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They got the jump on him. A bunch of cowards tittering in an alleyway near one of his usual haunts. That’s the reason why he’s currently pinned to the ground, gravel digging into his cheek and blood oozing from his nose and split lip.
They better have not broken his nose. He’ll give them hell to pay if it heals back crooked.
A sweaty hand grabs his head, yanks at his hair, and he’s face to face with some buzz cut asshole he’s never even met before.
“You’re not that tough. Those rumors got me all excited,” buzz cut says.
Goro doesn’t respond. He refuses to give them any ammunition to continue their little self-congratulatory beatdown.
“Cat got your tongue?”
Goro grimaces at the flecks of spit that make contact with his face, but continues to stay silent.
He only lets out a small grunt when he's shoved forcefully back to the ground. A heavy pressure grinds against the crown of his head. His temper flares up imagining the gunk on the bottom of the asshole’s shoe; it’s going to take forever to wash that shit out of his hair.
He hears the sound of an artificial camera shutter and twists just so to see one of the cronies holding a phone in his direction.
They planned out a photo op. Of course.
The collective chortling around him is barely audible above the rush of blood in his ears. He’s going to learn their names, their addresses, their favorite hangout spots, and hunt them all down and make them regret being born.
“Hey, if you don’t feel like talking, maybe that friend of yours does.”
Goro’s heart leaps in his throat. But he can’t react strongly, he can’t let them notice anything.
“I don’t have any friends,” he growls eventually.
“He talks! Guess I hit the jackpot.”
“I still,” Goro wheezes from the knee driving into his back, “don’t know who—”
“That skinny nerd with the glasses. I’m feeling nice, maybe we can pay him a visit too.”
Goro’s mind races. Akira usually goes home straight from school. The route he takes should always have people around before sundown. His semi-regular part-time jobs run until nighttime, but they’re in heavily populated areas with trains packed full of salarymen at the end of the day. On weekends, he never travels in the early morning or late night.
There should always be enough people around Akira that these idiots wouldn’t dare make a scene.
Except when he’s with Goro. He’s only alone when it’s him and Goro.
The weight on his back disappears for only a short moment of reprieve. He receives a swift kick in the chest that leaves him retching up bile. There are more camera shutter noises.
Eventually buzz cut and his minions leave, having grown bored of their wholesome, after-school activity. Goro watches their retreating backs. He recognizes their school uniforms, and commits their faces, their gait, their height, and their body structure to memory.
He gets up slowly, winces at the throbbing pain that spreads throughout his body, and drags himself to the one clinic that won’t snoop around his medical history.
After a full body examination, he ends up with a lot of bruises and scabs, splints on two fingers on his right hand, and instructions to restrict physical activity for his cracked ribs to heal. Takemi doesn’t ask what landed him in her clinic again, only raising a brow as she hands over painkillers and an ice pack.
“Don’t tell Akira,” Goro says in lieu of thanks.
“Doctor-patient confidentiality. I don’t share everything with my little guinea pig.”
Goro nods and leaves.
It takes three days of doggedly avoiding Akira before he’s stopped at the school gate. He looks hilariously absurd trying to appear intimidating with his spindly arms crossed.
“What’s gotten into you?” Akira says.
He’s so skinny. His arms would snap like twigs with barely any effort.
“Just leave me alone, Kurusu,” Goro says, almost flinching at how foreign the syllables have become on his tongue. When had he gotten so used to calling Akira by his given name?
His dismissal only makes Akira’s frown deepen. Usually Goro likes his stubbornness, but now it’s only irritating.
Goro glances around them. There’s still a significant number of students lingering outside, and he’s sure there’ll be some watching from the windows.
If he has to resort to Plan B, he’ll need witnesses.
He makes to walk past Akira and prays that that’ll be the end of that.
His stomach coils in itself as Akira’s hand lands on his shoulder.
Small, bony, breakable.
“Seriously, Goro—”
The rest of his words turn into a sharp cry when Goro punches him clean in the face. He stumbles back, touches his cheek, mouth agape. The skin is already turning red from the impact.
It looks good on him.
Because he’s stupidly loyal to Goro, Akira tries to approach him still, hands up in a placating manner, instead of walking away like he should.
Goro sucks in a rattling breath and grimaces at his ribs screaming at him.
“You’re hurt. Goro—” Akira says.
“Don’t call me that,” Goro growls. Then, noticing the growing number of kids watching them with their phones out and pointing towards them, he shouts, “I’m sick of your pathetic ass following me all the time. Don’t let me catch you near me again.”
Akira looks alarmed at that. His hands are getting too close. “What are you talking about? If you’re in trouble I can help—”
Goro doesn’t let him finish, hits him again so he gets the picture.
But he doesn’t, he turns his head back to face him. Defiant as always.
Fine then.
He feints another left hook, ramming into Akira when the latter dodges right. He grits his teeth through the pain. If he does this right, he’ll be done once he gets up again.
Though he doesn’t put full force behind it, dropping an elbow into Akira’s stomach knocks the wind out of him enough. In the split second he tries to recuperate from the impact, Goro swings his fist at him again and again and again and again.
He hears shrieks around them. Good.
Akira’s arms come up, trembling, to shield his face, but Akechi slaps them away easily. Then he slaps his cheek for good measure.
A laugh bubbles in his throat. What a ridiculous picture he must make, straddling his first friend in years, the first person he’s come to trust other than his mother, to pummel him into the ground like another nameless, insignificant nobody. The universe just loves stringing him along before dropping all pretenses and playing him like a fool.
Shrill gasping noises catch his attention, so sharp in his ears. He looks around in bewilderment before realizing that it’s coming out of his own mouth, exiting his lungs with each heaving breath. His lips are stretched so wide his jaw is getting sore.
Akira’s stopped moving, has stopped moving for a while. His glasses are laying near him, still uncracked.
Goro leans over him, laughing wide and open-mouthed, in spite of himself.
He had made sure to avoid any spots that could heal wrong, but he hadn’t expected the sight before him now.
Akira looks… he looks beautiful.
His face is mottled in red and purple from Goro’s strikes as if lovingly painted by an artist’s brush. The scrapes and bruises adorn him like fine jewelry. With his eyes half-lidded, chest moving up and down shallowly, and a small stream of blood trickling down from his nose, Akira’s a living, breathing piece of art.
Goro stands, takes care to not jostle him, and leaves him to pick himself up. He glares at the gathering of students but makes no move other than that so they can finish recording on their phones and scuttle off. The videos will spread online soon enough.
Then, without looking back, he walks away.