks inside the diner, followed by two teenagers wearing the same uniform. Your first instinct is to dive head first under the table, just like anytime you see someone you’re acquainted with, but then you remember you haven’t a) done something stupid in front of him (yet), nor b) had an uncalled one-night stand with him, so everything is fine. When Kurusu notices you, you wave, and he understands it as an open invitation to sit at your table. His friends hesitate for the briefest of seconds, just to appear polite, but they quickly follow him, obviously interested, and take the not so open space beside him so all three are cramped in the little booth opposite from you. That can’t be comfortable.

“Hey there!” The girl is the first to reach out her hand, honouring you with a thousand watt smile that makes you want to shield your eyes. “I’m Ann!” You take her hand, and when she squeezes back with enough force to break your fingers, not giving you any of that too-shy-to-properly-shake-hands-crap, you’re pretty much a goner. God, she probably smells really good. Like flowers. It takes every ounce of your self-control not to smell your hand like a creeper. Akira gives you a questioning look when you stare daggers into him, jealous of how his shoulder presses into hers.

“Ditching classes?” You grin and lean back, ignoring the pang of jealousy at how good all three of them look together. Kurusu leans forward, resting his arms on the table, reducing the space you’ve just created.

“They ended earlier because of a staff meeting.” His eyes rest on the two empty glasses on the table, before he suspiciously unsuspicious looks around for the missing person.

“What about you?” The blond guy to his right asks. “Ditching school yourself?”

“School?” you say at the same time Kurusu nudges his friend with his elbow and whispers, “Ryuji.”

Ryuji either plays dumb or really doesn’t get it. “What?” He also fails spectacularly at subtlety. Somewhere to his far left, Ann groans.

“I didn’t know college was mandatory these days,” you say, and when realisation sinks into Ryuji, he gawks at you, then at Kurusu.

“Dude, you’re friends with a college chick?!” he yell-whispers. Kurusu cringes. You cringe. Did Narukami fall into the toilet or why is he still not coming?

“She’s my tutor,” Kurusu clarifies, avoiding the ‘friend’ part, and that’s cool. It’s totally okay. The sting in your chest is probably from something weird you’ve eaten and totally uncorrelated to what he just said. Guess now you can say goodbye to friendship bracelets and his entry in your friendship book.

“Well, college sounds awesome!” Ann quickly adds, probably noticing the failure on Kurusu’s part as well. “What’s your major?”

Sometimes you wish people would just ask if you liked your classes or the canteen food.

“Psychology,” you mumble.

“Oh, man! That’s so cool!” Ryuji jumps in his seat like a little kid allowed to ride the Ferris wheel. “Can you like … analyse my behavioural patterns and then connect that to a specific episode of my childhood?”

All eyes are on Ryuji. He stares back. “Hey, what’s all the gawking for?”

“I’m a scientist, not a wizard,” you say. “Also, maybe lay off from the TV shows you’re watching.”

Ann shakes her head. “I’m just surprised he knows a big word like ‘behavioural’.”

“Oh yeah? I know a lot of big words! Like, uh … hyper honder!”

The silences stretches into uncomfortable territory. You’re afraid to break it first.

“Hyper what even,” Ann asks, tapping her manicured fingers impatiently on the table.

“Hypochondria?” Kurusu adjusts his glasses, blinking sheepishly. Did he pick that up from your notes? Did he actually read them?

“Yeah, that’s what I said!”

“Suuure.” Ann draws out the vocals, her words turning into a sing-song when she turns back to you. “So! Anything you can recommend us when we’ll apply next year?” Her interest and enthusiasm throws you off. You can’t really remember when you were doing in your last year of high school, and how you managed to get through that. Ryuji eyes her like he can’t believe the level of boot licking she’s capable off. Luckily, Narukami returns and saves you from giving an answer. He calls you, but when you turn around, he’s staring at Kurusu with an intensity that’s telling he is seconds away from clocking him. A glance back shows you, Kurusu is staring as much, but not at Narukami. His eyes are strained at some invisible spot above Narukami’s head, mouth slightly open in awe. Is this what people call love at first sight? Wait, does Kurusu even swing that way?

“Oh, sorry! We didn’t mean to hold you up!” Ann is already pushing Ryuji to make him get out, and fill the space you’re about to give them. “Please tutor us as well once exams are around!”

Kurusu finally turns his head away, and mumbles something to Ann you can’t hear. All your intention goes to how good they look next to each other, his head dipping to whisper something in her ear. Her eyes go wide for a fraction, before she squints and then the radiant smile is back in full force. Oh. God. Did he say something like “I can tutor you, if you know what I mean,” because Kurusu totally looks like he’d go for something like that. Yup, he totally would, judging from how he notices you staring, and winks like a bad boy straight out of an American romance movie ready to steal your girl. Yeah, you’re pretty sure he’d have been capable of stealing her if she hadn’t dumped your sorry ass first.

“Well, gotta go.” Your bones pop when you stretch, demonstrating the young kids their impending doom in a couple of years. “And my advice? Don’t do drugs, kids.”

Kurusu grins at you in what you can only describe as unbashful challenge. “See you tomorrow, teach.”

When you turn to go, you see that Narukami is still staring at Kurusu. There’s something solemn in his expression, and the hint of a softness you’ve only seen when he talks about his niece. His goodbye is a soft, silent nod, and once your outside he instantly goes for the kill. “So that’s the kid you’re tutoring. Seems nice.”

“I didn’t know your consciousness allowed you to lie.”

He hums, amused. “I’m not a saint.”

Yes, you are, you think. I want you to be a bit more of a bad person. Before your kindness strangles you. “No, you’re right,” you say instead. “He’s a good kid.”

“She said like an old woman.”

Narukami’s reward is a kick to the shin, to which he answers with a laugh, and for that brief moment everything feels alright, the world is a peaceful place, the universe is kind to you. Inside your pocket, your phone vibrates once, indicating a message. While Narukami is talking, you sneak a tiny glance to skim the text. Six words punch like little needles through your eyes.

You have permission to see him. D.

“Are you okay?” Narukami’s voice is distant, blurry. Drowning behind a rushing waterfall of hopes you’ve dried out years ago. The answer is stuck somewhere between your ribcage and throat, but without a hook you won’t be able to get it out. A hand lands on your shoulder, hoping to reassure, but instead it is a noose around your neck. You step away from Narukami. His hand falls back to his side.

“I need to go.”

“What’s wro—”

“Forget it.”

Whatever he calls after you drowns in the crowd after you dive into it, heading for the train station. It’s unfair. Narukami deserves better than this, but trust is held captive behind spiky bars somewhere deep inside your chest, and you don’t remember where you left the key. Not that it matters. What matters is that finally, you can go and see him; that in a short while, your world will slide back into its right order. All the way to the clinic, you feel a tight pulling in your chest towards the place. Your heart is longing for your other half and the meeting in sight sets your nerves on fire.

It takes about half an hour until you reach Akasaka Station, and fifteen more until you’re standing in front of the Psychiatric Clinic. Just the sight of it is enough to turn your stomach upwards, planting a feeling of dread inside your ribcage where its roots are only inches away from worming into your heart. Inside, the stench of sanitiser is unbearable, but despite what this facility is supposed to do, most of the nurses and doctors ignore how you’re seconds away from vomiting on the floor. The woman sitting at the front desk is bored beyond measure, dismissing you with a form to fill out before they can let you into the visiting room. Between all those people waiting for their turn, you’re a powder keg about to explode, when finally, Dr. Oyamada comes and picks you up, or at least that’s what you think, but when he doesn’t lead you to the designated room, and instead obstructs your view from the hallway behind him, you know immediately this won’t end good.

“Apologies, but we cannot allow you to see the patient,” Oyamada states. At least he has the decency to focus his attention on you, and not thumb through the charts clamped between his side and arm.

“What? No.” This is the last thing you wanted to hear. “No, I was told I can come, and I will go and see him.”

“I would let you, but as it is now, the patient is unstable. To prevent you from getting hurt during the visit, we will postpone it to a more appropriate day.”

“He won’t hurt me,” you hiss, the dreadful plant inside you catching fire and scorching your insides. “Just give us five minutes.”

“I can’t allow that,” he says, voice far away. “I’m sorry.”

If only his sorry would be good for something, rather than just being hollow words he’s playing on a record over and over again. You outweigh the chances of getting committed to the same ward as him if you attack the Doctor. They look immensely slim.

“Can’t you at least tell me what’s wrong?” you make a last attempt. “Don’t I deserve to know?”

Oyamada stares at a chart, then drags his eyes back to you and sighs. “He returned to drastic measures we thought he’s finally stopped to do.” He doesn’t need to say more, and you don’t need to hear more. The picture of scars curving valleys into damaged skin sits right behind your eyes, the shudder wrecks your whole body. “I’m sorry,” he says like a parrot. “We’d hoped that his rehabilitation would go smoother. As for now, we are unsure of what caused the drawback.”

“Maybe you guys could actually let him see his family. You ever considered that might help?”

Oyamada gives you a quiet, disapproving look, and yes, this may be not the first time him hearing a thing from a patient’s relative, but maybe it’s time to think about the reason people are complaining about that. Judging from the way his body already turns into the direction of the hall leading further into the building, this conversation is over, and with that, any hope of seeing your brother dies.

____________________________
 

“So the answer is -2, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“And now I can use this result for the next equation?”

“Hmm.”

“My cat can talk.”

“Okay.”

Golden silence fills the cafe for a moment, allowing your mind to replay yesterday’s conversation with Oyamada without having to give noises as reply to whatever Kurusu wants. Okay, you might not be the most attentive tutor at the moment, but so far Kurusu hasn’t given you anything to worry about, so spacing out a little won’t damage your non-existent teacher reputation.

It still bothers you, and after a night of restless sleep and stumbling thoughts, you always come to the conclusion that your parents must have known. They must have been the very first to know, and decided to let you go anyway; to see for yourself what they knew you wouldn’t have believed them. It’s the only thing that makes sense. If they’d told you that your brother’s condition has worsened, you’d have called it bullshit, but a doctor; his doctor … maybe his condition really has worsened … or hasn’t been good from the very beginning. You don’t want to be paranoid, but this being a scheme from your parents and the hospital authorities might just be your kind of luck. Or rather, you wouldn’t put it past them, which pulls everything to a whole new level of screwed up. Maybe you should talk to Narukami about corruption in healthcare.

The bell rings, and its clear sound manages to dissipate the fog in your head. When your eyes focus back to what’s in front of you, you notice Kurusu is looking at you with an almost methodical glare, like a scientist might regard the animal he is about to dissect.

“What?” you say, shifting uncomfortably. To keep your hands busy, you reorganise the stack of paper that doesn’t need reorganisation.

“Something is on your mind,” Kurusu unhelpfully declares, putting his pen down. He’s sitting opposite from you, one arm moves in a stroking motion as he pets Morgana who’s sleeping on his lap. “I don’t think we can continue like this.”

A dozen excuses wait on the tip of your tongue for your mouth to unleash them, but Kurusu regards you with such a piercing gaze, you feel the carefully constructed walls crumble.

“Okay,” you say like it doesn’t hurt your pride. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” he says, cleaning his learning material from the table. Morgana gives a protesting meowl, glaring up at him at being woken. “Everyone has a bad day from time to time.”

“I’ll think of a special exercise for our next meeting,” your offer. “So just revise the subjects, and we’ll talk more later.”

“Special exercise.” Kurusu smiles. “Exciting.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.” But it elicits a little smile from you as well, and from the way you notice Kurusu’s eyes light up, he’s fulfilled his goal.

Saving you both an awkward pause, you finally get up. “Well, enjoy your free evening. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

But before you can even take a step towards the exit, Kurusu quickly says, “You don’t have to go.” He glances in Boss’s direction. “We could hang out.”

“Hang out?” Apparently, you’ve become a parrot. The clock on the wall next to the coffee bean shelves tells it’s just past seven, so technically there would be one more hour of tutoring. There’s no harm in getting to know your student better, so shrugging, you say, “Sure.”

Kurusu gets up. “We’ll go upstairs,” he tells Boss who stares daggers at Kurusu.

“Don’t try to do anything funny to her,” he says to Kurusu, which surprises you, because yeah, he’s the guy, but you’re older, so shouldn’t he be saying that to you? “I’ll call you once dinner’s done, so be ready.” He shoos you away, and goes back to reading the newspaper. Feeling nervous all of a sudden, you follow Kurusu upstairs, hearing the soft pitter-patter of Morgana following you upstairs. The attic is a big, spacious room with little furniture save for a bed, a table, two shelves, an old TV and a couch that’s seen better days. He sits on it, and looks expectantly up at you like a puppy waiting to be pet. You take the seat beside him, looking for something interesting in his room.

“You’re a fan of Risette?” you ask, noticing the poster on the opposite wall. She looks really cute.

“It was a present. I don’t know much about her only that she’s famous.”

“Ahh, unfortunate. I know someone who’s friends with her. I could have arranged a date for you.” Jokingly, you nudge his side with your elbow. Kurusu gives a hollow sound as response.

“Did something happen yesterday after you left?” So he’s going straight to the point. Baffled with how fearless he tackles the question, you can’t help but shift a little away from him. It doesn’t go unnoticed. Kurusu turns around and looks at you. Everything about him right now is so alert, so keen, you feel exposed to a sharp-witted animal; a falcon ready to pounce on a mouse.

“Did you bring me up here just to ask me about that?” You don’t want to sound like you expected something different, but well that you didn’t expect either. Why is he so interested?

“I thought you might want to talk about it.” He shrugs, relaxes beside you.

“And what makes you think you’re the person I want to confide in?”

Kurusu hesitates, but instead of surrendering and retreating back to safety, he goes for a full assault. “Because we’re friends.”

Oh, boy. His words are an arrow driving through your heart. You didn’t know you wanted to hear those words until he said them, and your chest fills with fluttering butterflies and singing birds praising the day. Biting your lower lip, you try not to grin.

“That’s … well. I’m just not good at this.” You swing your hand around the air, not elaborating if you mean talking about what’s bothering you or friendship. Kurusu nods like he understand it’s probably both.

“Okay. Let’s just do something to get it off your mind then.” He gets up and stretches. You stare holes at his wall to avoid seeing how his shirt rides up and exposes a stripe of pale skin. “What do you usually do to clear your head?”

You sink back into the cushions, finally looking up at him when his arms fall back to his sides. “I don’t know. Listen to music?”

Kurusu perks up at that, and quickly goes to the shelf opposite the couch where from the lowest rack he pulls out an ancient record player. After shoving stuff and Morgana, who hisses and flings his tiny paws at him, off his table (wait, is that a lockpick?), he plugs it in. White noise fills the room, then the unmistakable intro of a barber shop song starts and you sit up straighter. “No way,” you say. Kurusu nods, grinning. “Yes way.”

“Bobby Darin? How old are you really, Kurusu?” you say but you’re already smiling from ear to ear. Ignoring your question, he carefully moves his hips, then steps around, and it takes a moment for your brain to understand he’s dancing. Nothing extravagant, just moving in sync with the melody, snapping his fingers whenever the notes end. He moon-walks, freaking moon-walks to where you sit, then stretches his hand out to you. “Can I steal this dance?”

Your brain panics, betrays you, and goes full Highschool Musical. “I don’t dance.”

It turns out Akira Kurusu is your soulmate. He says, “I know you can,” and you wonder where he’s been all your life.

“Not a chance.” But Kurusu has already taken your hand, and pulls you to your feet, bringing your smaller body flush against his. Okay, wow. That you did not expect. And of course, as it is in those situations, you don’t miss how good he smells. Coffee (what a surprise), but also something sweeter underneath it. Or is it spicy? Black pepper maybe?

Good thing you don’t need to focus on moving, because Kurusu is calling the shots and dictates the rhythm, moves you around the room, pulls you forth, then back, then gently pushes his fingers into your side to spin you around.

Whatever this kind of magic is, you’ve never expected it to work on you. It’s a lazy, slow dance, and it reminds you so much of Kurusu, only lazy isn’t the right term for him. Maybe patient? Waiting like a cat for the right moment to strike and just like that, your thoughts are confirmed, because once you’re finally somewhat comfortable with your legs moving like that, you’re brave enough to look up. His face is a lot closer than you expected.

Kurusu dibs his head forward, almost bumping his forehead against yours. “Are you nervous?”

The question makes you stumble more than the dancing, and just like that, he easily kicks down any sort of confidence you assumed you had near him.

“I’m just not really good at this,” you say, and dodge the question which is pretty much the same as saying Yes. Something lights up in Kurusu’s eyes. You’re an open book to him, and that is the scariest part.

The record player sings the next song; it’s slow, sensual and automatically, your bodies come together and drift slowly, and you want to follow all cliches and rest your head against Kurusu’s shoulder, but resist the call in the end. The lines “oh dream maker, you heart breaker” carry your swaying bodies, and you wonder if it’s foreshadowing to how this will end— this what? This is nothing. From beside the bed, Morgana is watching you with a strange gleam in his piercing blue eyes, like he knows exactly what’s going on between you two, but can’t approve of it.

“You know,” Kurusu says, a startling sound against the soft music; more so because you can actually feel his voice rumbling in his chest, and you drag your eyes back to his face. “I’ve only done this with my granny before.”

With any other person, you would have laughed at that. But by now, you’ve learnt Kurusu isn’t just like any other person.

“It’s something more guys should do,” you admit, and then because your legs tingle and you feel feathery, you add, “it’s charming.”

Kurusu bows his head, and smiles like he knows of course it is, the smug ass. “Why thank you.”

“No, but really. Your grandma sounds like a cool person.”

“She is.” He holds his breath. “She was.”

Oh no. “I’m sorry.”

Kurusu gives a half-hearted shrug. “It happens to the best of us,” he says, but his eyes show sadness. You tighten your grip on his hand. He responses with a squeeze.

“I just wish my parents would talk about her from time to time,” he continues. “After she left, they sort of stopped caring.”

“Well, everyone deals in their own way with grief. Some do it better, some worse.”

“But just ignoring it ever happened?” Kurusu replies quietly.

“What can you do, it’s a natural mechanism to protect yourself from more pain. I guess there’s only so much you can endure before your brain decides it’s enough.”

“Is that the therapist talking?” Kurusu asks with an edge to his voice. “Or you?”

You’re surprised he’s mature enough to know there’s a distinction between those. Instead of answering, you say, “Maybe they think one day you’ll understand. Parents tend to underestimate their children on things like that.”

“Is that something you’ve experienced yourself? With your parents, I mean.”

“Uhm, not it’s hmm—” Make it even more obvious that you’re lying. “Something I’ve read about.” Great job.

Kurusu gives you the I-know-you’re-lying-but-I’ll-roll-with-it-look. “Okay. What kind of people are they by the way.”

By the way, he says, like he didn’t actually mean to end up with that topic. Somehow you get the feeling that’s been his goal from the very beginning.

“Just your average people.” You smile and bat your eyelashes like a good girl who’s not lying.

“Well, average is a very broad term.” He smiles as well and bats his eyelashes back at you like a good boy who’s not provoking a fallout.

“Normal people with normal lives,” you elaborate, growing impatient. “Nothing special about them.” Which is the understatement of the century.

Kurusu exhales slowly, then releases you and steps back. It feels like you’re falling. The spell is broken.

“Okay, I won’t ask anymore if it bothers you that much.” He’s right with that, but you don’t understand why he sounds so offended.

“Why are you sulking, Kurusu?”

As response, he jerks his hand up; the very first rash movement you see him doing since you’ve meet. “I’m not sulking,” he says, failing to convince you. “I’m just— Maybe I thought you’d trust me a little more after I told you about what bothers me with my parents.”

You pale at that, then feel a smoldering heat scorch your face. “Well, that’s not how it works! You can’t just expect people to trust you with their problems!”

Something triumphant flares in his eyes, and he raises his chin in blatant challenge. “So you admit there is a problem.”

The way his mind jumps to conclusion leaves you speechless. “Kurusu, you’re just—” So insufferable. Annoying.

You retreat back to the couch, and slump into the cushions with an exasperated huff. Irritated by his probing, you snap with more heat than you want, “What’s wrong with you? just why do you care so much?”

The mistake is done, unrepairable. Kurusu’s eyes widen, then something in them shuts close, and the distance between you becomes palpable. But then a little, unguarded sigh escapes him, so vulnerable and soft, you feel something tighten in your chest. Again, like the day before, he closes the distance, and sits next to you, resting his elbows on his knees as he hunches forward slightly, face resting in his hands. “Because I cannot not care,” Kurusus says quietly. He looks at you through his fingers, and you can see from the way the skin around his eyes pulls up that he’s smiling.

Oh Akira, you think. People like you aren’t meant to bloom in a world like this.

The fight leaves your body, and after that you feel tired and defeated; defeated by something as little as a sad smile.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “Like I said, I’m bad at this stuff.”

Kurusu lowers his hands. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too. Usually, I’m not— I mean, I shouldn’t be so pushy.” He gives you a quick glance; one that holds a whole world of unspoken words. You sit like that, facing each other and smiling awkwardly, until Boss’s voice rings up, calling you both to come down for dinner.

“Offering you food already,” Kurusu notices. “I think he likes you.”

“Uhm, I don’t know if I can stay.” You take a quick glance at your phone. Yup, it’s past eight. How does dancing and screaming at each other take up so much time. “But his curry usually smells so good.”

“It tastes even better.”

Kurusu wiggles his eyebrows at you. Damned be his incredible powers of persuasion. “Fine, you got me with that one, Kurusu.”

His grin is quickly replaced with a frown. You wait for him to say something, but he only manages to stuff his hands in his pockets.

“What?” you ask.

“Haven’t we reached the point where you call me Akira?” he quietly asks, shifting from right to left. “I mean. If you want. It’s no big deal.” His half-hearted shrug fails to help him look casual. So do his doe-like eyes blinking at you from behind his glasses.

“Fine,” you groan, “you got me with that one, Akira.”

His eyes light up, and he gives you such a disarming smile, it hurts your chest.

From below, Boss calls again, and you’re finally able to break eye contact, unsure if you want to know the answer why your chest feels it’s about to explode from your rapid beating heart.

Chapter Text

[you]: We still need to talk about what happened.

[you]: I can see you’re reading this.

[you]: You can’t just ignore me.

 

The clear lack of response is evidence enough that yes, your dad can ignore you, and he is very motivated to do so. Even a whole month after the incident, he’s still avoiding you like a contagious disease, the exact opposite from your mother who clings to you like a very persistent octopus, demanding you to call her every day. It does the exact opposite from calming your nerves, and unlike anything before it draws Narukami’s suspicion like a beacon. You didn’t want to, but to redirect his attention, you used the only strategy you knew would hit him critically: You called him Yuu. Hearing his first name for the very first time, Narukami looked like you were trying to sell him drugs.

“Who are you, and where is the real one?” he’d asked, face blank of expression, but his eyes had betrayed him, lighting up with joy that had squeezed your heart to walnut size. After four years, it’s long due, especially when it took you only a couple of weeks to reach that level of closeness with Akira. Though Akira shouldn’t be the touchstone for a delicate business like this. You’ve learnt Akira is someone people open up to dangerously quickly. His little, honest smiles are keys unlocking every door; whenever he throws his head back and laughs, people stop breathing for the tiniest seconds and stare, mesmerised and with a world full of possibilities opening up before them. It leaves you with a very strange feeling, one that warms your chest, but at the same time scares you to inspect it more closely, because the answer will surely lead to forbidden territory. Already you know that what you feel towards Akira isn’t something you can easily look past or ignore.

The realisation came slowly, but in the end inevitable like sand running down in an hourglass. The fact that you can relax around him in ways you don’t even dare to do while hanging out with other friends has become very suspicious to you. Especially since you’ve started hanging out in his attic a couple of weeks ago. The puzzled look Boss sends your way whenever you pass him before heading upstairs weighs just as much as the demanding one of the young fortune telling lady in Shinjuku trying to guilt trip you into buying more of her self made lucky soaps you really don’t need more of as one of your drawers is already close to bursting with how many you’ve squeezed inside. You’re pretty sure Boss is onto you, but for some reason he hasn’t called the Child Protective Service yet, and stupid as you are, you’re pushing your luck further. Which of course doesn’t solve your problem at all.

Learning little personal things about Akira feels like opening the Pandora’s box. You’ve learnt he has this weird habit of asking Morgana questions and looking at him with a serious face expecting an answer before he remembers you’re in the same room and talking to a cat isn’t considered a normal thing— and still, that doesn’t leave him flustered; you’re not sure Akira even knows that word, because he just laughs, shakes his head, and then proceeds like nothing happened. According to his book shelf, he’s quite well-read. You spy cultural magazines about movies and theatres, books about language of flowers, efficient time management and fishing. Novels by authors from different countries build a wall on the highest rack, their familiar names and titles a welcome distraction from whenever Akira does something that requires you intensely staring at his face. Breathing for example. His room is littered with little discreet secrets you try not to dwell on too long like the tools on his work desk or all the dirty laundry covered in strange black goo. All those things don’t change the fact that his room still doesn’t look anything like a place a teenager should occupy. It doesn’t bother Akira, but even so, you occasionally sneak in basic living necessities like a small garbage bin, a pot with tulips, a white piggy bank and a desk lamp. Either Akira accepts everything without commenting or he thinks all this stuff has been there all this time.

Another thing you’ve learnt about Akira is that he does not speak about his past and all the circumstances that lead up to him living in the attic above Leblanc. Once you tried to ask indirectly about that, but he immediately saw through you and for the rest of the study session you were rewarded with a cool, tight-lipped smile. It’s just as much of a delicate topic as the relationship with your family, and sometimes you can imagine the baggage you both are carrying with every secret weighing on your shoulders, clearly visible and yet both of you refuse to talk about it and choose to ignore the blatant obstacles you both stumble over rather than work together to put them away. Ignoring problems has always been one of your special traits you’re unrivalled at, so it’s no surprise that this is your tactics of approach regarding the budding feelings for Akira.

And just like that, a chance to put you miles away from facing what exactly you feel towards him comes sooner than expected. Talk about an upcoming party has slithered around the campus for a couple of days and you’ve planned your complete week just around it so you can go and get mindlessly drunk. You leave the dormitory around 8. After a day spent going through your texts and revising notes, you  depart without a guilty conscious, especially with exams approaching steadily. On your way to Ginza you get some additional booze, scrolling through messages from Narukami who tells you to come around if you miss the last train. It’s so sweet, especially because you know he isn’t a big fan of those parties. He probably knows what you’re up to and yes, one-night stands certainly don’t belong to your proudest moments, but right now you want to think of anything but Akira or that your dad still owes you an explanation you know he will give you wrapped up nicely in lies.

The location this time is inside a shared apartment of two of your fellow students. Atsui and Samui, prodigy twins known for their mean serves, finally celebrate their birthday and oh boy, it is going to be a wild one. As kids from two highly esteemed doctors, their apartment is everything you wish for, and if you wouldn’t have dignity, you’d probably leech off your parents’ money as well. Their entrance area is bigger than your kitchen. Someone pushes a plastic cup with beer in your hand, then sends you into the lion’s den with an encouraging, little push. A gigantic table in the middle of the room is already surrounded by students playing beer pong, screaming at each other. The majority of the assembled already has had a few drinks judging from the hollering. The music blasts with a deep bass vibrating through your whole body as you slither around groups of people, receiving greeting claps on your shoulder here and bone braking hugs there.

The superficiality of it all is the appeal, the sole motivation driving you to join these gatherings. Empty promises and half felt concerns are exactly what you crave right now, the sheer lack of emotional responsibility towards these people that will forget everything you say the next morning. It fills you with a strange feeling, like you’re floating in a bubble, separated from everyone without fearing they’ll pop it and expose you. It’s safe and easy, maybe lazy but exactly what you need right now.

You look for familiar faces, and find one immediately, though it doesn’t exactly make you jump in joy. On the other end of the room you notice Tadashi, a guy you’ve met during one of your very rare visits to a college sport course in your first semester. Somehow you managed to stay in contact after all those years, and now he greets you by throwing a chicken wing in your direction. It lands with a splat at the wall behind you. You flip him off.

Unsurprisingly, after too many rounds of drinking games, you end up in his apartment somewhere in Akihabara. You’ve barely passed the door when Tadashi’s hands find their way on your hips and in your hair, his mouth draws a hot path from your lips to your neck where they find a spot to settle and mark. Caged between a wall and his warm body, your fingers impatiently tug at his shirt until it’s off, landing forgotten somewhere on the ground. Tadashi’s training pays off, he easily swipes you up, pulling your legs around his waist. Seconds later you land on his bed, bouncing and giggling. It’s been so long since you’ve felt the intimate warmth of another body, every nerve is on fire and tense with expectation. Once things really go down, it becomes difficult to focus on him when your mind is occupied with something— someone else. The body on you changes into a dead weight pressing down on you, lips scrapping your skin. Fingers inside you try to bring you over the edge only to let you fall alone, alone and what usually feels like an exciting trip is suddenly a rollercoaster ride you want to get over with as soon as possible.

His fingers travel from your neck to your chin, your cheeks and he conducts your face to the side to plaster kisses all over your jaw and that moment changes everything. You notice his slender, long fingers caressing your skin, working you apart from inside and they remind you of a different set of fingers, just as long and slender— and that’s your breaking point.

The sound of a water boiler wakes you from a foggy dream. It takes a moment to remember where you are, the dozen faces of American musicians in posters on unfamiliar walls watching your every move as you get up and throw a blanket around your body. An off key hum lures you into the kitchen, where slim rays of sunshine draw blurry lines on the ground. It’s enough to make you squint and groan, the light too much for your eyes and hangover mind still trying to put together the images from last night.

In front of the counter top, Tadashi is standing barefoot, preparing coffee. When he notices your frowning face, he offers you a cigarette with a crooked grin. Usually, you’d decline, but since everything has been going downhill lately, you succumb and indulge in one. The nicotine soothes your nerves to a straight line, allowing to hold up an easy conversation despite how awkward you expected it to be.

“You really thought the plot line was good?” Tadashi raises an eyebrow at you, thumbing on his iPhone in search for a summary of the TV show you’ve both seen. The ash hangs dangerously at the tip of his cigarette, but you can’t find an ashtray. “It feels like there are a thousand plot holes.”

“Well, it’s not like it has to make lots of sense? It’s a kid’s show?” The lack of immediate response tells you he thinks differently, but somehow you still feel smug about it, and take another sip from your coffee. That is until Tadashi, way too casually, asks, “By the way, who’s Akira?”

You stare at him. Tadashi stares back. The only thing you manage is a stupid, “Huh?”

The corners of Tadashi’s mouth jump. He leans back against the counter, his slim hips resting against the edge as he slurps his coffee unnecessarily loud like he wants to prove something. “Hey, I’m not judging. Just curious about the lucky fella.”

“You mean—,” you start, but no matter how you think about continuing, you know it’ll just get worse. “You’re not saying I—”

Tadashi’s grin widens. “Oh, you did. It was like—,” he curls his fingers into a fist and then snaps them open like an explosion, “you became a lot more excited, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh God, this isn’t really happening,” you groan, pressing your palms against your eyes. If you can’t see him, he can’t see you, and you’re saved from an embarrassing conversation. But Tadashi has the complete opposite in mind and instead of remaining silent during your mental breakdown, he probes further, “So, do I know him?”

God, you hope he doesn’t. Anything else would mean the end of you. But you can’t say it’s impossible for him to know Akira because he’s still in high school, so instead you settle on a vague truth. “No, he’s someone from work. By the way, did you read Lahey’s text? Can I get your notes? Cool, thanks!” You flee to his room, ignoring the blank expression he throws at you that clearly shows how bad you are at changing topics. Inside, you quickly dress even though you’re in desperate need of a shower. Judging from how hot you feel, your face must be on fire.

Thousand thoughts stumble through your brain, each full of knots and no loose threads in sight, so you don’t even know where to start. Thinking about Akira is one thing. Imagining having sex with him should put you in prison. Hypothetically speaking, if this is a crush, and here you shudder because crushes are for teenagers, how can it escalate so quickly? To be fair, yes you were drunk, so maybe that shouldn’t count, but the images of him towering above you, his grey sly eyes eating you up while his mouth maps your body— it’s all too clear, the lines too sharp. This can’t happen again, you won’t allow it.

Thankfully, Tadashi doesn’t say anything else when you return. You exchange goodbyes, mentioning meeting up some time again soon, but you both know that won’t happen, and that’s fine. The foundation of your relationship is based on on and off meetings that are just perfect because there is no expectations, no promises to keep. It’s easy because you both avoid complications, and that somehow makes Tadashi the perfect boyfriend candidate. Well, not for you, but there’s certainly someone out there for him.

On your way home, you still think about the night and what it might mean for the future. How are you supposed to look Akira in the eyes and not be reminded of how you shamelessly moaned his name. The challenge becomes unexpectedly harder when your phone vibrates with a message. Akira’s name blinks in white letters, leaving you with a dreadful feeling in your stomach.

[Akira]: this is an emergency

[Akira]: mayday, mayday

[Akira]: call 911

[you]: What

[Akira]: help, send help! i got two cards for cake knight rises! someone has to go with me!

 You stare at the message, failing to see the problem. Why doesn’t he ask Ryuji or Ann?

[you]: So ask your friends?

[Akira]: i'm asking u? u r a friend?

He really shouldn’t be able to make your heart jump with such simple sentences, and yet it stumbles in your chest like a hiker on foreign terrain.

[you]: When?

[Akira]: is that a yes??

[you]: Depending on when. I’m supposed to teach you stuff, or did you forget?

[Akira]: let’s consider it a field trip

[you]: How about we don’t and just go about it the same as always?

[Akira]: objection

[you]: Denied.

[Akira]: :(

[Akira]: why so mean? i deserve a reward after nailing my finals.

[you]: And I deserve a pay raise, but we don’t always get what we want.

[Akira]: as the gentleman that i am, i'll even pay for your popcorn

[you]: Sold. As long as we don’t end up in one of those late night screenings and the police make me responsible for dragging a minor around at this hour.

[Akira]: sounds illegal. i'm in.

[you]: Akira, no.

[Akira]: akira yes

Saying No to Akira is harder than backflipping from the second floor without breaking your ankles, and you’re sure he knows you can’t resist him any longer judging from how he’s spamming please for the next thirty seconds, and after that an additional twenty more with thanks after you finally agree. After deciding where to meet, you hurry home to take a shower and change into new clothes. There’s still some time left, so you check your messages. Apart from the usual suspects, a.k.a your mom, some fellow students and Narukami, Iori also send you a notification with a link, urging you to check out a fan page of a big cosplay group. But when the site finally loads, it’s the actual Phan-Site of the Phantom Thieves, filled with dozens discussion forums and comments. Right at the top is a red bar, above a question that makes you frown: [Are the Phantom Thieves just?]

Now that you think about it, you haven’t heard from them since the incident with Madarame back in May. Two months have passed, and they feel more like a distant childhood memory rather than the latest breaking news covered by every TV channel. You wonder what they’re up to, or if they’re still around, and judging from some users, they’re also unsure about their whereabouts. At least one question you can answer pretty easily, and that is a big No on them being just. Whatever tricks they pull to make the people confess, it doesn’t put them above the law or allow them to go on with their unorthodox methods. Hopefully the police can get some leads on them and things will settle down once they’re locked up.

Once it’s finally time to go, you’re actually relieved to get outside again and take a break from your readings, the black letters starting to merge into one indistinguishable shape in front of you.

Shibuya is surprisingly calm for the evening hour, ignoring all the students gathering after school. The slowly approaching heat wave the weather forecasts warn about starts showing in shorter skirts, thinner clothes and dozens of pony tails bouncing from left to right. You wait at the meeting point, a small alley leading to an airsoft shop, when someone calls your name, and you look up, expecting to see Akira. He either went through a facial surgery during the last couple of days you haven’t seen him, or that man dressed in a cheap suit with a slim chin and sunken in cheeks approaching you right now is someone entirely different. Your brain fails to see how or why this guy knows your name, when he reaches you and grins like a maniac salesman trying to get rid of some shady goods.

“Interested in making easy money? No questions asked, no names. Lots of cash.” A heavy hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing. It feels like a noose around your neck.

This isn’t really happening, is it? Dumbfounded, you stare at his hand, then his face, outweighing the benefits of either punching or kicking him. Hookers offering girls jobs isn’t a rare thing in Shibuya, but in broad daylight? He’s either really desperate or really full of himself, but the little detail that makes everything a lot more absurd is that he knows your name and it sends cold shivers down your spine.

“Okay, I’ll give you two seconds to take your hands off me, or I will put my shoe through your face,” you warn him, succeeding to sound a lot braver than you feel. Warning bells go off in your head when he doesn’t move. You shrug his hand off, and take one nice big step away, but he follows you and closes the distance like a magnet drawn to its opposite pole.

“How the fuck do you know me,” you say, now unable to stop the panic from seeping into your voice. The man laughs; a sharp, unpleasant sound easily drowned in the buzzing chatter of people walking past the alley, totally unaware of what’s happening in there.

“We know everything about you,” he says with a lazy smile, digging a bony finger just under your collarbone. “Your name, where you live. Unlucky for you, you’re all buddy buddy with the wrong people.”

You don’t even know that many, and from those you call friends none strike you as people acquainted with the dark side of Tokyo. Which really makes you wonder how they even know about your existence in the first place.

The man drags his eyes to a spot behind you, and when he leans in, you smell the sour odour of booze and nicotine. “Tell Kurusu he better has our Boss’s money ready due or he’ll find his friends’ numbers in our booking register.” With a greasy smile, he vanishes in the shadows between the skyscrapers, leaving you with spinning thoughts of What the fuck, what the fuck, what the actual fuck, until someone grabs your arm and yanks you out of the back alley. The worst scenarios run in high speed resolution through your head, but you gasp in relieve when you see it’s just Akira’s familiar face looming over you, quickly followed by a screeching “What the fuck?!” and a punch to his arm.

At least Akira doesn’t look like he’s offended; no, it seems that he’s anticipated something like that, and you realise he must have seen you with the hooker.

“What was that? What money? In what shady business are you involved?” There are too many questions, but Akira per usual talks too little to give you all the answers. Right now, he just looks over your head to where the man disappeared, and there’s something in his eyes you can’t read because it’s something you’ve never associated with Akira before: Danger. A shadow jumps across his eyes, dark enough to dim the grey, smooth surface and turn it into a charcoal storm. Somewhere in the back of your head you register his finger tips still pushing too hard into your skin, but the pain is swallowed by this intense feeling of anxiety and worry. Akira remains silent and pulls you deeper into the light flooded streets of Shibuya, where people laugh and enjoy their time regardless of what you’ve just been through.

“Hey, can you talk to me?” you call to Akira, but he keeps his eyes trained on an invisible path before him, his mouth pressed into a thin, white line. “Hey, Kurusu.” You pull your arm back, he tightens his grip in return, and for the first time you wonder if he is choking on his secrets just as much as you are.

“Kurusu,” you try again, then softer, “Akira.”

Finally, he slows down and turns around. The fire in his eyes is gone, replaced by a dim light that is lost in the reflection of his glasses.

“Come on.” It’s your turn to guide him now, gently pulling at his hand. You find a narrow alleyway with vending machines standing side by side like colourful soldiers. Armed with two canned coffees, you sit beside Akira on a narrow railing, and place the cool can on his thigh until he finally takes it from you. The silence grows into a palpable entity with fangs ready to strike, so you wait until Akira is ready to face it, lying to yourself that whatever he is going to tell you, it won't be that bad.

After what feels like an eternity, Akira shifts slightly so his knees face towards you, and just like his body opens up to you, so does his mouth. “I kind of got into trouble with the yakuza,” he says with a suspicious lack of emotions. “And now they want three million yen until July 7th.”

Somewhere behind you the beast growls, snarling how much better the silence has been in contrast to whatever this is. But then you realise it’s just a dog barking somewhere on the main street and you exhale slowly.

“Okay, that is…” Insane, suicidal. “That’s crazy. What happened exactly?”

Slowly, Akira raises his eyes. They’re hollow and send a shudder down your spine. “You have your secrets, and I have mine,” he declares.

The way he’s staring at you, guarded and with a raised chin, his shoulders stiff like brittle marble ready to crumble at the tiniest collision, you can see he’s eagerly waiting for you to push him away. The only thing coming to your mind though is, “What kind of an answer is that? And no, don’t turn away from me!” You snatch his chin before he turns his head, digging a thumb into his skin just below his lower lip. Akira parts his lips in a little, silent O. “This is serious, so talk to me.”

Akira considers you for a long moment, somehow perfectly holding still. The only movement comes from his tongue, quickly darting out to lick his lower lip, and you swallow a strange sound threatening to escape your throat.

“You mean just like you talk to me?” he quietly shoots back, blowing a perfect hole in your composed mask. For a second, you’re speechless and your brain is completely void of any decent arguments to show him how those things are completely unrelated. But you’ve waited too long.

The water named reason evaporated and now there’s no way to stop the fuse from burning down.

“If you really think that this is the same as me—” you start, your heart throbbing painfully like a bird trying to escape; too loud, too hard, too much. Just faintly, you’re aware that it isn’t the tip of your thumb against his skin anymore, but your nail digging a sharp, crescent curve into his chin because your fingers are trembling. “— that this is really the same as me refusing to tell you about my parents abusing my brother, then you are wrong. Wrong, and very, very cruel, Akira.”

All your breath leaves your lungs, while Akira’s becomes stuck in his throat. You pull your hand back like he’s burnt you, and on a metaphoric level, he has. You hate him for that, and you hate your body even more because after this, it doesn’t move. The anger overshadows your flight instinct and stays rooted like it wants to fight. You feel like throwing up.

After a whole minute of silence, Akira finally manages a small, dreadful, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Tell me what you did to make the yakuza go after you.”

“I don’t want you getting involved,” he tries and fails to save the situation.

“Not sure if you’ve noticed, but judging from what happened there, I am involved already. So, well done.”

Akira pulls his face into a grimace close to a kicked man, left in his burning house without any means to extinguish the fire. It’s so typical for you to turn the play around, to become the one hurting others after being hurt. The feeling of guilt settling inside you isn’t unfamiliar, somehow even sharper this time. Akira leans away and breaks from your hold, running a free hand through his unruly hair. The soft tap tap tap of his foot against the pavement drives you insane.

“That’s why I shouldn’t tell you more. I don’t want things to become worse,” he says and avoids looking at you.

You cross your arms and lean against the cool wall, soaking in the feeling of some sort of grounding and security. “Well, it’s not like I’ll dive head first into some sort of rescue mission. I’m not a cop, and I certainly don’t have any means to get that much money.”

Suddenly, Akira barks a horrible, humourless laugh. It’s like a jagged cut through the image you have of him as the boy you know at the moment. “And here goes my hope that you might be one of the Phantom Thieves, capable of helping me.”

“Akira, stop joking about that,” you say, feeling your irritation return. “They’re not even real.” He shoots you a quick, strange glance, one you doubt you’d be able to decipher even if you had a dictionary solely dedicated to him. “So, are you going to tell me what happened or not?”

You count until ten. Akira keeps staring at a crack on the ground in front of him, its junctions looking much like hands with claws. Just when you made peace with the fact that he won’t answer, Akira finally says, “Our Student Council President is my friend. In trying to do the right thing and help the school’s students, she got into trouble.” You swear if he’s going to say I just wanted to help, you will scream and rip his hair off. “And I just wanted to help,” he closes his vague story, but it’s still enough for you to get the broad picture. You’ve heard about the rumours regarding shady businesses involving high school students around Shibuya, but that the Shujin Academy might be one of the targeted schools hasn’t occurred to you at all— a very naive thought, now that you think about it.

“I hope you do realise now that kindness is a double-edged sword,” you manage, working hard on controlling your breath. It’s just the perfect story fit for someone like Akira; for someone who gives too much and ends up ripped apart. Something that could just as easily happen to Narukami, now that you realise how alike they are, how they both put everyone else above them. Behaviour like this makes you so mad, you want to cry from frustration.

Akira answers with a thoughtful hum. “Is it though?”

“You’re not seriously trying to argue with me about that.”

“I’m not. Maybe you’re right, but I don’t regret it.”

You try to see the crack in his expression, just like the one on the ground. But Akira’s confidence is a solid wall unaffected by your prodding, and something about that positivity robs you of air.

“Why am I not surprised,” you murmur, and to your surprise, Akira gives something close to a little earnest laugh.

“Well, it isn’t the worst that happened to me because I was being nosy,” he admits, leaning back as well now. “But the yakuza, hm … I’m pretty sure that will look great on my resume.”

“Please don’t even think about putting that in it.”

Akira grins, but it’s short lived. He sits straighter, now looking very sternly at you, and you don’t like that look on his face. “Until it’s settled, maybe it would be best for you to avoid Shibuya. Also … maybe we … shouldn’t …” His voice gets quieter and quieter, and you know what he’s going to say next, but before Akira can finish his sentence, you quickly move on.

“What exactly are you going to do?” you ask, the canned coffee long forgotten on the ground beside your feet and only brought back to your attention after you accidentally kick it when you lean forward. “Last time I checked, three million yen don’t just grow on trees.”

“I have a plan,” Akira immediately replies, which makes warning bells go off in your head.

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to rob a bank.”

He gives you a crooked grin, part mirth, part malice, but it looks so fake and forced, it makes you cringe. “I would never.”

“Oh, Akira. What the hell is going on.”

Akira answers with a heartbreaking smile. Moments like these make you forget how young Akira actually is. There’s something in his eyes that speaks of experience; in the straight line his mouth tightens into that speaks of hardship. It’s unfair, and you wish whatever happened to him could have waited a couple of years until he’d been ready for it. The ignorance towards a youth’s suffering should be a crime.

“Don’t worry, it’s going to be alright,” he offers you at last, though it sounds more like he’s talking to himself. Your arms burn with the desire to give him a nice, tight hug, but you’re not sure if you’ve unlocked that ability in your confidant level yet, so instead you grab his hand and pull him to his feet.

“Okay. You know what, I’m just going to trust you on this,” you say. At least the easiness of lying is something you’ve inherited from your dad. “But if you need a hand, you can give me a call.”

Akira stares at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Yeah, just don’t think you’ll get rid of me that easily,” you say, stretching until your back pops. As weird as it is, somehow you feel a lot better than you maybe should. Akira looks at you with a strange expression, a mix between awe and horror.

“Not gonna lie, I was ready to bet five thousand yen that you’d block my number and never talk to me again,” he says, sheepishly pulling at this bangs.

“Bet?” Your eyebrows go up. “Who lost?”

“Mor—,” he starts, but then shakes his head. “No, it’s just a figure of speech.”

“Huh.” If you knew better, you’d think he was going to say— But no, that’s impossible.

A quick glance down at your watch tells you that the movie has started already, and to be honest, you’re not really motivated to watch it anyway with all the incidents today. Actually, you’d really rather go home and sleep a night on everything you’ve just heard. Just as you want to say that to Akira, he’s suddenly looming above you, and you flinch back, trying to remember if you heard the tiniest sound of him approaching.

“By the way, you got something on your neck,” Akira says, and before you can react, he’s leaning right into your personal space and rubs just above the spot where your turtleneck shirt barely covers the hickey Tadashi oh so graciously left the previous night, that prick. Your eyes widen and you give a pathetic sounds just as he notices that it’s not just some smudge, and slowly his hand falls back to his side.

“Oh,” he says weakly, the sound strangely hollow. “It’s not a—”

“No,” you say, uselessly covering it with a hand and turning your head away from him. The previous night drops down on you like a crushing waterfall, the phantom feeling of Akira's hands on your body and his piercing eyes telling silent stories you can only dream about. “It’s uhm …”

“It’s a—,” Akira starts, but doesn’t finish. Instead he takes a step away from you and kneads the back of his neck. “I think I have to go.”

“Oh.” Now you feel really stupid. “Yeah, I think me too.”

“Okay.” Akira exhales slowly. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you.”

“Yeah,” you offer, but Akira has already turned around and left, his long legs carrying him with the speed of light out of the alley. You remain there a couple of seconds, just starring at the place he’s just been standing, trying not to think too hard about how your skin burns where his fingers just touched you. Your way home you label Walk of Shame.

 

The door to your apartment is already unlocked. Which could mean means two things: Either Iori is broke again and is scavenging your fridge, or someone is desperate enough trying to rob a student’s place. With your phone in your hand ready to call the cops, like that’s something you needed additionally to today’s revelations, you open the door and carefully enter your apartment. The light is on. No sound comes from your kitchen, so it can’t be Iori, but once you’re inside and stand on the threshold to your living room, you wish it were him instead of the person sitting on your couch.

“You wanted to talk?” your father says instead of a greeting. “Then let’s talk.”

Chapter Text

The first thing you remember about your father is that he loved to give piggy-back rides. Though in the pictures surfacing from a deep, black sea, it’s never quite clear if it’s you or your brother sitting on your dad’s shoulders, wagging tiny sticks at everything in your reach. Only the remembrance of summer with its humid air, the sweet smell of flowers and strawberries waiting on the veranda of your grandparent’s house in the countryside is palpable enough as evidence of some better time.

Now, those days feel like a different life. This man sitting in front of you doesn’t look anything like someone who would grab children and swirl them around while making plane noises to charm giggles and laughs out of them. No, in front of you is someone powerful enough to stripe a person from everything important to them with only a couple of words in the prospect of good payment and reputation.

You’re sitting at your tiny table, poking around the take-out your father has brought, now spread out in front of you. Background noises from the TV fill the silence. On the screen, a red haired girl is smiling into the camera, her straight back just as much of a statement as her next words. “… I don’t quite like The Phantom Thieves. In the end, people have to solve their problems on their own, I think.”

The presenter hums approvingly. “And that was our royal princess, Rin Amamiya, on the newest development of the Phantom Thieves,” he says. “We will keep you updated on her upcoming entrance to the Shujin Academy as a first year.”

The cutlery lands with a sharp sound on the table. When you look up, Dad is scowling at the TV. “What nonsense,” he says. “A group threatening our law system with their childish view of justice. It seems our media has too much latitude to cover a topic like that.”

You shrug, shoving vegetables from one side on your plate to the other. Before that, thinking about the Phantom Thieves has always left a sour taste in your mouth. Now, the spite towards them is replaced by a feeling of fellowship if it means opposing your father, so you say, “It seems they do better than some people I know.”

Heavy silence crawls like a beast, ready to pounce, and when you look up, Dad watches you with a strange expression. It’s close to how your mother would look if a cockroach would scurry around her kitchen floor.

“Why are you not eating?” he asks instead of pressing your previous statement. There’s so much of you in this little act, you feel sick.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Should I have brought nigiri with eel instead?” he continues, a small smile stealing into his stern expression. “You’ve always liked that.”

The sickness twists right into nausea as you drag your chair back, trying to get as much space between your bodies as possible.

“No, it’s Kinoe,” you say, curling your hands into fists at his confused stare. “Kinoe likes eel.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Dad says, not looking embarrassed in the slightest. “It’s always nice to remember the first time your brother had it.”

“Oh yeah? Just like how nice it is to remember how you left him rotting in that hospital?”

The little smile dies on his lips. Dad considers you with a scrutinising look, his eyes a steely mirror of your own.

“I don’t understand what gives you that impression,” he says, his voice several notes deeper. “Kinoe is in that place because he needs help. And he will get it from skilled people capable of fixing him.”

A shudder rips through your body. “He doesn’t need to be fixed ! What he needs is for you people to leave him alone and get him out of that … that prison!”

“I think you do not understand,” Dad says, collected and dissociated like he’s talking about a distant relative. Maybe that’s really how he sees his son. “You worry too much, and that worry prevents you from seeing the big picture. It makes you weak, and more importantly, it makes you hold on to something that will drag you down.” Dad gets up. He looms over you, and you hate how it makes you feel like a little child that is scolded for supposedly wrongdoings. “Let it go. If you don’t let go of what will drag you down, you won’t come far in this world.”

“I’m not—” You gasp for air, fighting the swelling tears piercing your eyes. “I won’t be like you.”

“And you will see how much you will regret that later.”

“Maybe you have stopped believing in him,” you say, rising in your seat, straightening your back to appear as confident as the girl from the news show. “But I won’t.”

Dad watches you, and for a moment, you see the anger blazing in his eyes before it quickly settles. It doesn’t calm your heartbeat. You’ve learnt that anything he has planned for you that isn’t his loud, unleashed furry, will be worse.

“So you won’t listen to reason. I give you a roof and a shelter. I give you a chance for education and prosperity. I ask of you one simple thing, and in return you question my ways and act like a child. If you stand against everything I hold high of value, then there is no need for me to give you what you so clearly despite. Your rent, your college tuition.” He raises an eyebrow in challenge at your shocked face.

All air leaves your lungs. “You can’t— you can’t do that,” you stammer. “You can’t have both children fail the family.”

He must notice how you’re desperately clinging to whatever threads cross your mind. A pleased smile spreads on his lips as he goes to your couch where he’s left his suit jacket. “I can do as I please. I’m certain a lot of children would do anything to have the same opportunity you have, and your mother agrees.”

This is the last strike your heart can take. Your voice breaks when you nearly sob, “Just what happened to you?”

Dad looks from you to the TV screen where they’re broadcasting another report about a psychotic breakdown. He straightens his unwrinkled jacket and moves to the door.

“This is your last chance,” he says, slipping into his shoes. “I don’t want to hear anything from you about your brother.”

You stay silent, speechless in front of the giant abyss gaping in front of you, threatening to swallow you whole. Dad considers you a last time, his hand already on the doorhandle. “And call your mother from time to time. She’s upset there’s little she can tell her friends about your studies.” He doesn’t wait for a response, and only after the door closes behind him, you manage to come up with some sort of reaction. You remove your slipper and throw it at the door. “I HATE YOU!”

No one answers. You take the other slipper and throw it as well, the second bang even louder. “YOU’RE A MONSTER!”

Someone laughs behind you. A comedy is running, some people with painted faces dressed in animal costumes dance on the screen. Their joy only fuels your seething anger, the laid table with the take-away the only obstacle hindering you from punching the screen. So you kick the table instead and send the remaining food containers flying through the living room. It doesn’t stop there. Whatever gets in your hands ends up smashed against the walls or stomped. Before you can consider throwing your rice cooker against the TV, someone pounds on your door. A bolting fear strikes you. It’s Dad, ready to commit you to a hospital as well. Wiping your tears away, you arm yourself with a brush, ready to fight until the bitter end. Let’s see how he’ll like that to his face.

But behind the door is just Iori, standing there with a corncob in his hand. Over his shoulder, you see the door to his apartment standing wide open.

“Dude, are you okay?” he asks, his brows furrowed in worry. “It sounds like. Someone’s getting killed in there. Like. It’s really bad.”

“Well, I certainly wish someone was dead,” you mumble, staring at him and hoping he’ll get the meaning and leaves you alone. Iori nods like he’s been part of the catastrophic dinner with your dad and gets why you’re so angry.

“Sorry to hear that.” He tries to get a look over your shoulder. You get on your tiptoes.

“Here, I hope that makes you happy.” His corncob is still warm as he pushes it in your hands. You look back up at him. “Why?”

“Cuz when you’re upset, you’re hungry. And when you’re hungry, you get upset.” He taps a finger against his temple, grinning. “Simple math.”

Despite all things, you take a bite. He’s even taken the effort to put butter on it, and something little as that manages to ease the hold of the clutches of despair clawing at your back.

“Iori, what would I do without you.”

His brilliant smile is blinding. “Yeah, man. Sometimes I wonder the same.”

The next time Akira texts you, a couple of weeks have passed since his high tail. Since then, he’s cancelled most of your study sessions, each reason more vague than the previous until you’re convinced you won’t see him ever again. But then, finally, a message from him waits in your mail box, looking quite innocent and with proper grammar asking you to come around and help him for his upcoming finals. The lack of emojis and misspellings is the last evidence you needed to know your friendship is officially unrepairable. Speaking of unrepairable, throwing your furniture around wasn’t one of your brightest ideas and now you’re faced with additional expenses you don’t need with college tuition coming up, especially since you don’t know if your dad will keep his word or will let you have a first bitter taste of what will happen if you continue defying him. All in all, it certainly isn’t the best time to be you, and oh how much you wish you could shed your skin and become someone else.

The cicadas are unbearably loud in this part of Yongen-Jaya. Vendors hide in the shadows of their shops, their eyes following you with caution, but lacking their usual predatory glint. Inside Leblanc, you’re the only customer. You find Akira in a booth hunched over the table. Something squirms in his arms, a desperate meow drifts in a single note through the cafe. A tiny white paw pushes against Akira’s cheek. Morgana is cradled in his arms, but happiness looks different. His tiny feet struggle as he tries to break free out of Akira’s vice grip.

“Do I need to call the animal protection service?” you ask, sitting down and looking for Sojiro. Except for Akira, the cafe is empty.

Morgana gives you affirmative cries. Akira looks up, sleepiness colouring his eyes darker, and lies his cheek on Morgana’s belly. “I give him food and a place to sleep. That’s the least he can do for me.”

Morgana thinks otherwise as he chews on Akira’s temple stem. When he manages to wiggle free, Morgana jumps out of Akira’s arms, over the table and settles on your lap like he owns it, glaring at his owner across the table. To compensate for the trauma he’s experienced, you scratch Morgana behind his ears. When he starts purring, Akira gives him the look of utter betrayal.

“So we’re going to make you ready for finals, huh,” you say, trying to make small talk. “I can’t believe six months are already over.”

Akira doesn’t seem to want any of it. “Uh-huh,” he says, scrolling through his phone. You wait for the elaboration on that sound, but Akira remains quiet. With nothing left to say, you spread the materials on the table. Akira watches you like a predator on hunt.

“You wanna go over some stuff from last time?” you offer, trying to look past the gleam on his glasses.

Akira shakes his head. “Actually, we should wait a little more.”

“Wait?” You stop reaching out to the papers in front of you. “Wait for what?”

He hesitates the tiniest second, but it’s enough time. Behind you, the door opens and welcomes a gust of warm wind inside the room.

“Hey Akira! We got the snacks!” an all to familiar voice announces, followed by multiple feet stomping into the cafe.

“Ryuji, stop pushing!” Ann shoves him to the side like a bag of potatoes. Akira avoids your eyes as you turn around to greet his friends. Besides Ann and Ryuji, two other unfamiliar faces watch you with curious eyes.

“Oh, you made her come!” Ann exclaims, clapping her hands in excitement.

You look from them to Akira, then back to them. And back to Akira. A mischievous glint lights up his eyes, the breath hitching in his throat as he opens his mouth, then quickly presses his lips together when he notices you starring daggers at him. Seeing your murderous gaze, he seems to think twice before jumping on that innuendo and instead clears his throat.

“Yeah,” he says, looking away from you. “Just as promised.”

“Oh, really?” You swallow around the lump in your throat. “You guys wanted me to help you study?”

“Hell yeah!” Ryuji slides right into the seat next to you, glaring at Morgana sprawled over your lap as if just by the will of his stare he’s able to switch their positions. “Akira didn’t want at first, but come on! Except for our school’s Prez, there’s no one who can teach us that stuff better than someone who’s been through it all, right?”

You nod, the smile frozen on your face. Now that’s some news you could have gladly been spared today. No wonder Akira sounded so formal when he asked if you could come over. He must have really wanted to avoid you longer, were it not for his friends. And judging from what you now about him so far, he isn’t one to deny requests.

“Yeah, that’s no problem at all,” you say, quickly filling the silence before your lack of response became suspicious. It’s strange Akira didn’t tell you about the others coming though. Maybe he’d feared you’d decline. Or charge extra. Which you totally will, now that you think about it.

“Hello,” offers the other girl now sliding next to Akira. Her short brown hair curls around her jaw and falls over her forehead, just inches away from concerningly sharp, brown eyes. “Thank you so much for accepting us into your tutor schedule. I am Makoto Nijima.”

“It’s no problem at all,” you say, scooting over to the wall so Ann can fit next to Ruyji. The other boy in this round of strange teenagers takes the free place beside Makoto. He exchanges very suspicious looks with Akira, then proceeds to stare at you for a solid minute. Ignoring it succeeds only so long, before you give him a small, awkward smile. “Hi there?”

Makoto nudges him with her elbow.

“Ah, yes. My apologies, I am Yusuke Kitagawa. And you must be the one Akira has mentioned so often,” he says, nodding like he’s met with a revelation. Shuffling comes from somewhere next to you, a leg brushes against yours. Yusuke jumps slightly and glares at Ryuji, swallowing a gasp of pain. These kids should really learn a thing or two about subtlety.

“Anyyyway, how about we start?” Ann intervenes with her brilliant smile. “Looks like you’ve brought lots of material for us to go through!”

And that’s how one of the most awkward 90 minutes of your life start. Everyone’s brought a little something from their classes which is fine until you’re looking at tasks from English and suffer through some serious PTSD, thinking back to your English finals and entrance exams. Luckily Ann comes to your rescue, and that’s how you get to know a little bit about everyone that day; that Ann’s half Finnish with a love for sweets that surpasses every child’s; that Yusuke likes to fill every blank space in his notebook with studies of hand drawings, glancing at Akira’s for reference; that Makoto is a junkie for brightly coloured sticky notes with a brain that is just beautiful to hear thinking; that Ryuji absentmindedly kneads his right knee whenever he’s struggling to come up with the solution to a task. The only slate remaining the same, filled with little to no facts, is Akira’s. He's still refusing to acknowledge you, his attention shifting smoothly between his friends and only turning to you if it's necessary. He knows how to keep conversations polite without ending on an awkward note, and seems somewhat relieved once you stop trying to talk to him. If that’s how he wants to play it, then so be it, but he’s underestimating you big time if he thinks you won’t confront him about that once you’re alone.

“Maaan, I can’t do this,” Ryuji groans. He stretches and leans back, his pen long forgotten between textbooks, and takes up too much space between the three of you in a booth that’s meant for two people. Ann thinks the same and drills her elbow in his side.

“Can’t you focus for at least five minutes? You’re disturbing everyone else,” she says, twirling long strands of golden hair around her finger.

Ryuji gives her a nasty glare, rubbing his side. “I can’t work like that, man. I need some kind of motivation or else nothing’s gonna happen.”

“Not failing your test should be motivation enough for you, shouldn’t it?” Makoto offers, not looking up from the sentence she’s writing down.

Ryuji grumbles to himself, then perks up. “Oh, I got it! Fireworks! We should go and see the fireworks!”

Several heads look up, their expressions varying from interested to doubting. Ryuji quickly continues now that he has everyone’s attention. “It’s on the 18th, after finals, and it’ll totally make up for all the anxiety and stress I’m going through right now. Plus, like … there’s another. Reason. Right. Akira?” he says, jerking his chin towards Makoto between every last word. It’s obvious there’s something he can’t say out loud, and Akira immediately picks up on it. Yusuke not so much.

“Another reason?” he asks, abandoning his math equation. “Which is?”

Ann’s forced smile is threatening to split her face in half. “Oh, you know, Yusuke! Celebrating that Makoto became one of our friends.”

Whatever this is, its cringe is too painful to watch. For a brief moment, you consider calling them out; telling them that you know ‘friends’ stands for something completely different and you’re onto them.

Yusuke, the sweet summer child, asks, looking at you, “I see, of course! Then please, would you come with us? Now that you’re also our friend, it would only be fair to invite you as well!”

Several heads snap in his direction, the reactions going from a hissed “Yusuke” to a hushed “Take the hint, man”. Only Akira is looking at you, probably evaluating how much you’re interpreting from everyone’s reaction.

Needless to say, it’s a lot. You can clearly see you’re unwanted, and even Morgana has sympathy with you as he rubs his chin on your bare thigh. Or maybe he just wants you to resume patting him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Akira finally offers, staring back down on his task like it needs his complete concentration. “She has enough to do for college. It would be bad if we stole more of her time, right?”

“That’s not for you to decide,” you don’t snap at him because you like to think you have that much dignity. “Yeah,” you agree instead. “Deadlines coming up and stuff.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Ann says, slightly wincing herself at the relief in her voice. “But maybe next time!”

You’re pretty sure there won’t be a next time, but you nod nonetheless so they don’t feel bad about it.

After the session, you join Ann and the rest when they leave Leblanc, seeing as there is no way to get a hold of Akira and talk to him in private with how he avoids you like the plague. Outside, the streets are much cooler. More people linger around the shops, drawn out of their homes and now more active in the evening hours. Your little group moves towards the underground station, and you’d really like to say how strange it is to hang out with those youngsters, but something about them all appears age-less, like they don’t follow basic laws of nature, defying the very notion that age is something that might differentiate people. That is until Ryuji sees the poster of the game Punch Ouch coming out soon and turns into a four year old, getting so excited he starts pulling at everyone’s clothes.

“Why is he such an idiot,” Ann says beside you, wearing an exhausted expression. You sort of want to admit that it gives him a certain kind of charm, but Ann quickly continues, “By the way, thanks again for today! Now I finally get why Akira’s been on top of our class for so long.”

“I think he’s a smart guy by default,” you say, but the compliment flatters you nonetheless, especially coming from Ann.

“Oh, totally,” she agrees, quickly checking herself out in the reflection of a window. “Sometimes it feels like he’s soo much older than us.”

“Akira certainly is very mature for his age,” Makoto joins in. One thing you’ve noticed is her unnervingly straight back and drawn back shoulders, a posture your mother surely would love to see on you as well. Thinking of her, you hunch even more. “I’m sure that whatever he’s planned for his future, it will work out in his favour.”

“Not with that sassy attitude of his,” you mutter, but no one picks it up. Seriously, if you had known how much of a sass-master Akira turned out to be, you’d have thought twice about agreeing tutoring him. Not that it matters anymore. When you said your goodbyes earlier, he didn’t say anything when you missed out on telling him what to do for next sessions or that you’ll see each other next time. Seems like it’s time for you to look for a new job.

“It’ll be the first time me going confident into exams,” Ann chirps, glancing briefly at Ryuji and Yusuke arguing about something. “Remind me to invite you to crêpe next time we meet!”

“I think we should all think about little thank you gift,” Makoto agrees. “We wouldn’t want you to think Akira is surrounded by inconsiderate jerks.”

You don’t quite follow how it matters what you think of them, but it’s certainly refreshing meeting someone so polite.

“The only jerk we got around is Morgana,” Ryuji unhelpfully joins, earning an exasperated sigh from Ann that sounds like this isn’t the first time they're holding this kind of conversation. Instead of starting another argument though, she turns back to you and says, “But I was kind of surprised how at ease Morgana was around you. You must be hanging out a lot with them, right?”

Multiple eyes wait for your answer, and somehow you feel no matter what you say, there isn’t a right one.

“Sort of,” you drag out, pretending the colourful adverts hanging on the buildings need your full attention. “But like Akira said, I’ve been busy lately, so …”

“The cat’s just friendly cause you’re a girl,” Ryuji clarifies, rolling his eyes. Ann kicks him. “But man, they’re both so lucky living above that cafe and all,” he continues. “I’d pay anything to have Boss make me some of his sick curry every day.”

Yusuke mutters something that sounds like “as if you could appreciate the fine craftsmanship of that”. You just stop listening to whatever Ryuji snaps back.

“By the way, does any of you know why he lives there?” you ask into the round. “Boss is what? A relative? Or just someone who took him in?”

The kids grow quiet all of a sudden. They exchange those looks; looks that say more than words, looks only shared by people who are intimate with each other.

Ryuji breaks the silence first. “Truth is, he got involved into some real stupid—”

Makoto cuts him off with a sharp glare. “Ryuji.”

“It would be best you ask him yourself,” Yusuke provides with a stern expression. “We are in no position to talk about his situation.”

Situation he calls it. You don’t press further, respecting these kid’s loyalty. If you needed any further proof that Akira is surrounded by friends who really cherish him, this is certainly the selling argument. What still bothers you though is that chances are high Akira won’t tell you even if you ask him. Akira is an enigma you can’t solve because every time you think you have the solution for a part, it turns out it doesn’t fit at all and instead opens a dozen new riddles. It’s frustrating, and disheartening, but you stand firm to what you told Akira all those weeks ago. If he thinks he can get rid of you that easily, you’re up for the challenge to prove him wrong.

“I need to get laid and you’re going to help me.”

You look up from your essay, only a couple hundred words away from finishing it and going into a long overdue relaxing weekend. Whatever Kenji Tomochika sees in your face, it isn’t the reaction he’s expected because he immediately turns on his begging strategy and drapes himself over your table, covering your books with his body. Kenji is a nice guy. A little too eager to please, and what he lacks in theoretical understanding, he makes up with a lot of on point intuition that borders on scary. As a law senior, he’s already done with most of the obligatory part and now focuses on looking for a place to finish all his internships. With his natural flirty tendency, it’s a surprise he’s asking anybody for help. You’ve heard from a third party that he used to date a teacher back in high school, but you take them for what they are. Rumours.

“Come oooon, I promise I’m gonna prepare all your presentation slides for the rest of this term,” he offers, blinking up at you.

You ignore his pleading eyes. “No offence, but your slides tend to be the most useless I’ve ever seen.”

“More like full offence,” Kenji mutters, leaning back. “It’s not like you have any other plans for today evening. Right?”

“Maybe I do.”

“Narukami’s outta town. You don’t hang out with anyone else. I’m willing to spend some time with you out of the goodness of my heart. There’s literally no reason to decline.”

You answer with the most blank expression you can muster, hoping Kenji fills it himself with a clear One reason is simply I don’t want to hang out with you. Kenji remains clueless.

“Don’t tell me there’s no one else who wants to be your wingman,” you say.

Kenji looks sheepishly away. “You’re the only one I trust.”

What a smooth gremlin. Plus you’ve always been weak to dimples and oh boy, Kenji uses his like a sharp weapon cutting down your defences. It’d be great if someone could finally put a leash on him and stop him from flirting with everything that fancies two legs.

“When and where?”

Kenji’s eyes light up like a child’s. “I could kiss you.” You don’t miss his hand sneaking up to your thigh. “Actually, if you wanna—”

“I’m going to chop off something very important to you if you don’t take your hands off,” you say, not looking away from your essay. Kenji gives a nervous little chuckle, but pulls his hand away with lightning-speed.

So that is how you end up standing in front of Crossroads, a popular bar tugged away under a large office building in Shinjuku. Kenji is fashionably late, as always, but when he finally arrives ten minutes past your meeting time, you can’t stop the groan once he stands in front of you.

“What are you wearing?”

Kenji looks at his attire, tuxedo and tie looking sharp like they just came out of the cleaners. “Why, what’s wrong?”

“We’re going to a bar, not to the Prime Minister’s wedding.”

“You think the Prime Minister would invite me?!”

You groan again, pushing him towards the door. “Just get inside.”

The interior hasn’t changed much since your last visit a couple of months ago. Pinkish-red light throws black shadows into the corners of the room. Lots of patrons linger around, even though it’s barely 8. You can hear Lala’s smooth, deep voice rumbling through the air, the sweet smell of booze lingering everywhere. Undeniably, this establishment has class and all of a sudden you feel out of place and wished you were wearing something as fancy as Kenji, who seems to read your mind and gives you a smug jerk of his chin, celebrating his own attire.

“Welcome to Crossroads,” someone greets you from behind the bar, and your legs freeze, succeeding in Kenji walking right into you. You can’t believe it. Behind the bar stands a lanky boy wearing an apron, thick black curls sticking in every direction. Motherfucker.

“What are you doing here?” you ask Akira who blinks innocently at you like he’s never been anywhere else than in this bar. He’s scrubbing a glass, and nods at you like a cowboy who doesn’t want to hurt another cowboy.

“Welcome,” he repeats. “What can I bring you?”

So that’s the game he wants to play. Fine, you’re pretty good at ignoring people as well, so you pull Kenji towards the farthest seat away from the bar, ignoring his complains about how you’re putting wrinkles in his suit jacket. Unfortunately, he thwarts your brilliant plan by growing roots and remains right there in front of the bar stools.

“Wait, let’s just sit down here and have the booze keep coming,” he says, and sits down right in front of Akira. You don’t miss how Kenji sneaks glances to the girl in a pink evening dress sitting two stools to his left. Akira considers you for two seconds, then moves to the far right, away from you. Kenji looks after him with apparent interest like a shark that’s scented blood from miles away.

“You know him?” he asks the unavoidable, and now you’re feeling really petty, so you answer loud enough for Akira to hear, “Barely.”

Kenji doesn’t look like he believes you. The girl in the pink dress sitting beside him doesn’t look like she believes you. Behind you, Akira coughs what suspiciously sounds like “Liar.” You refuse to acknowledge him, and Kenji thankfully doesn’t comment on it as well. Finally, Lala comes around and greets you, flipping ash in an ashtray next to the sink and looking astonishing as always in her beautiful kimono.

“Why, if this isn’t Kenji. Nice of you to show your face again after all this time,” she greets him, then immediately turns to you. “And this your girlfriend?”

“I wish,” Kenji says at the same time you throw back, “Heck no.”

Lala doesn’t even blink. “Yes, you do seem too good for him.”

When Kenji complains, she softly chucks the bottom of his chin with a loose fist and smiles, promising to serve you two drinks right away. She’s just everything you aspire to be.

“Look at her, treating me like I’m a little kid,” Kenji mumbles, picking on his paper towel. His eyes quickly shift to the girl, before he picks himself up again and straightens his back. No time can mentally prepare you for what he’s planned to pick her up. “But back to what I was telling you! I’m currently working with pharmaceutical companies. They were looking for a prosecutor who’s got experience in that industry, and well,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “There’s no one better than me.”

Oh God, how often did you tell him that gloating about himself isn’t the best ice breaker. You say, “Great,” but it comes off too dry, so you clear your throat and try again with as much awe as you can stuff in your voice, “Grrreeaaat.” Kenji nods eagerly, and then starts rambling about some bad cases and some worse co-workers, and it becomes really hard to focus on what he says and react accordingly. At least the drinks Lala keeps serving are a nice consolation for the evening that you lose. You’re basically just slurping away your drink during Kenji’s frantic speech, when suddenly something hits the back of your head. When you turn around, a little nut clatters to the ground. Kenji looks over your shoulder, staring down at the little thing.

“Woah, where did that come from?”

You have a pretty good idea, and when you raise your eyes, there’s only one person in your sight. Akira whistles like it’s no one’s business, but he left the bowl with nuts and raisins close to him intentionally so you can see them. You take a deep breath. Maybe his hand slipped or something.

“Okay, and so how did the case end?” you resume the conversation, squaring your shoulders so Akira can see they’re a wall separating you two. If Akira understands your idea, he answers by using nuts as bullets to tear it down. Another nut lands against the back of your head. Then another, then another. The fifth gets stuck in your hair. Carefully, Kenji points at it with his finger. “You got, uhm. You know, there’s—”

Akira snorts and that’s when you snap. You jump to your feet, glaring at him. “What the heck is your problem?!”

He whirls around and slams both hands on the counter. “What the heck is your problem?”

“You can’t do that, I asked first!”

“Well, I don’t want to answer!”

“Kids, if you don’t settle down in three seconds, I will throw you out of my bar,” Lala chirps from the side, her glare sending chills down your spine. You stare at Akira. “I’ll meet you after your shift.”

Akira gives a sharp nod. “Behind the vending machines at 11. And no kicking!” he yells after you like you’re elementary school kids after you slam some coins on the bar and stomp outside, ignoring Kenji calling your name. The cool evening air will surely calm you. The dozens visual stimulations will surely distract you before you come up with the best way to strangle Akira. If he thinks you’ll go easy on him for ignoring and then annoying you, he’s got something bad coming.

Akira is waiting for you exactly where you planned, leaning against the wall with both hands stuffed in his pockets. Even from a distance, you can clearly see the tension in his shoulders, and you think, Good, he better be nervous about this. You raise your chin when you’re finally standing in front of him. Akira looks down at (on?) you, and immediately you feel your temper boil again.

“Are you going to apologise or what?” you demand, putting both hands on your hips to underline how upset you are like a mom chiding her child. Immediately, your arms drop, but you stand firm. Akira cocks an eyebrow at you. “For what?”

The coldness in his voice cuts you like a sharp shard of glass. It’s a new side of Akira you haven’t seen before, one you’re not willed to face without fighting back.

“Oh, you know. For being a jerk?”

Akira looks at you like you’re speaking a different language, like the very notion of him being connected to that word just doesn’t exist in his understanding of the world. He leans his head back against the wall, exposing the elegant curve of his neck. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why are you such an ass?” you hiss, feeling your patience dissipate with every second. “I didn’t do anything to you, did I? Or is this your stupid idea of keeping me away because of Kaneshiro?”

Akira’s eye twitches. He pushes himself off the wall, now looming over you. “This has nothing to do with Kaneshiro,” he hisses, voice gravely low. “You still shouldn’t say his name out loud where his thugs might hear you.”

Okay, point taken. “So, why then? Did you just spontaneously decide you’re not interested in—” me you almost say, but quickly finish with “— being friends anymore?” If he says Yes, it will probably be the biggest friendship you’ll regret. Already you have poured too soon too much from yourself into it, and it will be difficult to pick up the pieces Akira might decide to throw away once he walks away from you.

A shadow jumps over Akira’s face. For a second, he seems uncertain, but it quickly makes way to a frown. “I just thought you might want to spend more time with your boyfriend instead of wasting time on tutor hours.”

You squint up at him, unsure if you’ve heard right. “Excuse me, what?”

“You heard me quite clear,” Akira says, his tone back to freezing point save for a little tremor that betrays him.

Since you can’t decide on either smacking or kicking him, you settle for a weak punch to his side, affectively damaging nothing at all. “You are. Really, really, really stupid … for someone who’s on top of his class.”

Akira blinks. ”Did you just call me dumb.”

“What boyfriend?” you almost shriek. “Who says I have a boyfriend?”

“I—” Akira starts, then points at the crook of his neck. There’s nothing on his skin, so his argument falls flat, until he points at you and miraculously, you connect the dots. Both hands raise to your face as you bless Akira with one of your rare face palms.

“Akira,” you say into the palm of your hands. “Why the fuck would you read something like that into a hickey.”

Akira gives a half-gasp, and when you peak through your fingers, you see his dumbfounded expression. “It’s a hickey? Who else would give you one?”

You don’t even understand why you have this kind of conversation. Why Akira cares about something so personal. Feeling you’re already too deep down the rabbit hole, you decide it can’t get any worse.

“Akira, there’s this thing called one-night stand,” you yell-whisper, and feel a tiny, smug satisfaction when all colour drains from his face. He opens his mouths, then closes it. The fight almost leaves his body, but doubles back. Akira hisses, “How was I supposed to know?”

“Not at all!” you hiss back, just faintly acknowledging that you’re standing close enough to each other for your toes to touch. “Because there’s another thing you should learn a thing or two about and that’s privacy.”

Akira looks ready to fight you for his honour and principles, and it takes a second or two before you realise he’s freaking sulking. You’re ready to hand him his ass, promising some direly needed lessons in basic human interaction which doesn’t include assuming about other people’s relationship status and acting like an asshole because of it, but suddenly you remember Makoto calling Akira mature for his age and God, how you wish you could save this moment via video and show her that no, Akira is a fucking brat who acts like a little kid who is denied playing with his favourite toy—and that makes you laugh and dissolve the tension inside you.

Akira interprets it wrong, and you can see tiny red blotches on his face. It looks charming on his pale skin. “Oh, that’s rich. Yeah, keep laughing at me.”

“I’m not—” you start, but don’t know how to finish. Eventually, you only come up with, “Akira, what are we doing here?”

Akira gives you a scrutinising look. “We’re fighting, and no one’s winning. Which sucks because I like winning.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think anyone is happy with this.”

Akira presses his mouth into a thin line, then relaxes, and just like that, the air leaves his lungs and he slumps back, defeated. It’s all you need to know everything is going to be okay.

“Come on, I’m buying you a sandwich,” you say, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

Akira follows reluctantly. “Why a sandwich.”

“So you can be the idiot sandwich that you are.”

Akira grunts, a barely passable laugh. It uncoils a tight knot in your stomach, allowing you to breathe easier.

The good thing about any of the big districts in Tokyo is that most shops and stalls are still open past midnight. The streetfood is famous for its high price but amazing taste. You decide on okonomiyaki, and take a free bench in Toyama Park. Since it’s mostly couples strolling under the dim lanterns and dark trees, holding hands and leaning into each other, you leave an arm’s length between you and Akira out of politeness, and dig in.

“It feels like we haven’t talked in ages,” Akira admits, chewing on his plastic spoon. You could tell him that yeah, it’s been almost a whole month, but you don’t want him to think you’re keeping tabs on how often you see each other.

“Yeah, you look like you’ve grown again, bean sprout,” you say, dodging Akira’s foot trying to nudge yours.

“Plus I’m getting a serious sense of déjà vu,” he continues. “Our last fight ended with me apologising as well, didn’t it?”

“You want me to make a tally for that?” you offer smiling, but your words lack any bite.

Akira manages a little smile. “I’m sorry. That makes it the third or fourth, counting each time I was a jerk to you.”

“Forget about it. As long as it doesn’t happen again.”

“Promise.”

And you really believe him because it doesn’t seem far fetched that Akira is someone who treats promises like a holy oath. With the air cleared between you, but now tense, you really want to lay it to rest, and your brain provides a strange topic out of the dumpster that your memory sometimes is: “By the way, I heard The Phantom Thieves dealt with Kaneshiro. Pretty convenient, huh?”

Akira’s head snaps up. “What?”

You turn around. “What?”

Akira looks like a dear caught in front of a car’s headlights. “I mean, you heard about that?”

“It was basically everything everyone talked about, right? Hard not to hear about it."

“Yeah.” Akira gives a strained laugh. “Convenient.”

“You know, I gave them a lot of shit when they turned up, but lately, I’ve been wondering if they’re actually really doing something good for our society,” you admit, avoiding Akira’s eyes. He’s nice enough not to gloat about it, and asks quietly, “How come?”

“Well, they’re just … they’re doing something?” you offer weakly. “It might be wrong how they do it. But so far, all their targets deserved it? They take down corrupt people, so … they must be good, right?” You hate the insecurity in your voice just as much as all those questions. Since your fight with your dad, you’ve been checking out the Phansite a lot more, trying to keep up with the news and comments. Especially the request section caught your interest, and more than once you caught yourself wondering if you should try it out yourself, asking them to change your Dad’s heart. But they wouldn’t notice your post, not with all the flooding messages coming in. At least that’s the convenient excuse you tell yourself.

Occupied with all these questions, you only notice Akira talking to you when he lightly puts the tips of his fingers on your bare thigh.

“They try to help,” he says, his fingers remaining on your skin even though you’re already paying attention to him. “But they would also not be doing what they do were it not for people like Madarame and Kaneshiro.”

And Dad, you think grimly, looking down where Akira’s fingers slightly dip into your skin. He waits another second before finally pulling back, his back straight—a clear indicator that he’s preparing himself for something you won’t like.

“Can I … uhm … ask how your brother is doing?”

Your body tenses, but your brain luckily doesn’t answer with a counterattack immediately. Apparently, your heart has accepted Akira trying to creep inside.

“He’s fine … I guess,” you mumble. Really talking about it is too early, especially since you’re still sorting out how to replace the broken furniture after the fallout with your dad. But it doesn’t leave you choking on raw emotions which is a good start. “After giving you shit for your behaviour last time, I guess I owe you an explanation, don’t I.”

Akira slowly shakes his head, but it lacks determination.There’s never a good way to start talking about it, so you just set out to be done with it as fast as possible.

“He’s in a psychiatric clinic. My parents think he’s a danger to himself and those around him, so they try to lock him away, but the only thing they care about is their reputation. You see, you can’t be anything but perfect, and to them depression is a sickness you can just … just carve out of you or something if you try hard enough. So they leave him there. They let the doctors do their work, but they don’t really do anything.” Your voice is barely audible now, just a remnant of breath left stuck somewhere inside you. “They don’t care about his wellbeing as well.”

Just thinking about it flares the sharp agony of grief up in your chest—you feel as you imagined a fish caught on a hook might feel, twisting and turning to get away from the spike of pain driven into its flesh.

 Beside you, Akira ruffles his hair and mutters, “It all comes back to adults, huh.”

Certainly not the reaction you expected. When you look over to Akira with confusion clearly in your eyes, he huffs a little sigh, and leans back against the bench, looking up into the treetops. A hand comes up to tug at his bangs, and you can’t help but wonder how his hair would feel between your fingers.

“Originally, I’m from a little town called Yamato south from Tokyo,” he says. Your heart stumbles, not believing what’s about to happen. But before you can tell Akira he doesn’t need to feel pressured talking about himself, he drops the bomb. “And now I live here on probation.”

Immediately, your back rises straighter. “Probation?” You exhale slowly, voice shaky as you try to joke. “Is this the moment you tell me you murdered someone?”

And that’s how Akira tells you the story of someone trying to do the right thing, only for it to backfire like a high caliber cannon because of two horrendous adults, one suing, the other betraying him. The story leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, and even though you know how most cases like that go about, and how small justice stands for someone so young facing a powerful politician, you can’t help but protest. “Why didn’t you speak up?” you ask Akira like it could be that easy. “You did nothing wrong!”

Akira doesn’t look at you, his expression somewhat impassive. “Why should I? They wouldn’t have believed me anyway. I was branded a delinquent, so I played the role.”

“Still, it’s so wrong,” you say as if Akira doesn’t know it himself. “And what’s up with your parents, just going with it and sending you away?”

Akira shrugs, but he’s started kneading the back of his neck, clearly not wanting to talk more about them.

“So my parents suck, and your parents suck,” you conclude, kicking pebbles around like a petulant child. “The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

“Hmmm.” Akira’s hand falls back to his side, resting on the bench with its open palm facing you. You really want to press your thumb inside and see if the skin is soft or calloused. “I don’t know about my parents, but I’m pretty sure something can be done about yours,” he says.

“Oh, pfff. Yeah.” You roll your eyes. “What do you youngsters say? Only ‘until Hell freezes over?’”

Akira raises an eyebrow.

“You know, it’s impossible. With my parents. And did you actually now that Dante has Hell frozen in his work? Cause he had balls. And knew heat rises. So it makes perfect sense for the deepest part of Hell to be freaking ice cold,” you add, rambling on and on to ignore how light you feel after telling him about your family, and even more that he’s trusted you with a little honesty of himself. Maybe it’s the only way to cope. A little sadness for a little sadness.

“So not so impossible after all,” Akira remarks, smiling to himself like he’s just solved a secret.

“You can give me a call once you’ve figured something out,” you say, and then add with a grin, “country boy.”

Akira groans. “Please don’t.”

“Country roads, Take me home,” you start singing. Akira looks like he wants to strangle you. “To the place, I beLONG.”

“Who’s behaving like an ass now,” Akira says, crumbling his leftover food paper back into a little ball. He throws it in the garbage bin a couple feet away from you, hitting bullseye. You whistle.

“I gotta go back before Sojiro decides he won’t let me out at night,” Akira says, standing up and stretching his long limbs. “He may be nice to all my friends, but he’s going to hand me my ass if I don’t show my best side.”

“I’m sure he just wants the best for you,” you say, standing up as well, stretching as well. Not looking at how the muscles in Akira’s arm strain when he pulls them high above his head.

“Yeah,” Akira breathes, his face softening when he turns into the orange light of the lantern. “Probably.”

“I want the best for you too, you know,” you mumble, poking his side with a loose fist. “So we’re going back to our regular schedule, and you can bet your ass I’m going to make you work on everything you’ve missed.”

“Yeah,” Akira breathes again, this time smiling with his eyes as the skin around them crinkles slightly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

It’s good to be back, to return to your routine of going to Leblanc and enjoy some good quality coffee while watching Akira work on tasks you’ve deliberately made a little harder just to test how much smarter he really is than he lets on. So far, he hasn’t disappointed you, but you get the feeling it’s because he’s agreed to play your little game for now. So you decided to change tactics today, entering Leblanc with a stride that speak volumes of what you consider to be your victory. Akira is already waiting for you, but he’s not alone. On top of him him, another boy is pretty much lying on him, one hand curled tight around Akira’s left wrist where Akira is holding something, the other propping his weight on the back of the seat. Akira is the first to notice you, and he stops his struggle against the other boy who uses that split moment of distraction to reclaim whatever Akira was holding in his hand, when he finally follows Akira’s eyes and looks at you and, wow, you think, that is Goro freaking Akechi jumping Akira’s bones.

“You want me to come again once you’ve finished?” you ask. A quick glance to Sojiro for help tells you that he’s ignoring you all in favour of staying out of whatever bullshit Akira’s gotten himself into now. You could learn a lot from him.

“This … this is not what it looks like,” Akechi quickly says, scrambling to his feet.

“Honey, saying it like that makes it exactly look what it looked like,” Akira unhelpfully adds. Akechi throws him a quick nasty glare, then smooths the nonexistent creases out of his uniform and strides with as much dignity as he can maintain to the exit, giving you a bright, if forced smile. “If you excuse me.”

You make room for his leave, slowly returning your gaze to Akira, who’s still half draped over the seat, and you try go ignore the stripe of skin showing where his shirt has shifted up.

“You’re friends with the famous Junior Detective Prince?” you ask, closing the distance until you sit down opposite from him.

Akira’s eyes wander to a spot above your head, then back to the notebook in front of him. “Something like that,” he says, and opens the notebook, signalling the end of this topic. Now that’s interesting, and totally none of your business, so you push it far away in your mind. Also, why doesn’t he call you Honey. Not that it matters. You hate pet names anyway.

Just like you’ve expected, Akira needs a little more time to figure out the solution to the math equations, but he manages to come up with the right result using a completely different formula because apparently even the logics of mathematics succumb to Akira and act in this favour. No matter that, the sight of him think and fiddle with his pen, twirling it between his slender fingers and occasionally pushing the end against his lips is a good compensation for your loss this round. You just love looking at this hands, the very one Yusuke has used as reference to fill pages of his notebook, and you remember you read somewhere that beautiful hands are somewhat religious, worthy of worshipping. If this doesn’t speak Akira’s name, you don’t know what does.

But you notice he’s working slower today than usual, mainly because he keeps looking at the door like he expects someone to come. Or maybe return, you realise, thinking back to how Akira’s free hand was splayed on the small of Akechis’ back.

Oh, you think, looking at the faint red finger marks on Akira’s left wrist. Oh shit.

Chapter Text

“Pickpockets and cat burglars get charged with larceny, but what about these next two cases?” asks the game show host, pulling up cards to the viewers. “A: Take money from a lost wallet, or B: Joyride, but return the car?”

You’re nibbling on your cup’s rim, squinting at the TV screen. “It’s gotta be A, right?”

Narukami doesn’t even look up as he struggles to pull a pizza slice on his plate. “It’s B.”

“The correct answer is B! Saying you planned on returning it just won’t fly in court!”

You don’t have to see to know Narukami is giving you a smug smile, and for that you try and push him off the couch. He remains unfazed as if he’s Siddhartha Gautama himself sitting below the sacred fig tree. “That’s cheating,” you say.

“You consume gas and wear down the tires. Driving someone’s car without permission is larceny,” Narukami explains with a casual voice like he’s talking to a grade schooler. “Taking something that someone lost or dropped is theft by finding, a much lighter crime.”

“Stop showing off.”

Narukami gives you an indulgent smile. For someone claiming he hasn’t slept in 29 hours, he’s surprisingly attentive and ready to pounce on every sort of bullshit you think you might get away with. Only the grayish shadows under his eyes betray how exhausted he must be. And still he accepted your invitation to hang out. He’s either a fool for giving up so much of himself for you, or a saint. Sometimes the line between those is paper thin.

Suddenly, Narukami leans over and sniffs at your shoulder, which is rude much? You startle back to the other side of the couch, eyes wide.

“Oh, wow! Dude, wow! Ever heard of, eh, personal space? Is that still a thing that we do?” you say like you never huddle too close to him whenever you’re cold and rob him of excessive warmth.

“Coffee,” he says, ignoring you. “You smell like coffee lately.”

“Yeah? You do know it’s the only thing keeping me alive, right?” It’s a strange observation because you probably owe him a car’s worth considering how often he pays for coffee when you two meet up or you shut yourself in during exam periods and he comes over to check if you’re still alive.

“No.” Narukami shakes his head. “This is like … quality stuff. Not the cheap poison you drink.”

“Well, excuse you,” you mutter. Heat settles in your cheeks. He must pick on Leblanc’s trademark scent which is unsurprising. You’ve spent the past days lounging in Leblanc, helping Akira catch up with his studies during summer break. Those sessions only confirmed what you’ve learnt the last couple of weeks: Akira really doesn’t need tutoring. He’s smart and picks up on things very quickly. The way he adapts to problems with lightning speed is something you should learn from him in fact. So that opens up the bigger question: Why are you two still doing this? You’re sure he’s got better stuff to do than meet twice a week for barely needed tutor sessions. Even so he demands you two meet up, and still insists to pay even though you told him tutoring became more like a favour than an actual job.

“I don’t mind,” he’d said when you settled in his room, watching him play a game on his dinosaur of a console. “It’s the condition of our deal, isn’t it?”

“If you want us only to be all business, sure,” you’d told him, scribbling notes on a chart paper. “I just thought you’d have better use of 7,000yen than wasting it on me.”

“I don’t think I’m wasting it.” Akira had looked away from his TV at you, his grey eyes the colour of a storm cloud. “Especially not on you.”

“Sweet talker.” You’d nudged his knee with your toes, and Akira caught your ankle to place your foot on his thigh like it’s a daily ritual for you two.

It’s still such a mystery why he’s single.

Speaking of single, only one slice of pizza is left. While you were thinking about Akira, Narukami has vacuumed almost everything. He notices as much and stares from the now nearly empty carton to your plate.

“How are you still not finished?” he asks, considering your barely nibbled slice that’s gone cold.

“Huh?” You follow his eyes to your untouched plate. When you think back to your last decent meal, your mind becomes blank.

“Uh, I’ve already eaten. Brunch,” you lie. “Just two hours ago.”

“And you still decided to order pizza?” Narukami shakes his head. “Talk about waste of money.”

“Sorry, dad.”

“I didn’t raise you to be like this.”

“You didn’t raise me at all,” you mumble, tugging your toes under his naked thighs. Narukami looks at you like you’ve lost your mind, which might be true because it’s 86F outside, not uncommon for mid-August, and you still manage to have cold feet. He tries to shuffle away, but there’s only so far he can get on your small couch until he reaches the end. With a defeated sigh, Narukami succumbs to be your heater, as if he ever got a chance for a different outcome, that fool.

You lean back and slurp your ice tea, when your phone starts buzzing with an incoming call. The screen tells you it’s Cat Boy calling, and before you can stop it, a smile has already found its way on your face. Narukami raises an eyebrow at the name which reminds you that you have to tell him the story how Akira jumped into Ryuji’s arms and demanded to be carried because he refused to walk on wet ground. It’s a whole new level of extra that didn’t surprise you about him.

“What’s up?” you greed him, wiggling your toes under Narukami. He mouths “Stop it” at you.

“What do you know about cognitive psience?” Akira asks, his voice a little muffled.

You tug your phone between ear and shoulder, grabbing a note pad and pen from your table. “Cognitive science?”

“No, psience. With psi.”

“I, well. I’m not sure. It might have been mentioned sometime during a lecture as a new research field, but I don’t think I have much about it.”

“Could you look into it for me?”

“Uhh, what’s it for?”

Wood creaks in the background, and you hear a conversation in hushed whispers. “It’s part of our deal, isn’t it? ” Akira says, trying to sound carefree but you don’t miss the little edge to his voice. Or maybe it’s just bad reception. “You teach me about all the things I don’t know.”

“Okay. Fine. I mean, yeah, sure. Just give me some time.”

“You’re the best, teach,” Akira says, and before you can reply, he’s already ended the call. You blink at your phone, a little surprised. Narukami watches you with mild interest, chewing the last pizza slice slowly.

“Kids these days,” you say with a shake of your head.

“You tell me.” Narukami sighs and sinks deeper into the cushions. “Nanako stopped calling me big bro. She thinks it’s embarrassing for her age.”

“You poor man.”

Narukami pinches the thin skin on your ankle. “I’m serious. I can’t believe she’ll be 15 this year.”

“I bet she’ll be a real heart breaker.”

He looks at you in utter shock, like the very thought that Nanako might soon engage in romantic relationships didn’t occur to him at all. His protective instinct towards her warms your heart like the early sunshine winking in your room each morning.

“And now, please welcome the young Charismatic Detective, Goro Akechi!”

Your head snaps to the TV just as Akechi appears on screen. A bolt strikes through you as the image of your first meeting in Leblanc settles in your mind, him leaning over Akira. You scramble to your feet and jump over the narrow table, ignoring Narukami calling your name in warning as your toes barely miss a bottle of water. He probably worries for your sanity, but nothing can stop you. You kneel in front of your TV, holding your weight with both hands pressed against the screen and stare at Akechi’s face, waiting for a close up. When it finally comes, whatever he’s saying to the host and audience is lost on you. You stick your tongue out and drag it over Screen-Akechi’s cheek.

There’s silence. Then, Narukami, because he’s your bestest friend, very gently, says, “What the fuck are you doing.”

“My fortune reader told me that’s how I can get insight about my rival,” you explain, smacking your lips. It tastes like plastic. Which means Akechi must be fake. You’re a genius.

Narukami whispers your name softly. He sounds like you hurt him on a spiritual level.

“What?” you say, frowning. “Shut up, I’m an intellectual.”

“God, please help me with this idiot,” Narukami mumbles looking up at the ceiling. “Get back here and explain. How do you even know him. And please don’t believe everything your fortune teller says.”

You listen for now and retreat back to your seat, tugging your toes back where they belong under Narukami’s legs. He gives a disgusted groan, but you don’t know if it’s because of your feet or what you just did. Could be both.

“Let’s just say I became a fan of the Phantom Thieves and I don’t like what he’s saying about them,” you explain because it’s easier than the truth: that he’s your rival in love and you’re trying to conquer the heart of your underage student.

“Since when do you support the Phantom Thieves?” Narukami asks, looking more than doubtful. You haven’t really told him about the fallout with your dad and it causing your opinion on them doing a complete turnaround, but it’s constantly waiting on the tip of your tongue. You only need the right time to confide in him.

“Well, since … you know. Since they dealth with Kaneshiro.”

Narukami hums thoughtfully and nods, but the way he’s looking at you screams he knows you’re hiding something from him. Still, he lets it drop for now and looks back at the screen, considering Akechi. “I heard he’s the Second Advent of the Detective Prince. I knew the first one.”

“Bullshit.”

“I didn’t tell you?” he says, turning back to you. “Naoto Shirogane was my underclassman in high school.”

“What is she doing now? Can we get her so she can hand him his ass?”

“You really don’t like him, huh?” Narukami observes impartially, watching the boy answer a few questions from the audience.

“Yeah, well, what can I say. He seems like a fake bitch,” you mutter, sharing your revelation with him. Narukami grunts a barely restrained laugh.

“He’s what? 18? Be the adult one, will you?”

You mumble where he can put being the adult one under your breath. Narukami pinches your ankle again.

“Well, he sure seems nice, doesn’t he?” he says. “And apparently everyone shares his opinion about the Phantom Thieves and Medjed.”

“Because that’s what he wants you to believe,” you groan, waving your hands in wild gesticulation and only missing the pinboard showcasing your conspiracy theory behind you. “What if he’s a serial killer. Detective at day, serial killer at night. Wasn’t there some case like that in a rural city a couple of years ago?”

Narukami tenses beside you for a moment, his fingers disappearing from your skin. “You’re paranoid,” he says with a strange edge to his voice. “And I don’t know. Never heard of a case like that.”

You hum thoughtfully, feeling like there’s something he doesn’t tell you. For all the things he demands you to tell him, there’s shockingly little you know about Narukami and it hasn’t bothered you much. But now that you’ve known the benefits of trusting someone thanks to Akira, maybe it’s time to work on your friendship.

So you lean forward and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing.

“It’s okay, Yuu,” you say, feeling confident. “I may be a paranoid idiot, but I am your paranoid idiot. And I’ll be it as long as we’re together.”

Narukami raises an eyebrow. “Why does this feel like a marriage proposal.”

“It can be anything you want, sweetie.”

He grunts, now unable to fight the smile on his face. “If you say so.” Narukami taps a rhythm on your leg, eyes fixed on the screen that’s showing a pole about the public’ votes of who might become the next prime minister. He narrows his eyes as he goes through the list. “I heard your dad might become a member of congress? They introduced him as a potential candidate,” he starts carefully, treading into dangerous waters. He eyes you sideways, probably waiting for a rejection that will stop him like an iceberg and sink his ship.

“He didn’t tell me anything,” you say, and you can see how Narukami visibly exhales as he’s allowed to transit. “And we haven’t seen each other since he blessed me with an unannounced visit. But politics is exactly the thing he needs to stoke his ego.”

Narukami throws you little glances as if he’s still estimating when you’ll close the door on him. ”He’ll be entirely focused on his work, even more than now, won’t he?”

“Nothing unusual about that,” you say, looking where he’s playing an uneven rhythm on your ankle. “I don’t even know the last time he went to see my brother.”

His fingers stop. “You have a brother?”

“Yeah.” You take in a shaky breath, focusing on breathing instead of thinking about all the ways to abandon the topic from its course. “And he’s what the kids call ‘troubled.’”

Narukami shifts, all amusement drained from his face as he gives you his undivided attention. Talking about Kinoe feels a lot less like fumbling on a thorn stuck in your flesh. It’s the soothing balm after a burn, the warming bath after spending nights in the freezing cold. Narukami listens to you as if he’s always waited all his life for this moment, knowing it’s the last piece to finish a puzzle that will give him a clear picture of you. When you’re done, he’s resting both hands intertwined on your foot as if in prayer, frowning deeply.

“Your brother deserves better,” he says quietly, his gaze solely fixed on you. You feel strangely vulnerable, but it’s the first time it isn’t connected to a bad feeling and instead you feel like you’re finally bearing your innermost fears. “And what your father does is unacceptable. Kinoe isn’t a minor anymore, and therefore should decide to leave the facility whenever he wants.”

“If only it were that easy,” you sigh. “At this point I don’t know if he knows … or wants.”

“But was his referral justified?” Narukami asks, straight to the case. It’s still hard to decide if you like or hate that about him.

“Yes, he needs medical treatment, if you mean that.” Meeting his eyes becomes harder, so instead you focus on a blank spot on a shelf where for some time after your moving in, you’d kept a picture of you and Kinoe that’s mysteriously disappeared after a visit from your mother. “I remember when he started feeling unwell. And when everything got worse.”

Not that this is something you might easily forget. Saying your earliest memories of him start in the womb sounds like something from a movie and you don’t believe in superstitious stuff like that. But then again, rather than a memory, it’s more like a feeling. The feeling that the only right way to be born is together, side by side with another person instead of alone. Some very clear memories of you together are how you two were four years and fighting for a pink doll’s plastic car. When you won, Kinoe was so upset with you he punched your nose bloody. Or when you mocked him for getting into anime and he didn’t talk to you for a whole week. The only way to make up then was to watch a whole season of his current favourite show, and yeah, you had to admit anime wasn’t so bad.

But once he became a teenager, everything turned worse. Instead of talking each other’s ears off, you spend hours silently in your separate rooms, a locked door to his room and heart not allowing to remain. The first time your mother found out he’d hurt himself willingly ended in a full night of her screaming at him to stop because she was afraid of what her neighbours and friends might think.

Kinoe turned from a bright boy charming everyone with his jokes and spectacular acting abilities to a withdrawn, quiet hermit not leaving his room with his eyes glued to the ground; moments of clear and bright moods more often and quickly followed by nervous breakdowns and uncontrollable crying. You imagine now he must have been like walking around with his head on fire and no one could see the flames.

You always thought you were the one helpless; unable to support him or help, unable to change the way he sees the world. But how much worse was it for Kinoe, imprisoned in a mind that didn’t allow him to; couldn’t see the good, the worthwhile, the little promises of overcoming hardships. It was something you learnt only once he was gone, locked up by your dad and never mentioned again like a dirty secret that might cease to exist once forgotten.

The word missing can’t even encompass what you feel right now. Everyone says twins have a special connection, that they are so much more emotionally linked to each other, but you doubt it’s different from normal siblings. Right now, you just want to see him, and hold him, and maybe hold him so tight you can crawl into his skin and stay there so nothing separates you again. Maybe that’s the only thing differentiating you from siblings. The physical proximity that calls for its original; being born from the very same egg, the very same protein structure.

“I wish I had a sibling,” Narukami says after you finish talking, and you’re very thankful he doesn’t comment on you red, tear-dimmed eyes. Something wistful lies in his expression, making him look a lot younger.

“Nanako left that much of an impression on you, huh?” you say, surprised by how steady you sound even though your chest feels like it’s crushed by grief.

“Nanako, uncle Dojima. Pretty much everyone in Inaba.”

“But you don’t really talk much about your time there,” you start slowly, unsure where this conversation is heading. “I always got the feeling it wasn’t so good after all.”

“There were good and bad things, as are everywhere,” Narukami states, his expression wistful. “I only managed because I met a bunch of great people who helped me and made me the person I am today.”

“Why did you go in the first place?”

Narukami hesitates for a brief second, bracing himself for God knows what. “I didn’t have much of a choice. My parents send me there because they were working overseas.”

“Were your parents also a little too focused on their work?” you ask, feeling like Narukami opens the biography to your own life when he nods.

“Work is like a religion to them. You either give everything up for it or you’re doing it wrong.” He pauses and looks at the TV screen. Ironically, a commercial about parents going on vacation with their children is showing, mocking you both. “So of course they wanted me to be their honour student, their perfect son. They were never satisfied.”

“How can you be so … nonchalant about it?”

He shrugs, returning your gaze. “I never hated them for focusing on their work or being away all the time. I knew pretty early nothing I did would change that. I didn’t give them a reason to be disappointed, but I never strove to outdo their expectations. I wanted to live. Be a normal kid and do dumb stuff kids do.”

And you feel the last one; know exactly what he means. It’s the same with your parents, even more so with your mother, and you understand why you still cling to the pride of youth, the glory of rebellion teenagers thrive on—the need to be different from them is so strong, it’s basically a own life force propelling you forward.

“You’ve become a suspiciously decent person despite having parents like that,” you say, not ready in the slightest to go on with such heavy, depressing topics.

Narukami manages a sound between groan and grunt. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I mean it,” you say, scrambling to your knees. “I’m glad you’re around. And I’m glad you are the person you are right now.” Struck with a flash of affection towards him, you lean forward and loop your arms around his shoulders, holding him tightly. He tenses for a brief second, then relaxes immediately.

“I’m sorry our parents suck,” you mumble against his shirt, feeling tears burn behind your eyes again.

Narukami’s body rumbles with a deep chuckle. His hands settle on your arm, patting gently. “I’m not. It allowed me to meet a different kind of family. One that doesn’t start in blood.”

You exhale a shaky breath, your heart squeezed to the size of a walnut. “I can’t believe you’re quoting Supernatural for me, Yu.”

This time, he explodes into a real, throaty laugh. “I hate this show so much. But that is something they did right.”

“Yeah,” you say, listening to the beating heart of another warm, familiar body. “And so did we.”

———————

When news about the Phantom Thieves’ victory over Medjed spread, you consider sending Akechi a gift basket with flowers and a card saying Fuck you. Narukami chides you for your immaturity and he’s right, so you settle on stealing your friends’ phones and open their social media to unfollow Akechi. Not that it’s a major blow. His reputation dropped faster than your grades after the disastrous essay you wrote before Kenji took you to Crossroads. The backfire sort of tingles your sense of pity whenever comments border on downright inhumane, but whenever there’s talk about him on TV, you quickly switch channels or stop listening.

Nonetheless, it’s 1:0 for the Phantom Thieves and messages about their little deeds on the forum spread with each day. More and more often you catch yourself writing the first lines of a potential request, only to close the document and dump it into a multiple path of folders where you’ll hopefully forget about it because they’re just too many folders to open. How unfortunate something like quick access exists.

Your happy mood only lasts so long until Akira informs you about his class planning a school trip to Hawaii so there won’t be lessons for a full week. Which isn’t bad at all. No. You can totally go without seeing him for seven days; been there, done that. Especially since during his summer break he seemed to be busy with tons of other obligations and part-time jobs and something about needing to bring more water and sunscreen for the desert. Whatever that meant.

So when you finally, finally see him again around mid September, nerves tensed with joy and anticipation, the sight of a certain boy sitting at Leblanc’s bar with a steaming cup in slender fingers destroys every bit of excitement. When Akechi looks up, it takes him only a few seconds to recognise who you are.

“Ah, the tutor,” he greets you with a pleasant smile, lowering the cup from his lips. “I was hoping to see you again to clarify the misunderstanding from last time.”

 “I don’t know,” you say, taking a seat at the bar as well but leaving two stools between you and the detective. He eyes you sideways, but doesn’t comment on it. “Does Akira know you’re walking around and deny everything?”

Akechi blinks. Sojiro coughs behind his newspaper, probably trying to cover up a laugh.

“Where is he anyway?” you ask, turning to Leblanc’s owner.

“Went to the public bath,” Sojiro grunts, flipping a page. “He should be back in a bit. You want a drink? Curry?”

“No curry,” you immediately reply, maybe a little too hasty. You hope you don’t grow pale. Sojiro raises an eyebrow but only shrugs. “Coffee it is then.”

While he goes to work, your eyes catch movement. Akechi turns his upper body towards you, opening the conversation without handing you an invitation. Unsure what to expect, you only turn your head a little, observing him with caution.

“Kurusu is very secretive about what you two do,” he starts, and you don’t know if he’s deliberately making it sound as if you two are holding conversations about starting an anarchy. Or fuck. Oh God, you hope Akechi doesn’t think you two fuck instead of study. “So I’ve been wondering about your studies.”

“You’re the detective,” you say dryly. “You tell me.”

Akechi laughs, but you fail to see the joke in what you said. “That is true. Which also means I can’t just guess and be correct. That would make me a psychic, which I’m not.” He leans forward, eyes focused on your face. You shudder. “Or am I?”

You don’t like the way he’s staring at you, like you’re the exotic exhibit in a museum. The sigh of relief escaping you when he finally leans back quickly dissipates when he says, “It’s psychology, right?”

What the, you think, and then “What the?” you say.

Akechi smiles, pleased with himself. “Excuse me, I couldn’t resist. After our very first meeting, I saw you once more inside a book store, purchasing a magazine about neuropsychoanalysis. I doubt you’d buy it if it was just a mere hobby since it belongs to the more expensive books on infantile amnesia targeting a specific audience. I deduced that it is something you really have to invest in and understand on top of it, hence psychology. So, not the work of a psychic, but it’s always a pleasure to see people react like you did.”

Yeah, not the work of a psychic, but a stalker, you don’t say, because fuck Goro Akechi, right?

“Okay, haha,” you say. It sounds like wheezing. “Got me there.”

“Does Kurusu plan to pursue the same field of study?”

“I don’t know,” you say, though you clearly remember Akira telling you that going to college isn’t something he can decide at the moment. Now that you know about his criminal record, it doesn’t seem so far fetched that only a handful of colleges might accept Akira. Which uncoils another knot of hot fury when you remember the unfairness of his case.

“Strange. I thought it’s something you talk about,” says Akechi and successfully forces himself back into the centre of your attention. This time you don’t miss how he deliberately makes it sound like such topics should be priority between tutors and students, and while it isn’t something you two explicitly talk about (no really, what do you two talk about, you wonder, and quickly remember you don’t talk much besides studying and occasionally exchanging sad cat memes), you’re aware of his situation and the difficulties coming with it. So of course you don’t bring it up, lest talking about it ends up rubbing salt into the wound, and Akira probably doesn’t want that either. Unless he’s a masochist. Now that might be an interesting conversation topic.

Thinking of the devil, Akira finally makes his appearance and strolls inside Leblanc, whistling an off-key tune. He notices Akechi first, and it’s strange to see how obvious he is, the smile reaching his eyes even before the corners of his mouth can catch up. If he thinks his glasses are obstacle enough to hide behind, you have very bad news for him. When he finally sees you as well, the smile is stuck between grimace and surprise. His eyes grow a little wider, and for a split second you imagine how they follow the curve of your exposed neck. Since the temperatures don’t get any more endurable in the evening hours, you put your hair into a loose bun, stray stands falling into your face and curling around the nape of your neck. Maybe he thinks you look more like a homeless than usual and saves his comment for when you’re alone.

Morgana is the first to set the picture back into motion. He jumps on the bar stool beside you and greets you with a loud meow.

“Why, hello to you too, handsome,” you say, scratching him behind his ears. He answers with another enthusiastic meow, licking at your thumb. Akira stops behind your stool, one hand drying his unruly hair with the towel hanging around his shoulders.

“Why don’t you greet me like that,” he mumbles but does a poor job saying the words quietly. You’d really like to jokingly ask if he means you or Morgana, but Akechi beats you to it and says, “You certainly look refreshed after your bath. Maybe I should try it as well some day.”

“You mean cleaning yourself? Yeah, that might help,” you say at the same time as Akira says, “Yeah, let’s go together next time.”

Only Sojiro’s pen scratching on paper and the quiet mumbling of the TV fills the silence around you. Morgana looks like he’d like to be anywhere but here and you agree. Akechi only smiles pleasantly, and you want to kick him under the bar where no one sees it.

“Well kids, that’s my cue to go,” Sojiro announces and folds his newspaper. You’re slightly amazed by the trust he places in Akira, leaving his shop to him, a bunch of fishy kids and a cat. He takes his leave, and you aren’t sure how to get through this evening without him. Begging him to stay seems a little too much for your current level of acquaintance, so you remain in your seat and stare at the shelf filled with coffee beans in front of you, trying to guess the prices for each sort and failing spectacularly. Luckily, life returns back into Akira. He pulls the towel off his shoulders and walks past the bar. “Wait here, I need to change again,” he says. “This heat is horrible.”

He disappears upstairs, and you can’t for the love of God and all that is Holy bear to sit any second longer beside Akechi, so you slide off your stool and quickly follow Akira upstairs, apparently deaf to what he just said. Akechi pretends to be interested in the evening news, but you feel his eyes heavy on you just before you disappear around the corner.

“Akira, can we talk about your taste in friends?” you start once you reach the top, “I mean, no offence, but—”

Your thoughts hit a brick wall, exploding into thousands bits you don’t know which to start picking up first. Right in front of you is the glory that is Akira’s naked upper body, white skin stretching over taut back muscles.

His damp hair is in soft, humid curls, and you feel a slow flip inside you, like your stomach running over. It seems unusually black, probably because his skin is so pale. Even the sun in Hawaii wasn’t able to leave any trace, and you wonder what would remain on his body. Does he bruise easily? How would teeth mark look on his skin? He looks so delicate—you have to glance away from the shape of his shoulder blades, the fragility of his spine, but there’s only so long you can avert your eyes while knowing that he is in front of you. When you return your sight on him, Akira looks up in just that moment. Your eyes meet, and there is something vulnerable in his eyes. Only now you notice he isn’t wearing his glasses, and it knocks the breath out of you realising how much younger he looks without them. That vulnerability disappears so quick behind a cocky smile, you wonder if maybe his glasses work as a sort of mask he usually hides behind. “Wanna take a picture?” he asks.

“What?”

“I said, I’ll be down in a second,” he says, grinning when you glare at him.

“Yeah, just hurry up.” When you turn away, Akira exhales audibly, making you stop. Before you can turn around and ask if everything is alright, Akira has already closed the distance and reaches a hand up to your hair.

“Don’t wear it like that.” His low voice is hot breath on your skin. You don’t dare to turn around, afraid of the look on his face. His fingers unclasp the clip from your hair, his thumb a ghost touch on the nape of your neck. Soft curls fall over your shoulders like a waterfall, obscuring your pounding pulse.

Akira takes a step back, allowing you to breathe again. Unsure how to react, you hold your hand out to him. “You wanna give that back?”

“No.”

“Okay.” It comes out more as an exhale and stays hanging in the air. Making your way back downstairs, you think about a different way Akira could have shown his dislike about you wearing your hair like that, but whatever. Now it happened and you’re glad about a few more seconds away from him so you can sort out your feelings about what you just saw and he just did.

Back down, you notice Akechi is gone. Good. Maybe Morgana ate him. Said cat lies curled up on a bar stool, purring, and you let him rest. Meanwhile, you spread out the tasks for Akira, and when he returns downstairs, wearing a dark red shirt to your dismay, and notices Akechi has left, the disappointment about that is so clear on his face, you have to look away and pretend you’re engrossed in the news coverage of a car accident that’s occurred a couple of days ago.

 “Oh,” you say when they show the victim’s picture and occupation, forgetting all about Akechi. “Oh God. Your school’s principle is dead?”

Akira follows your gaze, and his expression darkens. “Yeah,” he says, his voice sounding distant like it doesn’t really concern him. “Some say he’s been targeted by the Phantom Thieves.”

“Why? I thought they only changed the hearts of criminals?”

“Remember their first target, Kamoshida? Apparently our principal new everything and covered him.” Akira sits down and opens a note book, scribbling a barely recognisable logo of the Phantom Thieves in a corner.

“Still, killing?” You take the seat opposite from him, starting a game of tic-tac-toe in the opposite corner. “The Phantom Thieves don’t do that.”

“Hmm,” Akira hums thoughtfully, and accepts your challenge.

Needless to say, you don’t get much studying done that day, and when you leave a few hours later, Akira still holds onto you hair clip.

———————————

The high temperatures are quickly followed by heavy showers and intense thunder you wish would hit you because no one likes finals and every lecturer thinks their seminars are the most important. Case studies pile up on your desk, charts wait to be analysed, and you dread the last week of next month in which every day holds an exam and no time in between to study properly. And student council wonders why the higher ups complain about dropping grades.

Unable to do anything but bow to the system, you stock up on additional literature and tons of coffee to fortify yourself in your apartment, deliberately leaving out ingredients or even oven-ready food. Just thinking about eating makes your stomach flip, and you’re not hungry anyway. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

Leaving the last shop for today, another bookstore selling additional scripts, you step out into the pouring rain. People hurry to catch their trains or get under a roof, and you entertain the idea to retreat to the Diner that added a new item to the menu: the Pururun Fresh Tea that somehow never fails to make you feel a little more charming after finishing one cup. But nothing beats the safe comfort of your own walls, and who knows, maybe you’ll pass out and when Narukami comes over to check on you, he’ll see how hard you worked and pity you enough to invite you to some drinks.

So towards home you go, hiding under your transparent umbrella, and clutching the book bag close to your side before water damage destroys the thousands of yen you just spent. Five feet towards Shibuya Central Station later you hear footsteps explode like gunshots somewhere behind you. Hoping the runners won’t hit you with puddle water, you step out of the way, but it doesn’t matter because you’re the target and just like that, Akira and goddamn freaking Akechi huddle with you under the safe, dry space, both flushed and breathing heavily like they just ran a marathon. Or made out in a dark alleyway. You bite your lower lip and force your mind to think about kitties and puppies and not how good a bruise would look on Akechi’s face.

“What is it with guys and not knowing about personal space?” you say, trying to avoid pressing your arm against Akechi’s. “Is chivalry dead or what?”

“We didn’t want to wait for the rain to pass,” Akira explains, and shakes his head like a wet cat, getting water all over the place. Akechi and you exchange the briefest look an outsider might interpret as you two planning to strangle Akira.

“So you just mug the first person you see?”

“No, but it’s you, and you live near Leblanc.”

“Still not convinced.”

“Please, it would be bad if any of us got sick in this rain,” Akechi joins, and tentatively places his hand on yours so he’s holding onto your umbrella as well, and leans it more to his side, getting you two others wet. Akira and you exchange the briefest look an outsider might interpret as you two planning to drown Akechi.

“Let’s just go to the subway,” you say when his eyes shift to where Akechi and you are basically holding hands. You want to tell him that you also hate it and that you’d love changing positions and those two could hands for all that you care. This evening can’t go worse, right?

As you make your way agonisingly slow to the subway, because it’s harder than expected with limbs everywhere and bodies touching all the time, you say, “So, are you guys on a date?”

Akira winks. “Maybe.”

Akechi opens his mouth and chokes on saliva, but you aren’t entirely sure that’s the only reason he flushes furiously. “Certainly not.”

“Hey, I won’t judge,” you say a little too sullen, wondering why Akira doesn’t take you out on a date.

“We went to the cinema,” Akira fails to clarify. He’s cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt, and you’re not sure how effective that is, but Akira seems pleased, even though there’s still the smudge of a finger left on a lower corner. You swallow the urge to play mother hen, currently preoccupied with untangling your elbow out from between Akechi’s side and arm.

“The movie was certainly entertaining,” Akechi says, not moving his arm whatsoever. Probably because he doesn’t want his shirt to get wetter, that jerk. “Though I’m not a big fan of open endings. What do you think, did the top stop spinning?”

“It did,” Akira says.

“It didn’t,” Akechi replies.

“You watched Inception?” you ask.

“We still got some popcorn left, if you want,” Akira offers to you, and to Akechi he says with the very same breath, “It totally did.”

“It certainly didn’t.”

“Does it even matter?” you throw in, returning your umbrella back to its case once you reach the station. It’s filled with people looking for shelter from the rain; the air humid and stuffy with the smell of sweat and wet clothes. “It doesn’t really tell us if it’s a dream, because consider how totems work in that world and you figure out it might stop because he expects it to stop because he thinks he’s back, but he also might still be dreaming.”

Akira and Akechi pull a face at you for spoiling their game. When you’re the first walking through the control terminal, you’re pretty sure you can still hear them argue quietly, completely ignoring your thoroughly-explained analysis.

The train compartment is surprisingly full at this kind of hour. Most seats are filled with teenagers and young adults either on their way home or heading for one of the city bars. You three huddle to the opposite end, where one only one seat is open.

“Take it,” Akira says to you, slowly pushing you down like you’re an old grandma.

“I don’t need it,” you say, but Akira insists, pushing harder until you’re sitting down with a clear sight of two pairs of slim hips. Immediately, your eyes go down to where the bag rests on your lap, pretending to check the contents. From down here, it’s harder to join their conversation. They’re talking about a show or a game, and Akira has his phone out and shows something to Akechi, and because it’s a situation like that, Akechi leans forward to get a better look and their cheeks almost touch. You watch them with with narrowed eyes, staring daggers at Akechi, which he notices because this is just your kind of lucky day. Your eyes lock for a second, but it’s hard to read anything in his. Also, what is this colour he has, you wonder for the first time, only noticing now how unnatural the brown is. Maybe it’s just the harsh neon light above you turning them into a strange, harsh hue that’s borderline aggressive. You blink, and it’s gone.

The train jolts.

Akira looses his footing, threatening to fall backwards and during the split second that you’re wondering if there’s anything you can do, Akechi’s hand shoots out and grabs Akira’s wrist, holding onto him like a vice.

The driver’s apology rattles unintelligibly through the cabins as Akira and Akechi stare at each other with wide eyes.

“Better hold on to something,” Akechi says with a brilliant smile that makes you want to vomit. Akira’s reaction is quite different as red blotches explode on his face, disappearing under his shirt where it covers his neck and you can’t believe this. Akira. Blushing. Embarrassed. Now you really feel sick.

“You should have taken the seat instead,” you say, nudging Akira’s foot with yours. He runs a hand through his hair, breathing a soft laugh.

“No, it’s fine,” he says, glancing sideways to Akechi who’s currently focused on an advertisement above your head. It sounds like he’s dismissing a peasant. “I think I’ll manage.”

You don’t doubt that for a second.

In Yongen-Jaya you finally snap back to their attention as the only one carrying an umbrella, and it feels more uncomfortable than before walking between them. By now Akira has noticed something is bothering you, and he keeps talking about Morgana’s strange morning habits. It barely manages to lift your mood, but his effort alone soothes your raw nerves and uncurls tight knots inside you.

Leblanc is dark when you reach it. Akira looks through the glass anyway, but it only confirms that Sojiro is long gone.

“You wanna come in too?” Akira asks, patting his jeans for the keys. Usually, you wouldn’t say no to a free cup of exquisite coffee, but right now your brain refuses to stay attentive for more than five seconds. Plus you feel like cockblocking them any longer isn’t good for any of you, so what happens should happen. Not that it concerns you. You can totally live with that. Without him in that certain way.

“I can hear my bed screaming for me,” you tell them, already waving goodbye. You wonder if they can see how desperate you are to get away. “Enjoy your quote-not-date-unquote.”

“Uuuhm.” Akira stops patting his pockets and finally turns around, dips his head, and looks up at you and Akechi with big, doe like eyes from behind thick, black lashes. “I may or may not have forgotten my keys inside.”

You want to ask him if he’s stupid, but then you remember all the times you had to couch surf at Iori’s before asking the janitor to open your door. Now you pat his back and head in condolences, cooing “There, there,” and Akira nods like he’s been kicked and deserves at least a million yen of injury award, leaning like a cat into your touch. You wonder how you could have thought just seconds ago you’d be totally fine without him.

Akechi clears his throat, looking like he thinks you both are imbeciles. “It would be a terrible inconvenience, but why don’t you give Boss a call. I am sure he’ll come at once to let us in.”

“Or accuse me of losing them on purpose,” Akira mutters, but his hand dips into his pocket and holds onto his phone, contemplating for a moment. His eyes land on you, and even while he’s chirping your name, you already say, “No.”

Akira’s shoulders drop. “I haven’t said anything yet.”

“And you don’t need to. Listen to the smart detective and call Sojiro.”

You don’t understand why Akira hesitates, and it’s something you’ll probably never know. The only lead you’re holding onto is that even though he lives in the attic above the cafe, he doesn’t fully trust Sojiro with whatever is going on in his mind. Which is fine, because everyone carries their secrets, and even you know how hard it is to try and allow someone to help carry the weight. That’s the only reason you end up asking, “What do you want?”

Akira looks at you with an expression that’s clearly indicating he has a bad idea and he knows it. “We could go to your place,” he offers.

You think about that for two seconds. “How about we don’t.”

“You’d rather leave us here in the cold rain?” Akira pushes his bottom lip forward, bribing you with big puppy eyes. Behind you, Akechi starts a coughing fit that sounds as fake as his rehearsed TV interview responses. Akira joins, but he doesn’t even make an effort to sound authentic.

“You’re the worst,” you mumble, but no one is surprised when you gesture them to follow you. Moving past Akechi, you swear you can hear a quiet high five behind you. Or maybe that was only rain. Akechi doesn’t strike you as someone giving high fives.

So it’s back under your umbrella, and as you make your way to the student’s dorms, you realise it’ll be Akira’s first time seeing your place and finally your obsession from the last couple of weeks with keeping the place clean pays out. Not that you have anything to hide. Were it not for Akechi accompanying you, this moment could easily be stretched into a metaphorical meaning about you two deepening your friendship. Alas, with the detective prince closely trailing behind as well it feels more like the prelude to a comedy with a script you haven’t learnt fully but the curtains have been raised already. Of course improvising was never one of your strengths.

The student dorm looms like a prison into the dark sky, looking more like a haunted building than one which holds residents. The lift inside luckily works, sparing you from climbing stairs to the 8th floor. In front of your entrance, you fumble with your keys, feeling wet locks glued against your skin from the humidity.

“Just don’t expect anything fancy,” you say, glancing at Akechi and failing gloriously to hide your nervousness. But how can you not feel like the roof is going to fall on you when someone close to a celebrity is going to enter your little shabby apartment. Insecurity forgot to knock on your door this morning to announce you’d have to deal with it today, so of course you’re sort of overwhelmed.

But Akechi gives you a sweet, pleasant smile in return. “Please don’t concern yourself with my opinion. I am truthfully thankful for you to give us shelter.”

If he thinks he’s calming your nerves with his humble reply, he’s wrong because even the way he talks exudes superiority that’s frustrating on so many levels.

The door is stuck and only opens after you bump into it for the third time with your shoulder. Both boys are polite enough to keep their comments to themselves. When you enter, Akechi mumbles, “Pardon the intrusion,” at least sounding somewhat sincere about it unlike Akira, who enters the apartment like he’s a man on a mission. His eyes wander over every nook and cranny as he takes in how you live, what books you’ve arranged on your shelves, and what litters your desk. He moves like a cat in a new environment, curious and you’re just waiting for him to push stuff off tables and act like he couldn’t even begin to imagine how it landed on the floor.

Akechi is a lot subtler. He’s barely inside and excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving you and Akira alone for the moment. You manoeuvrer around him, acting like he’s a big house plant that’s missing out a month worth of water sessions. He seems to think the same, and mopes like a wilted flower. You retreat to the kitchen and rummage through the cabinets.

“You want coffee?” you ask, arranging three cups on the counter.

“Sure, but don’t let Sojiro know you drink this heretic stuff,” Akira says, and shakes the small container, surprising you by how naturally he just manages around you. You snatch the instant coffee away from him and push Akira out of the way to work. Looming above you and filling in the empty space is something he is unnervingly good at.

“Fascinating,” Akechi says somewhere behind you once you’ve prepared everything. “There are no mirrors in this apartment.”

A bolt strikes through your body. Your hand knocks a mug over, spilling hot coffee all over the worktop. Akira easily dodges the mess while your body immediately clicks into clean it, clean it, clean it before they see, so you don’t even hear him ask if you’re alright. Movement out of the corner of your eyes makes you flinch, but it’s only Akechi joining you, putting another paper towel on the puddle.

“Apologies,” he offers with a quiet voice, eyes cast down. He bends his head, like a knight acknowledging a lady in an old painting. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It was merely an observation, but it seems I should have kept my curiosity to myself.”

Something dark inside you really wants to stuff the wet towel in Akechi’s mouth to make him stop talking like that.

“No, I just thought I saw a House Centipede, that’s all,” you mumble, cleaning the rest. Akira is still standing a couple feet away, watching you two with an unreadable expression.

“I saw it too,” he says, shifting his weight from left to right. “Horrible thing.”

“Hmm.” Akechi doesn’t look convinced, but leaves it at that. Akira helps you prepare a new cup and carries it to the narrow table in front of your couch.

The realisation that you really shouldn’t have brought Akechi of all people to your place hits you when Akira excuses himself for a moment, stepping outside the room to get a call. Immediately, Akechi turns his body in your direction, focusing his eyes on you. It’s at Leblanc’s all over again.

“I was wondering what you were trying to clean up, using something strong as the Acid Wash 100,” he says in a light tone, and you decide he’s the worst at small talk.

“I wasn’t—” You stop, giving him every reason to be suspicious. “You know, usually people ask where I got that picture over there with Domo-kun. Or how much rent I pay.”

“I’m sure those are fascinating topics as well,” he says, and instantly dismisses them with a flick of his wrist. “I was just wondering, really. It isn’t something you’d find in a common household.”

“And I’m wondering why you think that’s any of your concern,” you snap, feeling defencive walls hulk up inside you, this time adorned with a barbed wire fence just for the detective, and you really can’t wait for him to bloody his hands in trying to climb over them.

Nothing could make you tell him the truth: the truth about the furious scrubbing of toilet and bathtub, the intense obsession with cleaning everything spotless until the intense caustic stench irritates your lungs so much you vomit and the vicious cleaning cycle starts again. The habit started when you cleaned the food you threw around the room after your dad had left. Who could have known it would turn into an obsession to cope with the hurt he left inside you. You created a prison that kept you docile in fear of your father’s wrath, its walls coated in poison.

Suddenly, the image of Akechi’s bony wrists and ironed shirt strikes you like a sudden, painful flash of bright light. The fact that he knows about a brand your friend studying chemistry vowed is hardly known outside except for people boarding on mysophobia, makes your mind leap to crazy ideas. It’s your turn to stare Akechi down, though you can’t possibly think of a way to ask without sounding like you’re crazy. He’s a detective. Of course he knows everything. And still, something about this doesn’t sit right with you, like a picture that’s put into the wrong frame.

Luckily, you’re spared of a reply when Akira returns and flops back down between you, either not noticing or ignoring the tense air.

“It’s still pouring cats and dogs outside,” he says, sinking into the cushions. “If this goes on, we might have to stay the night.”

“Or I’ll just kick you out once you finish up drinking.”

“I heard they predicted a severe storm for tonight,” Akechi chimes in, returning to his tooth-rotting pleasant TV persona and not like someone who invades other people’s privacy. “People shouldn’t leave their houses. But of course we wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.”

“Technically you both got in here uninvited,” you say, ignoring the guilt-tripping.

“It doesn’t count as burglary,” Akira objects. He sprawls his legs over your lap and leans his upper body heavily on Akechi’s side, like a cat trying to claim as much space as possible.

“I could still call the cops.”

Akira jerks his thumb towards Akechi. “He’s on my side.”

Akechi smiles like a saint, his back straight like a sword. “I’m on the side of justice.”

“And I hate you both,” you conclude. “Shut up and let me watch the news.”

At least they listen to you now and keep silent as you turn on the TV and switch to a news channel. Akechi was right, there’s apparently only one short timeframe left before the storm picks up, buildings swaying and all. You really start to wonder if you should keep them overnight before they get hit by a traffic sign or something like that.

Your phone vibrates in one long call and shortly followed quick messages—Iori’s signature move when he’s in desperate need of help. You hope his hand isn’t stuck behind the refrigerator again.

“I’ll be back in a bit, just going to my neighbour,” you say and tap Akira’s legs so he releases you. “Try anything nasty in here and I’ll beat you up.”

Both boys nod absently, their attention solely focused on the screen and a report about the Phantom Thieves’ targets.

Just one knock, and Iori opens the door, breathing heavily. “Thank God,” he wheezes. “There’s a House Centipede in my bathroom and I think it’s eating the mice living inside the walls.”

If this isn’t karma, you don’t know what it is.

Iori’s apartment is like a trash dump, and it never fails to amaze you how he moves in it like he’s swimming in clear water. They do say only a genius dominates the chaos and Iori seems to live up to it. After convincing him that an improvised flame thrower made out of deodorant and lighter is a really bad idea, you manage to catch the little monster of a centipede under a glass, making Iori promise to bring it outside later. He nods vigorously but from the way he’s eyeing the centipede you can immediately tell he’s fallen in love and will prepare a terrarium for it. Stranger hobbies do exist.

Back in your apartment, you notice the rain doesn’t fall as hard as before against the windows. Either Akira and Akechi leave now or you have to think about food you could serve your guests. A choice is pretty much nonexistent since you’ve kept your fridge empty for almost a week now, only managing with chocolate bars and a few apples from time to time. Plus where would they even stay considering Akira refuses to ask Sojiro to come and open Leblanc.

The sight in front of your TV stops you dead. Akira has his eyes closed, sleeping peacefully. He leans on Akechi’s shoulder, curls into his side, while Akechi keeps his gaze on the screen, looking a little like a statue with how hard he tries not to move. It hits you with the force of a train. Jealousy: white-hot, boiling, venomous. It ripples through your body, making it shudder with the force of this feeling. Emotion tears at you; hot waves of jealousy mixed with desperate longing. This ought to be you Akira leans against; Akira trusts enough to rest against.

Akechi looks up when you approach, and slightly angles his head to the right. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” you hiss, retreating to the far end of the couch. “Why wouldn’t it be.”

“Well, we pretty much forced you to take us in,” he elaborates unnecessarily. “But luckily, we won’t be a bother to you for much longer.”

That brings a stop to the furious pounding of your heart, the angry bee swarm buzzing in your ears. “What are you talking about?”

Instead of a simple answer, Akechi shows Akira’s phone. On the screen is a message to Sojiro asking to open up Leblanc because he forgot his keys, and you stare a long moment at the letters and the sentence, trying to understand what sounds so off about them. An answer plops into the thread just as you realise, “You wrote that.”

The corners of Akechi’s mouth twitch. He deletes both messages, closes the app and puts it back beside Akira’s bag. “Like I said, we won’t bother you.”

“That isn’t nice,” you shoot back. “Don’t just take other people’s phones and impersonate them.”

“What makes you think I just took it?” he replies. “Maybe Akira asked me to write to Sojiro?”

With how he reacted back in front of Leblanc, you seriously doubt that, but before you can say anything, Akechi blinks thoughtfully up to your ceiling, and adds as an afterthought, “And anyway, doesn’t the end justify the means?”

You scowl. “Don’t talk philosophical to me at this kind of hour, kid.”

Something in your expression makes Akechi back down. He simply shrugs, the motion stirring Akira awake. He grunts unpleasant and nuzzles into Akechi’s shoulder.

“What time’s it,” he mumbles, running both hands through his messy hair.

“Time for you to go to bed,” you provide, humour void in your voice.

Akira shoots up, wide awake now. “You sound exactly like Morgana,” he groans miserably.

“What?”

“I mean, you sound exactly how I would imagine Morgana to sound like if he could speak. I imagine he’d always tell me when to go to bed,” he blurts, his expression turning sour. “And it would be the worst.”

“You seem very tired, Kurusu,” Akechi unhelpfully contributes. Akira considers him for a short moment, then yawns. “Yeah. Yeah, seems like it.”

“Well, then it’s good Sojiro will come and open Leblanc,” you say, unable to hide the bitter edge to your voice. “Better go now, before you make him wait, right?”

Akira blinks in confusion, but Akechi already rises, brushing off his spotless shirt. “That’s right. We don’t want him waiting in the rain at this late hour.” He marches to your entrance area, not looking if Akira follows him. But he does, and you’re so focused on the fact that Akira trails behind him like a little puppy that you don’t notice the way he looks at Akechi: the keen eyes narrowed sharply in question and careful contemplation.

At the door, you consider just closing it on Akechi’s face and keeping Akira inside. But he also slips into his shoes, not showing any hint of wanting to stay. You want to tell yourself the feeling of disappointment is linked to Akechi’s rude behaviour but your talent of bullshitting yourself is fairly non-existent at this moment.

“Thank you again,” Akechi says, his smile razor sharp. “It was an interesting experience and good for future reference to see how a student lives.”

“Don’t mention it. And no,” you say. He blinks in confusion. “The end doesn’t justify the means. Unless you want immoral or violent means to corrupt the end.”

“Ah,” Akechi breathes softly and smiles like he’s pleased that you did engage with him in philosophical talk in the end. “Fair point,” he says. “Oh, but isn’t it the same as All’s fair in love and war? Don’t you think so as well?”

He smiles like a beautiful angel seconds away from throwing heavenly fire at mortals. That is the moment you realise. You realise that Akechi knows what you feel towards Akira. It’s in the way he looks at you, the things he just said. He’s a detective, for Christ’s sake, and reading people belongs as much to his repertory of skills making him so successful in his profession as to your studies of the mind and brain. Caught off guard, you can’t help but stare at him and for the first time you feel like Akechi is deliberately showing his superiority. You lost a game he knew from the very beginning he’d come out as victorious.

“When did you two bond over consequentialism?” Akira says, breaking the staring contest between you and Akechi. He sounds a little sulky, and God you hope he isn’t reading too much into it.

“We’ll be taking our leave now,” Akechi says, and says goodbye with a curt nod.

“Yeah, do that.” And don’t come back, you throw at the back of Akechi’s neck, hoping he feels it burning on his skin like the Cain’s mark expelling him from this place.

Akira remains a little longer. He bows his head in your direction. “Thanks again, teach.”

“Don’t sweat it.” You stare at the top of his head, feeling the urge to pat him. And you do. Akira hums approvingly, and you allow yourself to breathe again now that Akechi’s out of sight. “Just be careful on your way back.”

“Scared someone might snatch me away?”

More than you think, you don’t want to admit. “Knowing you, you might go out there and punch a police man. We don’t need that.”

“Only if he wears Prada.” Akira winks and grins when you try to kick him off your doormat. Without him, your apartment already feels a few degrees colder.

——————

A couple days later, the first thing you notice when entering Leblanc is that Morgana doesn’t greet you like usual. Now that maybe wouldn’t be that big of a deal were it not for Akira sulking in a booth, flipping his pen so vigorously around it looks like he wants it to take off and fly towards the ceiling.

“Easy there, cowboy,” you say. The skin under his eyes is a few shades darker again, and his slumping form speaks louder of sleepless nights than a yawn. “You might hurt someone with that thing.”

Akira looks from you to the pen and throws it carelessly on the table. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry. I just don’t want you to stab yourself. Or me.”

Seeing how that sneaks a little smile on his face, you relax a little. “Where’s Morgana?”

Akira tenses slightly. “Outside. He is a cat after all.”

“Yeah, but…” Somehow this answer doesn’t satisfy you. At the same time, you don’t really feel confident enough to say that you always thought he and Morgana were inseparable; that if Akira was a cat, he’d be like Morgana, and if Morgana turned into a human, he’d be like Akira. But maybe you’re just overthinking it and Morgana will stroll inside the shop in a couple of minutes to place a dead mouse in your lap.

“So, you wanted to talk?” Akira changes the subject, playing again with his pen. He must be either really nervous about something or just needs his fingers occupied in general, which is a whole new revelation you want to hide inside your chest and unfold later to wonder about.

“Yes. Remember when you asked me to look into cognitive psience? I found something.”

Akira’s expression falls, then gets solid with a frown. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“I changed my mind. I don’t want to know about it,” he says. “Throw away everything that you’ve found about it.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. Not about that.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to see if he’s really playing with you. But this might easily be another one of those rare times you see him serious. He’s agitated and keeps peeking at this phone that’s blinking repeatedly with fast incoming messages. Whatever happened in this short time that has changed his mind, apparently it’s still holding him in its claws and tightens its hold around him. Akira looks like a prisoner hold at gunpoint, preventing him from sayingt the wrong thing.

“You won’t answer if I ask what’s wrong, will you?”

Akira looks from you to his phone. “No.”

“But you do know that I’ll look into it myself. Why cognitive psience specifically. You’re not someone who loses interest in whatever is on your mind. Telling me to throw my research away means there’s danger included, and you don’t want danger and your friends inside the same room.”

He pales slightly, and swallows. “Stop it. I’m not your patient, and I didn’t ask for you to look into my head.”

“I’m not looking anywhere,” you say, slightly growing irritated. “I’m only taking what you’re giving me.”

“Then stop taking.”

You consider each other from the distance of the table between you. After bracing yourself for a fight you might lose, you get up and take the seat beside Akira, turning to him.

“You know I won’t keep pestering you if you continue to refuse to answer. But please tell me if you’re in danger or something like that. I want to help.”

He exhales audibly. “I know. Thanks. But it’s nothing. I just thought cognitive psience isn’t as interesting as I expected.”

“Okay,” you say, and leave out that you found suspiciously little on the matter because apparently the government keeps it secret. Which could also be just typical government conspiracies, but you feel like dropping the subject is a better course of action.

A guest enters Leblanc even though you’re sure Akira has flipped the sign to Closed. Your mood drops when Akechi moves to your table like he owns the place.

“Apologies,” he says in way of a greeting. At least he understands he just walked in on something, because he hesitates and pulls his eyebrows together. “I’m only here to return the clothes you lent me.” He puts a paper bag on the table, successfully putting a wall between you and Akira.

“Your clothes,” you repeat like a parrot, looking from the bag to Akira and back. “Why would you—” Immediately you can think of one reason, and oh boy, is it hot in here or is it just you? Akira seems to follow your train of thought and immediately turns red. Akechi looks between you two like he’s trying to solve a mystery.

“I want to thank you again for letting me stay on the night of the storm,” Akechi explains, and to you he says, “You might have noticed the storm resuming once we left. Kurusu was nice enough to offer me shelter.”

“Yeah, well. He’s a nice guy like that,” you admit, trying to smother the desperate desire inside you to throw yourself on Akira and obscure him from the detective’s eyes. “Unlike someone I know,” you’re unable to hold back, staring at the detective.

Akira pinches your thigh. “Be nice,” he mumbles, pushing the paper bag to the opposite end of the table.

“Don’t worry about it.” Akechi shakes his head, his easy-going smile saved for his fans and the public turning into a sad little curve that changes his whole face into a picture painted in tragedy. “I am quite used to people calling me unkind. I assume you too are a fan of the Phantom Thieves? Apologies if anything I said about them upset you.”

You want to tell him this has nothing to do with them and that you didn’t like him before it became cool with the kids, but under the table, Akira squeezes your thigh in warning, and up until now you haven’t even noticed how his hand has remained there. You nearly choke on your saliva and manage a high-pitched, “No need to apologise. I’m the one who stepped out of line.”

Akechi smiles heart-breakingly wistful as if he knows Akira’s the reason for your sudden change of heart. “No, please don’t. I should go now. Have a nice evening you two.” He leaves Leblanc, his usually straight spine slightly bowed and for the first time you can see past all the jealousy and petty hate where a boy condemned by the public leaves a warm shelter.

You swallow past the bitter taste, feeling your thigh getting cold and Akira’s hand nowhere near it. Instead he surprises you by bowing his head until his cheek rests against your shoulder, his glasses pushing uncomfortably against your skin. You look at the door’s reflection in the black TV screen; slim shoulders hidden underneath a white shirt on your mind.

“Do you like him?” you ask, shuddering when the tips of his fingers ghost over your knuckles.

Akira’s warm breath brushes against the crook of your neck as he settles in more comfortably, puts more weight onto you. “Yeah.”

His whisper is like silk, hiding the dagger that pierces into your heart. But you are prepared for this. It’s a moment you’ve dreaded coming but also braced yourself for a long time.

“Then why are you doing this?” you say, and turn your hand around, the open palm facing upwards. Just like you expected, Akira wedges his fingers through yours. A trembling breath leaves his mouth, ghosting over your skin when you feel his lips brush the nape of your neck. Nothing can stop the shudder rippling through your body, earning a deep, low chuckle from him.

“Because I know that he’ll never feel the same.”

Ah, you think, and wonder how many people are out tonight who can’t be with the one they love so they settle for a substitution.

You squeeze Akira’s hand in return. A shadow settles over his eyes when he searches for yours, a question waiting on the tip of his tongue you answer when you dip your head once he raises his and your lips meet in a silent vow.

Kissing is new to him. It’s evident in how he tries to do so much at the same time, kissing, licking, whispering your name against your mouth. He tastes like coffee and you regret you drank it earlier because you want to know how Akira truly tastes. When his grip on your hand tightens, you flinch, your joints hurting because he’s holding on too tight, too hard, even though he should know by the way you willingly open your mouth that you won’t just abandon him.

As an apology, he drags his tongue over your lower lip but it feels half-heartedly when the thumb of his free hand digs into your jaw to prevent you from moving away. Fine, two can play this game. Sneaking your free hand to the back of his neck, Akira grunts in pleasure when your nails scratch his scalp. His smile pushes against your lips and smugness curls in your stomach when you yank his head back, black curls caught in your fingers. They really are as soft as you’ve imagined.

Greedily, your mouth latches onto a spot just under his jaw, the skin so soft and warm you want to rip it apart with your teeth. A pleasant sound leaves his lips when you straddle his lap, and you hastily stretch up to catch it with your mouth but it escapes, and hangs between you in the dark cafe; the only source of light is the dim, orange light from the lantern outside the shop that catches Akira’s ethereal, beautiful expression—a face artists want to paint so history remembers him. His thumb dugs into the inside of your thigh, his nail scratching against the fabric of your jeans.

Oxygen is unfortunately something you both need to survive. You reluctantly break away, interlacing your fingers behind Akira’s neck and lower your forehead against his collarbones, trying to piece your mind back together to form words to say how bad of an idea this is.

But then he kisses the top of your head and loops both arms around your neck and your plan flies out the window as you relish in his warmth, his unexpected softness.

Seconds tick away. In this short moment you feel like there’s only you two in this world, a population of two, uninhibited by anything and anyone.

“Do you want another cup?” he asks quietly, affectionately tugging your hair.

You nod, but none of you move immediately, and you think, Just five more seconds until five become ten, then twenty. He’s the first to move, placing both hands on your thighs and drawing lazy circles with his thumbs until you lean back and finally find enough courage to look at him.

Akira smiles, his grey eyes filled with a glint that can’t be from a reflection somewhere around you. It’s the kind of inner light shining to the outside that can only be explained by pure happiness, and it uncurls something deep inside you, loosening a knot that finally disappears after so long. Reluctantly, you climb off his lap and allow him to get up. He moves across the room and switches the lights on above the bar. The first shock of sudden brightness to your eyes doesn’t make you react as strong as the sight of dishevelled Akira, his hair sticking to all sides, his lips red and bruised with a dark spot just under his jaw where the hickey is already blooming. He moves behind the bar and you take a stool, desperate to close the distance between you, and when he has his back to you, you wonder if you’re the only one so deeply rattled to the bone just from a little kissing.

“I’m sure Sojiro won’t mind if we treat ourself to some of his better beans,” Akira says. “Or rather I treat you to some better beans.”

You’re already a great bean, you want to say but maybe cheesiness is better saved for another day. Or not used at all. “Ok,” you say instead. “Thanks.”

He gives a little smile, then proceeds to open the cap. And struggles. And almost drops the can with Jamaica Blue Mountain beans, successfully giving you both a heart attack because that shit is more valuable than you two together. What usually is a smooth procedure of Akira making coffee turns into a spectacle of bumping, him almost dropping half the dishes and nearly burning his hand on the glass syphon.

“Christ, are you okay?” you ask, finally awarded with hot coffee. Akira looks at you from behind the counter, eyes big, and suddenly, he just falls into himself, both elbows leaning on the counter as he puts his face in his hands and you notice for the first time that his fingers are shaking.

“How can I be after that,” he mumbles into his hands, peeking at you between his fingers, and oh—maybe he isn’t so unaffected from kissing you as you thought. Struck with a forceful flash of affection and endearment towards the boy, you’re pretty sure you’re a lost cause.

Crushing on Akira was a laughable joke, a fling that would disappear and remembered fondly like summer—only missed when it’s gone. But falling for him was never meant to happen, never a plan, and the implication of that and what might follow is like a pinprick of ice driving into your heart. The sorrow mixed with excitement is so bittersweet, you don’t know if the tears pricking behind your eyes are of joy or fear. But the worst and best part is seeing the hope in Akira’s eyes, the affection towards you in his gaze as he whispers your name again and leans over to steal another kiss. 

Chapter Text

Your phone goes off at seven, playing the Guacamole Song you wanted to change months ago after you made the mistake of lending Iori your phone. But every time you turn it off, it immediately escapes your mind depending on how much you’ve got on your plate, and oh boy, this time it’s buried with problems and every frantic swipe to get them off only results in unveiling more and more mold that’s been growing for the past decade.

As you stare up at your ceiling, a single thought spins in circles inside your head: I shouldn’t have kissed Akira. I shouldn’t have kissed Akira.

But you liked it, your mind provides with a treacherous whisper, a quiet admission better saved for a dark confessional booth in a remote church, and yet it’s the strongest conviction you’ve felt in months, something that’s waiting for you to scream out at the top of your lungs for everyone to hear and judge you by. You’ve tasted the sweet fruit that Akira is and just one bite was enough for you to get addicted to him. Which is a problem.

“Because I know that he’ll never feel the same.” Akira’s voice rings like the dull chime of a rusty bell in your head, the first herald to what can only conclude in disaster. There’s a lot of dumb things you’ve done in your life, but this surely crosses a new line of stupidity no one’s ever expected—not even you.

Well, not that it matters, you think as you swing your legs off your bed, shuddering when your feet hit the cold floor. Even though Akira basically admitted you’re a substitute for his unrequited crush or whatever he’s feeling towards Akechi, you never really imagined he would like you in the first place because … well, it’s Akira. You’ve seen how his friends look at him with a mixture of dreamy admiration and incredulous marvel as if no one can fully believe someone like him really exists. It seems everyone is a little in love with him, and you’d be a hypocrite to blame them for it because it’s far too easy to lose a piece of your heart in his hands and allow him to do whatever he wants. Not to call your expectations of what a relationship should be low, but you don’t allow yourself the luxury to think it will last long anyway. You’ll be fine with anything you get.

He’s 16, for god’s sake. Dating someone older might be just a little adventure for him right now, a nice fling to get his blood pumping; the adrenaline coursing through his body while his friends slap him on the back, bawling out, “Way to go, man!” like the pubescent teenagers they are. Being the end of a joke isn’t a first timer for you; and on more than one occasions you were the one to write off what might have become serious things as pastimes. It seems only fair karma has come to collect your debt.

We’re going to fool around for a bit , you lay out the plan in your mind like you arrange your reports, precise and to the point, without much flowery spiel and no detours. Fool around and then he’ll meet someone he’ll seriously want. And it’s going to be fine, that’s real life. I’ll be fine.

But even as you stir viciously in your morning coffee cup, sending black drops flying everywhere, one only needs to take a short glance at you to know that nothing will be fine. How can it ever be when the one you consider to be the greatest treasure of your life will inevitably slip through your fingers like sand. You know it. Akira knows it. Hell, he might be waking up in just this moment and realise the mistake he’s done, and no memory of how he seemed to enjoy it initially, how his eyes sparked with such joy and affection that stopped air from leaving your body, can calm your agitated nerves, each of them raw and flashing with burning pain the more you think about it. So what you do is: Not think about it. You banish all thoughts; there’s no reason to make it even more miserable on you when the minimal chance exists that you can actually have a good time as long as Akira shares the ride with you.

Which works about just fine until you meet Akechi on your way to morning classes, his lithe body leaning against a wall inside the train. It’s basically a déjà-vu to how you met Akira: people push from every side, and before you smash your face against a window, you raise your hand to brace yourself. Your fingers graze the cool surface of the glass but it’s not without getting really close to the person standing next to it.

“Oh, it’s you,” a familiar voice greets, and when you look up, Akechi looms over you, looking unimpressed by your arm caging him. If this is meant as a weird coincidence, then the gods must have chosen you to be their punching bag as punishment for your hubris: You should have never bragged about how you easily finished the Gravity Burger Challenge two months ago. “Apologies again for disturbing your late night talk yesterday.”

“Forget it,” you say, trying to shimmy away but the other passengers must think if they have to suffer and are not allowed to move, you have to suffer with them. “I think we’re even after how I treated you yesterday.”

“Please, you don’t need to apologise.” Akechi checks his wristband, and you try to contain a sneer noticing his case with the big A. on its cover. Maybe the gods should check his hubris scale as well. “I am well aware not everyone shares my opinion regarding certain matters.”

With certain matters being the most controversial topic ever, it isn’t a surprise people treat Akechi like he’s the Antichrist. No matter where you go, it’s Phantom Thieves here, Phantom Thieves there. People demand they deal with Kunikazu Okumura, and it’s a little scary how loud everyone’s screaming for justice at the cost of a group that started out taking on abusive high school teachers.

“It’s not your opinions,” you mumble, not sure how deep you want to crawl down this dark hole with a bottom that’s specifically labelled as Needs Parenting Guidance So He Stops Being A Jerk. Akechi ignores you in favour of following the news on the screen above your heads and during this moment of undisturbed gawking, you have to admit he has pretty nicely shaped lips. Maybe that’s why Akira likes him.

“I do wonder though how the Phantom Thieves will fare in the public’s demand to go after Okumura,” he continues, and it’s scary how close he comes to what you’ve been thinking. At your surprised expression he simply nods his chin towards the screen, and ah— a news coverage about the Okumura case.

“You think they’ll target him?” Engaging in this kind of conversation with him of all people was definitely not on agenda today, but receiving upfront information from Tokyo’s now most detested detective could be useful. Maybe you can sell the information to a news channel or blackmail him—

Be nice. The memory of Akira’s fingers on your thigh and his rough voice right in your ear sends a shudder down your spine which luckily goes unnoticed by Akechi. He’s simply answering, “I think they will have a great problem if they don’t. As I have witnessed myself, people are quite fickle.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of the shitstorm.”

“Which means you’re also aware of the great expectations lying upon the Phantom Thieves. Tell me one thing. Do you believe they were responsible for the death of the Shujin Academy’s principal?” A heavy topic this early in the morning, but Akechi doesn’t seem to let you off the hook so easily, looking at you with some serious expectation and there it is again: His strange brown colour—ember? It seems to lurk and only break free when he’s engaged in a discussion.

“Who can say for sure,” you say, trying to look past him at the blurring lights the train passes. Three more stations and you’re free. “Of course I don’t want to believe that. The Phantom Thieves are supposed to be the good guys. Why should they start killing people all of a sudden?”

“Good guys, bad guys. Who determines these qualities?” Akechi wonders out loud, but doesn’t let you answer. “We ourself decide where to put those who think different from us on a scale that’s fundamentally subjective and therefore wrong.”

You blink a couple times. “Okay?”

“Take our dear friend for example,” he continues. “Kurusu doesn’t seem to think in simple terms like that, wouldn’t you agree? What is your opinion on him, if you don’t mind me asking.”

Well, I’m pretty sure he wants to suck your dick, you think. Instead, you say, “He’s a weird kid.” But as it is with those kinds of thoughts, your mind drifts off and you think about sucking Akechi off yourself, only it doesn’t stir anything in you, leaves you dry as a desert until you think about sucking Akira’s dick and wow, that’s a straight punch to your gut with warning signs going off, screaming CHILD MOLESTATION in your head (only Akira isn’t a child, and you’re obviously just really, really paranoid).

“Weird,” Akechi repeats, and if he finds room to lift his hand and tap his finger against his chin, then he sure as hell better move and give you some space. “Interesting. But he is a rather unique individual, is he not? He doesn’t fear to speak his mind and seems to favour following his own opinions. That is so very fascinating.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Fascinating?”

“Is something wrong with that?”

“Only if you’re talking about your next exhibition piece.”

He narrows his eyes, then smiles slightly and if you squint, you might call his current expression sultry. “How about lovely, then?”

Your mouth goes dry, but when you blink, it’s gone and Akechi’s smile is that of an innocent angel. “Forgive me, I couldn’t resist this little joke. But you two seem to share a special bond, don’t you?” he continues, not allowing you to react. His voice lacks any sort of innuendo a statement like that might hide, and you don’t know if you should be grateful or offended.

“If you mean we are tutor and student, I guess,” you mumble, really not feeling to get into whatever game Akechi is playing right now. Only two more stops. That lookout is the only reason you’re stupid enough to ask, “What about you two?”

Akechi’s eyebrows fly upwards. “We’re friends. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Are you sure about that?” You didn’t mean to sound so sulky but whoever judges you for that should try to stand at forearm’s length in front of Akechi and his stupid perfect flawless skin without feeling inferior.

He blinks in surprise, but he’s three years too young to fool you. “Why? Did anything I ever did give you a different impression? If yes, then please enlighten me, from a psychoanalytic point of view.”

You exhale slowly. “That’s a big word for someone your age.”

Akechi laughs. “Thank you.”

“Wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

“The point is, I cherish Kurusu as a friend. We’ve struck a sort of deal,” Akechi explains, and you remember the first time you sat with Akira under the dim lights of Leblanc and his sharp smile. “It’s a deal then,” he’d said, and now you wonder how many more people he’s wrapped around his little finger with those sweet words. “He supplies me with fine coffee and curry,” Akechi continues, “and I help him out now and then. Which leads me to the question why you would assume anything different. I rather feel he shows a special affection towards you. Hence my previous observation.”

Heat shoots in your cheeks, and you try to hide your face in the crook of your elbow. “I am not going to talk with you about my love life.”

His eyes widen. Akechi leans back and crosses his arms in front of his chest, and seriously why is he the only one who can move around freely when everyone else in here is stuck like a sardine inside a tin box. “‘Love life,’” he repeats, and you realise too late the mistake you’ve made. “So there really is more to you two than meets the eye.”

“No there isn’t.” You panic. “I hate his guts.” You panic more. “And his glasses are stupid.”

“It looks different to me.”

“Then stop looking.”

Amusement flickers in his eye. He’s easily figured you out and you feel the boiling impulse to kick his shin. “Then I hope you two will get along splendidly as tutor and student in the future. Anything else would be rather inconvenient, right?”

“What are you talking about?” you demand, but the train rolls inside the station you have to get out, and once the people start to pour outside, you can only let them drag you with them. Surprisingly, Akechi is right on your heels, and you don’t miss how the people part to make room like the ocean when Moses stood in front of it. Their whispers drown in the hectic transferring and people rushing to their connecting trains, but the scorn blazing in their eyes is like a touch on your skin even though you aren’t at the end of the receiving line. Akechi seems pretty adept in ignoring everyone, he walks among them like a condemned man on his way to the hangman, and as you see him like that, shoulders squared and chin raised, you’re reminded of a poem you’ve read in high school. And strange it was to see him pass / With a step so light and gay / And strange it was to see him look / So wistfully at the day / And strange it was to think that he / Had such a debt to pay. Akechi looks like he’s ready to take on the whole world.

“All I am saying,” he continues, and you’re completely lost for a moment where he’s tying on, “is that you should be careful who you trust to know about the relationship you have with Kurusu.”

“I didn’t know it was your business,” you hiss.

He shrugs. “It isn’t, of course. I am simply looking out for my friend.” His smile is a threat you’ve missed and are now reminded with a gun pointed at your head. Only when Akechi said friend , it sounded a lot like he actually meant possession.

“Then lucky you. There’s nothing to worry about.”

The detective doesn’t look like he’s buying it, but doesn’t comment on it. Your shared path splits once you’re upstairs, standing in the middle of Shibuya, two more insignificant blobs on the surveillance cameras supervising the subway area.

“Well then, it was a pleasant conversation, but I must head off to the courthouse now. Please send Kurusu my regards should you see him today.”

“No, I’m going to pretend I never saw you.”

Akechi considers you for a long minute with a blank expression and just before you start to feel uncomfortable, he finally says, “I think I understand what Kurusu likes about you. You too don’t fear to speak what you truly think. You don’t give empty compliments, and don’t butter people up. It’s truly admirable. No wonder you two get along splendidly.”

You exhale slowly and shudder, knowing it isn’t solely because of the wind picking up. “I wish I could say the same thing about you.”

“Well, one must do whatever the entertainment industry wants you to do,” Akechi replies with an easy smile, appearing completely unbothered by it. “Oh, but I won’t let them decide my stance on important matters, of course,” he adds. “I will stay true to my beliefs. Hell will have to freeze over before I let go of the justice I hold, if I dare speak so.”

“Hell is cold,” you say.

Akechi blinks once, twice; a pleasant smile on his lips like he’s indulging in the incoherent blabber of a toddler. “Excuse me?”

“What?”

It takes a long minute of you staring at each other before your brain catches up to what you’ve just said, the statement more reflex than anything else; the echo of a similar conversation a couple of months ago. “The deepest part of Hell is a frozen lake, and inhabited by traitors,” you explain, thinking back to the black and white coloured page from a book in your grandmother’s library. In the middle of a vast, frozen lake, a winged demon sits and watches the tormented mortals trapped inside the ice with an apathetic expression. “The deepest isolation is to suffer separation from the source of all light and life and warmth,” is Dante’s observation, and it strikes you with astonishment how quite strange the brain is to produce memories in such disjointed moments.

Just slightly, barely noticeable, Akechi leans his head to one side. His smile is so stiff it reminds of a crooked grin carved into a pumpkin. “I don’t quite follow.”

There’s a staring contest between you two you don’t remember ever consenting to being a participant. “Really, they should teach you some Western Literature,” you clarify, constituting yourself as the loser of this round under his keen, sharp eyes as you avoid his gaze. “Look up Dante if you want to know more about it.”

“Ah, Dante’s Inferno?” His shoulders relax. “You are right, they could teach us more about the Western classics. What an interesting concept. Frozen Hell. I will look more into it.”

“There’s no need—” you start but Akechi gives you a curt wave with his hand and before you can say anything, he disappears into the crowd, drowning in a sea of people and no, you realise, this isn’t Moses, this is Gepetto swallowed by a giant monster and pulled into the darkest parts of a vicious sea.

Narukami and you have been friends for around four years now, so when leaves turn into a vibrant red and the air smells of crisp chill, you’re a lot more experienced with his strange behaviour. He becomes a restless, exhausted shadow haunting the campus, a residual ghost feeding itself on remaining willpower so it doesn’t disappear completely. At the beginning of your friendship, you thought it must be a part time job he’s working only in autumn that steals so much of his time and energy. But once you asked him, Narukami gave you a puzzled expression, denying it without any further explanation.

Now he’s sleeping, his legs dangling off at the end of your small couch under the blanket, cheek squished against a hand. His pale face twists into a very un-Narukami-like expression, brows drawn together in worry, anxiety even. When he starts flinching and murmuring to himself, you decide it’s enough. Dropping the lecture readings on your desk, you cross the room and carefully shake his shoulder. He doesn’t wake up gently. Narukami bolds into a sitting position, nearly knocking you off the armrest, and inspects his surroundings like he completely forgot he came over to study. It manages to punch your worry-level through the roof, and you decide it’s enough tiptoeing around the obvious issue.

“What’s bothering you so much?” you ask, using Narukami’s own devices of direct, bold approach. According to his hesitation, he isn’t used to be at the end of the receiving line. He avoids your eyes, and tugs at the hem of his sleeves, staring at the opposite wall.

“The usual,” he vague-answers. As usual. “Classes. Homework.”

“Okay, now the actual answer, if you don’t mind.”

He does, and it seems like he’s on the verge of getting up and leaving, using your devices of avoiding conversation. Instinctively, you reach out to him and grab his arm. “I’m always relying on you. How about we swap roles for a moment, and you tell me what’s on your mind.”

There’s a quick glance thrown in your direction, sharp like the point of a dagger. “That’s rich coming from you.”

Narukami flinches when he sees the expression on your face. He leans back into the cushion, kneading his hands. Seeing him in this condition, like a cornered animal, hurts like a sudden light striking your eyes in the dead of the night. Up until now you would have denied him being able to put on such an expression. It just doesn’t suit him, you think, and at the same time you’d like to punch yourself, because why aren’t you allowing Narukami to have a hard time? Why are you so adamant on him being the perfect, collected person with no problems whatsoever? Maybe you needed him to be stronger than you all this time to hold onto someone, which is unfair and not what he deserves.

You take his hand, and squeeze, and with that you let go of the rope you’ve secured around his neck so long ago, branding him your tower of strength. “If you can’t trust me, you don’t have to tell me everything,” you say. “But let me try to help.”

Narukami looks at you for a long minute, the remnants of what must have been a fever dream visible in his wild eyes and red cheeks. “Okay, I—” He runs his free hand through his hair, fidgeting. “But don’t laugh.”

“I’m not that much of an asshole,” you snort, waiting for him to say he thinks otherwise. It doesn’t come, and you let out a sigh of relief you didn’t know you were holding.

“There’s this weird dream. Or … I don’t know. Memory, maybe. But I can’t remember anything when I wake up. It’s frustrating, because I feel like there’s something—” He presses his lips into a thin life, then says quieter, “Or someone out there, waiting.” A shadow settles over his eyes as they lose their focus on a spot on your wall. “I want to see him. But I know I can’t.”

You suck in a sharp breath, and thinking you’re about to laugh at him, Narukami’s eyebrows pull together. But whatever he sees in your expression dispels the anger immediately. “What?”

“Nothing, I—” Where do you even begin to explain that today has been one single thread of déjà-vus forged into a heavy necklace that doesn’t quite fit and burns against your skin. Suddenly you aren’t in your living room anymore but inside a dark dormitory room, sitting beside a tear-eyed girl who keeps apologising over and over again. “I’m so sorry,” Minako had said, her cheeks blotched with red like always when she’d been crying for hours. “I can’t explain, but I need to go and look for someone. I need to see him.”

“You don’t even know his name,” you’d hissed, furiously scrubbing your own tears away. “Why are you doing this to me?”

It’s the mirror imagine from four years ago, but what ended in doors slammed shut and icy silence won’t be the same result today, that you won’t allow.

“It sounds stupid,” Narukami says, pulling his hand away from your grasp. “It was just a dream. Forget about it.”

“No, it doesn’t sound stupid.” You immediately catch his hands back. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. If that’s how you feel, then it’s that.”

“I—” Narukami’s expression is wary. It’s like he can’t quite fully believe in your response. It stings, but you can’t really hold a grudge against him. Eventually, he relaxes a little. “Okay. Thanks.”

“So what do you … remember about this person?”

Narukami leans back and stares up to your ceiling, pushing his thumb against his lower lip like he always does when he’s trying to determine the outcome of a conversation—you can just imagine his mind laying out a plan of thesis and antithesis; his evidence like he’s on court and this time he’s his own defendant. “Not a lot. Like I said, I can’t even really say if this is about someone. I— I mostly remember food.”

Your eyebrows rise. “Food?”

Narukami nods and tugs his turtle neck collar over his chin, trying to hide the blush creeping up his neck. “Like yakitori and taiyaki. And sweets served beside colourful … colourful something. Posters? Booths?”

“So you met him during a school festival?”

Narukami pales; his collar snaps back below his jawline. “What?”

“I don’t know, it sounds like a high school festival to me.” Or maybe it’s just the first thing coming to your mind after passing so many high school students distributing invitations to their festivals this morning. Didn’t Akira as well mention Shujin’s festival a couple of days ago?

“Hmm. Hmm hmmm a festival.” He jumps to his feet, suddenly pacing like a wild animal. “I guess it could have been a festival, festivals are held during this time, right?”

“Sure.”

“You are a genius,” Narukami declares, his face lit in what you can only describe as pure excitement. It’s a rare, beautiful sight on Narukami that never fails to make your heartbeat stumble. “I could kiss you.”

You grin. “Well, you’re welcome.”

His pacing stops and he looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “No, it’s, ‘I wouldn’t mind if you do.’”

“What?”

He sits back down beside you, his eyes glinting like an eagle’s who’s spotted its prey. “Usually you say ‘I wouldn’t mind if you do,’ and I know you’re only half joking, so what changed?”

The smile slowly dies on your lips. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And I don’t believe you.”

“I’m not hiding anything if that’s what you’re assuming,” you insist, unable to stop your voice from growing irritated.

“Objection. In these halls you will speak the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth or I will charge you with the crime of perjury.” He digs his index finger in your side, making you flinch. “Now tell me.”

“I’m not— Could you sto— Yu!” You’re both laughing by now, but he shows mercy and stops poking your waist. He’s probably the only one you can tell the truth. He certainly won’t judge you, no Narukami is someone who provides encouragements and advice like salesmen promoting their corporations with distributing Kleenex packages. So you start telling him about Akira, feeling like you’re back in high school, giggling and blushing about a crush. Only with each word about what you’ve been doing, his face loses his merry expression and something dark settles over his eyes. When you’re finally finished, it’s quiet for a moment. Finally, a reaction.

“Jesus,” Narukami says. “Christ.” You avoid his eyes. “You know that’s considered corruption of minors.”

Something hot whips through you. “I didn’t corrupt him,” you protest, but immediately the word roots in your brain and your thoughts jump to gaslighting, brainwashing and psychological abuse. You face feels like it’s on fire.

“I know, I didn’t mean literally,” he quickly corrects himself, probably noticing the nuke he’s planted inside your brain. “But if his parents find out, do you really think they’ll care about the details?”

You open your mouth, and close it immediately. You are so screwed.

“I mean, we haven’t done anything—” You move your hand around frantically as if that’s sufficient to explain your dilemma. “Anything,” you finish lamely. “We’re just. Screwing around.”

Narukami’s eyes widen.

“Not like that screwing around,” you hiss, panic rising in your chest like a scared bird that’s flapping its wings frantically to get out. “I mean screwing around as in … this doesn’t matter! This isn’t about love or anything like that.”

Now he pulls his eyebrows together, a sign that you clearly failed to diffuse the bomb. “Didn’t you just squeal like a little high school girl that you’re head over heels in love with him?”

“Don’t!” You smack his shoulder. “Don’t say it like that!”

He throws both hands up in frustration. “What else am I supposed to call it? What the heck are you two doing?!”

“Nothing! He’s in love with someone else and I just—” You shut your mouth at the grim gaze Narukami has fixed on you. He exhales, and massages his temples, probably accepting that being angry won’t bring him anywhere. “I can’t understand how you’re okay doing this to yourself,” he mumbles more to himself.

“What can I say.” You turn away and blink rapidly against the tears burning in your eyes. “I’m an intellectual.”

Narukami says your name and it sounds like he’s really done with your bullshit. “Hey, look at me.” You refuse, and he mutters something intelligible under his breath. “Listen, you’re smart enough to figure out this won’t end well. Maybe you should sit this one out.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t know him.”

He scowls. “Maybe I should get to know him and introduce him to my fi—”

“No, I’ve got everything under control. You just … you just let me drive this baby until the end of the road and once I get off this ride, everything will turn out superbly.”

He considers your sour expression, and whatever else he sees, it’s enough to make the fight disappear from his body. “As long as you don’t crash before that. I know you don’t have a driving license.” He’s clearly surrendering since he’s able to make jokes like that again, and you couldn’t be happier with the timing because talking more about the cheerless prospect will turn you into a defiant brat that will cry all day long.

It feels like no matter where you are or what you’re doing, every step forward is rewarded with two steps back, the journey tenacious and hard with no clear destination. Not that you’re new to stumbling through life, but this feels a lot like poising on a thin wire without a safety net and a bottomless drop. Not that Narukami needs to know how you really feel. You can clearly see that whatever special bonding moment you’ve had with him prior is a picture he’s currently erasing from his mind. Why he’s still putting up with you exceeds your imagination, and you’ve always been bad at the guessing game. You can only apologise in silence that you aren’t the friend he so clearly deserves and instead make everything more complicated.

“A friend invited me to Destinyland.”

“Why do none of my friends invite me to Destinyland?” Your eyes follow as Akira scurries around the room and prepares the last steps for his practice presentation. You’d expected seeing him after the fateful night would be awkward, but he didn’t disappoint you and hasn’t mentioned it at all since you joined him up in his room, and you can’t decide if you should feel relieved or personally attacked. It sure doesn’t help he hasn’t really looked at you since you passed Sojiro downstairs who’s let out an unnecessary comment about Akira better keeping his hands to himself or he’ll sleep outside. Whatever Sojiro saw on your face, he luckily misinterpreted it and thought it was because of more Phantom Thieves news on the TV. People are growing impatient. Okumura is still walking outside, no change of heart whatsoever and the public isn’t happy about that.

“Not that I really care about them, but I wish people would start talking about something else,” he’d said, preparing his cigarette for outside. “At least you kid are not losing your mind over them.” Akira had simply shrugged, and yes, now that Sojiro mentioned it, Akira has really stopped talking about the Phantom Thieves and you really like that about him. How he doesn’t pester you because he wants to know your opinion unlike your fellow students or random passersby.

Upstairs, Akira still doesn’t meet your eyes, which is no problem at all because it gives you the perfect opportunity to gawk at him because you are weak. It’s the first time you see him without his black blazer, and the sight now makes you reconsider if your sexuality isn’t simply boy and girl, but specifically Akira himself. The turtle neck sweatshirt does wonders to his slim neck. For whatever reason, the school didn’t think that was enough for comfort and threw in some suspenders. An easy combination that on him looks like he’s the new cover model on the Vogue for the autumn issue. Though he could probably wear a garbage back and still look handsome.

You make it your job not to goggle too obviously and sit on his bed, trying to ignore your bouncing thoughts of Oh Christ, it’s his bed, where he sleeps and maybe eats because teenagers are like that, and because he’s a teenager, he probably masturbates here too—

“You okay?” Akira asks, looking a little lost standing in the middle of his room. “You look like you’ve got a fever.”

“No, I’m—“ You clear your throat. “I’m good. Let’s start. Try to impress me.”

“Easy enough.” So Akira starts his presentation about Japan’s government holding the excitement of a cashier working a double shift. He’s slumping like a kicked sack of potatoes, but he has a way with words that leaves little room for improvement, and you wonder where he’s picked up to express himself like a well-spoken politician. At some point he even starts to gesture; a flick of his wrist here, a wave of his hand there and all you can think about are his slender fingers on your skin and your hair, and that inevitably leads you to think of his mouth on yours, hot and greedy, and you want nothing more than to draw a map on his skin with your own teeth and hold him forever, and Christ, his legs—

“Are you even listening?”

Akira lowers his paper sheet and shuffles awkwardly from left to right, successfully making you look up but hey, can someone blame you? It’s not your fault he is blessed with legs for days and his school decided to fabricate the pants as tight as possible. You should send them a flower basket. And yes, maybe you could have given him the worksheet that requires him to insert the right conjunctions, but he’s got to learn how to speak without looking too much at his notes, sooo—

“Obviously,” you say, but don’t dare to ask what the question was. Akira looks at you for a long minute, probably considering the pros and cons of calling you out on your bullshit, but then he goes back to his speech, and you go back to staring at his legs until he drops a paper sheet to the ground.

“Oops,” Akira says as dry as possible, turns around and bends over to pick it up.

Your mouth goes dry.

When he raises again, you meet his smug expression with your own void of any emotion. You feel like your soul has left your body and ascended on a heavenly level.

Akira smiles pleasantly and winks at you, the lesson he wanted to teach you obvious: Play with fire and you’ll get burned. Cocky brat. The rest of his little presentation proceeds undisturbed, you ask him a few questions about the heir of the throne and Akira answers like the good student he is, and the tutor session ends rather unspectacular—that is until you clean up the papers and he decides to lean down and kiss your temple.

You flinch so hard away, your shoulder smacks Akira’s chin and he goes down with a miserable sound.

“What are you doing?!” you hiss, your hands flying around like butterflies set on fire.

Akira gives you the look of a man robbed of all his possessions. “I— What’s the problem? We kissed yesterday? I thought we—“

“Well, that was—“ You stop, dreading to speak it out loud. But something about Akira’s hopeful eyes gives you a little push to take the last step off the cliff. “It was just a kiss. That doesn’t automatically mean we’re—“

“I like you. You like me,” Akira cuts you off, his expression turning serious. “It doesn’t have to be that complicated.”

Something inside you recoils at that; takes the wind out of your sails. “Well, no. But—“

“Or did you want it to turn into an one-night stand?” he goes on, voice hard and cold like early winter-ice.

You lean back, feeling like he punched you in the gut. “No, I don’t want to have sex with you at all!”

For the briefest moment, Akira’s face goes slack, a confused, almost frightened look in his eyes—there and gone so fast you wondered if you’ve imagined it before his face goes blank, looking like a board wiped clean. “So I’m not even good enough for that?”

Knowing that he’s thought about you the same way you have about him—hidden beneath blankets in an intimacy that leaves you both vulnerable but safe at the same time—is like a fist closing around your heart and squeezing hard. You stop thinking about that before those images form completely and haunt you forever. “No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that, what I mean is,” you start but words fail you, and what you finally get out conveys the same as the trumpets heralding the Last Judgement. “God, you’re only sixteen.”

Akira looks at you for a long minute, and you wonder if he too sees the shame and fear pool from every pore in your system. There’s silence, then—

“And?”

You look up, shocked. “What ‘and’? You do know it’s illegal, right?”

Akira tugs at his front bangs, his eyes darting all over his room without ever landing on you. “I know,” he says eventually. Relief floods you, but when you open your mouth, Akira continues, “I just don’t care.”

Now it’s your turn to stare at him like his very existence is an unsolved riddle. That is until his words reach your brain and it switches from defence to attack mode. “That’s easy for you to say! They’ll think I forced you to do it, or manipulated you, or—”

His hands clasp your cheeks so you have to look up at him, his smile uneasy but honest. “I’m pretty sure it was me who started it,” he says, his voice lowered to a whisper. He’s so close you can see your reflection in his steel grey eyes with its black pupil almost swallowing the colour around it.

Before this conversation, you would have leaned into this touch, closed your eyes at the proximity and his warmth. Now you wrestle out of his grasp and jump to your feet to get as much distance between your bodies as the little room allows.“It’s not that easy.”

Akira rolls his eyes. “Because you make it complicated.”

“You don’t even understand, you’re still a kid. I’m the adult here and I will be held responsible for it!”

He thinks about that for a moment, and then much colder says, “Is that what you really think or is it just a convenient excuse so you don’t have to commit?”

You inhale sharply and turn around, ready to snap when something in Akira’s eyes stops you and he uses that short moment of hesitation to continue his onslaught. “I can accept that me being younger might be a problem. But is that really enough for you to give up before we even started anything?”

Fury whips like a hot bullet through you, hijacking your brain. “You think the world will cut you some slack because you’re young, but here’s some news, Akira, it doesn’t work like that once you finish high school,” you snarl. Are you frustrated because he doesn’t care at all what will happen if you guys get busted or because even though he’s been a victim of injustice as well, somehow Akira can still see the bright side and believe in it. It’s the display of this naiveté paired with stubborn defiance, the iron will to fight for his believes that made you fall in love with Akira—and now it’s out, the thought exists in the world and you can’t take it back. The bottom fell out of your stomach. It was like putting a foot wrong on a frozen creek, the crack of ice, the sudden drop, the knowledge that there is nothing beneath but dark water. You’re in love, love, love with him, which makes the next words coming so much more painful. “Also, maybe stop projecting what you feel for Akechi onto me, and then talk to me again about starting anything.”

Akira goes rigid. He looks like he’s just taken a terrible blow and is still trying to understand whatever it was that has hit him. His eyes drop down to his hands like he’s disappointed in them. “I wanted to talk to you about that,” he starts slowly—no, carefully, and you’d rather he rips your heart out with his bare hands in one go instead of removing the muscle with careful, precise cuts.

“Well, I don’t want to hear it.”

He scowls. “You can’t just pull the covers over your head and pretend this isn’t happening.”

“Can and will.”

“You’re being a brat.”

“And you’re being inconsiderate and selfish, and it makes me want to throttle you,” you say, turning around to pack up because any minute longer and you’re going to do things you’ll regret.

“You can’t run away whenever you’re afraid of a conversation,” Akira says and cuts you off on the way to the staircase, standing in your way. You look up to him, and it’s ridiculous that the gap between you isn’t your age anymore but your hearts.

“And you can’t just hold onto me when your heart is in a different place,” you say, and even though everything inside you doesn’t want to, you raise your hand and place it on his chest. His heartbeat is a wild jumble of a frantic rhythm you don’t know which notes to play. He opens his mouth, and closes it and with that shuts the door. When you push him to the side, his body obeys like a cordless puppet. He doesn’t stop you and halfway downstairs, his voice travels as a faint echo after you, calling your name. Despite better judgement, you turn around.

“What I said about him ... that’s true. But what I did with you wasn’t any less from the truth.” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a rueful smile. His eyes were almost sorrowful.

You exhale slowly. “I really want to believe that.” But belief isn’t enough for you, and how can you when Akira is like a cat—purring whenever someone shows him affection, and you wonder where this starvation for it comes from. You only know you won’t be the one to satisfy his hunger until he decides to move on.

The walk home is lonely, and whenever your thoughts drift to Akira and how he must be enjoying himself with his friends in Disneyland, something sour spreads in your stomach. Shouldn’t he have tried harder to stop you? Shouldn’t you have made it a little easier for him to understand where your concerns and fears come from? All those questions have nowhere to go and keep spinning around and around like a broken merry-go-round.

You stumble out of the train and right into a huge mass of people crowding around the televisions behind the windows of an electronics shops. They shout in confusion, their phones recording a news channel throughout all the panic and hectic moving, and after a moment of observation, you finally see the reason: Several news channels show the live transmission of Kunikazu Okumura’s death.

You’ve heard and read a lot about the mental shutdowns, about people going slack and becoming completely unresponsive. But watching it actually happen, you’re chilled to the bone. There’s so much blood running from his eyes, nose and mouth, his jerks harsh and sudden like puppet that’s chords are tugged by children fighting over it. It’s a picture right out of a horror movie or a nightmare, only watching it right here on the streets is real and you can’t believe it’s shown all over town.

“It’s the Phantom Thieves!” someone barks behind you, and a new ripple of outrage goes through the crowd.

“Christ, they didn’t have to kill him,” an office worker standing right to you mumbles, his eyes glued to his phone where he’s scrolling up and up and up to read all incoming news about the incident.

“Looks like all that fame went to their head,” a high school girl tells her friend, disappointment palpable in her voice. “In the end they’re also just criminals. So much for reforming society for the better.”

You can’t listen to this anymore. It can’t be the Phantom Thieves’ fault, it just can’t because if they turn out to be the same as the people they pledged to stand against, then what was the whole point and God I need to delete the request I put up, I really need to —except maybe it’s all different and can be explained if they’d only talk. Maybe avoiding conversation really is an underlying disease people need to be cured of before it’ll spiral into the ruin of civilisation.

Your phone vibrates with a message and hoping it’s Akira who’s realised in those past two hours that he can’t live without you, you fumble for your phone. The excitement is quickly replaced by dread when your dad’s name flashes on the screen. At first you actually consider ignoring it and moving on, but maybe, just maybe it’ll be some good news for the very first time. Maybe he’s watched the news coverage as well and fearing the Phantom Thieves might come after him next, he’s reconsidered his behaviour.

You read the message, and the world tilts.

[D.]: Your brother is in critical condition. Your mother and I are currently out of the country and won’t be able to check on him. D.

From this point on, everything is a blur. You don’t remember how you reached the underground station and it’s a miracle you change to the right line, past countless other faceless passengers that remain ghosts in your peripheral sight as you grow sick with fear. You’ve lost so much already today—first Akira, then your hope that this rotten society might see change, but if Kinoe disappears as well, if he’s gone—

The sobs that shake you are like the lashes of a whip once you finally reach the entrance of the Psychiatric Clinic. Only a few heads turn in your direction, the patients and visiting families and acquaintances lost to their own worries and problems.

A young nurse takes on the challenge of calming you, but she’s little successful as fear is a cold hand gripping your heart in a tight clutch.

“Miss, you really can’t see Doctor Oyamada right now, he is in a very important team meeting,” she persists for the third time, but she looks a lot more rattled and if you fail to break through her walls with this last attempt, she’ll surely turn away from you.

“I beg of you, he’s my brother,” you say with a rasping voice, your throat aching from the pain. “I just need to know if he’ll pull through.”

“I told you, he’s currently monitored and there appear no problems as of now with the blood transfusion. You can wait here, but chances he’ll regain consciousness today are low.”

“He shouldn’t have been in critical condition in the first place,” you cry. “How can Dr. Odayama explain that?”

“Well, he supervises a lot of patients—”

“I want to hear it from him,” you plead, desperate enough by now to sink to your knees and beg if it will get you anywhere. “Please.”

The nurse looks from you to the reception desk, hoping someone would help her to get rid of you. But whatever she sees in your eyes, it’s apparently enough to rekindle her sympathy. Or maybe she just knows what it’s like to fear for someone more than to fear for one’s own life.

“You can wait in front of his office. It’s on the third floor, room 330. The meeting should be done in about 20 minutes. But you don’t know anything from me,” she hisses, and before you can properly thank her, the nurse disappears hectically between waiting people, not looking back.

The room is at the end of a hall, a plain blue door with a little sign that says Shoichi Odayama. A quiet voice drifts through, and you can’t want to barge in and drill him with questions. Before you can open the door though, you clearly hear Odayama’s voice saying your father’s name, and your hand freezes on the handle.

“I really can’t say why he’s relapsed so badly. You haven’t spoken after your visit couple of months back, right?”

There’s silence, and no answer but Odayama continues and you realise he must be talking to your dad on a phone. “You said that, but you do realise I cannot mislead my staff for much longer. Some nurses have grown rather fond of him and hope for his recovery.”

Another pause. Another response you’d do anything to hear because any second longer and your heart is going to burst out of your chest with how hard it beats.

“Still, to think that you condone his self-harm. You certainly could have thought of a better way teach him how to deal with his condition—” He pauses a second, and that moment is enough for your mind to go blank and wreck every surety you’ve ever built about anything. It’s like you don’t really want to understand what Odayama just said. There’s the tiniest part inside you that refuses to believe any of that; the absurdity of the truth—if it is the truth—would rather make you double over in laughter if it were not for the much larger part that finally sees the big picture and assembles the last pieces of the puzzle.

He told Kinoe cutting would help him. And then he locked him up here where he can do so for how ever long he wishes. And Odayama knows. He fucking knows. Move, your mind screams, get inside and turn this bastard’s life into hell. But you can’t. Your muscles have locked up; a high whine of terror fills your head. It feels like someone put a rug under you only in order to jerk it from under your feet, when Oyamada suddenly continues, “No, of course. But my silence doesn’t come as cheap anymore. Like I said, my staff has come rather … intrusive.”

You’ve heard enough, covering your face with your hands. You want to blot out this knowledge, carve it from your skull. I need to help him echoes in your head as loud as I need to get out of here ; the sharp stink of disinfectant is like thousand tiny needles drilling into your senses, each intake of breath suffocating you more and more until the sweet crisp night air is the only thing you’re faintly aware of as the doors of Hell gape wide open behind you.

Chapter Text

A hunger-pang frame looks back at you with sunken in eyes that are yours and not yours at the same time. The mirror in the college’s public rest room is dirty, but even the smudges serve as a poor excuse for the dark shadows under your eyes in the reflection. It’s been some time since a full night’s rest. For however longer you manage, you try not to sleep too long. Nightmares are your new companions, each foreign and unconquerable, yet serving the very same enemy: Fear for your brother.

As you expected, Dr. Odayama doesn’t let you see Kinoe. “Your brother is in a difficult condition,” he says through the phone, sounding indifferent, bored even. “We’re doing the best we can to stabilise him.” It would be so much easier to call him out on his bullshit, but you fear the repercussions your brother might have to face. So you play along, and it kills you a little inside every time you have to play the dumb sheep; to pretend you don’t know. But the worst part is the helplessness. Not being able to do anything, the lacking power to get him out.

Outside, the crispy air of incoming winter cuts into your skin. Other students rush past you, their shoulders up to their ears, hiding their faces behind high collars from the biting wind. The cold is an icy fist tightening around your chest, the numbness spreading through your body a welcome change. Feeling nothing beats feeling too much, and right now that’s the only way to manage throughout the days. It would definitely be easier if you could ignore all obligations. Classes become a blurry image; a faint memory no notes can help to reconstruct. Messages from your friends and fellow classmates remain unanswered; unread even, because a simple answer takes too much energy you can’t spare for such a trivial thing. Nothing matters.

Each day you live like a ghost; like you have to disappear to remain existent in this world.

The only place that serves somewhat of a safe haven is Leblanc; a paradox in itself because the only reason to go there is Akira, and Akira is everything but safe. He knows something is off. He tries so hard to break through your wall, and every time you leave him disappointed, something inside him changes. His will of iron grows stronger, tempered in the fire of your rejection. It’s a mystery how he’s able to put so much effort into a friendship that doesn’t give him anything back; one that leaves him empty after everything he poured into.

Two weeks after the revelation, and you still feel like entering a minefield where one misstep will cause irreparable damage. Akira was understanding of postponing meetings at first, but there’s only so long you can delay seeing him before he gets suspicious and goes after you to seek answers. He’s a predator like that, and you rather take your chances with a headstart than leaving it up to sheer skill.

After heading inside, the first thing Akira says is, “You don’t look too good.”

You blink a few times, trying to sort out how to feel about him taking three seconds to notice that after not seeing each other for weeks. That surprise is quickly replaced by irritation though. “That’s not how you treat someone you haven’t seen in a while,” you shoot back, warily making your way inside even though sirens go off inside your head to turn around and walk away.

Akira only raises a slim eyebrow, wordlessly saying Well regarding his observation.

“I’m just … tired.” You give a twitch that vaguely resembles a shrug as you duck around him towards the booth. “It’s been a long day.”

His eyes are like burning iron on your skin. No one should be able to have scorching eyes like that, and he has made it his very own profession to utilise them as secret weapons covered behind glasses.

“You could have cancelled.” He doesn’t finish with again, but it hangs in the air like an unspoken curse. “This doesn’t have to be as big a priority as whatever you have to do for your classes.”

“Earning money is a big priority.” Which doesn’t explain why you’ve missed out so many sessions with him. You can see Akira is thinking along the same trail. But instead of pointing that out, he leans forward, grey eyes gleaming. His face is predatory but his voice is gentle. “I don’t mind holding up my end of the bargain. But you look like you’re going to faint the minute we start revising my lessons. Not a fair deal, is it, teach?”

It takes a second to understand what he’s talking about, but when you finally do, words become stones under your tongue, and you’re unable to release them. You stand there, perfectly still, a pale statue with a pulse beating in its throat.

Akira’s face goes blank with surprise. “I’m not talking about breaking the deal. I’m just thinking what works in both our favour.”

“So what?” With more force than necessary, you dumb your bag on the table, the loud thud the herald of a war declaration. Papers spill from inside, distributing generously on the table. Neither of you spares them a glance. “Going home now is a waste of my time, so either sit down or call it off for good. I don’t have time to play your games.”

He gives you a wild, dark look. You can’t say for sure if it’s his lack of immediate response or realising just now that this might be the truth. That everything is a game to Akira and he’s just interested in seeing where the stakes lie and how far he can go. An easier answer: directing your frustration at someone else is so much easier than dealing with the helplessness you’ve felt for so long.

He stares you down for a long moment, jaw clenched and hands hidden in his pockets where they curl into visible fists. You think back to a month prior, when he’d seek skin contact without a second thought; a reassuring pat on your shoulder, a feathery touch on your thigh. It feels like a century ago. Like a dream.

“I’m not the bad guy here,” Akira says quietly in a voice you barely recognise. Have you ever heard him so vulnerable? “Taking a break won’t kill you. Letting your guard down once in a while and trusting someone won’t kill you.”

Oh, but it does. You can’t bring yourself up to say it out loud. Grief tears at you, threatening to overwhelm you and drive you to your knees. Because I entrusted my brother’s care into so many hands, and every single one of them has let me down.

Brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear takes much more effort with trembling fingers. There’s no point hiding it from Akira, and it uncoils a tight knot in your belly seeing his eyes softening at the gesture.

“Ten minutes,” you mumble. “Ten minutes, and I’ll be back downstairs. You better have changed your bedclothes since my last visit.”

Akira tries so hard not to look pleased, happy even with this small victory, but he’s bad at containing his emotions around you. He smiles slowly, like the moon slipping beneath the waves of a lake, but it’s as radiant as the sun blazing over towering mountains.

“I’ll start on your exercises,” he says, and finally turns to the spilt papers to organise them. “Won’t take me all too long to solve them.”

“Don’t be cocky,” you say, but it drowns in a yawn now that the fight left your body, like a flame going out. “Some of those are from our math students. They said they’ll become cab drivers if a high school brat solves them.”

“Challenge accepted.”

You can’t help but shake your head, leaving him to the tasks. As you pass him, Akira snatches the last two fingers of your hand and holds them loosely in his, giving you the chance to withdraw. You want to. You don’t want to. Your skin burns where he’s touching you, so warm and encompassing. Safe. When seconds pass and you still haven’t moved, he looks up and holds your gaze as if he hopes to find a confession written between your eyes.

“Whatever it is, it’ll be alright.” He turns back to his work, but not before giving a last squeeze to your fingers. When he lets go, your whole buddy shudders, the cold immediately catching up to you. You feel like falling. Like a dark, bottomless pit has opened up under your feet and swallows you whole. It will; it won’t battles in your head, two loud voices playing a crescendo until a dull pain throbs at the back of your skull. There’s nothing more to say, so you retreat upstairs to the attic.

Nothing has changed much. A heater buzzes in the corner next to the staircase, dimly illuminating the corner as it radiates heat into the small room. The Rise poster is still on the wall, next to a white statue showing a women with angel’s features, her head dipping gently in bittersweet lament. The giant plant he’s had since you know him is still standing beside the shelf where Akira is collecting knicknacks. It has significantly grown since your last visit, and each item is more curious than the next.

On the windowsill, Morgana, curled into himself, sleeps undisturbed away, and you can’t resist to cross the room towards him and pat him tenderly. Rain drums lightly against the window, the drops on the glass reflecting the street lights outside like tiny jewels. Akira forgot to turn off his desk lamp. It’s no wonder he likes to study downstairs; his desk is a mess, littered with all sorts of things. If you had some energy left, you’d probably be concerned about the lockpicks and strange capsules laying around or why he has the monthly issue of an airsoft shop magazine open with marked passages on the newest gun releases. No, the only thing in your line of sight is Akira’s comfortable bed. You fall face first into it, the mattress yielding under your body, and it doesn’t take a minute before you fall asleep, not thinking how soft it is, but how it smells of him.

Twenty minutes later, you feel like suffocating. Waking up from a restless sleep, there’s weight on your chest that turns out to be Morgana who’s found lying on your chest much more comfortable than his previous spot. At least he didn’t lie on your face. He’s back to sleeping soundly, and doesn’t even stir when you relocate him on the blanket. Weirdly enough, he looks as exhausted as you feel, a surprisingly human expression for an animal, which opens the question what he’s been doing all day. You hope he at least has better dreams than you, then make your way back downstairs.

The smell of curry and coffee hits your nose like a brick wall. Behind the counter, Akira is pouring coffee in a cup, humming off-tune. It takes a moment until he notices you, and when he does, he’s estimating you carefully from the distance like a visitor in a museum calculating if a painting fits his taste.

He adjusts his glasses. “You hungry?”

You stare at the steaming plate of curry and feel your stomach turning itself over. “Not at all.”

His careful estimation continues, though judging from the deep furrow that’s slowly drawing between his eyebrows, he isn’t satisfied. “Would be a shame to throw it away now,” he says after a moment, his voice balancing thinly between superficial amusement and deadly seriousness.

“Yeah.” You turn away, your stomach twisting at the upcoming gag reflex. The papers fall into your sight of line; half of the equations are either left unfinished or are crossed out with thick, black lines. Apparently he’s given up on the advanced tasks. “It would.”

The clock above your heads ticks away, the seconds pass like gunshots in this awful silence. Akira’s stare is like a solid touch on your neck, and when you can’t bear it any longer, you gain your courage and turn back to the the counter. His shoulders tense, he takes a deep breath, and pulls his glasses off. Without them, his eyes look awfully disarming. “Look, I’ve been worrying about you.” His voice drops back to the concerned tone from before; a tone you can’t bear to hear any longer. “I didn’t want to mention it earlier, but—” his eyes drop to his hands that are cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt to stay busy— “have you lost weight?”

You inhale sharply. Every nerve in your body screams to flee; you’re physically incapable of having this conversation with anyone. The smile on your face feels like someone carved it with a razor sharp blade onto your skin. “I’d say that’s none of your fucking business.”

Akira looks like you punched him in the gut.

Finally, you understand. The reason he’s wearing glasses, even though he doesn’t need them, is for protection. The most honest parts of his body are his eyes, now a bright grey like freshly polished steel, untouched and clean—innocent. His mouth twists, as if he’s trying to hold in tears; you know the feeling. You hate seeing it on his face.

Then, out of nowhere, a door closes and with it his expression. His mouth turns into a hard line, his face goes blank. “Okay,” he says dryly, then takes the plate away. A minute later, the chinaware nearly breaks in the sink. Akira doesn’t look apologetic. He’s leaning against the sink, propped on his arms that strain visibly at how hard he’s holding onto the edges. Even from here, you can see his knuckles turning white. The leftover nausea you feel isn’t at all related to the lingering scent of curry.

“Akira, I’m so so—” you start the same moment Akira inquirers, “Do you hate me?”

This question takes the remaining breath out of you. Utterly speechless, you need to hold onto the table behind you, feeling your knees go weak. Of course he’s wrong, it’s quite the opposite, and he knows, he should know, but how can words ever be enough to defuse a situation that’s been sitting in coals for hours, only waiting to blow up.

Before you can start to uncoil all the thorny threads that have lead you to this moment, the door to Leblanc opens and his friends enter with a gust of cold air and jolly laughter that pierces into your heart.

“Inari, if you touch my stuff again, I swear I will—” The voice of a young girl trails of and with it, the whole chatting dies. The group has grown significantly since you saw them last time. There’s a girl with big ear phones hanging around her neck. She’s hiding behind Yusuke, whose expression is utterly void of any sign displaying if he’s pleased to see you again or not. Then there are Ryuji, Ann, Makoto, who is whispering to another girl with brown hair curling around her chin and big, doe-like eyes. You feel like you’ve seen her somewhere, and she as well regards you with an expression like she’s known you for a long time. Among them is Akechi who’s looking with open interest between you and Akira; a predator scenting blood in the water.

“Heey, it’s been a while!” Ann’s smile is dazzling. She doesn’t seem to notice the air so tense one could cut it with a knife. “Sorry for barging in like that.”

“We’re just gonna head upstairs and wait ‘til you’re done.” Ryuji grins and wiggles his eyebrows at Akira. This would have been funny a couple months ago, but right now you feel irritation heating up your face. “No reason to bother ya two here.”

“No, we’ve finished up.” You hurry to shove all papers into your bag, crushing some in the process. Someone hisses a chastising “Ryuji,” followed by fabric rustling and a muffled “Ouch.”

“I’ll see you next week,” you tell Akira and make the mistake to look over at him. His glasses are back on, the light reflecting on its surface make it impossible to read his eyes. He’s got his hands back in his pockets, hidden from your sight, and his slouching posture draws a picture of indifference and boredom—the complete opposite from a few minutes ago.

He simply nods, then turns away. The sight of his back, broad and yet crumbled like someone’s punched him a few times too often and now he can’t find it in himself to get back up. On your way outside, you give your goodbye to his friends with a short nod, who’ve all fallen silent, watching you like a flock of crows who are waiting to see if their comrade is in danger and if they have to intervene.

The noise in the canteen is overwhelming. The clatter of cutlery against plates and chairs scratching over the floor seem like sounds from hell; you flinch at every of them like the devil himself is pursuing you. And it’s cold. It’s so cold, you couldn’t bring yourself to take off your scarf and beanie, and still you’re shivering; chilled to the bone by a cold that has little to do with the low temperatures outside.

Narukami watches you with mild concern, but hasn’t said anything and you’re grateful for that. If he is your scale on how bad a situation is, then there’s still some time left to think about how to figure everything out by yourself before calling in more drastic measures. There’s still no plan. You could go to the police and try to explain everything. Maybe they’ll confiscate Odayama’s phone, listen to his previous calls and reveal your dad as the manipulator. Unless he denies all accusations and portrays himself as much of a victim as your brother, playing the innocent parent who hasn’t known about the abuse of the hospital. This could as well spiral into a vicious cycle with no escape until it ends with you committed to a clinic so nothing stands in your dad’s way of a clean ascension into the public political sphere.

You shudder helplessly, feeling hot and cold at the same time, until a careful touch on your arm pulls you back to the present. Your body flinches away before you can even process what’s happening. Narukami’s hand retreats, but instead of apologetic, he looks confused.

“I said, there’s someone wanting your attention,” he repeats, and nods towards the other end of the hall. Kenji is standing next to the serving counter, waving wildly at you and nearly knocking food trays over. You quickly duck your head away, before the surrounding students recognise you as the source.

“Oh thank God I found you!” Your efforts go to waste when Kenji slides in the free chair next to you. “I got great news. Remember when we went to Crossroads?” He doesn’t give you time to answer. “Thanks to you storming out because of that bartender, the cute girl sitting next to us and I started talking. And now we’re dating. Can you. Believe that?”

“Hello, Tomochika,” Narukami greets him equably. They only know each other from some shared classes, but apart from that, you’re the only connection between them. Kenji looks at him like he has a revelation. Maybe he’s currently rethinking if dating girls is his true calling.

“Congrats,” you say, not feeling it at all.

Kenji gives you an incredulous look. “Could you say that again and actually mean it.”

You give him the look of a person who’s about to lose their patience in approximately five seconds. He leans back in his seat, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I just wanted to celebrate,” he continues, “and show my appreciation by inviting you to the monja shop in Tsukishima. How about that?”

You twist your mouth, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten up. “I think I’ll pass.”

“For real? You love monjayaki.” Kenji frowns. “I think this is the first I’m hearing you refusing to go.”

“It is,” Narukami agrees, that traitor. He’s got that look on now, like he’s working on a difficult case and can’t allow himself to relax until he finds a solution.

“I just don’t want any right now.” You stab the tofu with your fork and move it around the plate. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“Then how about drinks?” Kenji places a hand around your elbow. “Lala-chan’s been asking when you—”

You tear your arm away, nearly sweeping the plates off the table. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Kenji and Narukami look at you with wide eyes. Multiple heads from nearby tables turn in your direction, their conversations halting. It feels like you’re in the witness stand, seconds away from being found guilty.

“Sorry,” you and Kenji say simultaneously, even though he has nothing to apologise for. You feel like throwing up. To stir the conversation back to a better topic, you take out your phone and pretend to scroll through your calender. “Actually, uhm … if you still want to go to Tsukishima, how about next week?” you offer, knowing you’ll cancel shortly before on the day. Kenji’s face lights up again, he nods. “Sounds good.”

After finishing his meal and discussing their different focus areas with Narukami, Kenji disappears to his classes, painfully taking care not to come near you to avoid another scene. You can’t blame him, being unsure yourself if you can hold another harsh reaction like that back. Just the thought of arms brushing sets your skin ablaze like thousand needles pricking your skin. Now alone again with Narukami, he’s excruciatingly silent, staring outside the window at the bleak November day. When he finally opens his mouth, you fear the worst, and every muscle in your body tenses with the instinct to flee.

“You’re going to finish that?” He nods at your barely touched plate, the food already gone cold. You blink, confused because that isn’t what you’ve expected.

“No, I’m full.”

Narukami considers you with a blank expression, then nods and clears his stuff from the table. “Then let’s go. The library’s probably cramped by now.”

His broad shoulders come into sight when he turns around to lead the way to the library. Narukami’s indifference shocks you, but overshadowing that, there is this incredible relief he isn’t trying to fix you. He knows you’re growing anxious and tense when finals approach, so he’s probably thinking you’re just stressed from all the studying.

It turns out you know less about him than you assumed.

Up until know, it seemed he only showed you a glimpse of who he really is. A couple days later, he’s standing in front of your door, looking like the Lord ready to deliver the Final Judgement himself. The door is barely an inch open but he forces himself through the narrow opening, making you stumble backwards.

“The hell? Good to see you—”

He pushes a plastic bag in your hand, the warmth of it sips right through your clothes. You break out in cold sweat. “Eat it.”

You eye the bag like it’s a living thing ready to pounce you and rip your face off. You swallow hard. “I don’t want to.”

“You will.”

You shudder. It sounds like a threat.

You follow Narukami into your living room where he starts to inspect everything, deliberately balancing on your thin thread of patience, and very deliberately plunging even more into a dangerous zone without a safety net to save him from a bruising fall.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”

He stops and throws you a nasty glare; you almost shrink away at the look he bents on you: grey, blazing, furious. “Maybe you are finally going to tell me what’s going on. What have you been doing to yourself?”

Your expression closes up, the whirlpool of anxiety in your stomach churning up into a storm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. How about you don’t just barge in my home and act like a dick?”

“You haven’t seen me act like a real dick, and you don’t want to. Now eat.”

All colour drains from your face. Narukami has never talked to you like that before. He gives you leeway for many things, but now he seems to draw a line and use its foundation to build a brick wall.

“I don’t want to,” you grind out, between your teeth.

“You have to. You look awful,” he says quieter, his obvious concern for you robbing his anger momentum and fuelling your guilt.

“I’m fine, I’m just,” you sigh, running a shaky hand through your hair, “not … hungry.”

“If you’re fine, then you can eat,” Narukami insists, ignoring the last part. Now he’s going through your trash can for God knows what reason. Is he searching for something?

Reluctantly, you take the container out of the plastic bag, barely enduring the smell of fried meat and steamed vegetables. You fight against gagging, and unpack the meal on the small table in your living room. There’s no time to mentally prepare yourself for it. With a last pathetic glance towards Narukami, begging him to leave you be, which he cruelly ignores, you scoop the smallest amount of rice on your chopsticks, and eat.

It takes six seconds before you lurch to your bathroom and dry heave into your toilet. Tears burn like acid in your eyes, your throat is scorching from remnant stomach acid. You don’t look up when Narukami enters the small room. Meeting his eyes would mean saying goodbye to the last straw holding your sanity together, the shame a battering ram destroying your carefully built walls of isolation and you’re not ready to face what’s been rotting behind them. Your heart. Your heart isn’t in your chest anymore. It’s beating in your throat, making it hard to breathe.

“Come.” Narukami carefully helps you to your feet, and steadies your trembling body on the way to the living room where he seats you on the couch. A blanket falls around your shoulders, but it does nothing to ease the shaking. He kneels in front of you, his hands resting on the couch on both sides of your legs, but even if you wanted to, you don’t have any energy left to run away.

He allows you to collect yourself. Wordlessly, he takes first your left arm and inspects the soft underside, then your right, and you realise he’s been looking for used razors and sanitisers in your trash can.

“I’m not cutting myself,” you say, your voice a weak tremor barely countable for a statement. Narukami looks up at you, searches for the lie in your eyes, and nods when he finds nothing.

“Still, you don’t need me of all people to tell you that what you are doing is self harm,” he says, closing his thumb and index finger around your thin, bony wrist. The tips easily overlap, and seeing the contrast between your thin and his big hand shows you the harsh story of neglect you put your body through.

The tears come without any warning. You’ve never been one to cry in front of others, but Narukami’s eyes are so vulnerable, so helplessly drowning in worry. He has both your hands in a tight grip, brushing a thumb over your protruding knuckles, and doesn’t say anything as you spill your heart’s and body’s sorrows.

After a while, he asks quietly, “We’re friends, right?”

“Of course.” You swallow the thick lump in your throat, threatening to burst out everything you never wanted to say.

“Then you at least owe your friends the opportunity to try to help you— you at least owe me that.” Narukami’s voice is rough, thick with an unidentifiable emotion you’ve never thought you’d link to him, and it pains to realise just now that maybe Narukami isn’t okay as well.

“I’m sorry,” you finally manage. Sorry for the way you treated yourself and him. Sorry for not trusting him enough, and making him afraid for you. “I’m so sorry, Yuu.”

“I know,” he says, squeezing your hands. He’s blinking multiple times, trying to hold in tears, and the sight uncoils a tight knot inside your stomach. “I know you can’t just share your pain, and it takes effort to say it out loud, but I want to hear everything now, instead of seeing another friend just disappear—” His voice tears on the last word, a ragged note of grief like ripped paper. Maybe the reason he’s holding onto you so tight now is to convince himself that you’re still here. It shifts your whole world into a different perspective; shame blazes inside you at realising how much you’ve punished people for worrying about you.

“Now please tell me what happened,” Narukami continues. His features remind you of the angel in the attic; his head bent, his hair falling forward and hiding his face. “What happened that broke you so much.”

So you tell him. And you don’t keep anything from him. And every word hurts like knives cutting you open from the inside, and for the first time, you think of it as liberating. His eyes mirror what you feel, and Narukami needs a minute to process everything. All sorts of emotion cross his face, starting with disbelief and mute horror, ending with fury.

“This might be a stupid question, but did you talk to your parents?” he asks first. You give him a humourless laugh and dig your phone out of your pocket, looking for the last messages from a week ago.

[you]: I know what you’re doing to Kinoe, and I know Dr. Odayama is in on it.

[you]: Don’t you dare ignore me, I’ll go to the police.

You were left on read for two days, and then, finally the answer:

[Dad]: Are you? And you think they will believe you or your sick brother?

Narukami’s expression turns dark. “This is unacceptable.”

“I really don’t know … what to do,” you admit, fumbling with the worn out sleeves of your sweater. “Should I still try going to the police? Take a lawyer?”

“I imagine the process will depend on your brother’s word,” Narukami says. He’s sitting beside you know, his elbows resting on his knees with his hands intertwined. “A patient testifying that they have been the victim of a crime is the most difficult case. The capacity of a witness with a mental illness to speak out is limited. They’ll probably won’t let him talk and use a medical estimate instead.”

“That’s what I fear.” You wipe your cheeks and bring your legs up on the couch, curling into yourself. “I’m not allowed to see him right now. I’m sure dad told Odayama I’m onto them, and now I can’t step inside without immediately being escorted outside.”

“Don’t give up so easily.” He looks at you with concern. “It’s difficult, but not impossible.”

“Trust me, the only way to fix this is to make my dad confess.” Which won’t happen. He’d have to become a whole different person, turn 180 degrees, he’d have to have … a change of heart. You steal a glance towards your closed laptop laying on the side. So far, your request on the Phansite forum has still gone unanswered, which isn’t a surprise. The site is chaos, the huge shitstorm is still going on in full force and by now you doubt the Phantom Thieves will have a comeback at all.

“Maybe he will,” Narukami thinks aloud. “I will look into procedures regarding witnesses with mental illnesses, and how they turned out. Promise. I won’t let you go through this alone. I won’t allow you to go through this alone.” Determination is solid fire in his eyes. You’d give anything for a few sparks to jump over and burn away the doubt and fear still clutching your heart like a cold fist. Narukami watches you a moment, and the only answer you can give is a weak smile. He sighs.

“We can talk about the details when I come back,” he says and gets up.

“Where are you going?” Suddenly the thought of being left alone scares you more than ever.

“To get ingredients to make soup. I know you don’t want to, but you have to start eating properly again.”

The thought of food doesn’t leave you jumping in joy. It feels like your stomach is a bottomless pit, this hunger a gnawing starvation for something as simple as goodness, or happy end; the basic of desires. There is no room for food until that feeling is satisfied. “Okay. I’ll try,” you promise.

Narukami finally allows himself to smile as well. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

A week later, you manage solid food better. Narukami makes sure you don’t skip meals anymore, and you keep your promise and tell him whenever it becomes too much.

Not a day passes without you trying to get into the Clinic. Dr. Odayama still denies every request, but you’re hoping that at least some of the nurses grow suspicious and start looking more into it. Narukami is looking for similar cases in the library’s archives, but the work is slow and the results aren’t the best.

Then there is the important question of ‘What happens after that?’ If you manage to get Kinoe out of the clinic, what will be the next step? He can’t live at your place, the dormitory apartment is too small and moving flats is too expensive. In addition to that, Kinoe does need professional supervision, and you know you can’t be the one watching over him. You’ll have to find him a new therapist, and need money for that as well. Nothing will be easy, and you don’t even know when or how to work on that. And yet … and yet, it’s been some days since you last thought of all those tasks being impossible.

“Changes won’t come immediately,” Narukami said a few days into your supervised meal plan, stirring scrambled eggs in a small bowl, his sleeves folded up to his elbows. “But they will come, slow and steady. Brick by brick.”

Brick by brick, you think now as you cram various therapist and psychiatrist’s pamphlets in your bag to go over them later. It isn’t December yet, but Christmas lights hanging on trees lining down the streets turn night into day. Roppongi Hills is beautiful, but you always feel cold looking into the bright blue lamps; the branches looking like they’ll collapse under heavy, artificial snow. Tourists love it. It appears this year came so many more than the previous, probably because of the Phantom Thieves being an exciting, but now unwelcome attraction. You’re already looking forward to Christmas being over, the buzz dying down and the town growing quiet as everyone falls into a brief winter rest before New Years.

Someone calls your name in the crowd. A female voice, faintly familiar but new as well as you haven’t heard it in … years. Many years. When the girl finally breaks through the crowd, you’re holding your breath. This isn’t a girl, it’s a young, lovely woman looking up at you, smiling dazzlingly beautiful and suddenly you’re thrown back to middle school, standing in the middle of a white hall when you first realised boys aren’t the only attractive people to look at.

A noise escapes from you—a noise you have never heard anyone make before; a sick, terrible gasp, as if the air has been punched out of you by a tremendous blow.

But it is not just a gasp. It is a word; and not just a word, a name; and not just a name, but one you have spoken so many times, it’s a familiar tune to fall asleep and wake up to.

“Minako.”

Minako grins. She looks just the same as all those years back, safe for the short hair curling around her cheeks and forehead. She’s grown a little, but hasn’t caught up to you which is still adorable, and just—everything about her is still so adorable.

“How long has it been? Six years?” She closes the remaining distance with quick steps and studies you from head to toe. You hope that you regained control of your face again and don’t look as shaken as a minute before.

“I can’t believe you’re still wearing this horrible thing!” She’s tugging lightly on your scarf, and you aren’t sure if her red cheeks are just from the cold.

“It was your birthday present for me,” you say lamely, bringing the fabric all the way up to your nose because you’re pretty sure the embarrassment is obvious on your face.

“Yeah, before I learnt how to knit properly.” She laughs, still so clear like bells chiming, then raises her hand only to freeze it midair. Now a lot more hesitant, she looks from you to a free bench under the tree alley. “Do you have some time maybe? I’d love to catch—”

“Yes.” Your answer comes immediately, no second thought spared. “Yes, I’d love to too.”

Minako blinks up at you, then laughs. “Great.”

You take the bench a little further away from the main street, now undisturbed by the cars and people shopping.

“To be honest, I didn’t even recognise you at first,” Minako confesses. She’s tugging at hear red ear warmers, shaped like headphones. Her taste hasn’t changed at all.

“I know, I’ve become even more stunningly beautiful,” you joke, to which Minako gives a weak smile.

“Actually, I thought that you don’t look so good,” she observes, always so honest. Too honest. “Are you eating well?”

“What a question, of course,” you assure her, which is partly true because you’re still figuring out how to make breakfast a daily habit again. Minako looks at you for a long minute, in which you know that she knows you’re lying. Her eyebrows draw together, her trademark expression whenever she isn’t satisfied.

You shrug. “Must be this light.”

“This light,” she repeats, then looks up. The white draws a harsh contrast of shadows on her skin, making her delicate facial bones stand out more. She looks like an ice princess gazing upon the stars, like a secret waiting to be held close to one’s heart. “I think the light is fine,” she continues when her eyes return to yours. “It makes you look like an ice fairy.”

The cold is definitely gone now, replaced by a too familiar heat. Minako seems to feel the same, she laughs a little to herself about how silly old habits are. “I see you’re doing good then?”

You can’t stop smiling yourself. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Minako sighs. A corner of her mouth pulls up into a rueful smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Fine, huh.” She turns her head sharply to you. “Did you ever really think about why I broke up with you?” she suddenly asks.

You wiggle your toes in your boots, and of course you want to say yes, it left you with countless sleepless nights (and that’s the answer you’re supposed to give anyway), but Minako knows you still all too well. She doesn’t wait for your response and continues, “You never really talked to me, you know.”

“I always talked to you,” you protest, and realise at the same time that isn’t what she means. Minako sighs again, and this time it sounds a little sad; the small sound tugging at your heart.

“Yeah, you always liked talking. But not about the important things. Things that bothered you. Things that upset you. I guess I was partly at fault as well, always busy with—” Her sentence dies midway. She shakes her head when you open your mouth to protest, and you can’t say for certain if it’s because you tried to interrupt or however her sentence would have ended. “I see you now, years later, and ask you how you’re doing, and you tell me you’re fine, even though you clearly aren’t. I see it in your eyes. The grief.” Finally, she turns around and holds your gaze. “You haven’t changed at all.”

You feel like protesting, but all words die on your lips at the cruel realisation that Minako is right, and the pain of that realisation is a low, persistent throb like the rhythm of a song. When Minako places a hand on your arm, you realise you’re shaking with the force of this feeling. Frustration tears at you, threatening to overwhelm you. The only way you know how to fight it is by directing it somewhere else.

“What about you?” you ask with more force than intended, staring at her hand on your arm. “You just disappeared looking for someone you didn’t even really know. What’s become of that?”

Minako lowers her gaze, and draws her hand back. “I tried to tell you. To explain. But even now, I can’t really bring it into words.”

“Then try,” you say. “So I can try to understand.”

“You never allowed me to try and understand you,” she retorts, lifting one fine eyebrow to her hairline, and another memory floods back: Arguing with her was never much fun.

“I know I haven’t been the most open person,” you admit, albeit not begrudgingly. Brick by brick, you remind yourself. “But it’s never late to change, wouldn’t you say?”

Something flickers in Minako’s eyes. It’s close to recognition, or rather remembrance; the flare of a forgotten picture from the past like sudden brightness striking your eyes in the dead of the night.

She turns away, hiding her face. “There is so much in our lives that we cannot grasp,” she starts, hesitating a little. “It might sound stupid to you. But everyone of us is just a little clock in an enormous system.” She halts, bites her lower lip, thinking. It’s such a familiar gesture, your breath hitches inside your throat. “The Arcana is the means by which all is revealed. I know you’ve never been a big fan of fortunetelling, but maybe you want to look into it?”

You blink. “And how, by all means, is that related to why you took off?”

Minako laughs shyly again, wringing her gloved hands into her coat. “I’m just saying, it helped me look for my friend. I feel like, I’m getting closer.” She fixes her auburn eyes on you, and for this second, you’re back in high school when you realised there was something about Minako Arisato that reached into you and untied all the careful knots of protection holding you together. You wonder if that is what people mean when they say they feel undone. It’s the same when you’re with Akira, though where Minako is a fizzy, sweet sugar fountain that nourishes your thirst, he is the calm, saturating river that invigorates the forest.

You miss him so much.

“I hope you’ll find whoever you’re looking for soon enough,” you tell her. It feels like the right thing to say. Minako confirms it by granting you her smile at full force. It’s always been one of the great mysteries to you how she’s able to give her smiles out like it costs her nothing, like it’s so easy. “And once you find him, I hope you can settle down and find peace.”

“I’ve already found peace.” Minako raises her head and scans the crowd further away swiftly for someone. “Actually … you might remember…” She ducks her head. “Aegis and I…”

“Oh.” You swing your legs, kicking at loose stones. When you search deep inside you for regret or questions like what could have been, nothing comes up. Minako too tries to find those in your expression as well, but ending up empty handed, she nudges your knee with her own.

“I should introduce you guys to each other some day. Catch up on old times, maybe visit Port Island again. We’re just passing through Tokyo this time, but once everything is sorted out…” She gives you a sheepish smile, shrugs with one shoulder. “I really want us to stay friends.”

Friends. What a wonderful, complex bond between people who aren’t related by blood; who are not forced by social conventions to stay with you; care for you. Bound by free will only and unconditional love. The trick is to find people who are better than oneself—not smarter, not cooler, but kinder, and more generous, and more forgiving—and then to appreciate them for what they can teach you.

Minako has always been one of those rare examples; selfless even though she’s in the centre of so many people. Like the sun, she’s drawing in those who’ve lived for too long in the shadows and the cold, building her own little solar system where she can look after everyone. A little bit like Narukami, you think. Or Akira. They all are working miracles; exquisite wonders so rare and precious, you want to hide them from harm’s way.

“Then let’s meet up once you’re back,” you offer, then get up. Minako raises too. She takes your hands like this simple reunion has wed you. Even through the fabric of your gloves, you feel the warmth of her skin.

“Let’s.” Her cheeks are red from the cold, her breath drifting between you in little clouds. “Until then, be good.”

There’s a last squeeze to your hands, and just like she appeared out of nowhere, she disappears like a fleeting dream, joining another girl that’s standing between the trees. Radiant blue eyes hold your gaze, estimating if you’re friend or foe. You wave awkwardly over. She waves back, her face void of any expression until Minako reaches her. It’s like the girl is watching the sun dawning on the blackest night. You totally understand that feeling. As they disappear into the crowd, hand in hand, you think only of Akira and how much you want to see him.

The waitress asks if you’d like another refill, but you think you’ve had enough coffee for one day. One cup more and the Shibuya Diner might charge you for the hole you’re about to stomp through the ground by bobbing your knee up and down. Sooner than expected, you’re fulfilling the promise to Kenji, who’s determined to eat his way through the whole sandwich menu before it’s switched out at the end of the month.

The diner is packed; it’s a wonder you guys managed to grab a table by the window that overlooks the central street. Everyone is so tiny from up here and looks the same—grey suits, black trench coats. It’s like the winter has drained all colour from the earth’s surface, leaving a bleak landscape. Winter has never been fun in the city. Snow immediately turns into grey, muddy mush, cold and uninviting. You miss the countryside, miss building snowmen with your brother surrounded by a winter wonderland in your grandparent’s yard, miss the crisp smell of winter untainted by the fumes of Tokyo. When did everything change? Oh yeah. When granny died, and dad’s way to grieve was work, work, work, until he declared the whole family is too busy to visit gramps. You wonder how he’s doing.

“You done with that?” Kenji asks, cutting off your reminiscing. He points to your half finished pudding and works his puppy eyes and dimples, knowing how weak you are against those. You grumble under your breath, but push the little glass cup towards him.

“You’re gonna get fat,” you say. “And your girlfriend will dump you.”

Kenji is unimpressed. He removes the spoon with a pop from his mouth, then looks at it fondly. “There's nothing wrong in gaining a few pounds. And besides, you’re miserable and lonely.”

You can’t argue with that. Narukami surely hasn’t told him everything, but it’s obvious Kenji knows something, otherwise he wouldn’t run after you like a mother hen and invite you to eat out every day. He’s quickly figured out how much you hate to see money getting wasted, so he covers meals and pays for drinks and it’s the exact kind of devilish that you expect from him. But it works. You stopped skipping meals, and the cold days haven’t bothered you as much. The way to recovery is stony, but you don’t walk it alone.

“I have standards,” you shoot back, but it’s without bite. Kenji just makes a face at you. He begins to answer, but two shadows fall over your table. When you look up, your heart startles a little, the name escaping your lips like a prayer. “Akira.”

“Mind if we join?” he asks, and gives a curt nod to his companion, a boy the same age as him with dark, bluish hair and a pale face that looks anxious by default. You open your moth, and he quickly continues “Cool, thanks,” without waiting for an answer. He slides in the seat next to you like his name is written on it. His friend follows his example a lot slower, avoiding Kenji’s eyes at all costs.

The latter squints at Akira, probably recognising him from Crossroads and you pray that isn’t something you have to explain to him later. There’s no reason to panic. Kenji continues merrily scooping his pudding onto his spoon. It’s Akira’s friend who breaks the silence first.

“I swear, you never stop impressing me, Kurusu-kun,” he says, and what previously was a spark of anxiety in his eyes turns into excitement. “Hanging out with college students. How do you get these kind of connections?”

“Oh, he’s a charmer,” Kenji teases. “And you are?”

“Yuuki Mishima.” The boy’s cheeks grow red. “We’re in the same class.”

“Now you look like a man of culture. Do you know Phoenix Ranger Featherman R?”

Their conversation strays off to foreign territory. You pretend that checking your phone takes all your focus, so talking is off limits. There’s no new message from Narukami, so no luck on that end, and for whatever stupid reason, you totally forgot to ask Minako for her number. You just have to hope that one day fate will let you cross paths again—

Akira presses his knee against yours and that little warm contact puts your thoughts to a halt. A little gasp comes from you, and like a gunshot, it grasps everyone’s attention.

“You okay?” Kenji doesn’t really sound concerned. Somehow you wouldn’t put it past him to know exactly what’s going on under the table.

“Oh, perfect.” You pinch Akira’s thigh in warning. “Just peachyyyiieee—” His sneaky hands were waiting for you. Before you can react, he slides his fingers between yours and presses your hand against the seat, trapping it effectively. Your heart is in your throat. There is no way he doesn’t notice the rapid pulse beating in your wrist, and knowing how blatantly exposed your feelings are turns your stomach upside down. It’s like a roller coaster ride without the safety belt, seconds before the dangerous plunge.

“Well, uhm … do you know what you’ll take, Kurusu-kun?” Mishima asks to fill the silence, nervously tugging at the menu’s corners. “I think I’ll go with the Frui-Tea.”

“I’m fine with that as well,” Akira replies, not looking at you or down as his thumb digs into your open palm, leaving a crescent dent with his nail in your skin. “I’m also a bit hungry. How about the Nostalgic Steak?”

“The steak? Ain’t it a bit early for dinner?” Kenji asks. “You kids should pay attention to when and what you eat.” He saintly enough does not emphasise his point by looking at you. You’re pretty sure your face is going up in flames right now.

“Actually, I think I’ll pass after all.” Without elaborating, Akira gets up. His hand disappears, and with it the warmth that threatened to suffocate you. The cold that quickly follows after that raids you of the wonky walls you’ve clumsily constructed in the last two minutes; and the leftover vulnerability leaves you hollow. It shouldn’t be allowed for him to have this impact on you.

Mishima blinks in surprise. “What? How come?”

“I forgot I have stuff to do.” Akira shrugs. “Go to the airsoft shop and bookstore, and Sojiro wanted something too.”

He doesn’t wait for Mishima’s reply, and just sort of leaves him to the wolves. Without looking back, he bolts for the door and disappears, smoothly dodging a waitress who’s balancing multiple coffee cups on a tablet. She gives a little squeak, then stares after him in awe.

You suddenly feel all too hot in your skin.

“Huh, even though he was the one who insisted coming in,” Mishima mutters to himself. “We just passed, and then he looked up at the window, and said he really needed to see something.”

That’s all you need to know. Stumbling to your feet, you clumsily get into your coat, nearly tearing the fabric. “Put it on my tab, Kenji. I gotta go.”

“Don’t do stuff I wouldn’t do!” he calls after you, and you feel a little sorry for Akira’s friend witnessing this all. But that thought quickly vanishes when you reach Central Street and the crowds overwhelm you. There is no way you’ll find him with so many people moving around.

But maybe you don’t need to find him. Maybe he’ll be waiting for you.

You elbow your way through the masses, ignoring the upset cries. The narrow alleyway is deserted save for a few bicycles and empty garbage bins. And Akira. He’s looking into the windows of the airsoft shop, the green light from the neon tubes above his face throwing ghastly shadows on his face. He looks like from another world.

“What the hell was that?” you demand as if he’s slapped you across the face in front of everyone. Akira takes his time before focusing on you, lazily dragging his grey eyes from the supplies behind the glass to you. Both eyebrows disappear behind his curly hair. He leans his narrow waist against an empty bike rack, hands in his pockets. “I thought you don’t care?”

“I don’t.”

“Then why did you follow me?”

“Because you can’t just do that!” You close the distance, standing up to your full height in front of him. He still towers above you, and his unimpressed expression makes you want to kick him in the shins. “I won’t be your substitute for that detective you can come up to whenever you feel like it.”

“You’re still the only one who thinks that.” He’s so calm, collected. As if he prepared himself for this conversation and everything you’re about to throw at him. As if he’s here to finally settle a score.

“Then can you say it to me?” You raise your chin, shuddering when his eyes briefly jump to your mouth. “Can you tell me you don’t think of him at all anymore.”

He exhales slowly, watching your hair move with his breath. His gaze holds yours before he surrenders and looks away. “No,” he says, very low. “No, I can’t. I’m not going to lie to you. So I cannot tell you that.” He takes a step towards you, bringing your chests close to touching. “But I can assure you that it’s for different reasons than you think.”

Even though you’ve kissed already, this intimacy makes your knees go weak even more. His lips are right in front of you and just from looking at them you remember their taste, their softness between your teeth and you desperately want to pry them open with your tongue and—

Door bells chime somewhere behind you. Akira stiffens.

“Hey kid!” The deep voice of a man makes you jump a full feet away from Akira; your head spins around so fast a bone cracks in your spine. “You wanna stand there all day?”

In the doorway of Untouchable, a gruff looking man stares you two down, scratching his scruff. He doesn’t look like someone you want to meet in a dark alleyway, so instead of following his call, you take a step back, ready to bolt into the opposite direction.

Akira gives you a cheeky grin, then grabs your hand and pulls you towards the shop. All complaints get ignored; and for someone as lean and lanky as him, he’s surprisingly strong, easily pulling you after him. The door falls close behind you, and there you are, standing in the middle of a dimly lit shop with guns and military equipment hanging everywhere. There’s the faint smell of cold smoke, like someone used to do it in these rooms but stopped long ago, and now the smell won’t leave the furniture.

The shop keeper returns to his position behind the counter, a see-through glass cabinet that’s showcasing different ammunition cases and fake grenades. It’s your first time inside an airsoft shop, and it certainly doesn’t belong to places you’d visit out of your own accord. But Akira doesn’t seem to have a problem in here at all. He’s checking out the assortment, lingering in front of some pistols longer than others. During all this, he doesn’t let go of your hand, and if the manager sees it he doesn’t comment on it. What he does eventually, is producing a big catalogue from behind the counter, and slamming it on the table. He crooks his finger to beckon Akira over to him.

“I got something for you to look at, brat,” he says unceremoniously. Standing so close to him, you notice the gecko tattoo on his muscular neck. It doesn’t need a genius to put two and two together, but this isn’t the place or time to ask Akira if he’s a member of the mafia too.

He leans in close to you, his arm brushing yours, reading over your shoulder. “Mike Dubber’s remake of a Colt 1911 model releases in two weeks, called … Cocytus. 10 rounds, semi-automatic, originally manufactured in the US. Beautiful details on the frame and side.”

You know little of pistols, but yes, this is without doubt a gorgeous gun with it’s sleek black design and golden engravings. On the grip is a crest of a bird spreading its wings to take flight, beautiful and elegant.

The manager nods, pleased. “The Tet 50th Anniversary Tribute Pistol. He’ll make only 12 and that’s it, so think fast if you want me to place an order.”

Akira’s fingers thrum on the counter. He looks thoughtful. “How much?”

“44.800Yen.”

A choked sound escapes you. Both give a brief glance in your direction, remembering you’re there as well.

“I’ll think about it,” Akira says, then folds a dog-ear in the corner, completely ignoring the murderous look from the manager.

“There’s something else,” the manager says, with the annoyance of a man who doesn’t like his magazines dog-eared. He slides a folded slip of paper across the counter, warily eyeing you sideways. You hold his gaze until Akira hides the note in his pocket, then finally look away. He’s probably filed you as a potential organ donor should whatever he’s written on it get leaked. You shudder.

Akira doesn’t linger much longer. After promising the manager to call, he pulls you outside, squinting into the dark alley. Only 20 minutes must have passed, but the sky is already pitch black; the night life rises and with it the dark residents of the city. At the alley’s entrance, a group of black suited men smoke. When the bell chimes above you, their head turns and they stare at you like predators catching the smell of prey. You turn away immediately.

“I didn’t know you were into guns,” you say.

Akira shrugs, then squeezes your hand, still holding it. “I’m into lot of things.”

Your eyebrows jump to your hairline, but Akira doesn’t elaborate. He starts pulling you toward the other exit of the alley, not looking back but judging from the tension in his shoulders you can tell that he’s noticed the men as well.

It’s a fifteen minute walk up to Yoyogi-Park. Just as the main streets, every tree wears bright strings of lights; little pearls and diamonds illuminating the paths. The moon slips in and out between tree crowns, its reflection glinting on the lake’s frozen surface in a silvery colour that reminds you of the eyes of a particular boy.

“So,” you say.

“So.” Akira nods, drawing circles with his thumb on your palm as his gaze drifts over the lake. He looks like a sublime painting; like a night spirit that disappears as soon as the first sun beams strike the horizon. This time you squeeze his hand.

“You said earlier you’re still thinking about Akechi,” you resume the topic from before, steeling yourself for the conversation that’s long overdue.

“I also said it’s for different reasons than you think.”

“Which are?”

He hesitates. “Complicated?”

“Which means?”

“Complex?”

“I didn’t ask for a synonym.”

Akira runs his free hand through his thick, black curls. He looks dishevelled … and so gorgeous it pains your heart. “I can’t get into too much detail yet. You just have to believe me on this. You two are very important to me. All my friends are important to me. It’s just … a little different with you two.”

“Because you like him?”

“And you.”

You take that in for a second, all thoughts tangled up in tight knots so it’s nearly impossible to make out where one starts and the other ends. And then, the answer as simple as plain obvious.

“You fell in love with two different people at once.”

Akira’s face is deadly pale. There is a forlorn, lost look about him, but his eyes search your face as if he might find himself there. You clasp his hand.

“I’m not a big fan of ‘falling’ in love.” He gives a weak, crooked smile. It looks ghastly in the gaudy white light. “I chose to open my heart, and it so happened that I found two people I’d be ready to—” He cuts himself off and waves with his free hand to finish his sentence. Red patches have broken out over his face and what little you see of his throat, standing out vividly against his pale skin, and when his hand drops back to his side, he very quietly asks, “Is something wrong with me?”

Oh, you think. His cheeks aren’t red from embarrassment. They’re burning with shame.

You touch his hair gently, pushing the tangled locks behind his ear. “There is nothing wrong with you, Akira. If anything, it just shows that you are more human than most people.”

“I think you meant to say crazy.”

“I meant what I said.” You look up at him, watching his face go from amused to something else. Something soft and serious and tremulously vulnerable. “You feel what you feel, and if it would be easy to understand, we wouldn’t need people like me trying to figure out how the brain works.”

“It’s just unfair, isn’t it? I want to tell you how I feel. I want to tell Akechi how I feel. But every time I’m close to it, I see your face, or his, and I feel like it’s never enough.”

Of course it would never be enough for him, but you can’t even begin to understand what it’s like; craving two people and never being satisfied, the hunger for love doubled.

“Did you talk about it with Akechi?”

He shakes his head, looking sad. “I don’t think I’ll get the chance to do so. Akechi is—”

“Complicated?”

“Yeah.” Akira exhales slowly. “Something like that.”

You nod, even though you’re more confused than ever. “When you said he’ll never feel the same… how do you know?”

“I know that much about him. Akechi isn’t easy to figure out. But I do know he and I stand on opposite sides of what we believe in, and I don’t think I can get through to him.” He presses his lips into a thin, white line, looking incredibly sad. You really want to punch Akechi for doing this to Akira, and at the same time, how can you harm him knowing how much he means to Akira.

“So what does this mean for us?” You shuffle your feet, kicking pebble stones out of the way. “What are we gonna do?”

“I guess it depends on what you want,” he says, visibly bracing himself. “I can understand if you want to distance yourself from me under these circumstances—” He closes his mouth when he sees your expression. Not that you should be surprised he comes up with this idea. Up until now, you didn’t make it easy for him to talk about this, and doubts have clouded your mind, making it unable to think reasonably. But the last couple of days, all spent missing him so much it hurt, allow a clear decision on your part.

“I told you, you wouldn’t get rid of me easily.” You catch the hem of his coat and pull him towards you, closing the remaining distance. Akira’s eyes go wide when you bent your head back to look up at him. “I like you too, Akira Kurusu. And I’m ready to see where this will take us.”

Akira shudders. His head tilts forward, and he mouths your name against your lips, whispering a quiet “God, I like you so much.”

You blink at him innocently. “Show me.”

Something very dark settles across his eyes; his lips curl up as he accepts the challenge. You feel his smile against your mouth, already opening it to take in everything he is going to give you. He touches your cheek with warm, calloused fingers, then his hands cup the back of your head, his mouth slanting down over yours, hot and sweet as tea with honey. You run your teeth lightly across his bottom lip and he makes a guttural sound that raises the hairs along your arms. It feels like finally returning home after a strenuous journey. Akira looms over you, tall and confident; a safe haven welcoming you after you’ve been away for too long.

His strong arms encircle you, and he just holds your like that for a long moment, slowly swaying left and right as he presses his face into your scarf, inhaling deeply. “I missed you so much, you know.”

You rub his back, feeling giddy and restless, and like the world is finally back on its right course. “Yeah, me too.”

A phone rings. Akira makes an annoyed sound and searches for his phone in his pocket. Ryuji S. says his display, and you turn away to give him privacy. He’s reluctant to let your hand go, like he’s already missing your small hands in the palm of his. You move over to where a low wooden fence closes off the lake so he doesn’t have to worry you overhearing stuff. It’s a pointless attempt because for whatever reason, Ryuji screams on the other side, and you quickly realise it’s a conversation you shouldn’t hear, really, because it shifts your whole understanding of Akira Kurusu and what he does in his free time into a new perspective. But it will have to wait for sometime later, when he isn’t distracting you with his perfect cheek bones and beautiful jaw and long eyelashes that throw shadows over his pale skin as he looks up at the moon that’s disappearing behind a skyscraper.

He looks ephemeral; a phantom that will slip through your fingers if you let him go. So don’t, you think, feeling your chest tighten. Don’t let him ever go.

Chapter Text

Homework done. Laundry dried. Living room cleaned. The only thing that’s missing now is Akira, who’s pretty good at taking his damn sweet time buying red onions, the last ingredient that’s missing.

It’s a lazy Sunday you both decided to spend at home, cooking lunch together. He’s promised to show you how to make Sojiro’s curry, a secret you aren’t sure Akira is allowed to share, but you didn’t have it in you to refuse when he offered to bring some of Leblanc’s coffee.

Even though you’re dating now, it doesn’t really feel like anything has changed—except it did. Being now super aware of each other, tutoring isn’t as easy as it was a couple of weeks ago. When you meet up, there are additional one to two hours you spend with him before or after each session. Little happens besides talking, talking, and more talking—you two had to catch up on so much, especially on your part. Akira’s reaction when you told him about what’s happening at the Clinic was a mirror image of Narukami. He went quiet for a moment, and despite all the things he could have said—tell you how sorry he was to hear that, what monsters your parents are—he asked very calmly, “What’s your dad’s name?”

Alarm bells went off in your head. “Why would you need his name?”

“Just out of curiosity.”

“You ever heard of ‘curiosity killed the cat’? I don’t need you going after him and punch him.”

“I wouldn’t punch him,” Akira replied with stoic self-control, crossing one leg over the other, his hands intertwined on his knee. He looked like a model aware of every of his movements, knowing artists would give anything for a chance to draw him. “I would spit in his face first, and then chokeslam him to the ground.”

You snorted. “If this doesn’t get you into prison, I don’t know what does. He’s a head lawyer, and he’s got some important contacts you don’t want to mess with.”

“Sounds like my kind of expertise.” He leaned closer to you, holding your gaze with unflinching grey eyes. “But really. Tell me his name.”

The hesitation from back then leaves even now a bad aftertaste. “Listen, I don’t want him to ruin this.”

Akira’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You’re one of the few good things that happened lately.” You didn’t feel awkward at all to admit that, and seeing Akira’s slightly astonished face was definitely worth it. “And I feel like once I bring my dad into this in any way … I don’t want to look at you and think about what he might do if you go after him.”

“Go after him,” Akira repeated, laughing a little. He turned back to his cup, running a thumb over its rim. “There’s no way for an average high school kid like me to do something like that.”

You stared at the back of his head for a solid minute, but when he didn’t elaborate, you didn’t dig deeper, leaving it a that. But you still think back to the little secret smile he wore when he turned away. Making it a little too obvious. Who knows if that’s a topic that will ever come up.

Something you didn’t avoid to talk about were your boundaries. You made it pretty clear you wouldn’t go to third base with him, and although he seemed a little reluctant and sulky at first, it wasn’t hard to convince him to wait for another year until he’s full-aged.

“But are we … into petting?” he’d asked while scratching off the tag from his plastic bottle like his life depended on it, avoiding eye contact. You’d asked that question yourself before, and only one good answer came up which you repeated to him, “If the mood’s right.”

Needless to say, nothing more has happened since then because you two were busy with your own stuff, and you aren’t sure who’s going to break the ice first. Thinking about Akira between the sheets is long off your shame scale because nothing can surpass the disaster of the one night stand you had with Tadashi while imaging Akira on top of you. That might be another topic you’ll never speak about. Akira really doesn’t need more confidence than he already has.

Thinking of the devil, finally your door bell rings and you let Akira inside. He’s carrying two plastic bags full with groceries into your kitchen, dumbing them unceremoniously on top of the counter. “It’s hell out there,” he says, his shoulders pulled up to his ears. He smells like cold winter wind, and you have to fight the urge to run your fingers through the mess that his hair is right now. “But I got everything we need.”

“My knight in shining armour.” You start to unpack everything, spreading it out on the worktop where you’ve already prepared knives and cutting boards and bowls. Akira wiggles out of his coat and throws it over the backrest of your couch. When he turns back to you, his cheeks are still red from the cold. You really want to pinch them.

You divide the work, following Akira’s instructions. Curry isn’t the hardest meal to prepare, but it doesn’t belong to your first priorities when thinking about what to cook. Just having the curry rest inside the pot, absorbing all the flavour from the spices and coffee, challenges your patience, which you don’t really have in the first place.

“Ughhh, it takes so long,” you groan, half draped over the worktop, looking like every dramatic Baroque painting ever.

“Patience is a virtue, you know.” Akira gives the curry a good last stir before putting the lid back on. “You’ll only ruin it if you’re too hasty.”

“Then what are we gonna do? Waiting is boring.”

“Well, I do have an idea.” He slides over to you, and cages you against the edges of the worktable by placing both arms beside your hips. “It contains you and me and our mouths doing indecent things.”

“Oh?” You lean against him, looking at his lips through half-lidded eyes. “I think I can get into that.”

The front door crashes open when his head bends down, and a familiar voice echoes through your apartment. “Ayyy, you home?!” Iori screams, and then swears because he’s walked into something. Probably your shoe rack. Again. “I need your help!”

Akira steps away from you, visibly reluctant. His eyes on Iori when he finds you guys in the kitchen is icy cold and hard.

“Ohhh, you guys cooking? What’s on the menu today?” Like a little child, he scurries around to get a glimpse, completely clueless that he walked into something and has two murderous gazes on him.

“Iori.” You press your hands together and lift them to your lips, inhaling. “I told you so many times you don’t just enter a home without the owner’s permisson.”

“Eh, yeah.”

“Then why did you just go barge into my apartment?” you snap at him. Iori blinks repeatedly and pushes his lower lip forward. “Maybe I missed you? You ever think of that? Why do you never consider my fee—”

You don’t allow him to go on with that crap. “Are you avoiding working on your dissertation?”

“Why would you even assume that—Oh hey! Are you a student at UTokyo too?” He turns his attention to Akira who’s just gestured putting a noose around Iori’s neck. His arms quickly drop back to his side. Akira looks him dead in the eye. “I’m a dad.”

You choke on your spit. Iori, the fool, believes him, surprised by how young Akira is. “Dude, that must be tough,” he says. Akira nods, and it’s only because you’ve known him long enough now that you notice one corner of his lips curling; it’s really more in his eyes, the glint of amusement.

When Iori bends over to see what’s inside the pot, Akira leans very close to you, distracting you from watching over Iori because you are always very careful about letting him into your kitchen after he tried to use a mini fan as a blender once. Very quietly, he asks, “Who is he, and why does he have keys to your apartment?”

“My neighbour, and no, don’t give me that look. I’m not giving you my spare.”

Behind you, Iori asks very loudly, “What are you whispering about, and can I be involved?”

Akira and you turn around and glare at him, like how dare he interrupt this meaningful conversation.

It turns out Iori is great at inviting himself over to dinner, and so there are three instead of two plates on your table, ready for the serving. He immediately falls in love with Akira’s cooking, not that you blame him, but all the compliments he’s showering Akira with might get to his head, and by now you can totally see through the act of modesty he’s putting on, acting all bashful and shy, when in reality he must have heard this a dozen times and it’s music to his ears. You try to bring him back down to earth, gently kicking his shin under the table, but he misunderstands and answers with sliding his own foot up your calf. He wiggles his eyebrows.

“Is like, anyone here listening to what I’m saying?” Iori throws in, swirling his fork mindlessly from one hand to the other. You haven’t noticed before, but sitting close to each other now, you see the dark skin under his eyes, speaking of countless restless nights. He really must have a hard time right now working on his thesis.

“You just listed how many essays you have to submit until the end of next week,” Akira says, still pressing his toes against the crook of your ankle. “Which reminds me I have to write something for Japanese Modern literate until tomorrow.”

He looks at you like he’s expecting a miracle. You stare at him like he’s your bane.

“You told me yesterday we finished all your homework.”

“I forgot.”

He’s lying. You can immediately tell by how he’s playing with the black curls falling into his face, twirling them around his fingers; and now that you think of it, it seemed pretty convenient that the day before you only went through some tasks so you could spend the rest of the day sitting on his couch and making out. You glare at him, but he just shrugs, playing all innocent when he’s really the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“Duude, I can totally help!” Iori throws in, his mouth half full with rice. “Ya want to hear about the time I saw Jesus after mixing four shots of caffeine with two red bulls and a redline? I don’t know how I’m alive either but I got my essay done in like twenty minutes.”

Akira’s eyes light up. “Tell me,” he says.

“Finish your meal, then get out of my apartment,” you order Iori. The boys pull a face at you for spoiling their fun, but you don’t need either of them with a heart attack lying on your floor. Once Iori has returned to his miserable task of reading more books, you and Akira clean the dishes, occasionally bumping your hips into each other.

“Dad, huh,” you say, not looking up from the sink.

Akira nudges you with his elbow. “You can call me daddy too, if you want.”

You spray cold water drops in his face, and relish when he hisses like a sulking cat. “Try again in a few more years, kiddo.”

“Speaking of dads—” Akira starts, but doesn’t come far when he sees the way you look at him.

“Don’t even think about asking again,” you warn, not impressed when he puts a hand to his chest, playing the offended part.

“I was just thinking about how nice it would be to be introduced to him as your boyfriend. And as we sit together over dinner, you’re asking ‘Daddy, can you please give me the salt’.” His voice pitches higher, mimicking your tone. “And as he and I both reach for it, I’ll commemorate the look on his face.”

“You’re crazy,” you say, but can’t help laughing anyway. “And stop quoting memes, moron.”

“All I’m saying is, it would be really awkward if we’re introduced to each other one day and I don’t even know his name.”

“As if he deserves to meet you. But really, you have to try a little harder than that to make me say it,” you say, wiping the counter. “And really, the only thing you could do with that is post a request on the Phantom Aficionado Website, which won’t work. I already tried.”

Akira freezes for a second before his head swirls in your direction. “You did?”

“Yeah, so unless one of your friends is a Phantom Thief, you can forget the Phansite.”

Akira raises his chin in challenge. “What if I am a Phantom Thief?”

“Oh, ha ha,” you say dryly. “You wish. I can’t really blame them though. After everything that happened with Okumura—”

“Do you think they did it?” He’s all serious now, the playfulness completely gone from his features. You don’t see him like that often, but when it’s time, it’s no joke. In those moments, he seems so much older than he is, like an ancient mind is hiding behind the boyish face and cocky smiles. “Do you think they killed him?”

“I don’t know.” You’ve thought about it so often, but there’s only this answer. “I mean, I don’t want to believe it. But what if he really was that evil? Would that be reason enough?”

Akira leans his slim hips against the counter. “Maybe,” he says, and his eyes disappear behind the thick fringe of his lashes as he looks down. “But I know he was a father, and as one, he still had to set things right with his daughter. He didn’t deserve to die. Not like that.”

You look up. Akira’s face is turned away; the muscles in his jaw all tight. You place a hand on his arm; tentatively as if you might scare an animal. “Sometimes we don’t get the chance to make things right. There is no reason behind it, no otherworldly intervention. Sometimes, life is just over like that, and you don’t get to fix your mistakes.”

“That’s a lovely way to look at things,” he mutters miserably.

“Look at it from the bright side.” You squeeze his arm. “That way, you try to be good all the time.” It took you some time to realise that, and without people like Minako or Narukami, you would probably still try to push everyone away. They all deserve so much better though, for life isn’t easy and what makes it endurable is the people you allow inside your little bubble, and in return give permission to have hand prints left all over their own paths. Both is scary at times, but if you open up to these possibilities, life doesn’t appear as much of a spiderweb built up from great, sad stories. “So don’t worry about me. Narukami and I try to figure something out, and as soon as I have news, you’ll be the first to know.”

Akira holds your gaze, then nods. He takes your hand from his arm and slides his fingers between yours to bring them up for a kiss. “Okay,” he says. “There’s just one thing left.”

“Hmm?”

“The reason there are no mirrors in your apartment,” he starts, watching you closely for a reaction. “Why’s that?”

“Well, I—” You take a deep breath. “It’s going to sound strange. But I just can’t look into one and not see my brother. We’re twins. So every time I look into one, I’m reminded that I’m here while he’s away, and I hate it.”

“Hmm.” Akira hums, then nods. “I hope you’ll get him out of there soon. And if you need help, you tell me.”

“I will.”

He squeezes your hand, then lets go. Before he turns away, cleaning the rest of the dishes, he asks, “Can I borrow your phone for a second? I have to call Yusuke and cancel plans for tomorrow, but I forgot mine.”

“Yeah sure, it’s somewhere in the living room.”

Before he can leave the kitchen though, you call after him, “And don’t bother looking for my dad’s number for his name. I deleted it.”

Akira turns around, expression seriously surprised. “What?”

“Nevermind.” Maybe you’re getting a little too paranoid. Him snooping around your contacts would go a little too far, even for Akira. He doesn’t really strike you as someone who disrespects other’s privacy, and surely enough, a moment later you hear his voice outside as he talks with someone over the phone. You finish up and meet him outside just when he’s finished his call.

“You wanna do something really cool?” he asks, then goes over to his coat to fish a headset out of a pocket. He taps with his thumb on your phone screen, and once he finds what he’s been looking for, he plugs the headset in and offers you one earbud. “Someone told me long ago it’s really charming.”

“Is it now?” You watch with a smile as he puts the bud in his ear, and does a mock bow before offering you a hand. There’s no way you can decline, and the brat knows.

When the song starts to play, your heart does a little jump, the joy bubbling up inside your chest like sweet lemonade. “Frank Sinatra? Really?”

“Don’t say it, I know. My taste is impeccable.” He spins you around, returns his hand on the curve of your spine and lets it rest there, warm and solid. His fingers trace your curves, the dips and hollows of your body as if he is describing a portrait of you in gilt and ivory with each rush of his hand.

You can’t stop giggling. “We only knew each other for what … a few weeks? And you invited me up to your room to dance. That was cheeky.”

Akira winks. “Fortune favours the flirtatious.”

“That’s not how it goes.”

“Well, screw the rules.”

He might be right about that. So far, it’s led you two to this point, and you can’t really argue that all was bad. Akira nuzzles your neck, humming the melody against your skin. You can feel his lips pause at your pulse point, licking and sucking where he can feel the beating of your heart as the song continues.

Fill my heart with song
And let me sing forevermore
You are all I long for
All I worship and adore
In other words, please be true
In other words, I lov—

Akira’s lips travel along the line of your jaw, then graze your cheek until they reach their destination; he finishes the verse, whispering three little words against the shell of your ear as if they are a secret magic spell only meant for you two.

You exhale a shaking breath. This is such a fragile moment; so tender and soft, you’re afraid to break it. Your whole body shakes against his, and there is no way he doesn’t feel how your heart is about to explode in your chest since your bodies are pressed against each other.

“You really are cheeky,” you whisper, and place a hand against Akira’s chest, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. You want to crawl inside his skin and stay there and be with him forever. Akira’s heart is a nervous, little bird, flapping its wings in anxiety—just like yours. “But that’s one of the many things I love about you, Akira.”

His eyes light up like the stars on a midsummer night, flaring grey and so full of love it hurts.

You dance until midnight, then fall asleep on your small couch, curled into each other like little kittens.

_______

“Daddy,” you say the next morning, sitting in the cafeteria with a half empty cup of coffee and marked text sheets in front of you.

Narukami slowly turns around, and considers you with a blank expression. “Can I help you?”

“Just wanted to test something,” you say, and Narukami doesn’t ask for details like the good friend he is, but from the look he’s giving you, you can tell he’s probably already filling a report against you in his head.

“By the way, is six p.m. okay? I know the movie starts at eight, but we could check out some shops around the station.” You fold a dog-ear into the corner of the paper you still have to read, totally aware what bad of an influence Akira has already on you.

“About that.” Narukami scribbles something inside his calendar, then closes it with a snap. “I forgot there’s somewhere important I have to be tonight.”

You drop your pen, squinting at him. “For real? I already bought the tickets.”

“Take Tomochika with you. I heard he’s a fan of the producer of Mes Miserables.”

“I wanted a strong, manly shoulder to cry on,” you wail dramatically. “Not someone else who’s crying rivers with me.”

“Stop complaining. It’ll do your kindness good to watch it with him.”

You roll your eyes, already taking out your phone to text Kenji. “Whatever you say, dad.” He gives you a stare that pretty much says he does not want you to call him dad ever again. “So what’s so important you ditch a good movie night? Meeting a future Mr. or Mrs. Narukami?” You wiggle your eyebrows, trying to remain serious at his unmoving, stoic expression.

“Well, I’m certainly meeting someone,” he mutters, but doesn’t elaborate further. You shrug, refocusing your attention on your work. It’s got nothing to do with you anyway.

“I don’t think it’s going to work,” Morgana says from his place on top of the counter as he cleans his face. Both know Sojiro would never indulge him up there, but he’s out for the night with Futaba, and Akira doesn’t have it in his heart to deny Morgana such a simple request. He’s once explained that it helps him talking to everyone on eye-level; that something about it reminds him of being more human than sitting on the ground, looking up while talking. Akira just shrugged, and since then never shooed him away.

“Not with that attitude,” he says, and sees how Morgana’s tiny face scrunches up a little in contempt. “He said he’d come, and I know he will.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

Akira can’t explain. He’s seen the guy only once before; inside the Shibuya Diner after he’s run into her with Ann and Ryuji, but in that split second in which their eyes met, Akira felt like he’s known him forever—like the world has unravelled before him to its thinnest threads and he was able to see which fates are tied together and which are lost to nothing. In that moment, he felt infinite.

After gaining the Third Eye from Igor, he’s seen lots of people with Arcana cards swirling lazily above their heads, and even more without one. But it was the first time he’s seen The Fool look back at him, his face contoured in misery. It was like seeing his own picture in a mirror; while at the same time dozens different pictures are reflected off its surface—scrying, Chihaya has explained to him once while shuffling the cards expertly with her pale, slender fingers, the ancient practice of gazing into reflective surfaces in order to see what happens in the future.

He hasn’t thought about him after that. Not until she said he’s helping her, and Akira knew immediately what to do.

The door to Leblanc opens, and the silver haired boy stands in the middle of the room, looking calmly at Akira. Akira gives him his easy smile, one he’s trained long ago in front of a mirror so everyone meeting him for the first time thinks of him as harmless. “Yu Narukami, right?”

Narukami nods. He returns Akira’s smile; a mirror image of it—safe, boring. Too easy to overlook. It’s like gazing at a reflection of his own soul.

“And you’re her student. How did you get my number?” Rather than sounding reproachful, he appears very analytical about this whole situation. He crosses the room and takes a seat at the bar, one stool left empty between them. Morgana flicks his tail, his steady blue eyes on him, then exchanges a glance with Akira and considers this conversation to be in safe hands. He jumps off the counter and retreats to a booth in the back of the room.

Akira smiles innocently, without a care in the world. “From her phone. She thought I would look up her dad’s contact info but I knew it wouldn’t be that easy. From the very beginning, my actual goal was to see you.”

Narukami nods like that’s self-explanatory. He’s regarding his surroundings with mild curiosity, like a museum visitor observing the paintings on the walls. His eyes stop on Sayuri, but if he’s interested in whether it’s a fake or not, Akira can’t tell. Narukami rests his elbows on the counter and turns his attention back to him. “Then I assume you want to know his name.”

Akira blinks. It isn’t supposed to be this easy. He’s learnt in his life that everything has a price; major or minor depending on the circumstances and person he’s dealing with. So why is it so difficult to assess Yu Narukami. His face doesn’t give away anything; a blank board that’s been wiped clean. His posture is relaxed; not slouching like Ryuji, but not overly straight as if he’s learnt his whole life to keep his shoulders squared and chin up like Haru. He finds nothing of any of his friends in him, and suddenly Akira feels all too nervous about this.

Working out deals was always so easy. Guided by Arsene’s deep, rumbling voice, he knew exactly what to say and when to say it. But now his mind is empty, all thoughts driven out, and he can’t help but feel a little offended at being abandoned by his persona. He wonders if it’s different for Narukami. Akira doesn’t know if it’s the ability given by Igor that allows him to see other peoples’ Persona, or the inherent gift of being a Fool—or maybe those two have always been closely intertwined and not separate things from the beginning. But he doesn’t see anything when he looks in Narukami’s eyes—just a wall of icy steel grey that doesn’t break down at Akira’s unyielding gaze.

“Yes. I need his full name.”

Narukami watches him for a long minute, folds one leg over the other and rests his chin upon his fist—Akira startles a little. For all of his friends’ traits he’s been trying to find in Narukami, not once has he considered to search for his own features that are mirrored back at him right now. “And why would I give it to you out of all people?” he asks, still a little too composed for Akira’s liking.

He isn’t a fan of it, but he does change tactics, even though he’s still figuring out how to play those cards from a deck he isn’t all too familiar with. “I want to help her,” he says, fixing his eyes on his open palms like the answer to all his problems might be written in the folds of his hands. “I want this monster to never hurt her or her brother ever again. And I think that is in both our interest.”

“Is it now.” It doesn’t sound like a question. Narukami’s finger taps against the wooden counter in tact with the clock ticking above their heads. His eyes are travelling all over the bean shelf, and when he turns back to Akira, he asks, “How about some coffee? This is a cafe after all.”

Who is Akira to decline. He throws a quick look over his shoulder, searching for the small, intelligent eyes he knows are watching them from the dark. But maybe Morgana really is asleep; nothing stirs in the back, and apart from the TV running quietly in the background, the room is silent.

“Anything in particular?” he asks, and gets up to throw his apron on. There are still a few stains from the previous nights, and Sojiro would surely give him a lecture about clean cloths representing the state of mind and all that.

“Surprise me.”

Akira is about to serve him the best cup he’s had in his entire life, and if it won’t be motivation enough for Narukami to spill the information, he’ll reconsider taking the shop over should Sojiro retire. His work stages are a dance he’s long known by heart. There’s no nervous fumbling, no cups falling to the ground. Never before has Akira thought that doing something so simple, and yet so complex as serving a cup of coffee would bring him so much calm, so much fulfilment. If he could, he’d do nothing else for the rest of his life.

“I’ve known her for around four years now,” Narukami starts. He sounds a little distant, like he’s talking more to himself, and when Akira glances over, he sees his guest looking at the TV with a fond expression. A commercial with Risette is running, advertising a new eau de parfume as a perfect Christmas gift for one’s significant other.

Christmas is another heavy topic. Being in a relationship, there is no way he can simply ignore all the colourful ads hanging around the shopping districts; everyone seems to know best what is the perfect present—from flower shops offering huge bouquets and praising themselves for same day delivery to hand made individualised jewellery promising ‘a memorable night with your love.’ There might be another reason this night could become memorable for her, but there is a much less happy reason behind that, and so far Akira has been successful in driving every thought regarding that out of his mind.

It all depends on how their final heist will go, and while he would never doubt his teammates, he can’t stop worrying about all the things that might go wrong if he slips up at any point. He feels like going into deep waters for the first time without knowing if he’s able to swim or not.

“And as you might have noticed as well—” Narukami’s voice brings him back to the present, and he’s a little more careful when he pours the hot water inside the cup, trying not to spill hot water over his hands. “She doesn’t like talking about what bothers her.”

Akira can’t suppress a little, helpless laugh at that. “Yeah. No joke.”

“I don’t blame her. When you feel like the whole world is against you, there is little desire to give the little trust that you have away to anyone.”

The steam fogs up Akira’s glasses. He takes a step back, twirling a thick lock between thumb and forefinger. Trust is a delicate thing he likes to think he’s an expert on, but if asked anyone else, they’ll probably tell he’s only really good at throwing it around like it’s no one’s business. He knows he should be more careful. But for some reason it’s always been really easy for him to give away parts of his heart—to find friends in everything and everyone. Even if it could cause him harm.

“But she’s changed,” he says quietly, blinking at his peculiar guest once he has clear vision again. “When I met her she was like this prickly cactus.”

Narukami leans back in his stool, a neutral expression on his handsome face. “And now she’s a beautiful rose with sharp thorns?”

“No, she’s still a cactus.” Akira tugs at his apron. “But she’s a cactus with cute flowers.” She really isn’t the same as she has been half a year ago when they met. She is a brighter, polished version, silver purified in the belly of a crucible until it glinted star-bright. God, he wants to see her.

For the first time, amusement flickers across Narukami’s face, softening his features a little. He breathes a quiet thank you when Akira slides the cup across the counter, then takes a first sip, and hums a deep, satisfied note. “So, how will you manage to help her once I give you what you want?” he asks.

Akira returns to his seat, still keeping his hands busy by straightening the wrinkles out of his apron. There hasn’t been much time to think about how to get his point across, and while he’s great at sticking to plans in the metaverse, anywhere else Akira pretty much trusts his intuition. Right now it only manages to come up with, “I have friends in some interesting places. They can dig up enough dirt on her dad that will make him regret his whole life up until that point.” Akira has never felt more betrayed by himself. No one told him to sound like a yakuza boss.

“I don’t think there is need for such drastic measures.” Narukami eyes him with a scrutinising look. “I think something like a change of heart will work much better.”

“A change of heart,” Akira repeats slowly, his tongue thick in his mouth and his blood all cold in his body. If Narukami notices anything weird, he doesn’t show, but when he raises his eyes, they trade a look that feels like a dare. Akira adjusts his glasses. “I heard the Phantom Thieves don’t accept requests anymore. So that will be tough.”

“You could ask one of your friends in those important places,” Narukami offers, raising a hand and putting his middle finger to his nose bridge—but then he notices his gesture and immediately drops his hand to his lap where it’s balled into a fist, looking like he’s lost something precious, and Akira realises that he wanted to adjust his glasses as well, only they are apparently long gone and what’s left is an annoying habit. Or a habit he thought he finally got rid of, but for some reason it ambushed him just now.

“Yeah, I got someone in mind,” Akira says, even though his mind is racing towards completely different places. In those brief seconds of vulnerability Narukami just showed, Akira was able to glimpse his Persona, and what he just saw made him shudder and shrink back in his seat. He isn’t sure what exactly he saw, only that it’s powerful, it’s looming tall, it’s divine.

This power … strive for it, and one day, we shall becometh as this one.

Oh, now you talk to me. Akira can’t help roll his eyes, earning a dark, yet not unkind, chuckle from Arsene as he dives back into the sea of his soul.

“Good. That’s good.” Narukami is staring into his cup. “Then there’s just one thing left.”

“And that is?”

“I take it you two are dating?”

Akira can’t believe he’s receiving the talk right now. Again. Morgana he did expect; Makoto not so much, especially since she’s dating Haru and she can’t be serious when she thinks him dating a non Phantom Thief might jeopardise a mission more than two Phantom Thieves being an item. That’s why Ryuji is his best man. He just fist bumped Akira and said, “Well done, man.”

He raises his chin, and says, “We are.” He holds Narukami’s gaze, unwilling to back down from whatever is happening right now. It feels like he's daring him to walk across burning coals without making a sound or his noble honour will crumble. Narukami takes a moment, then nods. It really does feel like Akira has just passed a test.

“Very well,” Narukami says. “You will treat her right. She is like a sister to me, and if something happens—”

“You will stake me,” Akira finishes solemnly. “Got it.”

“I see we have a deal then.”

So that is what it’s like to be at the receiving end. Akira can’t help the grin flirting with his lips. It’s been some time since he felt this … natural. Handling different personas gets tiresome at some point, and lately he’s felt more exhausted, like a training dummy that’s been beaten up once too much. Switching between masks in battles, calling upon different Arcanas for specific confidant meetings—it took its toll on Akira.

He’s described this feeling to the twins at some point, and after sharing a quick, secretive look with her sister, Justine said, “It is not surprising this task claims much of your energy. Although every persona is a natural part of you, they are a little less of you at the same time.”

Akira must have looked extremely confused, sitting there on the ground in his worn prison uniform. Caroline groaned and added, “It isn’t that hard to understand, inmate. Each time you take on a new mask, it’s like a layer of paint on your face. It takes as much effort to put it on as it takes to put it off. But the real you won’t disappear. We’ll make sure of it.”

Sitting here with another Fool, Akira begins to understand. The reason Arsene doesn’t intervene is because he too knows that like this, the presence of someone so alike, is the closest Akira has been to himself in a while. It feels good. Like he’s returned home from a long journey and is now allowed to rest, and that’s something he doesn’t find in every Arcana. The Hermit is the most difficult one—Akira doesn’t like being alone. Wearing a Devil mask comes a little too easy to admit, but a little mischievousness hasn’t killed anyone yet; and from the Saint and Hierophant Akira shies away most of the time. All that holiness and benefaction can’t do a person’s sanity good on the long run.

Suddenly, Akira’s phone vibrates in his back pocket and he flinches slightly—something that’s only developed since Akechi joined them. It’s a strange kind of anxiety he can’t fight against, one that crawls on his back with every unread message and demand to hang out, to find clues, to get items. If he could, he wouldn’t wait a second to throw his phone into a lake and keep his distance from all social platforms in exchange for some rest and silence.

He reads the sender’s name and exhales a little, relieved.

[teach♥]: Since you haven’t spammed me, I take it you haven’t seen it yet. Take a look inside your bag.

“’Scuse me,” Akira mumbles and slides from his school to check out the bag he’s thrown inside a booth in the back of the room. Morgana sleeps beside it, swatting at his hands slightly when he tugs affectionately at the little ears twitching. Inside the bag, there’s nothing unusual until Akira’s hand comes across cold metal inside a side pocket. He holds his breath. Inside his palm, a key glints in the dim light. Akira shoves it inside his jeans pocket and nearly walks inside the edge of the table as he stumbles over his own feet trying to get back while quickly typing at the same time.

[you]: you left a key in my bag
[teach♥]: I know.
[you]: wait a sec
[you]: is this the spare to your apartment??? :0
[teach♥]: Mess up the place and I will slay you.

The grin hurts the muscles in his face, but Akira is willing to pay the price. Even Narukami notices it, and asks, “Good news?”

Akira is breathless with happiness. “Immensely.”

Narukami smiles too, and slides a little paper, the writing obscured by coins on it, across the counter. “I wish you good luck,” he says, and gets up. He’s a little taller than Akira, with broader shoulders and muscular arms that can probably bench press him and—

Not right now, dick, Akira thinks sternly, feeling the heat shoot up to his face. We’re committed now, remember? He clears his throat, not trusting his voice. “Thanks. I’ll immediately get to it.”

“I know you will,” Narukami replies, throwing Akira back to an hour earlier when he said the same thing about him to Morgana. He feels a little dizzy with how similar they are, and opens his mouth to ask—ask what really? If maybe Narukami knows Igor and the Velvet Room and the twins? If he wants to join the Phantom Thieves because his Persona seems stronger than their Personas all combined and they might need it for whatever waits for them at the top of the elevator in the Casino. But before he can get a word out, Narukami says, “Since that’s it, let’s try not to see each other again. I’m not sure two Fools crossing paths is a good thing.”

A chill goes through Akira and he shudders hard. It didn’t even occur to him that during all their time sitting together Narukami has been thinking about the same things.

He carefully places his phone on the counter, his fingers itching to read the name on the paper. “Why?” he asks carefully, wetting his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. His whole mouth is too dry. “Bad experience?”

No matter what Narukami answers next, there is another baggage Akira has to unpack after this. If there are more people like him, like Narukami, what does it mean and does Igor know something. What is really going on here. But then something like uncertainty jumps across Narukami’s eyes. “I don’t know,” he admits, kneading the nape of his neck. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Akira repeats, such an unsatisfying word that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “Have you met others? Others like us.”

“I’m not sure.” Narukami hesitates, and glances over to the door as if he’d like to do nothing more than leave. His face twists into this complex expession where it can’t decide if it wants to close off completely or blatantly show his confusion. “I would remember if I did, right?”

Akira leans back in his seat, baffled. “Right.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about a certain story lately,” Narukami continues, still looking away. “Have you heard about Messiah?”

“He appears before Judgement Day to save the virtuous, right?” That’s about all Akira really knows, not to mention this conversation moves too quick and in unexpectent directions for him to follow. Luckily, Narukami doesn’t keep the suspense for long. “Do you by chance know someone with a Persona like that?” he asks, careful and slow, like he isn’t sure how the words will sound once they stumble out of his mouth. They do sound like a car wreck, now that they’re hanging in the air, and Narukami looks as uncomfortable as a man can only look, wanting to take the words back.

Akira shakes his head slowly, and something inside his chest tightens at the sight of the disappointment in Narukami’s face—no, not disappointment. It’s more complex, a mixture between lost and forsaken; a man who forgot to leave the trail of bread crumbs venturing trough the forest and now can’t get back home.

“Of course,” he says, taking a deep breath, and just like that his composure is back, the wall of confidence rebuilt. “Sorry, I know it’s a weird question. Forget about it.” He musters to lift the corner of his lips into what barely manages to be a smile. Akira has to look away, the sight of it is too vulnerable, too honest. It’s a private moment no one else should see, and he feels like an intruder. There has to be something he can say to make it better—a natural reaction to everything in hope to heal pain and despair, but his mind is blank right now and he rather stays silent than say the wrong thing.

“Well then.” Narukami straightens his spine and dips his head a little, looking like a prince about to court someone he fancies. “Goodbye, Akira Kurusu.”

Akira watches after him until he leaves Leblanc. It takes only a second after that until he hears the soft pitter-patter of Morgana’s tiny feet. He jumps on Akira’s lap making himself comfortable there, but his eyes are glued to the door as well. “What an impressive guy,” he says, the awe in his voice palpable. Akira pretents like isn’t jealous that his favourite pet-friend-not-cat is betraying him for an attractive college dude. “I feel like we’d have a very bad time going up against him.”

“Good thing he is on our side then,” Akira replies, helping Morgana to roll on his back without losing his balance so he can scratch his belly, earning a satisfying purr. “His persona is hot.”

Morgana attacks his hands, driving his sharp claws into Akira’s skin. “Would you stay focused, moron? We got the name, so you better contact the others and call for a meeting tomorrow.”

He’s right, of course. Akira looks over to where Narukami left the note. He manoeuvres Morgana around so he doesn’t fall off his lap and stretches his body to snag the slip of paper from under the coins, careful so they don’t tumble off the counter. The words on the paper are written with neat letters laced together into a little piece of elegant art Yusuke would surely love to analyse for its calligraphic value.

Akira reads the name and folds the paper back together. When he meets Morgana’s eyes, a lazy, dangerous smile spreads on his face, like a dagger slowly drawn from its sheath.

“We have our next target.”

Angry times call angry measures. At least that’s what Akira’s mom used to practice whenever she got out his dad was cheating on her again. His friends always wonder where he learnt to handle flowers and plants so well, and he’s still trying to figure out how to explain at some point that he really wasn’t left a choice with a mom who worked out her frustration by ripping stems from their pots. He felt sorry for them first, then it somehow turned into a hobby. Now Akira looks forward to whenever he can slip in an hour or two into his messy schedule working at Rafflesia.

The charge had one good thing. With all the rumours spreading around about the unfaithfulness, another slip on their part was unthinkable. What a great timing for Akira to create the mess that called a truce between them because of their troublemaker son who’s strayed down the violent, delinquent path. In their neighbourhood he quickly took on the role of the black sheep; no day passed without whispers following him everywhere until a week later, his parents announced his deportation to Tokyo. It felt like the worst betrayal possible.

Now as Akira manoeuvres the van around the tunnels, he can’t help but be reminded of those days with the whispers of what’s lurking in Mementos creeping into his ears around every corner. He shifts in his seat, his body hunched over the steering wheel as Morgana rumbles on the tracks, his motor running in a quite but tense purr that vibrates through his entire body. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Shadows shifting in the dark, merging with the walls and ground, curious yellow eyes blinking after them. Tap, tap, tap goes his finger against the smooth leather of the wheel as his eyes scan for junctions that might lead to their target.

Adyeshach is a mess. Akira thought the previous path was depressing, the rails surrounded by the bones and graves of what he can only describe to be the crushed dreams of thousands of people. But this part of Mementos is something entirely different. Everything is red, like blood—such a brutal, ugly colour, and Akira knows because his gloves are red, Arsene is red. The tunnels are held up by bones, ribs and spines of broken souls. Thick veins pump with a red liquid, jerking and convulsing and when they first entered this path, Akira finally understood that Mementos is a living organism that’s been ripped open and turned inside out. They still haven’t reached the depths, so if this is already a nightmare, what awaits them at the bottom?

“Okay, that’s enough.” Ann grabs Akira’s hand and holds it between her slender fingers. If her gloves were a shade more red, they would merge into a yarn of blood. “You’re driving me nuts.”

It isn’t just her, Akira can tell immediately. Everyone is nervous about the deadline of Nijima’s palace being tomorrow, and he knows what they are thinking. Why deal with Mementos when they should get ready for the big day; maybe rest up or get whatever they’re missing for the mission. The Mementos requests have always been more of an afterthought, something to cramp in between after school and meeting all kinds of people only available at night. Akira doesn’t like Mementos. Something about it is uncomfortably honest.

“Joker, I mean it.” Ann’s voice cuts like a knife through Akira’s thoughts. She nudges his foot that’s been tapping all the time, so he leans back and tries to take a deep breath. “Stop worrying. We’ve managed all our requests so far. This will be a breeze as well.”

Akira gives her a little smile, one he hopes will drive away her concern. Ann is always so considerate of others, so ready to jump at gunpoint to cheer up everyone. It isn’t surprising at all that he’s maxed out his ranking with her first, and Hecate’s presence during Okumura’s palace had been a reassurance to them all—so powerful and capable, a promise of what everyone might, no will become if they continue down the path Akira lays before them. Only he doesn’t really know where it leads as well, and he isn’t sure how much longer he can fool them.

“There really is no reason to be so agitated,” Akechi joins from the back seat, and Akira would feel a lot more calmed by these words if it weren’t for how ridiculous Akechi looked, squished between Yusuke and Futaba. “Don’t worry. She’ll be safe when we return to the real world.”

He meets Akira’s eyes in the driving mirror, an unreadable expression Akira imagines might be jealousy—a wish to receive his compassion as well. It’s ridiculous of course, because Akira would give it to him immediately, without question.

“I am also quite glad we put this request as our number one priority,” Yusuke remarks, legs drawn up to his chest with a sketch book balancing on top of his knees. His eyes are fixed on the shifting colours on the walls outside the car, so he doesn’t see how Akira throws him a thankful glance. “We cannot have this man do any more gruesome deeds to his children.”

Akira relaxes. To have his friends cross paths with other acquaintances not part of The Phantoms is always tricky. He still doesn’t really know the balance between too much information and just the right amount to not seem like a strange kid knowing all kinds of different, sometimes shady people. When he thinks about her talking with his school friends, it always surprises him how well it goes, and how accepting they are of her. Then again, it is not hard to like her.

He’s the prime example. Their first meeting was built upon a lie Akira didn’t feel any remorse telling. He really didn’t mean to lie, but back then it hadn’t mattered to him because chances to meet again were so slim and he still hadn’t figured out how confidants worked and if she’d become one. How wrong he was about that when she stood in the entrance of Leblanc a couple of days later, watching him warily with a stance that was part curiosity and part hawkishness. She seemed as surprised as him that talking was so easy between them; like breathing and watching how the other absorbs words and smiles, as if they are essential for surviving, was just a nice byproduct of the symphony they were slowly starting to master.

Akira doesn’t really remember when he fell for her. Unlike the rest of the people he started to get acquainted with around that time, no one else spurred him into action like she did.

Asking her to invite him to the seminar reading even though he didn’t knew anything about psychology, or when Ann asked her to tutor them as well, Akira’s immediate reaction was to lean over to Ann and whisper, “She’s my tutor.”

Looking back now to the way Ann reacted, she probably knew about his feelings way before he did. That’s the Lovers for you.

The first time she called him by his first name, something tight uncoiled inside him, and he was sure no better sound existed in this world. That is until he heard the sound she makes during kissing. On that evening, he made it is personal goal in life to see what other sounds she’s capable of in such moments.

But the final nail in the coffin was probably when she refused to distance herself after he admitted Kaneshiro was after him and his friends. Nothing would have convinced Akira’s friends in his home town to support him during that time, but she didn’t even hesitate. She’s loyal, funny, smart and clever, and Akira felt a little smug that she really did have a pretty mouth, like he first thought. But above everything, the kindness she herself didn’t know existed inside her. The way she’s forgiven him again and again; the way she’s still holding onto him. It’s a little bit what every of his friends here in this bleak city share, the ability to absolve him from his sins because they all know Akira is so much more than just a kid who’s been wrongly indicted; more than a blurry face hiding behind fake glasses wishing to disappear in the masses. Akira shudders from the emotion of it all, the only fitting words he can find are love, love, love and home.

He doesn’t want to return to his home town ever again.

“The target is right ahead, guys,” Morgana says, his tense purr slowly turning sharper to what sounds like a hiss. “I want in on this.”

“That’s not fair,” Ryuji grunts, kicking the dashboard with no real force behind it. “I called dibs way before you, stupid cat.”

“Could you guys not,” Ann threatens, raising a finger in warning to hand out some serious lectures if necessary.

Makoto takes over, turning around slightly in her seat to address everyone. “Don’t forget that we have to send in a team that is balanced in attack, defence and speed,” she says sternly, and Akira just feels her sharp eyes on him. “I understand this is personal for most of us, but that doesn’t mean we should get reckless.”

“Joker will have the final decision anyway,” Futaba declares from the back, her tone not allowing any objection. Not that anyone would. They trust Akira’s intuition with their life; something that still leaves him restless nights, wondering how he managed to be surrounded by these wonderful people.

“Of course he will.” Ryuji shifts in his seat and brings up his leg to rest his bad knee on top of the console. “All I’m sayin’ is I’m really pumped to kick some jerk’s ass.”

“Really, you are not the only one.” Ann’s voice burns with severity as hot as Hecate’s Agidyne.

Morgana’s engine gives an alarming metallic sound. “Hey, don’t you guys dare leave me out of it!”

Akira doesn’t follow the rest of the discussion, feeling a light hand on his arm. He turns his head slightly to see sweet, sweet Haru’s smile. “We’ll be the back up,” she says, giving him a warm smile. “You guys go and do what you have to do.”

Akira nods. Everyone seems to understand wordlessly how important this is for him, and it only seems fitting for Morgana, Ryuji and Ann to be at the front line with him. Well, almost everyone. Akira is trying to catch Akechi’s eyes, but he does an amazing job pretending to be totally absorbed in what is outside the car.

Where does Akira even start to sort out the complex feelings he has for Goro Akechi. Maybe at the beginning—which wasn’t really the start of anything because it would be another two months or so before they started seeing each other more regularly. But he remembers his first impulse upon seeing Akechi, and it wasn’t a pretty one, because when he saw him, Akira thought, Man I want to wreck this guy in bed.

This is probably the basic of emotions Akechi stirs inside Akira—the bad, ugly ones he isn’t sure anyone else would want to see. It’s different from carrying Personas of the Devil, Death or Tower Arcana, all who encompass some negative traits that in the fitting context, one might turn a blind eye to. Until Akira doesn’t come up with a different explanation, that’s what seems the most plausible to him. Unless, there it is again: too-trusting Akira, too-naive Akira who doesn’t beat an eyelash when it comes to handing his heart to his nemesis. He would probably serve his heart all vulnerable on a silver plate for Akechi if in return he’ll receive something as simple as an honest smile.

He’s pretty sure Akechi and her haven’t seen each other since the catastrophe of an evening that caused the disaster of a foundation for his romantic relationship. They say you’ll aways remember your first kiss, and oh boy, what a first kiss it was. Akira is pretty sure only a handful of people engage in their first kiss thinking of two people at the same time. Or who knows. It never really occurred to him that it’s unusual to fall for two people simultaneously. Or crushing. Can it really be love if it isn’t dedicated to one person? He’s been thinking about that ever since that evening; he has been wondering what it would have been like if it was Akechi he’d have first confessed to.

He has been wondering why there where rules to the way that he wanted to love people. Because if she makes him want to do his best, then Akechi makes him want to do his worst, and apparently both cannot exist within him.

The evening when it all happened is still too vivid on his mind, like fresh paint barely dried on the canvas. Akechi’s slouched shoulders as he leaves Leblanc, hunched down by either what she said or the weight of his secrets, is still a picture he sees clearly behind closed eyes. The warmth of her body right next to him, the softness of her lips on his own mouth, then on his skin is still a memory that makes him shudder whenever he lies in the darkness of his room, making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

Yet when she sat on his lap, his mind jumped from her lips to Akechi’s eyes; from his slender, gloved fingers to the dimples in her cheeks when she laughs.

His heart probably made his decision long ago. It was Akira’s mind who lagged behind.

Suddenly, there is another hand on his shoulder; this one much firmer and stronger. “Allow me to fight by your side this time, Joker,” Akechi says, his voice low and rough. Akira tenses. That is either Akechi's breath brushing his hair, or his gloved fingers.

Akira doesn’t dare turn around. He couldn’t handle the close proximity of Akechi’s face, so he just nods, not trusting his voice. He’d have a really bad time if it turned out Akechi could magically read his mind and just pop up whenever it would bring Akira the most inconvenience. He’d have a much better time if it turned out Akechi too feels this strange, irresistible pull; a red thread connecting them and binding them together, although Akira feels fate is a too strong, too scary word for that.

When they reach their destination, Morgana turns back into his cat form and they look up at the distortion leading to the chamber where their target waits. Nothing seems unusual about it, and yet now that Akira knows who is on the other side, he feels like a chord pulled tight; too anxious, too eager. He knows they won’t mess it up because they always pull through somehow, and yet, and yet, and yet—

“Hey, look sharp.” Morgana gives his calf a tiny punch, his eyes squinting up at Akira like he knows what he’s thinking and dares him to speak it out loud. “Don’t worry, we all follow your command, no matter who’s on the team going in.”

Akira nods. Whoever said he and Morgana are alike is wrong because Morgana is so much braver.

He takes a deep breath, and adjusts his gloves. “I need you, Skull and Panther.” He looks over and receives affirmative nods. When he turns around, his breath hitches barely noticeable. “And you, Crow.”

Akechi smiles like he’s never doubted his request would be denied.

“Let’s do this, guys,” says Akira in his Joker-voice, his confidence-voice, his Arsene-voice, who watches him somewhere deep in the sea of his soul and snickers. Surely thou couldst hath done a better job of this poor performance, he says. Akira tells him to fuck off. There’s a reason why he’s mostly accompanied by Personas of the Empress Arcana lately, seeking comfort and protection. He surely isn’t disappointed when he feels a gentle breeze from Titania’s wings. Don’t listen to him, she says mildly. You’re doing great, sweetie.

“Joker, you coming?” Ruyji is halfway through the distortion like the rest of the gang, and only Akira is hanging behind. He wonders if it’s the same for them, hearing their Persona’s voice. He wonders if it’s easier or lonelier with just one voice in their heart. Following his companions, Akira squares his shoulders and with just three steps, he puts on the mask of the shrewd leader of a gang thriving off tricking and thieving.

The room looks like someone in a tantrum took a bucket of blood and threw it on the walls. There’s a man standing in the middle of it all, grey suit, longish face and a grim mouth that turns upside down once he sees The Phantoms coming in. The realisation warps his face into a grotesque mask. It must be a thing from the father’s side of the family, this little scowl around his mouth and the frown on his forehead that looks identical to her face whenever she’s thinking hard about something. But other than that, there’s little resemblance this man has with her, and Akira is glad because anything else would mean imagining her looking down at him with that scornful, disgusted set of golden eyes.

“The Phantom Thieves of Hearts,” the Shadow greets them, a strange finality in his voice as if he’s been expecting them. “I’ve heard about you. Have you come to finish me off like the president of Okumura Industries?”

“Man, we got nothing to do with that,” Ryuji snaps. He’s more irritable today, all teeth and bite and seething anger that needs an outlet. Maybe it’s because he knows what it’s like to have a douchebag for a father, or it’s the novelty of Seiten Taisei rampaging inside him. Akira remembers Ann dragged him down to the Shibuya Underground Mall to eat five packages of chocolate truffles after awakening the ultimate secret of the Lovers. He can’t wait to see how everyone else will react.

“Your self-righteousness ruins this country,” the Shadow spits. “Do you really think you children can just trample over our generation who carry this country on their backs? Who sacrificed everything to get to this point? What do you want? Regain your fame? You are greedy. Greedy and arrogant.”

“Fame?” Akira repeats, the word tasting bitter in his mouth. He’s done a good job so far not thinking about what of an emotional disaster the backlash of the public has done on him, and how the Phantom’s name is tainted now. “We don’t care about such vain matters. But tell me one thing. Was it worth it?” His voice is calm and even, but inside, he feels seething anger that burns so hot it hurts. “Was it worth sacrificing your children for this country?”

Something dark jumps across the Shadow’s face, but it’s so dark in this room Akira can’t tell if it’s remorse or anger.

“So that is what this is about? My children?” he scoffs. “This is a waste of both our time. If you had children on your own, you would not criticise my actions.”

Ann makes a disgusted sound. “You can’t seriously believe that. Dumping your son into some facility where they allow him self-harm by your approval? Don’t make me laugh.”

“What would you know.” The Shadow twists his mouth. “My son is weak. He succumbed to this mental illness and let it control his life. He’s better off wasting away in that madhouse.”

Akira feels sick with anger. Nothing will satisfy him as much as connecting his fist with her father’s face, even though the real person won’t really feel it. It would bring him a lot satisfaction though.

“And your daughter?” Akechi speaks up. His eyes are cast down to his gloves as he tugs at the fabric, like a doctor getting ready for a difficult procedure. Akira has a hard time tearing his gaze away. “Did you hunger so much for power you decided to abandon both children?”

“My daughter.” The Shadow gives a heavy sigh as if this topic is wearing him down. “She has disappointed me on a different matter. Instead of trying to understand that I only wanted to protect our family’s reputation from the public’s scorn, she is pursuing this nonsense of a study. I should have locked her away long ago as well.”

Akira has heard enough. His eyes are wild and dangerous when he draws the dagger, its sharp blade flashing in the dim light. “That’s enough,” he says, his voice so low he barely recognises it. “We will punish you.”

“You don’t get to stick your noses into my private business,” the Shadow spits. His face twists into a furious distortion of itself, and the smallest features Akira has recognised of her have completely vanished. “What I do to my family. They are my flesh and blood, and I can do with them as I please, you arrogant scum.”

The Shadow arches back, back further back until his spine pops, a grotesque image of a hellish acrobat who ignores all rules of how human bones should behave. His whole body shakes from the tension, like a puppet that’s doomed to perform until its shoes wear off. The sight reminds Akira of this fairy tail with the girl wearing red shoes who was condemned for her vanity to dance even after she died. Now as the Shadow erupts in red, soiling his transforming body and the ground, Akira wonders since when her father was condemned to live this awful life, imprisoned by his own vices.

From the remains of the human shell a tall man rises, sitting on an enormous lion, connected by an iron chain fit tight around both man and beast’s neck. Even from this distance Akira feels the heat radiating off their bodies. His stomach turns upside down.

It’s a saint , he realises. Why the hell has he the Saint Arcana. He didn’t expect Samson, fierce Samson, man of the sun, to be her father’s Shadow. He counted on the Devil Arcana, maybe even Tower, but not the Saint—and at the same time a memory flashes up in his mind, and he remembers Chihaya telling him about the reversed Saint, how there is no consulting; it’s more grim, far away from the Martyr because there is no self-sacrifice for the good of others. Instead one dies for their own believes, a conviction that borders on insanity.

It doesn’t stop there. The Shadow summons two Gdons, their big paws tensing with the strong muscles moving under their skin. They can’t be as strong as Sasmon, Akira is sure of it, but he is glad he’s left Yusuke behind as backup. He can feel Dakini inside him roaring, demanding to be summoned, and Akira would gladly accept her request where it not for Samson’s abilities.

“Guys, we know he’s got some insta-kill Bless skills,” Futaba’s voice rings out, tearing with worry. “Be careful.”

“As if that ever stopped us,” Ryuji shouts. Blue light surrounds his form and then Seiten Taisei looms above him, baring his teeth at the two lions that encircle the group, snarling at their prey.

“You are nothing,” Samson says, his broad arms crossed in front of his chest. “I will end this pathetic play at once.”

With a snap of his fingers, the Gdons pounce. One of the lions nearly slices Akira’s head off with its sharp claws where it not for Rangda’s quick reflexes. She clacks her long, razor sharp nails against each other, and cackles like a witch, beckoning one of the Gdon by crooking her finger. It hisses in reply, its orange fur standing up in a ridge along the spine. Akira can feel his current Persona’s desire to cause havoc, to punish this man for every wrongdoing he put his children through; such a dark, ugly feeling—

Don’t be such a fool, child , Rangda’s rough voice rumbles through his head. This is as much of your own desire as it is my nature. So let us rip them into shreds together, my boy.

Akira wishes nothing more. He’s seen the effects of the pain he put his daughter through and the only thing that matters to him now is vengeance. But there is another, much gentler feeling deep inside him that is like the cool, soothing water after a nasty burn. He lets Rangda cast Matarunda on their enemies, barely acknowledging her disappointed grunt that she can’t cause chaos.

He shouldn’t have bothered.

The other Gdon managed to separate Ann and Akechi from the rest. Heat explodes around them as it throws an Agidyne spell at Ann, one Akira is sure it shouldn’t be able to master but the Shadows obeying to people like her father never quite bowed to the rules of Shadows coming from the sea of human souls. They are more twisted, shrewder. As if you took the original and bend it until it broke and in its stead pure evil remained.

The fire blast illuminates the whole room, and Akira can feel the fabric of his outfit stick to his sweaty back from the heat. Out of the blazing fire, Ann steps out, unfazed and unhurt. Her whip cracks in the air, the expression on her face cold contempt.

“Bad kitty.” Behind her, Hecate’s cape flutters in the blaze as her hellish dogs bark. “Let’s teach them some manners, shall we, love.”

Hecate puts both Gdon in a confused state with a lazy flick of her wrist, successfully working the Tentarafoo spell. It doesn’t work on Samson, who is becoming more furious at the incompetence of his underlings. The disgust on his face is something that deserves its own painting to commemorate it. Every order he barks at the lions goes unanswered.

Now this is something Akira can work with. “Skull! To me!” he shouts. Ryuji looks over at him and grins—a pirate’s grin, a battle grin, all teeth—before decapitating one of the Gdon with a blow of his Heavy Mace. If they figure out Samson’s weakness—if there is one—they must be quick about it before he starts knocking them down like little tin soldiers. The remaining Gdon is still confused, unable to move against them. It’s the perfect target for a powerful Megaton Raid from Akechi, blasting it into bits.

Commanding and fighting comes so easy to Akira. Every one of his allies becomes a part of his mind or body—cutting through the Shadows trying to keep them away from their target or treasure. While it certainly was scary at the beginning, he can’t imagine ever living without it now. It’s no surprise agreeing to Akechi’s term of dispanding the Phantom Thieves after the last heist felt like someone took a limb from Akira, something necessary to survive.

Samson looks too calm for someone facing four opponents. He’s petting the wild mane of his lion, his mouth turned into a lopsided smirk. “Impressive, for cocky brats,” he says, staring at Akira. “But do you really think you can stop me.” His lion growls. There won’t be time to get Yusuke in, and Akira won’t risk his wellbeing to try out if ice spells will work on this version of Samson. He swiftly calls for Pelagia, a Saint as well, and realises she has been the cool calm he’s felt before. Her long, silky straight black hair spills over her soft features as she places her hands on his shoulders, applying gentle pressure so that he feels grounded. Glad that he’s let her inherit Bufudyne without having a weakness to Fire and Bless, Akira simply hopes for this to work.

Samon’s face twists into a grotesque grimace. “You will be the first to die,” he says, and lifts one finger to point at Akira. “The price of your greed will be your life.”

He casts Mudoon.

He casts Pelagia’s only weakness.

Terror fizzes in Akira’s blood like poison, because of course, he’s thought about those like this Samson not following the rules of beings born from the sea of human souls just a minute ago. Of course this Samson; this evil, tainted and twisted version knows Curse spells.

Somewhere far off, he can hear Futaba scream. He can feel Pelagia letting out a sharp cry—mute, reserved Pelagia who doesn’t communicate with words but with emotions and her fear chills him to the bone. The straw doll appears in front of him, the cursed needles on their way to sail through the air and extinguish his life.

A body rams into his and sends him flying to the ground. He sees blinding white for a second, and then Akechi’s body slumps to the ground, hit by the Curse skill in his stead.

Akira sees red.

This isn’t fair.

This is Akechi not playing by the rules that bind Akira to his shackles in the Velvet Room.

This is Akechi taking a fatal blow even though nothing like that is agreed on between them, and none of the Confidants have ever stepped out of line before in regard to what they are willing to do for him.

This is Akechi playing a devious game and giving Akira hope, hope, hope that everything might turn out different.

He grits his teeth, the frustration from all those weeks finally catching up on him. Kneeling beside Akechi, he summons Pelagia and casts Bufudyne, watching with dark satisfaction the ice tree growing from the ground and engulfing his enemy. In this split second he sees the fear in Samson’s eyes and it fills him with sweet, ugly pleasure.

“I should let you die,” Ryuji hisses beside him, and when Akira looks over, he is forcing Akechi’s mouth open to shove a Revival Bead inside. “For always being such a dick.”

The medicine works imemdiately. Akechi’s eyes fly open as a coughing fit seizes his body. He’s a little paler than usual which makes the red of his mask stand out like blood spilling out from a fatal head wound.

“Joker, he’s gonna get back up on his feet in a second,” Ann warns, tightening the grip around her whip. “If I work Agydine, he might absorb that.”

“No, I have something else in mind.” The desire to stay here by Akechi’s side is overwhelming, but Akira pushes up to his feet and changes his mask. Dakini hollers in excitement, and before Samson can recollect himself, she cuts through him with a furious Rising Slash. The Shadow crumbles into himself, leaving nothing but the broken remains of a father who has finally realised his mistakes.

The man stares at the thieves first, then at his hands. He crumbles to the ground, weeping aloud with rasping sobs, as if trying to force air into lungs crushed by grief. “What have I done,” he cries. “What in God’s name have I done.”

Akira tries to find pity for this man, but he comes up empty. Dakini’s war cry echoes in his head, but even triumph isn’t something he can grasp now—not while Pelagia disappears back into his mind, leaving this gutted feeling of disappointment. He wants to call her back, feel her lean over his shoulder and gently stroke his cheek with her cool knuckles whenever he feels shaken like that.

Somehow, Akira has a hard time to believe that there is anything good inside him this time that might forgive this man’s sins, and Pelagia knows it too. Every Persona currently residing inside him knows it, some judging him harsher, some milder.

It’s okay, Akira thinks. Because he feels Arsene somewhere between all those layers, and knows Arsene simply accepts it like one accepts the stormy wind ripping out trees, the relentless rain flooding cities—the natural part of uncontrollable disasters. At times, Akira himself is afraid of this power; this willingness to hurt and destroy—only to feel a deep, soft hum in the back of his mind, and the soft brush of feathers on his back. Akira knows this is part of him; a dark, twisted core deep inside him hidden behind an infinity of masks he’s learnt to carry so he could hide behind them all.

Still, there’s a reason Arsene was his very first, and just like that, he’ll also forever be Akira’s truest, purest self.

In hindsight, it isn’t all that bizarre he fell for someone like Akechi.

Half of the conversation is lost on Akira as his mind returns to the present. Multiple pairs of eyes are looking at him expectantly, like he owns them all pocket money for food. The Shadow has disappeared, nothing was left behind except the knowledge that everything will get better for this family. It’s enough for Akira.

“Dude, tell us asap when she receives some news, hmkay?” Ryuji boxes his arm affectionately, grinning. “Can’t believe this is a request I’m totally hyped to wrap up and get the results.”

“Ugh, don’t call bias on serious stuff like that,” Ann chastises him, shaking her head. “Every request with a happy ending is something to get excited about.”

They continue bickering, but Akira’s attention flies elsewhere. Secluded from them, Akechi is hanging back a little, staring into nothing as he’s focusing to breath through his mouth. The line of his jaw is set hard in the dim light. He doesn’t look like they’ve just won, but maybe that’s his mask playing a trick on Akira’s eyes.

“Everything okay?” he asks after stepping closer, trying for eye contact.

“Of course.” Akechi straightens his shoulders, a cool, tight smile on his lips. “I was just wondering … but no. It doesn’t matter. Let us proceed.”

Before he can leave towards the exit, Akira stops him by laying a gloved hand on Akechi’s shoulder, feeling the muscle tense under the fabric. “You can talk to me, you know,” he says. “If something is troubling you.” He doesn’t add or someone because he knows this will jeopardise everything he, Morgana and Futaba have worked on.

Again, he notices the sharp curve of Akechi’s jaw line; the slick curve of his neck and shoulder. He wills his eyes to focus on somewhere on Akechi’s mask, feeling his fingertips tingle with a strange sensation.

“Nothing is troubling me, Joker,” Akechi replies, and it sounds different from the way he said Joker earlier inside the Monacar. This is like the most businesslike they ever acted around each other. Like they just met outside on the street and exchanged business cards in hope of a deal that might benefit them both. “I must admit my own actions seem quite an enigma to me at times. But I guess that is simply the flow of battle.”

He hesitates a moment, curiously considering Akira as if he’s waiting to see if he understands. Akira doesn’t. If Akechi himself doesn’t understand his own actions, then Akira will forever be locked out of a safe where no key exists to begin with. Since he doesn’t give a respond, Akechi continues, “But it only shows again that no action is self-contained. The repercussions of what we do seem to catch up on us someday.”

“Well. No man is an island.”

“Ah.” Akechi smiles slightly. “John Donne. Each man's death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know. For whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee,” he quotes, sounding hollow. “I guess I can be honest with you, that I am just upset with the likes of him,” he continues slowly. “Why do people like him have children, I wonder … but it’s over now. It doesn’t matter anymore.” He takes a step away, out of Akira’s reach. “We’ve dealt with him accordingly. You truly are someone capable of doing anything, aren’t you, Joker?”

Anything, Akira thinks, but changing your ways. The compliment feels empty. It’s like Akechi closes the door on him after allowing a little insight; and even those crumbs are not enough to satisfy him. Akira grits his teeth.

Before Akechi can catch up to the rest, Akira grabs his arm and stops him again. Akechi considers him for a moment, looking a little too at ease for someone being held by his self-declared arch nemesis. He lowers his head a little, as if inspecting a spider crawling up his wall. Or as if dipping down into a kiss. Akira tries to get that image out of is head. He doesn’t succeed.

“What’s with that expression?” Akechi inquirers. It sounds like a curiosity got his attention.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Akira blurts, feeling his irritation return. Or maybe it never really left him. “Jumping in like that. I don’t want to see that again, understand?”

Akechi cocks his head to the side, his expression a mocking pondering. “What are you talking about. You’re our precious leader. We need you.”

Akira tries very hard to imagine what it would feel like to hear the words I need you from him. It’s impossible. Especially when he still has the same voice echoing in his head, planning with cold efficiency his demise, And thus, the dangerous criminal responsible for the mass mental shutdowns shall end his own life.

If only they knew who this other party was. If only they could figure out how to change Akechi’s heart. Maybe then Akira wouldn’t look at him with this feeling of cold fingers crawling up his spine.

“Still. No more reckless sacrificing,” he grumbles. His fingers twitch, because he knows he should let go, but he still holds Akechi’s arm in an iron grip. “Promise me that.”

“I promise,” Akechi says without hesitation. “But I will still make sure that no harm comes to you, Joker.”

He’s so good at lying, Akira wonders how long it has been since he told the truth. If he ever told them the truth in this short month he’s been with them all—or the all he’s been with Akira. To think about that hurts like he’s gutted with a sharp knife.

It hurts even more to know something is seriously wrong with him for still carrying feelings for Akechi after all this.

Akira wants him.

Akira wants her.

Akira wants them both.

He really is greedy.

But finally, he begins to understand how to sort out this jumble of emotions.

She is an open home, welcoming him always; Akechi has not once allowed him inside. He is so focused on his path of destruction and deceit, there will never be a place for Akira beside him. Maybe everything would have been different, if Akira were not the person he is right now.

Over Akechi’s shoulder, he catches Ryuji staring at them. In this short moment everything is openly displayed on his face: the distrust, the hate. But before Akechi can follow Akira’s eyes and notice anything, he turns away and disappears back through the distortion, and it hits Akira like a train, the trust everyone places in him. Sometimes it makes him want to cry. But it also reaffirms what needs to be done, and why it needs to be done.

He takes a deep breath, and finally lets go of Goro Akechi.

“Very well,” he says, and shoves his hands into his pockets, feeling how they shake. “I’m counting on you.”

Akechi smiles, but it seems like his mind is already in a different place. When they return to the car, the seating positions have already been arranged. It shouldn’t surprise him that Akechi chose the seat furthest away from him, right beside Makoto who’s sitting behind the steering wheel now. Akira slides in next to Yusuke and slumps against him, immediately falling asleep from exhaustion.

He’s afraid of tomorrow to come.

It’s an inconspicuous Sunday like any else when everything changes.

Wrapping up your studies for the upcoming week’s lessons, you’re eagerly waiting for Narukami’s phone call. He messaged you earlier that he found some good news regarding a few cases that could help you guys out, and it’s been the only glimmer of hope today since Akira told you beforehand he’d be busy the upcoming days. You don’t want to sound like a clingy girlfriend, but you do miss him already and just the thought of seeing him again on Wednesday brings a little smile to your face.

Like a little teenage girl.

To regain your pride, you refuse to send him a tacky message, and instead sort through the papers you need for tomorrow’s classes.

Finally, your phone vibrates and your thumb immediately hovers towards the Accept button, until you notice the last digits and freeze. It’s dad. It’s dad calling, and that means something bad has happened, because only bad things happen, when he contacts you. The worst pictures appear in your mind, all circling around your brother.

You deny the call. If it’s about Kinoe, surely Dr. Odayama will call you as well. But again, your phone lights up with your dad calling. By now, your face must be deadly pale. He’s never called you twice in a row. Which means something seriously bad has happened. Unrepairable bad. End of the world bad.

If Kinoe succeeded in taking his own life, you are not sure you are able to continue your own. It’s always been a race against time; time you took for granted but now realise has never been in your favour.

With trembling fingers, you push the green button, then hold your breath. It’s eerily silent, then—

Suddenly, a sob that sounds as if it was ripped out. You heart beats in to your throat, a furious swarm of bees buzzes in your ears. He’s dead , your mind translates this bizarre moment, for you have never witnessed your father crying. Not even on granny’s funeral. Kinoe is dead and he died thinking no one cared for him. Not even his twin.

“My daughter,” he finally speaks, sounding utterly devastated. You cringe at those words, the despair turning into fizzing fury. How dare he grief when he is the source of this misery. But before you can speak, your father continues, “I am so, so sorry about everything I’ve done to you and your brother. I won’t even think about forgiveness, but I beg you, I beg you, please hear me out.”

“Why should I?” Your voice breaks at the last word. Your throat hurts so much from the tears you refuse to shed because of him. “What’s wrong with you, calling—calling now? Now that it’s too late, because Kinoe—” Those words refuse to leave your mouth. Forcing a knife into your gut wouldn’t be as painful.

“Kinoe, my little boy—” Another dark, ugly sob. It leaves you breathless, because dad sounds like Kinoe when he cries, a word here, a gasp there between soft moaning. “I’ve already contacted Dr. Odayama. I’ve requested to bring Kinoe back home. But Kinoe refused.”

The world tilts. It’s like you clearly heard what he said, but you can’t understand the words. They don’t make any sense.

“Back home? No, he refused?” You flinch suddenly, looking down at your arm. Red moons appear where your nails dig into your skin as if your body has to make sure this isn’t a dream. He lives. He lives, he lives, he lives. “What happened to you? Why are you—” This can’t be true. This isn’t happening. Thank God you’ve been sitting, otherwise your knees would have given out long ago.

“He said he won’t come back. He’s scared of me. Of us, of me and your mother. I understand that.”

“He can’t stay there either,” you gasp. “Not at a place like this, not with that doctor.”

“We will relocate him to a facility of his choosing—of your both choosing.” He pauses a second, and you can hear him taking deep, shaky breaths. “And of course, I will turn myself in to the police. I’ve already finished writing a confession, and I will take Odayama with me.”

“Wait.” Panic crushes down on you like a rushing waterfall. “You—you really did bad things, but the police—”

“Is the only right choice,” he finishes, not leaving room to argue. “The authorities will declare how I will be judged.”

“And mom? Did she too—” You can’t finish it. Somehow have a change of heart won’t come across your lips. Because that is the only reasonable explanation to what is happening.

“I’m sorry. We are going to be divorced. She wanted me to decide. Continue as we are for the sake of our reputation or take your side.”

It’s like someone threw freezing cold water over your head. “This family … it really is breaking apart.” Your voice is barely a whisper as you try to search for sadness inside you, but there’s nothing. Maybe because you haven’t been a family for so long, you forgot how it felt to be whole.

“I know, I—” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and it reminds you so much of yourself whenever you try to regain control of your emotions, you can’t help but feel pity. “We are your parents,” he says. “We were supposed to keep you safe. To make you a home. And we failed. We failed you in the worst way possible.”

“You did.” There’s no doubt in that, and now that it’s out; now that he’s realised it as well, you can’t help but cry. The sobs shake your whole body, and it unleashes a raw emotion in dad as well because he too starts weeping again, his composure from a second ago crumbling. That is how you both cry and grief, for a home and family that you’ll never have again. It takes a few minutes for you both to calm down, and when your father is able to speak again, he says, “Should I serve time in prison, I swear, I will make things right once I’m out. I swear.”

“I don’t think … I don’t think this is something you can make right again.” Forgiveness isn’t something you’re ready to think about. It’s too early for that. And can be years of emotional damage be forgiven in the first place?

“Of course.” He doesn’t sound disappointed or broken. He sounds like he didn’t expect anything else. “Of course.”

“Then … Kinoe. Can I see him?”

“Yes. I’ve requested a different doctor to supervise him. You can go and see your brother whenever you want.”

You’re left speechless. Something you’ve desired to hear for such a long time is finally there, and yet you can’t believe it. Unsure what to say, you catch a glimpse of the TV. The show from earlier is cancelled because of breaking news about a high school student with a criminal record being held captive. It doesn’t matter. Nothing except this matters.

“I should end this call. I’ve contacted the police, and I’m sure they’ll be here any moment.” Before the call ends though, he says your name. It’s been so long since he called you, and a primal fear takes hold of you; one that makes you ashamed because now you really want to call him “Daddy,” something you haven’t done since you were seven. You hate that childlike part that’s still residing inside you, and now that there might be the slightest chance of reconciliation, it surges up and overthrows years of neglect and emotional abuse. You bite your lip, not allowing this feeling to grow.

“It might not mean much after everything I’ve done,” he says, his voice so soft he sounds like a different person. “But I love you both. I’ll repent, and maybe someday I can build you two a new home. A real home. Out in the countryside.”

“Okay.” You can’t manage more. “We’ll see.” It doesn’t come near enough to forgiveness, but it’s the closest you can manage. The call ends with a little click, and you just sit there for a moment, trying to take control of the rollercoaster of emotions that’s swirling inside you.

Akira. You have to contact Akira. He needs to know because if this last puzzle piece finishes the picture, he is the one that will receive your never ending benefaction.

Your hands are still shaking as you pick him out of your contacts, and almost press down on the wrong name from all this excitement. But then the phone finally tries to connect, and you wait, wait, wait anxiously and with a strange emotion that might become happiness if only you could reach him.

It rings, and rings, but he doesn’t pick up. Although he told you he’d be busy with his friends, you thought he’d at least look at his phone from time to time, and seeing how desperately you’re trying to contact him would maybe be an exception.

Third try.

Fourth try.

He doesn’t pick up.

And then, as if spoken right next to your ear, you hear the alarmed voice of a man in the background of your room. “We have required new information about the leader of the Phantom Thieves being held in custody.” You slowly turn around towards your TV; phone still on your ear, hope still burning that Akira will finally pick up.

“According to the police, the suspect has committed suicide. The police has confirmed it. The leader of the Phantom Thieves is dead.”

BONUS

“So, what rank are you stuck on with her?” Akira asks, all nonchalantly because he doesn’t want to give off the impression he’s trying to one up Narukami like a competitive little child.

Narukami’s eyes are hollow as they stare into nothing. “Nine,” he says, burying his face in his hands. “And my kindness is at max, I don’t know what else to do.”

“Ah, there, there,” Akira mumbles, patting Narukami’s back. “We’re going to work this out somehow.”

Narukami just sighs.

Chapter Text

[you]: Hey, just wanted to know if you ’re doing good and maybe wanna meet up? Food’s on me.

It’s the second day without a reply and at this point it’s fair to say you’re getting paranoid. The only news circling around the Phantom Thieves is from news station, more specifically from that rat Akechi who prides himself on capturing the leader after infiltrating their group.

Next time you see him, you’re going to strangle him with your bare hands—not in the kinky way.

Not that Akira’s lack of reply is necessarily connected to the Phantom Thief’s leader, you still try to reason on your way to the library to finally return books you have been keeping to yourself for months. It’s built underground with rows of books lining the walls and enough space in between for students to sit cross legged on the ground, balancing books and notebooks on their knees. The night entrance on the ground floor has been malfunctioning since weeks now, a fact you aren’t comfortable knowing because it suggests you’ve been spending more time here than at home.

Maybe he’s just lost his phone, you think now, descending the stairs to the return terminals. Kids these days tend to misplace their stuff at the most ridiculous places, don’t they? Who says he didn’t forget his phone in the nook of a cinema seat after watching The Cake Knight Rises for the third time in a row.

But no matter what explanation you try to come up with, Concerned Girlfriend is written on your forehead in neon colours, blinking non-stop like emergency lights. Narukami has noticed it as well but bore your restless fidgeting with stoic patience like a monk.

“If he doesn’t answer today, why not go check on him?” he asked this morning after you returned from the canteen and spilt half of your coffee on some poor freshman’s coat. Rummaging in your pockets, you only found a wrinkled, almost expired free taco coupon as compensation, and pushed that into her clammy hands.

“And give the impression I need to know what he’s up to 24/7?” You sipped the little that was left in your cup, grumpy and worried and without a free taco to look forward to.

“Yes, because if Kurusu sees that you care he’ll think it’s something bad.” Narukami’s voice was drier than the potato croquettes lying on his plate.

No need telling him he was right, but aside from assuming the worst with the Phantom Thieves’s leader dead and Akira not replying to your messages, you’re also dealing with the aftermath of your dad’s confession and Kinoe’s transfer to another clinic. A red circle marks Wednesday next week as the date you’ll finally see your brother again for a long overdue talk. Just thinking about it sets your heart rate to unhealthy velocity, the muscle beating hard enough to bruise your ribs from the inside. Is it possible to be apart from someone who is so much part of you for so long that this piece still fits perfectly inside the puzzle that depicts most of your life? Maybe not. But boy, aren’t you determined to stomp that piece into place if you need to.

But one step at the time, for now you need the answer to the question keeping you up at night for the last three days, and as you wait for your turn at one of the return terminals, God must have listened to your prayers and decided you’ve suffered enough.

[akira]: come to leblanc

The words barely register in your mind but your body moves on its own just fine. You cut right to the front, past the protests and complains and shove a guy out of the way.

“What the—”

“So sorry, I just got a message that my cat finally returned home,” you tell him, out of breath and already dropping the books on the conveyor belt without waiting for his answer or to see if there are loaning fees. Probably yes. But that isn’t important right now. What’s important is to get on the next train to Yongen and see the very guy for yourself in the flesh, otherwise you won’t believe it.

One thing you can rely on about Leblanc is that it never changes. The fan in the back of the room hums quietly, whirling tiny dust particles into the air so they float like diamond dust under the low hanging multicoloured glass lampshades. Low mumbling comes from the TV, the screen of it obscured by the hunching figure sitting at the bar, absentmindedly stirring in a cup while his gaze is fixed on an invisible spot on the wall. When the door falls shut behind you, he flinches so hard he knocks an empty plate across the counter. Wide eyes lock with yours—a deer caught in the headlights—and you inhale sharply at the sight of him.

Akira must have missed out on the rule of consistency inside these walls. His hood is up, not quite hiding his face but the shadow falling over his features does an excellent job obscuring what he’s thinking. Without his glasses, he seems softer and more innocent, but that imagine is quickly torn apart by the fading bruises and scratches on his face. His appearance freezes you first, but that cold is quickly replaced by a hot burning worry that fuels your body to close the distance and make its way across the room. Akira watches with wild, big eyes like an animal that still hasn’t decided if it should run or fight. You stop an arm’s length away, feeling you’ve encountered more of a statue that’s been left at the same place for centuries.

“What happened,” you ask, already expecting he won’t tell you the truth despite everything you’ve been through by now. That will stop today. You won’t let him run because you too have decided to stop running.

Akira takes his time, his eyes shifting over your face, a solid touch on your skin before he looks down at his lap, and only now you notice Morgana curled up on his legs.

“I walked into a door,” he says after a moment, his voice lacking the motivation to convey a solid lie. It seems you aren’t the only one tired of this exhausting back and forth.

“That so?” You cross your arms, giving him a scrutinising look. “You look like someone beat you up.”

The muscles tense in Akira’s back. “Okay. Yeah, you’re right.” He pauses for a second, the only sound the constant tap tap tap of his feet against the wooden floor. “It was Morgana. I got into a fight with him and it was really nasty.”

Morgana hisses, and you can’t blame him. This joke isn’t funny at all. But considering Akira longer, he appears to be a different person altogether. His hunched shoulders aren’t novelty, but the way he’s slouching now is an unread page in a usual so familiar book. This page appears ripped, crumpled. Barely hanging onto the rest as though it might fly away any second but what’s written on it compromises a good half of everything that makes Akira the person he is.

Instead of charging your way further into the matter like a furious bull chasing its rider, you try to gently unlock the closed doors without doing any damage to the lock. Taking the free seat beside him, you wiggle out of your trench coat and let it slide against the backrest. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

He gives an affirmative hum and allows Morgana to switch from his to your lap. “They let us stay at home due to staff meetings this week.”

“And all the Shujin students I saw this morning at the subway station didn’t get that message?”

Akira purses his lips, his silence a statement that he doesn’t bother to think about a better explanation. His resolution to keep whatever really happened to himself is crumbling, but it doesn’t really feel like a victory. “You’ve heard the news, right,” he says after a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “The great Detective Prince infiltrated the Phantom Thieves and brought their leader to the police.”

You can hear the first door swinging open and intertwine your fingers to keep them steady—much to Morgana’s disappointment. Without the outlook of  being patted, he jumps off and disappears upstairs.

“It’s the only thing everyone’s been talking about,” you say, and because you’ve never actually opened a lock all stealthily, you tear it down with a sledgehammer with your next words, “Is that why he was so much around you? So he could have better access to the Phantom Thieves and take down your leader?”

Akira remains quiet for a solid minute, his face an impassive mask—the cold expression of a marble angel bearing down on visitors inside a church. The statue breaks when he slumps down and smooshes his cheek against the bar’s wooden surface. “How does this keep happening with everyone.”

“Huh?”

He gives a sorry performance of shaking his head. “Never mind. It’s because of your dad, right. It worked out way too good for you, right?”

“No, I heard Ryuji shouting you were phantom thieves during a phone call last time. That’s it.”

Akira’s face is blank when he sits up again. “Yeah… to be honest, I’m surprised half of Shibuya hasn’t figured it out yet.”

“Phantom thief,” you repeat, and start playing with the cup’s handle, its contents long gone cold. “You have to tell me how you’re changing hearts. How did you become one? What’s the entry criteria?” Your head snaps to him, eyes the same size as the dinner plate. “Can I become one too?”

Taking the cup from you before you swirl it off the edge, he gets up and brings the dishes to the sink. “I think no matter what I’m going to tell you, you’re not gonna believe it.”

“Humour me.”

So while taking his time doing the dishes, Akira starts to tell you about cognitive psience and the Metaverse. How the warped desires of a person can form a palace, where its ruler’s true thoughts and wishes determine everything. When it all started with Kamoshida in April he thought it would be an one time deal. But things escalated and spiralled into this uncontrollable fiasco that exploded in his face after he dealt with Medjed.

“I know this all sounds crazy,” he says, his back still to you. “But that’s basically changing someone’s heart.”

“So what you’re saying is that you infiltrate a ‘reality’ that exists solely for your target, one that is wholly separated from the one that the public recognises,” you sum up, the gears in your head spinning as you process this info—which now that you say it out loud does make sense. “And by stealing the manifestation of their desires, you also remove the root of their distortion and by doing that change their cognition.”

“Of course you’d get it.” Akira sounds like he might be smiling but it sounds too weak, so you aren’t entirely sure. A little hesitantly, you continue, “But then president Okumura died. So how was that different from your heists before?”

“Yeah, then Okumura died,” Akira acknowledges. Only because you’ve been watching him like a hawk, you notice the tremble in his shoulders. “But it wasn’t us,” he says, turning around. His voice is firm, a steel cord that sounds in striking contrast to the look of utter devastation on his face. Your only answer is a trembling breath that disperses in fright because nothing should be able to put that kind of expression on anyone’s face without facing the punishment of a God.

“When you told me you didn’t believe it was the Phantom Thieves, I was so happy,” Akira continues, and now the words are gushing out of him in a steady flow of anxiety and impatience. “You know who else didn’t believe it was us. Akechi.” He’s pacing back and forth behind the counter now, impatiently wiping over his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. “And then he came to us and worked with us on our last heist because apparently he could go into the Metaverse too and he had a Persona too and this really flashy white outfit with this mask that stabs your eye out if you get too close which is—” He barks a humourless laughter, a horrible sound, upon realising something, and the grin on his face is ghastly, horrible. It’s like watching a corpse smile. “It just tells a lot about him now that I think about it.”

“What’s a Perso—”

“But this isn’t about how good Akechi looks in his stupid tight white pants. This is about how he’s a snake, and that next time I’ll see him, I’m going to strangle him. And I don’t mean in a kinky way.” Akira finally stops pacing, staring daggers at the entrance as if talking about the detective might magically summon him so Akira can demonstrate that he’s true to his words. When the silence stretches on a little too long, you want to tell him that his thoughts are okay because you thought exactly—exactly the same this morning, and if this doesn’t make you two soulmates nothing else can. But then Akira sinks to his knees and disappears behind the counter and you hear one single, guttural sob that makes you stand in your seat.

Jumping over the counter would be the right course of action if you didn’t fear it would tingle Boss’s owner senses and make him rush to Leblanc to see what’s happening in his sacred halls. But you still nearly trip over your feet in hurry to get behind the counter where Akira is crouching, face pressed against his crossed arms so the fabric muffles his cries. Two steps are enough to be by his side, only the physical proximity has never been a natural assurance that whatever pain the heart feels is conveyed as well.

Each sob shakes him like the strike of a whip. Hesitation only holds you back because he seems so much like a wounded animal with nowhere to escape to, and you don’t have the equipment to handle that. The only thing you can do now is assure him you’re here should he need you. Placing a hand on his shoulder, you wait until his little hiccups grow quieter and quieter, and after what feels like hours, he finally looks up, eyes a striking grey like stainless steel sheets.

“I really want to hate him,” he rasps, wiping his runny nose with the back of his sleeve.

You wipe away the remaining strains of tears from his cheeks with your thumbs and wish the same thing. “We both know you don’t,” you say instead because this is Akira and his heart has never just strayed from the path it has set on.

His reply is a sulky sniff but he doesn’t protest.

“You told me you were thinking of Akechi for different reasons than I thought,” you start now, hands still on him so you feel his hot cheeks burning under your wet palms. “You didn’t … know he was going to betray you, did you?”

Akira lowers his eyes and bites his lower lip. “Knowing it doesn’t make it less painful.”

“Of course not.” You tug at the hem of his hood, asking for permission to pull it back. He hesitates, but nods and with it gone the damage on his face isn’t as bad as previously assumed. The faded bruises have turned to a yellowish green. Some are disappearing behind his hoodie’s neckline and you can only imagine what the rest of his body must look like. “Did Akechi do this to you?”

“He didn’t beat me up.”

“Then who—”

“Can we talk about something else,” he says, about to get up on his feet. “I suspect you have a lot more questions about altering someone’s cognition and the Metaverse.”

You snatch his wrist—and immediately let go when Akira’s muscles lock up in one solid, tight block. He stumbles backward, pulling his sleeves over his hands but not without you noticing the angry red marks around his wrists first. “Akira—”

“It’s fine,” he snaps, climbing to his feet and retreating to the other side of the counter. The rejection is a knife twisting in your gut, but this isn’t about you. Whatever physical abuse he’s suffered, it left a scar on his mental state and if there was ever a bad time trying to bust with your head through a wall it has come.

“Okay, I won’t ask more about that,” you promise, raising both hands to show you don’t mean harm. After returning to your seat at the counter, eyes carefully on Akira who has his hands shoved deep in his pockets, leaning back and forth with regret written blatantly on his face, you pat the free seat beside you, asking for him to come closer.

Akira hesitates, his eyes never leaving your face. After the initial shock has subsided, he makes his way over to you. The cushion creaks slightly under his weight.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “Kinda caught me off guard there.”

“You don’t have to apologise for anything.” When it looks like he’s about to protest, you quickly continue, “And you were right. I have a lot of questions about this world and what steps you undertake to override someone’s cognition. But that can wait. There’s something important I have to do first.”

You slide a little to the side, allowing more room for you to move, and lower your upper body in a bow. “Thank you for changing my father’s heart.” Akira makes a strange sound, and when you look up, he’s staring intently up at the ceiling, a flush creeping up his neck. “He called me and apologised. Looks like once Kinoe’s transfer proceeds smoothly, he’ll go to court and take this doctor who helped him with him.”

“That’s good to hear.” Finally, a genuine smile breaks out on Akira’s face, making him look more like the sassy teenage boy you’re used to see. “I hope wherever your brother will be next, it’ll be better.”

You nod. “We’re all making sure of that. I’ll see him next week. There is so much I have to tell him.” How much you’ve missed him for starters. Just imagining how the conversation might go turns your nerves raw.

“I should be able to go outside again next week as well,” Akira starts slowly, brushing curls behind his ears as he pulls out his phone. Instead of unlocking the screen, he simply stares at his own reflection. “And you are … really okay? With me being a phantom thief?”

“Why do you ask?”

He looks up, an eyebrow raised like he can’t believe you don’t come up with the answer yourself. “I do remember you hated us at the beginning.”

“And I remember my attitude changed after Kaneshiro. It’s hard to think of you as the bad guys after seeing for myself how you helped me and my family.” You scoot a little closer to him, careful not to touch him. “Besides, you were Akira to me before you were a phantom thief, okay?”

He nods.

“I wish I could say as long as it isn’t dangerous, I don’t really care, but—” Your eyes roam over his face, his sight squeezing your chest again. “Guess that’s too late.”

“They’ll fade.” Akira absentmindedly brushes over his bruises. When he sees you still staring at him, a crooked smile spreads over his face. “Am I still pretty?”

It’s meant as a joke, a fine technique to make light of the matter you have no interest to join in. “You’re beautiful,” you say, locking eyes with him. “Outside and inside, you are one of the most beautiful people I have had the honour to meet, Akira.”

Akira averts his gaze, his ears pink; phone forgotten on the counter. “W-why, thank you.”

“I can’t do amazing stuff like changing someone’s heart, but I will do my best so you can rely on me in the future,” you continue, finally moving into gear to spill your heart out after the initial lack of courage. Pleased to see the flush settles on his cheeks next, you place your hand on the counter, palms up, an invitation. Akira presses his lips into a thin line and closes his hand over yours, his fingers warm and soft against your skin. It’s the last little push you needed.

“When you didn’t answer my texts, I imagined the worst,” you blurt, feeling your face ablaze. “I thought I would never be able to see you again, or hold you, and it just showed me how important you are to me, and that I wouldn’t let you go for anything in the world—”

“Okay, time out, time out.” Akira’s free hands shots up, covering his face, but even when he turns around to hide the embarrassment from you, the flush has crept down to his neck and disappears behind his collar. He exhales audibly, his fingers between yours slightly trembling. You wish you could just take him and put him in your pocket and keep him to yourself forever.

“A simple I love you would have worked too, you know,” he mumbles, finally turning around to allow you a clear sight of his crimson red face.

You bite your lower lip to control your grin. “I highly doubt that would have given me the same reaction.” You squeeze his hand. “It was a really beautiful reaction.”

Akira mutters to himself, running a hand through his unruly locks. “Someone’s awfully honest all of a sudden.”

“What can I say. You bring the best out of me.” You bring his hand up to your mouth and kiss his knuckles. Akira gives a tiny high-pitched squeal, like you two haven’t already shoved your tongues down each other’s throat but this simple skin contact is the pinnacle of intimacy.

“So, Ryuji is a phantom thief. Am I right to assume that the rest of your friends is also part of it? Ann and that student council president?”

Akira strokes your skin with his thumb. “Not telling names.”

“Do you guys have costumes as well and all that?”

“Yup.”

“Tell me who looks the best.”

Akira snorts. “Me of course.”

“What exactly are these personas you talked about?”

“I think I’ll make more coffee since you keep bombarding me with questions.”

You allow him to wiggle out of your grip and watch him work behind the counter, listening to his crazy story about a man with a long nose and mythical creatures residing in every person. A crazy, unbelievable story and yet something inside you just refuses to think that he’s lying. Why should it be impossible if you’ve seen what can only be magic happen to your dad. Not to mention that this sounds impossible to come up with in the first place.

“Sounds like you’ve been really busy the past half year,” you say, drinking the last drop of cold coffee from your cup.

Akira gives a dry laugh. “You tell me.” His hands are busy picking nuts from a bowl he’s picked up from behind the corner. He looks like squirrel hoarding food in his cheeks. “I first thought it’s something in the city air that made me trip balls.”

“I’m just glad everything worked out somehow. That stunt you pulled on Akechi sounds like it’s right out of a mystery thriller.”

A shadow falls over Akira’s face. “You won’t tell him anything if you see him, right?”

“Of course not.” You hesitate, thinking about telling him that from the few encounters and private talks you had with the detective, you actually really did get the feeling that Akira was someone special to Akechi. But the relief on Akira’s face makes you pause, and you aren’t sure if bringing that up right now is a good idea. It was him last time welcoming you to a safe home with open arms, and this time you’re gladly the one returning the gesture.

**

You should have known the moment you reached your floor and smelled the nice aroma of a home-cooked meal that the only possible source was your apartment. It hits your nose like a brick wall when you unlock the front door, drawing you to the kitchen.

Akira is standing in front of the stove, stirring in a pot—a sight so domestic and soft, it makes your knees go weak and takes up all your focus to just control your breathing. Giving him your spare really was the best decision in your whole life.

“Woah, you okay?” Akira’s voice draws closer, so you hold both hands up to show that you just need a little break.

“Yeah, just— Gimme a sec.”

“Slow down. I’m sure meeting your brother was really something after all this time.” He’s by your side, helping you up to your feet and you just go along with his reasoning instead of stroking his ego and admitting it’s his sight in your home that got you down on your knees.

Now comfortable on your couch, you wait for Akira to serve whatever he’s prepared. No one is surprised when he places a plate of curry in front of you.

“Do you only know how to make curry?” you ask, but dig in anyway.

“I also know how to use a microwave.”

“No wonder you’re so popular with the ladies.”

“And gentleman,” he adds.

The curry tastes delicious as always—a soft bitter note harmonises perfectly with the savoury chicken. While you eat, Akira watches you with curios eyes, his legs bouncing up and down as he waits for you to tell him about the reunion.

It’s hard to think about where to start. The staff had organised a private room on the upper floor, far away from Oyamada’s office and hidden from prying eyes. So far the scandal hadn’t made it into the news and you hoped it would stay that way—for your brother’s and your own sanity.

The room was smaller than the public visiting room, decorated with a few house plants on the windowsills and a couch pushed against one wall. In the middle, a table and two chairs stood, both unoccupied. Only one visitor was standing in front of the windows, back turned to you as he gazed outside at the traffic.

Your voice simply decided to abandon you. Legs rooted in front of the entrance; no day dreaming could have prepared you for the real deal. Clammy hands that felt foreign tried to find purchase. The sound of fabric moving made the boy turn around and then you stared at a mirror image of your face—the differences only perceptible in the little details like jaw width and eye size. It had been around a year since you last saw Kinoe but he hadn’t changed a bit. Hair still cut a little above his ears, the colour the same as yours, and a posture that would have your grandmother crawl out of her grave. He opened his mouth slightly, only pausing because you did the same, and then you both called each other’s name in unison and broke the spell binding you immobile.

Your bodies crashed together, two magnets clicking into place and the world returned to its natural order. Arms slung tightly around each other so that you’re left breathless, you clung onto your brother. Ah, you realised, holding him like your life depended on it, so that’s what I’ve been missing this whole time.

Kinoe mumbled unintelligible words into your shoulder, the fabric of your jacket turning wet from his tears. Gently, you untangled your arms from his upper body and cradled his face in your hands, following the curve of his jaw with your thumbs.

“I’ve missed you too,” you said, sight blurred by hot tears. Hands still tightly intertwined, you moved over to the chairs and sat down. Kinoe tried to dry his cheeks with the sleeve of his sweatshirt but the stream kept flowing unhindered and it irritated the angry red skin around his eyes even more, so you stopped him by pushing his hands flat against the table’s surface. He squirmed in response, making you believe first he didn’t want to be touched, but then you looked down and saw how he was trying to keep his wrists hidden like a secret—but there was no point in hiding what everyone already knew and you felt like you had looked away for too long.

“I heard you’ll be transferred to Minato Mita Clinic,” you said. “That’s close to my university.”

“That means you’ll visit more often, right?” The hope in his voice made you flinch like hearing nails scratching on a black board.

“I— I did try to visit you.” Making that clear was the only thing you could think about. “When I heard what was really happening, I tried everything to get you out.”

“Oh, I know.” Kinoe shrugged like it was no big deal. “They told me. Whenever you came to visit but Dr. Oyamada wouldn’t allow it. The kind nurses told me you came to see me.”

The weight off your mind allowed you to lift off. At the same time, you realised it was stupid of you to doubt Kinoe in the first place—your own fears made you think he stopped believing in you and thinking about facing that slowed you down. How much faster everything could had been resolved if you’d only stopped thinking of yourself.

Kinoe noticed your thoughts drift elsewhere; he squeezed your hands until your attention was back on him before he continued, “Though I wonder why Dad suddenly decided to change faculties. Did you talk to him?”

“Sort of.” You wished you could tell him Dad decided about the change himself and didn’t need a group of outsiders to show him what he had done was wrong. “I heard Oyamada talking to Dad. About their arrangement concerning you.”

“Hmm.” Kinoe’s eyes wandered back to the window. An ambulance’s siren blared outside for a moment, quickly fading into distance as it passed the building. Kinoe loosened his grip on your hands.

“I never wanted you to find out like this. I always imagined if you found out, it was me telling you after I got better.”

“Everything would have been different if I’d only tried a little harder to help you.”

Kinoe narrowed his eyes at you. “What are you talking about. You’ve always been the only one who really cared and tried.”

He shouldn’t be the one comforting you—always the one, playing along whenever you sulked or behaved especially petty. Being older by a few minutes had never made it into your brain to also act older and seeing how he was still looking out for you felt like a fist clenching around your heart.

“Remember when we opened the window to look at the parade and knocked over mom’s china vase? Mom thought I did it on purpose so she couldn’t hold her weekly get-together with her friends because I didn’t bring a high test score home and was ashamed of that.” A faint smile danced on his lips. It took a moment for you to remember. “You took the blame. Just out of spite,” he continued with a little laugh. “And never bothered to ask if Mom was right or not. I remember that a lot lately. It helps when things get … difficult.”

“I remember. Though I never knew if she was right.”

Kinoe gave you a sheepish smile. “She was. But I didn’t do it because of my bad grades. I didn’t like her friends at the time.”

“Mom’s friends were … something,” you agreed, remembering what gigantic fuzz they’d made each time you twins entered the room and were not groomed like expensive porcelain dolls imported from Europe.

“She’s probably losing her mind right now.” Kinoe was smiling, but you could hear the strain in his voice. “Makes me sort of want to know what she’s telling her friends to save our family’s reputation.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Your objection came out a little more heated than wanted. Kinoe flinched, his eyes wide. “Mom and Dad are getting a divorce, so you don’t have to worry about stupid stuff like that.”

“They what?”

“Yeah, Dad told me. I wish I could tell you I was shocked or hurt to hear that … but think about it. When was the last time you saw them support each other or show some sort of affection?”

A worry crease found its way between his eyebrows—looking so familiar you unconsciously rose a thumb to knead away yours which wasn’t there yet. Kinoe saw the gesture and smiled weakly. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing of this is your fault.”

“Maybe. I don’t think my brain cares about that though.”

Even though you had years to mentally prepare yourself for this moment, that preparation flew right out of the window now that you actually sat with him. There was no way to go back now; nowhere to run away to. It wasn’t only your dad who had a change of heart.

“Tell me more about it,” you requested—a question you should had asked him a long time ago instead of leaving him to deal with it on his own.

Kinoe answered with a slightly crooked grin that was a faded image of how he used to do it as a child. “Don’t you know all about it thanks to your classes?”

“No, I want to hear it from you.”

And so he told you. He told you about the day the old him had died. How it started with a thought, how he knew something was wrong. That was the beginning, and even before he realised what it was, it was too late. And then, a second later, there was a strange sensation inside his head. Like it caught on fire, but no one could see it except him.

The hardest parts were always that there was so much going on inside him; the anxiety and panic and fear causing havoc in his mind. And nothing would be shown to the outside; the invisible pain no one would believe to exist.

“I am not okay,” he finished, fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of his sleeve. “But acknowledging that might be the first step in the right direction.”

“I just wish you’d told me earlier. Then maybe I could have stopped Dad from allowing … everything to happen.” There was no point dwelling in the past or wondering about what-ifs, you knew that, and still it was easier to look back instead of forward.

“Back then I thought it would be easier for everyone if I just kept silent.” Kinoe’s voice was frail enough to dissipate into the wind if the windows were open. “I went along with Dad’s proposal because I was happy to keep it a secret.”

“But agreeing to his idea only made it worse—”

“I know.” Kinoe took a shaky breath, fixing his teary gaze on the ceiling. “God, I know, don’t I.”

This sight was so painful, it took your breath away. But worse than that was the knowledge that he was so aware of the pain he’d gone through. Fighting against another wave of tears, you tried to move on quickly. This wasn’t his fault, no way he could have known how much his own father would fail him. 

“I’m sorry. Let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about what will happening next. Your transfer, your new counsellor. If you like, we could see that you live outside the hospital and only come to your sessions.”

“Hmm, I don’t think …” Kinoe was clearly hesitant to continue. You gave him a little nudge, encouraging him. “I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

You tried not to show your disappointment too much. “I understand. I’m glad to hear you’re putting what you need first, and not what other people want.”

“There’s still hope for your no-good brother.”

“That never was in doubt.”

Kinoe tilted his head backwards and laughed, and seeing him happy like this, something uncurled in your chest and you were finally able to breathe properly again.

“Maybe I can meet your brother someday,” Akira suggests after you finish. He’s lying half draped over you, one long leg thrown over the backrest of your couch, the other stretched out. His arms are curled around your torso and he shimmies around until his head rests on your thighs. This can’t be comfortable, but Akira hasn’t moved for the last twenty minutes so there must be something he gets out of this position and you’re sure it isn’t only you stroking his unruly hair.

“And have you fall for him? I don’t think so, mister.” Silky black curls glide through your fingers as you try to braid his hair. Akira tilts his head to give you better access. “He’s transferring at the end of this week and said he’ll call once everything is set up.”

“I’m glad everything worked out.” Akira’s fingers dig into your waist. His bruises have faded completely but he still has his hood up whenever you meet outside. Thanks to certain circumstances you see each other more frequently, and even though a good portion of that time is dedicated to have him keep track of his studies and lessons he’s missing, it’s still precious time spent well. On some days, he even stays over, and you’re sure Boss knows about you two. Doesn’t make it easier to know you’ll probably receive the talk from him some day. 

The evening ends uneventful. Akira decides to go to bed early because he has stuff to do the next day. You try to show respect by not digging too much into his phantom thief business, and you can see that he’s grateful for that. When he wakes up the next morning, he’s careful to manoeuvre around your lifeless body lying across the mattress.

“Have you seen my jacket?” he calls from the hallway a few minutes later.

You groan, wrap yourself in your blanket and move to the living room where you see Akira jumping on one foot as he tries to get a shoe on the other. The couch is your destination and you fall face first into it.

“You can take one of my trench coats,” you tell him, curling into a ball to preserve warmth.

Akira finally manages to put a shoe on. “You don’t actually think anything you have is going to fit me.”

You tell him about this one time you and Narukami got wasted and woke up with the worst hangover the next morning. He couldn’t find his jacket as well, so he just borrowed one from you. “You’re not as burly as him, so take whatever you want,” you end, immediately falling asleep right after that. When you wake up later, a trench coat is missing from your coat hook.

As you prepare your daily coffee, a message from Akira pops up, showing a picture of him doing pullups on a beam in his room; the message: getting swol to fight narukami next time i see him.

You zoom into the slight outline of a six-pack and swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. Once responsibility beats the thirst into submission, you reply, you’re a dead man, because never will you forget how Narukami and you arm wrestled once (also drunk) and he almost broke your wrist.

**

Everything is going a little too well; Kinoe’s first week in the new place goes by smoothly, his counsellor agreed that to slowly steer Kinoe back into the social sphere, he should first set out to familiar places with familiar people. You immediately agreed to go out with him and plan to take little trip outside the city around Christmas so he won’t be overwhelmed by the masses of people, even played with the idea to invite Akira to introduce him to your brother and spend the holiday together.

It’s a repeat of the first December days. Your messages go unanswered, it’s hard to get a hold of him. He did mention there was something important he had to do, phantom thief business no doubt, but now you wish you had tried to get more info out of him. Or at least asked who his new target was. Somehow, you doubt he’d have told you. Looks like this time you aren’t patient enough to just wait for a message from him.

Inside Leblanc, only Boss is present. He’s leaning against the counter, attention fixed on the TV until the door shuts behind you. Now that isn’t a happy face if you ever seen one on him, but it does show that he knows what’s going on between you and Akira. The scrutinising look he’s giving you now feels like a solid slap to your face. Before you can say anything, apologies, ask for his blessing, he gives a curt nod towards the stairs.

“He’s been up there all day,” he says in lieu of greeting. “Tell him there’s some curry left he can have. It won’t do good if he gets sick because he’s malnourished.”

“Copy that, sir.” You move past him and his unimpressed raised eyebrows.

The attic is dark safe for a slim, sharp beam of orange streetlight stealing its way through the curtains. You find Akira in his bed, hidden beneath layers of blankets. After slowly manoeuvring through his room, you consider laying on top of him just make him laugh. But maybe that isn’t what he needs right now. Instead you sit on the floor next to his head and lift your hand to pet his hair. You don’t mean to stay for long, but Akira informs you with a hum that he’s awake.

“You okay?” You tug at the strands falling into his eyes. After a moment he turns towards you, but still has his eyes closed. He doesn’t answer you either. Judging from the angry red skin around his eyes, you’re slowly getting a picture of why he’s hiding up here. “I was worried because you didn’t answer my messages. What happened?”

Akira turns on his back, finally opening his eyes. It strikes you again like a sudden flash of light in a dark room, how bright his eyes are when he cries. He just stares at the ceiling for a moment, and you aren’t sure if it’s better to leave and wait until he’s ready to speak. But then he shifts to the other side of his bed and makes room for you, still tightly wrapped in his blanket. The mattress dips when you lie next to him, and it takes some time for Akira before he finally meets your eyes again.

A careful smile as a sign that you’ll hear him out is all you can muster; any words just seem too loud for this silence that seems to stretch on forever. Akira seems to appreciate that. He closes his eyes again when you start stroking black curls behind his ear. Maybe hugging him like a super friendly octopus helps as well, so you slide an arm around him and place your leg on top of his lower part, the blanket enough cushion between you. And then eventually, Akira starts talking.

His story is about the detective boy he met half a year ago, who from the very moment they met had been lying with every breath. Akira still wanted to become his friend, reach out to him. Sometimes, it felt like Akechi reciprocated. More often, it felt like he was so stuck in his role of the splendid, righteous citizen Akira never saw his true self. Somewhere in between that, he fell for Akechi. But in the end, he wasn’t able to truly convey his feelings, his want to at least be friends with him. And now, he’s gone. Maybe forever.

“Should I have been more honest?” he asks, face pressed into his pillow. “Gentler? Would he have allowed me inside his heart then?”

You don’t have the answer for that, but Akira doesn’t seem to want a reply anyway.

He is a silent crier this time, and you can't tell what is worse. To see the pain made visible by heartbreaking wheezing or to imagine how much his heart is hurting right now, unseen, unheard. You want to crawl inside him and take that pain away, even if means that he'll forget the reason for his sorrow. When he falls asleep later, you stay with him and continue to caress his face, run your fingers through his hair. Morgana joins you at some point, squeezing under your arm so he’s tugged between you and Akira. His meow is a soft sound in the darkness, and he nudges Akira’s nose with his paw.

“Me too,” you mumble, scratching Morgana’s ear. “Seeing him like this breaks my heart.”

You lie awake next to him for the next hour, hands folded on your belly as if in prayer. How much pain could a mind bear before breaking. How cruel could fate be to put so much weight on a single pair of frail shoulders—you’ve seen them once, their sublime elegance paired with a fragility that twists your heart painfully. What would you give to take some of the burden from him like he did for you.

Wood creaks near the stairs. When you turn around, Boss’s head peaks over the highest step, locking gazes with you. He waves his hand, asking you to come downstairs. A cup of coffee is already waiting for you at the counter, its smell immediately calming and what has been creeping up the last couple of months overwhelms you now: how much this place feels like a second home, the safety of its walls and care of its denizens.

“I’m guessing he’s told you some things about his … circumstances,” Boss starts the conversation, arms crossed over his chest. You’ve never seen him this bothered before. “Why he’s holed up there and such.”

“If there is anything I could do for him, I would.” You take a small sip from the coffee, its flavour exceptionally rich in depth as always. “Even though this idea of a metaverse sounds crazy.”

Boss nods. His posture slightly relaxes now that he knows you really do know about Akira’s phantom thief escapades. “These are things only he can do. I’ve come to peace with that, even though I don’t like it. But there are other things I can do for him.” A little smile creeps onto his face, and it widens when he sees how eager you down his coffee. “I’m sure the same goes for you too.”

You don’t even know who to begin thanking for what kind of a person Boss is; and how lucky Akira is to have him as a guardian.

Since it’s getting late, Boss decides to go home, mentioning a daughter waiting for him to prepare dinner and now it doesn’t strike you as odd that he’s looking after Akira with such care. The moment he leaves Leblanc, Akira appears at the bottom of the stairs as if waiting for you two to be alone again. He walks over to the fridge, takes a plate with curry out and pops it in the microwave.

“You really do know how to use a microwave,” you say, unable to bear another stretch of silence. Akira gives a little huff of laughter, watching the plate spin as it’s warmed up. The ping comes a few minutes later, then Akira sits next to you and eats. His eyes are still slightly red, but he doesn’t look as pale.

“We’re halfway through election season, but it seems the victor is already clear.” The newscaster’s voice drifts in from the left, making both your heads turn. “The United Future, led by Mr. Shido, has been dominating the other parties.”

“That dude is everywhere lately,” you notice, thinking back to all the campaign cars driving through the city with politicians promoting their ideals and objectives. Politics has never really interested you, but with the public in uproar about the Phantom Thieves it seems that more and more people hope that this year’s election will bring the country back on the right track. Might as well be a good citizen this time and go vote as well.

“If you could, who would you vote for—” you ask, turning to Akira. The sight of cold contempt on his face seals your mouth shut. You’ve never seen him this angry before. Fist gripping his spoon tight enough to turn his knuckles white, Akira returns to his food and shoves it in his mouth like he’s starving. Fresh tears form a wall in front of his eyes which he wipes away with an angry swipe of his wrist.

“What’s gotten into you? Boss’s curry that delicious?”

Akira mumbles something unintelligible with his mouth full of rice. You push your half-full glass of water over to him before he chokes on his food. He gulps it down like a man dying of thirst.

“I’m done,” he declares, putting his glass back down with more force than necessary. “From today on, I won’t let anyone take what’s important to me away again.”

The intense stare he has on you feels like solid iron burning on your skin. Your expression must be the definition of confusion because he points his spoon at the TV screen. “People like him ruin our country. Once I’m old enough, I’m running for prime minister.”

“Has Boss put something weird in your curry?”

Akira throws his arms up in frustration like he can’t believe you don’t understand the magnitude of this conversation. Whatever path he decided to take to deal with his grief, you aren’t sure if it will grant him a happy end in the long run.

“Listen, if you need to talk more about what happened to Akechi, I can listen,” you offer and lean over the counter to search for the TV remote. Akira freezes for a second, then steadies you when you nearly topple off your stool. You turn off the TV and face him. He hasn’t looked like himself lately, and instead like a washed-out version—like part of him was left behind somewhere and to do what he needs to do Akira requires it like another limb or a lung. It’s hard to put it into words. Fearing he might just dissipate, you reach out. Akira mirrors your movement, grasping your hand. Somehow you feel his hands have always been the most honest part about him.

“You know, I once thought you two would hit it off immediately,” he says, pressing his thumb into your open palm.

You’re glad you’ve finished your coffee by now, otherwise you might have spit it right into his face. “You’re joking.”

“You wish I was. But instead of feeling jealous, I saw you standing next to each other and I thought, ‘That’s it. That’s what I want. Those two or no one at all.’” He falls silent for a moment, staring at your open palm like the picture of Akechi and you is engraved in there. His thumb strokes over your skin, smudging the picture. “It took me a little too long to understand that isn’t possible.”

“It probably doesn’t mean anything anymore, but I’m sorry you had to choose.”

Akira gives you a weak smile. “Don’t be. I chose you. And I would choose you any time again because I love you.”

You believe him.

Sometimes, in movies, when people say, “I love you,” they act kind of sad. They act like using this phrase is a sort of tragic concession, as if underneath is, “I’ve tried not to love you, because I’m aware that I’m not supposed to, and that for some reason my loving you is going to damage our livelihoods, but damn it, I can’t help it, I can’t fight it, and now that I’ve said it, I know that everything will be totally different.”

Akira’s love has always been different: simple—and in its simplicity lies the honesty of his feelings. It is the reason you fell for him, and why you won’t let him go.

**

His grief is an issue solved after a couple of days but you’re sure it isn’t because he’s done with Akechi. Rather necessity forces him to look forward instead of dwelling on what-ifs and while you don’t think it’s the healthiest way to cope, all you can do is be mindful and ready to catch him once he slips up. Whatever he’s dealing with as a phantom thief right now doesn’t slither into your conversations and you get the feeling that is something he’s grateful for—his mind unoccupied with whatever responsibilities he’s carrying as the leader, a place to put all that away and simpleybe Akira. Finally, your time has come to be his safe haven, and you’re pretty adamant on keeping it that way.

Your day at college ends with submitting papers on time for a change. It’s been easier to focus on classes and lectures and the overall rise in performance and participation has you on the professors' good side. They’ve recommended places for internships and you promised to investigate them by the end of the week. Narukami showed how proud he was by inviting you to Tsukishima. When asked if he spilled your father’s name to Akira, he simply smiled like a priest holding a sermon. He too is looking forward to his internship, not in Tanaka’s Attorney Office but at a smaller company that is slowly building their way up as a trustworthy place for people seeking help.

Life is good. Life is even better when you can see Akira. Like right now. He is standing behind the counter, where else would he be, an apron hanging loosely around his shoulders as he gets ready for looking after the place until Boss comes back. The light behind the closing door’s window casts a bright shine on the interior of Leblanc until it moves across Akira and suddenly, he looks soft and vulnerable, a single flower inside a vase that’s swallowing it hole.

Before you notice, you softly breath his name. Akira looks up and gives you a little smile, both hands falling from behind his back after trying to knot the apron. He spreads his arms towards you. “Help me.”

You’re too weak to say No, especially when Akira is the Saint offering you benediction. Your arms reach around his slender form, tying the knot, and like the fool you are, you end up in his trap. Akira cages you in a tight embrace, humming into the crook of your neck with lips pulled up into a smile against your skin. It’s all fun and games until he starts mouthing at your neck and you push him away.

“Not in public,” you say, retreating back around the bar.

Akira sighs dramatically. “There goes one kink.”

You give him a blank stare, raising one eyebrow. “For now.”

He goes red and turns around, bringing both hands up to hide his face. If he thinks he can one-up you in that area, he’s clearly three years too young. Leaving him to his existential crisis, you move to greet the next resident. Morgana is splayed out on the counter, bathing in the slim ray of afternoon sunlight reflected off the door’s window.

“The most beautiful boy,” you sing and smush Morgana’s face between your hands. Morgana closes his eyes and purrs. It looks a little as if he’s smiling. Akira watches you for a moment, then leans over the counter, clearing his throat theatrically. You indulge him and smush his cheeks between your hands. “The most beeaauuuutiful boooy.”

He nods in agreement, visibly satisfied, so you return your attention back to Morgana while Akira prepares your coffee.

“I thought we could go somewhere on the day after the election,” you offer, pushing a thumb into Morgana’s beans and watch his sharp claws extend. “I even allow you to choose where we’ll go.”

“Hmm, I’ll be busy on the 18th,” he says, not looking up from pouring coffee into a cup. The steam fogs up his glasses when he slides it over to you. “Maybe after that?”

“Is something happening on that day?”

“Oh, you’ll see.” Even if you don’t see them, you could swear mischief dances in his eyes like it does in his voice. “It’s gonna be big.”

“Thenhowboutchrismas,” you murmur into the cup, taking a long sip just so you don’t have to answer when he asks you to repeat that again. The moment the liquid hits your tongue, a flavour so bitter explodes in your mouth that you spill half of it back into the cup.

You stare up at Akira in horror. “What is this?”

He blinks innocently. “I put a lot of love in it today?”

“Just—just stick to how Boss taught you. Please.”

“So picky.” But he takes the cup and hands you a glass of water. “Uhm, let’s do something on the 24th?” He massages the back of his neck, eyes fixed on the ceiling to avoid your eyes, red creeping up his cheeks. “We could get cake. Maybe hang out. Watch a movie.”

“You really are a charmer.” You’re pretty sure you don’t feel so warm simply because of Leblanc’s heater running. “I’d love to. And maybe we could have dinner with my brother before that?”

Akira perks up at that. He smiles like he just won the lottery.

Since Boss was about to return and take over, Akira offered for you to wait up in the attic until he could join you. Upstairs, you first take time to look at the shelf that’s seen some serious decoration since the last time you've looked at it. There’s a white plastic swan boat, an identical replica of a ramen bowl. On the top rack a big kumade grabs your attention, a blue bear decorating its top. You feel like you’ve seen it somewhere.

But of all the things that could have found their way here, you find your hair clip that Akira stole from you so many months ago it almost feels like a lifetime. If this shelf is meant as a collector of mementos, then you’ll play nice and leave it there.

On Akira’s pillow lies a PCP. You don’t remember the last time you’ve had time to play, so until he finishes his shift, you decide to see what he’s been playing. Time loses its meaning when you get into Takken 6, a fighting game you remember playing a little too much in high school. It’s dark outside when Akira finally comes up, apron still on.

“I hope you are not doing what I think you’re doing.” In the reflection of his glasses, you can’t see Akira’s eyes, but his voice doesn’t seem all too happy.

“I was bored,” you say, smashing the buttons like you want to punch your thumbs through the plastic. “Plus, your high score sucked. Don’t kids like you usually master video games?”

Akira answers with silence as he crosses the room and shrugs the apron off his shoulders according to the rustle of fabric you hear. It takes all your will power not to look and focus on beating up your opponent.

“Give it back.”

“Nuh uh, I’ve almost finished the top competitors.”

Footsteps approach and you wonder if this was a mistake. Akira pretty much assures it, when he looms over you, trapping you between his arms. More than anything, you’re kind of scared his glasses might fall off and hit you in the face as he leans over. “Are they really more interesting than me?” he asks, his voice gravelly low. 

“Depends. Can you do a crouch shin kick?”

“Hmmm I can do this.” He moves to the side and attacks your neck, gaining easy access with your hair up in a messy bun. You giggle first until his teeth graze your jaw and his hand sneaks up to pull the hair tie off.

“I told you don’t wear it like that.” His voice is deep, throaty. You shudder when he lowers his body on top of yours and holds your head in place to leave a mean hickey.

You bite your lower lip, stifling a giggle. “Why?”

Akira raises his head begrudgingly to stare at you first, then at the mark, then dips down and gently nibbles on the skin where it curves into your shoulder

“Oh,” you say, realisation hitting you. “You have a neck fetish.”

“You like it,” Akira says, lips grazing your skin. “I like that you like it.”

You can’t argue with that. Focusing on the game becomes especially hard when one cool hand sneaks under your shirt, tracing your belly, your waist, up and up until his fingertips barely graze the fabric of your bra. Fine. Two can play this game.

He gets the first victory by bringing you to put the game aside, but the war isn’t over yet. While his face is hidden in the crook of your neck, you kiss his temple and run your hands over his body, touching all the places you’ve ached to touch: the back of his nape, the arch of his back, the wings of his shoulder blades.

Moaning against your neck first, he finally seals his lips with yours. His kissing skills have grown exponentially, even though his eagerness still holds the upper hand, leaving you breathless. His fingers dig into your skin, now warmed up from the contact, and you buck up against him. Just the layer of clothes separating you seems too much, and you start tugging at his shirt when his hips stutter and he drives them once sharp against your thigh. You whimper feeling his hardness against you, and in return he answers with a growl, his tongue pushing into your mouth.

Suddenly, he tears away from you and pushes himself up. You blink in a daze. “Huh?”

Akira is sitting on the edge of his bed, his wrist pressed against his lips. “I think … I think I gotta use the bathroom,” he mumbles, trying to hide the tent between his legs by pulling his shirt over it. You don’t dare to lower your gaze further because you seriously don’t know if you can hold yourself back if you see his arousal. His arousal for you.

“Okay,” you say instead, lowering your head back on his pillow and crossing your hands on your belly, ready to be carried to your grave. “I’ll just… stay here … stay here and think how big pharmacy is the root of our country’s problem with opiate addiction.”

Akira blinks, then considers you for a moment with eyes blown wide with desire, his pupils horribly dark. “Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah, you do that.” He pats your knee and gets up, both hands tugging at his hair, mumbling to himself, “What the fuck, Arsène.”

You don’t even try to make sense out of that. Instead you adjust your own clothes, trying to look presentable if for whatever reason Boss decides to come upstairs. And then you immediately rise to sit up, because lying seems like a very bad idea right now. God, the things you want to do to him. With him.

A cold shower is what you need. Right now. Akira must be on the same wavelength as you. When he’s back upstairs, surprisingly fast, he excuses himself to the nearby bathhouse, leaving you in his room to meditate and find your inner peace instead of imagining how he jerks himself off downstairs in the little restroom while thinking of you.

Half an hour later, after you went back to kick ass in Takken 6, he returns, his hair still wet.

“You’ll get sick if you don’t dry it,” you remark, hitting pause when your character is just about to get knocked out. As answer, Akira throws his towel in your face and sits on the ground, leaning against his bed and waiting.

“You’re such a brat,” you say, not even thinking of not indulging him, and dry his hair.

“You love it,” he states the undeniable. While you’re occupied, he takes over playing the game and gives a little sound of distress upon facing the impending doom of losing.

“Wanna stay over?” he asks once you’re satisfied with the mess that his hair is. “I can sleep on the couch and I promise I'll behave.” His ears are pink when he says that, and you can’t prevent yourself from pinching them.

“Not that I don’t trust you, but I have to get up early tomorrow, so I’ll head home.” You plant a kiss on top of his head.

Akira gives a thoughtful “Hmmm,” you realise is actually a sulking one once he gets up and turns around. He sits next to you and scoots forward, slinging his legs around your waist and his hands around your shoulders, nuzzling your neck.

A soft laugh escapes you. “What are you doing?” His heartbeat is steady against your chest, his breath warm on your skin.

“I don’t want you to go yet,” he mumbles, pushing his lower lip forward in a pout.

You make a frustrated sound that doesn’t resemble human language and press your palms against your eyes. “Why are you saying stuff like that. You’re making me wanna kiss you so bad.”

Akira bolts up straight, his face going up in flames. “Then do it”, he says, trying to be so confident but his voice goes up at the end.

There’s no denying it will be a repeat of thirty minutes ago with him dry humping your thigh and who knows how far you’ll allow this to go. Luckily, you’re interrupted by Morgana who squeezes between your bodies, meowing loudly.

“You traitor,” Akira gasps.

You laugh and press a kiss on top of Morgana’s head. “I think he’s the only one being responsible right now.”

Akira gives a dramatic sigh. “Isn’t he always.” He’s still sulking, but that expression is quickly replaced by a sober seriousness when he says, “Make sure to watch TV tomorrow evening, okay?”

“Tomorrow?” You untangle his limbs from yours and get up, stretching. “Is there going to be something special?”

“Oh, something very special.” Akira’s smile is sharper than the edge of a blade. “You’ll see.”

“Okay, I promise.” You ruffle his hair. “And you promise me you stay safe and don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Akira places a hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear I am behaving like a modest citizen.”

You look at him like you don’t believe him. Morgana looks at him like he doesn’t believe him. But it’s hard to call him out on his nonsense when he looks so adorable with his messy hair and pouty pink lips.

“I’ll give you a call tomorrow or the day after,” you say, packing up your stuff. “Then we can talk more about our Christmas plans.” It’s going to be the first time spending the Holiday with someone so dear to you, and you can’t wait for it.

When you’re ready to leave, Akira snatches your hand and pecks your lips. “I’ll miss you.”

“Clingy.” You pinch his cheek. “I like it.”

“Once my last job as a phantom thief is done, I’ll cling even more.”

“I can’t wait for it.” You tiptoe to kiss him. Akira holds on a little longer than necessary for a simple ‘see-you-later’-goodbye but you don’t complain. He murmurs your name into your ear like it’s a prayer and adds a heartfelt “I love you” just for good measure. There is no doubt in your mind that Akira Kurusu will be the death of you.

On your way to your dormitory, you lose count on how often you turn around to wave him goodbye while he stands in front of Leblanc, watching your every step just to prolong going back inside where you are not.

I am thou, thou art I…
Thou hast turned a vow into a blood oath.

  Thy bond shall become the wings of rebellion
and break the yoke of thy heart.

  Thou hast awakened to the ultimate secret
of the Saint, granting thee infinite power …

[You can now fuse Eve, the most powerful Persona of the Saint arcana.]

Chapter Text

The only thing left to do is putting the cake outside the freezer for what you consider is going to be the best Welcome Home Party and should Akira think otherwise he can take the next train and go right back to his home town. You tell Narukami as much while he’s standing on top of a chair, trying to attach garlands on your curtains.

“I didn’t know you were such a tsundere,” he says, finishing his work. He steps down, nodding when he’s satisfied with how it looks. You feel like it’s a little off and should go more to the right, but he’ll probably clock you if you ask him to get up again, so you just leave it at that and pay his generosity with some well earned mochi filled with orange you picked up at the bakery near the station this morning.

“Maybe I’m just a little nervous,” you admit. “It’s been almost half a year since we really saw each other.”

“Just a little?” Narukami’s eyebrows disappear behind his hair. “When I woke up I saw you were online at four a.m. Did you watch tarantula videos again?”

“Don’t judge me.” You stuff your mouth with more mochi just to be busy with something else. Narukami shakes his head, but he has a hard time not smiling seeing you this happy. And happy you are. Euphoric even. Akira is returning to Tokyo, to his beloved attic above Leblanc. His plan is to work for a year and see if college might be an option after that. Since you’ll finish your studies around the same time, travelling doesn’t sound so bad either. You two will have a lot to talk about once he’s here, which won’t be for another couple of hours since he’ll have to unpack all his stuff in Leblanc.

“You know, at first I wasn’t really sure you’d manage a long-distance relationship.” Narukami helps himself to another mochi. You have a hard time swallowing the sticky mass in your mouth.

“How so?”

“You’re not who comes to my mind when I think of the word ‘patient’.”

“Is this about me blue-balling Akira for a yea—”

“We are not going there.”

“Are you telling me you never looked at him and wondered who he bribed to become so god damn pretty?”

Narukami looks at you as if you’ve thrown something wet in his face. He takes out his phone, tapping away. “I am reporting you for predating on a minor—”

“He’s been 18 since January,” you mumble a weak objection which Narukami turns into solid ice with his frosty glare.

“Just keep digging yourself in deeper,” he replies. He stops, eyes fixed on his screen, then sighs. “I can’t believe Nanako’s starting her last year this month.” You peak at his phone, recognising her immediately in her black Yasogami High School uniform. She’s grown into a pretty young lady, her auburn hair falling past her shoulders as she beams at the camera.

“You sound like a man in his forties.”

“I sure feel like a man in his forties sometimes.” He gives you a pointed look which you pretend to ignore by wrapping up the remaining mochi. Since he can be as stubborn as you, he just keeps staring until you concede and go take the strawberry cake out of the fridge.

“Hey, we had tons of fun too? You ever heard of ‘adversity makes two hearts grow fonder?”

“It’s ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder,’” Narukami corrects you without mercy. He gives the glazed strawberries a longing look. “Though I guess you’re actually right this time.”

“We are not going to talk about—”

“Remember December last year? That was quite eventful.”

If that isn’t the understatement of the century. First was the reveal of Masayoshi Shido’s crimes. If Akira thought sending a calling card to the most powerful man in Japan was not considered stupid, then you really should have had a serious talk with him about how that word is defined. There must be a guardian angel protecting him because despite all odds he succeeded and saved Japan from a megalomaniac tyrant. All was good for two days—preparations for Christmas were going well, the elections were put on hold to search for someone who might step in as prime minister.

You were at Inokashira Park on December 24th when the end of the world began.

The first rain drop falls on your cheek and leaves a wet trail down to your chin. Still engrossed in telling Narukami about Kinoe’s new clinic, you don’t notice anything out of order until his expression changes into horrendous surprise.

“What?” You frown. “You don’t have to worry, I’m keeping a close eye on Kinoe’s appointments.”

Instead of answering, he reaches out and wipes the droplet from your chin. It leaves a red smudge on his thumb. Your heartbeat picks up. You can’t remember hurting yourself, there is no pain. He must read the confusion on your face. A second later, his head snaps up to the sky as the floodgates to heaven open and it starts to rain blood, drenching you both in crimson red.

“What the hell is going on,” you whisper, all colour drained from your face. Narukami jumps on his feet, hands balled into tight fists. There is an intense look in his eyes you’ve never seen before.

“Come on,” he demands. “We have to get somewhere inside.”

That is when the first bone breaks out of the earth and rises into the air, connecting to others until they look like ribs looming over the ground. Every appendage is like a crooked finger with sharp claws trying to reach out—only no one else seems to notice them. Couples and families stroll down the path, completely oblivious to the grotesque sight around them.

A tight grip closes around your hand, pulling you up to your feet. Narukami marches off, each step so big you have to take twice to compensate for his long legs.

“What is going on?” Your voice flips at the end, shrill and scared. “Yu, what is happening?” Your free hand latches onto his arm, trying to find hold, something secure. Finally Narukami slows down a little. Worry cuts wrinkles so deep into his forehead, you’re sure they’ll stay there forever.

“I don’t know. But no matter what happens," he orders, not looking back at you. “Don’t let go.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You wouldn’t let go if your life depended on it—which somehow you feel it does.

When trees finally make way to tall buildings spearing the sky, you realise it really is the end of the world. The sun is hidden behind red clouds, casting everything in the colour of pain and ruin. They’re swirling in dizzying circles around a tower in the middle of Shibuya, painting the picture of the apocalypse, the wrath of a God bearing down on mankind.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars / Did wander darkling in the eternal space. You’re pretty sure Lord Byron didn’t think his imagination would become reality.

Peoples’ screams echo through the streets. It’s Hell on earth, panic and fear rule over the crowd. They trample over each other like frenzied animals in search of safety, ants with no coordination, nowhere safe to go.

Narukami leads the way to Central Square where confused policemen try to get the situation under control and fail spectacularly at it. Not that you can blame them. They’re panicking as much as the citizen demanding their protection.

“This is insane.” If this really is your last day on earth, maybe it’s time to atone. Narukami still doesn’t know it was you who broke his MP3-Player by accidentally dropping it to the ground. That is when the first person disappears beside you. You scream. Narukami whirls around, his hold on you turning painful. He pulls you behind him with a quick tug and scans the area. People flee to the underground walkway, tripping over their own feet as they descend the stairs. Children cling to their parents, wheezing, just as confused and frightened as everyone else.

Thunder lights up the sky in feverish yellow for a second, followed by an infernal rumble that sounds like someone is laughing in the distance—hollow and ghastly.

Narukami exhales audibly and you look up at him, his broad shoulders the only sight of comfort in a world that is so foreign and grotesque. When you look away, out of the corner of your eyes you imagine seeing a wavering silhouette looming above him in eye-blinding white. When you blink, it’s gone.

Under his breath, Narukami whispers, “I entreat thee not to leave me. Watch over us, Izanagi-no-Okami.”

More thunder rumbles above your heads. For a second, the clouds open and show the glimpse of what might compete to one of Maffei’s paintings of righteous angels. Gold glints off a stainless surface in the sky, blindingly striking like a flash of lightning. This thing hanging in the air looks so otherworldly that no words seem sufficient or capable enough to describe it. It looms over Shibuya like an infernal device with wide wings stretching to engulf the world.

When someone points to the sky, it is not at the apparition of gold and white. “Isn’t that … the Phantom Thieves?”

You close your eyes, dread sinking to the bottom of your stomach. Please don’t let him be there, please don’t.

The giant screen facing Shibuya Crossing changes from the black and white static to flashes of an image showing a group of people dressed up in a variety of costumes that in any other situation you’d think belong to a carnival. If they really are the thieves, the reformers of society, then there is only one person you are interested in and you’re able to find him really quickly because only one of them has hair jet-black as the night.

“Oh God, he’s up there.” Narukami’s arm must turn purple where your fingers are digging into his skin. “He’s not—he’s not thinking about fighting that thing, is he?”

“If he’s as good as he thinks he is, he’ll be fine. Okay?” Narukami ducks as another gust of wind whips his hair left and right. “But we should get out of here.”

You wish you could show Akira somehow that you’re here, that you support him. But getting to safety might help him more than flailing like an idiot trying to get his attention. Before you let Narukami lead you to the roofed smoke area, you glance back at the screen. Donned in a long, black coat, he is the definition of the picaresque hero set out to steal hearts. His complete posture is different—squared shoulders, slender, red-gloved fingers clenching and unclenching as he barks orders to his team. The realisation hits you like a punch in the gut, hard and unforeseen. You stop in your tracks and press a hand against your mouth in shock. “Oh no,” you say.

Narukami immediately turns around, worried. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s hot in that outfit.”

He groans your name. “Not the right time.”

You cling harder onto him, expression serious. “No really, he can step on me with those heels.”

Narukami shakes his head and pulls you after him, right into another group crowding inside the smoke area. He’s shielding his eyes from the rain, squinting up at the screen. You know him long enough to recognise the glint in his eyes as pride.

What happened after that always remains a blur, a picture on canvas unable to dry and now smudged beyond recognition. Akira and his friends were somehow able to overcome the danger threatening the world. When the people started cheering for them, led by a blue haired boy in a Shujin uniform you remembered meeting with Akira in the diner on Central Street, you joined, screaming like everyone else until your throat hurt and your lungs went ablaze.

On that day, December 24th, a God was slain.

***

After Narukami leaves, you get comfortable on your couch. The goal is to rest just for a little since the excitement of seeing Akira again has kept you up all night. Instead you doze off while watching a few videos explaining the endings of horror movies because you’re unable to watch them on your own. Right on the verge of falling asleep, you hear the door being unlocked. Mind still on this thin line between sleep and wakefulness, the sound is so foreign it makes you bolt up and fall off the couch. A familiar voice calls out if you’re alright.

“Yep!” Your back hurts. “Got everything under control!”

Akira peeks into the room, and wow your heart simply decides to go into overdrive and try to break out of your chest even though you saw each other via video call this morning before he went to the train station. He’s stopped wearing glasses pretty early on upon his return and has started wearing his hair slightly shorter but still untamed as always. You two just kind of stare at each other from across the room, afraid to move and unfreeze time.

Finally, Akira opens his arms. You jump to your feet and fling yourself against him. He easily picks you up, your legs immediately wrapping around his hips. You cling onto him like your dear life depends on it and he doesn’t seem interested in letting go of you as well. He makes a strange humming sound against your temple, then proceeds to press dozen kisses all over your face.

“Uh huh, yes.” You rake your hands through his hair, settle them around his nape, his skin as soft as you remember. “I missed you too.”

He mumbles something unintelligible and because the entrance area isn’t the best for reunions, he carries you over to the bedroom and drops you unceremoniously on the mattress. It dips under your weight. He straddles your waist, his eyes roam all over your face like he still has to make sure this is real. They settle on your lips, and he smiles a secretive smile that lights a candle in your stomach.

“You’re not going to take off your jacket?” you ask, fingers itching to continue playing with his hair. It’s much shorter in the back, his curls barely grazing his skin. How you’ve missed it.

“Nu uh.” He leans down and takes your face in his hands. His breath is hot on your skin when he presses his forehead against yours and tells in a quiet voice, as if not to disturb this moment, how he reached Tokyo a couple of hours ago and brought all his stuff to Leblanc where his friends threw him a first welcome party.

“And now you’re here,” you finish for him, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“And now I’m here,” he echoes and nibbles on your bottom lip, then presses his lips against yours. Over and over, one kiss sliding into the next. His mouth grows more demanding but never in hurry because time doesn’t matter. Seconds, minutes stretch into hours, lips slowly turned bruised. Akira changes positions from sitting on top of you to lying next to you, allowing you two to be even closer. Occasionally giving your mouths a break only to whisper how much he’s missed you, how beautiful you are, how he can’t wait to start mornings with you, end evenings with you. His words are as sugary sweet as the cake frosting still sitting in the kitchen and you happily consume each vowel and consonant.

Hours later, after the sun disappeared behind the horizon, the room is now dipped in darkness. You wake up with your cheek squished against Akira’s back, both of you curled into each other like a human pretzel. He still loves to be the little spoon, making himself much smaller than he is. You carefully untangle your limbs from his, head dizzy and spinning from a nap that took too long and now leaves you questioning what year it is. In the kitchen, the little lamp on your phone blinks, notifying unread messages. It’s the usual criminals, Narukami and Kenji, lately also Minako, though you can’t recall giving her your number after your reunion. Kinoe as well has sent you a picture of the furnishing in his new apartment coming along nicely. He too can’t wait to finally see Akira.

After the whole day travelling and settling back inside the attic, you decide to let him rest. There are still a few chores you can do around the house. A full laundry basket is waiting to be taken care of and sure, people can doubt that midnight is the best time to do it, but who cares? Rules are meant to be broken.

***

The small room reeks of wet fabric and mould.

The steady rumble of the washing machine puts you in a lazy, tired state; the words on the page in front of you merge into a blurry line, the letters shifting and eating each other. Okay, doing laundry and reading the first duty papers for your internship wasn’t one of your brightest ideas, but there’s no turning back now because you forgot your keys on top of the dresser in your entrance hall.

You’d probably execute it a lot better, were it not for the dim light in the room withholding any possibility to actually see what’s in front of you, and the sound of the washing machine drum rumbling doesn’t help either. Everything would be a lot easier if you could do your laundry in your dormitory, but once again you still don’t feel responsible for contacting the janitor each time they break. Nothing has really changed, has it.

It’s past midnight. The small, red numbers on the display tell you with very lacking interest 13 minutes are left before you can buzz off. The night is calm, somewhere outside a cat hisses, and despite it all, you feel comfortably at peace. Maybe it's because you’re alone and no one’s talking. Maybe it's because it’s the first time today you can sit and think about nothing at all. Someone tugged your brain into a cosy blanket and accidentally left it there even though there’s all kinds of stuff you should rather focus on. Well, a break is important, you decide, because sometimes it’s better to treat yourself to one before losing one’s mind over all the things still in need to be considered. About to pull your phone out of your pocket, your eyes fix midway on something else.

In the doorway of the tiny, cramped laundromat stands a tall guy, both hands jammed in his jeans pockets. Akira yawns, sleep still inscribed on his face. He pulls a set of keys from his pockets, jiggling them. “You just leave without these?”

“No, no, I knew you’d come,” you lie, really glad now that you left him a short note telling him you’d be out here. The dozen calls clearly helped too. “You can’t tell me there’s something more romantic than spending our time here together.”

Akira gives the room a doubtful once-over. He leans his slim hips against a dryer, and while he is looking around, a wistful curtain falls over his eyes. “I can’t believe a laundry area is where everything started.”

“It’s a story worth telling.”

“Seems so.” He puts the keys back in his pocket, but it seems it’s not the only thing he’s hiding inside. You try to get a glimpse, but Akira turns around, uncertainty darting across his face. It’s fleeting though, as if he’s decided there’s no secret worth keeping from you. His hands come back outside, a black chess piece between his slender fingers. It’s the king figure, standing tall as Akira places it on a dryer. You consider it, unable to determine its significance.

“I got that in the mail a couple of months back,” he explains, grazing the top of it, the crown, with the tip of his finger. “I used it to play chess with Akechi.”

You need a second to make the connection—staring from the piece up to Akira and back down. At first there’s nothing you could possibly say, until you manage, “Why can’t he just come up like a normal person and apologise?”

Akira gives a dry huff of laughter. “Because he likes to be dramatic.”

You’d like to glare at the piece, imagining Akechi in its stead, but it’s hard to recall his face when it’s been so long since you saw him. How must it be for Akira, you wonder. Surely he has missed him—is still missing him judging by how he carries that piece around with him. It’s become a memento, the accumulation of every what-if that in time turns into regret and latches onto the soul until it wears down, grief settling deep into bones where it spreads like weed overgrowing a flower bed that first bloomed in tender affection.

A slender finger taps against the underside of your chin. You haven’t even noticed Akira crossing the room, the king already back hidden inside his pocket as he holds on to the memento—no, the promise. “I can already tell you’re thinking of unnecessary things.”

“Maybe I’m just thinking about how I’m already missing your uniform. That turtleneck, hmmmm.” You hook your fingers in his jean’s belt loops and give a single tug, pulling him closer. He lifts a single eyebrow when you sling your arms around him and press your face against his stomach. Mine, mine, you can only think.

“I can get one,” he offers, rubbing your bare arms to warm them after sitting out here in the cool night.

“What a about a virgin sweater?” you mumble into his shirt.

“Now you’re pushing it.”

The laundry machine starts peeping, sparing you the humility of begging. Akira helps you hauling the wet clothes in a basket and easily carries it like it weighs nothing. On your way out, he pauses in front of Leblanc and looks up at the dark windows.

You follow his gaze. “How do you feel being back?”

“Like I never really went away.” He blinks as if in daze, then turns back to you, a mischievous smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Let’s get breakfast here tomorrow.”

“Curry for breakfast?” A moth flutters past you towards the still lit lamps of a busy bar down the street. You scurry closer to Akira—another moth drawn to a flame. “You do know the way into my heart.”

“I want to spend the morning with you.” He shifts the basket so he carries it in one hand, and with his other, he laces his fingers together with yours. “And the noon. And the afternoon. And the evening. And the day after.”

Giddy excitement bubbles inside you. Sometimes reality takes time to set in, and for you it’s a couple of hours before your brain finally catches up on the fact that yes, this present of you and Akira, finally together, is real, and what naturally follows is the future.

“We could invite Kinoe.” You swing your arms back and forth as you make your way through the narrow streets. “For breakfast. Not the rest of the day.”

Akira pretends to pond over it. “Is it going to be the test of his approval?”

“No, that’s going to be with Narukami.”

“Ah, of course.” He sighs theatrically. “Peace was never an option.”

“Think your chances are good?”

“Not in the slightest.”

It makes you laugh out loud, thinking there’s something Akira might be afraid of.

“You literally shot God in the face last year.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And went to jail.”

“Yep.”

“I’m still mad you did that, you know?”

Akira frowns. “I apologised.”

“I can still be mad about it.” After his release, you made it pretty clear how much of a dick move you thought it was that instead of hearing the news from him, someone called Alibaba hacked your phone to deliver a message that had pulled the rug right from under your feet.

There was little time to freak out about it though as they assured you that there was a way to get him out and they and multiple people were already on it.

I am sure you too can come up with an idea. It is our turn to help him, you still remember Alibaba’s words, confirming your idea that maybe this was another phantom thief. What came next was easy. You spent the new year’s days collecting signatures around campus to demand a wrongly convicted young man to be released. Weeks later, you sent a thick envelope to court, the signatures easily finding their way to the responsible people as the case has gained quite the attention in a small circle that really want Akira out of juvie.

Three weeks later, he was back where he belonged inside the sacred halls of Leblanc. Only to tell you that he’d soon return to his hometown.

This boy is just a rollercoster of emotions.

Which also means it gets never dull with him.

“I said, I’ll make it up to you.” Akira tugs at your hand. You round the convenience store. Inside, the clerk is busy scanning the bento boxes and coffee cans of businessmen currently on break during their all-nighter. “Are you listening?”

“Always.” You blink innocently. “You said we should make out. I highly approve of that.”

“Oh?” Mischief has found its home in Akira’s voice. He looks down at you with an expression that suggests he has no problems to make good on that promise right here and now. But then his eyes dart over your shoulder and his expression softens.

“You think we could get us a pot someday?” he asks. You blink, trying to figure out of this is a new way of flirting. When you follow his eyes, you see he’s been looking on a sign showing different ingredients on sale … that yes, usually go into a hot pot.

“Hot pot in March?”

“Well, it brings people together,” he says, swinging back and forth on his heels like he wants to bump into you. “And there’s a lot of people I want you to meet.”

You look back at the convenience store, considering what else you two might get that’s missing in your apartment when the thought that this, something as simple as thinking about what you two should buy to share, means that you’re starting to build something you’ve been longing for for a long time, and that knowledge unfolds something carefully hidden inside you that you’ve put away since your last conversation with your father.

The emotion is so raw, you’re rendered speechless for a moment, unable to swallow past the lump in your throat.

Akira carefully says your name, the question in his voice asking what’s wrong. You shake your head, tightening your grip on his hand. “Let’s get that pot tomorrow,” you say. “And everything else we need.”

“Sure.” Finally you two move on, though Akira has slowed down to a leisurely stroll. “I like it when you say ‘we.’”

“I’m sure there is more you’ll like me saying,” you say, ready to count I love you and I need you off your fingers to get a reaction out of him, when he, without batting an eyelash, says, “For example ‘Yes,’ and ‘Let’s do it again.’”

Hand still half-raised, you snap your head towards him, feeling the heat creep up your face. He takes in your embarrassment, visibly proud he came up with that but past the mischief glinting in his eyes, you can easily read the challenge in them as well.

You raise your chin, accepting. “We’ll see about that.”

“Ah, there it is again.” Akira closes his eyes for a moment, content like a cat sleepily blinking into the sun. “We.”

“Yes, we,” and there you kiss his knuckles, the skin still warm against yours, “should head home.” There it is, four letters forming a word that has been a stranger to you up until now, but together with Akira, you’re happy to rediscover it.

give your heart and soul to charity
'cause the rest of you,
the best of you
honey, belongs to me