Chapter Text
CAROLINA ROSE:
A shrub with pink flowers that emerge in the
summer. Often associated with the dangers of
falling in love.
✿
The bustling crowd is distracting. Akechi watches people emerge, push and shove their way past each other, then merge again, utterly insignificant. It’s like observing ants, each specimen acting in the interest of their own objective. Only ants work together, and they work towards something meaningful.
People do not.
Akechi attempts, not for the first time, to turn his attention back to the task at hand. In front of him lies his destination: the flower shop. It certainly isn’t a location he would visit on his own whims, but the place seems to be liked well enough by the general public - it’s still open, after all. Typical of people to chase a fleeting beauty.
Irritatingly enough, a preemptive scan of the location can’t be carried out properly. The storefront’s glass walls are lined with blooming plants of varying colors, all drowning in a sea of green. The store has thus shielded itself from view. Akechi considers moving closer, attempting to see past the swarm of people that block his view of the door, but ultimately deems the move to be too risky. What would become of the situation should his prey notice him? The element of surprise was not something Akechi liked to lose - it gave him the upper hand. So, left with no other options, he steels himself and cuts through the crowd, striding towards the entrance.
As soon as he steps inside, he’s greeted by a change in the air - the store’s interior is significantly more crisp. The place is clean, white, and very modern, with marbled tiles and shining silver shelves. Plants are packed in here too, crowding the shelves with vibrant colors and filling the icy fridges that line the walls. With a name like Rafflesia, Akechi had expected a much more dingy store. The bright display he’s met with instead is giving him the beginnings of a headache, but the shop does smell nice. Various floral scents linger and mingle, and Akechi is reminded of the many luxury bath products he keeps around his apartment.
At the far right wall is the single register, manned by the very person Akechi’s come to see. He’s sitting on a stool behind the counter, currently absorbed in something on his phone, and hasn’t taken notice of Akechi’s quiet entry. Such an advantage should never go wasted, so Akechi takes a brief moment to study the scene in front of him: the wall behind the register is made of a rustic brown brick, contrasting with the pristine whiteness of the other walls. It’s more sparsely decorated, with just a few hanging plants and some pots here and there. Some flashy posters are taped up, advertising sales and displaying simple diagrams on flower symbolism. Kurusu himself looks the same as always: disheveled, fluffy black hair falling over his face in curls, dark eyes, and soft lips, forming an annoyingly vacant expression on his face. He’s wearing his stupid faux glasses as a part of his usual act, but Akechi can’t find it in him to hate them outside of their concept. The only difference in his appearance is the green apron he now wears, accompanied by a small clip-on name tag that neatly reads: KURUSU .
Determined to make the first move, Akechi strides further inside, this time allowing his shoes to click loudly on the tiled floor. Kurusu’s head snaps up and his unperturbed expression is replaced by one of surprise. From somewhere in his depths, Akechi enjoys this small victory. “Akechi,” Kurusu blurts out, voice as monotonous as ever, and though his expression retains a careful level of emptiness, this is the closest he’s been to resembling a deer in car headlights. Such an uncharacteristic display of emotion leaves Akechi aching to see more - he wants to watch Kurusu’s joy, his anger, his disgust and fear and pain and sorrow - he wants to see everything, but then the moment is gone, Kurusu is returning to his tired, unreadable self, and Akechi’s mouth has gone dry.
It’s only when he attempts to respond that he notices the sudden tightness in his throat.
“I didn’t think I’d run into you here,” he lies, “but, as always, the surprise is a pleasant one.” For a brief moment, with the intent way Kurusu watches him, Akechi’s disguise seems completely transparent. He feels a level of panic swell up inside of him, and he’s sure Kurusu knows, but then he smiles, and Akechi can breathe.
“Destiny again?” Kurusu jests, but it’s lighthearted.
Akechi hums in response. “I think so, don’t you?”
“I’ve already told you, I don’t believe in fate.”
Ah, Akechi thinks, and he begins to pace around the shop. But they do have an intertwining fate - and it’s not the way Kurusu thinks it is, with two meant-to-bes bumping into each other at every turn. It’s the fate of two tricksters, two wild cards, both in situations so similar, yet so different. It’s a cat and mouse fate, in which he chases Kurusu down like a wild animal, stalks him and hunts him, but does so while extending his hand as a friend. It’s a fate in which Akechi orchestrates their meetings, times things just right, and acts as though it’s all coincidence, retracts his claws and hides his fangs. It’s a fate he created. It’s something he controls.
“Is that so?”
Their fate is a tangible truth no matter what he believes.
Kurusu shuffles around at the counter, slipping his phone into his pocket and offering Akechi his full attention - a notably rare treat to his other friends. “There might be something like it,” he states flatly, with a cat-like tilt of his head, “but it isn’t concrete. It can be rewritten.”
A very poetic response, and a very naive opinion. It suits him, Akechi thinks, to believe these things. Kurusu, who changes people. Kurusu, who defies everything. Kurusu, the rebel, the gentleman thief. He has a freedom of heart that Akechi himself lacks, and it’s disgustingly beautiful, like watching a dove trapped in a gilded cage, unaware of the bars. Akechi considers how it would look to watch this freedom drain, see the glint leave his eyes, witness him break and conform to society’s whims, but oh, Kurusu is so beautiful like this, like porcelain, endlessly on the verge of shattering.
Akechi remembers himself. With a brighter smile, he strides towards the counter. With an electrified heart, he thinks about slapping the boy that sits there.
“How very like you,” he says instead, and Kurusu tilts his head again. Akechi’s eyes fixate on the way his hair falls, the way his lips part just so, and then he’s smirking, something more devious in his eyes, and Akechi’s blood turns to molasses. It suits him, is all he can think.
“I’m guessing you didn’t come here to talk about fate?” Kurusu’s voice is smooth as he speaks, and it’s twisting Akechi’s stomach in a way that he hates.
Despite all his hatred, he manages a light laugh. “No. Actually, I’d like a bouquet.”