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Sir Junya Kaneshiro, the money-devouring sinner of gluttony. 

You indulge in scamming others with horrendous methods that target minors exclusively. 

We have decided to reveal your crimes to society and show them your true form. 

We will take your distorted desires without fail. 

From, the Phantom Thieves of Hearts

Goro stares at the extravagant display of colours, splashed across one of the largest walls of Shibuya Station as an obnoxious and attention-grabbing piece of graffiti. The declaration against Kaneshiro is sprayed in bold, black strokes, with red accents rounding the edges, making it sharp and pop out from the light brown of the wall. Right beside that is a large graffiti of the signature Phantom Thieves logo, flaming top hat and all, alongside a website link that is sure to lead to another pile of indisputable evidence against Kaneshiro. The artwork is signed off by the usual suspects; Joker, Skull, Panther, Fox, Queen, Oracle, Noir, Mona. Masks of unique designs are tackled next to each name, with Mona’s being a cartoonish doodle of a cat. 

The graffiti is already attracting a large crowd despite the early hours — not even the stifling morning mood that usually surrounds Tokyo at this time can stop the curiosity of passersby and commuters from gathering around such a flashy and unexpected display of art. Goro holds back a sigh as he thinks of the amount of paperwork he will have to do after this. The telltale clicks of Sae’s heels against the concrete floor signal her arrival to Goro as she stops beside him.

“Another one, huh,” she says tonelessly, her eyes wandering across the graffiti. 

“Yeah.” This time, he lets out the sigh. “They’re getting bolder.”

Sae crosses her arms, a pensive expression on her face as she pulls out her phone. “We’ve got another one, bring some people to border off the area for investigations.”

Goro knows they are unlikely to find anything conclusive at the scene again, because these Phantom Thieves are slippery and, unfortunately for the police, they know what they are doing. Security footage is wiped clean every time, no eyewitnesses, always done in the dead of night. There’s no rhyme or rhythm to their targets, save that they are always criminals with a large influence. 

The Phantom Thieves of Hearts are gaining traction, and Shido, the beloved Superintendent General of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department and beloved bastard of a father, is bound to come after him for results and a burning need to catch the thieves. He should expect a call from him soon, at this rate. How lovely.

As Sae continues her conversation with the police department, she shoots Goro a look with a raised eyebrow that clearly says do something about this . Goro gives her a Pleasant Smile and sets off towards the crowd to do his “job”. 

(If you asked him, he’s not being paid enough for this. Frankly, he’s being paid in peanuts. He’s basically doing free labour. Why is he here again? Oh, right. Shido.)

“Sorry, all, please stop crowding near the scene! We will be carrying out an investigation here,” Goro yells over the chattering throng of people in the most polite tone he could muster. God, if one of them decides to ask him for a photograph he's going to punch the wall. He still hasn't finished the investigation on Madarame and now he has to deal with this, because of course. 

Ain't no rest for the wicked, he supposes.

The curtain rises; a slow and steady crescendo that rises with the baton. The players are in their places and the audience waits with bated breath. 

The show has begun.

“Tell us, Akechi-kun, what are your thoughts on the most recent case on the Phantom Thieves of Hearts?” Leaning forward on her seat, the host’s eyes shine with interest as she awaits a response. 

Akechi Goro, Tokyo’s darling detective prince and youngest representative of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, gives her a faint smile, tinted with just the right amount of regret and judgment reserved for a bunch of criminals. He bends forward, eyes sweeping across the audience from beyond the screen with an aura that commands their full attention, beckoning them to listen closely. “While I am aware of the recent rise in popularity of the Phantom Thieves, I am hesitant to support them. Not only have they gone the route of being vigilantes, but they have also done this through vandalising Tokyo’s public property.” 

A light laugh escapes him and he covers his mouth with a delicate gloved hand. “I can’t say I know much about art, but I can admit that these people sure know how to make a splash. Graffiti art right outside of Shibuya Station…” He shakes his head. “Very bold of them indeed.”

Here, he laces his fingers together, his expression serious and sombre. “Of course, I must remind you all that whatever the Phantom Thieves of Hearts are doing, it’s very illegal. Destroying public property, illegally obtaining private information and leaking it to the public; the group has broken quite a number of laws in the name of justice.”

“Are you saying that you don't agree with their brand of justice, then?”

“Regardless of their good intentions, we have to also consider the possibility of them using their abilities for something less than desirable. What if they decided to go after someone that’s not as guilty as their previous targets? What if they leak something more harmful? These are all things that may occur if the Phantom Thieves are not caught. That’s why we have to rely on the law for situations like this —”

“Mreow!” A paw claws at his feet, catching onto the ends of his jeans and breaking his concentration away from the small blaring television. Akira sighs. “Yes, Morgana, I’ve got your lunch coming in a bit.” The cat only meows louder, head cocked to one side in a questioning gaze. “Yes, it's your reward lunch after last night's job well done.”

“Man, Mona’s really got you wrapped up in his little paws,” Ryuji comments, hands splayed out behind his back as he crosses his legs on the cafe seats. “Anyways, you gotta stop watching that Akechi dude sprout his bullshit on TV! All he does is criticise us.” 

Ann’s ponytails bob along with her head, nodding. “Yeah, and he didn't even answer that last question at all.”

A cackle erupts from Futaba. “Just because you think he's cute doesn't mean you should listen to all his interviews, Akira.”

Akira shuffles towards the fridge, where he’s stored the fatty tuna he bought the night before. The distraction cat does deserve a good plate of fatty tuna after last night's close call. “I just think he's… fascinating, that's all.”

Futaba only snickers. “Fascinatingly cute, that is. Akechi Goro is the adopted son of Shido Masayoshi, literally the biggest boss in the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department because he’s the freakin’ Superintendent General. He is also part of the team that is assigned to catch the Phantom Thieves and is probably the one closest to finding us out, and you think he’s fascinating.” She turns away from her laptop for a moment, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You have terrible taste in men, you adrenaline junkie.”

The plate of tuna clinks against the cafe countertop as Akira sets it down for a waiting Morgana. The cat immediately goes in for it, devouring the fish with no hesitation. He really is spoiling him, isn’t he.

“I can’t deny the adrenaline junkie part, but I will deny the terrible taste part. I have excellent taste, thank you very much.”

Eyebrows are rising across the group. Ann looks especially skeptical, which is fair because she’s the one he tends to go to for advice regarding said definitely not terrible men. Fine. 

“Dude from the ice cream part-time job that broke your heart in a week,” Futaba starts off in a deadpan, sticking out a finger, “dude from your first uni course who cheated on you,” she counts another finger, “for some reason, that anonymous LOKI dude whose art you’ve been obsessing over for years —”

Akira coughs. “ Anyways, we’re not here to talk about my taste in anyone, we’re here to discuss our celebration plans and our next target along with possible locations.”

A few snickers sound across the cafe, but much to Akira’s relief, Makoto surveys them all with a strict glare that quietens the rowdy group. The power of the Queen. “Let’s get on task — Boss isn’t lending us the place for long.”

The Phantom Thieves all look towards Akira, waiting on their leader to guide them on their next step, and Akira feels a sense of pride and gratefulness well within him. They’ve all come so far; both as individuals and together as a team. They’ve learnt to trust and work together and the fact that they are all willing to continue doing this dangerous job with Akira makes a grin stretch across his face as he observes the Phantom Thieves — his Phantom Thieves. 

“Let’s get to work.”

All our players have been introduced to the audience — a steady drumbeat plays in the orchestra pit and the bass enters. It thrums and tucks at the heartstrings, low but always present in the background.

There is a sense of anticipation amongst our audience tonight, for our two main players are sure to meet very soon.

There is a thin breeze accompanying the chilly winter air as Goro hugs his coat closer to himself. He’s been feeling rather restless lately amidst all the Phantom Thieves action, university classes, ramped up television interviews and the increased pressure to solve the damn Phantom Thieves case. Bone tired, yes, but also aching for something familiar. 

His feet carry him to the entrance of a large tunnel, the very place where he first stepped foot into the graffiti world as LOKI. Near the end of the tunnel is graffiti of a large, striped humanoid creature, balancing delicately on top of a flaming sword with its large hooves. Its claws stretch out towards the viewer, as though inviting them on a journey to sow chaos as far as the eye can see. Two horns adorn its tilted head, and its pitch black eyes are piercing, a mischievous yet ominous air dwelling within the creature with an edged smile. Signed off at the corner of the piece is LOKI in all caps, with two striped horns on top of the O. It had felt appropriate at the time, naming this creature as the God of Mischief. 

There is a bit of himself in that image of Loki as well; an inherent need to let loose somewhere and rip off the suffocating tight skin of the charming Detective Prince. He still doesn’t know what possessed him that night to pick up the abandoned spray paint cans in the corner and draw out Loki. Maybe it had been the stress of the university entrance exams at the time, or the double interviews that Shido had so kindly scheduled for him that day, or the absolute unfortunate situation where his favourite hideaway cafe had been discovered by another horde of fans. Either way, there had been some indescribable feeling in his chest and a voice in his head demanding he does something — for himself and for no one else. 

Wandering to that tunnel had been chance, and finding those abandoned spray cans that still had paint in them was luck. Loki was the result of a need to break free and the frustration that had been welling up in him, a burst of energy and roar of anger. 

It was liberating. 

LOKI continues his rampage over Tokyo as Goro picks up spare cans of paint with cash and a gas mask that neatly covers the bottom half of his face. He figures that if he is going to do this in the long run, he may as well at the very least keep his lungs intact. Perhaps it is Goro’s way of rebelling against the society that once so despised him and threw him into a constant need to falsify his image to the world. Regardless, Goro finds it as a form of stress-relief, particularly good during times when he ran out of Shido’s yachts to vandalise crude images on. It is especially fun when Goro wakes up to find Shido pissed and irritated at how every single one of LOKI’s works puts his associates in a bad spotlight. What a pity how the police department somehow never gets close to catching LOKI despite his years of operation. 

Dragging himself out from the depths of his past, Goro sees a lone figure standing near the graffiti of Loki, hands in the pockets of their dark hooded jacket. The hood is pulled up, obscuring the face of the figure, but as Goro moves closer, he notices a mask on their face. A very familiar mask. 

“Joker.” 

The hooded figure just barely tenses before relaxing, turning to him. A white domino mask adorns his face, with dark curls just spilling over the top of the mask.

“Akechi Goro.” Joker’s voice is surprisingly deep and low, sending a shiver up Goro’s spine. 

Goro can almost hear it — the ritardando of the tempo, the violin solo that lingers on a single note as the player drags their bow across the strings in the slowest way possible. A point in the piece where it’s almost hard to breathe.

Both of them lock eyes with the other, the unspoken tension in the air thick and heavy. Joker’s grey eyes seem to look straight at his soul, sharp and piercing. Dangerous. Goro knows that he can’t capture him now; his handcuffs are back at the office, and he’s not particularly equipped to win a fight against a Phantom Thief who’s been successfully eluding the police for several months, especially with the large likelihood that he did not come alone. 

Joker seems to know this, and he breaks the silence with a shift of the body and light scuffing of his sneakers against the concrete floor, turning back to the graffiti of Loki with an air of nonchalance. “LOKI’s been in the graffiti art scene for years, detective. Or is it that you can’t even catch a single person who’s been eluding you for so long?” A confident but challenging smirk from the masked figure, the top of his hood and the bulk of his white domino mask casting a shadow across his face. 

A scoff escapes Goro. LOKI has only “escaped” the police for so long because he is the police. “LOKI’s an urban legend by now. He may have been started by a single person but at this point, people like to use his name for clout.” They both know he’s lying. LOKI’s pieces, scattered throughout the city as bits of Goro’s own soul and feelings that he could never express otherwise, were scarce and rare nowadays, thanks to the piling amount of work from both his university and workplace. There is no movement or gathering of people, just a far admiration of the work from the public, unlike how the Phantom Thieves are amassing followers at a rapid rate.

Joker is silent for a moment. He stares at the image of Loki again, as though pondering something. “Maybe,” he says, playing along. “But LOKI's pieces are truly something, huh.” His tone carries a sort of heaviness that Goro cannot decipher the meaning of, and he hastily changes the subject before Joker can get any further — he's not eager to hear what Joker thinks about LOKI.

“So, what brings you here, Joker?” 

“I could ask you the same, detective.” 

A sly smile curls around his mouth. It’s clear that Joker is deflecting the question, but Goro answers him nonetheless. “Just out for a walk to clear my head. I have the Phantom Thieves to thank for my increased workload and stress level.”

“Near midnight?”

Goro shrugs. “I got off work late.” And it’s true too. With exam season coming up, his classes have been ramping up. Getting out of his classes late means that he gets to work even later, and it certainly does not help that Sae gives him a displeased look every time he walks into the precinct looking like he needs ten cups of coffee just to function properly. She always chides him for not taking any breaks, but the fact remains that Goro doesn’t know a stop sign when he sees one. 

Joker hums. “Hard at work taking out criminals from the streets of Tokyo, I see.”

“But not the criminals that you guys are targeting,” Goro says, voicing out the unsaid. 

The ever-present smile on Joker’s face only grows. “No. The police are limited in their power after all. They’re all susceptible to wonderful things like corruption and bribery. The Phantom Thieves are not.” The faint streetlights in the background just barely illuminate his silhouette, and for a moment, Goro thinks Joker is untouchable, almost otherworldly. His mask appears to glow white against the contrast of his dark clothes, only adding to that image. 

And then Joker sighs, and the moment is over. “It looks like we’d have to cut our conversation short, detective.” With that, he smirks at Goro, giving him a mock two-fingered salute as he starts to casually walk out the tunnel away from Goro. “Maybe we’ll meet again.”

“Wait —” 

A shrill cry sounds out behind him, and Goro whips around on instinct towards the source. He doesn’t see anyone, but the voice cries out again, distinctly female. “Help, detective!”

Detective?  But at this distance, no one should be able to easily recognise him — 

Coming to a startling realisation, Goro turns his head back to where Joker had been standing; the area in front of Loki is empty, with no traces of Joker being there in the first place. 

“Fuck.” In a last-ditch attempt to identify the Phantom Thief that has so kindly duped him, he dashes towards the source of the voice, only to catch a glimpse of a figure with voluminous blonde hair and a dark red leather jacket rounding a corner, too far away for him to give chase. 

“Fuck. ” Goro hisses as he kicks a stray discarded soda can in irritation, clicking his tongue. It clangs loudly, the metallic noises echoing harshly in the now-empty tunnel. 

God, he needs a drink.

Every piece has an interlude, and this piece is no different. An interlude leads the audience to the next part, a push that brings them down from the previous climax for just a moment, before gently nudging them to the next crescendo. 

Even as the brass toot out their humorous tones, they soon settle down for the sombre interlude. A touch of false peace, the calm before the storm.

worm luv haechan • @wormsquirmluvr • 3m

have yall seen the news about okumura?? fuckin deserved i think! 

 

arcee thee stallion • @kfcwebsite • 7m

i always knew okumura was kinda sus ! hope his ass rots in jail <3

 

#OKUMURAISOVERPARTY • @hakubatime • 1m

guys. the big bad okumura is gone now. obviously we know who should be NEXT! 

 

oikawa enthusiast (derogatory) • @iwaizvmihajime • 16m

psssssttt pt pt. heeey phantom thieves. ya know who would be a good target? slimy shido!

 

Hana • @hanariaaa •11m

lol police cant do shit about the pt useless fucks

Much to Goro’s delight, Twitter is an absolute shitstorm the moment the Phantom Thieves’ new calling card hit the news. Okumura is one of Shido’s most powerful allies, and Goro knows this because Shido likes to spend his time pandering to Okumura’s requests even though he’s overheard a handful of rants about him from one of the plentiful bugs he’s planted on Shido’s work desk. Now that Okumura is effectively knocked down from his high perch with the public coming after him in mobs, monetary support for Shido’s little side project of becoming Prime Minister will surely be affected. 

His phone starts vibrating, ringing with the Zylam army theme from Featherman R. Ah, speak of the devil. 

“Yes, Shido-san?”

“This fiasco has gone on long enough. Take care of the Phantom Thieves.” Shido’s tone, while calm on the surface, has a layer of cold fury buried underneath. Goro’s dealt with this enough times for him to tell. This time, there’s an extra hint of disappointment in his voice. “You have until the end of the month.” 

The “or there will be consequences” line is left unsaid but both of them know that it’s being implied. 

His apartment. His job. His university. All under the ruling fist of Shido Masayoshi, given and taken as easily as he breathes.

“Of course, Shido-san. Thank you, Shido-san.” The words leave a sour taste in his mouth, but he shoves it out nonetheless, eager to end the conversation.

The line goes dead with a click, leaving Goro in the silence of his room to ponder over his options.

One is to continue chasing around the Phantom Thieves for Shido; play the game of the obedient son, maintain the charade for a while longer. The other is, in his honest opinion, a far more appealing option to pursue. 

Goro gives a cursory glance over at the scattered case files on his desk again, takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee, and starts looking over his files again. 

The interlude gives way to another crescendo; this time, the violins return, continuing the low tones of the ominous interlude.

“The place is yours for the afternoon. Don’t make too much of a mess,” Sojiro chides, the cafe door half-open as he flips the sign from open to closed. 

“Don’t worry boss! We’ll order plenty of drinks for Akira to serve too!” Ann chirps. 

Akira plays it up with a dramatic sigh, flopping onto the countertop. “Ah, the work that is ahead of me… Too much… Endless…” 

Sojiro only rolls his eyes, a fond smile just peeking out. “Have fun, kids, but not too much fun.” With a final pointed look at the distraction cat (who had very accidentally spilt a cup of coffee on the counter that Akira had to clean up just minutes ago), he leaves the cafe, the bell chiming softly with his departure.

Ryuji snickers at Akira. “Way to go, drama queen. I want a soda by the way.”

Straightening himself up, Akira sighs again as he reaches over a top shelf, fishing for tall glass cups meant for holding cold drinks. He’s sure he washed them just this morning, did he put them somewhere else? 

The bell chimes again and Akira turns towards the door. “Sojiro, did you forget so—”

Akechi Goro stands at the entrance as the door behind him closes, prim and proper while he adjusts his scarf, sharp maroon eyes surveying the group in a sweeping motion. The previous bustling conversations the group was wrapped in stops abruptly. Akira thinks he can hear his own heartbeat, wildly beating away in his ribcage as though desperate to escape.

“Sorry, Leblanc is closed. Did you not see the sign?” Haru’s all smiles and polite words, even though her tone is ice cold. 

Akechi returns her smile with a matching one, knives and sharp edges lurking underneath. “I apologise, but I do believe that I have a meeting with a staff member of this establishment.” His gaze wanders over to Akira, lingering at his dark curls. Akira runs a hand through his hair before he can stop himself, internally cringing when he realises how revealing this body language is. He can’t afford to let down his guard.

(There’s a voice whispering in his head he knows he knows he knows but Akira shoves down his panic for now. Focus.)

“I don’t think we’ve met before?” A tilt of the head, an image of confusion. Innocent until proven guilty, he likes to tell himself. 

The lone detective continues to smile as though the entire cafe is not hostile to his presence. The other Phantom Thieves are hanging onto their every word, eyes glued to the two but none of them daring to interrupt. 

“Perhaps.” The edges of Akechi’s lips quirk higher. “Or maybe you recall a tunnel at night?”

There’s no mistaking how the whole room stiffens. The tension is almost suffocating now; even Morgana is silent, staring at Akechi with his uncanny blue eyes. Akechi’s smile turns shark-like; a predator who has caught onto the scent of its prey. Dangerous.

The gig is up and the previous hope that Akechi hasn’t pieced it all together is dashed with that one line.

Akira exhales deeply through his nose, hands settling themselves in his pockets out of nervous habit. He has to get rid of his tells, somehow. “What do you want?”

The reactions from the Phantom Thieves are immediate as the cafe bursts into protests. “What are you doing, Akira? You don’t have ta answer to this rude asshole!” Ryuji says, brows furrowed as a frown settles on his face, a clear look of distaste. 

Makoto is quiet. “There’s already no point denying it.”

“Yeah,” Akira says. He carefully keeps his expression neutral as he addresses Akechi. “You came willingly into a place where you’d know we would all be gathering. That means you already know enough about our identities to figure out that we’d be here.” 

Gesturing at the door, he continues. “But you came alone, with no intention to arrest us even though you’ve probably already gotten enough evidence to prove our identities. That means you have evidence to blackmail us and want us to do something for you.”

Akechi lets out a sudden laugh, the sound rough yet somehow melodic, a different sort compared to the polite and little giggles he does in interviews. It sends a shiver down his spine — whether in a pleasant way or not, Akira cannot tell. “You are something , aren’t you, Joker.”

“You're right.” Akechi leans against the wall beside the door, arms crossed over his chest. “Okumura Haru. Sakura Futaba. Niijima Makoto. Kitagawa Yusuke. Sakamoto Ryuji. Takamaki Ann.” With each name, Akechi's maroon eyes bore into each member of the Phantom Thieves, meeting their glares with frustrating neutrality. 

“Kurusu Akira.” His name rolls off Akechi's tongue smoothly. Akira doesn't know how to feel about the way he says it. Akechi Goro’s eyes are a striking dark crimson, a sea of calm that somehow promises destruction in its wake. An image of Loki’s jagged red teeth, for some reason, bubbles up in his mind, but Akira pushes it aside. 

Akechi’s gaze drifts away from Akira, his posture relaxed as he reaches into the insides of his tan peacoat to pull out a single photograph. 

“This is my request.”

Shido Masayoshi’s star-studded smile shines back at Akira, eyes crinkled to charm the crowds of reporters holding various microphones. The photo dangles from Akechi’s pinched fingers in a way that makes Akira think he’s seconds away from tearing it apart, even though Akechi's expression is blank. 

“Your father?” Ann exclaims, incredulous. 

There's a stormy look that crosses over Akechi's face, but it's gone as soon as it comes. One blink and Akira will have missed it. 

“Shido Masayoshi may appear pristine perfect on the surface and is popular with the masses of Tokyo,” Akechi says, tucking the photo back into his peacoat, “but he deals in plenty of underhanded things, and continues to do so in order to maintain his position as Superintendent General.”

“How can we trust you? What if you’re lying so that you’ll have solid proof of us doing our stuff?” Makoto’s lips are pursed in thought. 

“You can’t trust me,” Akechi says frankly, shrugging, “and you’re right not to. But here is something that I will give you as a show of good faith of sorts.” A heavy manila folder is placed on the countertop and Akechi slides it over to Akira. 

The folder is hefty, and as he pours out its contents, bank statements stare back at him. Flipping through the pages and a few quick glances reveal what he has suspected: bribery and money sent to hundreds of people, ranging from high ranking politicians to officers, the bills dating all the way from a decade ago to the most recent one being only a week ago.

Eyes wide, Akira glances at Akechi. “This is…”

Akechi crosses his arms again, a more bitter expression emerging on his face. “Yes. This is one of the pieces of evidence that I had managed to get my hands on. Unfortunately for him, Shido isn’t particularly good at covering his tracks. I have more evidence, but it’s not enough to take down the Superintendent General. The Phantom Thieves have the skills and the ability to make enough noise that I don’t have.”

Akira doesn’t miss how Akechi addresses Shido by his surname instead of “Father” or some overly polite variation of it. It’s clearly a story that Akechi isn’t going to tell them anytime soon.

“This is my request: to take down Shido Masayoshi by the end of the month. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to bring you in.”

He points a finger at the manila folder. “My number is inside. Tell me your decision by today.”

With that, Akechi leaves, the bell ringing in the growing silence of the cafe.

Under the pondering looks from his teammates, the manila folder feels heavier than ever.

December 6th

Joker: We will take your request.

Akechi Goro: Thank you. I will be in contact.

Life is but a series of meetings, with different players in different settings. Every piece is the same way: different instruments in different notes, all with their varied parts. Even as the motion is put in reverse, there is always something recognisable that remains. First meetings; a repeat; a return to coda.

It’s suffocating. His condo, stuffed with items bought with Shido’s money, his books and university classes funded by Shido, overwhelming with its stark white walls and cold marble floors. The meeting earlier today with the Phantom Thieves did not help in the least bit either; it only serves as a reminder of his inability as an individual to take down the monster that is Shido. The message that Joker sent afterwards is a relief, that Goro will finally be able to break free from the chains of his father and take him down all in one swoop. 

(It has to work. If it doesn’t work, then Goro doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore.)

He gets up from his desk with a tired huff and moves towards his wardrobe on one wall, kneeling down on one knee so that he can reach towards the thin hidden sliding compartment on the bottom. 

Out comes a pile of neatly folded clothes: a black and white striped hoodie that he once bought on a whim that it reminded him of Loki despite making him look a bit like a zebra; a dark pair of loose but comfortable pair of camo pants; and a pair of tall combat boots. 

Goro gathers the items and suits up — the hoodie fits over him loosely, and the pants sag only a little. The boots are slightly bulky, but they’re practical in a way that allows him for a quick escape should he need it. The perfect outfit for an illegal graffiti artist, and nothing like what a charming detective prince would be caught wearing. Good thing he doesn’t get caught, then.

Inhale.

He escapes from his condo, taking a short detour across a few dark alleys to pick up his supplies — his small duffel bag containing his cans of spray paint and his gas mask that helpfully hides the bottom half of his face while protecting him from the toxic gases of the spray paint; the gas mask had been a little pricey, especially when he is saving up for his own apartment after Shido’s eventual downfall, but it was well worth the investment, considering that he is planning to do this for a long while. Or, at least as long as Shido continues to have his sticky little fingers on every aspect of his life. This is one thing Goro is determined to never let him touch.

Goro arrives at another dark and empty tunnel; this time smaller and a bit further away from the main streets that are sure to have wandering souls even at this time of the night. His anonymity is a precious thing that he is doubtful to sacrifice anytime soon. 

Staring at the empty wall, an inkling of his artwork and stress relief of the night starts to bloom in his mind. A few shakes of a can in his hand, its sound echoing across the tunnel, and the hiss and fizzle of the paint as he starts to spray the brick walls. 

It’s cathartic; the action of expressing something that he cannot put into words, an outlet of his anger and rage and frustration on the world.

Tonight, LOKI’s target is Shido Masayoshi. 

Shido, who has so kindly taken young Goro in after the unfortunate death of his mother.

Shido, who has so kindly given Goro a life, opportunities, a place in university, his own apartment, showering him with clothes and food and all the necessities of a growing child.

Shido, who has so kindly made sure Goro had no other avenues to run to, chaining him with the public image of being a picture-perfect detective prince, throwing him into the crowds and the relentless jaws of Tokyo society.

Shido, who has so kindly blackmailed his mother with images of her life as a sex worker and pushed her to her death, as Goro had soon found out.

Shido, whose rotting skull now forms under the harsh strokes of Goro’s paint, is tinted with the red blood of the people he has crushed under his feet. He will die under the watchful, judging eyes of Tokyo, as much as they want to avert them.

He will make Shido Masayoshi bleed.

Contacting Akechi through the burner phone Futaba gave him has left Akira feeling antsy for hours afterwards, and the feeling is still persisting, even as Morgana repeatedly pat him to go to sleep. The unwavering trust in him from his teammates somehow worsens this, because he can’t help but think what if he is making the wrong choice?

He brushes off Morgana’s increasingly aggressive paws (“Don’t worry, Morgana, I’ll be back in a bit.”), grabs a hoodie he left on his chair the night before and pauses right before the door. 

Hmm.

A turn of the heel leads him to his locked drawer near his desk, and he takes out his Phantom Thief mask. The whites of the plastic mask reflect the dim moonlight that pours from outside his window.

No harm in having a little fun tonight. 

A quick check of his inventory tells him that he only has one spray can of paint in red to last him one session; the rest are all low in paint, which means he has to shell out money to get new cans. Good thing the beef bowl store nearby is hiring. 

Akira shoves the singular can into his hoodie pocket and makes his way down to his destination for the night: a small tunnel that he's been eyeing for a while. It's far enough from the city that there won't be anyone nearby even at this time of the night, and if he's lucky, no one will be there — oh.

Aw man. 

There's a figure in a ridiculous zebra-like striped hoodie doing a piece, a gas mask covering the bottom half of their face. They seem to be engrossed in their graffiti, one hand casually placed in a pocket and the other brandishing a can of spray paint, not even noticing Akira's arrival. 

Their work is, at first glance, phenomenal: it's clear that the graffiti is of Shido Masayoshi's red and rotting skull with his flesh tearing in various places, the surrounding watchful eyes that raise goosebumps on his skin, but there's also something vaguely familiar about the art style that makes Akira want to tear his hair out in frustration. 

The person is signing the piece off, Akira notes, and —

It's LOKI. 

The man, the myth, the legend himself. 

Akira sucks in a deep breath and LOKI whirls around in alarm, startled by the sound. 

He’s cute is Akira’s first thought as his brain short circuits in the moment, taking in the hints of shaggy brown hair and freckles hidden underneath the shadow of his hood and the poor lighting. It’s clear that LOKI is very close to bolting; his legs are poised and ready to run, his face half-turned towards Akira to observe his next moves in a curious manner.

(Akira is more than a little thankful for his own impulsive decision to wear his Phantom Thief get-up out; he reckons that otherwise, LOKI would have been long gone by now.)

Akira finds that he has a thousand different things he wants to say to LOKI; that his art is stunning, that he’s admired his graffiti for years, that it gave him a goal to move towards. But words are failing him right now, and nothing seems to want to exit from his throat. 

He bites his lower lip. LOKI's maroon eyes continue to linger on him, expression in what is clearly a frown behind the gas mask. What if…

Taking out his singular can of spray paint in one swift motion, Akira gives it a firm shake and paints his phone number on the walls of the tunnel with little hesitation. He does it as fast as he can, knowing how LOKI is this close to leaving. He can feel LOKI's judgement from behind, and as he finishes, he turns around to see LOKI's eyebrows raised high in amusement. 

LOKI remains silent, so Akira does the talking; it’s time to go big and go home because there is no way that paint is coming off anytime soon. “Call me,” Akira mouths, his pinkie and his thumb sticking out to imitate a phone. Just to put the cherry on top, he winks to the further raising of LOKI's eyebrows and escapes the scene before his fanboy mind can do anything more embarrassing. 

(God, what is he thinking?)

He sprints the entire way back to the cafe, the wind blowing on his face as he dashes through the empty streets, adrenaline pumping in his veins as he replays the scene in his head repeatedly. Oh, he is such a fool. What reason will LOKI even have to contact him in the first place, Phantom Thief or not?

“Oh, Mona,” he wails dramatically to his irritated cat afterwards in his small apartment, burying his face in the soft fur, “I am such a fool! ” Morgana, the cruel creature, only bats at his arms with his slanted eyes in judgement.

(It still doesn’t change how his heart thuds rapidly at the mere possibility of LOKI calling him, and the simple hope of it happening slowly blooming.)

Fucking Joker. Of all the people he could have run into during his little trip tonight, it had to be Kurusu Akira, leader of the Phantom Thieves of Hearts. 

And for some fucking reason, Joker has decided that it is a good idea to spray paint his own personal number on the tunnel wall. 

The earlier adrenaline has faded away to something Goro can only describe as irritation and sheer disbelief at the foolish nature of Joker’s actions. Spray painting his own number. Goro very much wants to laugh.

His number. Goro, or more accurately, LOKI, has Joker’s number now. 

(His personal one too, since it doesn’t match the one that Kurusu used to contact Goro back, and Goro doubts that Kurusu has reason to own any more than one burner phone.)

His fingers are pressing each number on his dial screen before he can stop himself, and he saves the number as Kurusu Akira.

(What is he doing? He already has Kurusu’s burner phone number, he doesn’t need to save his personal one. 

No, he should call him tomorrow anyways. To berate him a little on the topic of privacy.

That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less.)

The next morning finds Goro sitting at his desk, glaring at the contact of Kurusu Akira. 

“Hi! Joker speaking!” Kurusu’s light tone crackles through the speakers. Goro has the strong urge to punch him. He can almost hear the smirk that is surely planted on Kurusu’s overconfident face. God. 

“Kurusu,” he grinds out, “could you kindly tell me why the fuck did you decide to spray your fucking number right next to one of LOKI’s works?” 

Kurusu just hums in response. “Detective! What a pleasant surprise!” Not pleasant at all, actually, Goro thinks. An absolute nightmare, that’s for sure.

“Your fucking number, Kurusu. All on display for literally anyone to see. What were you thinking?” He hisses through his teeth, anger bubbling up in waves as the words pour out before he can put a stopper on them. “Oh, I bet you weren’t,” Goro tackles on before Kurusu can put in some witty comeback. 

There is a moment of silence on the other end, and Goro has the brief thought of wondering whether he’s been too harsh on him, and Kurusu replies in a cold voice. “The number will be gone by tonight. Good day, detective.”

The line clicks and Goro is left to the dial tone ringing in his ears.

A sense of instant regret cuts through Goro; will this affect their work relationship? Unlikely, considering the spade he has over the Phantom Thieves, but still.

Goro doesn’t think pissing off Joker is a particularly good thing as Joker’s cold tone replays in his mind. He’ll write back an apology later, he decides, since diplomacy might be a better route in this situation. 

(That, and he didn’t like the way Kurusu flipped the switch; it’s almost disconcerting, but there’s a part of him that thrills at the fact that he was able to rile up his feathers like that.)

For now, Goro digs out a slightly dusty phone — he hasn’t used this one in a while, but the prepaid SIM card inside still has credits if he recalls correctly. A burner phone he bought a while back when he felt a bit more paranoid than usual, a period of time where he had his paints sent to another location, when the eyes on his back were staring more than usual.

It only takes him a few quick button presses to get the device up and running, and another few taps leads him to a messaging screen to a Joker.

LOKI: Hello, Joker. This is LOKI.

The piece reaches a more whimsical tune, high notes and short toots of the french horns weaving through the stable beats of the drum. A small change in mood that is sure to bring a smile to the audience’s faces.

Throughout Akira's shift in Leblanc, he keeps thinking back to Akechi's cutting words of oh, I bet you weren't thinking, tone mocking and he has the urge to snap the pen in his hands into two clean pieces. Asshole, Akira thinks, and his traitorous brain dials back to Akechi’s plush pink lips and his crimson eyes that shine like cutting jewels and his really nice looking eyelashes — 

Akira firmly imagines stuffing his brain into the blender, jamming his finger on the button, and then holding it there until his brain matter is mush. 

“‘Kira,” Futaba bursts into the cafe without warning, her head poking through the tiny gap she’s made between the door and the cafe space, “might want to check your phone.” A conspiratory grin dances across her face, and she pushes up her glasses with a “mwehehe” like a villain waiting to tell her enemy the greatest revelation ever. All she needs is a Morgana to complete the picture.

Shooting her a suspicious look, Akira slides his phone out from his pocket, the little light in the corner blinking a steady red indicating his notifications. Futaba has migrated from her spot near the door to right beside Akira, looking more and more like the Cheshire Cat. “Go on,” she gestures at the phone.

He very reluctantly unlocks his phone and scrolls through his messages. 

for REAL?: hey dude u up for a game later tonight

rah rah fashion baby: akechi has like. zero fashion sense so i believe he will wear these gucci fits with all the enthusiasm of a 60 year old philosophy professor who wandered into a shop and the shop owners told him he is a gift sent from god but dogpiled him with their worst selling patchwork clothing items using a computer randomiser [https://pin.it/1ccUa1v]

asshat detective man (REAL): Kurusu, I apologise for my outburst earlier. While I still maintain the belief that painting your personal phone number is not an ideal solution to whatever your problem may be, I acknowledge that I could have gone about communicating that to you in a better way. Regardless, I have someone to aid you in your task to take down Shido. He will be in contact, and I think you will enjoy this collaboration.

(Collaboration?)

Unknown: Hello, Joker. This is LOKI.

Akira blinks. And blinks. And rereads it again.

Unknown: Hello, Joker. This is LOKI.

Good thing the cafe doesn’t have any customers right now because Akira is very certain there is steam coming out of his ears and his face is feeling really hot right now and LOKI just texted him.

There’s the clicking snap of a camera going off and Akira cranes his neck up from his phone screen in slow motion (LOKI JUST TEXTED HIM) to see Futaba pointing her phone at him with not an ounce of regret and a growing shit-eating grin. 

“Have fun, bro,” she says, flashing a peace sign at him and then disappearing out of the cafe just as fast as she came. Akira feels vaguely like someone who’s been plunged underwater, tossed into the drying machine, and then spread out into the cold winter wind to dry. It’s odd and he feels a bit distant and also he thinks he needs a moment. Or five. Really hoping that no customers come in right now because his brain is not computing, and that analogy of what his brain is currently going through did not actually make any sense.

He sets down his phone on the counter (LOKI JUST TEXTED HIM?!) and takes a deep breath. 

God, he has LOKI’s number. Wow. And LOKI just texted him. Yeah, no, he should move on from that point (LOKI. JUST. TEXTED. HIM??? ) because he’s been hung on that for the past five minutes at least. Another shuddering inhale of air later and Akira is more akin to something that resembles the human being he is supposed to be rather than the blubbering mess that he is very tempted to dissolve into.

Right. Him. LOKI. He has to text a reply. A reply. Yeah.

Akira steadies his hands (HE HAS TO TEXT A REPLY TO LOKI), fully ready to send some coherent text that says something along the lines of yes hello i’ve been a fan of your work ever since your first graffiti art surfaced online and you’re really cute would you like to go on a date with me to expose shido and then —

Morgana appears by Akira’s side on the counter with a loud meow and Akira yelps, jumping. The phone fumbles out of his hands, and somewhere in the process, because he is a terrible, terrible klutz with butterfingers, the camera in the chat is turned on. His thumb hits the shutter, and a wonderfully blurry and lopsided image of Morgana is sent to LOKI. The phone completes its journey to the cafe floor, landing with a loud clatter, the screen open to the message chat.

Akira freezes. His brain is very dreadfully empty as he processes the situation. Morgana meows innocently again, unaware of the nightmarish crime that he has just committed. If Akira is fast, he can delete the message before —

His phone chimes. 

LOKI: Nice to meet you, Joker. I’m assuming this is Mona? He looks very charming, despite the unclear image.

Akira wants to scream into a pillow. In frustration. And then bury himself six feet under. Never see the day of light again. That sounds good. He glares daggers at Morgana, who remains in his sitting posture on the counter, licking his paws like he didn’t just completely ruin Joker’s cool guy image in front of LOKI. 

LOKI: You may be wondering whether this is a trap, to which I will counter with our one-sided conversation last night. I will not call you, despite your attempts at flirting, as I wish to keep my identity a secret for now.

LOKI: I am contacting you due to our mutual acquaintance recommending me to speak to you regarding the Shido plan. A collaboration would be of interest to both of us, I assume. I’ve heard good things about the Phantom Thieves, after all.

Now Akira really wants to cry. He’s been wanting to do that quite a lot, lately. He’s heard good things about the Phantom Thieves, Akira wants to shout aloud to the streets like at the beginning of a low budget Destiny movie musical number. His eyes run through the message again; their “mutual acquaintance” has to be Akechi (Akira begrudgingly forgives him for the mean stuff he said in the morning); a “collaboration” (does this mean that Akira may get to work with him? He’s this close to screaming out loud); and “attempts at flirting”?

Oh, Akira thinks. He thinks of himself spraying his number on the wall with paint that is so hard to remove and then doing that “call me” hand gesture and then winking at LOKI and then running away and oh yes that definitely quantifies as “attempts at flirting”.

Okay, stop thinking. Reply to him first. Then he can promptly break down somewhere in the middle.

Akira ensures that he is a safe distance away from his troublemaking cat, and types out a message that looks semi-decent.

Joker: nice to meet you, LOKI. sorry about the image; it was an accident. as for the collaboration, we would love to work with you.

And send.

December 15

Joker: good morning LOKI! have this cat [straycat228.jpg]

LOKI: Do you label all your stray cat images?

Joker: yes! this one is number 228 of the month. i’ve named her sammy!

LOKI: We’re only in the middle of the month, Joker. Besides, wouldn’t Mona be jealous?

Joker: trust me, he is plenty jealous.

LOKI: Hahah, I can guess.

Talking with Kurusu as a person that isn’t burdened with the roles of detective prince, blackmailer, and graffiti disliker is refreshing, to say the least. A small, comforting distraction worlds away from the neverending load of work he has to endure. Kurusu seems content to just talk about anything and everything under the sun that doesn’t necessarily involve their collaboration, and Goro is equally content to just leave it at that.

A small loaf of fur appears before him, laying delicately in the grass. The cat — more of a kitten, now that he peers closer — stretches out across the green grass, sleeping peacefully. Goro crouches down and snaps a picture of the young kitten, the sunlight hitting her beige fur just right that shows her glossy coat, hints of the pink balls of her paws peeking from beneath her body. 

LOKI: I happened to pass by a stray kitten. [stray.png]

Kurusu’s response is near immediate.

Joker: kjsdkjfjocnocownffdse

Joker: sorry dropped my phone she’s very pretty yes!

Akira is so close to reaching for the nearest pillow, stuffing his face into it, and then screaming into it. He is so close. (LOKI JUST TEXTED AN IMAGE OF A STRAY CAT TO HIM? ) Write coherent sentences, Kurusu Akira. Write a coherent reply that doesn’t involve key smashing.

but not as pretty as me i hope

No, no, no. No flirting with the cute guy with the freckles whose name he doesn’t even know. Backspace. Change the topic.

Joker: on another note, we’ve gathered enough information to pin down shido for good, so we are planning to do the art on the 25th. we’ve already scouted the location, and i will send it to you in a bit. will you be there?

LOKI: I will be there.

We’re reaching our climax — the excitement and anticipation in the air tonight thrills our audience, many rubbing their hands together with a sense of glee, clinging on to the edges of their seats. The players are about to gather, and the strings pick up the pace with a sense of urgency.

Akira taps his foot, the rhythm a nervous staccato. The other thieves are in a similar state of restlessness; LOKI is slated to arrive any moment now so that they can all discuss their first steps to creating the calling card. 

Only Akira has met LOKI in real life before — and even that encounter was very brief, where LOKI didn’t even speak a single word. While the constant text messages have given him some insight into LOKI’s personality and they’ve had conversations of sorts, the thought of working with LOKI himself: it makes Akira’s hands twitchy and eager to start the piece. 

A pair of heavy footsteps drag Akira out of his thoughts, and he feels his heartbeat speed up upon laying his eyes on the striped hoodie, a duffel bag slung casually on one shoulder. LOKI’s wearing a pair of dark-framed glasses today, but he’s not wearing his gas mask — 

Wait.  

Wait.

Akira’s mind comes to a screeching halt.

If this meeting is said to be a jazz piece, then this must be where the cymbals and saxophones come in clashing, right after a slow beginning of violins — harsh, unexpected, and sudden, just as how Akechi Goro enters the scene with no warning at all.

The detective prince himself strides up to the group with no lack of confidence, dropping his duffel bag on the floor with an uneventful thud, even as the entire group of Phantom Thieves stare at him with varying levels of disbelief and confusion. 

“Why’re you here?” Ryuji breaks the silence, a finger pointed at Akechi. “We didn’t tell anyone where we’re workin’, and where’s LOKI?”

Akechi only gives a raised eyebrow as he crosses his arms. Akira sees the challenge and unspoken question in his eyes (dark maroon red, barely hidden beneath the lens of his glasses, just like LOKI’s on that night, how did he not connect the dots), waiting for a response.

Someone out of sight hitches their breath (Ann, Akira’s mind helpfully supplies) and says in a low tone, “Oh my god, you’re —”

“LOKI.” Akira finishes.

“Yes,” Akechi confirms, the edges of his lips curling upwards, “I plan for this to be my last job. No point hiding anything now.”

“No wonder LOKI was never caught,” Yusuke muses to himself. 

“Because he is the police,” Makoto says in a flat tone, unimpressed.

Akechi gives her a sharp smile, his words a mocking imitation of his detective prince persona. “Exactly. Very insightful of you, Makoto-san. Sae-san would be pleased.”

Makoto visibly bristles at the jab, a clear retort about to come out when Akira steps in, quite literally, between the two. He holds his hands up in a placating manner in an attempt to quell the rising tension that has descended upon the Thieves. “Now, we’re all here to do a little art today, not to argue, okay?” 

“Art,” Akechi snorts, indelicate and a harsh bark of a laugh. “Vigilantism and vandalism are more like it.”

“Wouldn’t you know best, mister LOKI?” Makoto’s hands are in fists, face inching towards Akechi’s, looking like she is about to tear him limb from limb with her bare hands. Knowing Makoto, she very well could do it, too.

Akechi is undeterred by her reply, a challenging smirk growing on his face. “I do, Queen. I do this precisely because it’s vandalism.”

“LOKI. Queen.” Akira lets the steel in his voice steep in; they’re tight on time, and if this turns into a full-blown argument then they’re going to be in trouble.

Makoto’s glare can kill a man three times over, and Akira is very thankful that he is not on the receiving end. She forcefully turns away from Akechi with a huff and Haru gently rubs her shoulder with a hand. Akechi, on the other hand, simply tsks. 

Pleased with the temporary truce between the still-seething Makoto and the still-smirking-but-less-than-satisfied Akechi, Akira claps his hands together. 

“Well then, team, let’s make this one of our best ones yet.”

It’s about half an hour in that Kurusu starts to hover near him, slowly gliding towards him through the short strokes of his spray paint. There’s a look in his eyes that Goro recognises; a slight hesitancy coupled with a burning want for an answer. Goro sighs. “Whatever it is that you want to ask, just spit it out.”

Kurusu doesn’t pull his punches. “Why Shido? He’s your father, but why do you dislike him so strongly?”

That’s a loaded question. The next line of paint comes out denser than intended. “It is precisely because he is my father that I hate him.”

He can almost sense the question marks running around in Kurusu’s head, but he doesn’t interrupt. “Shido Masayoshi is nothing short of a cruel, power-hungry man at the top of the food chain, and he only wants to climb higher.” A bitter chuckle escapes him. “Did you know that he’s planning to run for Prime Minister?”

There is an anger simmering underneath Kurusu’s next words, even as he keeps his face carefully expressionless. “I’m not surprised. Men like him are like that.”

Something bubbles within Goro — an urge to say something, and then it tumbles out for some reason he cannot fathom: “He’s my father.”

Kurusu is confused and Goro hastily tackles on: “My birth father.”

Goro can almost see the wheels turning in Kurusu’s head as he processes his words. “Oh,” he only says.

“Oh indeed,” Goro repeats, eyes focusing on the part of the graffiti he is working on. “He’s controlled me for nearly my entire life. My university is under his thumb because he contributes such large funds to it. My job… Well, that’s self-explanatory.”

In a quieter tone, he continues. “And my mother…” Goro swallows. 

His mother. His mother, a shining, kind light in the darkness that was Goro’s childhood, the one who introduced Goro to painting and drawing and bringing him the odd stationery for him to doodle over the back of old receipts and overdue bills sent to their little apartment.

But his father had been the one to snuff out her light.

“My mother committed suicide after Shido blackmailed her with images of her life as a sex worker,” Goro says, almost mechanical. His jaws tighten, teeth gritting at the thought of it. 

Somewhere along the way of Goro drowning himself in the memories of his mother, Kurusu has inched closer to him, to the point where their elbows are touching. 

“We’ll take him down,” Kurusu promises, a hard edge to his voice. 

Goro looks away from his portion of the wall for a moment and his eyes meet Kurusu’s. His irises were akin to silver pools, endless yet glimmering under the moonlight. 

“Yeah,” Goro whispers as he turns back to the aerosol can in his hand, throat dry.

The night goes on.

Phantom Thieves of Hearts • @officialpt • 2h

Sir @ShidoMasayoshiSG, the Phantom Thieves of Hearts, in collaboration with @LOKIArt, are here to expose your distorted desires to the world at large. There is nowhere for you to hide.

[Attached: an image of a long stretch of wall that is splattered with the signature colours of the Phantom Thieves, the words of the calling card interwoven between smaller drawings of guns and police badges and stacks of money, their glorious glow doused out by the crimson red of blood. In the centre of it all is a grotesque life-like image of Shido Masayoshi’s decapitated head on a stick, eyes glossy and glasses knocked askew, LOKI’s realism style shining through. In the end corner of the piece is the usual bundle of signatures, with an extra guest signature LOKI tackled on at the very end.]

7.4k replies • 24.6k retweets • 68.2k likes 

The climax dips down, a piece nearing its resolution, the play nearing the end of its story. One last bow; a finale.

“It’s over.” Goro’s words rush out, breathless as he stares at the news channel blaring out the accusations of the numerous crimes committed by Shido Masayoshi. 

Jail time for at least the next thirty years. More than thirty different offences under his belt. No chance of bail. Various associates are being considered for jail time as well. 

“It’s over,” he repeats. Goro cradles his head in his hands, a shuddering breath escaping him. All these years of collecting evidence, of playing the good obedient child, of desperately wanting to take revenge for his mother — 

A warm hand lands itself on Goro’s shoulder, and Goro forgets to breathe for a moment. Fuck, he’s still in Leblanc, Kurusu must have just come back from the attic, he must look so pathetic like this, why isn’t Kurusu speaking? 

The hand starts to rub little circles with their thumb and it’s comforting in a way that makes Goro want to lean into its touch. No, Goro, don’t go there. Compose yourself. 

Goro forces himself to straighten up, but Kurusu’s hand doesn’t leave his shoulder. 

(He’s glad about this because Kurusu’s hand feels safe, for some reason. 

Safe is something he hasn’t felt in years.)

“Kurusu—” Goro starts. 

“Akira,” Kurusu interrupts. “Call me Akira.”

Akira, Goro thinks, and then he stops himself. “No, I couldn't.”

Kurusu’s other hand finds itself gripped around Goro’s own, which are placed on the counter in front of him. 

(Safe, Goro’s heart sings again.

No, Goro’s mind counters. He doesn’t deserve safe.)

“It’s okay,” Kurusu murmurs, his voice soft and gentle.

Goro feels the hand on his shoulder leave, and can’t help the disappointed pang in his heart until Kurusu takes him by the chin, tilting Goro’s face up to meet Kurusu’s. His face is blushing with a pleasant shade of bright red, his gaze determined for some unknown reason. 

Acutely aware of the little distance between their faces, Goro finds himself unable to look away, his cheeks heating up involuntarily. Even as Kurusu parts his lips slightly and moves in closer, he is entranced by how utterly pretty Kurusu is, and then — 

“No, no, stop!” Akira bursts out from the cafe washroom, face completely flushed red. His hands are still wet from washing them, water dripping onto the floorboards as he points an accusatory finger at Futaba. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you do this to me!” 

Futaba blows him a raspberry from the cafe countertop as she bears an impish grin. “I tell nothing but the truth, ‘Kira. I mean, it’s been months since you two got together, so I figured that Makoto’s sis should know the full story since Makoto only tells her the boring TLDR versions of stuff.”

“Besides,” she winks, “don’t forget I have the entire first floor of Leblanc bugged.”

Sae only takes a small sip of her coffee in response. “It is a very…” She pauses, considering her words. “Interesting story.”

Akira sighs and turns to Goro, who’s been silently grinding away at a crossword puzzle in one of the booths, a pencil dangling from one hand as he rests his chin in the palm of his other hand. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Goro shrugs. “She’s an entertaining storyteller. I have to say, some parts have been somewhat edited and may have been slightly inaccurate, but it makes for a good story.” He brings his cup of warm coffee to his lips, giving Morgana a small scratch under the chin as he hops up to the table with a purr. “The comparison of the story to a stage play with a live jazz orchestra is something I can appreciate, though. I assume Yusuke has been influencing you with his long talks about the complexities of live plays.” 

There is a blaze in Futaba’s eyes as she answers. “Yeah! Every story needs a good oomph to it, and this one is no different, hehe. It certainly helps that your life is like a soap opera.”

“That’s what my therapist said,” Goro replies, “and that she was glad that I decided to get therapy.”

“Well then,” Sae injects, “I’m glad you decided to take therapy too.” She looks into her cup as though in contemplation. “No one should take that kind of stress, and certainly not someone as young as you.”

There’s an odd silence that follows, and Akira hops in to dispel the tension. “Having trouble with this one?” He teases, tapping at a single row of blank boxes that Goro has yet to fill in. 

A MEMORY OF PAST TIMES, A FEELING OF SENTIMENTALITY, SOMETIMES SAD, SOMETIMES HAPPY. 9 DOWN, it reads.

“It’s nostalgia,” Akira snatches the pencil from the table and scratches the answer in.

A scowl emerges on Goro’s face, and Akira laughs. 

“Ugh,” Futaba makes a face, “stop with your weird flirting. I’m outta here. Have fun, you nerds.” She bolts for the door, tossing one last look at the duo before leaving like the whirlwind of energy she is.

Sae finishes the last drops of her coffee and gets up from her seat. “I suppose I will take my leave as well.” She surveys the both of them, gaze flickering between the two, and then her usually stern expression softens into a smile. “I'm glad it all worked out in the end.” Another ring of the bell, and Akira and Goro are left to their own devices. 

“So,” Akira starts.

“So,” Goro echoes, a small smile blooming on his face, matching the one on Akira’s.

“That was a nice trip down memory lane, huh?” 

“Yeah, it was,” Goro says, wistfully. 

“Time to drag your head out of it then,” Akira bops Goro’s nose with a finger and Goro instinctively crinkles his nose. Akira laughs, eyes twinkling. “Come on, the time is just right. Follow me,” he says, dragging Goro out of the booth and clinging onto his hand.

“Okay, okay,” Goro grumbles in response, reluctantly leaving the warmth of the booth seat behind. “Where are you going?”

Akira leads him up to the cluttered attic, avoiding the scattered cardboard boxes and beelining towards the window. “You’ll see,” he says as he shoves the window open with a grunt.

“Akira…?” Goro’s confused expression is almost adorable, and Akira laughs again. 

“The roof, silly. Come on.” Akira swings out and upwards, an impressive show of his arm strength, disappearing towards the roof. 

Goro stares at the space that Akira once occupied, and Akira’s voice drifts downwards. “The view is amazing, Goro, you’re gonna miss it if you don’t come up!”

A grumble and hoisting of himself out and upwards to the roof that may or may not have twisted something in his back later, Goro plops down beside a gleeful Akira, who pats the empty space beside him eagerly as an invitation.

“Welcome to the Leblanc rooftop!” Akira spreads his arms in a grand gesture. 

“You’re insane,” Goro deadpans in lieu of a response, adjusting himself so that he sits cross-legged, hands on the roof as he leans backwards. 

Akira’s grin widens. “What’s new?” He shakes his head and points outwards. “Anyways, I wanted to show you the view here. Just look.”

Goro lifts his head and follows Akira’s finger. The sun is setting near the horizon, its rays spreading like a halo. The light reflects onto the glass windows of the towering metropolitan buildings in the distance, splattering the brightness all over the city. Reds and oranges and yellows mix with the darkening blues of the skies, like someone had plucked a brush and smeared the colours together, stealing Goro’s breath away.

It’s beautiful.

He doesn’t realise that he whispered it aloud until Akira moves to place his hand over Goro’s, closing up the space between them. 

“Yeah, it is.” Akira’s fingers curl around Goro’s.

And they sit there for a long while, basking in each other’s company before the slow setting sun overseeing the streets of Tokyo.