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Akira hated the idea of soulmates.
Don’t get him wrong- he wasn’t against love itself or anything. But the idea that something besides him had full control over who he’d love? Decided who he’d spend the rest of his days with, whether he truly liked them or not?
For fucks sake, would he even be able to tell if he actually liked his soulmate, or would the soulmate magic wash any doubts away?
It was all a load of horseshit.
The day his string appears, he plans on cutting it immediately. It might be a disappointment for the other person, sure- but if they actually got to see who Akira was, who they were tethered to for life? He could only assume that they’d have second thoughts about being soulmates with a criminal. It’d be better for the both of them, in the end.
One less commitment to be held to.
According to all of his research, cutting the red string that ties you to your soulmate doesn’t hurt, nor does it affect you emotionally. All you’re left with is the soul mark around your finger where your string would be tied, colored a rich black after severing the connection. Akira’s not fazed by it- the ring of pigment would look like a pretty sick tattoo or something, though most people would definitely recognize it as a soul mark.
Akira would just have to get used to it, like he had to do with a lot of things in his life as of late.
Laying back on his new attic bed, Akira lifts his hand towards the ceiling, examining the mark he knows so well. He’d had it since birth- his parents and friends back home would always give him shit for how ugly it was, but Akira didn’t agree with them, not really. While the sight of it would fill him with dread, horrible anticipation of the life fate had in store for him, Akira had to admit it was aesthetically pleasing. It was to his tastes, at the very least.
That’s probably another soulmate thing, wasn’t it?
A thread of crimson thorns curl around his ring finger, accented with small, almost unnoticeable forget-me-nots, their pastel pinks and blues contrasting with the band itself. The thorns wound their way up past his second, third, knuckle before coming to a head on the skin around his fingernail, shedding loose petals down onto the pad of his fingertip.
It was always like this, even when the mark didn’t cover the entirety of his finger. Like many marks, it only grew as time went on, as he got closer to the moment where he’d finally meet his match. Akira’s parents thought it was strange, thought Akira was strange, so they forced him to go to a soul mark analyst when he was a kid, when the band was just wrapped around the base of his finger.
“Your son’s future soulmate… well, the outlook isn’t optimistic, to say the least.”
Akira swears that’s when his parents first gave up on him. As traditionalists, they were likely going to insist Akira marry whoever was on the other end of the string, whether he was happy about it or not. Upon learning about the true nature of his mark, however… their prospects for a proud lineage were crushed in one fell swoop. It was devastating for them, but he also thinks that they knew going into that appointment that they weren’t going to like the answer they received.
They just needed a confirmation, a solid reason to hate their child. It was pathetic.
“I’ll break it down for you, as you asked. First of all, a red of this saturation is usually an indicator of an extremely passionate relationship, really emotionally charged, which wouldn’t usually be a bad thing, but the thorns- those are rare, even in the strangest of marks. They represent pain, hurting, an uprooting of sorts, and when applied to a potential partner, it isn’t a good sign.”
What was his partner like?
Hopefully, he’ll never have to meet them- but Akira can’t help but wonder who could’ve possibly created a soul mark like this. Hell, he’s curious as to what sort of mark he left on their finger, if their relationship really was destined to fall apart before it even happened.
Was it just as scary? Was it just as hauntingly beautiful?
“Finally, the flowers. They’re not all in full blossom at this phase of his life, but from those that have already bloomed at the base, I can tell you that they’re likely forget-me-nots. Well- I think you can come to a conclusion about that from the name alone.”
Akira wonders if the flowers will die once he makes the cut.
It was a shame. They really are pretty.
While soul marks and new-found strings were the main focus for a majority of kids Akira’s age, he had bigger fish to fry- no space was left in his mind for thoughts so grossly unimportant.
The Metaverse, Kamoshida, Mementos, the Phantom Thieves. It consumed Akira’s life, dictated his every movement, his every word dictated like it was stratagem. He couldn’t go one day without Morgana reminding him of the power he and his new friends held and how dangerous it could be.
But he loved it.
Finally- Akira no longer felt like the pathetic schoolboy getting kicked around for having an ‘evil soulmark’, or like the deer-eyed teen getting pulled into a cop car for no good reason besides having hurt a rich man’s feelings, or like the outcast getting thrown into the depths of a new school, a new city, that all seemed to hate his guts without really knowing who he was. He was finally special.
He was finally powerful.
When he enters the Metaverse, flanked by a newfound clan of misfits with a bone to pick, Akira makes it a point to ignore the familiar crimson color of the gloves that materialize with the rest of his Phantom Thieves attire. He continues on, letting the new side of him, Joker, take the reins. It wasn’t important.
It never was.
“To paraphrase Hegel, advancement cannot occur without both thesis and antithesis.”
God, what a pompous asshole.
Too bad he’s a valuable source of info. And he’s also stupidly suspicious. And kind of gorgeous?
Fuck, Akira hates how pretty he is.
“I’m curious- what do you think of the soul mark and thread phenomenon?”
Akira almost fucks up his shot, his cue jabbing the velvet table instead of the ball. Goddammit. Akechi definitely did that on purpose- he’d probably seen Akira’s soul mark and used his super detective deduction skills to figure out that it would likely be a sensitive target.
Bastard.
… Akira has never wanted to kiss someone more in his entire life.
“That’s quite the change of topic, Detective,” Akira quips in reply, taking the time to re-calculate his shot. He leans over, tugging his cue back, ready to strike the white ball and send it spinning into the others left on the table, “Is there something you wanna talk about?”
Akira breathes-
in, and out, and in again-
and takes the shot.
“Nothing in particular, I suppose. I was just curious-”
The cue ball flies ahead, knocking the colored balls into disarray.
“-after catching a glimpse of your own. It’s quite peculiar, is it not?”
11 and 2 get knocked into separate pockets, cementing Akira’s lead.
Akechi is close behind. There’s still a few balls left on the table. Akira can’t say that he’s won, not yet.
Not when he was playing with Goro Akechi.
“Ah- yeah, it is. I kinda figured you’d ask eventually- it tends to be the first thing people notice about me.”
The detective sighs, examining the state of their game with a hand to his chin.
Akira can’t help but think he looks like a fucking dork.
“I imagine. Society has trained us in that way, I think- to immediately look to one’s hand when meeting them for the first time. Such a shame.”
Akechi picks up his cue and positions his shot in one smooth motion- but his eyes aren't focused on the ball, no.
They were focused on Akira.
“And is that why you wear your gloves? To keep society from judging you that way?”
“You say that like I have something to hide.”
“Maybe you do.”
In a single strike, Akechi manages to hit the cue ball with such precise force that it triggers another chain reaction of chain reactions- the glory of physics in motion- that ends up knocking every last colored ball left on the table into a pocket.
Granted, there were only three left, but still.
It meant that Akechi won.
“I believe that we all have our secrets- don’t we, Kurusu?”
And as Akechi’s eyes bore into his own, Akira knows that he is really, truly fucked.
“Yeah. I suppose we do.”
After that, Akechi doesn’t ask what Akira’s soul mark means. Akira doesn’t ask to see his.
And when they go to the bathhouse, flushed from more than just the steam, Akira pretends not to notice the way that Akechi hides his hands beneath the water.
They’ve always been more than their marks anyways.
Akira’s year speeds by, full of the excitement and drama that came with being a Phantom Thief of Hearts, but also its fair share of stress and pain and heartbreak.
Oh, how his heart breaks.
And it feels like everything slows down in the fall- not because of the changing leaves and the lower temperatures, no, but because of a few key revelations:
One. Goro Akechi is a Persona-user that knows about the Metaverse.
Two. Goro Akechi is probably the Black Mask because he’s a Persona-user that knows about the Metaverse.
Three. Goro Akechi is going to kill him.
Four. Akira loves the boy who’s going to kill him.
Akira could go on and on about how he feels betrayed, how he feels hurt, but that wouldn’t be the truth.
Akira is just angry.
He’s angry that the shitty adults of this world did this to Akechi. He’s angry that he didn’t notice sooner, that he couldn’t convince Akechi to come clean and challenge his shitty fate. He’s angry that it had to come to this, that it came down to us or him.
But most of all? Akira’s angry that fate decided to fuck him over by pitting him against the only person in this filthy fucking world that seems to get it, who isn’t content with letting fate and destiny hold the reigns, whose hidden depths he finds terrifyingly beautiful.
The only person who ever wormed his way under Akira’s skin, until there was nothing left to hide behind, no mask or persona left to don. The only person who loved what he saw in the viscera beneath.
And so, when Akechi calls him to Mementos, he goes.
He goes, and he fights and he fights and he fights.
This time Akira wins. He knows Akechi let him.
That gun wasn’t fake. Akechi could’ve killed him and been done with it. He could’ve killed Akira and it would’ve been clean and absolutely untraceable, his body lost to the depths of the Metaverse. And no one would care besides a bunch of powerless degenerates. It was the perfect set up.
But he didn’t. He hesitated.
When Akechi gives his speech, declares that he ‘hates’ Akira, throws his glove- Akira takes it for what it was.
A challenge. Akechi was challenging him to stay alive.
It’s one he won’t back down from, though he knows one of them will be dead by the end of this.
...Akechi wouldn’t have it any other way.
So when they say their goodbyes, Akira allows himself one final indulgence, letting his gaze wander to Akechi’s bare hand. There, around his ring finger, a blur of red- that’s quickly shoved into Akechi’s pocket, out of sight.
Akechi just smiles that rotten, polite smile, but Akira can see the message underneath.
Don’t do something that you’ll regret.
Akira wasn’t there for his own death, in the end- but he was there for Akechi’s.
When the Thieves finally let him go home alone, when Morgana finally curls up on his chest and begins to snore, Akira lifts his hand to the ceiling once more. His soul mark is as vibrant as ever, the forget-me-nots in full bloom- Akira swears that there weren't that many of them the last time he checked.
In his other hand is a single black glove, held close to his heart. A promise, though it may go unfulfilled after all is said and done.
The funny thing is, Akira did regret something, despite his silent promise to Akechi. But it wasn’t important anymore. It couldn't be, not with Shido still left to take down.
Maybe it never was.
It was too good to be true. It had to be.
It was- of course it was too good to be true.
Akira wasn’t that lucky. Fate wasn’t that kind.
The cruelty came in the moments where Akira would forget they were characters in a madman’s puppet show, where he and Akechi fought side-by-side, where they would sit and drink coffee in comfortable silence after a long day in the Palace, Akechi in his usual spot while Akira tended the bar. It felt right, but not right- and each time he remembered why, Akira felt a piece of himself break.
He’s not sure if he’ll be able to fix it all.
“... I want to hear you say it aloud.
What do you intend to do?”
Akira looks away, stares at the floor, his shoes- anything to avoid Akechi’s piercing stare.
There was nothing left to argue, was there? Fuck, Akira hates this reality, the idea of being controlled the rest of their lives, almost as much as Akechi does- it was a disgusting reflection of the soulmate phenomenon, though that was one thing Maruki admitted he could not control. If he could, Akira’s mark would be gone, some of the threads he knows of would’ve been rearranged for the ‘best possible ending’ for each party, but everything on that front was exactly the same.
How fucking ironic.
“Are you going to say something? Or are you going to spend all day staring at the floor like a coward? You’re wasting my time.”
And then Akechi. Akechi- the thought of losing him again, of having a hand in his ultimate fate- it made Akira sick to his stomach. He never wanted this.
He never wanted any of this.
“Well? I don’t have all day, Kurusu-”
Fucking hell.
Anger, frustration- it all wells up within Akira's gut like a brewing storm, and it finally, finally bursts-
“God— Akechi, can you PLEASE shut up?”
Akira’s hands fly up to cover his mouth but it’s too late- he’s fucked up. Akechi’s face is starting to get redder by the moment, his expression flitting through a whole spectrum of emotions before it lands on the obvious anger, contorting into a cruel sneer that echoes the newfound layers of bitterness in his voice as he sarcastically jeers, “Well color me surprised! The one time I’ve seen you raise your voice at someone outside of the Metaverse, and it’s all because I wanted to know if you planned on letting Maruki parade my corpse around like some sort of prize to be won!”
Akechi barks out a sharp laugh, looking manic as he starts to gather himself to leave, tucking his scarf back in and smoothing out his coat with shaking hands that make Akira wither even further, “And since you obviously have no intention of giving me an actual answer, you’ll have to excuse me for assuming the worst-”
“Akechi, wait, I-”
“But I have to, since it’s become apparent that I didn’t know you as well as I thought.” Akira’s rival, his wish, turns around to leave— then looks back over his shoulder with cold and tired eyes. “I wish you all the happiness in the world, and pray that you don’t come to regret it.”
Don’t do something that you’ll regret.
“Goodbye, Kurusu.”
If Akechi walks through that door, Akira will never see him again. If Akechi walks through that door, he’ll die thinking that Akira wanted to stay in this hellhole, and Akira, he-
He would regret it.
As Akechi turns on his heel, storming to Leblanc’s door, Akira doesn’t hesitate to reach out, desperately grabbing the other man’s wrist. Snarling, Akechi attempts to shrug him off, but Akira only tightens his hold, racing to find the words, anything he could say to convince Akechi to stay.
“Let go, Kurusu.”
“No.”
That seems to stop Akechi in his tracks, if only for a moment- his eyes widen in surprise, but his expression quickly morphs into something animalistic, something desperate, and though he doesn’t fight Akira’s grip, Akechi looks ready to bolt out the door at any moment and never look back.
“Let,” Akechi pants, voice rough with anger, “Let me go, Kurusu.”
“I can’t. I'm sorry.”
And at that moment, fate decides to fuck Akira Kurusu over more than it ever has, because out of nowhere, his ring finger begins to burn.
He yelps, dropping Akechi’s wrist just as the other boy winces, glancing towards his other hand with a confused expression. Akira blinks. Then he lifts his hand and instinctually looks for his soul mark- only to find it glowing.
“What the fuck?” he mutters, poking at the skin around his mark.
This... This was new.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Akira looks up only to see that Akechi had taken off his glove and was studying his fingers, gaze darting between his ring finger and Akira’s own. Looking closer, Akira sees that Akechi’s finger was glowing too, but the pattern- it was hard to make out any distinction from this distance, but something in Akira shatters once he recognizes the thin swirls of the band, the small bunches of flowers.
Akechi was right.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding.
“You’re, no- we’re-”
“Not a word, Kurusu.”
When a sparkling red thread appears out of thin air, Akira lets himself go, laughing at the insanity of it all.
And then he cries, because of the insanity of it all.
Akechi places his cup down, the slight clatter breaking the silence that stretches over Leblanc like a suffocating sheet.
“So you’re sure that Maruki can’t manipulate soulmates?”
Akira nods, finishing off the last dregs of his own coffee.
“I’m sure. If he could, he would’ve definitely corrected a lot of pairings, or at least made those pairings more amicable. Makoto and Ryuji are still connected, though Makoto is definitely not interested, even when she was still engrossed in Maruki’s reality. Thank fuck for that- I’m pretty sure I would’ve punched the good doctor on sight if he ‘fixed’ any of our sexualities.”
At that, Akechi hums, drumming his ungloved fingers on the table idly. Akira swallows dryly, watching the thread connecting them bob through the air.
“So. I suppose that means that there was no mistake or manipulation. We’re…” Akechi trails off, his hand falling still.
“Soulmates.”
“Yes. That.”
Silence.
Akechi turns on his stool, looking out the door’s window at the… snow? Since when was it snowing outside? Shit, he hopes Morgana managed to get to Futaba’s- the last thing he needed was for that furball to freeze to death. As he lets Akechi think, Akira shoots a quick text to Futaba, receiving an immediate thumbs up emoji in return, along with the assurance that Morgana made her turn off all the bugs in Leblanc for tonight.
Thank fuck. He’s not sure what he’d do if Futaba found out about the soulmate thing. She’d never let him live it down, especially after she happened upon his confidential texts with Ann where he gushed about their aquarium date. That was a whole other disaster.
“So,” Akechi says, breaking the silence, “now that we’ve discovered our status as… soulmates. I hope that it hasn’t affected your decision in regards to Maruki. I wouldn’t want your resolve to be shaken by something that, as we’ve previously agreed, is horribly pointless.”
Ah. That.
“...No,” Akira replies, voice growing in confidence as he continues to speak, “No. It hasn’t changed my mind. We’re fighting Maruki tomorrow, no matter what.”
“Excellent.”
Another stretch of awkward silence.
This is awful. Akira has no idea what to say- what are you even supposed to say when you met your soulmate? He never thought he would, so he never really pictured how it would go, but now that he’s here with Akechi right there… Maybe he should say something, maybe something like 'their friendship doesn’t have to change at all because of this so let's ignore it'?
Well, no, that’s wrong- Akira very much knows he has feelings for Akechi, and the revelation that they’re soulmates has only made things more complicated. Does Akechi feel the same? And even then, does he feel obligated to feel the same now that they’re soulmates?
Akira’s head hurts. All the stories he’s heard about people meeting their soulmates and getting together made things sound so easy.
He sighs. Things were never easy when it came to Goro Akechi.
“Would you like to go ahead and get it over with now?”
Akira blinks, looking at Akechi with wide eyes.
“What?”
“The thread,” Goro says emotionlessly, sitting perfectly still as he continues to stare out at the falling snow, “Would you like to cut it now?”
“NO!"
Did. Did he say that out loud?
"Wait, fuck,” Akira says, scrambling to get ahold of himself. His little outburst made Akechi jump, who now turned to watch him with a genuinely surprised expression as he continued to ramble on, “I mean- no. I… don’t want to cut it, I don't think. Wait, unless you want to- then I can go ahead and get the scissors-”
“Don’t.” Akechi whispers, his words making Akira freeze mid-search.
“You don’t need to get the scissors, Akira.”
What?
Akira feels his face heat up at the use of his given name- wait, Akechi’s never used it until now, oh my god- and he stammers, searching for some sort of coherent reply.
“What?” he asks, as eloquent as ever.
Akechi, who looks just as ruffled as Akira feels, wow, huffs, reaching across the counter to grab Akira’s shirt and pull him close.
“You’re such an idiot- you know that, right?”
“Whuh-”
When Akechi kisses him, Akira’s still confused.
...But he certainly isn’t complaining.
So.
They save reality.
...Why did Goro fight for a reality he knew he might not live to see?
Akira had already cried every tear he had left last night, wrapped in Goro’s arms- so when they re-enter reality outside of the ruins of Maruki’s Palace with no sign of Goro anywhere, Akira just smiles bitterly, idly running his fingers over his soul mark.
Wait. His soul mark.
As the rest of the Thieves cheer, celebrating their victory, Akira begins to have a mild meltdown.
God, he’s never been happier to see the damn thing.
Where he was expecting to find a black ring, Akira finds his soul mark in all of its glory- along the lines of thorns and forget-me-nots, small daisies and bright red asterias had burst into full bloom, creating nothing short of a garden.
Wrapped around his second knuckle, right over the largest bunch of flowers, was a bright red thread, held taught by the person on the other end, wherever he may be.
Goro Akechi never let something as measly as fate dictate his path, just like Akira. Who could’ve guessed that Goro's determination to defy any path set before him would be what kept him alive in the end?
Hah.
Akira’s rueful smile blossoms into a wide grin as he bursts into laughter, reveling in the warm feeling of the thread around his finger. He hoped that meant Goro was laughing too, wherever he was.
… Maybe he's okay with one of fate’s decisions after all.