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Akira doesn’t see the red string until it snaps.
One moment, he’s lying in his bed, aching and bruised but alive, and the next the string appears before him for the first time in his life, dangling from his pinky and folding over his pillow, trailing over the side of the mattress, and then it’s gone. It doesn’t follow the cracks in the floorboard, nor does it create a broken zipline between each step as it travels downstairs and out the door to the person on the other end. It simply ends.
He stares after it for the longest time, waiting for the string to grow, to guide him to the other side of something, be it a lure into the afterlife or this world’s supposed haven by the side of a soulmate, but nothing appears except Morgana, trotting up the steps, paws tracing the lines he imagines, before he stops just before his string.
Like Akira, Morgana was born unable to see the strings that wind across Tokyo and beyond. He stares up at Akira, noticing his gaze is on something but when Morgana tries to find the spot Akira finds so interesting Akira can tell Morgana simply sees nothing.
“Are you okay?” Morgana asks.
“Yeah…” Akira’s voice drifts off a bit, eyes not leaving the end of the string, swaying gently as if there is a breeze, swaying as it seeks something it cannot reach. “Just tired.”
“Then you should sleep, it’s getting late.” At that, Morgana hops into bed and onto Akira, curling up on his chest before he can protest.
Not like he had any reason to, having been ready for bed for while now, idling on his phone, ignoring the aching of bones, watching a string, ignoring how an unknown hope simply shatters.
He’s a walking dead man with nowhere to go. And now, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t even follow his own string.
He supposes he was right about his place in a world crafted for romance: his destiny was without another half—they never wanted him in the first place.
.
.
.
.
It should have been obvious, the moment Akira had seen Akechi’s broken string hanging from his pinky and no others.
He hadn’t noticed at first, preoccupied with the distorted world around them, then unsure if he had been seeing things. When he had been certain there was, indeed, an unconnected string on Akechi’s finger there simply hadn’t been time to ask about it.
Until now, it seems, with Maruki confirming far more than the fact they were soulmates; Akechi’s dead, he’d say, only minutes ago while he had still been in Leblanc.
Now he openly stares at Akechi’s hand, curled into a fist, the red a stark contrast to the black glove. He listens to Akechi’s words, feels his mouth move with his answers just as he thinks them, words quiet and fast while the rest of his mind is a cloud of questions.
He could ask why Akechi had never said a word about it, but Akira isn’t stupid; Akechi, with his secrets to keep, cards kept to his chest, as he laid out the groundwork for a plan that hadn’t been executed in the way he had dreamed. Maybe Akira had simply been another tool in that shed, useful for information until he was wrung dry of his words.
But Akira isn’t foolish enough to believe that Akechi’s end goal had been to fool him, at least, in the end of it all. He can’t remember when the discussion of the phantom thieves started to be less frequent, that they focused on their veiled games, on learning about each other rather than all of their lies and secrets. Their bond set by the universe had simply been another secret to be kept, something to manipulate if he needed, something to be kept close to his heart, a truth for only himself and whatever meaning that held.
There are other questions he could ask, yet Akira’s heart simply begs why, why, why. The word curls around his heart in a grip, Akechi is going to die and he said nothing, Akechi is his soulmate and he said nothing; why, why, why.
Where does he start to ask questions when the chasm between his rival and himself has widened by the same force that selfishly tried to bring them together?
“What do you intend to do?”
It’s the first time he’s managed to look Akechi in the eye since the truth came out, and he knows Akechi will accept no less than a clear answer; he probably had been on the verge of storming out, with how Akira has been acting, lost while giving answers.
“We’re stopping Maruki.” His voice is certain, but his heart still aches for an answer.
“All right, I’m relieved to hear it. I will never accept this form of reality. I’m done being manipulated.” Does Akechi wonder if this string had manipulated him? Manipulated them both? It’s why he wants to die but is that why Akira is left behind unsure of Akechi’s true feelings? “Let’s go back... to our true reality.”
Akechi’s eyes slip closed, for just a brief moment, one too short but far too long, and the determination only grows when his eyes open again.
He turns his back to Akira. “What’s a life worth in a reality just to satisfy someone else? I say none. We have to win this—no matter what.” One step, then two, far away enough that his fingertips couldn’t graze his coat, three, four, Akechi’s hand is on the handle and he starts to push the door open, an answer almost out of reach, another door almost closed and—
“Why?” the word slips from Akira before he can stop himself, the cry within his heart beating out the desperation to stay quiet, to let it go, to let these last minutes be okay as it can be to be told that someone you care about is dying, that the breaths they share in this space are some of their last, that their words will soon be but a fading memory.
“Why what?” Akechi snaps out, looking back at him. “I explained everything enough, didn’t I? Or are you already planning on going back on your word?” Every word is angrier than the last, louder and louder, clawing for a weak spot.
The words catch on Akira’s tongue, the other question, the other why, and his fingers curl into a fist, nails digging into his palm.
“Spit it out.”
He could leave, with Akira still silent. Yet Akechi doesn’t, he watches, the frustration unhidden, and yet it doesn’t feel impatient, with no shoe tapping or idle fidgeting. All of Akechi’s attention is on Akira, he doesn’t turn back to the door and storm out even when the words remain stuck inside Akira.
Akira looks down at the floor, a chance to let Akechi escape, a chance to find a way to form the words in his mouth. There is no slam of the door, no shifting of fabric, just an angry silence.
“Why…” the word comes out as no more than a breath, and he tries again. It’s a little louder, but not enough. “Why did you cut it?” It’s still faint, but it’s not a whisper, and Akira looks up to Akechi, his expression contorted into something else, surprise, maybe, but not anger anymore.
“You can’t see strings.”
“Just one… well, two, now” Akira corrects, fingers grasping for his hair, another shield for his eyes. “But only after it was cut.”
Akechi is silent for a long minute. His expression is carefully neutral, not giving anything away, but he’s more tense than he had been, more openly on his guard.
He lets go of the handle, the door clicking shut behind him. “Does it matter why?” He crosses his arms.
Akira frowns. His heart still aches. In the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter, but it matters enough to Akira, who lives in this moment, with his heart tearing itself apart with revelations, with a need for truth. “It matters enough,” is what Akira settles on.
“There are plenty of reasons why,” Akechi starts. “But what it boils down to now is simply the fact that our fate is ours.” Akechi’s voice is firm. “No one else’s. Not Maruki’s, and not these cheap strings. Ours. Or did you want to obey the whims of someone else for eternity? Or do you not have anything you want from your life?”
There are plenty of unknown answers to that question. A year ago the answers he would have given are different than those he’d give now, but a year ago those possibilities had been ripped from him, dropping him from a cliff that he would have to climb again.
He still doesn’t know what he wants, not entirely. No ideas for a college degree, an occupation. He doesn’t know where exactly he wants to be, within Tokyo’s bustle, but he knows one thing, with unyielding certainty that he does want.
He walks closer to Akechi, and Akechi doesn’t move. He doesn’t run, stands tall as Akira approaches, stopping toe-to-toe. He says nothing as Akira takes the hand that carries a detached string with the hand that has his own, and with the other he clumsily attempts to tie a knot.
In the silence of Leblanc, Akechi simply watches on, until the unformed knot falls once again, when he offers silent aid, and as their hands bump against each other they find a way to make a lopsided bow between their tiny strings, the back of their hands against each other. Akira shifts his hand so that he pulls Akechi’s hand in his, palm to palm. Akechi is quick to slip his fingers between Akira’s, letting the makeshift bow hang from their joint hands.
“I know I want you,” Akira says, quietly, and there’s no reaction from Akechi, as if he was expecting it. It’s not the string Akira looks at as he continues. “I know I’ve wanted you in my life, as a friend, eventually even as a lover, if you wanted that too. I’ve wanted that far longer than I’ve known we’re soulmates.”
Akira takes a second to look at their hands, “I don’t really need a string to affirm those feelings.” He looks back up at Akechi. “I never did.”
“This,” Akechi shakes their joint hands, “could have made you think that.”
“Maybe before,” Akira says. “But my feelings never changed even after it was cut.” It could have changed, in that moment that Akechi had severed the connection, if it had been meant to.
For many the loss of their soul connection was an end to a relationship, an explosive breakup, a traumatizing divorce. There is a power to these strings that is so easily destroyed, yet a blade and a bullet were not enough to shake Akira’s feelings.
“I still want you in my life, for as long as you’re here… if you want me.”
“You’re ridiculous.” He lifts their joint hands, setting it in the space between them. Akechi’s other hand rises, a finger slipping between the threads, and without even glancing he can feel the tug as Akechi’s finger settles on the top of the clumsily tied bow. “I could sever this connection again. It wouldn’t be difficult, I’ve done it before.”
“I know.” Even so, Akira smiles. “But it’s as you said, isn’t it? Our fate is ours. This,” he tightens his grip on Akechi’s hand, “is ours. Maybe it wasn’t before, but it is now.”
Akechi stares without a sound, letting his harmless threat hang in the air between them. They stand like that for a minute, eyes only on each other, and eventually Akechi sighs, letting the finger that threatened the feeble knot fall away, the hand dropping back to his side.
“You… are such an idiot.” Even as he says it he pulls Akira’s hand to his face, pressing a kiss just above where the string is tied around Akira’s knuckle. He lingers, and even when his lips leave his hand still hovers between them. “I can’t believe you still want this… but I can’t say I don’t mind, either.” He presses a kiss to another one of Akira’s fingers. Then another, and another. “I hated how much I wanted you, even after I cut the damn thing.”
Akira’s breath hitches at the admission, and he can’t stop himself from leaning forward, moving their linked hands just out of the way enough that he could kiss Akechi’s forehead.
Just as Akira pulls away he feels a hand in his hair pull him down, almost hitting his chin against Akechi’s nose, but it misses and his head is drawn closer to Akechi’s lips instead, lips together in an awkward desperate kiss. Akira doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he imagines Akechi doesn’t know either, yet there’s still a perfection in the feeling of this moment as he drowns in the emotion of being here, of being wanted, and it draws them closer together, chest to chest, and they stay together, only separating enough to break their throats cry for breath.
Akira knows this string will break again and again, and one day, Akira hopes, if they’re lucky, when they meet again and again they can connect, again and again and again, until the useless physical representation of the bond between them is frayed to oblivion, until they are both ash and nothing, because just as Akira’s lips meet Akechi’s again, there is always the choice that will draw them back to each other.