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I must say, I expect better from you, Number One.
Akira can practically hear those words, even as he’s staring at his adoptive father’s urn.
Igor’s death was sudden. Akira didn’t even notice anything was off until it was too late, until Morgana was wheeling him off to the crematorium downstairs.
The Umbrella Academy has been a ghost town for years, the once bright glory of the finest team of superheroes long since faded. The halls are empty, the bedrooms abandoned. The only signs of life are Akira, Morgana, and formerly Igor.
Akira doesn’t think he had a childhood, but he still remembers “growing up” distinctly. There’s a fine line between childhood and adulthood, made all the more defined by playing superheroes.
It came for Akira a little later than everyone else. One by one, his teammates became more and more disillusioned with fighting crime, to the point where the team disbanded short after Akira’s nineteenth birthday. It was hard to feel like your work is worthwhile when you’re using amazing powers as basically nothing more than a PR stunt.
“The others are on their way,” Ryuji says. He readjusts the blanket half-fallen off Akira’s shoulders, tucking the corners in around his neck.
“I’m pretty sure they all made vows to never set foot in this place again,” Akira points out. Part of him wants to shrug the blanket off, just because he feels like being difficult. “I don’t think Dad’s death changes that.”
“They’re not coming for the funeral,” Ryuji says. “They’re coming to make sure you’re okay, dude.”
Right. That’s what they always told him. It’s not your fault. You were an amazing leader. I just can’t do this anymore. He’s heard the speech. Six times over, in fact.
There was always some other excuse. Ann resented Makoto for trying to backseat drive everyone. Ryuji and Yusuke could never agree on what ends justified what means. Futaba’s hacking meant any evidence she found couldn’t be used in a legal arrest. Haru still thought herself responsible for the incident with Makoto.
Akira shifts his gaze to the mantle, if only to avoid eye contact. The photos there are arranged neatly, ordered to reflect the social hierarchy Igor created for them. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven little heroes, plucked out of obscurity and adopted by the founder of the Umbrella Academy. They stand perfectly straight, all wearing the signature Umbrella Academy uniform.
Igor didn’t keep any photos of them off the job. Why would he? They weren’t his concerns during off-hours, and even if they were, nothing they did as civilians could ever compare to what they did as heroes.
Akira’s own visage stares back at him, passive and compliant. Sometimes he wonders if he was chosen as the leader because Igor knew he’d question things the least. Could he smell Akira’s compliance like a shark smells blood in the water?
To be fair, he was right. Akira was the only one that stayed until the bitter end.
Beside his picture, though pushed back a little more so as not to distract from the leader, is that of Number Two, the Sprint.
Ryuji’s the only one that stayed in town after moving out. He never did like the idea of being alone, and having Akira nearby was a sort of compromise between the two of them. It’s not like Ryuji has major career aspirations, other than not being a superhero and not having to use his powers to the point that his legs are broken almost daily. Super speed was never a functional power in the real world anyway.
Number Three, the Panther. If he remembers right, Ann ran off to Europe to become a model. Her dangerous powers, the ones that warp her into a half-human, half-beast, with fangs and claws, somehow only adds to her allure. He never hears from any of them, but Ann rarely, if ever, answers his texts.
Number Four, the Fox. Also never texts, but Akira guesses that that might be because Yusuke lost his phone. Last any of them heard, he was trying to make it as an artist, but even though Akira was googling him almost daily, no results ever turned up. Sometimes he wonders if Yusuke’s using his powers just to survive. After all, he can pickpocket anything without being noticed. It makes sense he might use that to his advantage if he needed to.
Number Five, the Reverse. She scowls back at him, looking like the picture of misery from behind her domino mask. Despite what Ryuji claims, Akira still doubts she’s coming. From day one, she wanted nothing to do with the Academy, leaving as soon as she was able. Makoto was a tank in battle, able to absorb and reflect any attack thrown at her.
Needless to say, she was never the same after she accidentally reflected a gunshot right into a civilian.
Sometimes she shows up in results too. Usually local awards and accolades. She’s involved in social work, as well as a handful of volunteer jobs. And from the pictures, she looks happy. Akira can only hope she’s just as happy when the cameras are off.
Number Six, the Ghost in the Machine. Futaba, on the other hand, does come up in google searches. It feels like every other day she’s being arrested for something new. She makes her coin hacking, and based on her arrest record, she isn’t really concerned about the morality of what she’s doing. And since her powers let her literally become one with data and tech, there’s no one in the world who can do her job better.
Number Seven, the Musketeer. She never missed a single shot, and while she doesn’t have much of an international presence, Haru is the one who responds to his texts the most. From what she’s told him, she’s very happy working as a botanist.
“Hey.” Ryuji places a hand on his shoulder, prompting Akira to look up. He offers a small smile. “Don’t get lost in your own head, okay?”
Akira nods, trying to get a hold of himself. He’s been lost in his own head all day, trying to fight back regressing. It’s a losing battle, he’s aware, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to try anyway.
They’re all the same age, born on the same day at the exact same time, but when Akira’s regressed, that makes him the littlest.
Sometimes he wonders just how much of his siblings looking out for him is due to his own powers. He was fine in combat—though he had to train twice as hard—but his real ability lay in persuasion. He has a natural charisma, a supernatural, almost inhuman way of drawing people in. The last thing he wants to do is unintentionally manipulate them into staying.
He never regressed much when everyone was around, and he knows he didn’t make it easy for them when he did. Igor heavily discouraged showing such vulnerability, so it took a lot of reassurance from his siblings for him to feel safe. Blanket forts and locked doors and secret hiding places.
But none of that mattered now, did it?
Igor couldn’t do anything now.
The front door swings open with a loud, dramatic creak, the sound of a single pair of footsteps approaching. From the sound of the heels, he’s expecting to see Ann or maybe even Haru.
Instead, it’s Makoto.
Her face crumbles the instant she sets her eyes on him, and all sense of bigness goes flying out the window. Tears well up in his eyes, the first real emotion he’s felt since Igor died.
Before he can even reach out his arms, Makoto is joining him on the couch and pulling him into a hug.
“Oh, honey.” Makoto’s hugs are just as fierce as he remembers them. She knows what he’s trying to say without him even having to say it. “I missed you too. I know this must be hard for you.”
“Makoto.” Ryuji sits on his other side, not saying more than that. All the warmth and energy he’d been trying to share with Akira these past few days is all but nonexistent.
“Ryuji.” The tension between them hangs heavy. “It’s good to see you.”
“Please get along,” Akira begs. He’s leveraging his power a bit, especially because he’s crying, but he likes to tell himself that defusing fights like this can only be a good thing.
“He’s right.” Makoto grabs Akira’s hand, threading their fingers together in an attempt to soothe him. “We shouldn’t—” Makoto stops, shakes her head. “—I shouldn’t be dwelling on the past anymore.”
She pauses, turning her attention back to Akira. She always loved fussing with his hair, and he’s glad to know that hasn’t changed in their time apart. Her fingers comb through his curls, seamlessly detangling them.
“I… I was too hard on you when we were kids,” Makoto admits, not able to look Ryuji in the eye. “I think I cracked under the pressure. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Ryuji shifts uncomfortably. He readjusts the blanket around Akira’s shoulders again. “I saw you’re doing a lot of stuff with homelessness.”
Makoto’s brows shoot up. Is she really that surprised that they’ve been keeping an eye on her? But after a moment, her face breaks into a grin. “Yes, I thought it would be more productive use of my time than reflecting gunshots and playing superhero.”
Ryuji snorts. “Can’t argue with that.”
Akira glances between them. This conversation can’t sustain itself for much longer, but maybe it doesn’t have to. He’s used to being the mediator—and he’s good at it, too.
He tugs on Ryuji’s sleeve, looking between him and Makoto. “Wanna see my toys?”
Ryuji and Makoto beam like he’s given them Christmas six months early.
Climbing the stairs with them gives him a rush of memories. Sneaking quietly around their own house, careful not to make a sound that would disturb their father’s work. Each step felt like it might just be a trap, and Akira exercises that same caution today.
“Ann and Haru just boarded their international flights,” Ryuji says, putting his phone back into his pocket. “Dunno about Yusuke, though, since he never answers texts to begin with.”
“What about Futaba?” Makoto asks.
“She said she’ll be here soon. That’s it.”
Makoto sighs, making it clear that she approves of Futaba’s career choice the least. “I’m not gonna get into it with her,” she vows under her breath as she follows Akira to his room.
He doesn’t have many toys, but he has allowed himself a few. The end of his bed is covered in plush toys. For whatever reason, his little self got really into Pokemon for a few years, so he has a hearty amount of Bulbasaurs and Eevees.
Nothing else has really changed over the years, though the Umbrella Academy merchandise got less amusing to have out. The figures are probably still in a box somewhere, but Akira’s not going to go looking for them.
“Hey, I remember this guy!” Makoto immediately zeroes in on a panda bear who’s seen better days. One ear is torn, hanging on by a handful of threads, but she hugs it to her chest nonetheless. “I can’t believe you kept him.”
“You told me to keep him safe for you,” Akira reminds her.
It was hard to get Akira toys when they were younger, so they ran a black market of sorts. Igor confiscated their childhood comforts at age ten, but like everything else, he didn’t keep too sharp an eye on things, especially after the siblings were well into their teens. It was all too easy for the kids to form a plan, separately begging Morgana for just one of their stuffies back for nostalgia’s sake and subsequently gifting them to Akira.
“Hey, it’s Pirate Bear!” Ryuji finds his old stuffed bear, a regular teddy with a folded paper hat, colored in with black marker to look like a pirate hat.
“I’ll show you the others,” Akira says.
He has his siblings’ plushies front and center, and they’re usually his comfort objects of choice when he’s feeling small. Ann’s stuffed cat Alice, who has patches sewn into her arms after an unfortunate incident in the dryer when they were six. Futaba’s old Pikachu plush named Randy, which was probably the catalyst for his Pokemon phase. Haru’s stuffed dolphin, Blue, still wearing the same lopsided crocheted scarf she made for her when she was eight. Even Yusuke’s lobster—which in hindsight, it was a near miracle that Morgana was able to find a plush of Yusuke’s favorite animal—named Hikaru is still around, even if he isn’t as huggable as the others. Akira still keeps him on the front lines, though, because he doesn’t want Hikaru to feel left out.
“You’ve been taking such good care of them!” Makoto praises, pecking his cheek.
“God, do you remember how hard it was to our hands on these things?” Ryuji asks. “I had to agree to do dishes for a week before Morgana was on board.”
“Laundry for a month for me,” Makoto says.
What goes unsaid is Akira was never able to recover his own stuffed friend, a floppy-eared bunny he named Arsene. His was taken first, as an example, and he had to be fine with it, as an example, and no amount of bartering or begging with Morgana could change those circumstances.
“I thought I heard a familiar voice,” someone muses from the hallway.
“Mona!” Makoto is on her feet before she even sees him, rounding the corner to swoop the bipedal cat into her arms.
“Alright, put me down,” Morgana laughs. “Just because you’re all grown up doesn’t mean you get to manhandle me.”
“Sorry, Mona.” Makoto sets him down, kneeling down to his level. She continues quietly, almost conspiratorially, “Now, can you tell me when everyone last ate?”
Apparently she doesn’t like the answer Morgana gives her, because her face drops into a scowl. Team Mom activated.
“Come on, you.” With a terrifying amount of muscle, Makoto slips a hand under Akira’s knees and scoops him into a bridal carry.
It makes him feel littler, if that’s even possible, and he quickly scoops up the first stuffed animal within reach, which happens to be Blue the dolphin.
“Just like old times, huh?” Makoto says, gently bumping her temple against his forehead.
Akira nods. The insane amount of strength training they all had to do at their time in the Academy ensured someone was always able to carry him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed being held before now.
“Futaba’s sayin’ she should be here sometime tonight.” Ryuji dares a glance up from his phone at Makoto. “Are you gonna be okay with that?”
“I’ll be civil if she will,” Makoto sniffs.
Snickering, Ryuji ruffles Akira’s hair. “Think you might have your work cut out for ya, lil guy.”
He did, but that was okay. He was good at looking out for everyone else! Plus, it meant they were all going to be living in the same house again, even if only for a little while. He just hoped they still thought he was cute, otherwise he’d have to change up a lot of his tactics.
Makoto snorts with laughter, and Akira, scandalized, spins on her.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. You were just doing your leader face that you’d always do in—”
“Every picture!” Ryuji finishes. “Holy shit I forgot about that!”
“He’s thinking important thoughts!” Makoto teases, and the sound of her happy—actually happy—sends a surge of relief through Akira he didn’t know was possible.
They may not be a team anymore.
But that doesn’t mean they can’t be a family.