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When Goro first told Akira the idea, Akira had been all for it. Doing theatre had seemed like a healthy way for Goro to work through his hang-ups over presenting facades to other people, without forcing him to abandon it completely. Apparently his therapist had been the one to suggest it, and had even compiled a list of community theatre troupes that Goro could join even without any prior experience—one ended up being surprisingly close to their shared apartment, and so, Goro had went.
(‘She’s so strangely persistent about all this,’ Goro had grumbled to Akira once, when they had been getting ready for bed, but Akira knew Goro well enough by now to know when Goro didn’t really mean things—and so felt it safe to tease:
‘Maybe she’s just aware how dramatic you are,’ Akira had said, cheekily, and Goro had flung a pillow at his face.)
Even when Goro began attending rehearsals till late and even on the weekends, Akira had been nothing but supportive, packing him lunches and sending him off with well-wishes in the form of kisses on the cheek. That Goro had been endlessly secretive about exactly what sort of play he had been rehearsing for, or the role that he was playing, was of no surprise to Akira—his boyfriend had always been territorial in the most bewildering ways about the information he distributed and when—so when Goro had finally told Akira he’ll reserve front row tickets for him and “any of your friends that might want to come” after Akira’s repeated begging, Akira had been astonished, then pleased. Naturally, all of the Phantom Thieves came.
Now, as Akira waits for the house lights to dim and for the play to begin, he wonders just why Goro had seemed testy, even nervous, about letting Akira come watch the show. Was he worried that Akira would think the play would be bad? Akira sincerely doubts that anything Goro could do now would lower Akira’s opinion of him in his eyes. If their feelings survived attempted homicide and the actual bending of reality, it would survive an amateur theatre performance.
A slow, steady drumming begins.
‘This is the story,’ a narrator on stage says, her face vivid and sincere, ‘of Orpheus and Eurydice.’
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Goro is Orpheus, because of course he is.
Trust his boyfriend to snag the titular role in his drama debut. Though Akira can’t say that he’s disappointed—the sight of Goro, dressed in a toga-like shift with a prop lyre in hand, is everything that Akira never knew he needed and more. His hair is brushed loose around his face, and makeup has been applied to his eyes to make them seem huge and darker than they are, giving him a look that is both overly earnest and somehow intensely hungry. Photography isn’t allowed for the duration of the show, but Akira is going to catch a photo of Goro in this getup even if it kills him.
‘Yusuke,’ Akira whispers to the artist sitting next to him, ‘how much would it take for you to draw me a picture of this?’
‘Already on it,’ Yusuke replies, the sound of his pencil scratching against paper all but muffled by the sound of voices humming onstage. ‘Their set piece is resplendent for such a small-sized theatre troupe—I must capture it in its every detail.’
Akira cares less about the set piece with its trees and more about the man currently sitting in the middle of it, but Yusuke wouldn’t fail to draw every aspect of the scene, so Akira slides back into his seat. Goro is currently plucking at the strings of his lyre while a Greek chorus standing off the side sings harmonies, supposedly in representation of how Orpheus’ songs defy nature in their devastating beauty. Looking like that, Akira can see why Goro had been picked for the lead—he looks unreal, sweet and ethereal, exactly the sort of character that belongs in a folkloric story.
As the play progresses, however, Goro’s theatrical struggles begin to show.
Orpheus as a character is honest in his sincerity, guileless and uncomplicated in the way he loves music and Eurydice. Goro, for whom sincerity is a weapon, visibly struggles when trying to play Orpheus at the character’s most vulnerable: when Eurydice dies, when he decides to tread the underworld, when he meets Hades and begs for his wife to be brought back to life. Akira watches as, onstage, Goro balances himself precariously on the fine line between truthfulness and sensitivity—how can Goro play Orpheus in a way that is honest to himself, while still maintaining audiences’ sympathies? The moments when Goro cracks, and his princely mask comes back on, Akira winces at; but even as his friends react similarly, the audiences don’t seem to feel the same (judging from the lovestruck sighs and titters all around them).
‘Is it just me,’ Ann whispers to him, seated on his right, ‘but is seeing the Detective Prince up there just freaky?’
Akira couldn’t agree more.
The better question, though, is why Goro is even trying so hard onstage in the first place. Sure, this had been a healing exercise suggested to Goro by his therapist, an adult Goro miraculously trusted more than most, but it seems uncharacteristic for Goro to openly put his emotional struggles out in full display like that. Nevermind that he and his friends are the only ones in the audience who seem to be able to recognise it—the fact that Goro chose to do it at all is surprising. Of all the therapy methods Goro would be receptive to, Akira wouldn’t have guessed something as performative as drama, or at least, not to the extent that Goro seems to be embracing it.
Maybe this is the reason why Goro hadn’t wanted to tell Akira about who he was playing in the show. Up on stage, Goro begs on his hands and knees at Hades’ feet (the actor playing the god of the underworld is good—the ambience in the room had changed when he appeared) for another chance with Eurydice as Akira watches. Goro had probably figured out that Akira would be able to see through his acting on stage, and didn’t think it necessary for Akira to witness it.
Akira heaves an imperceptible sigh. Of course his boyfriend would think that way, trying to take on everything in the world on his own.
But if that’s really the case, why let him and the other Thieves come watch the show at all?
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Twenty minutes later, and Akira has his answer.
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Akira does not know how the story of Orpheus and Eurydice ends. His schools have never been big on teaching them about Greek mythology, and Akira has never had enough of a personal interest to research it himself. But he knows, in passing, of the story: a tale of love and loss, a journey of courage that endlessly seeks to defy the laws of reality and even death, for even the smallest possibility of another chance.
When Orpheus begins his momentous ascent to above ground, the shadow of Eurydice at his heels, Akira’s heart begins to thud inside his chest.
Orpheus’ feet strike the dark earth, in time to the beat of a drum, and the Greek chorus’ voices grow louder. The lights on stage are dim, the lamp held by Orpheus the only thing leading the way, and the light of said lamp casts Eurydice’s face into a ghostly sliver of white wavering in the darkness. The expression on Orpheus’ face is one of grim determination. He cannot fail—he only has one chance left.
And yet. Eurydice calls at him from behind, again and again, her footsteps matching with Orpheus’ at every turn, her voice beseechingly insistent, heartbroken and wretched. She tells him to stop; she tells him to look at her. But at the same time, she tells him, over and over, that he’s been tricked, that the gods are unkind, that she will not be returned to him as she was in life once they are in the light, that she is dead and gone and buried and she tells him to leave her behind. Still, she follows, like a moth drawn to the light, tortured between what she selfishly wants and what she knows is right.
‘Let me go, Orpheus, let me go,’ she begs, and still Orpheus presses on. He doesn’t know how to give her up. And suddenly Akira is transported back to a certain February night, an ultimatum and a prayer, and Akira sees Goro’s coldly prideful face, vivid in Leblanc’s orange light: I won’t wait a moment longer. Answer me. Even then, Akira had known—the only thing to do had been to decline. But Akira had wanted to believe. In gods, in second chances, in the possibility of doing things correctly this time and having Goro with him, safe and healthy and alive. More than anything, he had wanted Goro alive. But to keep Goro as he is, Akira could never have looked back. He had to leave him behind.
‘Who is she, Orpheus, and who are you? Make your choice, Orpheus, make your choice. Decide,’ the chorus sings. Decide, decide, decide.
Goro is Orpheus. Orpheus is Akira. Akira is Eurydice. Eurydice is Goro. The characters onstage, imitations of them, and they imitations of the myth. Goro and Akira, imitations of each other. Who were the gods, Akira thinks, dizzily, to decide their fates for them? Maruki. Yaldabaoth. Even Igor, maybe, or maybe every single person who tugged at the strings of the future solely via existence into the paths that they all ended up walking. Who were the gods? Who were they?
The Greek chorus reaches a crescendo.
On stage, Orpheus squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again, and seems to make a decision. His body twists halfway towards the front of the stage in a way that makes it so that it's impossible to tell whether he’s looking back or continuing forward, and Orpheus’ gaze lands on the audience for the first time in the play. In that brief, split-second of movement, Akira thinks Goro locks eyes with him for an instant, his eyes widening slightly in startled recognition—before the lights on stage, including in Orpheus’ lamp, blows out, swallowing the stage and Goro into complete blackness.
Akira leaps out of his seat before he knows it. It takes him a second to catch up to his surroundings; Ann tugging frantically at his sleeve, Ryuji loudly whispering ‘dude, sit down’ as Akira feels all eyes in the theatre fall on him. Sheepishly, Akira sits back down again, sinking low into his chair and running one hand through his hair. Fuck, that’s embarrassing.
Looking down, Akira can see Morgana’s big blue eyes glare at him worriedly from inside his bag. ‘What were you going to do?’ Morgana hisses. ‘Leap up on stage?’
‘Who knows,’ Akira murmurs back. He certainly doesn’t. He hadn’t been thinking. Some trained reflex in him had reacted, clawing towards the light. Looking for Goro even in the dark.
Lights fall onto the stage again. Goro is nowhere to be seen.
‘At the end of the story, Orpheus dies,’ the same narrator from before is saying, over the sound of low chorus humming and the ever steady beat of the drum, ‘punished by the gods for his inability to never look behind. Eurydice has died, and Orpheus’ song has ceased—
‘This is the story, of Orpheus and Eurydice.’
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Akira does not like this story.
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The house lights come back on; the show is over.
Ryuji stands up, and stretches his arms over his head. ‘Man, that was one depressing play,’ he says.
Ann nods emphatically. ‘Tell me about it! Oh, but it was so sad though—I was really rooting for the two lovebirds at the end…’
Next to Akira, Yusuke is busily sketching out the last few details of the set under proper lighting. ‘Unfortunately, if you are looking for a happy ending, there isn’t one,’ he says. ‘In every version of Orpheus and Eurydice, Orpheus never makes it to the surface with Eurydice by his side. It’s truly quite tragic. A Greek version of Romeo and Juliet.’
Akira frowns at that. He truly, really doesn’t like this story.
‘But that’s so sad!’ Ann says, pouting.
Makoto walks up to them, with Haru, Sumire and Futaba in tow.
‘It’s strange though,’ Makoto says, having caught the tail end of their conversation, ‘in the version of the play I’ve read, Eurydice doesn’t act that way.’
Akira blinks, caught off-guard in the middle of scooping up his bag with Morgana in it onto his shoulder. ‘She doesn’t?’ He asks.
Makoto glances at him curiously, before replying, ‘yes. From what I read, Eurydice does nothing but walk behind Orpheus silently, but Orpheus gets so caught up in his own head that he begins to doubt whether Eurydice is actually behind him. In the end, Orpheus’ mistrust is his own downfall—he looks, and Eurydice vanishes.’
Akira’s shoulders slump. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘But they both still die?’
‘They both still die,’ Makoto confirms.
‘It didn’t look like Orpheus turned around at the end there though, did he?’ Ryuji scratches his head.
‘Ooh, yea! I thought that too!’ Ann says.
‘Is that so? I had thought Orpheus did turn around, they simply didn’t show us the moment that he did.’ Makoto muses. ‘What an interesting choice, on this production’s part. It just goes to show how subjective art can be.’
Next to her, Haru puts her fingers to her lips. ‘I do wonder why they changed Eurydice’s character like that, though?’
‘They did say it was a retelling,’ Sumire suggests. ‘Maybe they put their own interpretation to it!’
Yusuke nods thoughtfully. ‘That’s certainly possible. After all, myths exist to be reinterpreted.’
‘Myths this, drama that,’ Futaba complains. ‘How about we talk about how weird it was seeing mister Detective Prince play that main character instead?’
Akira tunes the rest of the conversation out as it devolves into Futaba and Ryuji ragging on Goro’s costume, with Sumire and Ann valiantly attempting to defend his boyfriend’s honour (bless their hearts). He scans the thinning crowd of people, looking for a familiar head of hair—Goro had said he should be able to meet them at the front of the stage right after the show.
Eventually, he appears.
‘There’s the protagonist himself!’ Futaba crows as soon as she spots him, weaving his way through the throngs of people and fending off admirers with a practised smile. ‘Cut that princely shit out, you’re with us now.’
Goro keeps the smile on, though it does become decidedly less saccharine. ‘We’re still in public, you know,’ he says. ‘I do have a reputation to upkeep. I trust that you all enjoyed the show?’
Ryuji snorts, ‘what reputation?’ the same instant Sumire pushes forward to take Goro’s hands between her own.
‘I really did!’ Sumire says with wide eyes and an overly earnest expression. God, maybe she should’ve played Orpheus instead. ‘I really did enjoy the show—you were so good as Orpheus! I only wish we could’ve recorded your performance.’
Akira disguises his laugh into a cough as Goro looks taken aback. ‘A recording?’ He asks, almost stupidly.
Next to Akira, Yusuke is framing Goro’s face with his fingers.
‘Yes, a recording would have been excellent,’ Yusuke says. ‘That way we could’ve documented your performance, and your marvelous set piece, for posterity.’
Goro looks confused. ‘What?’ Then he glances behind him. His expression clears. ‘Ah, yes, the backdrop. You’ll have to thank Minami and her team for that one—they spent quite a long time designing and making everything. If you’d like, I could introduce you?’
‘That would be wonderful.’ Yusuke nods.
Goro turns to Akira. His expression cools and heats at once, volcanic.
‘Well?’ He asks. ‘What did you think of the show?’
Akira catches Goro’s gaze, holds it. Like a moth, his hand reaches out to Goro’s.
‘I liked it,’ he says, honestly. ‘Though the story itself was awfully sad.’
Goro cocks an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’ He says.
‘Yes,’ Akira confirms. ‘Orpheus and Eurydice dying. And due to the whims of gods that they couldn’t control? How pessimistic is that?’
‘That’s certainly an interesting reading,’ Goro allows. ‘Most people fixate on the tragic romanticism of it all. Star-crossed lovers, and all that. Though, of course you would betray those expectations, Joker.’
Akira grins. Leans in closer. ‘I aim to please.’
‘You know, we’re right here,’ Morgana yowls suddenly, from the depths of Akira’s bag. Both Akira and Goro jerk back—and Akira turns his head to find his friends looking away in various different directions, all politely pretending to ignore them. ‘Could you guys at least have the decency to be alone when you do that? Jeez!’
Akira rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. ‘Sorry about that.’
Goro’s expression suggests that he’s anything but, but he politely takes half a step away. ‘Unfortunately, I will have to go soon—the director wants to debrief the entire cast for the next few shows, and we’ll have to clean up backstage before locking up for the day.’
‘Aw,’ Akira says. ‘I was hoping you could join us for an early dinner.’
‘It’s four pm.’
‘That’s why I said early.’
The glare Goro gives him suggests he’s anything but amused. Akira smirks. ‘Regardless, thank you all for taking time out of your schedules to come see the show. I… really do appreciate it.’
There’s a brief pause of awkward silence as the rest of the Thieves exchange wide-eyed glances with each other. Even the years haven’t been enough to smooth over certain rifts completely, it seems.
‘Uh, yeah, no problem at all dude,’ Ryuji says. ‘And anyways, we liked the show, so no sweat.’
‘Yeah!’ Ann says. ‘Feel free to invite us to another one of your plays any time. If your team ever needs any makeup assistance, hit me up too!’ She winks.
‘I would be honoured to attend your shows again,’ Yusuke says.
Then comes a flurry of agreements, all of them sincere (though Futaba does loudly say, ‘I still think you guys could’ve streamed it’ ). In the face of such support, Goro stands there awkwardly, not quite sure what to do with himself; the expression on his face makes Akira want to laugh.
From the stage, a man calls out impatiently, ‘Akechi!’
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘That would be the director. Excuse me,’ he says, smiles again once more, and leaves. Akira watches him go. Goro does not look back.
But then Morgana is tapping his arm from inside his bag. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Morgana asks pointedly.
Akira remembers. ‘Oh, yeah!’ He chases after Goro’s back. ‘Goro!’
Goro turns.
‘Akira?’ He asks, surprised.
Akira catches up to his boyfriend, digging in his bag. ‘Hang on, needed to give you something. Mona, you’re sitting on it.’
‘I am not! I was protecting it! What would you have done if I weren’t here?’
‘Have more room for it in my bag, maybe?’
‘I’ll bite you.’
‘Please, don’t mind me,’ Goro drawls. ‘I’ve certainly got all day.’
‘Hang on, let me just—untangle my earphones here—’
Finally, Akira pulls the bouquet of flowers out. Goro blinks.
‘I was wondering why your bag had been so much larger than usual.’ Goro eyes the bag in question. ‘It’s because you were hiding this?’
‘Hiding to surprise you,’ Akira says, handling the flowers over. Goro takes it with careful fingers; turns it over, examines the arrangement of pink forget-me-nots, purple lavender, red roses, and white baby’s breath curiously. ‘I’ve heard it’s custom to give flowers to actors after watching their performance.’
‘It is,’ Goro agrees. ‘This looks expensive.’
Akira shrugs. ‘Everybody chipped in a little to pay for it.’
If Goro is surprised by that, he doesn’t show it. He tucks the bouquet more securely into the crook of his arm instead. ‘Well, thank you for them,’ he says. His words are clipped, but he’s smiling, and Akira finds himself grinning dopily back. Lord, he’s so far gone. ‘They’re lovely. If that’s all, though, I really do have to go—I’ll meet you back home, Joker.’
‘Ah, hang on.’
Goro raises an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’
Akira shoves his hands into his pocket. ‘The show. The final scene you were in.’
‘Mm hm.’
‘Is that why you were so hesitant about talking to me about the play?’
‘Oh.’ Akechi’s expression becomes guarded, even as he gets a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘Somewhat. Very astute of you to notice, however.’
‘Somewhat?’
Akechi taps his chin. ‘Hmm. Well—did you know that, in other versions of this play, Eurydice does not usually act the way she did in this production?’
Akira nods. ‘Yeah. Makoto told us. Usually, Orpheus is consumed by his own doubt, right?’
Goro half-smiles. ‘Yes. The fact that this play chose to muddy those waters a little… that’s my fault, really.’
‘Huh?’
Does Goro actually look almost sheepish? ‘When the troupe did our first read-through, we discussed our interpretations of the play and of each character. I...may or may not have read too deeply into the situation.’
Realisation dawns on Akira.
‘You saw them as us?’
There’s a pause.
‘Yes,’ Goro admits.
Akira can feel a grin spreading across his face. They really are alike.
‘You sap.’
Goro bristles. ‘Mind you, I mostly saw how you were like Orpheus,’ he retorts. ‘Ceaselessly idealistic and naive, willing to go to endless lengths for what you cared about, even if—’ Goro’s mouth snaps shut. He grits his teeth.
‘Even if?’ Akira prompts when Goro fails to elaborate.
Goro looks away.
‘...Even if what you cared about was, effectively, a lost cause,’ he says. ‘A dead man walking. Orpheus is put through a needless trial of hope that was doomed to end in failure, and I ended up suggesting it’s not just because that’s how the story goes, but also possibly because the gods, the fates, are meddling themselves. And, well, the troupe ended up liking that idea so much they incorporated it into the show. And cast me as the lead to portray it.’
‘Then, Eurydice?’ Akira wonders. ‘Were you the one who rewrote Eurydice? To be both the caution and the omen?’
Goro shrugs, his face enigmatic. ‘Now, who knows?’ He says. ‘I can’t give away all the dramatic secrets.’
Affection and exasperation both rise in Akira, sudden and sweet as light swelling over a horizon. What an insufferable idiot Akechi Goro is. Akira is going to love him forever.
‘Okay, well, it doesn’t matter as much in the end,’ Akira finds himself saying, ‘because we aren’t Orpheus and Eurydice, anyway.’
Goro’s eyes are on him, sharp as a searchlight. ‘No?’ He asks.
Akira’s smiling. He knows he is. Suddenly Akira’s problems with the story seem small and inconsequential; it’s just a myth. A play is just a play. Here, right now, is what’s important.
Akira leans forward, touches his forehead to Goro’s. Finds Goro’s hand with his own, again, entangles their fingers together. Akira would find Goro even in the dark, would never have to worry about whether to look back or in front of him again.
‘Yeah,’ Akira says. ‘I mean, we beat the gods. That’s how we’re here together now, isn’t it?’
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