Work Text:
“I think your teacher really likes you.”
Akira hums an acknowledgement, focusing on the lockpicks he’s crafting. At this point Morgana’s supervision isn’t really necessary, but he’s sitting on the desk anyway, watching.
“That doctor, too,” he continues. “And you’re dating the reporter?”
“Not really,” Akira replies without taking his eyes off the task. It’s simple but careful work; if he files a little too deep this pick’ll be worthless.
“Of course.” Morgana lays down and folds his feet across each other. “Now, you already know what a bad idea it is to get involved with somebody on the team…”
Yes, Akira knows. Morgana had decided to impress it heavily on him starting when Haru joined, as if suddenly having another girl around was going to lead them into temptation. Akira isn’t Haru’s type, although he isn’t sure if Morgana has figured that out. (He isn’t sure if Haru has, either; it’s a hypothesis based on observation, lingering glances and brief hesitations and wistful looks. But considering what she’s been through, she can certainly take her time.)
“That doesn’t mean you can’t date anybody,” Morgana continues, which is... interesting. He pauses in his work and looks up.
Morgana has that smirk, and no creature on earth can look as smug as a cat. “A relationship can be good for you,” he continues, clearly delighted by the effect of his words. “It takes up your time, but there are benefits. It’s the deepest bond you can have.”
Akira doesn’t bother contradicting him, although he knows he’s wrong. A relationship didn’t have to be romantic to be important. If nothing else, he’d learned that. But Morgana’s a secret romantic, so he lets him have his fun.
“So the question is,” Morgana continues, hanging his head down from the shelf, “who are you gonna pick? You’ve got a lot of options, you know! You’ve stolen a lot of hearts.”
Akira returns his attention to his toolmaking. “Ann.”
“What!?” Morgana’s shriek still sounds like a cat’s yowl. “L-Lady Ann? B-but she’s - “ He shakes his head, ears flapping, and clears his throat. “What I mean is, you should choose someone that you can get something useful out of. Like, I bet that doctor would be willing to give you even deeper discounts, or even free stuff.” He folds his paws in front of him. “I don’t know if there’s much more you can get from the teacher. Or the reporter - she’s been useful, but we’re big enough that she’s not making much of a difference. Then there’s the fortune teller…”
It’s a cold way to go about picking a partner, calculating what they’re worth. Akira lets Morgana continue, listing off basically every girl or woman he knows and what he could get out of them. It’s irrelevant; he’s not going to do it. He has very little doubt that he could cajole any of them into a date - another thing he’d learned, how easy it was to make someone love you by being exactly what they want - but discounts and skipping class were only worth so much. The truth is, when Morgana mentioned a relationship, only one name had jumped to mind.
Iwai.
It’s easy. All you have to do is say the right things to the right people. A disgraced politician wants to hear that he’s having a positive influence on a young mind. A nervous classmate wants to hear that he’s important, an invaluable member of the team. All you have to do is pick the right mask, put yourself away, follow the script.
Iwai’s no different. Grouchy (ignoring his customers but never once losing sight of them; guarded), buff (gym muscles; he works out), lollipop (oral fixation but not a current smoker; quit smoking, likes sweets), tattoo (a gecko on his neck, something more criminal hinted at his wrists; didn’t care about being judged by looks). A collection of traits that Akira took in, analyzed, and built a mask from. Say the right thing, crack the right smile, and they’re yours.
The thing about Iwai is, Akira barely feels the mask. He can almost be himself, a concept that’s lost all meaning to him. His calculated quips aren’t all that far off from what he’d want to say anyway. Sarcasm, feigned ignorance, teasing jabs. Affection hidden away like something precious, kept safe and secret.
The thing about Iwai is, he makes Akira feel like Joker.
The thing about Akira is, he likes that.
It’s November, and by this time next week Akira will be dead.
He tries not to worry about it. It won’t do any good, not now. The plan is set, and as shaky as it is it’s the best they’ve got. He goes about his day and tries not to think about it, because when he does he gets this horrible hollow feeling in his chest that takes hours to go away.
It’s strange, facing the inevitability of your own mortality at sixteen. Akira’s got one week to live; what’s he gonna do with it? Not spend it doing laundry and playing ancient video games, at least. He crams every waking moment with friends. Shopping with Ann, exercise with Ryuji, a trip to the planetarium with Yusuke, helping Haru with her garden, shoji and Gun Around and trips to Crossroads. (He wonders if Lala-chan would let him have something, if he explains that he’ll be dead in a week and never even tasted alcohol. He thinks she would. He wishes he’d gotten to know her better.)
A visit to Untouchable’s on the list, of course. His team needs the best armor if they’re going to survive this. Somehow his little stash has reached a million yen, which is more money than he could ever have imagined having at once. Turns out crime does pay. (Morgana knows where he hides it. Just in case.)
Iwai never looks up when he comes in. But he never looks up when anybody comes in. Akira thinks he’s figured it out; there’s a display case that’s always kept polished at just the right angle for Iwai to see a reflection of the door. It’s clever, lets him keep an eye out while appearing relaxed. Yakuza instincts, civilian mask.
He gets the usual greeting, which is none. “Gonna be getting cold soon,” Iwai says without setting down his magazine. “Get a lot less traffic. People don’t wanna go out much.”
“Is this your way of firing me?” Akira asks, leaning on the counter.
“Trust me, if I fire you, you’ll know. Besides,” he adds, swinging his feet down off the counter and closing the magazine, “someone’s gotta clean up the smudges you’re leaving. Whaddya want?”
“I’m here to shop.”
Iwai grunts and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs. “Alright.”
Akira knows the stock, and Iwai knows what Akira’s looking for. What, exactly, he thinks Akira does with it all is up for debate. Akira runs through some mental checklists, comparing what they’ve got to what’s here. The suit Ryuji found in Okumura’s palace is better than the best here, but he gets a new shotgun. When Iwai offers to put some flame decals on it, Akira accepts. Because it’ll let him burn Shadows, sure, but mostly because Ryuji’ll think it looks sick. It’s exactly the type of cheesy over-the-top cool garbage he loves. God, Akira’s gonna miss him so much.
Iwai pauses, halfway through prepping the gun. “Hey.” His voice is low and soft.
“Hmm?” Akira blinks, and realizes his eyes are watering. The mask is slipping.
Iwai doesn’t point it out. “You know, if you’re ever in some kind of trouble,” he says, “you should let me know.”
“Sure.” He wants to say more, something snippy about yakuza connections or the old man reliving his glory days, something that’ll earn him a half-hidden smile and a chuckle, but he can’t.
Iwai sets the gun down. “I’ve seen that look before. On men who think they’re about to die.”
Mask on. “Exams are coming up.”
This doesn’t earn him a smile and change of topic. Iwai glares at him. “Cut the bullshit.”
Akira shakes his head, says, “There’s nothing you can do.”
“You could let me try, dammit!” The shout is sudden and unexpected as a gunshot. Iwai slams his fist against the counter, and Akira almost flinches. “You know what I can do,” he continues, barely below a shout, “you know what kind of connections I’ve got, and you don’t think I can do anything?”
It reminds him of Ryuji. The outrage, anger at the situation, at the world, at his own helplessness. Usually Iwai’s much cooler. Maybe Iwai was like Ryuji when he was younger. Maybe Ryuji’ll be like Iwai someday, when he figures out how to stop being helpless.
Akira won’t know.
He takes a breath, adjusts his glasses, doesn’t look Iwai in the eye. He can’t - he doesn’t want to - let it go. But he can feel his face betraying him, and his mask is only figurative.
He starts gathering his purchases. “I should go.”
When he reaches for the shotgun, Iwai grabs his wrist. He’s not sure how that happened, he should’ve been able to dodge him easily, but it did and Iwai’s grip is like iron and when Akira glances up his eyes burn.
“Why do I get the feeling that if you walk out that door you ain’t ever coming back?”
Akira closes his eyes, breathes, thinks. He needs his mask. If this was Yoshida, he’d say something about the future. Chihaya, something about his fate. Hifumi, something about sacrificing a piece to win the game. He knows those masks well.
All he can think to tell Iwai is the truth.
“You can’t help,” he repeats, looking down at the counter.
“What the hell are you thinking?” His voice goes oddly quiet. At the same time, his grip tightens, and Akira wonders if he’s going to snap his wrist to stop him. It’s a wild thought, and part of him wishes it were true. Part of him wants Iwai to stop him, to care so much about him that he won’t let him do this, to force him to stay.
He locks that bit away and says, “There’s no other way.”
Iwai holds him there for a few seconds more. “Dammit.” He releases Akira’s wrist and takes a step back, breathing deep. “You can be a real pain in the ass, you know that?”
Akira smiles at that. “So I’ve heard.”
“Oh, fuck off.” Iwai chews the lollipop stick and regards Akira with a calculating stare. “So you need model guns and body armor. Fine. What else?”
Akira frowns.
“Extra manpower?” Iwai crosses his arms, more serious than Akira’s ever seen him. “A driver? Safe house? Gonna need to dump something?”
Focus. “None of that. We’ve got a plan.”
“A good one?”
“It’s the best we can manage.”
“Fuck.” Iwai spits out the ragged paper stick of his lollipop, pulls a fresh one from his pocket, pops it into place. “You and your little friends pulled off a couple scores, got cocky, and now you’re walking into a death trap.” He keeps going before Akira can deny it. “Pissed off the wrong people? Or did you get big ideas because you faced off with a real live yakuza, now you think you can take on anything?”
He can’t really say he’s surprised. Just wonders how long he’s known. But there’s no point in hiding it. “We have a traitor in our midst.”
Iwai’s eyes blaze.
“He’s setting us up. We’re ready for it.”
“You don’t look ready. You look scared.”
He shouldn’t. Scared isn’t part of the mask. Scared isn’t something Iwai wants to see. Scared doesn’t get him what he’s here for. “There’s a risk,” he says, trying to remember how to not look scared, “but isn’t there always?”
Iwai lets out a long breath. “But you won’t let me help.”
“You are helping.” Akira reaches out and taps on the shotgun. “With these.”
At this, Iwai takes a step back. “Kid, tell me you’re not trying to use these things against somebody who’s actually dangerous. They’re toys.”
“They’re real enough.” Akira smirks. There he is, there’s the mask. A little arrogant, a little condescending. “It’s about the cognition.”
“Huh?”
Akira waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. The point is, they look real, and that’s what we need.”
He’s giving Iwai an out. He’s expecting a huff of disapproval and something about being headstrong and a gruff “Good luck.” Instead, Iwai lays a hand on the shotgun and pulls it back slightly, away from Akira. “Who is it?”
“What?”
“Who’s your traitor? What’s his name.”
This isn’t part of their deal. Iwai stares at Akira with ice cold eyes, and he’s got no doubt what Iwai plans to do with that information if Akira doesn’t come back.
Something wicked inside him wants to tell. Something relishes the idea that if he doesn’t make it back, that Akechi wouldn’t live to see next year. But… “You have a son,” he says, burying that thought. “What would happen to Kaoru? If you got caught up in something?”
“You don’t know me half as well as I thought if you think I’d let somebody get away with hurting you.”
That strikes something. Akira feels it, a dull impact like a bullet against body armor. Iwai’s not talking to him. He’s talking to the mask. If Iwai… cares, he cares about that person. Not Akira. Akira’s someone else. But it’s Akira who feels those words in his chest, though, who wants so desperately for them to mean something they don’t.
And it’s Akira who says, “Goro Akechi.”
Iwai frowns, for a moment. Then recognition dawns, and he laughs. “No shit. That fuckin’ detective kid? Figures. Always had a bad feeling about that one.”
“Promise me that you won’t do anything stupid.”
Iwai huffed. “Sounds like you’re trying to make a deal, kid.” He leaned forward across the counter, and he was so close Akira could practically feel his stubble. “I’ll make that promise, but you gotta do something for me.”
Of course. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked. “What do you want?”
Iwai brushes his bangs aside and suddenly he’s looking right into Akira’s eyes, through the glasses, though the mask, at Akira. “The same promise.”
It’s -
Fuck.
It’s sharp.
Akira looks straight back out and says, “Yeah.”
Iwai nods somberly. Then he leans back and lets Akira’s hair fall back into place and lets the mask slip on and huffs a laugh. “Alright. Can’t be losing my part-timer. It’d be a real pain in the ass to get a new one.”
Akira smirks. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The rest of the transaction is normal again, mask to mask. Iwai finishes putting Ryuji’s lame decals on the shotgun, swaps out the barrel on a pistol for Makoto to something more accurate, fixes up a grenade launcher so it’ll fire up fewer shots but cause a bigger bang. He switches the stock, too, to something with a pretty little silver filigree pattern, without being asked. By the end of it Akira’s got a small arsenal and a pile of armor. He hands over an amount of yen that he knows doesn’t even cover parts on this stuff and Iwai doesn’t even count it, just shoves it into the register.
“If you think of anything else you might need,” he says, settling onto his stool, “let me know. Can always open up the shop and make you work it off later.”
Akira surveys his purchases and grins. “I think I’ve got it.”
Iwai nods. He’s picked up his magazine again. Casually, he asks, “When’s the next time you think you’ll be around to help out? Got some stuff in the works.”
Akira thinks. Translates. The mask says, “I’ve got plans at the end of this week.”
Iwai nods again, and Akira pretends he doesn’t notice the way he tenses up. “Alright. I’ll see you next week.”
Akira dies.
It works.
It takes him a couple days to get his head back together, recover from the drugs and the beating. But he’s safely dead, just as planned. He gets several frantic texts asking if it’s true and reassures those confidants that he’s okay.
Iwai is among them. He doesn’t ask if Akira’s okay or what happened. He just sends, Plenty of work waiting for you here. Which, for Iwai, might as well have been a sonnet. Akira smiles at his phone. Then it twists into a smirk as he slips it into his pocket without responding.
He doesn’t leave Iwai hanging too long, though. That afternoon, as soon as he can, he throws up his hood and hops on the subway.
When he walks into Untouchable, something’s different. He glances around before it registers that it’s Iwai himself. The old man’s usually lounging behind the counter looking lazy, but today - today his eyes had been fixed on the door, and Akira’s barely through it before he’s coming around the counter at him. It’s so fast that Akira almost dodges reflexively, but he stops himself and lets Iwai pull him into a strong, warm hug.
“Goddammit,” Iwai says, squeezing Akira so tight it hurts, “about fucking time you showed up.”
Akira closes his eyes, takes as deep a breath as he can manage. Iwai smells like gunpowder and candy. It’s a disgusting combination, and Akira loves it. “Did you miss me?”
Iwai laughs and pulls away, holding Akira by the shoulders at arm’s length and inspecting him. “You kidding me? I’d never find another part-timer to work for what I pay you.”
“Oh, should I be getting more from you?”
Iwai doesn’t appear to hear this, because he’s staring. He reaches up and passes a thumb across the yellowing bruise on Akira’s cheek. Frowning, he flips back the hoodie to let the light down on Akira’s face and reveal all his half-healed wounds.
“Shit,” Iwai mutters. “You seen a doctor? I know a couple. Discreet.” He grabs Akira by the chin and lifts it, turning his head back and forth to see the extent of his injuries. Akira wonders if he notices the shiver that goes down his spine.
“I’m fine.” Makoto and Ryuji had dragged him to Takemi’s clinic, where she’d examined him and declared that nothing was broken and prescribed bed rest and painkillers, both of which Akira had neglected. “I was arrested.” Iwai’s eyes darken; Akira thinks this means he understands. “But now Akechi and the police think I’m dead, and that we’ve disbanded. He thinks he’s won.”
“Hmm. That’s a damn good place to be.” Iwai crosses his arms and looks down at Akira, tapping a finger on his arm. “As long as you know how to use it.”
Akira smiles, toothy and slim. “We’ve got a plan.”
“Sheesh.” Iwai shakes his head. “Maybe try one that keeps you outta custody.” He sighs deep. “You here to work or shop?”
For a moment, Akira’s not sure how to answer, because the answer is “neither.” He came to see Iwai. He came to tell Iwai he was alive, he came to be alive with Iwai because no one else made his heart race and his body ache like Iwai, no one else made him want to be so alive and physical -
He’s not wearing his mask.
“Thought you said you had work for me,” he says instead, coloring it with a smirk that he hopes hides the shiver. He’s been without his mask this whole time, fumbles for it. “Or was that just an excuse?” Mask on. Cocky, irreverent, flirty, never serious.
Iwai’s supposed to respond in kind. He’s supposed to scoff at the idea and send Akira to the back to do some inventory bullshit. He’s not supposed to look him dead in the eyes and say, “Yeah, it was.”
“Hah.” Akira raises a hand to brush the hair away from his face and tries to stop it from shaking. “Worried about me? Didn’t know you were so soft.”
Iwai’s not taking the hint. “You got arrested and, based on the state of that pretty face of yours, went through some rough questioning. Faked your death. Got betrayed. That’s a busy week.”
Akira lets out a slow breath. “You think I’m pretty?”
Iwai rolls his eyes, and for a moment Akira thinks he’s managed it, managed to put the wall up, managed to hide. But he’s wrong. “It sounds like you’ve gone through hell, kid. I know how that shit can affect a man.”
“I’ll heal.”
“Not talkin’ about this.” Iwai pokes one of the bruises on Akira’s face for some goddamn reason. It hurts; Akira flinches and hisses, and Iwai laughs. “That’ll be gone in a week. Lucky break, there. Cops ain’t always so gentle.” He pauses. Akira imagines he can see him holding back from touching him again, brushing his hair out of his face or hugging him or pulling him close.
“Tsuda was a friend,” Iwai says at last. He tugs on the brim of his hat. “A good friend. I trusted him, back in the day. And, well, you saw how that turned out. But he was hardly the first.” Iwai takes a breath, shoves his hands in his pockets. “What I’m getting at is, I been in a real similar position to the one you’re in right now. It’s rough.”
Akira can’t speak. He can’t find his mask.
Iwai looks him dead in the eye. “You were hoping, weren’t you?” he says quietly. “Till the last second.”
The mask shatters.
Akira sways.
Iwai grabs him, but he’s got his feet again, shakes his head, pushes him away. Iwai won’t go. He keeps an arm around his shoulder and pulls him through the shop, through to the back room with its shitty worn-out couch, sits them both down. Holds Akira while he grabs his head and struggles to breathe.
“I always knew,” Akira finally manages to say. His voice is so weak. “Never trusted him to start with.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re too smart for some slimy little shit like him to pull one over on ya.”
“Never trusted him,” Akira repeats. “Knew him too well for that. So why…”
He can’t articulate it, but somehow Iwai can. “It still hurts because you hoped, kid. You hoped he’d surprise you, you hoped you’d be wrong. You hoped it was all a misunderstanding and you’d be able to laugh about it and tell him your whole plan over drinks. Because you didn’t trust him, but I bet you believed in him.”
Akira laughs, and pretends there are no tears on his face. “When did you become my therapist?”
“Eh.” Iwai pulls the bare lollipop stick from his lips, examines it contemplatively. “You can’t talk to your teammates about it. Because you gotta be strong. Can’t let them doubt ya.” He flicks the stick away, to collect dust in some crevice until the next time he makes Akira clean this place. “And you probably don’t have many other options for folks who’ve been there. So I figure it’s me or that noisy cat.”
Akira laughs, and he knows he can’t possibly explain why. “The cat’s a good listener.”
“Fine. Go talk to it.” He rests a hand on Akira’s back, heavy and warm. “I can find something else to do with my time.”
Akira closes his eyes and breathes, focuses on the sensation of Iwai’s hand. It’s solid, real, alive. He wants more, god, he wants more, but he knows he can’t have it. Iwai’s too good to let him. Akira’d get a firm but gentle rejection and a lingering shame.
(He wonders if Iwai would let him have something, if he explains that he’d be dead in a week and never even had a real kiss. He thinks he would.)
(He wonders about a mask.)
(He wonders.)
He turns, because his mask is gone, because he could be dead in a week, because what’s left of him doesn’t want to regret, he turns and stretches up and kisses him.
And maybe Iwai’s not so good, because Iwai lets him.
He does more than that, he pulls him into his lap, one hand supporting the small of his back and the other tangling in his hair. His lips taste like candy, sticky and sweet, and that oral fixation might be coming into play because he parts his lips and takes Akira in with a growl that rushes through his veins.
But when Akira stops for breath, Iwai pulls back. He still holds Akira in his lap, still strokes his back, but he’s looking at him with something more like concern than hunger.
“Hey,” he says. “Don’t do something you’re gonna regret.”
Akira searches his eyes, tries to find it, what to say next. “I won’t.”
Iwai pats him on the shoulder. “I told you, kid. I’ve been here. And I’ve made some choices I wish I hadn’t.” He gently lifts Akira’s chin with one finger. “I don’t wanna be your bad decision.”
“I’ve made way worse decisions than this.”
Iwai chuckles, and Akira smirks. It’s so easy to be what Iwai wants. It’s almost like being himself.
Iwai lets him kiss him again.
Iwai kisses him back.
“Really? Well, there’s no accounting for taste.” Morgana curls his tail around himself, layering it neatly on his paws. “He’s gonna give you a bigger discount now, right? Or better mods? Oooh, maybe he keeps the good stuff in the back!”
Akira lies on his bed, hands behind his head, smiling at the plastic stars that dot his ceiling. He’s thinking of a gruff laugh and the feel of stubble and sunlight on his skin for the first time in what feels like forever. Morgana will figure it out eventually.