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“I’ll have your jacket cleaned and returned to you next time we meet.”
Akira shakes his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. “Don’t worry about that. It’s just a hoodie.”
Twirling one of said hoodie’s drawstrings around one slim finger, Goro hums. His honey brown hair illuminates briefly under the glow of a passing streetlight, a torch that draws Akira’s eyes with unparalleled magnetism. It’s completely dry by now, soft to the touch if Akira were to dare, and his clothes are no longer dripping from his unceremonious dunk in the pond earlier. “Regardless, it’s only polite.”
“Nah.” Akira tucks his free hand into his pocket, tightening his other in Goro’s own grip. It’s late enough that the streets are empty as they make their way to Leblanc, so there’s no one to see them. Not that they’re worried about being judged. Things are very...different these days. “What happened was my fault anyway.”
Goro huffs out a laugh. “I certainly can’t argue with that.”
“I was distracted,” Akira attempts to defend himself without much conviction.
Eyes gleaming under another streetlamp, Goro shoots him a sharp smirk, the same wicked little curve that had Akira ramming their canoe right into the dock that afternoon, causing Goro to tip over the side and into the water. “Perhaps I should have you pay for my dry cleaning,” he teases, shifting his backpack higher on his shoulder to indicate the mud-stained cardigan bunched up in the space that previously held their picnic lunch. “I picked that out specifically for today, you know.”
And he looked great in it, too. Casual, but still polished. Handsome and relaxed and happy as they whiled away the day at the park, enjoying the last breath of spring before the days dripped into wavering summer heat. But as tempting as Goro looked in his carefully curated outfit, the sight of his slender shoulders draped in Akira’s own black jacket to ward off the lingering spring cool paints a much more mouth-watering picture. “I will, if you want,” Akira responds, voice quieter than he intended. The café looms before them and his hand already aches for the impending absence of Goro’s.
“Oh, forget it,” Goro says dismissively. “It’s just mud. And besides—” he runs one hand down the unclosed zipper of his borrowed hoodie, “—I think this suits me better.”
Akira’s chest throbs. They pause outside of Leblanc’s dark storefront and he wastes no time turning to catch Goro by the waist. “I think so too.”
Goro’s eyes glitter in the dim, keen and full of purpose, and his smile is sweet against Akira’s mouth.
When Akira surfaces from the kiss, it’s to Goro’s fingers clutching at his shoulders and his own heart hammering loudly against his ribs. No matter how many times he kisses Goro, he never gets used to it. He doesn’t think he ever will.
“Thanks for walking me home,” he murmurs against Goro’s lips.
“You’re lucky it’s on my way,” Goro shoots back. “After your performance today, I should have made you accompany me.”
“Next time,” Akira promises, kneading his thumbs into Goro’s sides. “You could come upstairs, if you want. Spend the night.” Just suggesting it makes his cheeks warm, his stomach quiver. It wouldn’t be the first time, but the mere act of asking, of being allowed to ask—
“As tempting as that is, I have to be up early tomorrow.” Goro actually sounds disappointed, but Akira understands. He wasn’t ready to start college when the first semester arrived, so he’s been busy preparing to enter in the fall, plus he still has his job to worry about. “Next time.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“Don’t get too excited.” But the kiss Goro places on his mouth tells Akira how excited he already is at the idea. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Yeah.” A little moon-struck, like he always is after kissing Goro, Akira lets his boyfriend draw out of his embrace.
With one last searing glance over his shoulder, Goro sets off down the road, back in the direction of the station.
Akira watches until he’s out of sight, heart skipping every other beat.
When he finally makes his way into the café, he’s greeted by silent darkness, everything locked up and put away. His eyes drift over the familiar shapes on the counter as he heads for the stairs, mentally scrolling through his opening checklist for the morning. Sojiro has been letting him open and close on his free days, and Akira relishes the responsibility, the show of trust from his guardian. It’s far too early for him to be feeling any ownership of Leblanc, but he can’t deny a certain territoriality that’s emerged recently. This is his domain. He fought for it, he earned the right to be here, and he’s not going to let anyone take it away.
Being with Goro inspires a similar feeling deep in the recesses of his chest. A similar proud possessiveness.
The attic is dark as he crests the groaning stairs, lit only by the ambient wash from the window, and Akira wastes no time pulling out a pair of pajamas. He’s worn from a day well-spent and he doesn’t feel any reticence about going to bed these days. The dreams haven’t bothered him since things changed.
Tossing the pajamas on the bench, Akira slips his phone out of his pocket and sets it on his desk. The movement causes the screen to light up, and Akira catches sight of the half dozen text notifications he’s been ignoring all day. Just a glance tells him that they’re all from his friends, all excited about something or other, and he can’t help but smile. He was too absorbed in his date to respond, but he knows the others will understand. They all accepted his relationship with Goro easily. And why wouldn’t they? Here, there’s no reason for them to object.
The light from his screen throws stark shadows across the clutter on Akira’s desk, and as he turns to start changing, his eyes snag on a small, boxy outline. His stomach drops.
He thought he put that up.
Hand shaking, Akira reaches out, meaning to push the box farther under the mess on the desk, back where he can’t see it, but the second his fingertips brush the lid, an icy rod spears down his spine.
“Did you have fun on your date?”
Wood squeals behind him, floorboards adjusting to a weight moving on top of them, and Akira closes his eyes, breath trapped in his lungs.
“I get lonely when you leave, you know.” A light footstep taps the floor. Another. “But as long as you’re having fun—”
“Stop.”
“You can’t hide it, you know,” Akechi drawls, the familiar derision crawling under Akira’s skin and burrowing straight down. “No matter where you put it, it’ll come back. You have to throw it away.”
Sifting a thin breath through his teeth, Akira drags his eyes open, gaze falling on the small cardboard box beneath his hand. “I—”
The floor squeaks again, a body inching closer. The back of Akira’s neck tingles. “What’s wrong?” Akechi asks. “You could get as many of those as you want. There’s nothing stopping you from tossing it. Unless—” Akira can almost picture the owlish tilt of his head, the slight sway of his hair. “There’s something special about that one.”
Akira doesn’t respond. Every cell in his body aches to turn around, but he forces himself to stay still, instead reaching out and grasping the box properly. The cardboard scrapes loudly against itself as he lifts the lid.
“But that can’t be it,” Akechi hums, startlingly close. “After all, you’ve already thrown away everything else.”
Dread ices over Akira’s thoughts, freezing down his limbs, and when his fingertips brush the buttery leather of the glove folded at the bottom of the box, a rush of cold nausea rolls through him. “I didn’t throw you away,” he breathes. “I saved you.”
“What exactly did you save?” Akechi snaps back. “That vapid puppet wearing your jacket?”
“That’s you—” No matter how many times he makes this case, Akechi never believes him, never lets it go, never accepts that Akira did what he had to do. “You’re happy here. I made you happy.”
Akechi snorts, a haughty, achingly familiar sound. “How deep have you sunk into this delusion?”
“This is reality now,” Akira insists, curling his fingers around the glove and lifting it from the box. “You’re the delusion.”
“Is that what you have to tell yourself?” Akechi sneers. “To excuse what you’ve done?”
Anger mounts on Akira’s tongue, but he swallows it back, tastes metal. Raging at the figment never gets him anywhere. Akechi just laughs every time he does, delighted at his fury. “Nothing you say matters now,” he grits out, squeezing the glove until the leather creaks. “It’s done.”
“You’re right,” Akechi hums. “You made your choice. And now you have to live with it.” Another step stirs the air behind him, and then a breath ruffles the curls at the base of Akira’s neck: “Forever.”
Akira’s heart stutters.
“Are you prepared?” Akechi murmurs.
“Prepared?”
“You’re going to be so happy, spending your life with that little doll you created,” Akechi whispers, cold air breezing across Akira’s nape. “You and all of your friends, parading those corpses around in exchange for sitting peacefully in your cages—”
“He’s real!” It bursts from him involuntarily, an aneurysm swollen to the point of explosion, and Akira’s shoulders slump, head bowing to press his brow to the smooth leather crumpled in his grasp. “They’re all real! I made them real!”
“You trapped us here!”
“We deserve to be happy!”
“Who are you to decide what makes us happy?” Akechi shouts. “The others—they’ll never know what you did to them, but you know! And I know!”
“You forgave me,” Akira gasps, eyes stinging, ice enclosing his frantic heart. “You accepted my choice—”
“Did I?” Akechi hisses. A beat of hesitation hangs in his voice, heavy and accusing. “Would I?”
Akira sucks in a shaking breath, ribs expanding shallowly. The glove is still soft against his skin, and when Akira presses it harder to his forehead, he can almost smell the lingering remnants of coffee and gunpowder, of coconut from all the times the leather fingers have carded through a cascade of caramel hair.
No. Akechi wouldn’t.
“You did,” Akira lies. “You forgave me. You’re happy. You’re alive.”
“How long are you going to keep fooling yourself?”
“That’s the truth,” Akira says fiercely. “That’s what I chose.”
“Your choice—”
“Yes, my choice.” Akira screws his eyes shut against the heat gathering at the corners.
“And what of my choice?” Akechi demands.
“You don’t get a choice. You’re not real.”
Akechi barks out a harsh laugh. “Then you know what you have to do.”
Akira’s hand around the glove is sweating, the skin damp against the leather. He hunches his shoulders up farther, as though that might be enough to block Akechi’s words. “I—”
“Throw it away. You made your choice. Clinging to that disgusting memento will only make you doubt. And you deserve to be happy, don’t you?”
He’s right. The truth in his leering words digs into the gaps between Akira’s ribs, piercing the pulpy flesh of his lungs. Keeping the glove is pointless now. It’s just a reminder, a road not taken, a miserable artifact from his greatest failure, and hanging onto it will only weigh him down, keep him tethered to a past that doesn’t exist anymore. Akira made a choice. It’s his responsibility to stick to it.
And yet.
“Go on, Akira,” Akechi whispers. “You don’t want me anymore. Let me go.”
Akira’s grip trembles. His brow is clammy when he finally peels the glove away from his face and blinks his eyes open. The sallow light of the streetlamps catches in the seams running along each finger, spills like oil over the dark brown material. He could march outside right now and toss it in some random trash pile along the street. Chuck it down a storm drain. Shove it into a mail collection box. It would be easy to send the thing out of his life. To never see it again.
And yet.
“I can’t.” The words trip dizzily off his tongue, unsure and hot with frustration. “I can’t.”
Two whiskey eyes burn into the back of his head.
“I’m so happy here,” Akira rasps. “We’re all so happy. It’s so much better and you—we’re together. There’s nothing left to hide or run from. It—it’s paradise.” A desperate laugh tumbles out of him, jerking his body like an electric shock. “I have to let this go, I have to, or it won’t work. But I still...can’t….” he trails off, staring unseeingly down at the glove cupped in both of his hands.
Wood creaks. Weight shifts. “Akira.”
“You’re here,” Akira mumbles, fingers twitching. “And I still can’t let you go.”
Silence pounds between them, a soundless pressure constricting his chest.
Then the shape of a hand flattens in the center of Akira’s back, fingers spread, seeping warmth through the fabric. A weight lands on Akira’s shoulder, silky hair grazing the side of his neck. The body behind him takes a shuddering breath.
“I miss you.”
Akira’s paralyzed chest spasms, his heart lurching into his throat, and his head spins as he whips around, arms extended—
To no one.
Before him, the attic stretches into its own darkened corners, chewed away by shadows. And empty.
Fractures race through the ice inside of him, and the wood beneath him moans with the force of his weight hitting the floor. His fist curls tight around the glove, crushing the leather into the sweaty skin of his palm.
For the space of a delayed heartbeat, the solitude pulses around him.
Akira lets his eyes drift shut against the emptiness, sagging until he’s bent over his own knees, clutching the glove to his chest as though its proximity might tempt his heart to resume a natural rhythm.
There’s no one left to hear his confession, but he parts his lips anyway, helplessly, exhaling:
“I miss you too.”