Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The path to recovery did not run in a smooth, straight line. Recovery ran much like a winding river, lurching forward, cascading backwards, diverting into a little gully you didn’t know existed before you ran right into it. Akechi hated the process of recovery as much as he liked it, the two emotions scrambling in his chest as the days passed into weeks, as weeks passed into months. Sometimes, recovery was good. Sometimes, it was sitting at home with a coffee and just breathing, accepting that you were alive for better or for worse, that you had a future, that you had a small circle of friends and a therapist and some college courses and that your father was rotting in jail forever. Sometimes, recovery was bad. Sometimes, it was remembering every single person you murdered, their voices cacophonic in your head, your mother’s ghost hovering behind you in a mirror and asking if it had been worth it, had it all been worth it and skipping meals for days when you couldn’t rustle up the energy to pick up your phone, let alone use it to arrange for delivery.

Sometimes, it was just sticking to the routine, it was recognizing spirals and walking forward anyways, making it to the next class, the next therapy session, the next visit to Leblanc. Things weren’t necessarily easy, but that was normal. Things were better even if they didn’t always feel that way, even if the regrets weighed down Akechi’s shoulders, even if the doubts in his head whispered that he should have died on that ship, should have stayed dead through Maruki’s reality, should never have come back at all. That it would have been so much easier for others, if he had just disappeared forever, his revenge finished by the hands of those who should have despised him. Those thoughts led down spirals, spirals that ended in thoughts about how all Akechi brought was death and ruin and despair, and it was when he mentioned that during one therapy session that the idea came up.

His therapist was court ordered, but not court appointed. The court system, in spite of the rampant abuse of it by those who knew about the Metaverse, did not know any specific therapist who knew of the Metaverse that wasn’t already entangled in it. Sae, in one of her many, many moments of kindness, took the time to help Akechi find a therapist who wouldn’t run off the first moment Akechi mentioned the Metaverse, and took the time to make sure Akechi attended those first few meetings. She even provided extensive documentation that Dr. Kaname had no ties to Takuto Maruki and had never met the man, a fact that Akechi appreciated more than he could ever say.

This particular session occurred about a year after Akechi began therapy with Dr. Kaname, approximately a half hour in. Long enough for the normal exchange of pleasantries to be over and for the discussion of skills and techniques, for the dissection of the past week and the past year and the past decade to truly begin. Akechi sat in his chair, his chin propped upon his hand as he mused about his worth and Dr. Kaname listened, her brown eyes never leaving Akechi. She hmm’d as he finished his sentence and set her pen down. “Maybe,” she said quietly, “Maybe you should get a plant. Something small to care for, so you can see that you don’t bring death to everything you touch. Something that’s not a person, so you don’t have to worry about their thoughts.”

“I have never owned a plant.” Dr. Kaname’s office drowned respectfully in plants. Akechi counted five. Two on her desk, short squat little things, a pot of leaves on the shelf by the door, a taller grouping of flowering plants by the sole window, and a giant monstrosity that looked like the one in Leblanc’s attic if it escaped, ate ten other plants, and then got hit by Godzilla’s radiation. That one dominated an entire corner, squatting like an angry, overgrown pomeranian.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Dr. Kaname replied, her hands still folded. Akechi resented her placidity sometimes, how nothing rattled her composure. “You won’t know until you try, Akechi. The worst thing that happens is the plant dies, and then you can try again.”

“It’s going to die,” Akechi muttered under his breath. He knew his track record with living things. Things died around him if he tried to care at all. It was easier to not care, to wall himself up and just--

Dr. Kaname gave Akechi a look and he shook his head. “It may die,” he corrected himself. “But it might also live, and I won’t know until I try.”

His therapist nodded. “I think it will be a good thing for you to try. Here. You can have one of these; they’re called succulents. I’m told they’re almost impossible to kill.”

She pushed forward one of the squat little ones on her desk. Its leaves blossomed out like a squat rose’s, petulant and awkwardly green. No flowers adorned the plant, and when Akechi pinched one of the wax sheened leaves, they sort of puckered. Dr. Kaname smiled. “Just water it once a week and it should be fine. It can be your homework.”

The succulent died within six months. Akechi wasn’t sure how; he watered it like Dr. Kaname said and left it alone in his apartment. But six months later, he stood forlornly over browned leaves and wondered where exactly he went wrong and how he would tell Dr. Kaname. Akechi plucked at the leaves, withered and dry, glaring at them as if that would convince the dead tissue to reinvigorate, reanimate, and return to the state that he’d gotten it in. His first thought was to make some sort of excuse, that he’d tried so hard but oh the plant fell out a window and gotten hit by a car, so sorry Dr. Kaname, what a weird, freak accident of nature.

Terrible really. It wasn’t even a good lie. Besides, Akechi rarely opened his windows even in the summer. People could hear him if he did or they could see him doing his physical therapy exercises, and the thought gave him hives. So it was out the window with the out the window excuse. His gloved finger stopped poking the leaves and began poking the soil. It felt nice and wet. He’d watered it once a week and left it alone the rest of the week. That was what Dr. Kaname told him to do. The watering at least. Maybe he’d underwatered it? Possibly; who knew how much water succulents needed. The guide Akechi briefly read had agreed with Dr. Kaname on the fact that succulents were impossible to kill. Furthermore, it stated that you just needed to keep the soil wet. Seemed simple enough.

But now the plant was dead and Akechi couldn’t let anyone know. How could he admit to murdering a supposedly near immortal plant?

Akira found out about it that evening. Akechi didn’t mean for it to slip out during his biweekly ritualistic visit to Leblanc for coffee, but Akira had a way about him. Akira always had a way about him. It was infuriating how he could turn those soulful grey eyes towards Akechi and suddenly Akechi would confess the stupidest cockamamie fact that had happened in his entire life. Thankfully, now that they were older, Akechi didn’t have much of his youthful asininities left to cover and was now relegated to idiotic confessions like how he hated group projects with the fury of ten thousand dying suns and how he committed plantslaughter.

Akira (damn his all seeing eyes) took everything in stride for some reason. Akechi wasn’t sure why the other man still spoke with him after everything that happened when they were teenagers. To be honest, Akechi didn’t understand why most people who knew him as a teenager still spoke to him, but Dr. Kaname said that was their choice to keep doing so and that Akechi shouldn’t disparage them for choosing to do so. He tried his best, but sometimes that was hard. Especially when one of those people was the man he’d literally shot in the head. Well, had shot the cognitive version in the head, which was just as bad no matter what Akira said. Akechi intended to shoot Akira, shot an Akira look alike instead, and wasn’t about to deny what he’d done. Not that they talked about that day in particular very often, as it was hard to talk about for a variety of reasons, and not just because of semantic arguments on the definition of murder.

In any case, no one else was sitting in Leblanc as Akechi spilled his guts about committing plantslaughter. Thankfully. Akechi had some dignity left, some self awareness, and still remembered that making a fool of himself in front of people not named Akira Kurusu was unacceptable. Not that it was acceptable to make a fool of himself in front of Akira either; Akira just reduced Akechi to foolishness. No, that wasn’t right. Dr. Kaname said that Akechi had to take responsibility for all of his actions, and that included the moronic ones.

Like this.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” Akechi hissed for the fifth time. Akira remained blissfully silent as he cleaned the counter. “I watered it! Put it in the sun… that’s all plants need right? Water and sun? Some soil, but it already had that. It came with that.”

“The amount of light and water depends on the plant,” Akira said quietly, and Akechi resisted the urge to groan.

“Of course you know about plants, Kurusu. Is there anything you don’t know?” Akira opened his mouth to speak. Akechi jabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t answer that.”

Akira nodded, setting the rag aside. “I’ll make you more coffee.”

“Thank you,” Akechi said, because while he was a jackass, he wasn’t a rude jackass. Akira smiled, setting about pulling out the right beans. Akechi watched, propping his cheek against one hand. “I don’t know how I’ll explain this to Dr. Kaname. She seemed so certain that I could actually take care of something.”

“You don’t think you can?” Akira set the mug down before Akechi and swiftly assembled the pour over kit. Akechi was a creature of habit in regards to his coffee and Akira knew it. Akira once commented that Akechi’s coffee order was engraved upon his brain, stitched onto the folds like an old incantation. It made Akechi sputter for some reason, and that made Akira smile even as he fidgeted with his forelock.

Nevertheless, Akechi waited to speak until the set up was complete and the beans were set in the filter. Akechi didn’t want to distract Akira; he wanted his good coffee and not half assed, distracted coffee.

“I couldn’t raise a succulent, Kurusu, and from what I’ve researched and been told, those are the easiest plants to maintain. It does not bode well for my caring skills if I can’t manage to keep one alive.” Akechi traced the fine curve of Akira’s fingers as they coiled over the handle of the kettle, as Akira adjusted the filter and grounds one final time before he began to pour. Akira’s fingers remained slim and fine, the scars of the Metaverse faded over the passing years. Very much unlike Akechi’s, where the scars on his hands and body crisscrossed like thorns on a briar stem, hidden by cloth and leather, a constant reminder of what happened, of what he’d survived, of what he’d done.

“I think you could.” Akechi flicked his eyes away from Akira’s fingers to meet Akira’s level stare. The other man met his gaze solemnly, barely glancing down at the pour over as he tilted the kettle just right to ensure a proper flow. “You just need the right incentive.”

“Incentive?” Akechi asked, intrigued in spite of the alarm bells that began to toll in the back of his head. Akira smirked, the bad sort of smirk where the corner of his lip turned up as an idea blossomed. The Joker sort of smirk, the kind that led to fist fights on skyscrapers with god therapists, that led to duels in the bowels of the public cognition, that led to plots that shouldn’t work and yet somehow did.

“Yeah.” Akira finished pouring the water over with a fine flick of his wrist and returned the kettle to its place on the counter. “You need a challenge.”

“I do not! I can do things perfectly fine without a challenge.”

“Mhmm,” Akira waited patiently for the water to continue to drip through the grounds. “I never said you couldn't. I just think the right incentive will help you do better.”

“Oh? Pray tell me Kurusu, what do you think the right incentive is to get me to not kill a plant?” Akechi scowled, directing his irritation at the mug. What did Akira know anyways about Akechi’s ability to care for things? It wasn’t like he watched Akechi’s attempt to take care of the damn plant. He hadn’t told anyone else about the plant before this.

Akira hummed to himself as he kept a close eye on the draining water. “I’ve been thinking of getting a new plant for a while. The one upstairs is getting lonely, and could use a friend.”

“Plants don’t get lonely Kurusu, they’re not sentient.” At least, Akechi hoped they weren’t sentient. He didn’t know if he could deal with sentient plants.

Akira shrugged one shoulder, his fingers deftly detaching the drip from the top of the mug. “Maybe so, but I have been thinking about getting another plant. And I think that it might be fun to turn it into a sort of competition.”

Akechi would not bite. He was not eighteen, he would not sink to Akira’s level. He was older and experienced and his emotional well being did not depend on showing up his rival.

“What sort of competition?” Akechi asked, stretching a hand forward to pince the handle of his mug between his fingers.

“Whoever can grow the best plant by the end of the year has to pay for dinner. Not together or anything, but at some point.” The last bits of the sentence were tacked on uncommonly fast for Akira.

Akechi raised an eyebrow. What was that supposed to mean, not together or anything. What was going through Akira’s brain? Something, but Akechi rarely understood what, even after knowing Akira for so long. But the free offer of dinner was tempting, especially if it meant… “If you make that curry of yours, I’ll consider it.”

Consider, not accept. Akechi still had some dignity somewhere, buried deep in his hole of a soul. He took a sip of his coffee and hummed happily to himself. Akira truly made the best coffee in the city. Nowhere else made it right, and so Akechi never went anywhere else for coffee. Not that Akechi would ever admit that to Akira. He had a shred of dignity left still.

Akira watched; Akechi felt the weight of the other man’s eyes as he cleaned up the drip and disposed of the used beans. Akechi hoped he hadn’t dripped coffee into his collar. Why else would Akira stare so? Akechi opened his mouth to ask why Akira was staring, but Akira beat him to speaking. “Of course. I won’t make you cook for me.”

“A wise decision.” Akechi hadn’t killed anyone with his cooking. Yet. But Sae informed him that he was young, and Akechi knew anything was possible with the current streak he was on. “What are the parameters for winning?”

Akira held up three fingers. “One, the plant is alive. Two, the plant is healthy. Three… well, three, maybe it’s grown a little? I don’t know much about succulents.”

“Aesthetically pleasing perhaps? Who would judge?”

“Haru could. She knows a lot about plants.”

“Hm.” Akechi and Haru rarely spoke. Part of it was due to past choices. Akechi had, after all, murdered her father in relatively cold blood on his own father’s orders. The other was that Haru Okumura worked as a CEO and kept herself busy. But Akechi trusted Haru enough to be impartial or at the very least brutally honest in her own polite way and Akira wasn’t wrong. Haru did know a lot about plants, far more than either Akira or Akechi knew. Of the three of them, she’d taken courses and owned her own garden. Whatever Akechi and Akira did was child's play compared to her forays. “Acceptable. We buy the plants together though, and the base supplies. An equal start.”

“Of course.” Akira nodded, pulling his phone out of his pocket. His fingers curled and splayed about the phone, cradling it. Akechi assured himself it was perfectly normal to watch Akira’s hands as the other man flicked through his calendar, nimble fingers cradling and flipping through the phone as though it was a dagger. “I’m on shift for another three hours, but if you’re free after that, I have time. Morgana is staying with Futaba today.”

“I don’t have any classes today,” Akechi confirmed, and that was how he and Akira ended up at a small plant store four hours later. It was a shop that only Akira would end up finding, tucked away down an alley off Central Street and geared towards hobbyists. It was exactly the sort of place Akira would work at if he still did his five million part time jobs. Thankfully, he didn’t; Sakura made a deal with Akira about college. If Akira didn’t want to go to college, he would work full time at Leblanc to learn the tricks of the trade. Not just the coffee making, but the bookkeeping, the licenses required, everything. All of this left very little time for other jobs, and so Akechi knew that Akira didn’t work at this little flower shop.

Akira walked around it like an old pro, never hesitating. Akechi squinted at the various pots and soils, his hand curled around his phone in his pocket. While Akira worked, Akechi researched. He wasn’t going to mess up this time. This time, he was going to have the best plant. He wouldn’t kill it; he couldn’t afford to. After all, Akira wouldn’t kill his plant. Akira didn’t kill things. Living things. Non-Mementos, non-cognition things. Akira already owns a plant, he took care of Morgana, he took care of everyone around him no matter how much Akechi chided Akira to take care of himself.

It was a stupid competition. One that Akechi would surely lose. But they’d already begun the competition, and had already set the terms. Backing out now was not an option. The research would help him; Akechi didn’t have Akira’s natural talents, but he was an old pro at dragging his body over the proverbial finish line. That determination got him to this point and it would get him to his grave, whenever that happened. It would get him to some sort of victorious living plant that would definitely overshadow Akira’s.

Akira found the succulents first. They sat in their own little corner, a series of racks that rose up to Akechi’s eyes. Akira smiled as he poked and prodded the various succulents. Akechi scowled at the meandering rows. Each little plant crouched in what someone would describe as a cute container, the edges painted lightly in swirls of blues and greens, each barely larger than the plant that contained it. They’d have to be replanted if Akechi had any hope of his plant growing bigger and he mentally calculated the cost of a pot and soil. Not unmanageable, but…

No buts. He couldn’t afford to slack. Akira certainly wouldn’t. Akechi squinted at the rows of plants, each silent beneath Akechi’s gaze. Too small. Too crumbly. Too large. Akechi swept down each row, mentally poking and prodding each specimen. No, no, no….

A particularly pathetic specimen caught Akechi’s attention. Leaves that grew in pairs at the end of each bifurcation pocked the stem, drooping pathetically. If Akechi remembered his frantic research correctly, this was a member of the crassula ovata species. This particular specimen was on its way out, abandoned in the back corner of the display. Akechi tried to move on from it. He would need a better specimen to defeat Akira, one that wasn’t half dead, one that he wouldn’t murder in a month. Akechi required every advantage he could get.

Akechi picked up the stupid plant a second later, cradling the pot between his hands. Akira lifted a brow at Akechi’s choice before quickly smoothing it away.

“What?” Akechi snapped, bringing the stupid plant close to his chest. “Go on, Kurusu, make a choice. Or are you worried your selection won’t beat mine?”

“Never,” Akira replied quietly before reaching out to pluck a squat, many petaled monstrosity off the rack. An echeveria, though Akechi didn’t know which species in particular. He’d only been able to do so much research in the three hour wait in Leblanc. Its leaves were green, tipped with some faint lilac purple tones that stood out against the green of the rest of the leaf and it squatted in its little pot with vim and vigor. “Do you want to buy a bigger pot and some soil?”

Akechi picked out a pot. A reasonable pot, not too big or too small. After all, his crassula would be lucky to survive the month in its current state. It would need all the help it could to get to the next month. Akira flitted around between the choices, mumbling something about brands and something about soil nutrients, before he finally dumped a bag into Akechi’s arms. “It’s only fair we start with the same things, right?” he murmured.

“Of course,” Akechi replied, juggling the soil into the crook of his arm. “What else would you like to start with?”

Akechi left with a small pot, a drip tray, soil, some plant nutrients Akira swore by, and of course his crassula. The subway proved to be a minor nightmare, but nothing untenable. Akira accompanied Akechi to the station before splitting off for the line back to Yongen. They stood near the gates, their arms full.

“In six months, you won’t believe what you see. You won’t recognize my plant at all,” Akechi informed Akira, attempting to hide his internal despair at choosing the plant he felt bad for rather than the one that would grant him a surefire victory.

Akira smirked, the corners of his lips turning up in the way that Akechi hated. That horribly distracting way that scrambled his insides and distracted his thoughts and left him thinking about Akira’s mouth. Awful. He needed to focus, not think about how Akira’s lips curled up like a cat. Akechi would do anything to knock that smile off Akira’s face but he would also do anything to see that smirk, and--

Focus, Akechi chanted in his head. Focus, focus, focus.

“I would expect no less from you,” Akira replied. A look entered his eyes, one of those strange looks that Akira got every so often, the sort that Akechi could never read. Akira paused, his grey eyes inscrutable. “We should take a picture. So we know how the plants started.”

Akechi nodded, averting his eyes to stare down at his plant. Anything was better than that gaze that left Akechi confused. “We should have done this before we left. There’s no place to put them down for comparison.”

“If we hold them against our chests, it should be fine. After all, it’s not like I’m going to grow any taller.” Akira grinned crookedly, digging in his pocket for his phone. Akechi didn’t know how he managed to do so with the rest of his purchases in his arms. “C’mere.”

“Why?” Akechi groused, stepping closer. Akira chuckled and lifted an arm, letting Akechi sidle right up to him. Akechi fumbled with his plant, shifting the soil til it sat awkwardly under the arm away from Akira.

“Would be easier to get both of us in the shot at once. Smile?”

Akechi didn’t smile, but neither did he frown as Akira pulled him close and lifted his phone. He merely stared at the camera and tried to ignore how close Akira was, tried to ignore how warm Akira was and how Akira shifted his arm to bring his own plant into view, jarring Akechi’s side. The shock rippled through Akechi, but he refused to acknowledge it. Instead, he focused on his plant, on turning its best side to the camera to be immortalized forever. Akira hummed to himself, examining the photo before proffering the phone to Akechi.

They stood close in the photo, Akira grinning wide, his shoulders loose as he easily juggled everything in and under his arms, Akechi an almost too studied neutral beside him. Years of being the detective prince couldn’t be erased after all, and neutrality remained the best option for photographs that included his face. If the hint of a smile lingered at the corners of Akechi’s lips, he would deny it. But the plants were the main focus, both clearly visible and judgeable in the center of the frame, Akechi’s sad and Akira’s overgrown, alive and in the hands of their owners.

“Acceptable,” Akechi said, and Akira laughed, pulling the phone to tap at the screen. Akechi’s phone beeped a minute later. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Are you still down to come with us on Saturday?”

Akechi sighed, shifting the plant and the soil and everything else in his arms. “I don’t really understand why you all want me around, but yes. I’ll never hear the end of it from Yoshizawa, Takamaki or you if I don’t.”

“Everyone does like you, you know. You’re our prickly cactus.”

Akechi grimaced. “Goodbye Kurusu.” He ignored Akira’s calls behind him. He was not a cactus. He was not remotely cactus like. He was… Akechi’s grimace deepened as he boarded his train and his phone began to vibrate. He was something else. Something meaner. Akechi stole a seat and arranged his spoils in his lap. It freed his hands enough that he could pull out his phone and read the long chain of text messages from Akira.

The photo led the charge, which Akechi saved, and then a series of messages followed that made Akechi furrow his brow as Akira explained how Akechi related to cacti and their nature. Akechi didn’t know how to reply beyond saying that he was not a cactus. It was the obvious answer, but he was also aware that it was a petulant response and unfitting as a reply in its simplicity. Akechi turned over the comparison, trying to find a way to deny it in a suitable fashion. In the end, he merely texted “I’m not a cactus,” which only prompted more inane texts from Akira. Akechi answered each one. In spite of certain juvenile leanings, Akira was an intelligent person and Akechi liked talking to him.

Not that he would ever admit that out loud. It would give Akira ideas, and Akira didn’t need any more ideas.

All too soon, Akechi stood in his apartment, the crassula and its supplies spread out over the small table that masqueraded as a dining table. Beside it sat Akechi’s laptop, opened to a website on proper plant transplanting, with three other tabs opened on proper care of crassula.

Akechi took a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled it out his mouth, just like Dr. Kaname taught him. Then he took another, and then a third.

“Shit,” Akechi swore to himself, before he started on transplanting his plant from the tiny pot it came into the larger one he’d purchased. After all, it was going to need a lot more room once Akechi was done helping it.

If he could help it. Akechi stood over the crassula, his crooked hands buried in the soil, taking in the sad leaves and thin stem. What if he killed it? What if it died in a week and Akira won before he even needed to do anything? What if it disappeared, having decided--

No. “You better not fucking die,” Akechi informed the plant, settling it into its new home. “If you die, I’ll have to kill you.”

The plant remained silent, accepting its fate with a poise and grace that Goro Akechi could never possess. For a moment, Akechi hated it. But he gave up on that hate a second later; he needed the plant to live to win this stupid competition, and so that meant giving a damn and caring about the idiotic thing.

Chapter Text

Akechi lived in an impossibly small apartment. It was the sort of place where every sort of room was folded into cramped quarters except for the bathroom. The bathroom had its own little nook. Otherwise, the kitchen, living room, and bedroom all mashed their way into one small space, all competing for the nonexistent square footage. It was a far cry from the apartment that Shido had paid for, with enough rooms for each sort of space. Each room in that old apartment also possessed more bugs than a decaying corpse; Akechi didn’t miss it. His current place was small and cramped, but it had a closet where Akechi could store his futon if he wanted more floor space and a window in the bathroom. Another window in the living room let in more light to read his books in the day or to stare out of at night. Dr. Kaname mentioned once that light could help with depression. Akechi didn’t know if he believed her, but the light would help the crassula.

The plant struggled onward. Akechi studied guides religiously; no more than six hours of direct sun, with enough water that the water would run through the pot, but not too much water as crassulas were prone to root rot, and then letting it dry out before watering again. One blog recommended a southern window, which Akechi, through some odd twist of luck, had. He placed the pot with his sorry crassula on top, and checked up on it regularly.

Takamaki and Sakura ended up being the first ones to notice. Not that the others really had a chance to notice Akechi’s plant. Akechi refused to allow anyone into his apartment due to its normal “freshly hit by a tornado” appearance. Takamaki and Sakura were the only one who saw any portion and it was only over the occasional discord video chat after they relentlessly bullied Akechi to join them in video calls. Not that Sakura ever turned on her camera. She just blackmailed Akechi into turning his feed on before they started their movie marathons. Exposure therapy, she called it. Attempts to catch Akechi without his makeup on was what Akechi privately thought, and thus always made sure that his make up was flawless before ever flicking the webcam on. Maybe one day Sakura would catch him without his makeup, but Akechi always swore that day was not this day. He had no desire to explain what had happened to his face.

As most of these semi-impromptu movie nights occured after the setting of the sun, Akechi tended to face the camera at the wall and the window. While he liked his apartment more than any of his previous abodes, he also didn’t want the thieves gossiping about his living circumstances. Not that it would stop them; it just gave Akechi a sense of control about the whole thing, for better or worse.

In any case, Takamaki noticed it first. “Did you get a plant?” she asked, leaning closer to the screen as if that would give her a better view.

“Hm?” Akechi twisted to check on the plant behind him and then realized his mistake. He turned back to the screen, only to find Takamaki pressed close to the screen. Her forehead consumed the camera and Akechi tched. “Takamaki, if your intention was to obscure the camera you are doing an excellent job.”

Takamaki’s forehead crept up and her eyes popped into view. “I’m trying to look at your plant. It’s so small! C’mon, move your fat head.”

“It is perfectly normal sized,” Akechi protested, resisting the inane urge to check the size of his head. Nevertheless, he refrained from moving his head. The plant wasn’t their business. It was his business, and Akira’s.

“Your head or the plant?” Sakura interjected, her little icon lighting up. “Does this have anything to do with the one that Akira’s taking care of?”

“Did you get matching plants?” Takamaki squealed. Akechi swore he could see stars in her eyes and his ears went red for no reason.

“No, he got some form of echeveria--” Takamaki’s squeals increased in pitch and Akechi scowled.

“I will leave this call.”

“No you won’t. You’ll never live it down if you do.” Sakura slurped whatever monstrosity she’d concocted this time, the neon color audible through Akechi’s headphones alongside the awful sucking noises. “Just show us the plant, loser.”

“It’s just a plant,” Akechi complained, finally moving his head out of the way. The plant sat innocently in its pot, its leaves awkward in the evening light. “See?”

“It’s cute! Like one of those little succulents, right? I always see them at shops.” Takamaki sat back and nodded. “Did Akira buy it for you?”

Akechi choked on his own spit, an inglorious moment that left him sputtering both physically and mentally. “I bought it for myself. We’re having a competition.”

“Oh, I see.” Takamaki nodded sagely as if she knew exactly what was going on. Which was impossible because she was Ann Takamaki and not Goro Akechi, and only one of them knew perfectly well what was going on. The usual situation on all ends.

Akechi squinted at Takamaki. “You’re up to something.”

Takamaki’s hands flew to her mouth in the worst faking of innocence that Akechi had dealt with in the past month. “Me? I’m not up to anything, Mister Plant Parent. You started this.”

“I did not! Kurusu started this. The competition was his idea.”

“Competition?” Takamaki questioned.

Akechi refused to squirm under her unbelieving gaze. Absolutely refused. “We’re competing to see who can raise the best plant.”

“It’s looking pretty sad for a competition.” Sakura took another slurp of her drink. “You sure you want to have round nine thousand of your little rivalry over a plant like that?”

“It’s looking better,” Akechi snapped, shifting to hide the plant. It was looking better. Not by much, but the crassula now had a few new leaves and the stem stood stiffer, taller. No longer did it stand upon its last legs, but perhaps on its second to last legs.

“Oh, is this the plant thing Haru was talking about?” Takamaki tapped her lip, screwing up her eyes.

“Perhaps. Kurusu said he would speak with her about judging the plants in December. She does have the most plant experience of us all. “ Akechi shoveled his unease into the back of his mind. Of all the thieves, he and Okumura spoke the least. There’d been one abortive attempt. Back when he’d first gotten out of the court system, back when he’d been free of the endless physical therapy sessions, back when he’d finally dragged himself back to Leblanc while hiding how he’d needed crutches and rest, they’d had a talk. A small, abortive talk that Akechi didn’t like remembering, with a pathetic, awkward apology that Akechi had only half meant. It was hard to care about Kunikazu Okumura’s death. It was hard to muster sympathy for a vile man, and only mildly easier to muster sympathy up for the daughter he’d left behind.

But Akechi had managed somehow, and that was the last time he’d spoken with Haru Okumura alone. She hadn’t tried and he hadn’t tried, and it left their relationship in a detente. Akechi didn’t know where he sat with Okumura. Unlike Sakura, who’d trapped him in Leblanc, shone a flashlight in his face and made a list of demands in a stuttering voice one Saturday morning before Akira came downstairs, Okumura remained content to let things be, for better or worse. Akechi shied away from facing it and hated himself a little for it. But hating himself was nothing new, and the Okumura situation only bothered him a little now. At least, that was what he told himself.

“I trust her to be impartial,” Akechi said, finally emerging from his thoughts. “But until then, I have to keep the plant alive so that it can beat Kurusu’s plant.”

“Have you ever cared for a plant before? I’ve never seen… anything living in your apartment.” Takamaki shuffled through the treats on her desk, organizing them by size and color. A little rainbow of treats marched across her desk, and Akechi eyed one of the caramels. It sat in the shape of a delectable little flower, but he didn’t dare ask where she got it.

“You haven’t seen my apartment,” Akechi shot back instead. “I’ve kept plenty of things alive.”

“Uh huh,” Takamaki said in a tone that didn’t sound like she believed him at all. She picked up a cookie and bit into it, crunching it elegantly.

Akechi scowled. “I have. Just watch, my plant will be exponentially better than Kurusu’s by the time Okumura examines them.”

“Uh huh,” Takamaki repeated, giving him an odd look. “You keep telling yourself that ‘kechi.”

Akechi resisted the urge to try to reach through the screen and strangle her. It wasn’t worth it. After all, she did listen to him whine about his classes, and he listened to her complaints about modeling. They had an elaborate deal established and he wasn’t about to throw it away over her ignorant disbelief of Akechi’s plant skills.

“Oookay then,” Sakura clicked on her screen and the streaming notification popped up. “Now that we’ve learned about the newest “rivalry” competition occurring between our two local idiots, let’s start the movie. So Ann, last week we finished season three of Featherman R, and this movie is set in the gap between three and four...”

Akechi clicked into the stream as Sakura continued, sparing a glance for his plant. It would be fine. It was doing better, and Okumura would be fair.

Takamaki didn’t let it rest. The plant talk returned one day in the next week, when Akechi and Takamaki stopped at a crepe shop. Takamaki knew all of the crepe shops in Tokyo via sheer determination and on her cheat day always made sure to kidnap Akechi, showing up at his class or at the tail end of his therapy with a no nonsense look in her eye, and sometimes invited others to join them. Akechi gave up on avoiding her long ago. He couldn’t run like he used to, and a part of him didn’t want to. It was tiring to run away from the thieves after so long, and after the passing of years, the thieves weren’t… terrible.

They knew too much about Akechi. Far more than Akechi would like them to know, but he didn’t seem to have much of a choice about it, and at this point in his life, he didn’t know how much he minded. Being sought out for crepes once a week was… pleasant.

Takamaki always chose the shops that had seating areas, little ones where Akechi could sit in a booth and rest after walking, his chest tight in spite of the months upon months of treatment and physical therapy to help him. After all, this reality didn’t have the miraculous cure Maruki provided in his reality. That made all the aches and agony worth it in the end. Akechi would take the uncomfortable days over the eerily perfect ones.

Today was one of the uncomfortable days. He’d spent most of the day shuffling boxes of files around Sae’s office as part of his part time job, and what would have once been easy now left him sore. His old injuries remained slow to heal and his stint in physical therapy helped, but there was only so far his body could go after getting ripped apart by a bullet. So now too many boxes could wind Akechi to his disgust, and leave him sitting in a corner while Takamaki ordered crepes. Not that she’d said that she was doing this to help him rest. She’d insisted on picking out his flavor to expand his horizons or something, and shoved him into the booth before skipping off.

Almost literally. Akechi watched her go before turning his gaze back to his phone. A message from Akira sat on the screen, a picture taken of Akira in Inokashira Park, the pond and an intense looking Kitagawa wading in it with his pants rolled up to his knees behind Akira. A painting set leaned against a tree off to the side and the leaves grew green about the two young men caught in the photo. A slight smile curled on Akira’s face, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses as he held his fingers up in a peace sign, his hair falling into his face as an invisible wind rustled the strands.

Looking for inspiration. Not much luck yet. Akira wrote beneath the photo.

You’re going to be kicked out. Akechi wrote back, tapping on the photo and saving it to his Akira photo album. It joined a myriad of others, ranging from Leblanc to Jazz Jin to one they’d taken all the way back at the aquarium years ago, the very first photo they’d taken. They’d scrunched together in front of the jellyfish, Akira smiling softly and Akechi less neutrally than normal. Not quite the detective prince, but not quite himself either. Akechi didn’t know why he kept every photo Akira sent him. He’d argued with himself over it. They were useful, reminders of the leader of the Phantom Thieves.

Now they felt like little trinkets a crow would gather and hide in a nest. Not that Akechi would ever admit that.

Akechi locked his phone just as Takamaki set down his plate of crepes. “How long are you in town for?” He asked, pulling the plate towards himself carefully. The crepes stood in a polite little stack, a variety of blueberries, blackberries, and strawberries piled artistically around and in the folds of the pastry.

“Just another week. Shiho’s birthday is this week and I wanted to be in town for it. Luckily a shoot overlapped with it here in Tokyo so I didn’t have to fight too much to be in town this week.” Takamaki slid into the booth across from him, her crepe a monstrosity of sugar, cream, and strawberries. Akechi almost wanted to try a bite before he talked himself out of adding a heart attack onto his woes.

Instead he cut off a slice of his own crepe and took a bite. Flavor burst in his mouth and Akechi swallowed both the bit and his own appreciative hum. “That’s nice. Will you do anything special?”

“We have reservations. My manager helped me get them, since I evidently did an ad for them last winter? It’s hard to keep track of them…” Takamaki frowned down at her crepe.

“What a burden,” Aekchi replied drily, rolling his shoulders. It did little for the general ache in his chest, but it did help him feel like he’d done something. Hopefully today wouldn’t be a painkiller day. “I’m sure Suzui will be thrilled. She always seems to be pleased with what you choose to do.”

Takamaki rolled her eyes. “At least tell a good lie. I know I told you about the floral shirt incident.”

“Oh you did, Takamaki. I was sparing your feelings for once, but perhaps I won’t from now on.”

“You tell yourself that.” Takamaki took a bite and wiped off the spare cream on her lip with her finger. She popped it into her mouth a second later. Akechi didn’t know how she was an up and coming model, but it wasn’t his place to comment on that. “Anyways, we’re going out for dinner and I arranged for flowers since Shiho likes actual flowers and not… shirt flowers.”

Akechi nodded. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

Takamaki smiled broadly. “I sure hope so. How’s your plant doing anyways? Your competition plant.”

“It’s not a… well.” Akechi cut himself off. Takamaki wasn’t wrong; it was a competition plant. “It appears to be doing well. The leaves aren’t turning brown and it appears to be greener than it was last week.”

“That’s great!” Takamaki took another bite of her crepe. “So what started this competition anyways? I know you and Akira are always doing those weird little contest things, but plants are new. I didn’t even know you were interested in plants, Akechi.”

Akechi pursed his lips. “We do not have weird little contest things.”

Takamaki laughed at him. She set down her fork and held her belly, curling over as she nearly started to cry from laughing.

The tips of Akechi’s ears burned and he pointed his fork at her. “Kurusu and I do not have weird little contest things.”

“Yes you do! You’ve been doing it since you had that talk at the TV studio back in high school.”

They did not. They were perfectly acceptable comparisons of skill and not weird at all. Akechi liked to have his boundaries pushed and so did Akira, which wasn’t weird at all. It let them grow as people and reach heights they would never have reached otherwise. “They are not weird.”

“Semantics.” Akechi bemoaned the day Ann Takamaki learned the word semantics. A truly unfortunate day for Goro Akechi. “It’s your weird little ritualistic bonding activity that is totally fine and healthy for both of you. I think both of you are happiest whenever you’re doing whatever… whatever it is you're doing.”

Akechi sniffed, hiding his confusion by forcing another bite of crepe into his mouth. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Of course you don’t,” Takamaki huffed. “And you never answered what started this plant competition. You said Akira started it?”

“That is what I said.”

Takamaki narrowed her eyes, her laughter finally slowing down. “So what happened to you that made Akira want to start this?”

Akechi shoved another bite of crepe into his mouth and started to chew. “When’s Yoshizawa arriving? I thought she was supposed to come today.”

“She texted that she’d be late, her practice ran over. You didn’t answer my question.” Takamaki watches him with lizard eyes, waiting.

“Nothing happened,” Akechi grumbled, flicking his phone on to check the group message. Yoshizawa’s message sat unobtrusively at the end, a small apology from twenty minutes prior announcing her delay. “I don’t know why you think-”

“Half the time you start these things, it’s because something upset the other one. Remember when someone insulted Akira’s barista skills? You two turned it into some weird cafe crawl that ended with you both writing vicious reviews. I didn’t even know Akira could be that mean.”

Akechi shrugged. “What can I say? I bring out the worst in- shit, what was that for?”

Akechi rubbed at his forehead as Takamaki sat back, returning her hand to her fork. “Negative self talk,” she said sweetly.

“You didn’t have to flick my forehead.” Honestly, she didn’t. Who did Takamaki think she was? His therapist? Takamaki didn’t even have Dr. Kaname’s number, thankfully. Akechi shuddered to think what would happen if she did.

“Probably not. But it was worth it. So what happened?”

“Did something happen?”

Of course Yoshizawa would arrive now, her crepe stacked high with bananas. Her other hand held one of those awful fruit smoothie drinks that looked closer to sludge in Akechi’s opinion. Akechi refrained from voicing it, which he labeled as his nice act for the day, and set all condescension of the drink to the side. “Hello Akechi! Hello Ann!”

“Hello Sumire!” Takamaki beamed as Yoshizawa slid into Akechi’s side of the booth. Akechi reluctantly scooted further in, dragging his crepe with him as he ignored the protesting twinges in his legs. “Congrats on making it!”

“I’m sorry about the delay, we’re just ramping up for the summer trials. They’re in two weeks.” Yoshizawa sat her plate and drink down on the table and tucked her bag under it. Akechi obligingly moved his feet to give her more space and tried to not scowl.

“Are you feeling ready?” he asked instead of making any sort of negative comment.

“Almost! I just need to practice this one part in the middle and I think I’ll be good. My coach wants me to do a few more practices, and I agreed with her.” Yoshizawa opened her drink and chugged half of it.

“Well, it sounds like you have a handle on it,” Akechi commented.

Yoshizawa beamed, her eyes curling into happy crescents. “Yeah! So what is Ann bothering you about?”

“Nothing,” Akechi said at the same time Takamaki said, “He and Akira are having a new competition.”

“Oh!” Yoshizawa’s eyes widened. “So did something happen to you or Akira?”

“Nothing happened. We’re just having a normal competition.” Akechi stabbed a berry with his fork and desperately missed the Metaverse for a brief moment. At least there he could run away from his problems for a few minutes before a shadow tried to murder him.

“Is this going to be like the time where you were grumpy because you couldn’t get your arms over your head and so you and Akira tried to have a competition to see who could get things off the highest shelf without putting your arms over your head? And ended up knocking over a jar of expensive beans in Leblanc?”

Akechi closed his eyes and tried to forget about that particular fiasco. “We paid for them.”

“Or the time Akira was struggling with his math homework so you both tried to see who could do more math problems in the shortest amount of time and stayed up all night and ended up sleeping through your classes the next day?” Yoshizawa held a hand to her chin as she thought, her head tilted slightly. “Or is it more like-”

“Enough, Yoshizawa.” Akechi refused to melt into the seat. Was she keeping track of all the competitions? Who did that? They were just. Things he and Akira did because they were friends. That was what friends did. Things together. “It’s not like that.”

“So something did happen.” Takamaki grinned under Akechi’s withering glare. “Spill it.”

“We’ll just keep bothering you,” Yoshizawa confirmed, finally biting into her crepe with gusto.

Akechi missed the days when he could intimidate both of them. When both of them barely spoke to him and gave him space and didn’t bother him and he didn’t have to deal with their inane, unimportant questions. “It’s nothing big. I just killed a plant.”

“Kept plenty of plants alive, huh?” Takamaki grinned at Akechi.

Akechi imagined the next berry was her hand and stabbed into it. Unhealthy, but it made him feel a smidge better. “I’ve never had a plant before. My therapist gave it to me.”

“Oh, that was sweet of her.” Yoshizawa smiled, patting Akechi’s arm. He did his best to not flinch from the sudden jarring. He must have failed; Yoshizawa’s hand evaporated from his forearm. “Plants are hard! They’re easier than pets, but they need such specific conditions. Your therapist won’t be mad if you tell her that you killed the plant. I’m- I’m sure she’d understand.”

Akechi studiously avoided how Yoshizawa stumbled over her words. He could respect the scars she had from therapists. After all, he had a few from the same source. “It’s not that. It’s…”

Akechi stared down at his half eaten crepe. Most of the berries were gone and the pastry lay there forlornly. It was less brown than his first plant, but it still reminded him of the stupid thing. Annoyance flared, and Akechi used his fork to slice off a large portion of the pastry and shoved it into his mouth. He tore into it viciously with his teeth and swallowed the shredded remains. “I might have complained about it to Akira.”

Yoshizawa nodded, her hand hovering as though she wanted to pat Akechi again. Graciously, he leaned towards her, and she slowly patted his arm again. “It’ll be okay. Just don’t go overboard with your competition.”

“We don’t go overboard. Our competitions are perfectly manageable.”

“Uh huh,” Takamaki and Yoshizawa said in sync before they looked at each other and laughed.

Akechi rolled his eyes. “Why do I talk with either of you?”

“Because you like us,” Yoshizawa said, and Akechi made a face at her. She made one back, and Akechi gave up on communicating and returned to eating his crepe.

“Go ask Takamaki about her girlfriend. It’s her birthday this week,” he said instead, and Yoshizawa’s attention pivoted to Takamaki. That was a much better alternative, and Akechi slumped into his seat to finish off his crepe.

He sent the photo that Yoshizawa took of them to Akira. It was a simple photo, just the three of them sitting in the booth together, their plates cleared of crepe. It was the sort of thing that Akira liked, these little photos of daily life. Akechi didn’t quite understand, but it was such a small thing in the grand scheme of everything that he also didn’t quite mind taking the photos. Or providing them if someone else took them. It wasn’t like the old photos he would put up on social media. These weren’t carefully staged, the lightning and composition all adjusted to perfection.

Takamaki had cream on her nose and Yoshizawa’s cheeks bulged with the last of the fruit. Their smiles made their cheeks bunch up and they both leaned in towards Akechi, caught in the middle. His makeup hid the bags under his eyes and all the myriad imperfections on his face and he didn’t quite frown in the photo but he didn’t quite smile either.

All in all, it was a decent picture in Akechi’s humble opinion. Three little dots appeared almost instantly after the picture finished sending.

Cute, Akira wrote, following it up with one of his little emojis. Akechi huffed and tucked his phone away. What sort of response was that? Whatever. Takamaki wiped the cream off her nose while Yoshizawa leaned in closer. “Are you writing senpai?”

“Should you still be calling him that? He’s graduated.” Akechi shifted away from Yoshizawa and winced as the pain rocketed up his side, sending his vision white for a moment.

Yoshizawa’s hand grasped his elbow and Akechi shook her off. “I’m fine,” he grumbled. “It’s fine.”

“Are you still going to-”

“Yes,” Akechi interrupted, ignoring the concern in Yoshizawa’s eyes. “I promise I’ll talk with my physical therapist about it. No need to fret about it, Yoshizawa.”

She didn’t even scowl at him. Instead, she nodded, a determined little look in her eye. “Good. Otherwise I’d have to tell Akira.”

Akechi scowled immediately, the pain drifting a centimeter back in his mind. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“She would,” Takamaki grinned, resting her head on a palm. “And I would too. But it sounds like you’re being good for once.”

“Don’t phrase it like that.” Akechi resisted the urge to slump petulantly into his seat, more out of self preservation than anything. They didn’t even know what they were talking about. “You make it sound like I’m a disobedient child.”

Takamaki shrugged. Laughter danced in her eyes and Akechi missed Loki for the briefest of moments. “You said it, not me.”

“Whatever,” Akechi exhaled. “Now are you done mother henning me?”

“Nope! We’re never done.” Akechi sometimes dreadfully missed the days when Yoshizawa cowered around him and stared in dread. But that January was long gone and frankly, Akechi honestly didn’t miss most of it.

Sometimes he missed being able to do things without worrying about random spikes of pain. Some days he missed just being able to do things without considering his body.They were a good reminder of what he had done. It was-

Akechi shooed the intrusive thought away. He hated his brain, he hated his body, he wished he had just…

His phone vibrated again, and Akechi fished it out. You should send another one. Please?

No. They’re already sitting back. Akechi shoved his phone back and ignored the twinge in his side. Yoshizawa gave him an incredibly unimpressed look and Akechi returned it.

“I just lifted too many boxes,” he grumbled instead. “I’ll go home and rest. I have homework to work on anyways.”

Yoshizawa nodded slowly, exchanging a glance with Takamaki that Akechi couldn’t ignore. “And don’t message Akira. He’s busy.”

“We won’t,” Sumire promised.

Ann laughed instead. “I do what I want, pretty boy and that includes messaging Akira when you’re being dumb.”

Sumire sighed at Akechi’s following invective. Meanwhile, Ann only laughed harder.

“I hate you, Takamaki,” Akechi declared when her laughter ended.

“Love you too, ‘kechi. Now come on, there’s a shop I want to check out and it has places you can sit. I promised Sumire we’d find her at least one outfit today.”

“One without any prints,” Sumire chimed in, smiling.

Akechi rolled his eyes. “Wouldn’t that be a miracle,” He grumbled. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

“You’re not going to die,” Ann said as she slid out of the booth. “And I’m watching you, so if the pain gets too bad we will end this. And don’t think you can keep it a secret, I know you now Akechi. I know your tells.”

Akechi successfully resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. It would just give Ann satisfaction. “Just. Shut up, Takamaki, and get moving.”

Akechi took a picture later of the three of them standing outside of the shop, Sumire holding up her new outfit with Ann on one side holding her fingers up in a peace sign and a nonplussed Akechi on the other with the ghost of a smile on his face. It was cheesy and idiotic, twee in its execution, but Akechi sent it to Akira anyways. It was almost worth the little smiley face Akira sent back in return. Almost.

Chapter Text

The plant grew an inch over the next month, which Akechi regarded as a success. No hints of dying leaves appeared; if anything, the opposite proved true. The leaves remained green and plump, content to remain on the crassula’s stem. Akechi measured the plant daily, recording the height and number of leaves in a little journal that he kept on the table beside it. The figures marched down the page in cramped neat rows, painstakingly entered each morning before Akechi left for the day.

No one else besides Ann and Sakura saw the plant. That would require Akechi inviting someone over and he would die before letting anyone invade his personal space. It was a trash fire and he knew it, he just wasn’t going to admit it to any living person. Thus, all meetings with the Phantom Thieves took place on their turf, which was how Akechi ended up standing outside Ryuji Sakamoto’s apartment.

Sakamoto had moved years ago. The apartment that Akechi scoped out in his Detective Prince days was long gone, or at least the Sakamotos were long gone from it. The new abode, while close enough to Shujin for Sakamoto to attend his last year there, remained a distance away from the former location. Truth be told, even Akechi could admit the new place was significantly nicer. The apartment building remained well maintained, its walls washed to an almost chipper hue of grey and cars puttered by without an exhaustive effort. Some new bikes even sat on balconies, far out of the reach of any pedestrian.

Not that there were many at this hour. Few people rose before six in the morning and fewer still stood outside an apartment waiting on someone who had promised to be on time.

Well, two minutes late wasn’t terrible, Akechi thought to himself as the elevator inside the building opened its doors and spat out Sakamoto like an over chewed piece of gristle. Not that Sakamoto ran late often; if anything he often arrived early, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hair a shock of blond that stuck out in a sea of black and brown. That same hair gave him away when Akechi ended up at the same physical therapist. She’d been highly recommended by the doctors who’d attended to Akechi in the wake of the engine room. Recommended was the wrong word; mandated was better. At the time, Sae had been working on the last dregs of Shido’s case and the short abortive case that Akechi’s became in the end. There was only so much they could charge Akechi for.

After all, the Metaverse was gone without a trace. Loki and Robin Hood were gone, fused into Hereward, and Hereward spoke infrequently. His commentary was rare and inconstant and subject to the persona’s own whims. Akechi missed Robin Hood and Loki dreadfully on the quiet days. After two years of having constant commentary on the world around him, Hereward’s unpredictable bouts of silence gnawed on Akechi’s bones and left him alone with his thoughts, his healing body, and the dawning realization that he wasn’t going to go to jail for anything he’d done. Shido’s change of heart left him all too willing to confess and to throw himself upon the sword the man spent years sharpening to impale others upon and the criminal justice system cared little for prosecuting a teenager. Not when there were bigger fish to chase; politicians and businessmen, doctors and lawyers.

So rather than serving time in jail, Akechi ended up sentenced to therapy and community service for crimes so banal he didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry at the sheer injustice of what he’d gotten away with. He’d ended up doing neither, if only because the fresh wounds on his body prevented either. Instead, he spent his time attending multiple types of therapy.

Six months after he’d awoken in the hospital, nine months after that horrible day in the engine room when he’d shot the bulkhead door closed behind him, eight months after stopping Maruki, things changed. Akechi had been sitting in the front room waiting for his normal physical therapy appointment to start when Sakamoto arrived with his mother in tow. Ignoring them proved impossible. The pair rattled back and forth, Sakamoto’s voice cutting through the air like his bat used to, bludgeoning everyone in the vicinity with his presence. Only the age of the windows kept Akechi from launching through them in a desperate attempt to avoid any contact with the people he’d betrayed, especially one who had been vocally opposed to Akechi’s inclusion.

Akechi also recognized that attempting to flee would bring attention to his presence. So instead, he’d carefully sunk back into his corner, prayed the plant was enough to hide him, and raised his book to cover his face. The practice, while not terribly large, was not terribly small either. Plants dotted the waiting room, as did people waiting patiently for their appointments, the walls a neat, calming shade of blue. His physical therapist mentioned it was a calming color once while she helped Akechi through the exercises. He’d sat on the ground scowling at the walls that day, his first time at outpatient therapy. The entirety of his chest and legs blazed after the rigorous movement, every inch packed with needles, while his physical therapist sat beside him, a moon eyed woman named Akane. She’d let Akechi rant until he had no breath or patience left, and then talked to him about the walls.

The same walls Akechi tried to blend into when Sakamoto entered. Sakamoto remained much the same physically as he had in back when Akechi last saw him in February. Blond hair, obnoxious shirt, loud and brash. His mother, while dressed in quieter colors, matched with a cheery smile that spoke of mischief, determination, and care. Jealousy flickered in Akechi’s heart before he quickly smothered it, forcing himself to read another line of his book.

Akechi read the same line three times before he gave up, watching the Sakamotos as they spoke to the receptionist. Maybe he’d be called in for his appointment before Sakamoto noticed him. Maybe Sakamoto wouldn’t notice him; the facility had multiple areas and multiple therapists. The odds were incredibly low that they’d run into each other once Akechi’s appointment started. As long as Sakamoto didn’t notice him, Akechi could sneak in, do his hour of agony, and then limp away to be a blob at home. A solid plan, an excellent plan. Survive long enough, avoid an awkward conversation. Avoid a conversation that would lead to Akira, that would cut open wounds and scars that Akechi didn’t know how to touch let alone broach. Akira deserved better, Akira wouldn’t want to see him, Akira--

One, two, three, four. Akechi inhaled and held his breath, counting to four again. Then he exhaled, a trick from Dr. Kaname that had been new at the time. A strategy to deal with the new tricks Akechi’s brain played on him in the wake of the last year of his life, in the wake of Maruki and Akira and dying. His heart thumped unevenly through the first few rounds before it slowly started to sync with Akechi’s counting. Only then did Akechi return his gaze to Sakamoto.

The Sakamotos remained standing at the counter when Akane emerged, her moon eyes blinking placidly as she cast her gaze over the crowd of recovering people. She blinked as her gaze identified Akechi, as she opened her mouth to call his name.

Akechi staggered to his feet, despising the forearm crutches he required to move. He slid his arms into the braces with a barely concealed scowl. The cognition and the shadows had failed to kill him, but they’d come close enough. If there was any way to go back and attack them, Akechi would have done it in a heartbeat. But Shido’s Palace was long sunk, so he could only cope with the detritus that remained. Akechi shuffled over to Akane, doing his best to lift his feet clearly. He didn’t want the Sakamotos to turn around and see him, especially not like this. Not when Akechi still remained half healed.

No one stared at Akechi as he hobbled over. No one beyond Akane, who merely watched with an eyebrow raised. “You in a hurry kid?” she drawled when Akechi got closer, holding open the door to the rest of the facility.

“No,” Akechi replied tersely, not daring to look over his shoulder at Sakamoto. If Akechi didn’t look, Sakamoto and the problems he represented didn’t exist. “Just ready to go.”

“Aight. Don’t tell me why you’re squirrelly. It’s fine.” Akane squinted out over the rest of the room before her gaze settled back on Akechi. “C’mon, if you’re so eager we can see if you can do an extra lap. No time like the present.”

“Oh joy.” Akane laughed at the viciousness in Akechi’s voice, the viciousness he couldn’t quite hide anymore. After everything, after dropping his polite mask in January, picking it back up proved hard, especially in situations like this. But it was fine. The door shut behind Akane and Akechi, and Akechi was home free.

Akechi was not home free.

Sakamoto and Akechi stared each other down on the small track like a pair of fighting roosters. Neither had their phone on their person; the facility required all such personal materials to be left in their assigned cubbies, and so Sakamoto had no way to contact Akira. Similarly, Akechi had no way and no person to call, so even if he had his phone, it would be useless. He wasn’t about to call Sae in a panic over seeing a phantom thief. Akechi was an adult, he was nineteen, and he could handle his own messes. He didn’t need Sae and he definitely didn’t need Akane who had stepped away to help another therapist just a minute prior.

What he couldn’t handle was Sakamoto trying to grab his cheek. Akechi hissed and Sakamoto snapped his hand back. “A ghost,” Sakamoto squawked, instead pointing at Akechi.

Which sort of worked for Akechi. He could do that. “Indeed. I’ve come to remind you of your poor choices.”

Ryuji turned whiter than a sheet, his eyes bugging out. “Dude, go haunt Akira! He’s really missing you.”

“Kurusu has better people to miss,” Akechi snapped back. He carefully ignored the way his chest hurt at the mention of Akira. Akira, who had friends and family, certainly wouldn’t miss him. Not when there were so many others.

Sakamoto ran a hand through his hair. “Man, he does though. You two were super close, he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that you’re dead. You should go talk to him if you’re… wait, why would you be haunting a physical rehabilitation facility?”

“I didn’t really get a choice.” Akechi did his best to not try to look around frantically for Akane. Akane was not a “get out of Sakamoto Jail free” card. She was not a get out of anything free card because she would have questions, and Akechi hated questions. Despised them really. “Now, I have things to do, so--”

Sakamoto grabbed Akechi’s arm, which while incredibly rude was a far better option than trying to poke Akechi’s face. Sakamoto’s mouth dropped open. “You’re not a ghost.”

“If you tell Kurusu--”

“DUDE! You’re not a ghost!” Akechi ignored the heads that turned towards Sakamoto and himself. This was fine. This was manageable. This was--

“Akira’s been beside himself! Why haven’t you messaged him at all?” Ryuji’s hand tightened on Akechi’s arm, and Akechi fought to stay stiller than stone. Fighting Sakamoto would not work; in Akechi’s current state, he didn’t even know if he could lift his arms above his head. A familiar voice shouted from afar. Akechi ignored it.

“Sakamoto--” Akechi hissed. “I have been--”

“Been what? Too busy to let us--” Sakamoto’s fingers dug into Akechi’s arm and while the break was mostly healed it remained sore months later, sore enough that Akechi flinched.

Sakamoto’s fingers loosened. “Dude?”

“It’s nothing,” Akechi hissed, pulling himself free as he cursed his entire body. “Don’t tell him. Don’t talk to me. It’s better off that I remain dead.”

His exit would have been perfect if Akechi didn’t turn around and promptly trip over nothing. Nothing ever went right in his life, ever. Akechi cursed the ground, cursed his lost sense of balance, cursed Sakamoto, and cursed himself for good measure, all the while Sakamoto stood over him, staring with an open mouth.

“Well, go ahead and laugh then,” Akechi snarled. He could see Akane moving over from the end point now. A cruel part of him ripped into her. How could she let Sakamoto act like that? A more realistic part, the part that sounded almost like Kurusu, reminded Akechi that she’d been moving before he fell, that she’d started moving the minute Sakamoto grabbed him, that she’d been the one to shout.

“I’m not going to laugh.” Sakamoto shifted, wincing as he knelt down. “You’re such an effing pain, you know that? Whatever. Just let me help you up.”

Akechi scowled at the hand Sakamoto offered. It hadn’t changed since February. Of course, Sakamoto also hadn’t nearly died in December as far as Akechi knew, so that fact wasn’t surprising. “Don’t tell Akira. I…” How to explain everything? How to explain his body, his survival? His months in the hospital, his recent release into an apartment so small that it could fit into the living room of his old apartment? How to explain why Akechi hadn’t reached out? How to explain the lump in his chest at the thought of talking to Akira, at seeing Akira, at-- Akechi shook himself, and forced himself to continue. “Just don’t.”

Sakamoto scowled, his brows crashing heavily together as he eyed Akechi. His jaw worked furiously as the other boy turned whatever he was thinking about over and over in his head. “Whatever. I’m not going to get in the middle of whatever pissing match you two have going on. I won’t tell him as long as you explain to me how you’re not dead. ”

“Akira and I don’t have a pissing match. Honestly Sakamoto, where did you pick up that language?” Akechi shifted and tried to lift himself, only for his muscles to spam. He swore virulently before Sakamoto reached forward and hauled him up.

“You’re going to chide me ‘bout my language?” Sakamoto shook his head, his hands steady under Akechi’s elbows. Akechi despised it. Sakamoto and the situation in general. He wanted to be better, he wanted to be able to move on his own, he wanted--

“What’s going on,” Akane asked, frowning as she finally reached the pair. Her eyes cut into both Akechi and Sakamoto, and Sakamoto fidgeted.

“Nothing,” Akechi said finally when it was clear Sakamoto wouldn’t speak. “He’s an old acquaintance who hadn’t heard I was out of the hospital.”

Akane looked between them. The look changed Sakamoto’s tune; his face turned mulish, and for some reason, Akane shook her head. “Uh huh… whatever. But there’s no mucking about in therapy. You both are here for a reason, and that reason isn’t to hurt each other, no matter how accidentally. Understood?”

She waited until they both nodded. “Good. Now, get back to your exercises. Akechi, you have one more lap.”

And that was that. It should have been the end. That should have been the last time Akechi saw Sakamoto. but it wasn’t. Instead, Akane and Sakamoto’s trainer got it into their heads that the boys were friends, and suddenly they were being paired up once a week for at least one set of exercises. Nothing Akechi said did anything. Akane merely smiled and stared at him with her crinkled eyes until Akechi stopped complaining.

Habits were hard to break after all, and having a partner for exercise wasn’t the worst thing. It was why Akechi stood outside Sakamoto’s apartment, waiting for the other man to come out so they could start their morning run. He would never admit to liking Sakamoto, but tolerating him was a different affair. Sakamoto knew how to pace himself and didn’t comment if Akechi slowed down or had to stop early. Miraculously, his trap remained shut and somehow he knew when Akechi needed to stop before Akechi did.

“Hey man, sorry. Ma needed a thing,” Sakamoto erupted out of the front door, his trainers slapping the sidewalk. In the quiet of the morning, they resounded like snare drums.

Akechi shrugged, absently adjusting the sleeves on his running shirt. “How is she doing?”

Sakamoto stretched, reaching down to tap one foot and then the other, wiggling his leg this way and that. The leg moved much smoother than in the Metaverse all those years ago, swinging out like a well oiled machine as Sakamoto commanded it. “Doing fine. She’s just got a late shift tonight so she won’t be home for dinner. So she told me to make sure to figure out dinner on my own. She said hello by the way, and asked how you were. I told her you’re still prickly as ever.”

“Thank you for your assessment of my character,” Akechi replied drily. “Are you ready?”

Sakamoto swung his arms over his head and stretched one last time. “Yep,” he said, letting his arms fall to his sides with a flop. “Let’s go.”

The sun peered between buildings as Akechi and Sakamoto started their run, their pace languorous in the cool tones of morning. Crisp air bit at Akechi’s lungs; later, when the sun approached its zenith, the heat would set in with a desperate, cloying fervor. But for now, a chill remained, a reminder of the approaching fall. The reminder remained offset by the hints of humidity that occasionally throttled the air as they ran, but it mostly remained distant, a threat of something that would hit arrive later in the day. Cars rolled past them as the city stirred into consciousness, people emerging from buildings to totter towards the subways.

Akechi and Sakamoto ran through them all, heading for a small park. It wasn’t like Inokashira Park, being much smaller and far more remote, a speck of green in the otherwise grey city. They’d found it a year ago, or rather Akira had on one of the rare times he hadn’t been working at Leblanc and thus could join them on a morning trip. Akira took one look at the route and shook his head, pulling out his phone. He’d found the park in less than a minute, and they’d run there.

If Akechi kept returning to said park, Sakamoto never commented on it. They meandered their way towards it and ducked onto the meandering path. Usually they ran in silence, content with the sounds of the city. But some days, Sakamoto would start talking, and on that particular morning, Sakamoto spoke.

“So how’s your plant doing?” he asked as they turned into the park, the trees still beneath the grey yellow light of dawn.

“Hm?” Akechi kept his pace, staying even with Sakamoto. Long ago, he’d tried to outrun Sakamoto, on a day that the blond annoyed him. Irritatingly, the blond caught up and passed him, daring to turn around and talk to Akechi while running backwards. Akechi never tried again; while the temptation to prove he was better than Sakamoto remained strong, Akechi knew his limits. Or rather, he remembered the agony of the following day and decided that besting Sakamoto wasn’t worth being unable to move for a day. Akira, perhaps, but not Sakamoto.

“Your plant,” Sakamoto repeated, his arms pumping as he jogged. He gestured at the trees around them. “Akira mentioned that you’d gotten a plant with him.”

“We did not get a plant together. We each got a plant.”

“Oh yeah, the competition thing you guys have going on.” Sakamto ignored the glare Akechi directed his way and continued. “But yeah, I saw Akira’s plant and his is doing well, and he said that you both were raising one, so I thought I’d ask how yours is doing. So. How’s your plant?”

“Does everyone know about the plant?” Akechi groused as the path curved.

Sakamoto dared to laugh at him, a horrible guffawing noise that made Akechi want to stab his own ears. “Yeah man. We all visit Akira. Not as much as you, but we all try to keep tabs on him. You know how he gets when no one’s watching him.”

Akechi hmm’d in response. If Sakamoto was talking about how Akira wilted like an unwatered flower if one of his precious friends didn’t stop by, then yes, Akechi knew. “What does that have to do with the plant?”

“We ask him ‘bout it! We’re not blind, and he gets protective about it, which means you’re involved.”

“What.” They passed an older couple, threading their way on the left and accelerating to put space between them. Sweat dripped down Akechi’s back, and his chest ached. Not the ache of the bad days, but the ache of someone who’d been jogging for thirty minutes.

“He does!” Sakamoto waved to another jogger, a man they often ran past in the morning. The other man waved vaguely every time, his eyes never focusing. Akechi sometimes wondered if the man was even conscious. “Akira always gets protective about the stuff you two do. Pretty sure he’s worried you’re going to run away again.”

“I do not run away.”

Sakamoto laughed again and Akechi reminded the part of himself that sounded like Loki that stabbing people was not a good option. Quite frankly, it wasn’t an option anymore, especially considering Akechi’s time in the system and Hereward’s presence. Hereward huffed in the recesses of Akechi’s mind, reminding Akechi that they both had standards and stabbing anyone wasn’t worth it, no matter how enticing it might seem.

“You totally do dude! Like, not physically.” Sakamoto paused long enough for Akechi to open his mouth. “Well, not by your choice since you didn’t want to end up in the hospital, but you definitely could have talked to him sooner.”

Akechi scowled. “I couldn’t have.”

Sakamoto shrugged. “You could have. You just didn’t want to because it would mean exposing yourself again like you did in the Engine Room.”

“That’s not…” Akechi huffed. The worst part was Sakamoto wasn’t entirely wrong. “Are you going to keep lecturing me?”

“Yeah. Don’t try to weasel out. We’ve got another thirty minutes to run back and I promise you I can make it awkward.” Sakamoto grinned, all of his teeth showing. It was the same look he’d gotten on his face when the end of a fight was in sight, the one that’d shown up when they had rallied to fight Maruki.

Akechi hated it. Or rather, he hated being on the receiving end of it. It felt like he was losing, and he hated that feeling. “I wasn’t going to contact Kurusu when I was barely able to do anything for myself.”

“You didn’t want him to worry!”

Akechi hissed and hated himself for hissing. Sakamoto cackled and Akechi wanted to do nothing more than attack Sakamoto to make him stop asking questions. It made Akechi think about things he didn’t want to unpack, because it would mean confronting things he’d long ago packed away in a box and forgotten. “That’s not it, Sakamoto.”

“It’s okay to care man! We all know you and Akira have this weird thing going on.” Sakamoto reached out and threw an arm around Akechi’s shoulders. Akechi wiggled out of the grasp with a curse under his breath.

“We don’t have a weird thing going on,” Akechi bit out, accelerating. If he could end the run, then he wouldn’t have to deal with this until their next run. By which point, Sakamoto would hopefully have forgotten this entire conversation. A pipe dream, perhaps, but Akechi always was good at pipe dreams. They were one of his consistent strengths.

Sakamoto kept pace with Akechi easily, the damn runner. “Yeah yeah, it’s just a really close friendship. You still haven’t said how your plant is doing.”

“It’s doing fine, Sakamoto. It’s grown an inch in the past month.”

“Nice! You should send me a picture.” At Akechi’s nonplussed glance, Sakamoto continued. “Well, not even Akira’s gotten to visit your place, so I know I have a rat’s ass chance of seeing it.”

“Right in one.” Akechi’s brain caught up a moment later. “Why are you judging by Akira?”

“Because if anyone’s going to cross your threshold, it’s going to be him. Akira’s y’know, different for you. The only reason you talked to me first is because we happened to go to the same rehab facility.”

Sakamoto was right, and they both knew it. Akechi scrunched his nose as he tried to find something witty to say, to at least attempt to deny it, and came up short. Instead, they ran, their shoes thumping against the trail. Birds sang around them, their trills loud in the relative silence of the park. Sakamoto waited. Akechi could tell by the set of the other man’s shoulders, the way his face twitched to say something, to ask something. Akechi wondered what Sakamoto wanted to ask; he dreaded it. Sakamoto was right that Akechi never would have talked to Sakamoto first. All things considered, Akechi wouldn’t have talked to any of the Phantom Thieves after what he’d done, for multiple reasons. He’d killed two of their parents, attacked all of them, and betrayed Akira. The list went on and on, and in the aftermath of the engine room, in the aftermath of months in the hospital and the weeks of therapy, Akechi drowned in his mind.

Shido was arrested, his heart changed. Akechi’s mother was avenged, at the cost of everything; Akechi’s relationships, his life, his health, and he hadn’t known how to change any of that. Still didn’t know how. He got crepes with Ann and watched movies with Sakura, ran with Sakamoto, and Akira…

Akira was Akira. Sakamoto wasn’t wrong when he said that Akira was different. It was a simple fact. The sky was blue, the ocean was wet, and Akira Kurusu was different. Why, Akechi couldn’t explain. He couldn’t explain the lump in his throat when he thought of Akira, he couldn’t explain the rage he felt when someone hurt Akira, he couldn’t explain the calm that enveloped him when he could spend time with Akira. Words were hard. Friendships were hard. Life was hard, and Sakamoto… Sakamoto deserved better. After everything Sakamoto had done for Akechi, after respecting his wishes to wait to tell Akira, after helping him in rehab, after running with him twice a week at least, Sakamoto deserved something. Akechi could do that.

The path wound on, the silence continued, and slowly they returned to the entrance to the park. Akechi slowed down and Sakamoto mirrored him, the pair coming to a halt in the hazy darkness of the lee of a tree. “It’s nothing against you,” Akechi said slowly, turning over each word in his head before he let them leave his mouth. “I can’t explain why Kurusu is different. You’re not wrong that I wouldn’t let you into my apartment. But it’s nothing you’ve done. It’s just--”

“Your place,” Sakamoto finished. He rolled his shoulders, watching Akechi placidly. “I get it man. You don’t have to explain yourself, but like. Thank you. I know it's hard for you.”

“This isn’t hard,” Akechi snapped, before stopping himself. He was trying to be nice. And not Detective Prince nice. An actual nice. Sakamoto thankfully didn’t try to touch Akechi like he would with Akira. Instead, he shoved his hands deep inside the pockets of his sweatpants and listened. When had Sakamoto learned to listen? To wait and not blurt out everything that crossed his brain. Akechi sucked in a breath. “Listen. Sakamoto. I might not say this often, so don’t interrupt me. I don’t invite people over to my apartment, but you’re not terrible to spend time with. You’ve been nothing but kind to me ever since we met, and you respected my wishes to not tell Akira, which having known you for years now I recognize as a difficult feat. So thank you.”

Ryuji’s mouth, which slowly fell open over the course of Akechi’s speech, dropped until it dangled wide enough to catch a fish with. Akechi huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Ryuji whooped and slung an arm around Akechi’s shoulder. “Man, look at you! Therapy’s really helping you huh?”

Akechi sputtered. “Fuck off, Sakamoto.”

Ryuji grinned, ducking away from Akechi’s flailing. “Man, it sucked at the time, but I wasn’t about to rat you out. I was too worried you were going to run away.”

“I don’t run away from my problems, Sakamoto. Now let’s get going, I have classes later and I can’t afford to waste time.” Akechi turned away towards the entrance, refusing to look at Ryuji and ignoring the other’s chuckles.

“Yeah yeah. I’m right behind you Akechi.” The wind bit into Akechi’s face as he started running, Ryuji settling into place beside him, a cog settling into an unexpected place. They didn’t talk as they ran. There wasn’t much need to. What had needed to be said had been said, and now all that remained was to run back to Ryuji’s apartment to start the rest of the day. They’d have a quick breakfast, and then Akechi would leave, first back home to clean up and then to his classes, and then to Leblanc to pick up Akira. They’d go out and have a nice time, and then Akechi would go home and rest and the world would spin merrily, merrily on.

Akechi thought he could get used to it.

Chapter Text

Sakura conducted an odd ritual once a month that required the presence of Akira and Akechi. Akechi was unsure when his presence became required; it must have been a few months after he’d started talking to Akira and the rest of the phantom thieves again. It definitely started after the Talk; most Sakura related things, ranging from movie nights to coffee conversations, started after that. Understandably so, considering everything that Akechi had done.

Forgiveness was never something that Akechi sought. As much as he craved affection and attention, he understood that sometimes actions were unforgivable. After all, he never forgave Shido for the role the man played in the death of Akechi’s mother. Why should Okumura or Sakura forgive Akechi for his role in the death of their parents? Why shouldn’t they continue to nurse their anger, store it for the opportune moment to strike Akechi down?

It was what Akechi would do. And so, in spite of having a conversation with Sakura about her mother, her work, and Shido, Akechi waited for Sakura to strike, to invite him out on one of these vainglorious trips and strike him down. Vain of him, perhaps, to think that Sakura spent that much time thinking about him. He’d tried to talk it through with Dr. Kaname once, and she’d talked about anxiety and expectations and reality and how to separate what might be from what is, but it was a hard process to internalize and a harder one to bring up to Kaname.

So Akechi didn’t. Instead, he tried to remind himself of Kaname’s words that it was other people’s decision to spend time with him. Their lives did not revolve around Akechi; he was merely one part of their lives. Akechi didn’t always know how to feel about that, but sometimes it helped deal with why the thieves continued to hang out with him.

Sometimes, it confused him.

Once a month, Sakura set out to Akihabara with Akira and Akechi in tow. Akechi knew it wasn’t the only time she visited the district. Sometimes Ryuji would speak of visiting the arcades with her or Sumire would mention a quick trip out there to repair her phone with Sakura. Sometimes Akira would send photos of himself and Sakura standing in front of the gacha machines, little figures in their hands. Little hints of Sakura’s life, none of which explained why on the first Tuesday of every month, Sakura would summon Akechi to Leblanc to begin what she termed a grand adventure.

Subway rides never counted as part of a grand adventure to Akechi, but as Sakura informed him once on said ride, Akechi was a cynical old man in a young man’s body. Subways crowded everyone together, pushing the masses into an overly congealed blob of humanity. Person pressed into person until there only remained a Hecatoncheires within the cabin. Admittedly, things were better now that the Detective Prince was a thing of the past, barely remembered by anyone outside of those who had tampered with the public cognition. No longer did Akechi have to worry about being trapped with someone who thought the Detective Prince was an overblown phenomenon or, even worse, being trapped with an overly enthusiastic fan. No one paid Akechi enough to deal with them, not even the shadows he’d gotten most of his money from.

Still, he had a better time than Sakura. While she ventured out more than she had during her hikikomori years, subways remained a challenge. Akechi wasn’t sure how she traveled with Ryuji or with Sumire. She couldn’t squeeze her way between and use them like shields like she did with Akira and Akechi. Unless she stood by the wall, which was an unlikely possibility. Wall spots were highly sought after commodities after all, and so Akechi stood on the subway pondering the conundrum as Sakura babbled to Akira, Akechi, and Morgana.

The cat sat squished in Akira’s bag. Some things never changed, and Akira remained the palanquin bearer for the laziest cat in existence. Not that Akira would call Morgana lazy. That was left to Akechi, who saved his comments for when it was feasible for Morgana to walk. Subways weren’t exactly feasible as a place for Morgana to stretch out, so Akechi kept his commentary to himself even as Morgana occasionally poked his head out of the bag to reply.

Somehow, the cat never was caught. Akira’s luck continued to surprise Akechi. He remained unsure of how everyone missed the cat hiding in Akira’s bag and he slowly stopped questioning it. Some things were just unexplainable. Instead, Akechi zoned back in on Sakura’s rambling.

“And then we have to try to get one of the Featherman R figures as they’re on a limited rerun and I don’t know if they’ll ever release them again.” Her face remained glued to her phone as she rapidly scrolled and tapped a figure, holding it up for Akira to examine. He gamely leaned in, the glasses magnifying the silver of his eyes. Several curls fell over the top, and Akechi idly traced them with his mind, following the sweep of Akira’s hair. He wondered how the strands would feel if he took off his gloves and...

He shook himself. “They’ve said every time they release this line that it’s not going to come back.”

“But you never know Akechi! This could be the last time. It’s been three years!” Sakura used her phone to poke Akechi’s cheek.

Akechi forced his face to remain neutral. “And they’ll be back in another three. Now, if they announce that they’re rerunning the Featherman: From the Ashes figures, then I would understand your concern.”

“I don’t hope for impossible things, Akechi. I know my limits and the ones I can break, but getting a rerun of those figures is impossible.” The poking continued in full force, the corner of her phone digging into Akechi’s cheek. He reminded himself that launching Sakura off the train was not an option, no matter how appealing it was.

“Stop it Futaba, he hasn’t done anything poke-worthy.” Akira’s hand intercepted Sakura’s phone and pulled it down and away. Akechi lifted an eyebrow; Akira shrugged. “You just stated an opinion and not even a controversial one at that. I read up a bit on it last night after Futaba mentioned it in the discord.”

“I see.” Of course Akira would research what Sakura was into. He was nice like that, a good friend. Akechi would never--

He cut that thought off, picking up the jealousy and setting it to the side. He could be jealous; Dr. Kaname told Akechi again and again that it was okay to feel negative emotions, that it was unrealistic to never feel negative emotions. It was more important to understand where they were coming from, and being jealous because Akira was paying attention to someone else was inane. Why was Akechi even jealous over that?

Akechi huffed at himself in his head and returned to the conversation. “I don’t even see why they make so few,” Morgana was saying, his face half poked out of the bag. “Wouldn’t they make more money if they sold more?”

“Supply and demand,” Akechi replied, stepping closer to Sakura as the doors opened and the crowd flowed about their little island. “The more figures they make, the larger the supply, the easier it is to oversatisfy the demand. The fewer figures they make, the rarer the item, the more likely the entire batch will sell out. It’s a careful balancing act.”

“Seems stupid,” Morgana groused, returning to the bag. “Isn’t it like the most popular show in Japan?”

“No, it’s not. You just live near two outliers,” Akira said and laughed when Akechi and Sakura gasped in sync.

“Featherman is extremely popular, Akira Kurusu, you take that back.” Sakura reached up and yanked on Akira’s cheeks. He merely smirked, his eyes dancing as they met Akechi’s gaze.

Akechi rolled his eyes. “If that’s the grave you want to lie in then, Kurusu, don’t let me stop you.”

He ignored the way his stomach flopped when Akira smirked at him. It was stupid. Akira was stupid.

Akihabara was a labyrinth of stores, shops, cafes, and other tech oases. If there was a home for Sakura outside of Leblanc, this was it. It had everything she could want, from computer parts to Featherman merchandise to arcades, and everything had a facet that she could use to bribe other members of the Phantom Thieves. Even Akechi had to admit that it was effective. Not that he would ever say that out loud; he had some self respect. He also wasn’t ready to admit that while the figure had been rerun regularly, they’d been out of his reach his entire life. Too expensive when his mother was alive, too superfluous while under Shido’s employ, too everything while recovering.

So now, even when he did have a little pocket change and a space that wasn’t bugged, buying a figure felt too… indulgent. Or something. It sat knotted in his chest, easily brushed away with justifications. He had to buy food, he had to pay for the apartment, he had clothing to buy. Featherman figurines did not come cheap. Besides, Sakura wanted all of them. After the devastation she wrought, there wouldn’t be many left.

Even now, they fell in line. Akira in the front, taking direction from Sakura in the middle, and Akechi in the rear. People pressed about them, talking and walking, all lost in their own conversations, in their own sliver of reality. A sea of humanity rather than a sea of souls. Even now, years later, Sakura stared wide eyed at the people around them, her hand resting on the back of Akira’s bag where Morgana hid. The cat moved around every so often, waddling backwards in the bag to press against Sakura’s hand.

Akechi glared at a man who ogled Sakura, cutting off the other man’s view of her. The man grimaced under Akechi’s dead-eyed stare and turned away, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Akechi stepped closer to Sakura, casting his gaze out over the crowd. While he possessed no lost love for Maruki, the man’s near complete erasure of Akechi’s reputation as the Second Detective Prince had some perks. No random girls stopped Akechi for autographs anymore, and no one got it into their head that they could take on the Detective Prince in a fight. Now Akechi looked like an angry twenty-something when he glared in public, something he could now do at any time without worrying about a call from Shido to complain about Akechi’s lack of acting skills.

Akechi glared at the man until he disappeared into the crowd. He glared an extra moment to fully ensure the man was gone before he turned his head back. Akira met his gaze, an inexplicable and small smile on his face. Akechi jutted his chin out, daring the other man to say something. Akira’s smile merely widened before he looked forward once again.

Sakura never noticed. She kept on talking, one hand on Akira’s bag and the other on her phone as she planned out their route to the various stores she wanted to examine. Some things never changed. She’d been the same way all those months ago when she’d first ventured out to Akihabara with Akechi and Akira in tow.

It had been her idea. Akechi, newly reunited with the Phantom Thieves, certainly hadn’t reached out. He still didn’t reach out. He knew his place and he also knew that he didn’t know his place. Ryuji hadn’t ratted him out to Akira. Akechi ratted himself out in the end, and rather than rejecting him, Akira welcomed Akechi back with open arms.

Akechi stared at the back of Akira’s head. The black curls rioted, going every way under the sun, bouncing slightly with each step the other took. Akira cried when Akechi finally went back to Leblanc, when he’d finally been well enough to manage a trip on the subway and the walk to Leblanc without needing a cane or a break. Akechi still didn’t understand why Akira cried. Didn’t understand why Akira froze behind the counter, his eyes wide until his entire face crumbled. Akechi almost ran away, frozen in the door. He’d been ready for yelling, for fists, for everything besides tears. Tears were unexpected, unforeseen. Akechi couldn’t fight tears. He could get mad at tears but that had felt… wrong for some reason. So instead he stood in the door awkwardly, unsure of what to do until Akira ordered Akechi to sit down, the tears finally abating.

Why had Akira cried? Akechi narrowed his eyes at the back of Akira’s head, as if that could provide him the answers. It couldn’t, and Akechi wasn’t about to ask Akira why he’d cried. That would mean admitting that he thought about Akira, and Akechi couldn’t do that. It would be unbecoming. Akechi reached down and grabbed onto something else, something besides introspection. Akira should have been focusing on something else, should have been working to improve himself rather than wasting time crying over Akechi. Or something. Yes, that felt like a better train of thought.

“Here we are!” Sakura grabbed Akechi’s arm and yanked, dragging Akechi forward and down an alley illuminated more by signs than by the daylight. The neon hummed around them, heating the air around them. Sign names flew past Akechi, their names sliding and out of view as Sakura accelerated down the alley. Whatever store it was, it was not one of the ones they’d been to before. Akira kept pace, lengthening his stride without straightening his shoulders, falling easily into pace beside Akechi with an amused smile on his face. He didn’t smile at Sakura though; he smiled at Akechi, and Akechi lifted a brow in a silent question.

Akira’s smile widened inexplicably, an answer Akechi didn’t understand. For a moment, Akechi desperately wished he had a guide to reading Akira Kurusu’s face. Every time he felt like he knew the other man, something happened and turned everything upside down. He opened his mouth to speak; Sakura flung open the door.

“Mwehehehe, here we are!” she declared to Akechi, her noodle arms somehow managing to drag him forward so they stood side by side. Akira fell in behind them, a warm presence against Akechi’s back. “If my investigations are true, this shop has primo merchandise at the best prices. You may thank me for my long hours of investigation.”

“It took you twenty minutes at most, Sakura,” Akechi returned. He ignored how she stuck out her tongue to instead look over the store.

While he’d spent years in the Metaverse and had seen a variety of palaces, he hadn’t truly witnessed anything in the real world that could be described with the word avalanche. That was, he hadn’t witnessed anything until now. Boxes lined and spilled off the shelves like an unmanageable tide, stands stood propped up in the aisles in such a way that managed to obstruct and not obstruct the paths, and posters lined the walls above a bored looking cashier who watched them with all the interest of a man underpaid and overworked. A brief glance at the posters revealed content that varied wildly from Featherman to Star Forneus to The X-Folders to Steel Samurai, a mish-mash that Akechi would never claim to understand but over the course of outings with Sakura had come to accept. These sort of stores, while containing valuable items, also had the organization scheme of a game of 52-card pick up as instigated by a three year old. It made finding what they were looking for hard.

“Now. Boys, you know the plan. I laid it out in Discord. I will take… that aisle.” Sakura pointed at the middle aisle, the widest aisle and best lit, the one with the most standees. Akechi resisted the urge to comment about the lightning, or the unfortunately suggestive standee of Pink Argus that stood at the very end, half-hiding a set of shelves lined with doujin. Sakura could dig her own grave in that regard.

“Akira! Key item! You are to go down the left aisle. While you know the least about Featherman, you’ve listened to Akechi and me argue enough that you should be able to recognize the figures.”

“I have played Featherman Seeker, you know,” Akira said quietly, only to be ignored by Sakura.

Sakura turned to Akechi and poked his chest. “You get the right aisle. Use those condor eyes of yours to find the goods. We meet back at the front in ten minutes if we don’t find anything.”

“Isn’t the phrase eagle eyes?” Akechi said.

Sakura huffed. “There’s no Eagle in Featherman. And like I’ve told you, you’re--”

“I am not Black Condor. Or Grey Pigeon. Go assign Akira his role.”

“I would if he would take the test. I’ve sent it to him like, five times.” Sakura scowled.

Akira shrugged. “I prefer to leave it to the resident experts. And you’ve sent it more than that. You set up a bot to mail it to me daily.”

“It would stop if you would just take the uQuiz. For just ten minutes of your time…”

“Nah. Akechi, who do you think I’d be?” Akira’s eyes danced as he thrust the spotlight onto Akechi.

Akechi did his best to not preen or to lord it over Sakura that Akira asked him rather than acquiesce to Sakura’s demands to take the quiz. “As I’ve said before, it’s a simple deduction. As our brave and glorious leader, you’re Red Hawk.”

Akira’s eyes crinkled. “Any other reasons I’m Red Hawk?”

Akechi hummed, his hand absently coming to cradle his chin while he thought. “Well, Kurusu, your general optimism and belief in doing the right thing aids in the attribution, along with your general air of naivete…”

“Naivete?” Akira repeated, mouthing the word to himself.

Akechi tried to not smile. He tried very hard to not smile viciously, to not be mean. He must have failed; Akira lifted a brow this time. “Yes, Kurusu.”

“Is this about the optimism thing again? It’s not naive to be optimistic. Someone here has to be, and Morgana’s asleep. I think.” Akira glanced down at his bag and lifted his shoulder. The bag twitched in response.

“You’re all idiots,” the cat hissed. “Just go find your figures instead of blocking the door. And for the record Akechi, you are Black Condor. Futaba made me watch R.”

“I am not Black Condor,” Akechi scowled. He’d already explained once on the discord; would he have to explain again to Morgana? On second thought, did Morgana even read the discord?

Morgana sighed heavily enough that it was apparent to anyone who could hear the cognitive cat that he’d also rolled his eyes. “Would you prefer to be Grey Pigeon?”

“I would prefer to be neither,” Akechi replied stiffly. At this stage of his life, he knew he wasn’t a Featherman at all. After everything he’d done in pursuit of his goals, after reflecting on it, Akechi knew that he wasn’t exactly Featherman material. It didn’t stop him from dreaming. Nothing could stop that. “In any case, we should go try to find the figures rather than stand here.”

Akechi refused to bolt. He set his shoulders and aimed for the aisle, ignoring the small commotion behind him. Morgana wasn’t wrong; they had been blocking the door. And if Akechi could escape a conversation he didn’t like, he wouldn’t protest at whatever means he used to do so.

The shelves swallowed Akechi up. Akechi was not a short man. He remained taller than Akira, in spite of the myriad injuries he’d endured as a result of the confrontation in the engine room, and the last few years had seen another small growth that let him keep the height advantage over his rival. Those few advantages were useless here. The shelves soared above Akechi, requiring him to tilt his head back as he looked for the figures.

Box after box stared back with no sign of Featherman. The leads of the X-Folders stared back, their plasticine eyes boring into Akechi. The stares tempted Akechi to turn the boxes around, but it was too much effort. Instead, he moved on, stepping past a bin of alien plushies in spacesuits. The sign on the bin’s side declared the sale to be too sus to pass up, which made Akechi slide by faster. He wasn’t about to deal with whatever weird cult the aliens belonged to or their mutilations of words. Beyond them sat more boxes for other American science fiction shows. Two feet farther, a group of men and women in red, blue, and yellow shirts lined the walls from floor to ceiling, with another section of the row being dedicated to little fake phasers and triangular badges. Directly across from them were collapsible lightsabers, the sort that Akechi desired as a child and now was too old for. Figures of men in robes, some in black robes and some in grey, sat beside the lightsabers.

Akechi walked past them. Sakura knew these shows better than he did. He hadn’t had time to go out and search for American shows before the movie nights. Back in high school, he’d balanced school, television appearances, and Shido’s dirty work on a knife’s edge. It left Akechi with no time for extraneous activities; even folding in visits to Jazz Jin or Akira required a deft touch he couldn’t always afford. Thus, Akechi didn’t know these figures, and he honestly didn’t care. They weren’t the figures he was after.

By the time Akechi reached the end of the aisle, he’d found at least thirty shows that he’d never seen before but hadn’t found the Featherman figures. He turned the corner, hoping that either Sakura or Akira had more luck as he crossed towards the middle aisle.

Sakura stood alone, squinting at a stand. Her oversized hoodie dripped over her shoulders as she leaned in to inspect something just out of sight. Akechi contemplated whether he should bother her or not. Akira was in the next aisle over, and conversation with Akira never faltered. Or rather, it didn’t falter anymore. Not having a potential assassination lingering over a relationship really helped to smooth out the rough corners.

“Hey Akechi!” Sakura waved at him. The choice was made. Akechi shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and walked over, passing by covers with vacuous eyes and impossible anatomy for all genders.

“What is it?” he asked, coming to stand by Sakura. Now that he stood beside her, he could see what she was looking at. Nothing too impressive; just a rack of comics featuring a man in a white costume. It was obviously in the same genre as Featherman, betrayed by the costumes stylization and mask. Akechi eyed it, wondering why this particular section of doujin caught Sakura’s eyes.

“Do you know this?” She tapped one of the comics, underlining the name of the comic. Zephyrman Strikes Back, the lettering proclaimed in sharp white lines that stood out against the black background. The figure in the white costume stood on the cover, fist raised and about to strike the downed figure below him.

Akechi shook his head. “I’ve never heard of Zephyrman. Why?”

Sakura shrugged, plucking the doujin off the rack and turning it over. “Back in the summer you missed, we faced off against a guy who was into this. I haven’t found a lot of merch for it. It’s an old show, but I figured if anyone was going to know obscure nerd facts besides me, it was going to be you.”

“Why not Akira?”

“Konoe makes Akira uncomfortable. Made all of us uncomfortable, really.” Sakura scanned the back one last time before putting it back on the shelf. “It was like you, but worse. I think that was when I started realizing you weren’t the most fucked up person I’ve ever met.”

“I’m honored,” Akechi replied drily. Someone who made Akira uncomfortable? Akechi wondered what that meant. What sort of people made Akira uncomfortable? Akira, a man who spent copious amounts of time with the person who attempted to murder him.

Sakura flapped her hand at him. “Yeah, yeah. But honestly, he was. I dunno, a lot? He was a lot. I don’t think Akira knew how to deal with him.”

“In contrast to..?”

“You, of course! Akira usually knows how to work with you. You two are terrifying together, you know? I remember in Maruki’s palace, the way you just…” Sakura made several gestures with her hands, a clear mimicry of a sword slice followed up by a gunshot. Akechi felt the back of his neck heat up.

“I don’t think that a showtime--”

Sakura rolled her eyes. “It’s not just that. It’s how you two help each other, even with everything that happened. It’s things like this plant thing you have going on now. It’s how you two fall into place by me on the train. You don’t need to talk to do that, you just do it. I don’t get it, but--”

She fell silent, tilting her head down. Sakura hadn’t really grown in the past few years. Unlike Wakaba, who stood tall for a woman, Sakura remained petite, her frame thin. It would be easy to blame her lifestyle. Akechi knew that Sakura liked hacking with a friend named Sophia and enjoyed eating massive meals with Sumire, that she often skipped sleeping to play video games or to drag Ann and Akechi into movie nights. She subsisted on curry, coffee, and whatever Sumire ate, and it was partly miraculous based on that fact alone that she was still alive. Akechi didn’t understand her. As he grew older, he’d become more and more aware of how little he knew, of how little he had known all those years ago.

“Does it bother you?”

Sakura jerked, blinking up at Akechi behind her massive glasses. “What?”

Akechi faced the comics, his gaze drifting over Zephyrman. The covers froze the hero in a variety of poses: a hand raised victorious, kneeling down and covered in blood, half crouched and waiting to fight, but no cover had him with anyone resembling a friend. No, Zephyrman always stood alone. A pang rang through Akechi’s chest, one that he forced his question through regardless. “Does it bother you that Kurusu and I are close?”

It wouldn’t be surprising after all. Not after everything he’d done.

“No!” Sakura said far too quickly to be the truth. Akechi lifted a brow and she huffed at him, stomping her foot. “Well it did at first!”

“But not now?” Akechi reached out and plucked one of the Zephyrman comics off the shelf. The Cruel Hand of Fate. He flipped over the doujin and tried to read it. The words refused to solidify in front of him. “It’s honestly expected. After all, I did kill your mother. It would be more suprirsing-- fuck!”

Sakura removed her foot from where she’d just stomped on Akechi’s, grinding it down and digging into his toes briefly before returning it to the safe, non-painful floor. Akechi glared, shaking out his foot. “You don’t get to decide how I think about you,” Sakura said quietly, an unknowing mirror to Dr. Kaname’s words. “And yeah, you did. But you were in a messed up place, and you said you were sorry years ago, and you’ve gone out of your way to humor me these past few years. So yeah. I haven’t forgotten and I haven’t forgiven you, but I’d like to think we’re moving past it.”

Akechi reached for words. For something to rebut Sakura’s words, and failed. “Are we?”

“I think we are,” Sakura said, plucking the comics out of Akechi’s hands. “And honestly, I don’t want to be angry with you. It’s just so… tiring to be angry. To hold onto that grief. I miss my mom, but I can’t really… remember her as well anymore. You know?”

Akechi thought of his own mother. He thought of the few memories that he has of her, of playing with her, of waiting at the bathhouse for her to come pick him up. He thought of the faded edges. Was she wearing blue or purple? Did she say hello? She picked him up and spun him around and hugged him, but sometimes he can’t remember her face. She was a body without a face, a mockery of a shadow in Shido’s palace, and when Akechi woke up from those dreams, he did his best to not break things in a rage.

“Yes,” he said quietly to Futaba. “I do.”

Futaba nodded, putting the comic back on the shelf. “It won’t be perfect, but every year, I think we’re doing a little better, you know?”

“Perhaps,” Akechi replied. “It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

“I told my therapist that too. She says it's normal. I’m sure yours would too.”

Akechi grimaced. “She does.”

Futaba laughed quietly. “Mwehehe. Poor Akechi. So put upon by therapy and recovery. Whatever will he do? Go talk to his plant and confess all of his feelings to it?”

“I don’t talk to my plant. That’s inane.” Who talked to their plants? What would that even do? He only threatened the plant every so often. The plant had to be reminded of what was at stake.

Futaba gasped, holding her hand to her chest. “But it helps the plants grow! I saw it on Good Omens.”

“Just because they show it on a television show doesn’t mean that it works. Especially not Good Omens. Isn’t that a fictional show?”

“Yeah so?” Futaba poked Akechi’s chest, and he tolerated it. Her bony finger didn’t hurt, anyways. It hurt far less than her foot grinding into his. “I’ve read papers on it.”

“Actual scientific papers?” Futaba’s eyes brightened into a gleam that Akechi knew not to trust. He quickly backtracked. “I am not going to talk to my plant.”

The gleam in Futaba’s eyes sharpened instead. “But Akira does. He tells his plant aaaaaall sorts of things. Do you really want to lose to Akira?”

No. He had to win. He had to show Akira that-- Akechi scowled. “I know you’re trying to manipulate me.”

“Me? Manipulate you? Perish the thought.” Futaba laughed. What a cheeky little gremlin. Why did Akechi spend time with her again? He desperately sought answers in his skull. “I’ll send you the papers.”

“Thank you,” Akechi replied. Like he would ever talk to his plant. His plant was doing fine. It still had four months to continue growing. The plant nutrients and the light were doing the plant well, the leaves plump and happy on the stem, the pot slowly being colonized as the weeks passed. Talking wouldn’t help the plant.

“I’ve also heard music--”

“Now you’re lying,” Akechi interrupted acerbically and ignored how Futaba curled up to laugh. “You have to be lying.”

“I am not!”

“Hey guys,” Akira’s voice cut through, and both Akechi and Futaba stopped, turning to face the man who leaned around the end corner of the aisle. “I think I found those figures you wanted.”

Futaba whooped. “Hell yeah! C’mon Akechi, last one there is a pisaca!”

Akechi wrinkled his nose as Futaba took off. “Awful,” he said, following at a much slower pace. Akira grinned at him, waiting for Akechi to reach his side before he turned to follow Futaba down the other aisle. “Pisacas are awful, Kurusu, don’t smile like that.”

“Smile like what?” Akira said innocently as they fell into step with each other.

Akechi waved his hand absently. “You know exactly how you’re smiling, Kurusu. So don’t. A pisaca, honestly. We’re the only ones who would understand that, you know.”

“Well, yeah. But wouldn’t you prefer to be a pisaca over Mara?” Akira chuckled at Akechi’s long-suffering look.

“I would rather be neither, Kurusu.” In the very back of his mind Hereward mumbled his agreement. Neither persona appealed to Akechi or to Hereward, though he knew Akira had used both of them over the course of that year in the Metaverse. The persona shifted, waking up slightly to shift closer, to hum in approval at Akira’s closeness. The aisles did force them close, Akechi conceded. Akira and Akechi walked shoulder pressed to shoulder, their fingertips brushing as they maneuvered around the corner.

You could hold his hand, Hereward suggested, floating just beyond reach. The persona shook his head at Akechi’s internal mutterance of what. Why would Akechi want to hold Akira’s hand? He glanced at Akira out of the corner of his eye. As usual, Akira’s hair grew wild, but his eyes seemed brighter, a true silver as they met Akechi’s gaze.

“Neither, Akechi? You wouldn’t want to ride a giant chariot and mow down enemies?” Those silver eyes danced, and Akechi couldn’t help but drown in them. Ever since Akechi first met Akira, he couldn’t help himself.

Their fingertips brushed again. Akechi’s heart raced. Maybe he could take Hereward’s suggestion. Maybe… but why did he want to? Akechi turned inward, scrutinizing the urge like it was a case. Why would it feel so nice to take Akira’s hand?

You’ll figure it out eventually, Hereward said, a paternal smile emanating from the persona as it drifted from the back of Akechi’s mind.

Figure out what, Akechi wondered. He knew Akira, didn’t he? He thought of their outings, of their competitions. He thought of what Futaba just spoke of, of a man that Akechi didn’t know but that Akira was uncomfortable with. He knew Akira, but how well did Akechi know him? Could he avoid things that would make Akira uneasy? Had there been times that Akechi mentioned things off hand and triggered Akira? Once he wouldn’t have cared about that. Akira could handle himself, could handle others, but lately, Akechi found himself worrying about Akira. It was… annoying. Or something. Akechi didn’t know how to describe it.

Akira’s smile faltered, as if he sensed the turn of Akechi’s thoughts. His pace slowed, his hand coming to tug on his forelock as they stopped. “Was that too far?”

“No,” Akechi snapped, before shaking his head and pulling himself together. “No. I was just thinking about something Sakura said.”

Akira tilted his head. His body remained coiled. Waiting for something, for Akechi to do something. But what did Akira expect? Akechi tried to not scowl. Why did his thoughts always have to ruin these moments? Why did he always have to ruin these moments?

“It’s nothing bad,” he said, trying to collect his thoughts. “We just found a comic and she asked me if I’d ever seen it before.”

Akira waited. Akechi hated him briefly for a moment, how Akira knew that if he waited long enough, Akechi would just tell him things. “She said it was something you were uncomfortable with. Or rather that it reminded you of someone you were uncomfortable with, and I was thinking…”

Akira waited and the temptation to shove him rose irrationally. To change this conversation, to reroute it onto anything else. Akechi cleared his throat, staring pointedly away. “You do a lot to make me feel comfortable, but I realized that I don’t always return the favor. That I don’t always know what makes you uncomfortable. And I was trying to figure out how to--”

During Akechi’s speech, Akira’s eyes widened and then softened, his hand falling away from his hair. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly, too quietly for Futaba to hear. “I would tell you. I trust you.”

Akira rested his hand lightly on Akechi’s forearm; Akechi shuddered at the sudden contact. Warmth spread up his limb and sank daggers into his heart. “I don’t know why. It seems rather asinine as a choice.”

“It’s my choice. Nothing you can do about it,” Akira replied with a shrug, his hand still light against Akechi’s forearm. Akechi’s head spun, and his heart raced. Why did Akira rest his hand there? Why did Akechi feel so light with Akira this close, their faces separated only by a few inches now? This was absurd. Akechi sucked down a breath, and then another, trying to find words to explain how idiotic Akira was being, how foolish. How he should make better choices, about how--

“Hey you two! Hurry up!” Futaba waved at them halfway down the aisle.

Akechi leapt as if burned, startling forward and leaving Akira in his wake. “Come on Kurusu. We don’t have all day.”

Akira chuckled breathily behind him; Akechi didn’t dare look back. The back of his neck burned, as did his ears. Damn Akira and his… everything, Akechi decided. How dare Akira be like that?

He stalked forward. He’d have to show Akira up in the competition. He’d have to make sure his plant won, he’d have to make sure to show Akira that Akechi knew how to care for things, that he could keep something alive, no matter the cost. He’d read all those articles Futaba was going to send him, and he’d get the best nutrients, and maybe he would talk to his plant, and then in December, Akira would be awed by Akechi’s fantastic plant.

And then Akechi wouldn’t have to think about these little moments that kept happening, these little stolen moments in time where Akira felt like so much more than a friend. Where he felt like something Akechi couldn’t name, and wasn’t sure if he wanted to. He didn’t dare risk it. He didn’t dare risk changing anything; who knew what would happen if he did?

Akechi reached Futaba who already had three boxes pulled down. She shoved one into his hands. Black Condor. “See, I found you,” she said smugly.

“I see.” Akechi carefully pressed all of his anxieties down and away and ignored the hobbling pace of his heart. Everything was fine. Akira reached them and stood at Akechi’s shoulder, peering at the box in Akechi’s hands. Akechi obliged the unasked question and tilted the box towards Akira, who made the appropriate “Ooo” of acknowledgement.

“Are we free to go then?” Morgana grumped, shifting around in the bag. “I’m getting sweaty.”

“Cats don’t sweat,” Futaba replied and ignored Morgana’s caterwauling protests. “See, they have all of them… we can even get Akira a Red Hawk.”

Akechi nodded. “We should.” He ignored Akira’s sputters to take the Red Hawk down off the shelf and carefully added it to his stack. “What else should we get?”

Futaba cackled maniacally over Akira’s protests and tore into the wall. Akechi, like a good friend, did his best to help. For now, there were purchases to be made and Akira to buy things for.

He could worry about everything else later.

Chapter Text

“You’re slacking! You have to step up your game,” Akechi informed his plant one Wednesday morning while he waited for a call from Sae. Futaba had been prompt. By the time Akechi arrived home after their foray into Akihabara, ten papers awaited him in his email, all about the scientific benefits of talking to one’s plants and how music could help plants grow. Akechi dutifully read all of them, nodded to himself, and set about incorporating the paper’s advice into his daily routine.

“It’s been three weeks, and you have only grown another inch,” he chided, holding up a ruler to the plant’s side. He wrote down the height and shook his head. “You know what’s at stake, Loki. We cannot afford to lose to Kurusu.”

Hereward shook his head in the back of Akechi’s mind and questioned once again why the plant had to be named Loki.

It was simple. Loki had always been competitive, vicious, and a winner. The only time Loki lost was in the Engine Room, and Akechi didn’t want to think about that at the moment. Or at any time really, so he didn’t. Hereward grumbled and Akechi ignored his persona.

“Now, what do you need? Is it more nutrients? Is it better lighting? I know it’s getting dark earlier--”

Akechi’s phone rang across the room. He swore virulently, and then swore worse as his knees locked up when he shifted too fast. Akechi fell over in a mass of angry limbs, and he half crawled and half stumbled over to his phone.

“Akechi speaking,” he said pleasantly into his phone after a brief check of the caller id.

Sae sighed at him. “Did you fall again?”

“I don’t know what you're talking about,” Akechi said in the same tone, eyeing his plant in the distance. The plant did not deign to reply. All it did was sit on the table aloofly, unaware of Akechi’s razor sharp attention.

“You’re using your media tone again,” she said.

Akechi coughed. “My apologies,” he said, downshifting his tone into something a little less manufactured.

“It’s all right,” Sae replied, her voice not exactly sharp. Amusement threaded its way through the tone, a fond exasperation that Akechi didn’t know how to deal with. So he dealt with it like he dealt with most of the other things in his life. He ignored it.

“Did you need something?” he inquired.

“Yes. The deadline for the Nakamura case is this Friday, and I was wondering if you would be all right with working some overtime with me. I know classes are your priority, but it would be helpful if you could put in the hours. There’s been a development--”

“Of course,” Akechi replied promptly, squinting at his plant. It should be fine without him. It had made it this far without Akechi murdering it. Of course, it remained doubtful that the crassula would beat Akira’s in this state; like Akechi in his youth, the plant remained a scrawny little pissant, no matter what help it was given or denied. But Akechi refused to give up, and a week of overtime wouldn’t kill the plant.

Hopefully.

“Good.” Sae’s voice cut through Akechi’s thoughts. “I’ll expect you to be here tomorrow then. Is your class schedule still the same?”

Akechi shakes the thoughts off. “Yes. I’ll come right after my morning classes. Would you like me to pick up anything on the way over?”

“No. If we’re at work late, I’ll purchase food for us. Mr. Wright will understand.” Something clicked on Sae’s end, a briefcase clicking open and papers shuffling around. Sae must be at the office. Akechi wondered if Mr. Wright would chastise her again. It wouldn’t be the first time. Sae was lucky that Mr. Wright worked out of the Los Angeles offices and not out of the tiny Tokyo branch Sae supervised.

“Understood. Was there anything else you needed?”

“No. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The phone clicked off before Akechi could say goodbye. He snorted lightly. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Sae's calls never lasted long. He eyed the phone, rubbing a thumb over the screen before he unlocked it again to check his calendar. He should have checked it before agreeing to Sae’s request. Hopefully he had nothing scheduled with Akira.

He opened his calendar app, swiping left and right as he scanned the week. Classes, movie night… nope. Nothing. Next week Kitagawa had an exhibit opening and Akechi lightly penciled in visiting, but nothing this week. “Still,” he mused aloud to his plant as he minimized the app, “I should let him know. Or would that be weird?”

Loki remained surprisingly silent. This Loki was far quieter than the previous one. Sometimes, Akechi missed his old persona. Not often; the fulminous malice wore on Akechi. The burning desire to see Shido pulled down, to be broken had kept Akechi going. But by the end, it became a chain, a chain Akechi refused to acknowledge.

Hereward shifted. Akechi spared a glance for his final persona, the end result of everything: Shido, Maruki, Akira. “You’ve been talkative lately.”

Unlike Loki, Hereward retained his own council. But he’d spoken during the conversation with Futaba in that shop in Akihabara, and had slowly piped up more and more often. Akechi didn’t mind it, but he did find it curious.

The persona shrugged. You have been doing things that I would like to comment on.

“What does that even mean?” Akechi grumbled, opening Akira’s text messages to jot off a quick message. Busy this week. Needed at work.

You are finally doing things you should have done years ago. Hereward replied, warmth flooding the words like something out of an American Christmas drama that some of Akechi’s old foster parents had watched. I am merely supporting you.

Akechi snorted. “Is that so?”

Dots popped up on the screen, blinking as Akira read Akechi’s message. Don’t overwork yourself. <3

Akechi sputtered. I do not overwork myself.

Akira responded with a picture of Akechi half passed out on Leblanc’s counter, his face mashed into the countertop. Photographic evidence from the last time you said you were needed at work.

Delete that. Akechi ordered, thumping over to the plant. It sat innocuously on the table, unaware of Hereward or Akira. Its leaves fanned out invitingly, encouragingly, green and warm in a way that Akechi would never be. Akechi scowled, bending over to examine the stem as his phone vibrated yet again. He ignored it.

“You know what you need to do,” he said menacingly, rotating the plant. One of the articles Futaba sent talked about rotating the plant so that all sides got equal amounts of light, and now Akechi turns the plant once every three days. “You have to grow big and beautifully, so that Akira will know that I’m competent.”

He already knows that you’re competent. Hereward commented, and laughed when Akechi scowled.

Akechi huffed. “Fucking useless.”

You are in some regards. Hereward agreed and laughed as he disappeared back into the recesses of Akechi’s mind. Akechi swore at his retreating persona and almost missed the days where Hereward didn’t comment on things. But not entirely. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but sometimes talking with Hereward was nice.

Don’t forget to respond to Akira.

Akechi rescinded his last thought immediately. Hereward was awful. Terrible. Why were Akechi’s personas like this?

“Don’t make me make an example out of you,” he informed Loki the plant. Unlike the persona, Loki had nothing to say, and Akechi relished the chance to have the last laugh. “You better behave this week while I work overtime, or it’s right into the compost heap with you. There are plenty of plants out there who would love to be pampered like you are.”

Loki the plant didn’t even shiver. Akechi scowled and snatched up his phone. He had to reply to Akira before he forgot to. Who knew how busy the overtime would be?

The Wright Agency was an extension of an American law firm. Akechi had only met the owner once, a man in his late thirties with the pointiest hair Akechi had ever had the misfortune of witnessing. He seemed jovial, nice in a way that few Japanese lawyers ever were, and exemplified the chaotic nature of the American justice system. He’d visited once while Akechi was working on files in the back, claiming that he wanted to meet Sae’s paralegal and see how Sae was getting on. In a way, Wright reminded Akechi of Akira. Optimistic, determined, and absolutely idiotic. But Akira at least was amusing and understood Akechi’s boundaries.

Wright seemed to take Akechi’s boundaries as a challenge. No, that was poor phrasing. Wright wanted to know Akechi in a way that Akechi didn’t want to be known, and ever since that first meeting, Akechi had done his best to avoid Wright like the plague. He usually proved to be successful. As Akechi only worked as a part time paralegal for Sae, he often missed the oddly timed Zoom calls that Sae participated in to inform Wright of the progress being made in the sphere of Japanese defense law.

However, sometimes he couldn’t avoid Wright, and this was one of those times. Overtime increased Akechi’s hours at the agency, and the increased hours meant that sometimes Akechi was present for those calls. For better or worse, Wright liked to see Akechi. Akechi couldn’t fathom why an American would be so invested in his career, but Akechi found questioning why Wright did anything was about as useful as questioning why the Phantom Thieves did anything.

And so it was on the fourth day of overtime, when Akechi was neck deep in reading legal precedent, that Sae poked her head into the room. No signs of exhaustion lingered on her face; Akechi pondered asking Sae for her brand of makeup, before quickly shelving it. One, Sae would launch him off the roof. How, Akechi didn’t know, but he had faith that she would. Two, while the makeup could hide exhaustion, Akechi doubted whether or not it could hide scars. Years of media training kept Akechi from running his fingers over the left side of his face.

It wasn’t terrible. Logically, Akechi knew that. But as Sae bore down on him with all the focus of an ICBM, discomfort flared. The left side of his face tightened, and he winced as old cuts pinched the valleys of his face. If he was very careful (and he always was) the valleys and dips left by the shadows remained hidden beneath carefully built up layers of concealer and makeup. Sometimes, he almost forgot about that part of his wounds. The gunshot wound and the remnants of broken legs pained him more often, more consistently than the aftermath of his rent apart face. His helmet had done a good job of protecting his right side, but sometimes, when someone stared too hard, Akechi felt exposed, left bare to the world. His makeup evaporated and his split face bared itself to everyone and anyone who looked. They would know what he was, what he had done, and wasn’t that what he deserved? To be dragged out and displayed like a criminal in a stockade, to be--

“Akechi, you’re going to take notes. Wright wants an update on the trial and he wants to hear how you’re doing.” Sae’s voice broke through Akechi’s thoughts.

He sucked in a breath and nodded briskly. “Of course. When is the meeting?”

“In five minutes.” Sae shook her head. “He just messaged me asking if I had pulled you in for overtime. And don’t message Kurusu to complain before the meeting. You know he’ll flood your inbox with messages.”

Akechi dropped the phone back into his pocket. “I was not going to message him,” Akechi lied.

Sae lifted an eyebrow and let her eyes drop to Akechi’s pocket. Akechi grimaced. “Maybe I was going to message Yoshizawa?”

“Yoshizawa is in Europe and won’t be back until next week. Makoto informed me that you all are having a dinner to celebrate regardless of how well she does at the competition.” Sae gave Akechi a very unimpressed look and he had to agree with her assessment. Trying to use Sumire as an excuse was a poor decision. Sae would know Sumire’s schedule better than most, if only because of her sister’s obsession with schedules and calendars and aligning everything just right.

Akechi grimaced at the thought of the younger Niijima. While Okumura had a reason to refrain from speaking to Akechi, Makoto Niijima merely… didn’t. Not often at least, and never outside of the Phantom Thief gatherings. Akechi speculated of course. It was hard not to. Was it because of Okumura? Akechi knew for a fact those two were close. They’d been close during Sae’s Palace, and closer still in the third semester. By the time Akechi finally dragged himself back to Leblanc to be judged by Akira, they’d been inseparable.

Niijima had lingered in the background of that terrible conversation, split apart from it. She stood at the end of the street, at the far corner, her gaze pointed down towards the subway. Slender Okumura waited quietly, her hair impossibly curly in the fading light as she and Akechi stood outside Leblanc. Akechi had nothing to hold at the time, nothing to hide behind besides his gloves and his makeup as they’d stood on that street in Yongen-Jaya... Privacy, or the closest Akechi and Okumura would get to it.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Okumura said, her voice ringing in Akechi’s ears. “For Akira’s sake.”

For Akira’s sake. Akechi flexed his fingers. He hadn’t wanted to have this conversation. He had to have this conversation. For Akira’s Sake. “I can understand how this could be disappointing.”

Okumura tilted her head, her eyes unreadable. A year had passed since their last conversation, a shared talk in the wake of fighting Adam Kadmon as Akira dueled with Maruki on the top of the collapsing Cognitive Tokyo. “I don’t think disappointing is the right word.”

What word was right, Akechi wanted to snap. Just say it. His lips twitched, uncertain of how to behave. Should he smile? Should he frown? His facial wounds pounded as blood rushed through his body, as Akechi thought and thought and thought. “Fair enough,” he said finally.

The silence stretched on into eternity. At the end of the street, Niijima studiously avoided staring at them, her fingers tapping furiously against her thighs. Akechi imagined he could hear them, the nails drilling against the unforgiving expanse of her pants.

“I’m sorry,” Akechi said finally, when it became clear that Okumura was waiting for him to speak. “About your father.”

Okumura said nothing, her eyes impossible to read. No expression crossed her face; she remained still as a pond, as the surface of a bath that contained no life. Time stopped in the worst of ways, with Akechi’s pulse erratic in his ears, his legs threatening to collapse under him. He raged against that. He refused to collapse in front of Haru. Not now.

“Thank you for saying that,” Okumura said, her voice diluted by the wind. She blinked, before shaking her head. “I have to go. I promised Mako that I would help her with something.”

And then she’d left and they hadn’t spoken since. Oh, they’d both attended the gatherings, but the gatherings were large and it was easy to avoid each other. Niijima sometimes spoke to him, but every time she did, there was a look in her eye. A look like the ones Akechi once saw on the face of his foster parents, the ones who didn’t know what to do with him. His hackles rose at the thought, and he carefully shook himself. Now wasn’t the time to think about Niijima the younger.

Not when a call with Wright was looming on the horizon. Not even the horizon. Now. Sae’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I don’t care what you say to Kurusu, just wait. And I know you and Kurusu will talk, I don’t need Makoto to inform me of that fact.”

“Why would she talk about Kurusu and I?”

Sae laughed. Threw back her head and laughed. Akechi, who had never seen Sae laugh so deeply, stared. Wrongness permeated the room, as Akechi witnessed something absurdly rare, something that felt incongruous. In all of his years of working with Sae, she had never laughed so hard, and Akechi didn’t know how to feel about his role in the entire farce. “Why are you laughing?”

“Everyone in your little circle gossips about each other. If you think that Makoto and Haru don’t speak about you when we have dinners, you’re sorely mistaken.” Sae shook her head, wiping a tear away as her laughter petered off. “Honestly…”

Akechi fumbled for words. For something beyond wounded dignity. Unfortunately for him, it was the only thing he could find. “I don’t presume I’m interesting enough to be gossiped about.”

Sae nodded, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Of course,” she said in a tone so solemn Akechi knew for sure he was being mocked. Akechi flattened lips into a thin line and Sae shook her head. “Four minutes. Be ready.”

“Of course.” Akechi forced the smile, his eyes crinkling shut. “I’ll be right there.”

Sae chuckled, and Akechi politely ignored it. It wasn’t worth the provocation and it certainly wouldn’t be worth whatever tale Sae would tell her sister after overtime ended.

The call began eight minutes later, mostly because Wright’s web flickered. A few texts popped up on Sae’s phone a minute before the meeting was supposed to begin, and so Akechi and Sae sat waiting. But all too soon, the screen flickered from a message proclaiming that Zoom was waiting on the host to start the meeting to a message that the host would let them into the meeting soon.

Wright’s office possessed the same level of organization as Akechi’s apartment. Miscellania erupted off every shelf, a mix of files, devices for magical tricks, and other objects rioted in the background, no matter how often Wright tried to clean beforehand. Akechi knew that Wright cleaned beforehand. His friend Maya Fey betrayed that fact once, when she burst in mid call and commented about how the place looked clean for once. Wright’s face twisted like he’d swallowed a particularly sour pickle and Sae ignored it. Akechi filed it away for later. One never knew when information would become useful.

The man himself sat at the desk, his hair pointed as usual. Akechi remained curious as to how it remained so pointy, but he refused to ask. That would mean talking to Wright about something casual, and that would open up the door to Wright asking him things. Personal things. The other man always got a look in his eye right before he asked those sorts of questions too, as if he could see something that Akechi didn’t. Akira got a similar look sometimes, right before he found a new route or something vital to a heist.

Akechi refused to question it. He refused to contemplate Wright of all people having a tie to the Metaverse, and thus merely returned Wright’s exuberant greeting with a polite smile and an incline of his head.

Theoretically, the meeting was boring. A routine meeting to discuss the trial beginning on Friday. Haruto Nakamura stood accused of robbing his employers and making off with a substantial amount of protected information, and the last of the pre-trial motions was set for that Friday. Sae dutifully gathered witness statements while Akechi trawled through ledger after ledger, annotating digital analyses and tracking the flow of money in and out of the company. By this point, Akechi swore that he dreamed in numbers. He swallowed his complaints, however. The legal profession wasn’t glamorous; it was dull, tedious, and documentation ate most of Akechi’s time. But Akechi found figuring out the puzzles and building a logical case to be fun, and so he continued on with his job here.

That was the only reason. The only reason he would admit to himself, at least. He certainly didn’t help Sae out of a love of notetaking.

An hour later, the meeting wound closer to a close. Akechi’s stomach grumbled in anticipation of the oncoming lunch. There would be lunch and then his afternoon class and then back to the office for more work, probably until nine or ten in the evening, and then home to sleep. One more day of overtime before the hearing, and if Akechi was lucky, the case would be dismissed and he would be back to normal hours. He wouldn’t have to worry about Wright--

“So how are you doing Akechi? Are your classes going well?” Akechi bit the inside of his cheek to hide his dismay. He wouldn’t have to worry about any weird questions from Wright.

“They’re going fine, sir.” Damn. Akechi refused to pray that this was the only question Wright would ask. After Maruki, Akechi hated asking for intercessions from any sort of deity. He hated tempting fate.

“That’s good!” Wright grinned brightly, the broadness of his smile cutting his face in two. “Will you be graduating soon? Any plans?”

Akechi hated this man. One day, he was going to go to Wright’s office in Los Angeles and set his desk on fire. Akechi allowed himself a moment of indulgence, a brief dream of setting Wright’s desk on fire, before he mustered up a polite answer. “I still have a few years left sir. Due to my health, I’ve been having to take the courses at a slower rate than the traditional pace.”

“Still!” Wright beamed. “You’ll be done soon enough. That’ll be a relief, won’t it?”

A relief. An odd choice of phrasing. Akechi would finish soon enough and then there would be law school and then an internship, and then… And then the rest of his life. Whatever there was of it. However much there was of it.

...There was a lot of it.

Shido couldn’t kill Akechi, and Akechi wasn’t in jail. The years stretched on before him, plunging on and on into the ephemeral distance, unknowable and uncountable. Akechi would die some day. Everyone did after all. But rather than the short few years Akechi had become accustomed to expecting, he now possessed decades. Sae urged him into classes; he went into classes. He’d finished high school a year late, delayed by his coma and applied to a variety of schools. And now here he was, sitting in front of Phoenix Wright, studying legal courses and taking notes for a defense case that Sae would argue tomorrow.

“I suppose,” Akechi said finally, his face set into a studied neutral. “I’m focusing on my current classes and my work here.”

Wright nodded, a few sharp jerks of his head. The smile reached his eyes, but something else lingered, a watchfulness that, while completely unlike Shido, reminded Akechi of the feeling of being weighed without judgement. He forced himself to remain still, to sit as unmoving as a statue. Wright kept a level stare, before he finally mused, “You remind me of someone I know.”

“Oh?” It slipped out before Akechi could swallow the noise.

“Yeah.” Wright tapped his fingers lightly on his desk. “Though now that I think about it, neither of you would appreciate the comparison.”

Then why did you say it, Akechi thought to himself. “I wouldn’t know. But thank you for thinking of me,” he said instead. He ignored the way Sae lifted a brow, ignored the gears that began to grind behind her eyes.

Wright laughed as if he knew Akechi was bullshiting. Knowing Wright, he probably was. “You’re a member of the agency. Of course I’m thinking of you.”

That made Akechi shift, his hands flexing over the keys. There was nothing to write; all of the data was collated, collected, and organized, the arguments settled out between Sae and Wright for the hearing tomorrow, and the evidence laid out in the order they thought would be best for securing the ruling they wanted. Akechi dutifully annotated every line related, laid out the meeting minutes and saved them, and now he wished there was one more thing, one more thing for him to do to keep his hands busy, to keep his mind off the fact that he was being asked after because he was a member of something. It wasn’t like the Phantom Thieves; that was different. Here, he was another cog, another charity case that Sae brought with in her transfer from prosecutorial law to defense law.

Why would Wright spend any time on him? Wright, who had his own family, who had his own career, surely had better things to contemplate.

“Thank you, sir,” he said eventually.

“No, thank you for all of your hard work. I know that you rearranged your schedule to help this week. You’ll get to see your friends soon enough. Just like Sae here will get to see her sister again soon.”

Akechi lifted a brow and Sae rolled her eyes. “Sir, I believe I said--”

“Just because you both are workaholics doesn’t mean you don’t want to see your friends and family again. How is your sister doing anyway, Sae?”

Sae pinched the bridge of her nose. “She’s fine. She’s finishing up her courses this year and is beginning her internship with Tokyo Metropolitan this year.”

There were many things in life that Akechi could not understand. Positive emotions, friendship, Akira Kurusu. But up there, among the most incomprehensible items on the list, was Makoto Niijima’s drive to become a police officer. Parts of it were understandable: her father had been an officer and the police offered a very rigid view of justice that appealed to the character of Niijima the younger. But other circumstances confounded Akechi. The treatment of Akira, both before Tokyo and during that year in high school, showed the consistent, unbending rigidness of the department. The fact that Makoto Niijima remained a member of the Phantom Thieves. All of these facts combined into one muddled mess in the back of Akechi’s mind, merging and mashing into one unglamorous conglomerate.

All except one. After his miraculous survival, after the coma and the months of recovery, Akechi looked at his position in the Metropolitan Police Department. He’d looked at the tattered remnants of his connections, at the memory of being the Detective Prince. He recalled the interrogation room, the feel of the gun in his hand as he lifted the muzzle and aimed, and he remembered Akira’s too wide, unseeing grey eyes. Akechi remembered. He remembered and remembered until his hands were redder than blood, and he turned away. He’d left the police behind, and when Sae asked him for some help typing up briefs all those months ago, Akechi accepted. There were other places he could work, other avenues for justice. The Phantom Thieves taught him that all those years ago.

But Makoto Niijima hadn’t learned that lesson. Perhaps she’d learned another, one that lay beyond Akechi’s ken. He wasn’t certain he ever wanted to learn it either. Returning to being a cop felt… wrong. As though it would betray Akira in some intangible, unseeable way.

Not that he would ever let Akira know that. Akira’s head was already too large; he didn’t need Akechi to help his ego at all. The rest of the Phantom Thieves could do that.

“...I’ll have to send her a gift! Your school year ends in March, right? Just a few months off. Tell her congratulations!” Wright’s voice petered back in as Akechi forced himself away from his own thoughts.

“She still has a few months, sir,” Sae’s lips twitched, the smile peeking through in spite of herself. What was she smiling at, Akechi wondered. Wright’s enthusiasm or her sister’s progress. Akechi told himself that it didn’t matter. The Niijimas had their quiddities and those quiddities were none of his business.

“And that friend of yours! Kurata? Kururu?”

“Kurusu?” Akechi supplied before Wright could butcher Akira’s surname any further.

Wright snapped. “Yes! How’s he doing? You haven’t mentioned him yet today.”

Akechi hadn’t what? The back of Akechi’s neck heated up; did he really mention Akira often enough that Wright would notice? “He’s doing well,” Akechi hated how stiff he sounded, how unnatural. He forced himself to breathe, to smile politely. It was just Akira. It wasn’t a big issue, it was just--

There was no just Akira. Not after everything. After all, what was Akechi without his rival? Plenty of things, honestly, but that felt like selling Akira short. Akira deserved more; he always deserved more, deserved better, and Akechi would always be there to be better, to force Akira to pursue that better and….

That was probably weird. No, there was no probably about it. It was definitely weird. “He’s fine. He’s been working more shifts at the coffee shop, and the owner has been teaching him more about keeping the books.”

“That’s good to hear. I hope we didn’t keep you from him too much this week. Are you still doing that plant thing with Kurusu? Sae mentioned it.”

Sae ignored the withering glare Akechi sent in her direction. He wasn’t going to even dignify the second question with a response.

“No. We still text.” Why did Wright care about his relationship with Akira? It wasn’t that big of a deal. Was it? Akechi felt the twinge of a headache in his temples. He always got a headache after talking with Wright; the attorney was simply so nosy. Wright couldn’t leave anything alone, not even small meaningless details. Yes, Akechi couldn’t meet up with Akira and it sucked. No, they made it through because Akira understood that Akechi valued work, and Akechi understood that Akira needed some form of communication for some weird reason that Akechi no longer questioned but merely acquiesced to.

“It’s so nice how you both make time for each other even when you're busy.” If Wright were to be compared to something, it would be to a sun. Americans were weird, Akechi thought. Gossips, all of them. Worse than the Phantom Thieves. Akechi found himself wishing for Akira to do something dumb, anything dumb that Akechi could use as an excuse to get out of this conversation.

Instead, Akechi blinked very slowly. “I suppose?”

“I’ll have to let Maya know that things are going well for you.” Wright outrageously decided to reach for the pad. Before Akechi could protest, Wright jotted down a few words and slapped the paper. “She wants to meet you, you know. Said something about auspiciousness, but I think she overheard Sae mentioning that you were into Featherman.”

Akechi glared at Sae who coolly ignored it. She straightened her pile of papers. “He asked where you were. I merely informed him that you’d already left to go attend that movie night of yours.”

“Maya is very into Featherman. Oh!” Wright snapped his fingers again. “She wanted me to ask if you watch any of the Steel Samurai shows.”

“A little.” Akechi refused to admit that he’d watched the entire series with Futaba and Ann on a series of movie nights. He doubly refused to admit that it was a decent show, even if it wasn’t on the level of Featherman. He refused to open this door.

“Great! I’ll let her know. Don’t let her bowl you over okay?”

Akechi asked himself what he had done to deserve this. Then he remembered his entire life and shelved that question. “Please don’t.”

Wright’s eyes sparkled in a way that boded ill for Akechi’s sanity. “It’ll be fine. It’s always good to bond with coworkers.”

“Maya Fey isn’t employed by the agency sir. It wouldn’t be coworker bonding,” Sae interjected, finally taking pity on Akechi. Wright rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, his attention finally shifting.

Why she hadn’t done it sooner, Akechi wanted to know. Maybe she wanted to see him suffer. That sounded right. Otherwise she would have stopped this awkward conversation in its infancy. Even when Sae worked for the SIU, small talk hadn’t been her thing. But after dealing with Wright for so long, she must have concluded it was Akechi’s turn. The temptation to text Akira to complain burned in Akechi’s chest; he carefully smothered it, and waited until he was on the metro to message Akira.

He’s an awful, gossipy American who always asks questions about what my plans are or how you’re doing. He’s incapable of closing his jaw and I despise every minute I spend talking with him after we finish discussing the case. He’s a brilliant attorney, but he’s utterly incorrigible.

It sounds like you like him. Akira texted back and Akechi saw red for a millisecond.

I do not! A bubble popped up immediately with three little dots.

You only complain this much about people you at the very least tolerate. Otherwise you just scream a bit into the sky and move on while promising bloody vengeance. Akira pointed out, the even tones of his voice apparent even over text.

Akechi typed out that he was not complaining, thank you very much Kurusu, before he deleted it. He was complaining and Kurusu would call him out on it. Instead, he scowled at a businessman who got too close to him.

A vibration alerted Akechi to the next text and he quickly checked that. So how does Wright know about me? Do you talk about me? (^・ω・^ )

Akechi sputtered. An older woman tsked at him, and Akechi ignored her. He only had three more stops; she could deal with him. How do you know it wasn’t Sae?

Because Sae Niijima would talk about Makoto first. Also I don’t think I’m on Sae’s radar, and if I am, it’s your fault.

My fault? Why not Makoto’s? Akechi ignored Hereward’s snickers.

Silence. Akechi frowned at the screen, ignoring the curl of unease in his stomach. What had been wrong about that. The minutes stretched on, a stop came and went, and Akechi gripped his phone with an iron tight grasp. It was fine. It was fine. It was fine. Akechi shouldn’t care this much about Akira, he should be better, he should--

The dots popped back up. Sorry, customer. But whatever Makoto would say, Sae wouldn’t mention it to a work partner. So if Wright knows about me, it’s because you slipped up, o great detective. （＾＿－）

You may be right. But don’t let it go to your head. Akechi conceded. Akira sent an unintelligible string of emojis in response and Akechi saved a screenshot for Futaba to decipher later. Why Akira used them, Akechi wouldn’t understand. They were juvenile and idiotic, and Akechi smiled every time Akira sent one. Not that he would ever let Akira know that.

He wouldn’t live it down.

It’s already there. Inflating it. I now have a massive head. A bark of laughter erupted out of Akechi before he could stop it. A few of the other riders eyed him and Akechi smiled sickly sweet at them. They could deal with one measly laugh.

Idiot. Just wait until December; my plant will shrink your head back down to the appropriate size.

Keep telling yourself that, Akechi.

Above, the intercom chimed, calling out Akechi’s stop. I will. But my stop is here. I’ll message you later Kurusu.

Okay! Also, remember that Sumire comes home next Thursday. We’re all meeting at Leblanc, no exceptions. Got it?

Of course. Akechi clicked his phone off and slipped it into his pocket as he elbowed his way towards the doors. Next Thursday. A week off and then Sumire would be back in town, and a week until Akechi would have to see the young Niijima and Okumura again. It would be fine, he told himself as he joined the throng of people streaming off of the train and onto the platform, embracing the surge and letting it propel him forward. He could always sit in a corner and be antisocial; it was what he normally did.

Akechi hauled his bag further up on his shoulder as he emerged onto the street. The midday sun struck his face and he blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the light. It wasn’t like this time would be any different anyways. It would just be a party and then he would go home and write an essay or something. Until then, he had other things to worry about.

Like taking care of his plant.

Chapter Text

The Phantom Thieves met as a group as often as they could. They managed to meet around once a month on average. In the wake of growing up and growing apart and the joys of adult schedules, it was an impressive fact that ten people could manage to meet that often. Their gatherings often were smaller affairs, two or three of them gathering in one place before moving on. But some things proved to be more important than careers, and to each member of the Phantom Thieves, the rest of the crew was it.

Not that Akechi would ever admit such a thing. Truth be told, he didn’t act that way either. In spite of his relationships with the motley crew, he did his best to maintain his distance. After all, he knew what he had done. An excuse, Dr. Kaname told him once, when he spoke of the Thieves. They’d been sitting in her office, the sunlight streaming in and over her plants. Their green leaves soaked up the sun like a horde of contented cats, and Akechi ignored them in favor of his knees. He was better than the Thieves; he was worse. He’d lived and died and now he lived again, in spite of everything. Because of everything.

Dr. Kaname had looked at him and said calmly, kindly, “They’re choosing to let you in. What you do with that opportunity is up to you.”

Choosing to let him in. He hadn’t believed her at the time. But now, as the days slowly shortened and the sharp nip of winter leaked into the fall winds, Akechi found himself doubting his doubts. Two days before Sumire arrived home, Ann texted Akechi. Come early. You’re helping me and Akira set up.

A time promptly followed, along with a list of things Akechi presumed he was supposed to buy: snack food mostly, with some party accoutrements easily found at konbinis. No big decorations were listed; Akechi presumed that Ann didn’t trust him with color coordination or something inane like that. Still.

Ten items stared at Akechi and Akechi squinted back, absently testing the soil wetness with his finger as he read and reread the list. He’d been asked to help. No one ever asked him to help with this sort of thing before and Akechi’s heart twisted in his chest.

See, Hereward murmured. They do want you around. There’s no reason to doubt.

“I don’t doubt.” There always was reason to doubt. They’d remember or they’d realize or…

Akechi sucked a breath in through his nose. They asked him to do something. He could do this. It was the least he could do for Sumire. Akechi wiggled his fingers in the soil and pulled them out, reaching for the watering can. Watering bottle was a more accurate descriptor; one of the books Akechi read said that letting the water sit was better for the plants, something about chlorine evaporating. The internet warred with itself over how helpful it actually was. Akechi refused to take chances with Loki, however, and so the water sat in a water bottle overnight.

He carefully watered his plant and eyed the leaves. They remained an even green, their surface glossy, their bodies plump. “Remember; if you so much as lose a leaf, I’ll set one on fire in front of you.”

Loki didn’t respond as Akechi set the water bottle down and turned back to his phone. He fiddled with it for a moment before a heavy Kamelot melody coiled out of the speakers. There was a debate ongoing on which particular heavy metal group prompted the most growth in plants. Certain books insisted that classical musicians like Beethoven and Chopin were best, while others ventured further back in time and promoted baroque composers like Bach and Handel. None however had managed to exceed the growth that heavy metal music prompted according to the articles Akechi read in the wake of Futaba’s suggestion.

Personally, Akechi had never observed any increase in growth on a week to week basis based on what he played and half of him was tempted to just put on his normal music instead. But that would mean changing up the experiment and he was nothing if not studious. His old science teacher in high school had complimented Akechi on his thoroughness and dedication once. No one could deny that Akechi was dedicated once he decided on a path. Not even Akechi.

Besides, the heavy metal was growing on him. Just a little.

Akechi carefully set the phone down by the plant and turned around to his apartment. Clothes and detritus littered his floor, the remnants of last week's overtime. Akechi winced before setting off to work. He refused to let another day pass with his home in this state. It wouldn’t be good for the plant either. In Sumire’s last message, she’d been rambling on about how vibes were important for a happy home. She’d also included Kitagawa on it for some reason and now every so often Kitagawa would send photos of his apartment. Why he sent them at three in the morning, Akechi didn’t know. Not that Akechi could complain. After all, he was up at three am and was able to see said photographs.

In any case, it didn’t matter. Kitagawa did what Kitagawa was going to do, and Akechi adapted. There wasn’t much else he could do. Well, there was something he could do, but Akechi didn’t want to do it. An important distinction, according to Dr. Kaname.

The food proved easy enough to procure. After years of self sufficiency, of having to find his own food, Akechi knew konbinis like the back of his hand. Why the Thieves needed this much food, Akechi didn’t know. He could blame Kitagawa, but Akira also existed, as did Sumire. Akechi had very clear memories of one July afternoon where they all went to a cafe, where Akira sat haloed by the sun and Akechi could barely listen to Sumire because of it. He’d almost missed how much food she’d inhaled. Most of what he remembered was Akira, slouched in his chair, his hands resting on the table as he neatly cut into his cake. Even then, halfway through that year, his hands were callused, long, and thin. Beautiful even, should Akechi allow himself to contemplate Akira’s hand.

But he refused. To do so would be to open a door Akechi didn’t know he could close again, and so instead of contemplating Akira’s hands, Akechi instead contemplated how Akira ate three slices of cake. One of those slices had been Akechi’s. Why he’d given his slice to Akira, Akechi couldn’t say. But it was a carrot cake, one just the right level of moist and sweet for most people. Most people, but not Akechi. It was far too sweet.

Yes. That’s why he’d given the slice to Akira. Akechi refused to eat something that sweet, but he also didn’t believe in waste. And Akira looked so sad when Akechi confessed to not liking sweets; Akechi couldn’t stand it. So he gave Akira his slice and watched Akira destroy it while Sumire chittered about the gymnastics meet.

Akechi certainly didn’t search for a carrot cake after that. Not at all. It just happened to be on the display he walked by, and if he happened to bring it with him on the afternoon of the party, he refused to comment on it.

All in all, it was a nice day for a party. No clouds obscured the sky and the air wasn’t too cold yet. If anything, the late autumn air remained brisk and invigorating. Akechi sucked in a breath through his nose and exhaled, forcing his shoulders to relax, to force the tension out of them. Memories lingered in the crevasses of his mind, of falls spent with the families, of the autumns with Shido. Of a time with a boy Akechi would try to kill, a boy who would survive and somehow be still willing to talk with him.

Akechi inhaled slowly and released his breath, adjusted the bags hanging off his arms, and entered Leblanc. The television played in the background, some form of game show that Akechi was unfamiliar with while Sojiro Sakura tended to the kettles. No customers remained, though one table shone with the remnants of cleaning solution. All in all, Akechi could have stepped back in time as he stepped over the threshold. His stomach twisted, his fingers flexing as Akechi reoriented himself in time. The elder Sakura glanced over, taking Akechi in before he nodded slowly. “They’re upstairs already. Go right up.”

Akechi nodded brusquely, already stepping forward. “Thank you,” he said and Sakura waved him off.

“Go on, you’ve got to get ready. Akira’s been running around all morning.” Of course he had. Akechi suspected he was about to walk into a pile of chaos and regretted not badgering Ann for more information about what they were setting up. The stairs creaked as Akechi climbed up, rounding the familiar corner to knock on the attic door.

The door and the room beyond were the new things about Leblanc. Akechi possessed no doubts that if Sojiro Sakura hadn’t put his foot down about renovating, Akira would still be doorless and on a bed frame made of milk crates. They’d finished the renovations by the time Akechi returned to Leblanc and sometimes walking up to the unassuming door made Akechi pause and assess if he was in the right place after all. Akira dragged Akechi up these stairs when he returned. Not that first visit. The second, after Akira adjusted to the fact that Akechi was still alive, after he’d cried and demanded that Akechi come back.

Akira’s fingers had gripped Akechi’s wrist so tightly that they’d turned a bloodless white. It was as though Akira had been scared Akechi would run away. Akechi wouldn’t. Akechi refused to run any more, though he did understand sometimes why Akira feared Akechi would, like when Akechi stood in front of this door.

The door knob sat easily. It would be easy to run away. To not deal with the fact Niijima and Okumura would be here today, to drop all of his promises to Akira, to lock himself out. Akechi knew he didn’t belong; he didn’t know that he belonged. The Thieves were an integral part of his life now; Akechi could admit that. He went out regularly with Futaba and Ann, he messaged Sumire and Sumire messaged back. Ryuji was his running buddy, and every so often Kitagawa would kidnap Akechi for art. And Akira… Akira was Akira. There were no words for Akira and that made Akechi’s heart twist. There ought to be words for Akira, but sometimes rival didn’t fit and friend didn’t feel right either. The sun rose and set, the moon went through its phases, and Akira was Akira was Akira.

The only ones he avoided were Okumura and Niijima and it left an odd feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that he did. It felt wrong in a way, to leave a gap like this. Akechi wondered what had happened to him in the space of time since the fight in the bowels of Shido’s ship that left him worried about friends. What would his past self say?

Akechi found he didn’t really care. He raised his hand to knock, frowning at the clack of plastic containers. Dr. Kaname liked to say that he couldn’t change the past, only the future. He couldn’t undo what he had done, but perhaps he could… reach out more. Or something. Akechi possessed no clue on how to make things better with Niijima and Okumura, and a part of him whispered that he ought to remember there was no way to make up for what he’d done. But another part, a part that sounded annoyingly like his therapist, also said that if he didn’t try, he would never know.

Akechi rather hated that voice.

She’s right, you know. Hereward murmured right as the door swung open to reveal one Akira Kurusu.

“Right on time,” He crowed, throwing his arms open wide, a grin on his face as he waited for something. Akechi sighed and nodded, just once. Akira’s grin widened and he threw his arms around Akechi in a tight hug. Akechi rolled his eyes, unable to return it. Not that he would return it. Hugging was Kurusu’s thing and Akechi respected that occasionally. When he felt like it. Like right now. It was just because Akira’s arms were warm and Akechi’s were full. No other reason whatsoever.

“Kurusu, why would I be late? Takamaki insisted that you needed help and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’m not going to deal with her irritation,” he grouched instead. He tried to refrain from smiling when Akira laughed.

“Of course. You’re only here because Ann insisted. How could I ever make that mistake?” Akira squeezed Akechi one last time before he wheeled away. “Thank you for getting the snacks. I can only cook so much.”

“It was no problem.” Akechi followed Akira over the threshold, taking a moment to peel off his shoes. The new floorboards didn’t have the splinters the old ones had. Akechi crossed over them to set the bags down on the table Akira unfolded. Akechi suspected it was the same one from the meetings, just with a table cloth thrown over it. The tv still sat upon its own table, game systems wired into it via hopes and prayers, and the couch sat beside it. On the far side of the room a new bed sat, propped up by a frame rather than milk cartons. Morgana was asleep on it, curled up into a little donut. New knickknacks spread out through the room and the walls were a new shade of cream interrupted only by the occasional poster or picture. Akechi cast his gaze over them. One of the figures from the store in Akihabara, some books, a full shogi set, but something was missing.

Akechi finished unloading the bags onto the table before he realized what was missing. “Where’s your plant?”

Akira laughed. “I wasn’t going to let you see it. You don’t let me see yours after all.”

“No one sees my plant.” Akechi started on unloading the nearest bag, shoving his hand into the bag and hauling out the cookies.

“That’s because you never have anyone over.” Akira’s eyes twinkled as he unloaded the bags, pulling out each item one by one. “And also a lie because both Futaba and Ann have seen your plant.”

“Not willingly,” Akechi groused. Which one of them ratted him out? How dare they. What had he done to them recently to deserve such treatment? “Speaking of Takamaki, where is she?”

Akira shrugged, finishing one bag and starting on the next. “Running late. Is this a carrot cake?”

Akira’s hands slowed and stopped, the carrot cake silent in its plastic box. The other man wrinkled his nose as he tilted the cake. As if that would make it change shape.

“Yes it is Kurusu, good job.” Akechi’s heart resonated in his ears. He quickly decided it was dumb.

“We didn’t ask you for a carrot cake?” Akira turned the cake around and squinted.

“You didn’t.” Next time he wouldn’t do this. If Akira was going to be this dumb, Akechi would never bring him a carrot cake again. “I saw it at the konbini, and I remembered the last time we had carrot cake that you enjoyed it.”

Akira’s eyes widened, flicking between the cake and Akechi. “Goro Akechi, did you buy me a carrot cake?”

Akechi huffed and unpacked faster. His entire neck burned and so did his ears. Stupid Akira and his stupid reactions and stupid self for buying Akira carrot cake and stupid Hereward for cackling in the back of his head. “Don’t let it get to your head, Kurusu. Now help me unpack before Takamaki gets here and everything descends into chaos.”

“As you wish, my prince,” Akira said with a wink. “Thank you for the carrot cake.”

Akechi flushed scarlet and sputtered. Hereward laughed harder, if that was even possible. Akechi hated his persona. Despised even. Why couldn’t his persona have stayed quiet? Why had Hereward started talking again and paying attention again and argh.

“Don’t mention it. To anyone,” Akechi ordered, folding up his bag. “Now let's get ready for Yoshizawa’s party.”

Akira didn’t even need to tell Takamaki. She burst in ten minutes later in a whirlwind of decorations and smiles, saw the carrot cake, and started waggling her eyebrows at Akechi. Akechi pointedly ignored her and returned to helping Akira move the chairs around. There weren’t many of them and some of the Thieves would inevitably end up sitting on the bed, but Akira said it felt wrong to meet elsewhere.

Leblanc was traditional. Leblanc was…

Ann shoved a rolled up ream of posters at Akechi and some tape. “Here, go hang these and stop thinking so much. I can hear your brain whirring at top speed. And Akira, you help me with the streamers. Use your height for good for once.”

“I always use my powers for good,” Akira said plaintively, as if he hadn’t spent a year as a Phantom Thief. Akechi snorted, unrolling the first poster to stare at it. Kitagawa must have been involved; the posters weren’t entirely abstract, but they were well on the way. Something must have stopped Kitagawa from reducing Sumire completely to shapes. Calligraphy spanned the bottom, Kitagawa’s impeccable strokes confident and gold against the cool colors of Sumire’s leotard.

Akechi thumbs the corner. It's smooth. “How did you convince Kitagawa to use digital media?”

Ann laughed, dumping the rest of the decorations on the bed. “I didn’t. My phone has a scanner on it, so I used that. Yusuke said he’d bring the originals to Sumire later.”

“And you didn’t lose your ears for that crime?” Akechi inquired drily. “I would have thought he’d protest more.”

“I don’t think he noticed. He’s working on his portfolio for his major.” Ann shuddered. Akechi refrained, but internally agreed as walked over to the wall and turned the first poster over. Akira mentioned the portfolio every so often. Brief mentions, usually when Yusuke dragged Akira out to help him. Something about needing so many pieces in so many styles by such and such a date. Akechi frowned at the thought, setting the stack of posters down on the couch. Abhorrent really. He couldn’t fathom producing any amount of art in such a short period.

There was a reason that he stuck to the law. Several really, but one of them was because Akechi knew his limits. He didn’t have an artistic bone in his body. Writing did not count, especially not what he’d written when he was younger. Thankfully only he knew about those writings.

Or if Futaba knew, she politely didn’t mention them. That behavior didn’t sound like Futaba, so Akechi decided that she didn’t know and thanked his lucky stars as he began snapping tape off and rolling it into circles. In any case, Kitagawa truly drew the short straw this semester, and Akechi didn’t envy him one bit.

Akira and Ann were still hanging streamers by the time Akechi finished hanging the posters up around the room, Akira standing on a chair and Ann pointing around the room. Akechi adroitly avoided Ann and instead returned to arranging the snacks. Ann caught him soon enough and before Akechi knew it, he was wrapping a ribbon around the stair rails leading up to Akira’s room.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked, scowling at the twisted ribbon. “She’s only going to see this bit twice.”

“Yeah! Sumire got first place, we have to go all out!” Akira swore in the distance and Ann yelped. Akechi merely rolled his eyes and got back to decorating. He wasn’t going to fight with Ann over this. It wasn’t worth it.

They finished with a half hour to spare. Ann stood in the center of the room, her hands on her hips as she assessed the room. Akechi, long flopped on the couch, waited for her to pronounce the effort as good enough. Little, invisible nails dug into the gap between his kneecap and his femur when he shifted an inch. The knife for the cake tempted him; a few quick slashes and he’d never have to worry about his knees hurting again. Not that he would ever cut off his legs. It was just tempting sometimes.

As for his part, Akira collapsed beside Akechi, his warmth a soft fire that sank into Akechi’s side. Akechi was too tired to tell Akira off for being so close. After trudging up and down the stairs and helping Akira to hang the absolutely massive banner Ann managed to procure, having Akira sit so close actually felt pleasant. Not that Akechi would ever admit that out loud at all.

He had some dignity remaining after all.

Akira ran a hand through his curls and flopped his head back against the wall. It hit with a solid thunk. “How’re you feeling? Taskmaster over there certainly ran us through our paces.”

“I’m fine.” Akechi really was. His knees hurt, but it was the hurt of going up and down stairs multiple times, the hurt of lifting and setting down and lifting again as someone changed her mind five million times. This sort of hurt would fade in his experience, but he would be damned if he didn’t indulge in a little self pity and self hatred. Before the ship, this would have been nothing. Before everything, this would have been nothing.

Akira lifted a brow at him, as though he didn’t believe him. Akechi lifted a brow in return, daring the other man to doubt him. They stayed like that, brows lifted, faces unchanging as they peered at each other.

“You two are awful,” Ann huffed, flopping into her own chair and straddling it. Her hair flopped down around her face and she immediately dragged out a comb and began to brush it.

“We are not,” Akechi continued his stare off with Akira.

“Yes you are,” Ann groaned. “I can’t believe you two actually shifted half the furniture.”

“There are a lot of us,” Akira murmured in reply, his grey eyes an ocean. Akira really was unfair, Akechi thought. His eyes could catch anyone who looked into them. It was no wonder he wore those useless glasses. Most people forgot Akira’s face or failed to look past the thick black frames. Akechi never did. How could he? He had to know what his rival was thinking about. Ignoring any part of Akira would always prove to be a mistake.

“True, but I don’t know if we’ll need so many chairs by the TV. We can only play so much Mario Kart. Once Akechi and Futaba get going…”

“What are you implying Takamaki?” Akechi scowled and turned his head before he realized what he was doing. He ignored Akira’s quiet snickers.

Ann held up her hands. “You two get vicious. Ryuji can only take so much you know? And after the last three attempts at seeing if controllers can fly, I don’t think I want to be around for any more games.”

“Ryuji gives as good as he gets in Mario Kart,” Akira interjected lazily. “We’re not even going to be playing today. Ann recorded Sumire’s performance and we’re going to watch that at some point so everyone can see it.”

“Oh thank goodness. I was worried you’d forget and we’d have to deal with the Rage Patrol,” Ann sighed. Akechi turned over a few choice words in his head, trying to figure out the best one that didn’t also sound straight out of Futaba Sakura’s mouth. “Okay, I’m going to go freshen up, so you two don’t burn down the attic while I do that.”

“We have never burned down anything Takamaki,” Akechi groused. Akira merely laughed, his hands coming to rest over his stomach.

“We’re young yet,” was all Akira said when his quiet chuckles faded away. Akechi shook his head; Akira was incorrigible.

When Ann returned, Ryuji came up with her, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as he talked a mile a minute about the latest track meet. He paused only to get Akira a high five and to make Akechi fist bump him. Akechi lazily acquiesced. Certain things were just easier to bend to after so long, and it wasn’t like it was a lot of effort. Ryuji threw himself into a chair and Ann sat down nicely. Kitagawa arrived next, somehow thinking he was arriving three hours late.

Ann winked when Akechi glanced over at her. “It got him here on time, didn’t it?”

Kitagawa, who by this point had started to investigate the posters on the walls, missed her comment. Akechi simply snorted lightly. It had certainly worked. Kitagawa was even here early.

Futaba slunk over next, taking over a chair by the television and Morgana finally woke up when she trotted over to the bed and ruffled his face. Akechi didn’t particularly like the way she waggled her eyebrows at him upon noticing that Akira sat beside him, but there wasn’t much he could do. The couch was comfortable and Akechi refused to move. Morgana at the very least didn’t comment. He merely hopped up on Akira’s lap and braced his paws on the table, surveying the food. His tail swished as he chattered at Ann about the day and the horrible cat down the way who insisted on following him around.

“When’s Sumire supposed to arrive?” Futaba asked, sitting on the couch in her normal weird way. She crouched more on the chair than sat, her knees tucked under chin as her feet shifted on the cold wood.

Ann flipped open her phone and scrolled. “In about a half hour. Makoto and Haru are picking her up; they were out in her area so it was just easier for them to grab her.”

Ryuji leaned over her shoulder. “Do you have everything planned on there?”

He squawked when Ann shoved him off. “Yeah! I didn’t want to forget anything. You know how hard Sumire works to do well. I wanted her to have a good party.”

“She’d be happy with a-- Ouch! The eff was that for? Don’t pinch me.”

“Don’t say stupid shit then, Ryuji.” Ann sniffed and turned back to her phone. Presumably to check the messages. Akechi resisted the urge to check his own phone, to disappear. Akira shifted beside him, pressing briefly into Akechi’s side. It sent a flare of warmth through Akechi and Akechi tucked the slight thrill away. It was a silly feeling; it meant nothing that Akira sat so close.

Sumire, Niijima and Okumura entered almost thirty minutes to the dot later. Akechi and Akira remained on the couch, but Ryuji and Futaba had dragged out their phones and were attempting to play some weird phone game that Akechi and Ann refused to play. Akira played by proxy; Morgana played for him, using the man’s phone in his stead. Instead they sat talking with Akira about the upcoming holidays. There was still time for the plants of course. But Ann would be out of town for a shoot in London and Shiho was joining her so she wouldn’t be alone, and Akira cared about seeing his friends. He needed to see his friends in a way that Akechi didn’t, and the Thieves understood that.

So when Ann’s phone finally went off, they almost missed it. Akechi heard the vibrations rattle the table and when Ann didn’t react to the third vibration, he rolled his eyes. “Takamaki, your phone is going off. You might want to answer it.”

“Shit,” Ann swore, fumbling for her phone. “Okay, they’re five minutes out. Everyone, places!”

“Places?” Ryuji repeated, and then swore when Futaba killed him in the phone game. “Really? ‘Taba, you really gotta be like that?”

“The weak shall perish in the game of lions,” Futaba said wisely, nodding her head. “So don’t… Mona! Why’d you kill me?”

“Nyahahaha, you stopped paying attention!” Morgana took his paws off Akira’s phone and began to lick one of them. “Fear me.”

“I’m so afraid, I’m terrified.” Futaba shoved her phone into her pocket and stretched her arms above her head. “So what’s the plan? Are we going to sing something?”

“Sing?” Kitagawa floated over, his sketchbook tucked primly under one arm. “Are we going to sing happy birthday?”

Ryuji laughs. “It’s not her birthday Yusuke. Maybe a victory song, like the fanfare outta Ultimate Tale 7.”

“I refuse,” Akechi interjected, sitting up. He ignored Akira’s snort.

“We’re not going to sing Akechi, relax.” Ann rolled her eyes, tapping off a quick reply on her phone. “We’re all going to just be normal, which I know is hard for everyone in this room, so just try your best.”

Akira lazily saluted. “Aye aye mon capitan. I’ve got this. I will be completely and utterly normal, a true example of Japanese mediocrity.”

Ann narrowed her eyes. “Akira, that especially applies to you. Don’t pull anything weird out. I remember the last time we had a celebration right after we fought Natsume’s shadow, and you somehow managed to pull out--”

“I thought we promised to not talk about that,” Ryuji interrupted, cutting Ann off. Ann shook her head.

“I promise I haven’t bought anything weird for Sumire. All I have provided is the hearth and home for the upcoming celebrations.” Akira smiled innocently under Ann’s doubtful gaze, holding up his hands. “I promise.”

Akechi told himself that he didn’t want to know. That it wasn’t his business what weird shit Akira got up to when Akechi wasn’t around. He also made a note to ask Ann later what exactly Akira had done. Akechi assumed it was something during the summer the Thieves went on a road trip, back when Akechi was first waking up and learning how to walk again.

“...and Akechi, don’t go hiding in a corner after Sumire arrives. I know you can be personable for at least a half hour.”

“I'm plenty personable, Takamaki. I don’t hide in corners.”

“Uh-huh?” Ann and Futaba said together.

Akechi thumped back against the couch, crossing his arms over his chest. “I do not. I am perfectly personable when the situation calls for it.”

“The situation is calling for it. Makoto and Haru don’t bite,” Ann said, crossing her arms in return.

What did Ann know? She was on good terms with Niijima and Okumura. She didn’t kill one of their parents. She hadn’t--

Akechi shook himself. Catastrophizing, Dr. Kaname would say gently, you’re catastrophizing Akechi. The worst thing doesn’t always happen.

It was so hard to believe that though. To talk his mind around and to give things a chance to play out. To give the world a chance to prove him wrong, to prove to him that maybe things would be okay. It exposed him, left his heart exposed, and Akechi hated it. Being exposed meant he would be hurt, but if he didn't reach out…

How would he be different from before? Would he be different?

Akechi waved his hand. “I said I wouldn’t hide.”

Ann nodded. “Good. And Ryuji, don’t teach Sumire any new slang. I don’t think any of us will survive if we have to live through another bonkin’ apocalypse.”

“She was fine! It was fine. We all had a great time, ain’t that right Futaba?”

With the attention off him, Akechi shifted in his seat, pulling himself upward until he sat nealy and primly. It was nowhere near close to the way the Detective Prince sat; Akechi could no longer manage that level of pretentiousness. But it was neater than the way he’d been sitting before, and it drew Akira’s attention. The other man turned his head and Akechi met the inquiring stare out of the corner of his eye. He shrugged lightly.

Akira nodded slowly, his hands settling over his stomach as the others began to argue back and forth. “It’ll be fine,” he murmured, one eyelid cracked open, the other shut.

“I know,” Akechi replied, watching Akira’s eyelashes fan out over the fine line of his cheekbone. Akira remained unfair. He’d been unfair since high school, and every passing year emphasized that, as Akira shucked off the final remnants of childhood and settled into his body. Akechi would be jealous, if he wasn’t entranced by the sweep of Akira’s eyelashes, by the way his hair curled over his brow, by…

Akechi cut himself off, focusing on the door. He shouldn’t be so distracted. He shouldn’t allow Akira to distract him so. It wasn’t… it wouldn't end well. Akira didn’t need whatever this was that welled up in Akechi every so often, this distraction he couldn’t even name. This distraction that didn’t fit into the parameters Akechi set for their relationship, the boundaries Akira drew. Akechi’s heart twisted in his breast and he carefully buried the thoughts in his soul, pressing them down, out of the light.

Someone knocked on the door.

“That’s them!” Ann shot out of her seat. “I’ve got it!”

Akechi braced himself as the chattering redoubled. It would be fine. He’d handled Shido. He could handle Niijima and Okumura. He could do this. A hand found his knee and squeezed. Akechi blinked; Akira smiled.

“It’ll be fine,” Akira whispered once more, smiling in that sly way that only Akira could, the one that made Akira so unreachable, so far beyond Akechi that he was a star shining bright in the morning. Akechi’s heart thumped.

“If you say so,” Akechi murmured as the door swung open, as Ann yelled out hello.

“I say so.” Akira squeezed his knee one last time before he rose, rolling onto his feet like a giant cat and padded over to the door. Akechi remained sitting.

He could do this.

Chapter Text

Okumura and Niijima flanked Sumire like a pair of biblical angels. Niijima remained much the same; her hair cut short, her red eyes firm in her belief. The Shujin uniform gave way to leather jackets and tight jeans long ago; even being halfway through a criminology degree had done nothing to change Niijima’s fashion sense. Okumura, on the other hand, retained only the fondness for pink from what passed for her Shujiin uniform. Okumura always favored elegance; Akechi remembered her Metaverse outfit quite well. The sharp vest, the feathered hat; her clothing in the real world did not match the Metaverse exactly, but there was enough of a spiritual overlap that Akechi could never forget the axes Okumura wielded with brutal accuracy. Her skirt swirled about her knees as she stepped into Akira’s apartment, her attention fully on Ann.

Ann and Okumura hugged, Ann throwing her arms about Okumura briefly before she turned to the lady of the hour.

Sumire wore a red skirt and a black turtleneck, with no patterns in sight. Akechi vaguely recognized the outfit as one they’d picked out after the crepes. It brought out the red of her hair, the strands held back in place by barrettes.

They made quite the trio, Akechi thought, as he rose to his feet. Three women who could and would hold their own against anything and everything, three women who currently were swarmed by the rest of the Phantom Thieves. Sumire escaped Ann’s grasp, only to be swept up and lifted by Ryuji. “Our champion, everyone!” Ryuji yelled and Futaba practically yodeled in turn, pulling on Sumire’s legs as she waved about a phone blasting a British song about being a champion.

Yusuke already bent over his sketchbook, casting his gaze up every so often and muttering to himself about capturing the moment, and Morgana raced about Ryuji’s legs, bouncing about and yelling in time with Ryuji. Niijima shook her head, catching Okumura’s eye.

“You’re going to drop her, Ryuji,” Niijima said, folding her hands around Sumire’s waist and hauling her off Ryuji’s hands.

“Aw, Makoto, I wouldn’t drop Sumire. I wouldn’t forgive myself!” Ryuji settled on wrapping his arm around Sumire’s shoulders.

“Congratulations, Sumire,” Akira said quietly from the side. Sumire smiled, her eyes crinkling into twin crescents.

“Thank you, Akira.” Her shoulders remained oddly stiff, Akechi noticed as she fidgeted under the weight of Ryuji’s arm.

“Our Sumire, out making a name for herself,” Okumura said quietly. In spite of the noise, it carried over and Akechi wondered how long he could avoid entering the conversation. Not as long as he would like.

“Of course she is! She’s worked hard!” Ann threw her arm over Sumire’s shoulders from the other side, replacing the honor guard of Niijima and Okumura with Ryuji and Ann.

“Yeah! Sumire’s been on the grind!” Futaba’s song continued to blare as the mass of Thieves made their way into the room and deposited Sumire in the chair at the center. Akechi caught her eye as she sat down and Sumire smiled the awkward little smile from those early January days when Maruki’s hurts were fresh and new.

Akechi frowned, his forehead creasing. Why had that smile returned? He shifted, crossing his legs as he leaned forward. “Congratulations,” he murmured, but before he could say anything else Ryuji slapped down a card in front of Sumire. Akechi and Sumire leaned back into their seats, and the moment was lost.

Gathering around the table felt like old times. Admittedly, Akechi had only been one of the Thieves for two short periods, each barely a month long, but even he suffered from the nostalgia this table brought. Memories of standing behind Akira, of leaning over his shoulder and staring at the plans the Thieves laid out for Sae’s Casino and Maruki’s Lab flooded him, and Akechi almost missed Akira sliding into the seat beside him.

The warmth alerted Akechi first; Akechi refused to look. He didn’t need to look at Akira to know that Akira sat beside him on the couch. Akechi’s focus remained on Sumire, Sumire who for some reason was fighting to smile and was only managing to twist her lips into the polite little liar’s smile Akechi knew almost as well as Akira’s.

He wondered if something had happened. Niijima and Okumura wouldn’t do anything to Sumire. To Akechi, probably, but never to Sumire. Akechi cast his eyes over the Thieves; most seemed oblivious. Akira frowned minutely, his brow creased, but his glasses hid any expressions that his eyes might have betrayed. Okumura too betrayed signs of anxiety; her hands played with her skirt, an old habit that Akechi long thought to be gone. Surprisingly, Niijima was the only other one to realize Sumire’s oddness. Every so often, she turned towards Sumire as though she wanted to ask something, but never quite managed it.

Akechi rested his elbow upon the arm of the couch and let his head lean against his palm. A mystery to solve. How unfortunate that his best leads appeared to be Niijima and Okumura. He hated the idea of talking to them, but he also… disliked the idea of Sumire being uncomfortable. It was a disagreeable prospect in Akechi’s mind, almost as disagreeable as Akira being upset. After everything, Sumire deserved nicer things. Happier things. And if she was upset, then Akechi was going to get to the bottom of it.

Even if it meant talking to Niijima or Okumura.

The question became how to talk to one of them. While there was an entire mass of people in the room, that didn’t mean that singular conversations were easy to begin. Harder still was the concept of privacy, and making sure Sumire didn’t overhear. With Akira off the couch and the others crowding around the table, it became a simple affair to slide off. Yusuke immediately stole the spot, blocking Akira off from following Akechi. The artist propped his sketchbook on the table and stared wide eyed as Ryuji and Ann coached Sumire through opening the card, talking the entire time like a pair of emcees. Akechi ignored the weight of Akira’s attention. To be distracted now would cause him to stop, to think about what he was doing, and thinking never ended well for his plans. Not that he would ever admit that.

“See, we all signed it!” Ryuji said to Sumire, thumping her on the back. Sumire didn’t even flinch. She laughed, her fingers tracing over the card. Akechi remembered signing it at the last crepe outing Ann forced him on earlier in the week. She’d waved the card in front of his face and poked him with it until he’d written a short message in the lower corner. At the time, he’d considered it a waste. What was a card but an empty platitude? He’d never received a card in his life. Of course, he’d also guarded every birthday and celebration with a personal fierceness to prevent the intrusion of strangers. Not even Akira knew.

But now, as Sumire opened it, her eyes lit up and the smile felt a little less empty. Not by much, but a little. She traced her fingers over the card, over the myriad messages the thieves inscribed, her eyes scrunched.

“Congratulations, Sumire,” Ann said, hugging the girl. “We can’t wait to see where you’ll go. And before we let everyone loose, I got one of my coworkers to make a best hits video for you! Akira!”

“Ah!” Sumire blinked, her head jerking up from the card. Akira shifted, his long limbs unfolding to flick on the television. The screen flickered, a still of Sumire on the screen. Akechi ignored it. He slid behind Futaba and came to stand beside Niijima, who also ignored it. She watched him out of the corner of her eyes, assessing him. Akechi waited, folding his arms across his chest. He wasn’t about to start talking until the Thieves started commenting on the video because he knew there was a ghost of a chance that they’d stay silent through the video.

Two seconds later, Futaba and Ryuji proved his point by starting a running commentary on Sumire’s routine. Yusuke joined a second later, begging for the video to be rewound so he could “catch the glory of Sumire’s last arc,” and Ann stopped Akira from humoring him.

Akechi waited a second longer and then, without averting his gaze from the television, asked, “Did something happen on the way here?”

“Hmm.” Niijima too kept her focus upon the television where Sumire flipped. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I drove even though Haru wanted to.”

Having heard stories from Akira about Haru’s legendary driving skills, Akechi privately thought that was for the best. He wasn’t going to say that out loud.

“Did something happen on the flight?” Akechi forced his hands to stay crossed over his chest. An old impulse made his hand want to cradle his chin, but he resisted the urge.

Niijima shook her head, keeping her voice low as the other Thieves spoke. “Not that I know of. But she’s been off the entire trip over. I wanted to talk to Haru about it, but we haven’t had a chance. Whatever happened, it happened before we grabbed her.”

Akechi nodded slowly. Something after the competition? On the screen, Sumire smiled, but Akechi knew better than most how easy those sorts of smiles were to fake. Sumire herself sat between Ryuji and Ann as they talked with a stiff slump to her shoulders, and by now, even they were catching on. Sumire must have realized it, for she smiled brightly, lightly weaving one arm around Ann’s shoulders. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

It assuaged Ann and Ryuji; it did not comfort Akechi.

“If you could talk to her,” Niijima whispered.

“Me? Why not Akira?”

Niijima gave Akechi a Look. It wasn’t quite at Sae's level but it was pretty damn close. “Sumire likes Akira, but she looks up to you. If she’s going to tell anyone, it’s going to be you.”

Akechi opened his mouth to protest. Emotional support was Akira’s thing. It was something he did well, for everyone who came across his path. It was part of the reason Akechi refused to lean on Akira; Akira helped everyone. Akechi balked at adding more to Akira’s load, which…

“Fine. I make no guarantees.”

Niijima nodded brusquely as the movie came to an end. It was a short movie in the end. “I trust you can do this.”

Akechi bristled. Who did Niijima think she was? Telling him that she trusted he could do this. But she also said that she trusted him to do this, an odd choice considering their lack of communication these past few years. Akechi rubbed his forehead to ward off the conflicting thoughts as he stepped away and retreated to the edge of the circle of friends. That didn’t matter. Niijima didn’t matter. Sumire mattered. In the end, that was what mattered. He’d gotten the information from Niijima that he wanted and now he could do something.

“Behold!” Kitagawa proclaimed at the end of the video, turning around the sketchbook to reveal Sumire midjump. “Poetry in motion!”

“Aw, you’re too kind Yusuke,” Sumire replied. “Everyone is really too kind. Arranging all of this for me…”

“You’re our friend, nerd,” Futaba grinned, poking Sumire’s cheek. “As if we wouldn’t help you celebrate your victories.”

Sumire chuckled, shuttering her eyes. “Still, you shouldn’t…”

“We wanted to show our appreciation for you,” Akira chimed in quietly, his low voice cutting through the chaos and calming the cacophony. Even Akechi paused to listen. “No matter what you do, you’re our friend, and we want to celebrate your achievements.”

Sumire’s shoulders relaxed for a millisecond. “Thank you, Akira. Everyone, thank you. But if this is a party, shouldn’t we get… oh, I don’t know, partying?”

“Hell yeah!” Ryuji slapped his hands down. “TIme for party games!”

“Mario Kart! Mario Kart! Sumire gets the first go!”

“Futaba, we are not-”

Futaba ignored Ann’s protests and went barreling for the television, Ryuji at her heels. Kitagawa flipped over a new page and rapidly sketched something, while Niijima shook her head. Chaos descended, and Akechi kept to the edges, watching and waiting for the right moment.

An hour later, long after Sumire passed off the controller to Niijima, and while Okumura and Akira were speaking about her new line of cafes, Akechi found his moment. Or rather, Sumire found hers. The others remained caught up in the activities: sketching, talking, gaming. Sumire cast a long glance around, and content that everyone was busy, slid out the front door. Akechi, who’d been sitting on the couch and watching Mario Kart after being forbidden from playing, waited a moment before following her.

Leblanc remained empty this late in the evening. The elder Sakura was long gone, having retreated home to do whatever it was he did, and thus only a single light remained on in the cafe. Sumire had already reached the door by the time Akechi made it to the bottom of the steps.

“Leaving already?” He called out quietly.

Sumire stopped, her hand resting upon the door. She said nothing as Akechi crossed Leblanc’s expanse, his footfalls silent. “You don’t have to stay, you know. I leave early all the time.”

“I’m not you,” Sumire replied before wincing. “Ah, Akechi, that’s not what I-”

Akechi waved it off, coming to a stop by her side. “I’m rather glad. One of me is more than enough for this world.”

Surprisingly, she didn’t laugh. Perhaps not so surprisingly. Sumire, for some reason, had always liked Akechi. Why, he didn’t know. That, and Akechi imagined Kasumi’s untimely demise left scars that Sumire didn’t like to acknowledge. “Akechi.”

He tilted his head. “Yes Sumire?”

“I’m fine,” she lied, and then squirmed when Akechi slowly lifted a brow. “Honestly, I’m- I’ll be fine. It’s just a weird place.”

A weird place, she said. If this had happened back when Akechi was in high school, he would have left it at that. Walked away and done nothing. But after everything, after knowing Sumire, doing that felt… not quite wrong. Disingenuous, after everything Sumire did for him.

“I’ve found walks help clear my head,” he said lightly instead. “And I’m sure the others wouldn’t mind if we went on a brief stroll.”

Sumire stared out the window. Dusk hung over Yongen-Jaya, the store lights bright against the gathering gloam. People hugged collars and coats close to their bodies; the late fall wind bit deep into the populace. It was a terrible day for a walk. Neither Akechi nor Sumire grabbed their coats, neither were dressed for a walk outside, and Akechi’s knees ached from setting up the party. Akechi knew he’d regret it.

But Sumire looked so damn grateful, her eyes wide and wobbly like she was on the edge of tears. “Thank you, Akechi,” she mumbled.

“Don’t thank me,” Akechi groused, reaching over Sumire’s arm and grabbing the handle. “You’re going to get the third degree when you do get back.”

Sumire laughed, the sound marred by how wet it was. “That’s how they are. You know better than I do.”

“I’m the problem child. Of course I know better.” Akechi huffed, shaking his head as they stepped outside. The wind cut into them. It made Akechi wonder how bad the winter was going to be, if the cold was already this bad.

Sumire shut the door behind him, pausing under Leblanc’s awning. “If Ann was here, she’d say something about negative self-talk.”

“Well thankfully, Takamaki isn’t. So I can be as grouchy as I want to be.” Akechi peered left and then right, before turning right. Sumire fell into step beside him, folding her arms over her chest. As they wound down the alleys, twisting this way and that, Sumire bit at her lip. Something was on her mind, that much was obvious, but what exactly eluded Akechi. They walked past a clinic Akira swore by and past some of the older denizens of Yongen-Jaya who tittered as Sumire and Akechi strode past.

Akechi shoved his hands deep into his pockets. What would Akira do? Wait until Sumire spilled her guts? Take her somewhere? Akechi realized he was massively out of his depth. Maybe he should have let Akira take care of this.

No. If he was going to be a proper rival to Akira, then Akechi had to... had to manage this too. They’d been walking for nearly ten minutes before Akechi opened his mouth again. “Did you want to talk about it?”

“Hm?” Sumire blinked, jerking out of whatever thoughts she’d been lost in. Her skirt swirled in the wind, striking at her knees and at Akechi’s, and her hair was a complete loss. It was well on the way to becoming a full fledged rat’s nest. Akechi didn’t want to think about his own hair.

“Whatever it is that’s weighing on you. Did something happen at the competition? Is your family okay? Did your father finally decide to retire to go and become a farmer like he threatened the staff every other day?”

Sumire snorted. “My family is fine. We both know that Dad would rather eat an entire ghost pepper on camera than farm.”

They came up to a crosswalk, slowing to a halt. Cars raced in front of them, and Akechi surveyed the passing vehicles as they waited for the signal to change. “Then something happened at the competition?”

“Not… really.” Sumire sighed, rubbing her face. “It wasn’t… it didn’t happen at the competition. Not really.”

The light changed; Akechi strode forward and Sumire kept pace with him. “Oh?”

Sumire nodded. “You see, I’ve been thinking. Akechi, may I ask you a question?”

Akechi shrugged a shoulder. What would a question matter?

“After everything that happened and everything you did, how did you know what you want to do with your life?”

Akechi couldn’t help himself. He barked out a laugh, a feral frenzied tumor of a laugh that suited Loki better than the conversation at hand. “What makes you think I do, Yoshizawa?”

“Uhm.” Sumire stopped on the far side of the crosswalk, lifting a hand to her mouth in an unconscious mimicry of the Akechi of yesteryear. “You just always seem so confident, I suppose. It never entered my mind that you might not know what you’re doing with your life.”

“Yoshizawa, I spend half of my days wondering why I’m not rotting in prison. The other half of the time, I’m just trying to get by day to day. If you want to know how people decided on life goals, you’d be better off asking someone else.”

Sumire frowned, her mouth pursing. “But I appreciate what you have to say, Akechi. You always seem to say something right.”

That certainly was news to him. He’d have to make a note of it. “I assure you, it’s not on purpose. I have far fewer goals in my life than you do, and have made much less progress than you have in regards to achieving them.”

Sumire fell silent. Akechi waited for a response that never came. The wind whistled past them, where they stood illuminated under a streetlight, the cars roaring behind them. “Are you doubting your goals?”

“No!” Sumire yelped, before slumping. “A little.”

Akechi lifted a brow, staring down at his friend. Sumire stood upright for a moment, before she quivered, her hands coming together to fidget. “Promise you won’t tell anyone. Not even Akira!”

“Why would I tell Akira anything that we talk about?”

“Because you two are so close, it’s like talking to a unit sometimes…” Sumire held up her hands when Akechi bristled. “It’s not a bad thing. But you promise you won’t tell him?”

Akechi rubbed his forehead. Honestly, a unit? What sort of unit was Sumire imagining? He and Akira were not a unit. They were rivals and friends and… whatever it was that they were. In any case, that didn’t matter. Akechi sucked in a breath. “Sumire Yoshizawa, I will not tell Akira Kurusu whatever it is that you’re terrified to tell him. I will not tell anyone the contents of this talk unless it becomes clear that you are not okay, in which case we will be going to Sojiro Sakura for advice, because that man has adopted all of you, and he will know what to do with your emotions unlike myself.”

Sumire let out a choked noise. “Thank you, Akechi. I just. It’s…”

Akechi hated waiting. How did Akira do this? “It’s?” he prompted.

“It’s really dumb, but after I won, I found myself wondering if gymnastics is what I want to do.” The words came out in one big, awkward gush with barely a break between words. “I won, right? I’m supposed to be happy I won, I’m supposed to be happy that I’m standing up where Kasumi wanted us to be, but when I looked out over the crowd of attendees and reporters, when I saw my coach, all I felt was... empty. I should have felt something, shouldn’t I? I should have felt happy.”

“My therapist informs me that saying you should feel any emotion is a dangerous path to walk. Emotions are... “ Akechi paused to scrounge up what Dr. Kaname told him. He’d gathered the words over countless sessions, over weeks and months of progress. “They come out of events, out of experiences. Anger has a cause, happiness has a cause. It’s not that you should feel anything, and it’s not a bad thing to feel nothing. Does that make sense?”

Sumire nodded slowly, fidgeting with her glasses. “I think so? And that’s only a part of it. When I was standing up there, all I could think about was how this was what Kasumi wanted. That she was the one who wanted us to be gymnastic stars together. And right after she died, after… after January, I thought that I wanted that too. But I’m not sure anymore. I don’t know what I want or what makes me happy, and I’m just so scared I’m doing to myself what Maruki did to me. You know?”

“I think so,” Akechi replied quietly, thinking about this much thornier subject. Akechi knew of Kasumi; Maruki dragged her dead carcass front and center in that awful January after all. And even before that, he’d known vaguely of the Yoshizawa twins. He’d spent too much time at the studio to not know of the director’s children. Even in those madhouse days when he’d been running from school to interviews to assassinations, trickles of their achievements filtered down to him. But Kasumi Yoshizawa mattered only in the most abstract of senses to Akechi. He’d never known her. He’d only really known Sumire and Sumire as Kasumi. Never the original, who had died so long ago.

“I think the fact you’re asking yourself these things is what’s important. It’s not a bad thing to ask yourself why you’re doing what you’re doing. It’s not a bad thing to assess if what you’re doing is making you happy.” Akechi shrugged, tilting his head up to stare at the sky. Clouds loomed far overhead, obscuring the dusk. “If it’s not making you happy, you could always try new things. Gymnastics is just what you’ve been doing so far.”

“But I’ve worked so hard; wouldn’t I disappoint everyone if I just stopped?” Sumire wrapped her arms around her stomach, cradling herself in the autumn chill. “Everyone got together to throw me a party, my coach has been praising me, and my parents are so happy with how I’m doing. Don’t I owe it to them to keep going? Even if I’m doubting?”

“No. That’s fucking bullshit. You don’t owe anyone anything, Yoshizawa. Not your time, not your concern. Your life doesn’t and shouldn’t revolve around other people.”

“But--”

“No buts!” The wind snapped through their hair, sending the strands cascading about their faces. Cars roared, people walked, and Yongen-Jaya ignored the pair standing on the sidewalk. “Listen, I don’t know how good or bad feeling empty on the winning podium is. But if you’re doubting your goals, if you aren’t sure why you’re doing this, then now’s a good time to ask yourself what you want to do, before you put another minute of your life into it. Either commit or figure out what you really want. The rest of the do-good squad will support you regardless of what you choose. They just want you to be happy. Your coach will deal, and your parents aren’t going to throw you out. They love you so damn much, they’d do anything for you. Fuck it, I’ll support you too. Someone has to knock your head straight.”

Akechi realized a quarter of the way through that he’d clenched his fists. He realized halfway through that he was rambling. He realized three quarters of the way through that Sumire was tearing up, and by the end…

Akechi squawked when Sumire threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. To his horror, tears leaked onto his shirt. Akechi frantically looked around the street; when no one spared him a second glance, he asked himself what Akira would do.

You know exactly what he would do. Hereward said extremely unhelpfully, and Akechi bit back every expletive he knew. Instead, he slowly lowered his arms and began to pat Sumire on the back.

“Why’re you crying?” He groused. “You know every one of the Phantom Dumbasses would support you in whatever you chose to do. Whether you stop completely or take a break or keep going, it doesn’t matter to them. Your happiness is what- damn it, Yoshizawa, this isn’t news.”

Sumire cried harder. “You’re so nice Akechi, and I’m so happy you’re my friend.”

Nice? Nice??? Akechi was not nice. He was a mean old badger of a man, more claw and fang than fur. Akechi bristled, to no avail. Sumire wept into his shirt and he continued to awkwardly pat her on the back. Honestly, he should have shoved Akira at her. Akira wouldn’t have made her cry or say weird, delusional things about Akechi being nice. He would have done something… better. Smarter. More people oriented or growth oriented.

“I haven’t done anything,” he said instead. “It’s all on you, so don’t you dare project anything, Yoshizawa.”

“Uh-huh.” Sumire pulled her head back, revealing a watery, wibbling smile. “Do you think I can really-”

“Yoshizawa, It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what you think. You’ve spent so much damn time worrying about others. Worry about your own damn self for once.” Akechi scowled when Sumire burst into tears again and reburied her head in Akechi’s chest. Akira owed him. Akechi couldn’t explain why, but Akira definitely owed him for this.

“You make it sound so easy.” She hiccupped sharply, and Akechi patted her awkwardly on the back. “How do you not care about what they think? About whether what you want is what you want...”

“Our relationships are not…like that. For either of us. They’re not transactional.” He choked on the last word, another word Dr. Kaname liked to use when Akechi got cynical about the Thieves. He was never going to live this down in his next session. Kaname would ferret this story out of him somehow, Akechi just knew it. But he also knew that Sumire needed to hear it. He continued. “Just because they may disapprove of an action I take doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take it. In the end, I need to do what is best for me, even if it means other people won’t like the choice I made. That doesn’t give me free reign to hurt others, of course. But it also means that I don’t owe anyone anything; if I don’t like something, I shouldn’t have to do it. That’s it. And don’t go saying ‘oh Akechi, that’s just who you are, you’ve always cut your own path.' Because yes, I have blindly stuck to my own goals before and ignored the fallout, but that doesn’t mean you have to think that’s a good thing or… shit, I’m losing the thread of this speech.”

Sumire laughed wetly, her face still hidden. Akechi scowled and patted her back one last time. “Yoshizawa! Just. Do whatever the fuck you want to do. We’ll be there for you. Everyone else runs on the power of friendship, and they’re going to be your friend no matter what you choose.”

After all, they still let him hang around after everything he did. They still talked to him, even Niijima. Maybe even Okumura would, if he tried. Akechi didn’t know. He despised that he didn’t know; it made him want to rip off someone’s skin. But he refrained.

Sumire’s arms tightened around him. “I don’t even know what I would do, Akechi.”

“Yoshizawa, you’re younger than I am. You have all the time in the world to figure out what you want to do. Go take a class or something. Shadow your father. Volunteer. Whatever the hell you want.”

Sumire nodded into his chest before finally stepping away. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were blotchy. She rubbed at them uselessly. Akechi dug into his pockets: nothing. “We’ll stop at a konbini and get you some tissues.”

“Thank you.” Sumire sniffled. “For everything.”

“If you thank me again, I’ll tell Sakura you want to do dishes at Leblanc for a month.”

“He wouldn’t believe you.”

Akechi shrugged. “I’d figure something out. Now, do you want to go back, or do you want to walk some more?”

Sumire sucked in a snuffling breath. “Walk a little more? I’m not ready to answer questions. You know they’ll ask.”

“Of course they will. They’re busybodies,” Akechi scoffed, trying to ignore how wet his shirt was. He ignored how his legs ached, the pins spreading out from his knees and burying their way into the healed cracks where his legs once had been broken. Even his old bullet wound ached, the scar tissue contracting and pulling on the healthy skin that surrounded it. Instead, he glanced down the street. “Now come on. I think there’s a konbini this way. We’ll get tissues and some water.”

“Akechi-”

“Don’t thank me,” Akechi interrupted as he took off at a brisk walk.

“No! That’s not what I was going to say.” Sumire jogged to catch up and then fell in line with Akechi. “I just wanted to ask if you’d...”

“If I?” Akechi prompted when Sumire drifted off, twirling a strand of hair around her fingertips.

“If you’d help. Sometimes. With finding other opportunities. I know you’re very busy with work and you and Akira hang out a lot, but I trust your opinion.”

“I don’t know why.” Akechi glared a person out of their way.

“Because you’ve always told me the truth. Even when you were being all fake, you never lied to me. So if you think something is bullshit, you’ll tell me.”

“Yoshizawa?” Akechi stopped.

Sumire halted a second later, a hair’s breadth away from Akechi’s side. They stood on a corner, the traffic rushing. Across the street, in the distance, Akechi saw the konbini unchanged from when he visited with Akira to pick up snacks for a game night.

“Yes?”

“I’ll help you, but if you lean on me too much, I’ll shove you away. You can’t keep depending on others to decide what you want. Not just me, but Akira too. He’ll help you until there’s nothing left of himself. I know this sounds like I’m contradicting myself, but I’m not. You have to stand on your own two feet. The Thieves will help you should you falter, but you mustn’t lean unnecessarily.” Akechi slowed to a halt, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Of course.” Sumire nodded, staring at Akechi out of the corner of her tear swollen eyes. “You know, someone might say it’s sweet how often you think of Akira.”

“It is not sweet.” The light changed. Akechi strode forward, taking advantage of the light change. “I’m simply telling the truth. That idiot would help a dying man with no chance of survival and trade away his life. And you’d do well to remember that when you ask him for a favor.”

Sumire squinted at Akechi, something clicking in her eyes. “Is that why you don't ask him for help? Because you don’t want him overextending himself?”

Akechi sputtered. “He is my rival. I don’t ask for help because that would be admitting weakness.”

“Is that what we’re still calling it?” Sumire laughed when Akechi sputters turned into a chain of indignant gibberish, rubbing at her eyes. “Honestly, Akechi…”

“What? It’s the truth.” They were rivals; that was what Akechi called Akira all those years ago after that duel in Mementos, and Akira had never corrected that. Not in all of the years since. Every time Akechi called them rivals, all Akira did was smile that small little smile. The one that Akechi never understood. What else could they be if they weren’t rivals?

Akechi ignored the knife pressing into his belly. It was fine. His relationship with Akira was fine; Akira would tell him if he didn’t want Akechi around, if he didn’t want to be rivals.

Or would he? Would Akira say it? The thought burrows into Akechi’s intestines and lodges deep in his viscera. Akira would be the type to hide it, to shift a mask forward and on and maybe one day he would leave. Leave like everyone else, like his mother, like his foster parents, like everyone else in his life.

Akechi started when Sumire touched his elbow. “You’re overthinking, Akechi. I can see the steam coming out of your ears.”

“I am not overthinking,” Akechi snapped. He knew he wasn’t good at reading people. When he’d been younger, he’d thought he’d been good at it. But then that year happened, the Thieves happened, Akira happened. Suddenly, his entire life turned upside down. His goals were dismantled, his emotions in disarray. Everything in Akechi’s life spiraled out of control, and Akira was there, at the center, pushing, pressing with that unreadable smirk on his face.

What would Akechi do if Akira left? If Akira had been lying, if Akira-

He thinks of you as a rival and an equal. Hereward said firmly. Do not impose your own doubts upon him. He has done nothing to imply that he does not want your company.

That was easy for Hereward to say. Hereward didn’t have to deal with Akira, he didn’t talk with Akira, he hadn’t done anything to Akira, he--

I am thou; thou art I. Hereward said firmly. You are fine. Akira wants to spend time with you. Now listen to Sumire.

Sumire’s hand gripped his elbow tightly. “Akechi, it’s okay. I was just curious. I’m sorry for prying.”

“It’s fine,” Akechi said stiffly. Hereward was right; Akechi was projecting onto Akira. A foolish thing to do, really, but he’d caught himself. “We’re just rivals; Akira said it himself. We’re rivals.”

Sumire nodded slowly, her hand still firm on his elbow. “Of course,” she said quietly, firmly. “You know, he cares about you a lot.”

When Akechi doesn’t respond, Sumire continues. “He texts with all of us, but he opens up with you. He smiles so brightly around you, that I’m a little jealous sometimes. I think we all are, in our own ways. But you know what? So do you. Your smile isn’t big or bright, but it’s the softest I’ve ever seen you. So whatever it is you want to call it, keep doing it because what you have with Akira makes both of you so happy.”

Akechi’s ears burned. He lifted a fisted hand to his mouth and coughed into it, suddenly thankful that he wore his hair long. He shook his head and strode off. When had he stopped walking? “Come on Yoshizawa. We don’t have time to dawdle over my affairs. Your face needs those tissues.”

“Whatever you say, Akechi,” Sumire said in a tone that was far more indulgent than it had any right to be. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we.”

Akechi rolled his eyes. “I have no clue what you’re talking about. Now hurry up. If your eyes are too red when we eventually make it back to Leblanc, you’ll never hear the end of it. Kurusu will be insufferable. You’ll never escape his ministrations.”

“Of course, Akechi.” Sumire had the gall to smile when Akechi scowled at her. The konbini doors opened ahead of them as they reached the entranceway. “Thank you for coming with me.”

Akechi averted his gaze, choosing instead to scan over the aisles for what they were here for. “Stop thanking me and get in the damn konbini. You’re letting the heat out.”

Sumire shook her head. She didn’t say anything though as they entered, her hand resting lightly on Akechi’s elbow as they searched for the tissues and water. It was warm; not as warm as Akira’s, but warm enough to permeate through the cotton of Akechi’s button up. It reminded Akechi of how Akira touched his elbow, but it was different. It wasn’t…

It didn’t make his heart race. It didn’t make him feel lightheaded or at a loss for words. It was nice, but it wasn’t Akira. Why did he want Akira’s hand to rest upon his elbow instead? There was something here, a conclusion, a deduction, but it constantly escaped Akechi, twisting out of his grasp at the last second.

Just like Akira.

Akechi huffed, shaking his head as he and Sumire searched the konbini. He’d figure it out one day. And when he figured it out, when he figured out what made Akira so special, well…

Akira wouldn’t be ready for it.

Akechi would be. He would have to be; how else would he be worthy to be Akira’s rival? What else would Akira be, if not Akechi's rival?

Chapter Text

By the time Akechi and Sumire made it back to Leblanc, darkness had fallen. The crowds thinned until only a few people meandered the streets and the light came from streetlights overhead. They set a rambling pace, Sumire chatting every so often as they wound their way through the back alleys towards the cafe Akechi thought of as home. The sign on the door said it was closed and remained locked, and Akechi was embarrassed when he realized he’d forgotten his phone in his coat pocket. Said coat remained upstairs and out of reach, and Sumire’s realization that she too was in a similar position was only a little reassuring. It left them with passingly few choices, and Akechi was no Akira. Picking locks simply was beyond him; breaking the door open would only earn him Sakura’s wrath.

So Akechi settled for pounding on the front door and praying that Akira heard them. His knees and thighs and lower back grumbled at him; he hadn’t worn the right shoes for walking so much on top of decorating Leblanc and Akechi feared that his body would revolt sooner than he’d like. He should have brought his cane, smuggled it in somehow and hidden it so that he could use it on the way home. The worst part was his chest. It hated the cold, the ribbed, rugged scars puckering and pulling, the muscle below contracting in a petulant protest. A nurse had told him once that it was a miracle that he’d lived through that shot; it had taken all of his self control at the time to not curse her, but now he agreed with the sentiment. The cold sank into the scar tissue like a serrated blade, and it turned Akechi’s chest into a dull, roaring, unceasing ache.

He should have grabbed his coat. He should have brought his cane. He should have done any number of things, but he didn't.

Stupid really. Overestimating himself, as always. Akechi pounded the door again, grateful that he always wore gloves. Sumire had her hands shoved under her armpits; the late October chill bit into her fingers. If he was a better person, Akechi would offer her his own gloves.

But he wasn’t, so he didn’t. Instead, he stepped back so Sumire could shuffle forward and blocked the whistling wind with his body. It was unseasonably cold; during the walk, Akechi hadn’t noticed, but now, standing here with a light sheen of sweat on his body, he felt the chill in the air.

“Do you think they’ll hear us?” Sumire asked, staring at her reflection in the glass. What did she see? What did she think? Her eyes were no longer so red, her nose only slightly blotchy from blowing her nose. She’d done so several times after they’d obtained the tissues and walked around the town.

“They better,” Akechi said darkly. They couldn’t even take the subway; their passes and their money were still inside Akira’s apartment.

“I’m sorr-” Akechi’s withering glare silenced Sumire. She shook her head instead. “Do you think they’re still there?”

“Yes. Like any of those idiots would leave before making sure you were safe.” Akechi shifted a step back, eyeing the second floor windows. Light shown out from behind the curtains of the closed windows, muffled voices ghosting out. Akechi scowled; maybe if it had been warmer, he could have just yelled. But who knew if the Thieves would hear him. “Where's a rock?”

“A rock?” Sumire squeaked. Akechi scanned the ground, scanning concrete and tar. Nothing, nothing… there. Akechi scooped up the small rock and ignored the twinge in his lower back. He tossed it lightly in his hand; it ought to work.

“Those are his windows,” was all Akechi said before he took aim and threw. The rock struck true. In spite of everything that happened, Akechi’s aim remained and he found himself grateful for it. The glass rattled when the rock struck and bounced off, landing on the earth. Akechi scooped it up once more and chucked it before Sumire could protest.

Not that she did; no, Sumire laughed, hiding her chuckles behind a shaking hand. A second later, she found her own rock and threw it. The window rattled again and a shadow fell upon the curtains. Akechi threw his rock one last time as Akira Kurusu’s unimpressed face appeared in the window.

Akechi smiled beatifically and waved jauntily. Akira rolled his eyes and dropped the curtain. A few seconds later, the stairwell light turned on and Akira popped into view, trotting down the stairs at a steady pace. The other Thieves trickled down after him, a flood of human concern.

Sumire’s eyes widened. She gulped.

“It’ll be fine, Yoshizawa. They’re just concerned about you. You did disappear with a known felon after all.”

“Akechi, don’t be so-” Sumire hissed too late. Akira fumbled with the lock and flung the door open, and a sea of humanity descended on Sumire. Akechi swung back, out of the way of the mob that consumed Sumire and pulled her into the cafe, all of them talking at once. All of them except Akira, who held the door open with an eyebrow cocked up.

Akechi mirrored the gesture as he slowly walked inside. He sighed as Leblanc’s relative warmth enveloped him, relaxing into its warm embrace. Akira shut the door behind him, watching as Ann and Okumura each looped an arm through Sumire’s and swept her back upstairs as though Sumire hadn’t just disappeared for a couple of hours.

“How’s she doing?” Akira asked quietly, hovering at Akechi’s side. Akechi thought about pushing him away to preserve his personal space.

Akechi made a so-so gesture with his hand instead. “It’s not bad. She’s just… figuring things out. A late teens crisis.”

“Uh huh,” Akira hummed to himself, his hands slipping into his pockets. They stood together, watching the rest of the group disappear up the stairs. Light streamed down the stairs, golden and ephemeral against Leblanc’s dark wood, pouring down like rivulets of water.

Akechi absently traced them back to their source, to the room he couldn’t see. The voices of the Thieves rained down, a dull roar that ate at Akechi’s ears, one that validated his words to Sumire earlier. They would never throw Sumire away; she was their friend. The Thieves would die first.

“Thank you,” Akira said, jerking Akechi out of his thoughts.

“I didn’t do anything; she helped herself,” he said automatically.

Akira snorted. “If you say so.”

“I say so,” Akechi replied firmly. “Now, let's go upstairs before everyone else overwhelms her. You know how they are.”

“I do.” Laughter danced in Akira’s eyes. Not the unkind laughter that frequented Shido’s coterie, but the sort of amusement the Thieves often shared.

Akechi huffed, shaking his head. He moved forward and Akira followed, falling into place beside Akechi. “Do you think she’ll be okay?”

“She’ll be fine, you mother hen. She just needs to figure out what she wants.” Akechi reached the stairs and bent his knee to step up. He heard more than felt his joints protest, and winced more at the fact that meant Akira heard it too. “Not a word,” he hissed.

Akira mimed zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key. He waggled his fingers in a peace offering, one which Akechi accepted by turning away his head and grasping the railing firmly before he forced himself to start climbing. “I hate stairs,” he muttered as his knees protested the jarring motions. A hand found the small of his back; it took all of Akechi’s self control to not snap it off at the wrist. He was fine, he didn’t need help. He wouldn’t allow an unplanned walk to defeat him, not after all of the running he’d been doing with Ryuji. He was fine, he was better. He didn’t need help. They were just stairs.

He needed to sit down. He hated this body, hated how sometimes it decided to rebel and do its own damn thing. He’d been fine when everything was flat, but now it decided the stairs were too much. Despicable.

Akechi forced himself up the rest of the stairs and over the threshold out of pure spite and vitriol. Akira stood silently behind him, as promised. Akechi couldn’t ask for a better rival. Sumire laughed at something Ryuji said and Ann jumped in next. Kitagawa and Futaba huddled close, whispering. Niijima frowned at whatever they were saying, and Okumura…

Okumura stood silently, observing Akechi as he entered. Her brown eyes remained on him, her shoulders relaxed as he realized that she was looking at him. His hackles rose; his shoulders stiffened. He met her gaze unblinking, uncertain of what she was looking for. What had he done? Nothing, he’d done nothing. Nothing upsetting. So she was looking for some other reason. Probably because of the past, because of-

Akira pushed lightly on Akechi’s back and he stepped forward, breaking eye contact with Okumura. “Go sit down and relax,” Akira said in a low voice that brooked no argument. Akechi scowled, but acquiesced. Now wasn’t a good time to start a scene.

No one sat on the couch thankfully and everyone was too busy with Sumire to notice Akechi half collapse on the worn seats. Everyone except Okumura, who pursed her lips and leaned over to whisper something into Niijima’s ear.

Great. Just great. Akechi scowled and not even Akira’s presence at his side could ease it. Why did Okumura of all people have to be the one to see it? Why couldn’t it have just been Akira, whom Akechi knew how to handle? Akechi dredged up a smile and shuffled his body into the corner of the couch, crossing his legs. It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine. He’ll sit here for the rest of the party and rest and then he’ll get downstairs and walk to the station and take the train home and get home and it will all be fine.

“Here, we kept Mona from eating all the sushi, so make sure you have some! We put it away while you were out. And we still got most of the snacks, Yusuke didn’t eat too much.”

“Ryuji, I believe you were assisting me in the snack devastation,” Kitagawa sniffed, reaching over to pat Sumire’s hand. “But do eat something. One must not skip meals.”

“That’s rich, coming from you...“ Ryuji mumbled, but he stood up and meandered out to get said sushi. “And you should eat something too, Akechi, you haven’t had shit tonight.”

“I’m fine, Sakamoto.” Akechi scowled. “It’s-”

“We all know you like sushi, so don’t deny it. “Ryuji thumped down the stairs out of sight. Akechi rolled his eyes, propping his arm on the chair and resting his head against it. He’d rather go home at this point and figure out what was in his refrigerator that he could reheat. But there was no way he was getting out of this without eating some of the sushi, same as Sumire.

All in all, it wasn’t the worst fate. Akira settled in beside him, his attention heavy upon Akechi’s consciousness. It was an odd thing sometimes when Akira turned his entire gaze upon Akechi, when Akechi could feel Akira’s world narrow down to just Goro Akechi. A part of him thrilled at it, triumphed, made him want to declare to the rest of the Thieves to look, to see what their leader was doing. Another part of him warmed and found comfort in it; after years of being looked at and not seen, Akira’s all-seeing eyes assuaged a primal need in Akechi that he didn’t dare name or unpack. A final part, much smaller than the other two, balked. He was fine. He didn’t need to be coddled or fussed over or anything. Akechi could do this, Akechi would do this, Akechi-

Akechi accepted the sushi without complaint. “When did we get sushi?” he asked instead.

“We sent Akira out for some so he wouldn’t fret his heart out,” Ann replied, snatching up a cookie. The look on her face dared Akechi to say something, so instead he just lifted a brow at Akira instead.

“Fret your heart out?” Akechi repeated.

Akira rubbed the back of his neck. “We realized about five minutes after you left that you’d both forgotten your phones.”

“We’re fine, Akira,” Sumire chuckled nervously, fidgeting with a piece of sushi. Morgana watched it attentively, and she fed it to the cat who cackled and waltzed off with his prize in a very catlike gesture for the self proclaimed not a cat.

Akechi nodded, having already shoved one of his pieces into his mouth. It wasn’t spectacular by any means, but he wasn’t the type to turn down sushi. Akira side-eyed Goro and then glanced back at Sumire. “Uh huh.”

Sumire nodded vigorously, finally eating her own piece. “We are! So uh. Yeah! What did you guys do?”

One day, Sumire would learn how to guide the conversation. One day, Akechi’s knees won’t throw a fit after an unexpected journey. One day, one day.. In the end, Sumire moved the conversation on and the night drifted on. No games occurred; the air felt off. Sumire had disappeared for hours at her own party, and no one knew how to process that. Even Akechi could tell that. Ryuji and Ann rallied, driving the conversation while Akira watched with a judging eye, speaking up occasionally to guide the conversation to or away from topics. Meanwhile, Akechi found his eating slow and his eyes heavy. Akira’s loft proved warm, another change from their teenage years. A radiator had been installed in the time since, and after spending a few hours outside walking with Sumire, the heat felt divine. Conversation dribbed in one ear and out the other, a warning sign of things to come. But no one else looked ready to leave, and Akechi refused to be the first to leave. Akira would comment on it, and Akechi refused to deal with a sad Akira.

Still, Akechi couldn’t let himself fall asleep here, but he could rest, catch his breath. Just for a moment of course. The Thieves would never let Akechi live it down if he actually passed out, and they already possessed enough blackmail: pancakes, edgy belts, and Featherman. Akechi shook himself lightly, and scowled at Futaba who was watching him. She opened her mouth to ask a question; Akechi cut her off with a quick reassurance.

Ryuji left first, citing a need to rest and Kitagawa followed after him. There was some sort of full moon out that he wanted to paint, and Akechi wondered about the odds of the young painter getting arrested. He put the odds at very high and let the conversation flow around him. Voices blurred together, people talking back and forth until Akechi could no longer discern who was whom. His eyes slid shut, and sleep claimed him.

Briefly, something warm enshrouded him, wiggling under his back and arms. Akechi murmured his disapproval; he didn’t need help. A deep voice chuckled, the arms beneath Akechi’s body shifting until Akechi was cradled against a warm chest. Akechi snuggled in; it was warm there, warmer than the air.

“Go back to sleep, Akechi,” the voice said, and for once in Akechi’s life, he listened.

Akechi woke with a start to a darkened room and a blanket tossed over his body. He tried to jerk up and immediately laid back down, swallowing every expletive that rose to his lips as his body protested its entire existence. His vision went white, fuzzy static, his ears roaring before Akechi relented, curling back down onto the bed. Akechi hoped he was on his futon, back home. He hoped he’d been so sleepy he didn’t remember going home and pulling off his shoes and going to bed. He hoped his phone sat on the futon by his head so that he could reach it in case he needed to call into work.

He really prayed he didn’t need to call into work. Those calls to Sae were always awful, awkward for both of them as they tried to negotiate around the fact Akechi’s body sometimes woke up hating the fact it remained alive after everything. On those mornings, Akechi found himself agreeing with his body.

Just. As long as he was home, it would be fine. He wouldn’t have to explain anything and he could keep Akira from worrying and--

He cracked open an eye again, and slowly blinked. Moonlight dripped in from behind Akechi through the stuttering static of his vision, trawling over floorboards and the bare table, over the empty circle of chairs, until it fell upon an unmistakable couch. The couch Akechi remembered sitting on, though he was no longer there. A form rested on the couch, obscured by blankets that rose and fell with the occupant’s deep breaths.

Akechi shut his eyes and swore in his head. He swore again when moving caused pain to ricochet around the barrel of his chest and up and down his legs. The blanket over him shifted, and the deep breathing on the couch changed, coming lighter as Akira shifted out of a deep sleep.

Go back to sleep, Akechi ordered imperiously. Who he ordered, Akira or himself, Akechi couldn’t say. His nerves ached, roiling unsteadily beneath his skin. If Akira woke up, Akechi wouldn’t be able to leave. He would be at Akira’s mercy, and Akechi burrowed into the blankets.

Or rather, he tried to. The shifting of his arms pulled on his chest, and that simple tug yanked on his old scars. Akechi exhaled sharply, and that sealed his fate.

Akira jerked up as Akechi slammed his eyes shut. “Akechi?” Akira slurred sleepily. The couch creaked as Akira shifted, the soft susurrations of his sweatpants echoing in the still room as Akira stood up. That sound was the only warning Akechi got; Akira never made a sound as he moved. He never had, not even in those ridiculous heels in the Metaverse. Another perfect thing in Akira Kurusu’s favor.

“Akechi? Are you awake?” Akira whispered again, much closer. The bed sank on one side, the frame creaking as Akira sat down.

Akechi could pretend to still be asleep. He could pretend that he hadn’t heard. Akechi could pretend any number of things, but in the end, he cracked his eyes open. Spots danced through his vision, the static increasing through several blinks. Akira sat on the edge of the bed beside him, staring down.

Logically, Akechi knew Akira’s eye color. A firm grey, a solid grey, hidden behind thick black frames and thicker black fringe. Hidden from the world, hidden from everyone. Hidden from everyone but Akechi.

Akira came over without his glasses. His hair fell into his too wide eyes, grey as moonlight as he leaned over and examined Akechi. HIs pupils were wide in the low light, the grey rimming them in perfect circles Akechi could drown in. They were soft and they were worried, and Akechi couldn’t stop staring as Akira examined him.

Akechi’s breath caught in his throat, stopping as Akechi fought to take charge of his mind, and his spiraling thoughts.

“Akechi?” Akira whispered uncertainly.

“Kurusu,” Akechi repeated back much more firmly.

Akira frowned, fidgeting with his fingers. They pull at each other in the corners of Akechi’s roiling vision. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine, Kurusu,” Akechi replied gruffly, staring up at the other man. Age has sharpened Akira, sharpening his cheekbones and carving away the roundness that he’d had back when they’d first met in the television station. Akira had always been thin, a reed to Akechi’s blunt body, but the moonlight cast him in an ephemeral light. As though one sharp puff of air could blow Akira away. Akechi refused to let that happen; he refused to think of Akira being defeated so easily. Instead, he forced a hand to move, wincing at the pull in his shoulder even as he wiggled his fingers. “See? All fine.”

“You winced.” Akira caught Akechi’s hand, the sleek leather catching on Akira’s calluses.

“I’m a little sore,” Akechi admitted. Not because he wanted to, no. But he knew Akira, and he knew that lying to Akira generally didn’t go well. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be ready to go in the morning.”

Akira’s fingers enveloped Akechi’s in warmth, his fingers slowly rubbing circles into the back of Akechi’s hand. Another sort of fidget for Akira; Akechi decided to be magnamious and allow it. The fingers flowed over Akechi’s hand, probing, pausing. “A little sore for you,” Akira began after the brief silence, “is usually agonizing for most people.”

“Oh?” Akechi ignored his body to roll his head into a position to watch Akira. “You think too highly.”

Akira snorted, his fingers finally slowing down. He squeezed once, and let their hands fall to the bed. “No I don’t. I don’t know the depths of what you’ve gone through to recover, but I have eyes. You hate admitting weakness.”

“Hmm.” Akira knew that Akechi knew Akira was right; Akechi had no way to win going down this route. “While true, I’m not sure what you want out of this conversation.”

“Maybe I want to just make sure you’re okay. You hate showing weakness, and you fell asleep at a party. I was…” Akira trailed off, his gaze slipping away to the floor.

“Concerned?” Akechi finished unkindly. “I’m fine Kurusu, I don’t need-”

“You don’t want,” Akira snapped and flinched away. He ran his free hand through his hair, his face pointed towards the door, a breath sucked in through his teeth. Akechi stared wide eyed at Akira, his vision snapping into clarity. “I’m sorry, that was-”

“No need to apologize; you’re not wrong.” Akechi said faintly. Akira snapped. When was the last time Akira snapped? During that terrible February night, Akechi thought. In the wake of Maruki’s departure, in the wake of the dawning realization about Akechi’s state, in the wake of realizing the choice Akira would have to make. When he’d gripped Akechi’s arms tight enough that the bones in his fingers creaked, when he’d looked Akechi in the eye to look for comfort Akechi couldn’t provide. Not then. Not even now, with the half rebuilt ruins of his body trapping him on the bed. He cleared his throat, searching for something, anything to assuage Akira. “I’m fine, you know. This just happens sometimes.”

“It just happens?” Akira repeated, his nose wrinkling.

Oh, why did he say that? Akechi could just muzzle himself. This just happens sometimes. What a poor excuse. Oh don’t worry Akira, sometimes I can’t move very well and I fall asleep around people I normally wouldn’t. What could he even say at this point to make it better?

“Well, not just happens, I suppose. The doctors informed me long ago that the residual nerve damage would remain for years, long after motor function returned. Sometimes my nerves overreact. There’s usually no warning, but there are a few warning signs that help me know when an attack is coming on. There’s nothing really wrong per se; just some pain. Nothing too bad to handle, Kurusu, I-”

Akira’s hand tightened around Akechi’s and Akechi fell silent, unsure of what to say. Silence reigned over the room. Only the sheets made a sound, crinkling beneath Akira’s thighs, rustling over Akechi’s chest as he slowly breathed in and breathed out. Akechi waited, watching Akira’s profile as he searched for what to say.

In the end, Akira sighed. “Only you would say chronic pain is nothing too bad.”

What was that supposed to mean? “I can handle it,” Akechi said slowly.

“Not what I meant, Akechi. Can you even move right now without hurting?” Akechi twitched a foot in sheer petulance and instantly regretted it. He shut his eyes to brace against the jolt and realized that he would be lucky if he could get out of Akira’s bed in the morning. “Thought so.”

“Good job, Kurusu. You are once again correct.” Akechi tamped down the urge to shift. It wasn’t worth dealing with the effects, like the general aches of pain his leg radiated.

“Wish I wasn’t,” Akira muttered darkly, and this time Akechi’s hand clenched on Akira’s, a gut impulse.

“It’s-”

“Please stop saying it's fine.”

Akechi felt the smile more than anything else crawl over his face, the ugly pleasant little thing he’d used for those years he’d spent doing interviews. He swallowed it, tore it off his face, the herculanean effort making his face twitch. “What do you want me to say then Kurusu? What would satisfy you?”

“The truth?”

Akechi stared at Akira. He took in the long line of his back, the warmth of Akira’s hand in his, the way his hair fell onto his brow, the way his eyes turned to Akechi, luminous as moondrops and all too serious. “It is the truth. I can’t get rid of it; I have to live with it, like everything else in my life. It’s not a bad thing, Kurusu. It merely is. It’ll either fade with time or it’ll stay, and I’ll deal with it like I have dealt with everything else in my life.”

Akira said nothing. He stared unblinking at Akechi, searching Akechi’s face. Akira must have found whatever he was looking for; he slumped, shaking his head. “You’ll be the death of me, I swear.”

“I have been the death of you,” Akechi reminded Akira gently. “I have-”

“I know,” Akira sighed, squeezing Akechi’s hand before letting it go. “Are you warm enough? Your hand still feels cold.”

“Kurusu, how can you tell how warm I am through a glove?”

“I’m just that good.” Akira winked, his normal bravado trickling back in as he rose to his feet. He trundled over to a cabinet at the end of the bed and dug into it. A minute later, he reappeared with a prize in hand. Akechi didn’t even have time to squawk before the star-spangled blanket fell over him, covering his face completely.

“Kurusu, I am not a child. I can tuck myself in.” The blanket muffled Akechi’s voice as it settled, the minky fabric warm on his face.

Akira chuckled as he tugged the blanket down and around Akechi’s shoulders. He carefully pulled the cloth up about Akechi’s shoulders, his fingers lingering. “No one here would ever make that mistake. You’d bitch them out.”

“I would not.” Akechi sniffed. He contemplated telling Akira off for patronizing him; Akechi could handle his own damn blankets. But the feel of Akira’s slender hands smoothing the cloth over Akechi’s shoulder, brushing down his arm mollified Akechi. He was growing soft in his old age.

“You would too. Someone misname something you care about? You’re ready to throw down. I’ve heard your calls with Futaba over Featherman.”

“That’s different,” Akechi protested. He felt put out when Akira’s chuckles deepened. Not quite into full laughter, but the sound was definitely on the way there.

“Uh huh,” Akira said between chuckles. “Grey Pigeon totally died at the end of the game and didn’t appear in the movie then?”

“The movie is an adaptation of the game, you absolute buffoon.” Akira burst into laughter and Akechi huffed. “You’re lucky I am a magnanimous man.”

“Oh, extremely,” Akira smoothed out the blanket one last time before he sat back down on the edge of the bed. His heat radiated out, sinking through the blankets and into Akechi, enfolding him along with the blanket “Is there anything I can get you to make up for my uncalled for statements? Coffee? Tea? A snack?”

At the mention of coffee, Akechi’s mouth watered. Akira did make good coffee, though Akechi would never admit it. “You could get a clue about Featherman. Sakura would be happy.”

“Would you be happy?” Akira inquired plaintively, leaning in. His shirt dipped forward, one shoulder sliding. It exposed a sliver of skin, pale in the moonlight, unblemished, and accentuated the line of Akira’s neck.

Akechi’s heart stuttered. “Would that matter?”

Akira nodded earnestly, holding a hand over his heart. “I always care about your happiness. You’re-” Akira stopped, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “You’re important.”

“You’re weird,” Akechi blurted before he could think, and then cursed himself when he saw the shock in Akira’s eyes. Why had speaking been so much easier when he was younger? “I mean. Well. Shit, you’re not weird, Kurusu.”

Damn it.

“Yeah? I’m not?” Akira leaned in, leaned over. A smirk danced around his eyes, replacing the shock. It danced around Akira’s mouth, his face and down his back, filling Akira with a loose limberness no one else could match. “Then what am I?”

“My rival,” Akechi whispered. What else could Akira be? What else could Akechi afford for Akira to be? The other man met his gaze head on. There was no one else; it was only them, Akechi lying down and Akira leaning over, and anything could happen. Anything could be.

Akira’s eyes crinkled. “Yeah,” he said, indulgence coating his voice in a soft sweet velvet. “I’m your rival. And because of that, I have to make sure you’re okay. How can my plant kick your plant’s ass if you’re too weak to bring it over?”

Akechi tried and failed to lunge for Akira. His world went white for a moment, glass shards digging into his back, and he fell back against the bed in a heap. Akira’s hands found his shoulders. Akechi hissed. “Just you wait, Kurusu. My plant is going to be so much better than yours that Okumura will be beside herself.”

“Easy, easy. Of course your plant is going to be excellent. Not better than mine, but excellent.” Akira’s hands stroked down Akechi’s arms, searching, testing. For what, Akechi was unsure. They felt nice though, firm against his arms, steady in a way that Akechi never was. If Akechi burned like a flame, Akira settled like a lake, deep and still and unknowable. Akechi could drown in Akira, would drown in Akira and he didn’t know if that was good or bad.

“It will pass, Kurusu,” Akechi said after a moment, when Akira forgot to stop. “This isn’t the first time, you know.”

Irritation flashed over Akira’s face, the corners of his lips turning down. “I know, but- I wish you didn’t have to deal with this. I wish I could-”

“You don't need to help every charity case, you know,” Akechi said, neither kindly or unkindly.

Akira’s hands stilled on Akechi’s arms. “I want to help you though. After everything, I-”

Akechi waited for Akira to continue. The other man didn’t. His throat bobbed, looking for the right words that never came. “Kurusu. This isn’t your fault, you know. I chose to stay behind in that room. I don’t need to be-”

“Saved, I know. I still want to help, Akechi.” Akira shook his head.

Akechi smiled tiredly. “Sometimes, you can’t help, Kurusu. You should know that best of all.”

“You would think.” Akira shifted, though his gaze never left Akechi. “It was a nice thing you did today, you know that right? You really helped Sumire.”

“Changing the subject, are you?” Akira smiled sheepishly as he pulled his hands away and folded his hands in his lap. Akechi missed them immediately. “Fine. I’ll indulge you. Just this once. You would have been better honestly. You would have known what to tell her.”

Akira huffed lightly. “From what she was telling me before she left, you did perfectly fine.”

“Lies and slander,” Akechi retorted. “And honestly, she should be figuring out her own path. We’re not going to make her happy by telling her what to do.“

Akira rubbed the back of his head, ruffling his hair even more. The curls stood out every which way, twisting under Akira’s hands. “Probably not. But listening to her isn’t telling her what to do.”

“I suppose I did do that. To be frank, I mostly asked myself what you would do and then improvised. You’re much better at handling everyone else.”

“I think you’ve gotten better. Even Makoto was commenting on it.” Akira ignored Akechi’s scoff. “She did! Haru too. You wouldn’t have done that back then.”

“I would have just dragged her back to you. You’re the one who wants to be the people person.” If Akechi didn’t mind Akira laughing at him, he’d cross his arms. But Akira would laugh and call him petulant, and Akechi wouldn’t stand for that.

“Want to be the people person?”

Akechi nodded, ignoring his hair slipping over his face. “You want to help people. You love it, don’t lie about that Kurusu. You don’t know when to stop trying to help people.”

“You’re not wrong,” Akira replied.

“And I should have dragged her back to you. But we were out there and she was panicking and I wasn’t just going to let her break down on her own. We were making enough of a scene as it- why are you laughing?”

“I’m not,” Akira said through his chuckles. “Not at you. Well, maybe a little at you, but it’s more about something Futaba said. Which I won’t repeat because you’ll get up and try to maul her, and I’d prefer for my sister to be in one piece.”

“What did she say, Kurusu?” Akechi wanted to know. He didn’t want to know.

Akira’s chuckles acquired a nervous tinge. “Nothing, don’t worry about it. Futaba is Futaba.”

“I see,” Akechi said, making a note to interrogate Futaba about what she’d called him.

Akira coughed. “Anyways, Sumire needed you, I think. Or what you would tell her. I know you think I’m too indulgent-”

“You are,” Akechi interrupted.

Akira rolled his eyes. “But she told you for a reason. She trusts you, and we all saw that. She asked me to message her when you woke up, but I’m not going to text her at like three in the morning.”

“She’d sleep through it or her phone wouldn’t go off. One of the two.”

“Hey, her phone is working now, so I’m not going to do that. From how long you two were gone, I think she’s had enough conversation for the day.” Akira shook his head, shifting on the bed. It drew Akechi’s attention to how close they sat; if Akira were to lie down, they’d be barely inches apart. There really wasn’t enough room on this bed to fit two grown men.

Akechi eyed the edge of the bed where Akira sat, and then eyed the couch where Akira’s abandoned blanket lay. “Speaking of waking up, how did I get over here? The last I remember, I was on the couch.”

Akira flushed a bright red. It crawled up his neck and marched over his ears, flooding to his cheeks in a tide of crimson.

Fascinating, Akechi thought. He hadn’t realized Akira could turn so red. A suspicion of who carried him over grew in his mind, but there was a difference between speculation and certainty, and Akechi was not a kind person. He would have to remind Akira of that fact. So he continued. “I have vague memories of someone carrying me, but I’m not very sure who would.”

“Yeah,” Akira said faintly, turning pinker if that was even possible. “Who would?”

Oh, Akechi could have fun with this. “Sakamoto certainly could; he has the arm strength for it, but he left before I fell asleep so it couldn’t have been him. And while I’m uncertain as to whether Kitagawa could lift me, as it’s certainly within the realm of possibility due to the way he lifts those canvases, he also departed before I fell asleep. Therefore--”

“Therefore?” Akira managed to not squeak, his voice instead wavering. Akechi traced the flush down Akira’s neck, down past the collar of his shirt. Just how far did Akira’s blush extend?

“Therefore,” Akechi repeated so quietly, so softly that Akira leaned forward a fraction. His heartbeat rang in his ears, an unsteady beat that pulsed along with the aches in his legs. “I can eliminate him. I can also eliminate Sakura and Takamaki, as while they would love to be able to lift me, they can’t, and Yoshizawa wouldn't dare. Although I do suppose someone could have talked Niijima or Okumura into-”

“No!” Akira winced when he said it, and Akechi chortled low.

“No, what?” He drawled, watching Akira’s face flicker with a melange of emotions. “Kurusu, are you keeping a secret? Was it really Okumura? And here I was thinking you were the one who carried me over here.”

“You’re awful. I take back feeling bad for you.” Akira grumbled, sitting back on the bed. “You knew the whole time, didn't you?”

“Know what Kurusu? I can’t imagine-” Akechi laughed when Akira threw up his hands.

“If I’d known how you’d be a dick about it, I would have left you on the couch.”

Akechi’s laughter filled his chest in spite of the knives it sent into his old wounds. “Kurusu, I’m always a dick. What did you expect?”

“A modicum of gratitude for letting you have the bed.” Akira shook his head, almost flopping backwards until he remembered where Akechi’s legs were. He restrained himself, instead crossing his arms like the true mother hen he was.

“So sorry to disappoint. I’ll keep it in mind for next time.” Akechi smiled viciously. He’d been right and he’d gotten to beat Akira in their little game of words. Truly a good moment for him, in spite of everything else. “I promise I’ll get out of your bed soon.”

“No worries. Worst case, I’ll carry you downstairs to the taxi. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind. You can even explain it to Sojiro.” Akira winked.

Akechi refused to be affected, instead smiling poisonously sweet. “No, you can. After all, you’re the reason I’m in your bed.”

“But I’ll be busy hailing the cab while you sit with him. I don’t want to make you walk, after all; you need your rest. Maybe Sojiro can give you hints about plant care; he’s rather good with them, you know.” Akira returned the grin twice as sweet, sheer confidence billowing off him in waves.

Akechi liked Akira so much. He was such an ass, clever and caring to the point of idiocy. What would Akechi do without him? What-

Oh. Akechi blinked, staring up at Akira who had an overly saccharine smirk on his face. He stared up at Akira whose gaze focused solely on Akechi, who even as he was mocking Akechi was thinking about Akechi’s needs. He stared up at Akira who in spite of everything always tried to help, who had always reached his hand out and taken the time to try to understand him. Akechi stared up at Akira and looked into his endless grey eyes, and realized…

He actually liked Akira. Not just as a rival, but as a person. Akechi’s heart beat faster. Maybe like was too weak of a word. Akechi’s heart beat faster, striking against his breastbone like the tolling of a cathedral bell. Maybe...

Shit.

Chapter Text

Akira ended up borrowing Sakura’s car to take him home in the morning. They’d ended up sitting around chatting for a few hours until Akechi’s pain faded into a dull blanket of glass and he could finally drift back to sleep. Akechi woke up with his legs able to bend but still protesting his weight, and his attempt to make it over to a chair ended with Akira jerking awake and Akechi on the floor. If Akechi hadn’t already been confused over his newfound revelation from the night prior, he might have actually gotten mad.

Instead, he’d been internally annoyed and that was enough to make Akira check his temperature. That got Akechi yelling, and so things settled back to normal for Akechi.

Sort of.

He couldn’t help looking at Akira now. Akira, who'd gotten jumpy when Akechi laid in a heap on the ground, who’d offered a firm, thin hand to help Akechi up and sent Akechi’s heart pounding. It was the stupidest reaction and it was now Akechi’s reaction. Akechi almost kept holding Akira’s hand too; he’d never been so grateful for being close to a chair before in his life.

His heart raced constantly. Akira would touch him and Akechi’s heart would sprint off like it had just begun a marathon. He’d never been so aware of Akira’s touch, not in years. Not since he’d first joined with the Thieves that October and been folded into their touchy group. The touches hurt back then, little pinpricks that reminded Akechi of what he couldn’t have.

Akira’s closeness warmed and hurt in the same way. Akira’s hand slid around Akechi’s elbow as he helped Akechi into it and all Akechi could think of was taking the hand, holding it there forever. A physical impossibility at the very least and most certainly an emotional impossibility. How would Akechi even ask for it? Akira please, don’t let go?

He couldn’t. So Akechi let Akira guide him to the chair and complained the entire way. Akechi ate the breakfast Akira brought up and argued with him over the merits of American style breakfast and when eight A.M. crawled up on them, Akechi crept down the stairs one agonizing step at a time and got into Sakura’s car.

The ride itself was quiet. Akechi found little to say that wasn’t trite, that wouldn’t betray how he wanted to fall asleep by Akira and just trust the other man to keep the others away. Couldn’t find the words to say that he was rethinking the rivalry thing, that maybe they were friends, more than friends in his eyes. Akechi always knew himself to be a coward, but it was humiliating to be confronted with the evidence.

Every so often, Akira cast a glance over, his brows scrunching together when they sat at lights. He probably thought himself clever, Akechi thought. But neither he nor Akira wore masks anymore, and Akira never managed to hide all of his concerns. Akechi knew the twist of Akira’s brow, the slant of his lips when Akira worried, and there they were this morning, blazing brilliantly on Akira’s face.

Akechi wondered when he’d gotten to know Akira well enough to tell his expressions apart. It had to have happened after everything, in the slow march of time after Akechi’s release from the hospital. Could Akira read him just as well?

Akechi prayed not.

All too soon Akira pulled up in front of Akechi’s complex. “Looks homey,” he said, peering up at the building. “Do you want a hand upstairs?”

“I’ve got it.” There were some things Akechi could do for himself and trudging home was something he’d always done by himself since he was a child. Akechi lurched out of the car, stumbling for a moment before he marshalled his feet into some semblance of balance. He ignored how his hand braced itself against the car. “Thank you Kurusu. I promise I’ll be fine.”

Akira nodded slowly, his eyes pinned to Akechi’s face. “If you need anything, message, okay? I have some jobs later, but my bosses are understanding.”

Akechi’s heart twisted in his chest and he promptly yelled at it to behave itself. “If you insist.”

“You just have work and a class right?”

“Yes Kurusu.” Why was Akira looking at him like that? Like he was concerned, his eyes wide and concerned. He had delivered Akechi home; what else was there to worry about. Akechi’s canes were upstairs along with his bed. He could rest until work.
Akira nodded, sitting back in the driver’s seat. “Okay. Well. You have my number.”

Akira must have been aware of how lame he sounded. He winced, shutting an eye. For once in his life, Akechi took pity on Akira, and it had nothing to do with any sort of revelation that Akechi had in the past twenty four hours. “I do. And if I need it, I will use it. Otherwise, you have things you need to do, Kurusu. I promise I won’t disappear off the face of the earth again.”

Akira’s throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever he had been about to say. Instead he smiled, a slow tremulous smile that grew into a smirk. “I’ll be holding you to that.”

Akechi rolled his eyes. “Go to work Kurusu. You have things to do.”

Akira didn’t pull away until the lobby door shut behind Akechi. Akechi’s traitorous heart skipped a beat before he scolded it; Akira would have waited for any of his friends. It was nothing to read into.

Nothing at all. Nothing… at…. all...

Loki the plant sat upon the little dresser silently, the sun shining merrily on the crassula’s green leaves. Akechi would accuse the plant of mocking him, if he wasn’t already distinctly aware that plants couldn’t mock anyone. Akira could, but Akira wasn’t here.

What was he going to do about Akira? No, Akechi corrected as he grabbed his canes and settled into getting ready for the rest of his day. What was he going to do about himself?

It certainly wasn’t Akira’s fault that Akechi fell in… fell in.. Akechi scowled, prodding his own feelings. Akechi’s feelings were not Akira’s fault; Akechi had only himself to blame. He refused to let his own mistakes affect Akira any more, had sworn that after regaining consciousness. He would help Akira, he would atone for shooting Akira in the head, he would hold his hand--

Akechi swore virulently at his useless brain as he hobbled over to Loki, adjusting his grip on his canes so he could snap up the water and feed the plant. “This is your fault,” he grumbled at the crassula as he watered it. “How dare you start all of this.”

What was he supposed to do with this lump in his chest? It wasn’t something he could confess; he refused to put that burden on Akira. They were rivals, competitors who drove each other to be better.

That was what Akira confirmed last night. They were rivals. That was it.

Akechi set down the water and leaned heavily on his canes. This was fine. He focused the little shards of glass digging into his legs, into his back, into his chest. He knew how to deal with that pain. He’d dealt with that pain for ages.

Damn, he was screwed. How had he missed the signs? Akechi thumped over to his chair, checking his schedule. A class in the afternoon and a bit of work before that. Akechi rubbed his face, wincing at how sticky his face felt. No one removed his make up last night, and he’d smeared it on his glove.

Akechi swore again and forced himself to his feet. First a shower and then he’d get ready for work. Everything else could wait.

Everything else could not wait. Akechi slunk into the office on both canes, ignoring the looks he garnered in the hallway. They could all deal; it wasn’t like this was the first time he’d come hobbling in. It was the first time he’d dropped the keys trying to open the office door. For some reason, Sae wasn’t present in the office. The entire suite of rooms was dark beyond the oscillating red alert on the office’s phone. Akechi stumped his way over and slung his backpack onto the desk before flopping into the chair. He tucked the canes into the little crevasse he’d cleared for them when he’d first started here and picked up the phone, cradling it between his ear and his shoulder as he grabbed a pad of paper to take notes on.

Most of the calls were from clientele or potential clientele. Nakamura called in near tears; thanking Sae once again. A person named Hanji wanted to meet with Sae concerning their brother and a police officer left a message informing Sae that if she wanted to see the crime scene for the Kinoshita case, she needed to call him on weekdays between 3pm and 9pm. Akechi dutifully wrote down all of the information until the last call. The last call was from Maya Fey.

“Hey! I’m calling for Goro Akechi because Nick told me you’ve seen Steel Samurai with some of your friends and I’m obligated to investigate. If you don’t call me back, I’ll call again!”

The woman said it in the sort of tone Akechi recognized not as a threat, but as a promise, rattling off her number like a machine gun. He balked at giving in.

He wrote down the number. He was too tired not to and he had a sinking suspicion that if he didn’t talk to Fey at least once, she’d sic Wright on him. After everything with Akira, Akechi didn’t have the energy to both figure out his own… thing.. towards Akira and thwart Wright.

It wasn’t like Fey could be nosier than Wright.

Akechi was still taking notes when the door opened and the Niijimas strode in. Sae was expected; after all, this was her office, regardless of how the office was attached to the Wright Agency. The younger Niijima was more of a surprise. With her internships and her classes, Makoto Niijima often was busier than either Sae or Akechi, and thus showed up to the Tokyo branch of the Wright Agency about as much as Wright himself did.

“There you are Akechi,” Sae strode in, aiming straight for her office. “I’ll be ready in a moment, I just need to talk with Makoto.”

Akechi inclined his head, his focus and gaze on the list of numbers and notes that now lined the pad. That was easier to look at than the younger Niijima who strode beside her sister. The pair disappeared into Sae’s office, and Akechi rubbed at his forehead. Why of all days was Makoto Niijima here?

He prayed he wouldn’t have to talk to her.

Ten minutes later, the younger Niijima slid out of Sae’s office alone with a look in her eye that put Akechi on edge. It made him want to reach for a sword that he no longer had, to brace for a fight that he was not ready for. But fighting Niijima held no appeal; whatever vitriol he’d once possessed for his peer had faded in the intervening years and now Akechi just wanted whatever she had to say to be over and done with.

“How’re you feeling, Akechi?” she asked pleasantly and Akechi stared dumbfounded. When Akechi didn’t respond, Niijima repeated herself.

“I’m here,” He said drily, realizing he had to say something. Otherwise Niijima would just keep repeating herself or worse, would tell Okumura or Akira about it. That was unacceptable. Akira would worry and would want to talk about it and Akechi disliked the idea of Okumura knowing that he was horribly horribly fallible and sometimes felt bad. It would ruin his image, and that was really the only thing he had left in the Thieves.

“You are,” she acknowledged, a flash of frustration in her eyes. Now that was more like Niijima. Her mouth moved behind her closed lips, the consternation palpable in the line of her jaw. “Akira said you were tired this morning.”

Where had Akira said that? Akechi thought back to the discord chat. He hadn’t seen anything relevant in the group chat, but that didn't mean DM’s didn’t exist. “I was. But work doesn’t stop just because I would like to sleep, and so here I am.”

“Here you are,” she repeated. “Don’t push yourself too hard. Akira will be upset if you end up hurt.”

Akira would, which was the worst part. And now Akechi felt bad for upsetting Akira because the monster in his chest made him consider Akira’s feelings and wanted Akira to be okay and happy and ugh. How was he going to handle this without letting Akira know? Telling Akira was impossible; he would say yes regardless of how he felt about Akechi. After all, he’d ended up dating Niijima and Ann at different points during that year after they’d asked. Ann had told Akechi about it one night while she was drinking, leaning on Shiho’s shoulder.

They’d gone out one night so Akechi could meet Shiho, back in those early days where the Thieves were getting used to Akechi’s state of being alive and Ann insisted on including him in things that didn’t include Akira. “Habituation,” she’d said and laughed when Akechi crossly corrected her and informed her that it was “Acclimatization. ”

But anyways, that’s how he’d ended up at Ann’s with Ann and Shiho when Ann made the mistake of drinking. Theoretically, none of them should have been drinking. Akechi, even without strict orders from his doctors, despised drinking after his entire life and experience with Shido, and Ann and Shiho were definitely underage. But Ann’s parents left behind a bottle of wine and Ann got a look in her eye.

So they each had a sip of the wine. Akechi winced and pushed it away, sharing a commiserating glance with Shiho, but Ann kept going. “I need to practice for parties and it tastes good,” she said.

Ann drank one more glass, but that was enough to turn her into a puddle. A very talkative puddle who clung to Shiho and squeaked whenever Shiho tried to pull away. One who made Shiho laugh hard enough to snort and hold Ann closer and cradle her. In between Shiho’s attempts to get her girlfriend to drink water, Ann told outrageous stories about anyone Akechi asked about. Even Akira.

Especially Akira. Which was how Akechi learned that Akira used to go to shoots with Ann and on a few dates before Ann realized that she didn’t like guys. “But everyone like likes Akira, even Makoto. You can’t help but crush on him a little.”

Which was how Akechi learned that Akira and Niijima dated for a few weeks in September before Okumura joined the group and Niijima had her own gay awakening.

Thus, Akira Kurusu ended up single again just in time for October. Akechi didn’t know whether to laugh or get angry, but he did commit the entire story to memory for future blackmail.

But now, with the full awareness that his heart… ugh, that he liked Akira, the incidents stuck in Akechi’s throat. How dare they not recognize Akira’s worth, but also how dare they date Akira? Akechi wanted--

He didn’t know what he wanted. That was the worst part. The affection sat in his heart like a bag of sprouting seeds. Akechi didn’t know what to do with it. He could barely keep Loki alive, let alone nurture seedlings of feelings. He held them in his hands and turned them this way and that way and lost track of conversations because his stupid heart wanted to go do something dumb like hold Akira’s hand or sit and talk with him or...

“Akechi?” Niijima repeated and Akechi jerked, returning to the office.

“Yes?” Akechi rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry, I missed what you said.”

Niijima squinted. “Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” Akechi lied. His legs hurt, his heart hurts, his brain hurts. He wanted to sit in a corner and figure out how he had managed to fuck up so badly and develop actual, literal feelings for the man he tried to murder once. It made no sense. Akechi made no sense, and he hated it. Hated that he couldn’t shove these feelings into a box and forget about them because he could already tell they won’t go back into the box. They were going to roll about his chest and bump into his organs and remind him every time he saw Akira of how nice Akira was, how beautiful and magnificent Akira was and someone please shoot Goro Akechi now before he ruined Akira’s life by blurting out that he liked Akira in more than a rival way.

“You’re not fine, you apologized to me,” Niijima said like the ass she was.

“Would you prefer that I didn’t apologize to you?” Akechi snapped. Niijima stared back unimpressed. “It’s been a bit of a day.”

“I can see. Should you even be in today? You seem out of it.”

What had his life become if Makoto Niijima of all people was realizing that Akechi was struggling? He desperately wanted to climb back into Akira’s bed to hide beneath the covers. Restart the day, rewind it until before the party and refuse to help Sumire. But that would be unfair to Sumire; it wasn’t her fault Akechi was a mess. It was mostly Akechi’s fault. Akechi rubbed his temples. It solved nothing but it did give him a moment to compose himself.

“I’m fine, truly. Thank you for asking.” Niijima’s brows raised. “What now, Niijima?”

“You thanked me,” she said, like it was some groundbreaking event.

“It’s not like the world is going to end.” Akechi scowled. Why couldn’t she go away? His legs ached again, threatening needles dancing down his legs.

“It’s not. I’m sorry for reacting like that.”

Akechi made a face. “That sounds weird.”

Niijima laughed for some reason, shaking her head. “Now the shoe’s on the other foot. But honestly, don’t push yourself too hard. Everyone will be upset if you end up back in the hospital.”

Lies, Akechi wanted to say. Not everyone would be upset; he knew where he stood with Okumura, with Niijima. Or at least, he thought he did. With the realization of his feelings towards Akira, the world felt askew. It was as if he’d been growing sideways and suddenly he’d been attached to a trellis and guided into growing the right way. He didn’t know how to feel about it. “I’m not going to end up back in the hospital. I told Akira that last night. This is just… normal.”

Akechi gestured at his cane, at his legs. “It just happens sometimes. I have no control over it, and he has better things to worry about. Like Sumire or Futaba or--”

“He’s worried about you,” Niijima said in a firm tone. Not a harsh tone, no. Akechi knew her harsh tones, and this didn’t match. This was a quiet insistence, not of a know it all, but that of someone who was very sure of what she was saying. “And you took care of Sumire last night, when the rest of us couldn’t. She’ll be fine. Let Akira worry about who he chooses to worry about. You are his friend, after all.”

“Friend” shouldn’t lance Akechi through the heart. It should be a fine, nice, neutral word, the sort of word the rest of the Thieves bandied about with an uncaring ease. But friend had never been a neutral word for Akechi. He’d grown up without friends, and even now, he didn’t know how to deal with the fact that he. Well. That he had friends. Akechi could admit that. Sometimes. When no one else was around to hear or in his head where only Hereward could.

“Still.” Akechi shuffled his papers, putting them into a stack and tapping the papers into place.

“Still,” Niijima repeated. “Akechi, you know it’s okay to let him worry about you, right?”

“My therapist often reminds me that we cannot control others' reactions, only our own.” It struck Akechi that he could talk to Dr. Kaname about the heart monster currently growing in his chest. She might have a better insight, but it would also mean talking about his feelings. Admittedly that was what therapy was for in part, but also--

Talking. About Akira. About liking Akira.

Niijima nodded. “I’m glad that you see her. You’ve seemed a lot better since you started seeing her.”

“Hm?”

Niijima hesitated for a moment before squaring her shoulders. “Yes. You were in such a terrible state that January; Haru noticed it, but I thought she was exaggerating. I told her that you were just showing your true colors, and that she shouldn’t worry. That we were just seeing your true self. And then we all found out on February 4th that you were gone, and she was inconsolable. I was inconsolable, and none of us could reach Akira, but that’s beside the point.” Niijima smoothed her hands over her jeans, her eyes meeting Akechi’s head on. “Even with the complications, you seem better. Happier, more open. You don’t seem so much like an open wound anymore. And I’m happy that you’re able to be like that. I hadn’t realized how much you were struggling back then.”

Akechi despised the fact that Makoto Niijima noticed how messed up he was that month. Akechi could admit that he hadn’t been at his best that January. It was hard to be at your best when you thought you were dead. But more than that, he despised the fact that Niijima confused him. Okumura too. Of all the thieves besides Futaba, they had the least reason to care about him, so why did she care about the fact that he was getting better? Niijima, who was studying to become a cop, Niijima, whose idea of good and evil aligned so black and white that she might have painted her soul in chiaroscuro. Niijima, who he barely talked with.

“It has… helped,” he replied, picking out his words carefully. “More than I expected.”

“It doesn’t change what you did of course. But I’m glad you’re figuring things out and getting help.”

Leave it to Makoto to completely ruin the moment. But that was who she was and Akechi wouldn’t and couldn’t change that. At this point in his life, he knew what he could do, and changing Makoto’s habits was completely beyond him. He’d have to rope Okumura in, and she wouldn’t want to talk to him. Then again, he hadn’t thought Makoto would ever choose to talk to him, and here she was. Talking to him.

“I’m certainly trying my best,” Akechi replied drily, sitting back in his chair. “And Dr. Kaname is a good resource.”

A good resource who he was going to have to explain everything too. Ugh. But that was a part of therapy, telling the truth and unpacking relationships and dealing with intrusive thoughts and damn if he wasn’t tired. His legs ached, his heart ached, his brain ached, and Makoto Niijima stared at him like he’d grown a third head.

“Do you want me to ask if you can take a day off?” Makoto asked.

“If this is followed up with a question about if I’m fine, tell Kurusu that I’m just peachy keen.”

“Akira didn’t ask me to do anything. I just--” Makoto shook her head. “Honestly, you and Akira are both awful to deal with. Neither of you rest, neither of you take care of yourselves, and neither of you know your own limits.”

“I know my limits.”

Makoto stared down at Akechi’s canes where they leaned against the desk and then back to him. “Uh huh.”

“I knew I could handle that,” Akechi amended. “Besides, if I hadn’t gone out to help Sumire, Akira would have. You know how it is.”

“I do. I just never expected you of all people to absorb his…” Makoto trails off, her eyes sliding off to squint at the wall of the office. There was not much there; Sae by nature was utilitarian and Akechi mirrored her aesthetics in the workplace. He kept his area clean more due to not wanting to deal with Sae than out of any sort of need for organization, and so Makoto’s eyes slid over the wall and off after failing to catch on anything.

“His what?” Akechi fought to keep his voice from snapping. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with a snippy Niijima.

“His helping habit.” Makoto finished lamely before shaking her head. “You know how he is. And he’s rubbed off on you and oh, this is going poorly isn’t it.”

Makoto sighed, and for once in his life, Akechi took pity on her. “You’re not wrong. He does have that altruistic streak in him. But I don’t. I only helped Sumire because she was clearly in distress and Akira has enough on his plate.”

“Of course,” Makoto agreed. Akechi squinted at her. She stared back unblinking.

Akechi refused to yield. He refused to give in. He refused to-- “I mean it. I didn’t help for any other reason. You know how I am.”

“I know exactly how you are Akechi,” Makoto said in a tone that sounded extremely like an indulgent Sae. It was exceedingly unfair; why did the Niijimas do that to him. Akechi only spoke the truth.

“I’m not a good person.” Akechi scowled down at the phone and the blinking red light on it. He still needed to make a few calls, but they could wait for Makoto to leave.

“Completely awful,” Makoto agreed. “Truly the big bad Metaverse ex-assassin who didn’t take time out of his day to help decorate for a party and then comfort a friend.”

Akechi sniffed. “Exactly. Big bad… “ The rest of the words hit him like a sack of bricks. Akechi stiffened. “Should you be making that sort of joke?”

“If anyone can, it’s Haru, Futaba, or me.” Makoto remained casually still, watching Akechi, confident in herself. In what she said.

“Hm. If you say so.” Akechi ducked down to dig some files out of the cabinet, using the motion to hide his face. He didn’t need the files, but he didn’t want Makoto to see his face. She’d made a joke. About what he’d done. What was even going on?

His legs ached. His brain ached.

You can’t control what others think of you Hereward said in the back of Akechi’s mind, lurking and watching as Akechi flipped through the files.

But it didn’t make sense, Akechi thought to himself and thus to his persona. Why would Makoto Niijima make a joke like that?

Maybe she’s finally comfortable with you, Hereward suggested. You could always ask her.

Akechi huffed at his persona, straightening back up with a file in hand. Makoto politely pretended that Akechi hadn’t avoided her; Akechi politely pretended he was in complete control. Such was the way of honors students. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Haru’s judging your latest competition with Akira.” A statement, and certainly not what Akechi expected Makoto to say.

“Yes?” he said slowly.

Makoto sucked in a breath and squared her shoulders. It made her stand out even more in the small office, Makoto in her leather jacket and tight jeans, a dark smudge against neutral tans and creams, breathing deep as if she had something dark and desperate to say.

“Will you talk to Haru before then? I know we haven’t really talked to you, but I think she’d like to talk with you. At some point. I know the last talk didn’t go so well, but she would like to talk with you.”

“Like to?” Akechi echoed.

Makoto winced. “Needs to? I’m not sure what the right word is. But we were talking last night about you, after we left, and she said she’s ready to talk with you. Or, she thinks she’s ready. If you’re ready.”

The words rang in Akechi’s ears. Talk. Haru Okumura wanted to talk to him. His stomach dropped into the pit of his shoes, bounced, and attempted to launch itself out of Akech’s throat. Akechi swallowed the bile to stop it. That would really kill his image and would betray his nerves. “Is that what you were building up to?”

Makoto nodded sharply.

Akechi stared. His brain loaded, crashed, reloaded and crashed again before his mouth kicked on. “Well, I have exams in the middle of December, and I believe we have a case beginning soon, but otherwise I’m relatively free. Would she like me to message her then?”

What possessed him? What ghoul took up residence in Goro Akechi’s body and took control of his mouth and vomited those words out. He wanted to throw himself out the window. Out of several windows, repeatedly. Had he really just agreed to meet with Haru Okumura? Whose father he had murdered?

“She would like that. She’s leaving town tomorrow for some meetings in Europe for Okumura Foods, so she can’t meet up any time soon, but I know she’d appreciate knowing sooner rather than later.”

Akechi nodded mutely before he gave himself a hard mental shake. “Of course. Thank you for bearing the message here, Niijima. You’re really quite kind to do so.”

Makoto lifted her hand towards Akechi’s forehead and then forced it back to her side. Akechi lifted a brow, and she chuckled nervously. “Sorry, it was instinctual. I was worried you had a fever.”

“I do not have a fever Niijima,” Akechi finally snapped and growled when Makoto released a sigh of relief. “Don’t sigh like that!”

“I’m just happy you’re not sick,” she said and she scoffed when Akechi rolled his eyes. “Goro Akechi, I may not like you, but I can worry about you. I know that’s hard to accept because you can’t fathom anyone worrying about you when they don’t like you, but I do. You’re one of Akira’s friends, and so I’m going to worry about you every so often. You were a terrible little boy when we met, but even I can admit that you’re moving beyond that.

Akechi opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He shut it with a click.

Makoto nodded, more to herself than anything else. “If there is something you need, you can always message me. I can’t guarantee I’ll help, but I can listen. In any case, I have to get going, I have classes. I’ll talk with you later!”

Makoto turned tail and fled. No, Akechi corrected himself. She pivoted and walked out of the room like she owned it. Even now she lived up to her Metaverse name. Akechi waited for the door to close behind her to bury his face in his hands.

Fuck him. What had he just agreed to? Had he really just agreed to talk with Haru Okumura of all people?

Yes. Hereward said incredibly helpfully. It’ll be good for us. And for Haru. Your last talk wasn’t much of a talk.

“Thanks,” Akechi muttered, shoving the file away from him and dragging his phone out of his pocket. Did he even have Haru’s number?

Akechi did not in fact have Okumura’s number. He shelved that thought to work on sorting phone messages in order of importance and shoved the message from Maya Fey into his backpack for later when he had more functioning brain cells. He tackled emails next, and then when Sae opened her door, handed her the stack of notifications. She took them with a small noise of thanks and disappeared back into her office.

Makoto’s request hung heavy around Akechi’s neck as he opened the case files for their next case and began to look up relevant cases. It wasn’t hard work but it was work that required Akechi to use his brain, and he happily committed himself to the pursuit of case law. All too soon lunch came and went without Akechi or Sae taking a break; time slid on until it was time for Akechi to leave for class.

So it was that he sat in his Criminology class taking notes and thinking about how he still didn’t have Okumura’s number. In retrospect, he should have checked his phone before Makoto left. There was nothing Akechi could do now about that, and he refused to call or text Makoto. Theoretically, he could message Akira. His heart raced at the thought, tripling its speed at talking to Akira, and Akechi balked. He couldn’t talk to Akira until he got his heart under control, until he could talk to Akira without making it weird. It meant replies only, and Akira had yet to message Akechi today.

Akechi hoped Akira was okay. He cast his thoughts back to the morning, to the last time he’d seen Akira. He’d looked fine; he’d just driven off to work. There was absolutely no good reason to get concerned or to think about Akira or…

How was Akechi going to focus like this? Listen, Akechi told his heart as he scratched out notes. Nothing has changed. Akira confirmed last night that they were rivals and Akechi would respect that. He would respect that. You hear that heart, he told himself, no skipping a beat over Akira Kurusu. You’ve done enough to that boy.

His heart immediately conjured an image of Akira in the car with his wide soulful eyes staring up at Akechi. It took all of Akechi’s self control to not slam his forehead down into the desk. Great.

He crossed off messaging Akira and quickly added Sumire to the list. She had enough on her plate and didn’t need the explanation. Ann and Futaba would never let him live it down and Ryuji…

Actually. That was a thought.

When class was over and Akechi was back in his apartment, he messaged his erstwhile running buddy. Ryuji replied quickly, the numbers jotted down. Never expected you to lose a number.

What can I say? Even I make mistakes. Please don’t let Okumura know. Or anyone really. Akechi blinked at the long string of emojis that followed. After a minute of not replying, Ryuji explained.

Yeah man I got cha. We gotta teach you emojis, you’re such an old man.

I am not an old man. Akechi was perfectly normal for a man his age. I don’t think I’ll be running this week.

That’s fine, c u next week nerd. Wanna grab breakfast tho?

Why not, Akechi thought, tapping off an affirmative and flopping back in his chair. It would certainly keep his mind off certain black haired, grey eyed disasters.

The leaves on his plant rustled as though it was laughing at him. Akechi flipped it off in one smooth motion and began to type out a message to Okumura. He needed to pull out this splinter as soon as possible, or his heart would have more than just Akira to preoccupy itself with.

Chapter Text

Akechi often asked himself in the gaps between therapy, in the moments when he was left alone with his thoughts and his choices, why he ended up in certain situations. Why had he been left alone to flounder in the Metaverse when Akira got Morgana? Why had Shido been his father? Why had Akechi chosen violence, over and over and over again? Why had he agreed to go to breakfast with Ryuji and Kitagawa?

Some things truly were life’s greatest mysteries.

To be fair to himself, Akechi hadn’t known Kitagawa had also been invited. In fact, Ryuji didn’t seem to know either or at least hadn’t been able to explain in any detail why Kitagawa showed up. Akechi presumed it was Kitagawa’s keen sense of free food detection. As someone who had required that particular skill until age fifteen, Akechi understood how it worked and thus refused to interrogate Kitagawa’s food proclivities too deeply.

So when Ryuji and Akechi met at the diner, Kitagawa stood with Ryuji, looming over the man. Not that Kitagawa ever loomed. He more leaned, flowed, meandered around Ryuji, his head turning this way and that as the early Shibuya traffic meandered down Central Street. Kitagawa lingered on this person or that ad, his eyes unblinking as he absorbed the world around him and Ryuji jabbered on.

“Hey man! How’re you feeling?!” Ryuji slung an arm around Akechi’s shoulders the moment Akechi got close enough, squeezing Akechi tight. He did take care to not knock into Akechi’s crutches as he did so, so it wasn’t completely awful.

“I’m fine. You know how it is,” Akechi grumbled, letting Ryuji do his weird hug thing. He’d asked Dr. Kaname once if this acceptance was Stockholm Syndrome. She’d kindly informed him no. That it was part of being Ryuji’s friend and that if he didn’t like it, Akechi could say no.

Akechi found that he never said no.

“Yeah, but it still sucks man. Relapses suck.” Ryuji’s arm tightened briefly before he slapped Akechi on the back. “I know you’ll be back to running soon. We could do some short walks until then if you like?”

“I would be amenable to that.”

Ryuji laughed. “Man, why do you always gotta be so fancy? Eh, though when I think about it, you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t speak like that.”

Ryuji thumped Akechi’s back again as he disengaged, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. “C’mon let’s go get breakfast-- Yusuke, c’mon, don’t go bothering that man.”

“Hm.” Kitagawa shook his head and let the stranger cross the street without engaging him. Ryuji looped an arm around Kitagawa and guided him to the door. “He did not possess what I needed.”

“What are you even looking for?” Akechi asked in spite of himself. Starting a conversation with Kitagawa proved dangerous more often than not. Kitagawa remained a pit most of the time, a whirlpool that dragged everyone into the dumbest escapades imaginable. Akechi could not keep track of how many odd photos Akira sent him that involved Kitagawa shenanigans.

“I need the right… person.” Kitagawa said in just the sort of ominous tone Akechi expected. “I’m trying to find the right inspiration for my last portfolio piece.”

“You still haven’t found one?” Ryuji shook his head as they thumped up the stairs. He’d herded Kitagawa up first and then Akechi and brought up the rear himself. As if Ryuji could catch any of them if they fell. Akechi decided to let that choice pass without comment. Akira wouldn’t like the insinuation about Ryuji and Akechi didn’t want to insult Ryuji.

It was low hanging fruit, he told himself as he thumped his way up the final few steps. He saved his best insults for Akira who Akechi still had to reply to.

Akira messaged Akechi that Tuesday late into the afternoon, long after Akechi’s class and work ended. It was a simple ‘how are you?’ and yet Akechi still managed to tie himself into a knot. A terribly, awful knot that had him wondering how to reply. His heart yammered on about complimenting Akira’s smile and his brain informed him that if Akechi tried to do that, Akira would storm over and force soup down his throat out of concern that Akechi was dying yet again.

And so Akechi replied that he was fine and asked how Akira’s day was. The conversation flowed on from there, almost normal. But not quite. Akechi found himself hesitating, wondering if this was the right thing to say. If this word would give away the way Akechi’s heart beat too fast, how he wondered if he could actually impress Akira. If he could…

Oh who was he kidding. Everyone liked Akira; Akechi was no different. And because he was no different, why should he even stand out in the sea of people who flocked to Akira’s side?

Akechi shook his head. He wasn’t going to think about this now. He had breakfast with Ryuji to enjoy and Kitagawa to figure out.

“We have three,” Ryuji said to the hostess before he returned his attention to Kitagawa. “I mean, you’ve got time right? Like, three weeks?”

“The deadline is in three weeks. I don’t understand why they place a deadline on art. It feels counterintuitive.” Kitagawa sighed, his shoulders slumping as the hostess dredged out the menus and began to dutifully lead them to one of the booth’s.

Akechi did his very best to not roll his eyes. Somehow, he didn’t. “Clients will place a deadline too. They’re trying to prepare you for business.”

Kitagawa gasped. “They don’t understand. You can’t put a deadline on art. That’s not how it works.”

It was exactly how it worked. Akechi knew enough about art and business to know that. People hired you to paint certain things and you painted them. It was a rare artist indeed who painted well enough that people would just buy their original works. But if anyone was that artist, Akechi thought as they were led over to a table, it would be Kitagawa.

Not that he would ever tell Kitagawa that.

Ryuji slid into the booth, scooching all the way to the wall. Kitagawa, unaware, slid into the other side. Akechi eyed both of them, trying to decide where he should sit in this Scylla and Charybdis situation. Ryuji didn’t notice Akechi’s indecision; he focused on Kitagawa, propping his head up on a hand. “Well, think of it this way Yusuke. If you get this deadline done, you can go back to painting your cognition art. Isn’t that series getting a gallery in the spring?”

Kitagawa nodded, already grabbing a napkin and flicking out a pen to start doodling on it. Whorls appeared, followed by bold lines that cut the napkin into several portions. “It is. But I have to finish this portfolio first and then I can paint as I should be painting.”

“Does your portfolio have some sort of theme?” Akechi inquired as he sat down beside Ryuji, leaning his cane as unobtrusively against the bench as he could. There was nowhere else to sit considering how far out Kitagawa had his elbows shoved out. It had nothing to do with how somehow Ryuji was the safer choice in this situation at all.

“I’m attempting to capture moments of emotion. The terror before a plunge, the joy of connection. Akira has been lovely with how much he’s helped me, but his jobs are picking up with the holiday season, and I’m unsure of how to continue.” Kitagawa scowled down at his napkin, turning it thirty degrees before adding another few lines.

Akechi scowled at the reminder. While Christmas wasn’t the biggest holiday, Akira always managed to increase his hours to an inhuman degree. It made doing things together hard in a normal year, among other reasons. And this year was already worse. Okumura was out of the country until the end of the month for business reasons so all Akechi could do was endure an agonizing wait to hear what she wanted to say, and on top of that, Akechi found himself missing Akira. Texting was nice, but he also wanted to do things with the other boy. Like play chess or darts or going on walks or talking or anything really where they could just spend time together. Akechi found his own standards dangerously low in regards to activities that included Akira, and he wondered when that had happened. It made Akechi want to scream into a pillow. But that wasn’t an option, so instead he remained sitting in the booth and scowling.

Ryuji nudged the creamer over to Akechi. “It’ll be okay, man, you’ll get to hang out with Akira soon. You guys always figure out how to find each other.”

Akechi sputtered. “What? That’s not why I’m upset. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is it not?” Kitagawa asked. “You always get that… forlorn expression when you think you won’t be able to see Akira for a while. Actually…”

“It is not forlorn.” Akechi was going to die again. His heart pummeled his scar tissue in a potent threat of expiration. What were these two idiots prattling on about? “I am not forlorn.”

“Forlorn is a bad word. Right Yusuke?” Ryuji patted Akechi’s back and made a face at Kitagawa.

Kitagawa ignored it, or more likely missed it. He tapped at his face, peering at Akechi intently. “Yes, the sorrow at having to wait to see one’s partner, the patience dredged out by the knowledge that all will be well once the time is right, but until then the suffering must be endured… I could work with that. Don’t move Akechi!”

“Kitagawa--”

“Shh! I need…” Kitagawa grabbed a fresh napkin and began to sketch, ink flowing over the ill suited canvas.

“Kitagawa--” Kitagawa held up a finger in an implicit order. Akechi resisted the urge to hit the other man with his cane. It wouldn’t do anything. Literally, it wouldn’t. He’d been around the Thieves enough to recognize a lost cause. “I blame you, Sakamoto.”

Ryuji held up his hands. “Hey man, don’t blame me. You and I both know Yusuke does what he wants.”

“Still, I’m very good at mis-assigning blame.” Akechi’s scowl deepened as he forced himself to stay still. Kitagawa squinted at Akechi every so often, barely looking down at his art as he focused on Akechi’s face.

“Just think of Akira and the sketch will be done faster,” Ryuji advised, and dodged Akech’s pinch. “Dude!”

“If my legs were feeling better, that would have been a kick,” Akechi snipped spitefully.

“Just think of Akira,” Kitagawa advised from the other side of the booth. “I want to capture your longing expression.”

Akechi squawked like a dying whale, and thanked whatever deity ensured that no one at the other booths looked over. “I am not longing, and if you dare to use that adjective again I will graffiti all of your good canvases.”

Ryuji gasped. “Oh, so I get the pinch and Yusuke just gets scribbles? I see how I rank, Akechi.”

“I don’t rank the Phantom Thieves, Sakamoto, and even if I did, you would not be below Kitagawa. You would not even be in the bottom half of the Thieves most days.”

Silence. Akechi froze, realizing what he said. Ryuji, on the other hand, blinked. Akechi saw what was going to happen before Ryuji even moved. He scrabbled for his cane, but it was too late. Ryuji got an arm around his shoulder and pulled him into one of those half hugs he was always doing to Akira. Akechi squawked, to no avail. Ryuji just pulled him close.

“Bro! That’s so sweet.” Was Ryuji tearing up? His eyes looked wet. Akechi was not equipped to handle Ryuji tears. He wasn’t equipped to handle anyone’s tears. Why did he keep making the Thieves cry? Ryuji squeezed Akechi once more before letting him go, wiping his eyes clear with a quick swipe of his hand. “Man, wait til I tell Ann that I rank above her.”

“You switch places. Wait, no, I didn’t say that. There is no ranking!” Akechi corrected waspishly, leaning away from Ryuji with a huff. Ryuji laughed and Akechi resisted the urge to grab one of the little creamer containers and dump it on Ryuji. It would be puerile and futile. “And even if I did so happen to rank you all, if you do tell Takamaki, you will definitely be below her for a month.”

“Worth it.”

“No, Sakamoto, not worth it!” Akechi snapped just in time for the waitress to arrive. She blinked slowly and Akechi contemplated grabbing his cane and leaving. That stank too much of desperation and would leave Akechi open to Ryuji’s comments for the rest of his life. Instead, Akechi merely switched his masks instantly to his Detective Prince Smile. “Hello! I would like some coffee. I’m not sure what my friends want.”

The waitress gulped. “Ah. Um. One coffee, got it. Regular or decaf?”

“Regular,” Akechi beamed.

The waitress and Ryuji shuddered. Kitagawa merely started a new sketch. By the time they finished eating, Kitagawa had five sketches and a look in his eye that Akechi didn’t trust. Akechi grabbed the check before anyone else could and paid as quickly as he could; he felt like he needed to scram before anything weird could happen.

It was a good feeling. As they said their goodbyes, Kitagawa eyed Akechi, his eyes blinking like a lizard. “Are you busy, Akechi?” the artist inquired after Ryuji bolted when he realized how soon his shift was.

“Today? Yes.” Akechi shifted, leaning on his cane. “Why?”

“Are you busy… in the future?”

Akechi decided to put the cart in front of the horse. “I am not going to model for you, Kitagawa. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I’m not it.”

“But I think you are! Just one session, please? I know you’re missing Akira, and the least we can do is help offset that. And the art wouldn’t necessarily be your face, just your…” Kitagawa flung his hands and fingers about as if that explained everything. When Akechi didn’t reply, the man dug for his words. “Your emotions.”

“My emotions,” Akechi repeated flatly. He couldn’t do that. Akechi refused to be seen in that regard. Which of his emotions were worthy of being captured like that? His anger? His disdain? Or worse, his affection? Akira could look at the art and figure out Akechi’s newly discovered feelings and that would ruin everything. Akechi couldn’t afford that.

Kitagawa bobbed his head. “Yes! Among us, you have always felt the deepest. Even as you denied it, your drive and passion drove you to the greatest heights among all of us. You who were willing to sacrifice everything, including your life, to accomplish your goals, you who hide your emotions behind your eyes… Yes, I think if I could capture but a milliliter of your essence, my portfolio would at last be complete. So please, Akechi, I beg you. Please help me with my painting.”

“No,” Akechi replied, walking away.

Two weeks later, he sat in Kitagawa’s studio at his university, staring hard enough at a bottle of pigment that it could have caught on fire if it had been even a millimeter more flammable. The building that contained the studio squatted in the middle of Kitagawa’s campus, brick placed upon perilous brick, held together more by faith than by a feat of construction. It felt like an extension of Kitagawa’s psyche; Akechi wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen a building more Kitagawan before. He’d arrived precisely on time. It was a skill Akechi honed while working for Shido. He’d wanted to spend the bare minimum amount of time with the man, but he also hadn’t wanted to jeopardize his standing by arriving late. Thus, much like Gandalf, Akechi perfected the art of arriving precisely when he meant to, which mostly meant arriving on time.

Besides, if he focused on arriving on time, he could ignore the lumps in his chest. One lump was Akira; they hadn’t been able to meet in a week and probably wouldn’t be able to meet until the following, a few days after Akechi arranged to meet with Okumura. The second was Okumura herself; she’d sent a few messages, a few feelers out for some reason. She’d asked if he owned gardening gloves (he didn’t), if he had a full free day (he’d cleared his schedule, throwing himself on Sae’s mercy and the mercy of his teacher), and if he had any food preferences beyond nothing spicy. She didn’t want him to have to deal with a repeat of the takoyaki incident.

Akechi hated the fact that she remembered the takoyaki incident. Not that he would tell Okumura off for remembering, especially because she was being polite about it. Instead, he’d blasted Kamelot for Loki and set about repotting said plant. Ryuji passed him an article about how pots could limit plant growth, rambling on about root space, and Akechi decided Ryuji had a point. Not that he would ever tell Ryuji that. Akechi would never hear the end of it.

He should probably talk to Dr. Kaname about all of that at his next appointment. Akechi still hadn’t managed to tell her that the original plant died; he’d been too focused on picking apart how to communicate healthily, which theoretically that included, but Akechi wanted to be able to talk with the Thieves. He didn’t want to admit that to anyone besides Dr. Kaname of course, but the Thieves weren’t really awful. In fact, Akechi could admit now, to himself, in the quiet recesses of his brain, that he sort of enjoyed being around them.

One day he might actually tell them that. Not anytime soon of course. He had to survive his encounter with Okumura and whatever Kitagawa wanted out of him. From Ann, Akechi knew that long ago Kitagawa asked her to model nude. Truly, a terrifying way to begin a relationship and to enter the world of fine art. Thankfully for Ann and Kitagawa, it ended up not going anywhere awful. The Thieves used the session to shift Madarame’s cognition, Kitagawa fell into the Metaverse, and the rest, as they say, was history.

So when Akechi arrived precisely on time and texted Kitagawa that he was here, he didn’t know what to expect. It could honestly be anything or nothing or something entirely weird. The memory of Kitagawa thigh deep in the pond while Akira took their photo haunted Akechi. He wasn’t going to follow Kitagawa into any body of water in November. Akechi refused.

Kitagawa flung open the door, rattling the glass in its frame. The passing students ignored him, continuing their brisk pace forward. “Akechi! You’ve arrived!”

“Yes I have-- don’t grab me!”

Kitagawa latched onto Akechi’s arm and wrenched him forward. Akechi swore, suddenly grateful that while he had his cane with him, he wasn’t currently using it. Instead, the tug just pulled on his old scar tissue on his chest, pulling on the old bullet wound. Pain flared out of it, and Akechi staunchly swallowed it.

“I’m very sorry, but we only have so much time! I’ve completed everything else, and you will help me complete my last piece. Just in time, as it is due next week. Thank you so very much, I know you are an incredibly busy man.”

Akechi had never heard Kitagawa talk so much and so fast. Then again, he rarely hung out with the artist. They just had completely different schedules and lifestyles, and Akechi was not what anyone would call artistic by any stretch. The closest he got was the old Featherman fanfiction he wrote, but absolutely no one knew about that, and Akechi wasn’t about to tell anyone about it.

He’d never be able to look Futaba in the eye again.

“What exactly do you need me for?” Akechi asked as Kitagawa stopped in front of the elevators and jabbed the up button with a fluid poke.

“Mostly your expressions. I don’t know if you’re aware, but when you let yourself emote you have the most impressive range of facial motion. Hatred, adoration, determination… no one matches. Not even Akira.”

“Akira doesn’t emote,” Akechi replied bluntly as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. “At least not overtly.”

“Exactly! His face is impassive, a pond on a windless day, an ice sculpture sat upon a plinth. Most of the time, you also possess that reserved demeanor, but sometimes you let your true self shine through and--” Kitagawa gestured with his hands, spreading his fingers wide and then clenching them shut as they shuffled into the elevator. “You let go in a way none of the rest of us can. It’s truly impressive.”

Akechi had never been told that his ability to lose his shit was impressive, but Kitagawa always was in a category of his own. Kitagawa always knew what to say to make Akechi pause to try to figure out what he’d just been told.

“..how is your plant doing? I’ve seen Akira’s and it’s truly a marvelous specimen. I contemplated painting it, but it felt as though it was missing something. A companion to complement the light green and imperial purple… a darker jade…” Kitagawa hit the button for the third floor and continued to mumble about shades.

“My plant is doing fine,” Akechi replied durling a lull in Kitagawa’s murmurings. The elevator rattled around them like popcorn in a too small can, the metal slamming together like a toddler smacking a pot with a spoon. It made Akechi want to pry open a door and fling himself out the doors. However, that wasn’t an option, and so Akechi leaned against the back wall and prayed the ride would end soon.

“I cannot wait to see the results. You and Akira, your synergy always produces the most magnificent displays. Ah, perhaps after the competition concludes, I could see your plants in tandem? I think I could make the most magnificent painting…”

Akechi’s heart twisted, tying itself into a knot in his chest. He and Akira did work well together; Akechi knew that. Of everyone, Akira knew Akechi. Long ago, during that year, it had been mortifying to be seen to the degree Akira saw Akechi. But now, Akechi grew unsure of how well he saw Akira; how had Akechi missed his own feelings for the other boy growing? It seemed like everyone else had some idea of how close Akechi and Akira were; did they realize the depths of Akechi’s feelings? Would they tell Akira? Akechi sucked in a breath. “That seems to be a popular opinion among everyone.”

“It’s true! Your plants would be most magnificent. I will have to talk to Akira...”

Akechi thanked his lucky stars Kitagawa was oblivious. The elevator dinged and Kitagawa trotted out. “Not for this portfolio, but perhaps for the exhibition next year.”

“Exhibition?” Akechi inquired, following Kitagawa down the narrow corridor.

“Ah yes.” A cornucopia of emotions flitted over the artist's face. Joy, pride, confusion, uncertainty, all flickered through Kitagawa’s eyes before finally settling into expectancy. “I accepted an offer from a gallery to exhibit my works. I’m not sure if it was the right choice, but it’s not a large exhibition. To be honest, I have most of the work completed. But I still find myself concerned.”

“Concerned about what?” Kitagawa stopped in front of a door covered in paint. A small temporary plaque to the side had Kitagawa’s name on it, and taped to the front were several notices. At least two of them were pleas for the midnight laughter to stop, worded desperately enough that someone offered to buy Kitagawa another week’s worth of meals.

Akechi didn’t want to know.

“Ah. It’s difficult to explain.” Kitagawa unlocked the door and swung it open, stepping deftly over three cans of paint. Akechi, unsurprised, followed. “You remember Madarame?”

How could Akechi forget Madarame? How could he forget the various students and witnesses he’d had to silence on behalf of the disgraced artist? Or the gaudy museum that called itself a palace but mostly existed as an eyesore?

“Yes,” Akechi said out loud, eyeing the room about him. Canvases were stacked against the walls and paint covered the floor in large dollaps and small, all forgotten and long dried. A blanket sat under one easel, a half hearted attempt at preserving the floor. Akechi suspected that it was Akira’s hand at work, a last ditch attempt to save a lost cause. Akira was always fond of finding those sorts of causes.

Several chairs sat scattered about the open floor, the remnants of the other thieves present. One of Ann’s scarves was tied between the legs of one, and several coffee mugs from Leblanc somehow had made their way here and had been repurposed to hold brushes. A daruma squatted on top of a shelf, its eyes simultaneously happy and angry, its sides adorned by several Featherman stickers. A kettle sat beside it on a heating pad that was unplugged from the wall, the sort that somehow felt like Okumura without any evidence of Okumura's actual presence in the studiio. The touch of the Thieves permeated the room, and Akechi shuffled his feet awkwardly. This was new territory; this was a situation that he didn’t know how to handle. And so, he settled his face into neutrality.

Especially when Kitagawa continued.

“While I owe much to Madarame, his behavior has left indelible marks upon my cognition of the artistic world. I’ve talked much with Akira about this, but in the wake of the revelations all those years ago concerning his behavior, I found myself adrift.” Kitagawa paused, running his fingertips over a small stack of sketchbooks. He hummed, before digging one out from the middle. He ran his thumb over the edge, making a loose circle on the cover. “What is art worth? How does one decide artistic merit and when can one justify painting art for personal gain?”

“Kitagawa, we all have to eat. You’ll have to sell art sometime.”

Kitagawa smiled, a half little smile that did not fit on his face. “You are ever practical Akechi, and so assured of your own decisions. I admire that about you.”

Akechi would be damned if he had to suffer through another horseshit talk about his own determination. “Kitagawa, it’s not my determination or any of that shit. You’ll have to get a job sometime, and for artists that means selling work or finding a patron.”

“I know. My counselors like to remind me of it.” Kitagawa shook his head, gesturing with the sketchbook to one of the chairs. “You can sit there if you like.”

Akechi sat down, not quite collapsing into the chair. He sat with tailored grace that no one could comment on. Except maybe Akira. But Akira was special and received privileges for it. Oh, Akechi needed help or some sort of road map becauseAkira was special and he didn't know what to do about it.

Kitagawa lifted an eyebrow. “You twitched.”

“I did not,” Akechi denied, settling into the chair. He crossed one leg over the other. “There’s no shame in earning money, you know. It’s rather vital in our modern world.”

“It is, isn’t it.” Kitagawa sighed. “It’s rather unfortunate really. How can I pursue art if I must taint it with things like grades and gold?”

Akechi swallowed his first response and hoped Akira was grateful for that. “By understanding that you also need to eat and can’t depend entirely on others for food, even if your friends are stupidly nice and are always willing to feed you?”

“You always tend to pay for our meals. Thank you for that, Akechi. It’s very nice of you.”

Akechi pinched his nose. “Kitagawa. That’s not my point. What do you eat when we’re not around?”

Kitagawa thought, settling down on a stool and flipping over the sketchbook. “Well, I have some granola bars that I keep here. That was Shiho’s suggestion. And then at my apartment, I have these little American toaster pastries and some canned soup. The soup was Ann’s idea; she said it has vegetables. Also some rice and a rice cooker; Makoto gave me those. They’re quite convenient, all things considered.”

It wasn’t like Akechi’s apartment was much better equipped for cooking. He knew where to draw the line with his own abilities. Not that he would ever tell Akira that he couldn’t cook. Akechi didn’t have to admit to his weaknesses.

In any case. “And you have to pay for that somehow? I presume Niijima and Suzui and Takamaki aren’t just buying you food every few weeks.”

“No. And I repaid them for the initial purchases.While it was kind of them, I do want to be able to support myself. I just... “ Kitagawa fidgeted with the sketchbook. He plucked at the cover and pursed his lips. “Dislike the role money plays in life.”

“It sucks,” Akechi agreed. Jobs, education costs, medical bills, life, it all added up to never enough. He remembered his mother; he thought of Akira, chasing down part time work in addition to Leblanc just to have a little extra, to be able to buy things for his friends. “But that doesn’t mean that it makes your art worse. You aren’t Madarame, you know.”

“I know, it’s just..” Kitagawa flapped a hand, finally opening the sketchbook. “It feels easy, sometimes, to become Madarame. To start pursuing gold rather than art.”

“Kitagawa, if you think this much about it, you’re never going to do it. Your own brain would stop you. Besides, You’re too…” Akechi fought for the right word. “You’re too nice. Like the rest of the Phantom dweebs. You’d rather chew your own arm off than hurt another person.”

Kitagawa stared at Akechi for the longest time, his hands unmoving. If Akechi had been a man given to fidgeting, he would have begun to fidget. As it was, he wasn’t. Instead, he stared back, unimpressed.

“You know,” Kitagawa said, finally moving to grab a pencil. “You’re much nicer than you give yourself credit for, Akechi.”

“I am not nice,” Akechi grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

Kitagawa lit up, scrabbling through the pages of his sketchbook. “Oh, hold that face! That’s a good face!”

“I’m not making a face! This is my normal face!” Akechi snapped. Kitagawa hummed, his pencil moving over his page like lightning. “Kitagawa!”

Time passed, and the conversation drifted in fits and starts. Not uncomfortable starts, but a sort of natural ebb and flow that Kitagawa managed to dictate. Akechi sat on his chair, his phone unnaturally silent in his pocket. He hated this time of the year. Too many things happened, the ghosts of the past and present mingled. November 20th and the engine room marched out of the past while Akira’s horrifically busy schedule mangled the present. But bothering Akira was something Akechi refused to do. It felt… cruel in a way. To bother Akira now. The other man already had so much on his plate and Akechi… Akechi wasn’t ready to prod old wounds.

His old ones already hurt. While the studio had heating, it was not terribly good. Or perhaps Kitagawa kept it cold to keep the heating costs down. Akechi couldn’t blame the artist either way. But the chill made Akechi’s skin prickle and draw tight, and that pulled on the old scar. Theoretically, the wound healed years ago, The doctors stitched the hole shut on both sides of his body, telling him later, much later and long after he’d woken up that he’d been lucky to have the bullet pass through so cleanly.

Akechi wasn’t sure if that was lucky. He’d have preferred to not have been shot at all, but he’d set himself up for it. In any case, the cold made the skin shrivel at the edges of the scar and pulled on it, tugging insistently until the area ached. Even with the layers Akechi wore, the cold set in, spreading along Akechi's heart and down his limbs, digging into muscle and sinew until Akechi must have finally betrayed his discomfort.

“We can take a break,” Kitagawa said, a furrow between his brows. He unfortunately peered straight at Akechi, and the weight of the stare rankled. Akechi was fine; he knew his limits. He could completely manage himself. He wasn’t like Akira who would run around doing things until his legs hurt and he practically passed out on his bed. Akechi refused to pass out; it was undignified. He graciously slumped down on his--

Akechi squawked when Kitagawa dropped a blanket on his head. Akechi flailed, fumbling with the heavy blanket until his head popped out and the majority rested on his shoulders. He scowled fiercely, his fingers digging into the cloth and pulling it into a more secure position.

“You looked cold,” Kitagawa said apologetically, flowing over to a cupboard and pulling out some tea bags and bottled water. Akechi didn’t know whether or not to be horrified when Kitagawa started to pour the bottle water into the kettle. “I don’t need much heat, but I forget that others do. My apologies, Akechi.”

“It’s fine. Thank you.”

Kitagawa hummed. “Akira would be most upset if something happened to you. Especially around this time of the year.”

Akechi searched for words that never came. What could he say to that?

“He doesn’t like to think about how you nearly died. None of us really do. In spite of everything, I know that I am grateful that you came back, even if it wasn’t in one piece. You rather remind me of an old style of art called kintsugi. Where--”

“They repaired broken pottery by joining it with gold or silver or other precious metals,” Akechi finished.

Kitagawa beamed. “You know of it? Of course you do. Your collection of intellectual minutiae is most impressive. I do believe you know the most out of our little group, to Makoto’s chagrin. Though please do not mention that to her; I think she would be upset.”

“I won’t,” Akechi replied, thinking of how often he and Makoto spoke. Although that might be more often or never again depending on how the talk with Okumura went and whether or not Makoto wanted to keep discussing musical tastes.

“Thank you.” Kitagawa tilted his head. “Is something the matter with Makoto?”

“No, she’s fine.”

Kitagawa turned back to the kettle. “Ah, I see. With Haru then. She did mention to me that you two were going to have a talk.”

“She did?”

“She did!” Kitagawa hefted the kettle, feeling the weight before nodding to himself and setting it back down. “We speak often, Haru and I. Mostly to discuss aesthetics and how one determines one’s taste, but sometimes of our lives. And she mentioned that you two were finally going to have a talk. I’m quite happy for both of you.”

Akechi stared for a long moment, long enough that even Kitagawa noticed. He straightened up from plugging into the heating pad. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” Akechi snapped quickly. Too quickly. Kitagawa raised an eyebrow. “Nervous is not the right word.”

Kitagawa cocked his head as he turned the heating pad on. “Then what is the right word?”

Akechi opened his mouth, and then shut it with a click. What was the right word? Nervous wasn’t right; Akechi was never nervous. He was not a nervous person by nature. A nervous man wouldn’t have gone up to his father at age fifteen and stared down the barrel of a gun and chosen violence. Akechi was… he was…

“It’s complicated,” he said lamely instead, and winced at himself.

“Haru used that word too.” Kitagawa hummed as he meandered back to his chair, absently adjusting supplies as he went. “If it’s any consolation, she doesn’t hate you anymore. I don’t know if she hated you in the first place. I think you just confuse her.”

“What.”

Kitagawa nodded to himself, folding his limbs beneath him into an origami of a man. “Even in Sae’s Palace, we could see how… tenuous? Everything about you was. You strained at the edges, and Akira was so concerned over everything about you. Not over the murder attempt. I think Akira rather enjoyed the attempt, oddly enough.”

Akechi refused to unpack that. He was not at therapy and he did not have Akira around to ask, and so he was not going to unpack the words of Yusuke Kitagawa, absentminded artist extraordinaire. He was definitely not going to think about how he was going to have to talk to Akira again about valuing his own life over others. Definitely not.

“It helped that we knew you wouldn’t succeed. Or at least, we were very sure you wouldn’t. And I think Haru thought she would have more time after that to talk with you, that Akira would win you back to our merry gang and then she could scream at you or hit you or something definitive for closure, and then you sacrificed yourself for us, and then January happened, and then Akira was struggling and then you came back three fourths dead and… Well. You know.”

Kitagawa gestured at Akechi.

“No Kitagawa, I don’t know.” Akechi hated how his stomach twisted. Kitagawa didn’t know anything. Didn’t know anything about Okumura or about Akira. Certainly not. He must have misunderstood; he was the type to misunderstand.

“We all care about you greatly. I know it's hard to fathom considering everything, and we’re not the best at communicating, but we all do care for you. Akira especially. I hope you never underestimate him in that regard.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it? Akechi couldn’t tell how much Akira cared; they’d always matched until Akechi exploded, until he just had to burst past rivalry into affection, and Akechi didn’t know. Akechi didn’t know and he hated it, and he hated how Kitagawa was staring at him with such consideration.

He’s just trying to help, Hereward commented, and Akechi hated that Hereward was right. It would have been so much easier if Yusuke had just been cruel, if he had told him these things to set Akechi off kilter.

Akechi rubbed at his temples. “I try to not assume anything about Kurusu.” Not even affection. He can’t afford to think about Akira like that; his heart already felt like exploding when he thought too long about Akira. When he thought about Akira’s smile or their late night debates over philosophy. When he thought about their trips to Akihabara with Futaba or their evenings at Jazz Jin or Penguin sniper. When he thought of sitting at Leblanc’s counter, Akira pouring a cup of coffee and slowly talking about his day, and Akechi listened as a man who rarely talked suddenly spoke for ages. Akechi thought and thought, turned Akira this way and that in his head. Akechi contemplated the idea that Akira might like him back.

Could Akira reciprocate? Could Akechi presume that Akira cared as much as he did? Could Akechi allow himself to make that leap, to ask Akira again what he thought of Akechi? To dare to ask for more?

Akechi didn’t dare. What if he was wrong? He could ruin everything, he could…

Yusuke pressed the cup of tea into Akechi’s hands, a smile lingering on his face. Akechi blinked. On the table beside Yusuke, a sketchbook sat and Akechi could see how soft his face looked in the sketches. He’d never seen his smile curve so gently or his brow so relaxed. He’d never seen his eyes stare so, caught in their own thoughts. Akechi almost hated it. Almost, but not quite, for he could not forget the source of that softness. To hate that look would be to hate Akira, and Akechi did not hate Akira.

“It will be okay,” Yusuke said, squeezing Akechi’s shoulder. “If you ever need an ear, my studio is always open to you. You are one of my friends, even if we do not speak much. I simply want you to be happy, as happy as you can be.”

Friends. He and Yusuke barely talked; how could they be friends. But by the same token, what made them not friends? They met up occasionally, they existed in the same group chats. Being friends didn’t mean spending every waking moment together. Sometimes, it just meant… helping each other. Talking. Small things. Akechi ducked his face down, using his hair to hide as he peered into the warm brown tea. The surface had no answers; why would it? It was just tea.

“Thank you,” Akechi said quietly, his fingers tight about the cup.

Yusuke patted his shoulder again. “There’s no need to thank me. Now drink your tea, and if you feel up to it, we can keep going. Or we can continue tomorrow if you’d like.”

“I’m fine,” Akechi said, watching as a drop hit the surface of the tea. The roof must be leaking. Nothing else. He sucked in a breath and looked up. “Let’s keep going.”

Yusuke nodded, reaching over to pick up his sketchbook. “As you wish.”

Chapter Text

Okumura lived in a mansion. Akechi knew this. He’d known it for years; Kunikazu Okumura employed Shido’s services frequently, and thus Akechi needed to know where the man lived. Just in case. The Okumuras hadn’t always lived in a mansion, of course. Akechi overheard Okumura talking to Makoto about her childhood home, the small two bedroom that Okumura and her parents lived in. It sounded nice enough, the sort a salaryman could afford, cozy and full of that hazy love of bygone childhood days. It sounded nicer than any apartment Akechi’s mother managed to rent. Akechi never mentioned that; he swallowed the words and sank into his corner and stewed. 

There would be no stewing today. From the sounds of everything, it would just be Akechi and Okumura, alone at her mansion. It made sense; if you had to deal with someone you disliked, why engage with them on their turf? If you brought them to your court, you played at the advantage. You controlled where they were, what they could do, what they could bring. And in her mansion, Okumura would control everything.

Akechi fingered the gardening gloves in his pocket. Okumura requested that he bring gardening gloves and wear clothing comfortable for getting dirty in. He’d speculated what she’d wanted to do with him at his last session with Dr. Kaname. Akechi spent twenty minutes picking and prying at each word in the text message, from the time (ten in the morning) to what he would need to wear (comfortable jeans; he wasn’t about to get his slacks dirty and he wasn’t going to wear sweatpants outside of his apartment) to what she was going to say (she was going to tell him how he ruined everything he touched and how dare he exist, and Kaname cut him off there, asking how he was so sure that she would say such things?). It had been a good session, in the end. Harrowing, but Akechi’s heart only half collapsed in the anxiety of waiting. 

When he was younger, he would have slunk off to Mementos to rip through the shadows there. That would have distracted him thoroughly: the crunch of shadows breaking beneath his blade, the splatter of shadow innards against the wall, the agony of mistepping. He could have submerged himself in battle and forgotten everything, but Mementos was no longer an option. 

Akechi’s legs ached. He’d seen his doctors to discuss the recent flare up, sat through their poking and prodding only to be told that he needed to rest. That it was partially psychosomatic, partially just the time of year. Akechi hated it when they told him that. It made his pain so far out of his control that he almost whined to Akira about it. Almost. Akechi refrained; he knew Akira hurt around this time of the year as well, and so instead he slunk off to complain to Ann, slipping into her pm’s with a three paragraph long complaint. 

She diligently read every word and then sent him a picture of pancakes with a question mark. He hated that they did in fact manage to meet up twenty minutes later at some shitty ass diner to gorge on pancakes. Akechi sometimes hated his life, often hated his own decisions and brain, but he also found himself grateful for his... His friends. Ann might have taunted him with pancakes, but she also poked at him until he felt less like a collection of shards and more like a person again, carefully stitched back together. Akechi had stared at Ann, had stared at the plates that lay empty before them, the pancakes entirely consumed. 

Sometimes, Akechi wondered what his past self would think of him now. Hanging with the phantom thieves, nursing a crush on their leader. Akechi thought he would have fully collapsed. Eighteen year old Akechi ran on spite and gall, on hate and misery; eighteen year old him wouldn’t know how to handle a positive emotion. He hadn’t. Akechi thought back on the trips to Penguin Sniper, to Jazz Jin, to the aquarium. His teenage self framed them all in a combative, competitive way. It let teen Akechi actually go on those trips, to have fun on those trips.

After all, who would like Akechi for Akechi? He was an angry, asshat of a human, or had been in those years. Nowadays, he mostly…

Nowadays, he was happier. Akechi didn’t know if he was happy; Dr. Kaname said that was okay. That letting yourself be happy was hard, but that it was worth it. That you had to choose happiness, in the end, and getting there was a long, drudging path. 

Dr. Kaname always assured him that he could take his time. Akechi wondered that day, when he sat with Ann and gorged on pancakes with her, if he was finally getting closer to that fabled happiness. He sort of thought so. These past few months felt like something was finally clicking, like something was finally working out. Like he was finally figuring out the Thieves and settling into place with them. 

As if he was finally choosing happiness. 

With that said, there were still bumps. Akechi still needed to figure out what he wanted to do about his feelings for Akira, and more urgently, he needed to figure out what Okumura wanted.

On the morning of their day-long excursion, Akechi woke up early. He’d made himself eat a granola bar; Dr. Kaname was extremely insistent that Akechi needed three meals a day, even if his stomach protested, and so now Akechi kept around small stashes of food for these sorts of days. The granola bar tasted like ash in his mouth, but Akechi ate all of it, and then went back for another. The instant coffee also tasted awful and Akechi refused to let Akira know that he kept a stash in his apartment. Akechi felt it would give Akira psychic damage and he knew that he’d already done more than enough to the other man. So Akechi drank his shitty coffee and then actually got dressed. 

His plant watched him the whole time, bopping along to his metal music or bopping along as well as any plant could. Loki was in the process of growing a new stem. It was rather late in the game for this stem, but Akechi approved of Loki’s go get ‘em attitude. The green protrusion already had several leaves hanging off of it, each perfectly shaped and an award winning shade of jade. Akechi paused mid-sip to praise the plant. 

“You are doing very well,” Akechi informed Loki, taking a moment to tap some plant nutrients in. He’d forgotten to do so last week, in the haze of classes, work, and the upcoming Okumura excursion. “Thank you for your patience. Now, if you keep working hard, I will go and get you a very fancy pot. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

I think it would, Hereward said in lieu of Loki. After all, plants didn’t speak. Only their owners did. Akechi was well aware of this. We saw a nice one the other day at the flower shop in Shibuya. The one dear Akira used to work at. We could always buy matching pots. One for us and one for Akira. 

Akechi scowled and picked up his phone, flipping past the Alesana song on the lock screen and opening Akira’s messages. Nothing since last night, when Akira sent a long ramble about work and Akechi asked when was the last time Akira slept and ate. 

There hadn’t been a response. Akechi scowled and tapped off the questions again. Akira should be awake by now. For better or worse, Akira never slept in, even on his off days, and while there was always the chance that he had, it felt… odd. 

Akechi squinted at the phone. Nothing. He finished feeding and watering Loki, and sang along to the song as he finished changing. Still no reply.  Akechi checked the date; it wasn’t the twentieth. That day passed with a slew of photographs of coffee and little talks over the phone. Nothing out of the ordinary for Akira. Akechi stuck his headphones in his ears, the metal transitioning from the speakers effortlessly and ran his thumb over the screen, tracing the last words Akira sent the previous evening. 

He could message Akira again. Would that be too much? Akira also needed space, and Akechi didn’t want to presume that Akira would be okay with Akechi pestering. He didn’t want to overstep. Not today. Not with Okumura on the horizon.

He shoved the gloves into his pocket and patted down his coat. Keys, wallet, phone, self. He eyed Loki one last time. The plant sat as silent as Akechi’s phone. Akechi sighed, rolling his shoulders. He had to trust that everything was fine. He had to trust Akira would tell him if anything was wrong.

Dr. Kaname was big on trust. Not blind trust, no. The sort of trust that could weather storms. That was the thing about anxiety, she would say, her hands folded neatly in her lap. It liked to sit in your ear and whisper constantly, to take small things and weave them into choking brambles. Anxiety would take a grain of sand and transform it into a mountain, take the strategies Akechi needed to survive Shido and turn them against people who weren’t Shido at all. People like Akira. 

People like Okumura. 

Akechi fidgeted with his phone on the subway. Okumura’s mansion wasn’t terribly far from where he lived, or at least not terribly far for Tokyo. As someone who had spent his whole life in Tokyo, the half an hour commute was nothing. Akechi emerged from the station with twenty minutes to walk a five minute walk, and he fidgeted with his phone the entire time. 

Dear Okumura he composed in his  head I’m sorry for your grief and the pain that I’ve caused you. I don’t know how to make this up to you when your father was a scumbag... No, he couldn’t say that. Akechi flipped his phone in his hand. 

Dear Okumura. I don’t know what it was about that party that made you think I’m worth speaking to, but here we are. Makoto’s words about January  and your opinions on me were also confusing. I would like to remind you that I killed your… 

Awful. Terrible. Who wrote this trash? Akechi checked his phone. No Akira; only the next Alesana album that Makoto recommended after saying it wasn’t her sort of album but it felt like Akechi’s. Akechi had no clue what that meant; he didn’t even know how Makoto knew Akechi listened to metal. While they were texting more consistently in an effort to coordinate Sae’s eating schedule, they didn’t gossip. They mostly discussed Sae’s court schedule; Akechi’s taste in music rarely came up. Maybe once or twice, when Akechi was at a loss for what metal to play next.

Not that he listened to a ton of metal. All of this screaming was for Loki. Loki needed the best metal to grow big and strong.

Akechi decided to blame Sae. That seemed like a safe option. The safer option. 

Screw this, he was five minutes away from Okumura’s mansion. Now was not the time to think about Makoto and her music recommendations. Now was the time to Not Panic or Hyperfixate on things outside of his control, now was the time to…

Akechi pressed the butt of his palms into his eyes and swore very quietly to himself. “I hate people,” he grumbled, his phone still silent. He finally slipped it back into his pocket. Akira would message when he could, and until then, Akechi would focus on Okumura. She did deserve his full attention after all. 

The mansion looked much the same as Akechi vaguely remembered it. Mansions rarely changed in grandiose ways, at least on the outside. Two stories, a nice yard. That alone spoke to the property value; land was money in terms of the Tokyo real estate yard. A part of him, a distant, cold part, wondered why she’d stayed so long here, in this house where she’d lived with her father. It wasn’t like he would ever come back. Another part understood. Sometimes, when all you had were memories, you wanted the familiar. All you wanted was the physical reminder that someone once existed. 

He lingered on the sidewalk, staring up at the building. Akechi never thought he would come here. It felt like a Palace, a trial to be undertaken in spite of his own fears and worries. But that was unfair to Okumura; she was no Palace Ruler. She was herself, and she could not change that anymore than Akechi could change himself. Akechi sucked in a breath and exhaled, checking his phone one last time. Nothing from Akira; it made Akechi uneasy. But he’d already sent more messages than normal and Akechi didn’t want to make things… weird. He wanted to respect Akira’s time. So he slipped his phone back into his pocket and squared his shoulders.

Akechi walked up the pathway and rang the doorbell. He resisted the urge to shuffle in the encroaching cold, to slap his hands together to chase away the chill. It wouldn’t be long. A man opened the door, a tall lean man dressed in neat clothing. “Ah, you’re Miss Okumura’s friend?” 

Akechi nodded. Friend was an odd choice of words, but who was he to judge? The man opened the door wider, stepping back. “Come right in. I’ll take you back to the greenhouse. Don’t worry about taking off your shoes; we’ll pass right through the house on the hardwood.” 

Of course Okumura had a greenhouse. Of course she did. Why wouldn’t she? If she could still afford to live here after everything her father had done, she could in fact afford a greenhouse. 

Akechi stopped himself, taking a thin breath as the servant led the way through the first floor. Paintings hung on the walls. They were of landscapes, European and Japanese idylls cavorting upon the walls. Strangely, they didn’t seem like Okumura’s taste. A lingering remnant of her father, Akechi supposed, or maybe her much longer deceased mother. The walls were painted an inoffensive cream as they strode deeper into the home. As they passed by doors, Akechi caught sight of rooms. A living room with a wall of windows and a lonely couch and table set, an office filled with stacks of paper, a room dominated by a piano, among countless other rooms.  They didn’t interest Akechi beyond offering distractions, and the servant led him past the rooms too quickly for Akechi to get more than a glance into any room. 

They emerged onto the back patio, the brick lovingly laid down. A sheet covered the patio table with the chairs stacked and covered to the side. A small stretch of grass marched around the patio's borders and surrounded the glass building the servant headed towards. Outside, a small stump sat, with an ax leaning against it. A small pile of chopped wood lined the one side of the greenhouse, and another pile of unchopped wood sat beyond it on a little square of dirt. 

Akechi eyed the ax and swallowed. Don’t be nervous, he told himself as he trailed after the servant. Okumura had been the one to suggest here and had been the one who wanted to meet. She’d sent Makoto, she got the ball rolling this time. This was her choice, and after everything Akechi had done, the least he could do would be to listen to her. 

This was not some elaborate murder attempt. 

The leather of his gloves creaked as Akechi clenched his fingers and then forced himself to relax. He sucked in a breath as he counted to four, held it for four, and then exhaled for four. This would be fine. He and Okumura were adults. Worst case, she kicked him out and he’d have to negotiate with the rest of the thieves over their… friendships.

Oh, he wasn’t ready for this. But Akechi had never run away from anything before in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now. No matter how tempting it was. 

The man leading him paused outside of the building. “Wait here, please,” he said politely, and then left Akechi waiting outside the greenhouse. Akechi watched the man cross down the greenhouse’s aisle and speak to someone just out of sight. Okumura, Akechi presumed as the man nodded and slowly walked back up the aisle and out the door. “Ms. Okumura is ready to receive you. She’s just at the end of the main aisle.” 

“Thank you,” Akechi said steadily. No more waiting; now was the time. He squared his shoulders and crossed the threshold. 

It was pleasantly warm here. The air enveloped Akechi in a warm embrace, flooding his lungs and easing the strain that had unknowingly set in. Plants of all sorts lined the walls and tables: some bore growing vegetables, some remained as flowers, and others still were nothing more than elegant leaves. Akechi read the labels absently as he walked down the aisle. Each name was accompanied by a date and two numbers. The parents plants, Akechi presumed. 

Okumura herself stood at the end, her arms elbow deep in a pot. Beside her, an overgrown tomato plant sat in a woefully undersized pot, dwarfing Okumura. “Hello Akechi. Can you help me lift this plant?”

“Of course,” Akechi said, peeling off his gloves and exchanging them for the gardening gloves from his pocket. He waited for Okumura to look at the plant, until after she shuffled to the side, so she wouldn’t see his hands. It was a quick swap from black leather to humble red gardening gloves, but Akechi worried. No one was allowed to see his hands, not even Akira. 

Okumura didn’t; she pulled her arms out of the pot and moved to the tomato plant. She dug her fingers into the soil, feeling out for roots Akechi followed suit. Together they dug out the roots and together they hefted the plant into the new pot. Akechi held it steady while Okumura began to add soil to the pot. The soil shifted softly with each scoop of the trowel; it was the only sound into the greenhouse. Okumura wasn’t the sort to play music to her plants and it made Akechi feel awkward in retrospect. 

“Akira said you were raising succulents,” she said after a few scoops, her fingers prodding the soil to make sure it wasn’t packing too tightly. 

“We are.” The gloves scratched against Akechi’s fingers. It wasn’t unpleasant, but he couldn’t say he liked it either. “Thank you again for indulging us.” 

Okumura chuckled. “It felt nice to finally be included in your shenanigans.” 

“Shenanigans?” Akechi repeated, cocking a brow. 

Okumura cocked her own brow in response. “Oh you know. Your little dance you two have going on.” 

“We are not dancing.” Akechi’s ears burned at the thought. Dancing? Standing close to each other a handbreadth apart, maybe even… 

Akechi dragged his brain back and told his beating heart to calm down. He refused to be anything less than collected or cool or…

“Flirting then?” 

Akechi sputtered, his entire face going red. “We are not-- Okumura! Kurusu does not-- Why would you even?” 

Okumura laughed, her eyes crinkling shut. “I never realized how easy you were to wind up. My apologies Akechi; I could not resist.” 

“You’re fine,” Akechi replied automatically, his brain sprinting away from him.  Flirting? With Akira? Akechi would never . He’d barely realized that he liked Akira, let alone do anything to act on it. 

“You two are close though.” Okumura returned to repotting the plant. “I never quite understood it.” 

“You wouldn’t be alone,” Akechii grumbled, shifting out of her way as she reached around to spread the soil towards his side of the pot. 

Okumura made a little hum of agreement. “You know, once I would have wished to never have to deal with you again. But that felt unfair to Akira.” 

“Oh? Unfair to Akira? What about your own feelings, Okumura? Is that fair to you?” 

“It wasn’t. Isn’t.” Okumura shifted the soil about the pot, slowly reburying the roots. “I spoke with a therapist about it. About boundaries. Do you know what she said?”

Akechi shook his head. He’d spoken with Dr. Kaname about boundaries several times. But he didn’t really want to go in depth with Okumura about boundaries, or rather, he didn’t want to go in depth with Okumura about his own boundaries. “A little. Though I’m unsure as to whether or not we discussed similar things.”

“She told me that in the end, I had to set boundaries that would let me be happy and help me to grow. Boundaries that would keep me healthy. Rather like a pot.” 

Akechi blinked, his eyes drawn to the pot Okumura was currently filling with soil. “Like a… pot?”

Okumura nodded, tapping the terracotta pot. “Like a pot. Enough room to grow, but not enough to encroach on the boundaries of others. And I’ve been thinking lately that you and I… we never really set our boundaries. We’ve never really talked.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to talk,” Akechi said slowly, fighting back against the feeling of being adrift. This would be fine. This would not end everything with Akira or Ann or Sumire or Ryuji or anyone. Okumura wanted to talk.

“I don’t. Or well, didn’t.” Okumura huffed, shaking her head. Her hair bobbed lightly about her ears as she pursed her lips. “I don’t know to be honest. I will confess, you’ve always been confusing to me, Akechi. Even back then, you were contradictory, conflicting. Makoto said she mentioned it briefly by accident when she approached you for this meeting.” 

“She did mention something to that effect,” Akechi confirmed, thinking of Makoto’s brief discussion of that January. He shifted, unsure of what to do with it. “I must admit to a similar confusion as to what to say to you. I never have.” 

“I could tell,” Okumura muttered dryly, patting the soil down. The soil stained her gloves a loamy brown, the particulate clinging to the fabric with an eerie persistence. Okumura tucked her hair behind her ear regardless. “Akechi, I will never forgive you for what you did to my father. Thank you for the apology you gave me years ago, but I’m not like Futaba.” 

Akechi inclined his head, holding the tomato plant steady. “I would not expect you to be like Sakura. And I don’t expect forgiveness.”

Okumura nodded her head, jerking it roughly. “Good. Thank you for giving me space as well.” 

Akechi shrugged, chewing on the inside of his lip. “I wouldn’t necessarily say I was giving you space out of the kindness of my heart. Of which there is none, I will add. I merely didn’t know what to say to you, and I didn’t–” 

Okumura waited, her hands slowly shifting the soil so it settled evenly about the tomato’s roots. Akechi frowned at the tomato, at its ripening fruit. “I didn’t want to be kicked out,” he said finally. “You were a part of the group first, and while Akira and I are… close… I didn’t want to intrude on a place where I was unwanted. Although I suppose I did that regardless.” 

“I wouldn’t say that you’re unwanted. You’re just… complicated. For some of us. Ann and Ryuji and Yusuke forgive easily, and Futaba enjoys having a fellow Otaku–” Okumura ignored Akechi’s squawk of protest and continued, “Sumire adores you; you’re like the brother she never had. Makoto uses you as a measuring stick, and I could never figure out how I feel about you. I want to hate you. I want to despise you. I do despise you, for taking away my chance with my father. But neither of us can change that. And the hate is tiring.” 

Akechi remained silent, holding the plant steady as Okumura paused. She shifted the soil about and slowly added more. “We don’t have to be friends,” Akechi ventured when Okumura didn’t continue. 

Okumura giggled, her fingers searching out the roots and carefully covering them with soil. “That’s what my therapist said too. I don’t have to be friends with all of the people my friends are. But I also don’t want to remain in a perpetual state of not knowing where I stand with you. Does that make sense?”

“It does.” Akechi shifted his grip on the tomato plant; it wasn’t as heavy as before. The soil was finally relieving his arms of some of the load. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ve always hated you for being rich and spoiled.” 

“It does. I hated you for being a two faced… prick. As Ryuji would say.” They both nod, and Akechi can’t help but snort. 

“We’re a mess. Did Ryuji really teach you that word?” 

“Oh no. I read it online and just think about it a lot. But it does seem like a word Ryuji would use, doesn’t it? “

“It does,” Akechi agreed. 

They fall into silence. Okumura slowly filled up the pot, using her finger to measure how packed the soil was. She packed the pot until there were about six centimeters left. “Akechi?” 

“Hm?” Akechi started out of the blankness of his head. 

Okumura stared at the soil, at her hands that lightly rested on the top. She flexed her fingers. “Do you really feel sorry for killing my father?” 

Akechi stopped. He took a breath, and he thought. Did he feel sorry for killing Kunikazu Okumura? Or did he feel bad for setting the Thieves up? Did he feel anything at all for Okumura’s father? Did he feel bad for killing a man who ordered the mental shutdowns of so many workers, who ran his factories with an iron fist? Who thought of people as robots to do his bidding and his daughter as a bargaining chip, to be used and then thrown away? 

“No,” he said eventually, his thumb stroking the stem of the tomato plant. “Not for killing him. For the way I treated the Thieves after, yes. For the emotional pain I caused you? Yes. But I cannot find myself feeling sorry for killing a man who treated so many people terribly. In the end, he was like most of my victims.”

Haru traced the top of the soil, shifting the dirt this way and that. “Thank you for your honesty, Akechi.” 

Akechi shrugged. “It’s the least you deserve after everything I’ve done.” 

“Still, I appreciate it. You’ve really changed, you know? Helping Sumire, talking with Makoto and me, hanging out with Ann and Ryuji… You wouldn’t have done that when we first met. You were like a feral cat that only Akira could approach.” 

“I am not a cat,” Akechi grumped, ignoring how Haru hid her mouth behind her hand. “And I knew that I was going to betray you all in less than a month; why would I try to get close?”

“Fair enough. I don’t think I would have believed you if you told me back then that we would still be talking now.” Haru resumed adding soil. “I would have thought you’d be in jail.” 

“I understand. I thought I was going to die taking down Shido.  The fact that I’m still here…” Akechi shifted his hands so Haru could smooth some soil under them. 

“I’m glad you are. For Akira’s sake, and maybe my own. Maybe one day I’ll understand how Futaba forgave you.” 

“Please let me know if you figure it out. I would also love to know.” Akechi glanced away when Haru snorted inelegantly. “You laugh at me, but I would! I don’t understand either.” 

“Good. You deserve to be confused.” Haru smiled in spite of herself. “Now help me finish this pot. I’ve got ten more plants to repot and some soil to move, and I won’t have time the rest of this week. You know how it is.” 

“I do,” Akechi agreed, shifting his hands further up the tomato’s stem, bracing the leaves on his arms to pull them out of Haru’s way. 

They worked together in silence, one that wasn’t quite companionable but wasn’t confrontational either. Haru would bring out the pot, Akechi would hold the plant, and Haru would pour the soil in. It wasn’t friendly, it wasn’t antagonizing, it just was. Akechi fetched soil every so often, and when he needed a break, Haru summoned tea and lunch. They ate together, giving Akechi’s body a break, and when he was ready, they resumed repotting. The afternoon drifted on. When they finished repotting, Akechi ended up watering some of the plants while Haru trimmed others, until finally they whittled the chores down to nothing. 

They sat on a pair of wire chairs tucked away in the back. Haru had strips of dirt on her face; Akechi presumed he did too, but there was no way for him to check. They nibbled on the remains of lunch, and stared out at the greenhouse, at the menagerie of plant life that bloomed within the glass walls.

“You’re better with plants than I expected,” Haru commented. At some point, the overhead lights turned on, a soft purple light that turned Haru’s skin a faint lilac. Akechi remembered reading something long ago about how purple light promoted photosynthesis and thus promoted growth. “Akira mentioned you were struggling with a succulent before you started your competition.” 

“I killed it.” Akechi didn’t know why he confessed. He blamed the light, he blamed the day, he blamed the light ache in his limbs. He blamed everything but himself, which wasn’t healthy, and so he accepted his share of the blame for the bluntness. “My therapist gave me a succulent to help me understand that I didn’t kill everything, and I managed to kill it.” 

“That’s impressive really. Succulents are very hard to kill, you know.”

“So I have read,” Akechi sighed. Haru laughed, smudging a streak of dirt further when she adjusted her hair. 

She nudged a biscuit at Akechi. “Eat. It was the first plant you’d really tried to take care of, right?” 

“It was.” Akechi accepted the biscuit. While sweets were not his favorite, his stomach growled ravenously. He wouldn’t deny it, but he also knew he needed to leave soon. He had work and classes tomorrow, and he wasn’t going to accept two meals from Haru.

“Well, we all start somewhere. You’ve gotten much better with plants though, and I find myself short of time and Okumura Foods requires me to travel semi frequently.  So if… if you have time, I would not mind a helping hand every so often.”

Akechi lifted a brow. “You’d have to talk with me more, you do realize. If only to coordinate.”

Okumura shrugged elegantly, staring at Akechi out of the corner of her eyes. “Every plant starts as a seed. And I think I’m ready to try to grow past my hate, if you’re ready too.”

Akechi chewed on his biscuit, the sugar soft on his tongue. He swallowed. “If that is what you want, I don’t mind. I know that I have done unforgivable things to you. I would like for you to be comfortable, and  not force yourself into doing anything because you think the rest of the Thieves or myself want you to.” 

Haru smiled, a small little ghost of a grin. “I would like to try.”

Akechi inclined his head. “As you wish then.” 

They sat in silence for a while longer, finishing off the biscuits before Akechi finally rose to his feet. “I have some things to do, but please reach out if you need anything, Okumura. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Of course.” Haru walked with him to the front door, pausing only to offer Akechi a handkerchief. She tapped her cheek. “You’ve a spot here.” 

“Thank you.” He scrubbed at his cheek until Haru tched and took the handkerchief back. 

“There. Now you won’t look like the worst mess on the subway.” 

“The joke is on you, I am always the worst mess on the subway.” Haru tried to not laugh. She held her hand over her mouth and averted her face, but her shoulders shook regardless as she opened the front door. 

“Go home, Akechi. I’ll message you about the plants.” 

“Have a good evening, Okumura.”

“You as well, Akechi. The front door shut behind him with a click and Akechi slumped for a moment, sucking in a giant breath of air and exhaled it. It was done. It wasn’t done. It was a start, a messy chance for something new, and Akechi could not help the relief that flooded through him. Haru hated him. He hated her. But maybe they could work through that. Maybe they wouldn’t. 

Time would tell. 

Akechi flicked his phone open as he set off down the lane, blanching at the number of messages on it. Ann messaged about crepes and Ryuji reminded him that they were going to try a short run in two days. Yusuke wanted another modeling session and Sumire wanted to go out to dinner at some point. Makoto had sent him a link to an album and a request for his opinion, and Akira…

Akira sent a long rambling chain of messages, all over the course of the day. The first timestamp was at 10:30am, a blurry picture of Morgana sitting on the phone followed by a much clearer picture of the “cat burglar”.  The others came in fits and starts as Akira belatedly started his day. A picture of the morning coffee, a picture of Morgana, a picture of the bookkeeping homework Sakura assigned, a picture of Akira… they trickled in over the day, unseen, words between each image as Akira complained about not knowing what to do with himself on his off days and how utterly bored he was. Do you want to go do something?  

Akechi found himself smiling as he read through the messages. The last one arrived around twenty minutes ago. Where are yooooou? I thought you had today off toooooo ((´д｀))

I was meeting with Okumura. 

Dots sprang up instantly. Oh? Any reason why?

We needed to talk. Nothing to worry about. 

The dots sprang up. Okay. 

The dots kept going for a while. Akechi reached the station with no continuation, in spite of the constant presence of the dots. Akechi frowned, before eyeing the station schedule on a nearby display. It would be easy enough to go see Akira. He seemed to need reassurance, if the constantly disappearing, reappearing dots were any indication. Do you want to get dinner? 

Yes! Meet in Kichijoji? 

Sure. Akechi ran his finger over Akira’s icon, a picture that Akira sent long ago of himself fishing. It was a hobby Akechi didn’t understand the appeal of. It made Akira happy though, and that was what mattered. Akechi frowned at the photo as Akira continued to message, this time sending suggestions of locations to eat. He’d have to figure out how he wanted to handle his affections for Akira. He didn’t want to presume anything, but he also didn’t want to lie to Akira, and it all tangled up in his chest. 

You could tell him, Hereward suggested as Akechi headed towards the proper line. The train should be arriving momentarily, and Akechi refused to miss it. Not even over his own emotional dilemma. Just tell Akira. Akechi huffed. He could, but…

Hereward tutted back, heavy in the back of Akechi’s mind. He’s dropping everything to come have dinner with you. He has to like you to some degree to do that.

Hereward wasn’t… wrong. But what if he was? Akechi pushed down the nausea, emerging onto the platform. He could take time to figure this out. After all, he had to beat Akira’s plant. 

Yes, Akechi thought while he watched the train pull in. He would finish this competition and then he would figure out how Akira felt. That seemed acceptable. Feasible even. Akechi could definitely do that, and definitely steel himself for the inevitable rejection. Perfect. Cases always piled up after Christmas, so he would have plenty of work to throw himself into after burning a relationship to the ground.

Hereward sighed as Akechi boarded. You’re an idiot. 

Chapter Text

Loki sat silently in Akechi’s lap as he scrunched into the subway seat, uncaring of the masses around them. The December crowds remained awful, the subway flooded by men, women, children, and bags. So many bags. It wasn’t even that close to Christmas; it was just a Saturday. Akechi didn’t understand why people had so many things and he didn’t care for the way the old lady across from him was eyeing him.

Akechi glared back at her, his hands curled viselike around Loki’s pot. Her eyebrows clenched together; Akechi scowled.

The crassula paid no mind to either Akechi or the old lady and merely preened in the artificial lighting of the subway. Its jade green leaves reflected the harsh beams, its stems sturdy in spite of the various people who jostled Akechi’s knees. Half a year later, Loki remained a smaller plant. Akechi reminded himself that Loki started small and pathetic; his hard work was what elevated the plant to its current form.

The old woman huffed at him when they reached her stop, shaking her head and muttering something about kids these days. Akechi merely smile sweetly, holding Loki closer. They’d come far this year together; it was hard to believe it was already December. Soon it would be Christmas, and then it would be New Years, and then it would be January all over again, and the cycle of the year would repeat once more.

It was an odd feeling. Akechi fidgeted with Loki’s pot, running his thumbs over the cool terracotta. He’d made it through another year he’d never expected to reach, and Akira was still there. Both impossibilities were realities, and it made Akechi’s heart clench. His life seemed composed of so many impossibilities now, incredible realities Akechi would never have believed in when he was younger. His phone sat in his pocket full of messages from the Thieves. Sumire sent him photos of some clouds she found interesting, Ryuji found a new gym, and Ann and Shiho spammed their dm’s with pictures of the desserts they were making. Yusuke wanted Akechi to come help him again and also wanted to go on an expedition to the museum; evidently, he wanted Akechi’s opinion on an exhibit. Futaba sent him pictures of the newest leaks for Featherman and Steel Samurai, and his current debate with Makoto on the role of law enforcement raged in a segregated dm no one else could see beyond Futaba occasionally emoting on points. Even Haru messaged him; she would be out of town with Makoto for two days and asked him to check on her plants as a trial run.

Akechi’s phone was busier than it had ever been before. Messages scroll in, reminders of his friends–

His friends. Akechi huffed out a laugh, the cool terracotta harsh even through his gloves. They really were his friends, weren’t they? What an odd thought. To think that Goro Akechi had friends that he cared about, that his shriveled heart found room for not just one person, but eight friends, was incomprehensible. Was it?

Akechi ignored the announcement of the next stop. If he thought about it, he did spend a good amount of time with them. He met up with them regularly and talked with them regularly; in retrospect, it would have been more surprising if they didn’t become friends.

Still, Akechi didn’t know how to feel about it. He’d done so much to the Thieves, and still, they reached out their hands to him. He didn’t deserve it; he didn’t understand it. But for some reason, they wanted him there. Not all of them, but even Haru acknowledged his presence now. And Akechi wanted to be there.

Akechi swallowed. He wanted to be there with them, everyone. To hang out, to do stupid things like runs and movies nights and gardening and…

The announcer spoke again naming his stop. Akechi jerked out of his thoughts, his hands clamping onto Loki’s pot. The plant shuddered, and Akechi shushed it as he rose to his feet. He was being sentimental. Now wasn’t the time for sentimentality.

Akechi flowed with the sea of humanity that surged out of the train, cradling Loki to his chest as he tugged the light wrapping back up and around the plant’s leaves. It wouldn’t do for Loki to be damaged on this the last leg of the journey. It would be just Akechi’s luck if some random stranger collided with him and managed to knock Loki out of his hands. He held Loki closer to his chest.

It’ll be fine. Hereward said as they climbed out of the subway and strode down the sidewalk. Akira will meet us at Miss Haru’s and this will be settled so you can talk with him.

Akechi’s heart flipped, kicked the back of his teeth, and then sank to his feet, beating a million times a minute. Talk to Akira. Talk to Akira about–

Take a breath. It will be fine.

How did Hereward know it would be fine? He was a part of Akechi, not some form of omniscient deity that knew Akira’s thoughts and feelings. Akira could do anything. He was free to do anything, and Akechi was at sea for what to even say. ‘Hello Kurusu, I like you. I know I shot you in the face, but I realized that I care very much about your well being now and would like to get to know you better.’

It sounded stupid when Akechi thought about it, no matter how true it was. Why was he like this? Why did he make everything so difficult? Why did emotions suck?

Emotions are fine and normal. Dr. Kaname would say so. And I think Akira likes you more than you give him credit for.

Akechi wasn’t not giving Akira credit. He just. Didn’t want to force Akira into an awkward position. The other man had done so much for Akechi and Akechi didn’t… he didn’t want to make Akira uncomfortable. Not when everything remained so tangled in his own chest, when all he knew was that he liked Akira and wanted to spend weeks, months, years with him doing stupid things, things that would make Akira happy. Even if they had already spent years doing things together, it was different. Akira had done many things for Akechi; had reached out, had waited, had done his best to understand Akechi.

Ugh. It all sounded so sappy, and yet.

And yet.

Akechi wanted to know Akira better. To try to be there for Akira as Akira had been for him all these years. To know

Akechi shook his head. Not yet. He refused to spring this on Akira or put him in an uncomfortable position, not after everything. Who knew if Akira even liked Akechi in that way? He probably didn’t, and a part of Akechi resigned himself to that fact. Akira had so many others, and the idea that Akira would choose Akechi seemed preposterous. A nice dream, a wonderful fantasy, but Akechi knew what Akira thought of him. He’d asked Akira himself after all a mere month ago. Time wouldn’t change that.
They could still be rivals, Akechi reassured himself as he walked, just as long as he didn’t shove his foot in his mouth and let nothing slip. Akechi liked to think he was good at not doing that.

He ignored Hereward’s hysterical laughter. What did Hereward know?

The walk to Haru’s mansion went quickly if only because Akechi pushed himself. Overhead, the clouds gathered, grey and fat, and Akechi’s breath mirrored the clouds above. The morning had been cold, and now, as the day slid into night, the temperature plunged further. Even with gloves, his coat, and a scarf, the cold bit into Akechi. It reminded him of that January and the cold, winter freeze that locked all of the thieves into their homes. It trapped Akechi in the apartment Shido bought for him, all black and white and lifeless. He’d spent the day trapped in the graveyard of his memory, reminded of Shido’s merciless mercy. Akechi searched out all the old locations of the bugs Shido’s men planted and found none. After all, Shido was in jail and the conspiracy held at bay. Maruki wouldn’t stand for anyone else to have that level of control after all.

Akechi sucked in a breath and let it go. His apartment was nothing like that old hell. It wasn’t exactly home yet, but it was infinitely better than Shido’s apartment. Even if he did get locked in alone, he wouldn’t be caged. He could call Futaba or Ann to watch a movie or call Akira and just talk or any number of things.

But that didn’t matter at the moment. Haru had kindly offered to let the judging occur at her manor and Akira and Akechi agreed. They wouldn’t stay too long; Akechi refused to impose on Haru, even if she had offered her house after Akira and Akechi couldn’t decide on a neutral location. After all, if the decision was held at Leblanc, Akira’s plant wouldn’t have to endure the cold, and Akechi wasn’t about to let Haru enter his apartment yet. There was no room first of all, and second, it was the usual trash fire. Haru endured about an hour of cyclical debates before firmly interjecting that they could both bring the plants to her place. It was, according to her, no big deal.

And so here Akechi was once again, waiting outside of the doors to be let in. This time, Makoto answered the door, opening it wide and staring at the plant.

“You know the cold exposure won’t kill it, right?” she asked as Akechi swept past her. “You were outside for what, the ten minute walk from the station? However long it is from your apartment?”

“Even minimal exposure to frigid temps can damage succulents. Crassula are from the eastern coast of South Africa where the climate is much milder in comparison. I wasn’t about to lose just because I tripped at the finish line.”

Makoto rolled her eyes as Akechi daintily peeled off his shoes. She kindly didn’t comment when he leaned against the wall to help his balance. “It’ll be fine. You two always take these things so seriously.”

“It is a serious matter, Niijima. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Thank goodness. I’d hate to understand either of your minds. I can already feel the headache.” Makoto took Akechi’s jacket, the pair dancing around each other as Akechi fought to keep his hands safely on Loki’s pot.

Akechi huffed, finally disentangling himself from the coat. “Whatever does that mean? Akira’s mind is just fine.”

Makoto stared silently for a moment, before she slowly pinched her nose. “Not doing this right now. I can’t believe you do it too.”

“Do what Niijima?”

Makoto shook her head, pivoting on her foot to hang Akechi’s coat up in the closet. Akechi scowled, holding Loki close to his chest. “What do I do too?”

“Nothing, Akechi. Did you get that message from Sae? She wants us to have dinner together before I leave with Haru.”

“I did.” They walk down the hall together, their footsteps quiet against the floor. Makoto leads the way, a familiar ease to her gait. It was understandable, considering her relationship with Haru. “Did you want me to beg off?”

“No. But I don’t want sushi, so please figure out another suggestion.”

Akechi sputtered. “I was not going to suggest sushi!”

“You always do, Akechi. Sae talks about it all the time.”

“I do not!”

They descended into a bicker, entering the sitting room as they went back and forth discussing dinner options. It was one of the rooms Akechi passed by on his first trip to the mansion, the one with the enormous windows. In spite of the excess exposure, the room remained warm. Indeed, it was almost toasty as Akechi followed Makoto into the room and over to an end table. She paused mid-sentence. “You can put your plant here. Haru wanted them both next to each other.”

“I see.” Akechi eyed the end table. It was large, for an end table, the sort of modern nightmare that someone like Kunikazu Okumura would have liked merely because it was in vogue. Appearance was important, especially for the nouveau rich attempting to integrate themselves into the upper echelons of society. They had to be fashionable enough to match their goal without looking like they were trying. Kunikazu Okumura never managed it; it was part of the reason Shido decided to cut him down. A minor part, but a part nevertheless.

Akechi chased the thoughts from his mind. They weren’t good for this time; he could reflect later. Instead, he walked over to the end table and set Loki down. Akechi shuffled the plant around as he unwrapped the crassula, exposing all of the green leaves and the green and brown stems. He fussed over the leaves, fluffing one or two and patting the soil down.

Makoto politely didn’t comment. Instead, she pivoted to find a seat, crossing her ankles as she settled down in the center of the couch. Akechi remained standing, fretting over Loki. It was the moment of truth after all.

“You love that plant a lot,” she commented as Akechi finally sat down, claiming a corner for himself.

“I don’t love the plant. I merely want to win.”

Makoto nodded indulgently and Akechi scrunched his nose. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right,” she said drily. “I don’t understand the little competitions you have with Akira. But I don’t need to get how you two flirt.”

Akechi choked on his own spit. “It’s not flirting,” he sputtered, ignoring the heat in his ears and the jackrabbiting of his heart. Was it flirting? Akechi hadn’t thought about it. Had he been accidentally flirting for years? Had he made a complete fool of himself without realizing? Not that that was new, but it was embarrassing that Makoto of all people noticed his inadvertent advances. If they were advances.

A headache brewed in the distance. Akechi politely told it to screw off. Makoto could never know of Akechi’s true feelings for Akira. She couldn't lie to save her life. Akira would know within the day. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mhmm,” Makoto smiled for some reason and if Akechi wasn’t keenly aware that they both were sitting in her girlfriend’s house, he would attack. But that would accomplish nothing, and so he settled down. “Are you going to ever ask him out?”

“He doesn’t like me like that,” Akechi replied haughtily, before realizing his mistake. “Not that I do either.”

“Uh huh.”

“I don’t,” Akechi protested, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s my rival. And even if I did, he has many, many other options. You understand.”

Makoto closed her eyes for a moment and sucked in a breath before reopening her eyes. “Completely,” Makoto replied drily.

“Thank you,” Akechi said stiffly. Silence. In the distance, the house loomed. A clock chimed. Outside, the wind beat against the windows, striking the glass with an invisible fist. “And even if I did, I would not want to impose anything upon Kurusu. I wouldn’t want him to feel obligated to do anything.”

“I don’t think Akira ever feels obligated towards you in any regard,” Makoto spoke very slowly, staring at Akechi in a very Sae like manner. “In fact, I don’t think anyone, yourself included, could change how Akira feels about you.”

What was that supposed to mean? Akechi opened his mouth to ask, when the doorbell rang in the distance. Makoto sprang to her feet, brushing invisible dirt off her pants. “That has to be Akira. Stay here and don’t touch anything.”

“Who do you think I am Niijima? Takamaki?”

Makoto didn’t answer; she disappeared out the door and left Akechi alone with his own thoughts. It was honestly the cruelest thing she could have done, and Akechi could almost applaud her for it. But that would mean admitting Makoto won a round, and Akechi refused. So instead, he glared at Loki.

“You better win, or no more Kamelot for you,” He warned the plant. The wind responded by cracking against the windows, which absolutely, positively, was not a sign. At all. Akechi leaned over and pulled Loki a little further away from the window. It was better to be safe than sorry.

Makoto returned with Akira trailing behind, Morgana chattering on the other man’s shoulder. “He’s been so nuts about it. Staring at it all the time, checking on it. I swear, I can’t wait for this to be over– Hey Akechi!” The not a cat flicked his ears at Akechi. “Are you ready to lose?”

“I’m ready to win,” Akechi semi-lied, his eyes flicking up and down Akira. Akira, who stood awkwardly in the doorway with a little half smile and drowning in his coat. How he managed to find outfits that draped over him like overlarge blankets, Akechi did not know. He tugged awkwardly on his forelock, his plant awkwardly tucked into the crook of his elbow. It too was wrapped up against the cold, hidden beneath layers of cloth. “Kurusu.”

“Akechi.” Still, Akira smiled, and Akechi could not help but smile in return. Akira was infectious like that. His smiles, his real ones, the soft and warm and small, spread through the group like wildfire and hooked in Akechi’s heart and kindled an organ Akechi long thought dead. Akechi could stare for an eternity at Akira, at his soft smile, at his mischievous eyes, how they danced beneath the fringe of his bangs.

Makoto coughed, shattering the moment. Akechi jerked his gaze away, returning to his plant, uncrossing and recrossing his legs as he studied Loki.

“They’re like this all the time,” Morgana whined, hopping down from Akira’s shoulder as the other man passed the couch. “Staring at each other with googly eyes.”

“Googly eyes?” Akechi sputtered, half jumping to his feet to help Akira catch his fumbled plant. Their fingers brushed accidentally and Akechi forced his brain past a minor short circuit.

“Thanks,” Akira said, his neck bright red. “Morgana, don’t.”

“Don’t what!” The cat huffed, turning circles on Haru’s couch before he neatly turned into a loaf. “You two are awful.”

“I haven’t even done anything today,” Akechi groused, slowly pulling his hands away and sitting back down. Akira chuckled, setting his plant down beside Loki and slowly began to unwrap it. Akechi couldn’t quite see; the narrow expanse of Akira’s back blocking Akechi’s view. The coat shifted with Akira’s movements, the black fabric drawn taut for a brief moment and then relaxed as Akira unwound the cloth from his plant.

“It’s like this all the time,” Morgana whined to Makoto as she sat down beside the cat, his tail flicking furiously.

“I’m starting to understand,” Makoto said heavily as she stroked Morgana’s head. Akechi studiously ignored them; he wasn’t going to feed the fire and Ryuji was a good example of what happened to people who engaged in long term fights with a feline.

Morgana leaned into Makoto’s ear scritches. “Every time! Every time! It’s all this weird dance.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Akechi said drily, only for Morgana to flick his ears at him.

“I know you can,” the cat replied.

Stupid cat. Akechi scowled, reminding himself that starting a fight with Morgana was not worth it, no one would win, and he refused to be relegated to Ryuji’s position of chew toy. Akechi merely rolled his eyes and returned to where Akira stood.

Akira unwound the last roll of cloth and exposed the echeveria to the room, staring unblinkingly wide at the plant. While Loki grew tall and lean, Akira’s echeveria sprawled, dominating the pot with several other growths that had evidently split off from the main original plant. The purple tinge remained at the edges of the leaves, a showy brilliance that fit Akira like a glove, the leaves fat and thick and wide. They took up the entirety of the soil’s surface, covering the wide pot with a carpet of green and purple. It was a verdant field, and Akechi eyed Loki’s petulant leaves that stab into the air in a visceral declaration of being there in spite of everything.

“It’s come really far.”

Akechi blinked, his face turning towards Akira. The other man rested his hand along the side of Loki’s pot, his thumb gentle against the terracotta as he peered down at Loki with wide, unblinking eyes. “Your plant. It was really struggling when you bought it, but it doesn’t even need nutrients. I barely recognize it, but I know it's the same plant we bought together. “

“How do you know it's the same plant?” Akechi groused, flexing his fingers absently. “Maybe I killed this one too and replaced it.”

“Nah. I can see this is the same plant.” Akira fingered Loki’s stem where it disappeared into the soil. “Besides, you wouldn’t do that. It’s not who you are.”

Akechi mumbled something. He wasn’t sure what, but he knew it was a witty repartee for Akira smiled and turned away from the plant, coming to flop next to Akechi on the sofa. “So Haru’s running late?”

“She should be here soon,” Makoto said over Morgana’s huff of disgust. “The meeting’s just running a little late. It’s a teleconference, so she’s just in her office.”

Akechi nodded politely, adjusting his position as Akira settled down beside him. Akira shuffled his legs around until he finally decided that crossing his ankles and leaning back against the back of the sofa was fine. “I don’t envy her,” Akira mused. “I hate video calls.”

“They’re not terrible. You get used to them.” Akechi tried to not think about Wright. He still needed to message Maya; the woman sent another message yesterday, one that was ninety nine percent right about Featherman and one percent wrong. It made Akechi’s fingers itch.

“Sure, I guess. But you have to let other people see you. And people never look good on web cameras.” Akira shrugged.

“I find the connection to be more of a pain. I’m always losing it and having to apologize for it,” Makoto said quietly.

“I agree,” Akechi said. “It’s easy enough to go unnoticed if you don’t want to be seen, but people always notice when you disconnect.”

The conversation drifted aimlessly, floating on in the interminable wait. Morgana shifted, floating around the room as the humans talked, and Akechi found himself just wanting to be gone. Outside, snow began to drift down, large, puffy flakes that slowly stuck to the grass and sidewalk. For now, they melted. Who knew how long that would last? Akechi traced the wind’s whorl by the drift of the snow, until a soft clatter at the door drew him out of his thoughts.

“My apologies; the meeting went for far longer than I expected.” Haru smiled sweetly as she swept over the threshold and into the room. Her silk shirt stood out amidst the monochrome of the room, a protest against Kunikazu’s decorations or just an expression of herself. Both perhaps Akechi mused as Haru swept in and pressed a kiss to Makoto’s forehead. “Hello dear, thank you for dealing with the boys.”

“They were behaving, so…”

“I’m right here,” Akechi repeated, and once again was ignored. He considered rethinking his friendships, and decided it wasn’t worth the effort. After all, they were trying to improve their relationships after all, not burn them down.

“Akira, hello! It feels like it’s been forever, you’ve been so busy.” Haru hugged Akira tightly, her skinny arms tightening around Akira’s shoulders. The other man chuckled and looped an arm around her back to squeeze her in return.

“I always stay busy this time of year. Harvest time for the baristas,” he said as he released Haru.

“Is this a Christmas Carol now, Kurusu?” Akechi asked drily, returning the brief nod Haru directed his way as she walked over to the plants.

“Bah humbug,” Akira replied with a toothy grin. Akechi rolled his eyes.

“Both of your plants look amazing,” Haru said, ignoring the repartee. She hummed as she took Akira’s in hand, turning it this way and that. “You’ve even grown some of the cuttings.”

Akira rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “It was more luck than anything,”

Of course it was luck. Akechi scoffed and ignored Akira knocking their knees together. Haru twisted the pot around, leaning down to examine the echeveria. She twisted the pot this way and that and lifted it briefly to check the underside. “Your growth is very even, and you don’t have any rotten leaves. Impressive really, as you don’t have a drainage hole. A bold choice.”

“Typical,” Akechi muttered. “Can’t resist showing off, can you?”

“Nope. I have to always give my best performance for my favorite audience.” Akira winked.

Akechi whipped his gaze away so fast that he gave himself whiplash. He forced himself to not flush. To do anything but flush. It was just a wink.

This was all a lot easier before he realized he liked Akira. The fact Akira sat so close made it even worse. Their bodies weren’t touching, no, but Akira emanated heat today. The warmth radiated off the other man in cozy waves and in light of the slowly starting snowstorm, made Akechi want to burrow into said warmth. Akechi firmly told himself no. Now was not the time to think about Akira.

Haru gently poked one of the echeveria’s leaves one last time before turning towards Loki. She hooked her fingers around Loki’s pot, pulling it closer to herself. “Akira showed me the picture you took at the beginning; your plant has come very far.”

Akechi preened and then forced himself to relax back into the chair. He wasn’t about to show Makoto and Haru how much he cared, casually ignoring Makoto’s brief glance in his direction. He’d spent months raising Loki; he wasn’t about to shy away from that fact.

Haru lifted the pot. “Jade plants are incredibly picky too, prone to root rot and sensitive to temperature. I’m glad the journey over hasn’t harmed it.”

“I took care to wrap it gently,” Akechi said, watching Haru turn Loki this way and that before setting them down.

“They’re both lovely plants. It’s unsurprising really, considering they’re yours.” Haru tapped Loki’s stem once and then nodded to herself. “As usual, you both have made things complicated.”

Akechi scoffed; Akira merely rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. Haru laughed gently, moving to sit on Makoto’s free side. She casually patted Morgana as she passed, and Morgana purred, crawling over Makoto to curl up in Haru’s lap after she sat down. “On top of that, you both just decided to leave it up to me to decide categories.”

An oversight, in retrospect. Akechi’s scowl deepened, and Haru hid a laugh behind her hand. “Don’t worry Akechi. I think I have the most experience judging plants here. Honestly, you both encouraged your plants to grow in your own way and both plants are incredibly healthy.”

Morgana yawned, stretching his paws forward. “Of course they’re healthy. Akira religiously checks his plants with his Third Eye.”

“Checks his plants with what now?” Akechi couldn’t keep the sudden sharpness out of his tone. He turned to Akira, who for some reason had stiffened and paled to a bone white.

“His Third Eye,” Morgana repeated, unaware of Akira’s sudden stiffening. “He uses it all the time. I tell him it’s a bad habit; no matter how useful it was in the Metaverse, it’s going to get him in trouble one day.”

Akechi narrowed his eyes at Akira, who slowly turned his head. “What exactly does it let him do, Morgana?”

“See open doors and shortcuts, tell if someone needs him, check on his plants’ health–” Morgana stopped midword, his eyes cracking open. “Oh.”

“Oh indeed,” Akechi said flatly.

Akira raised his hands, in apology or defense. Akechi wasn’t sure. “Honestly, it was a habit? I check all of my plants like that. I never thought–”

“I wasn’t aware you could think,” Akechi snipped, pushing away the feelings churning in his gut. Of course Akira had a magical, mystical way to keep his plants healthy. What on earth didn’t Akira get? Backing of a god, friends, a new family… Rage boiled in Akechi’s blood before he swallowed the bile, choking his rage behind his most pleasant smile.

Akira winced. “I’m so sorry, I literally didn’t think. It mostly just lets me know when I need to add nutrients; I had to figure out all the repotting and water levels if that helps.”

It didn’t; it did. Akechi’s thoughts chased themselves in circles, dogs hounding their own tails. It was only one component; nutrients only did so much, he told himself. It was so little in the long run. Akira didn’t mean it; he respected their competitions, and in spite of everything, respected Akechi. They’d done these things for years, had pushed and prodded each other into being better. Akira wouldn’t do this on purpose; the other man was honorable in that way. It was understandable to be angry in spite of that. It was okay to feel as Dr. Kaname said. It was okay to be angry and upset and frustrated, and it was also okay to let it go.

And honestly, Akechi didn’t want to be mad. He was tired of being mad, of coming up with knives to point at everyone and everything. Haru said that both of their plants were lovely. She had called Loki incredibly healthy. If Akechi could raise Loki entirely on his own without the use of magic bullshit, he could be proud of that.

He could also use this as blackmail forever, which salved some of the wound.

“You’re lucky I like you,” Akechi sighed, sitting back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest. He blinked when everyone went silent. Their attention made Akechi stiffen; their eyes weighed heavily on him. He shifted, not quite hugging himself, and jutted his chin into the air. “What? It’s done. I can’t make Kurusu un-use his ability to aid his plant.”

Akira stared at him, his eyes wide. “You said you liked me.”

Akechi coughed, averting his gaze to stare instead at Loki. He glared at the plant, daring it to misbehave. As usual, the plant did nothing. “I wouldn’t talk to you if I didn’t like you Kurusu. It’s not that mind blowing, surely.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s. Yeah.” Akira said extremely eloquently, and Akechi ignored how thick Akira’s voice sounded. It honestly wasn’t that big of a deal. After all, Akechi wasn’t betraying how much he liked Akira after all. If he did, Akira surely wouldn’t be sitting here still. He’d probably run off and hide in his attic or finally give Futaba the go ahead to ruin Akechi’s online presence. Or something.

Akechi pointedly stared at Loki, his brow scrunched as his stomach and his heart settled into a casual duel over how to feel. On one hand, Akira cheated. On the other hand, Akira wouldn’t be Akira if he didn’t pull out some weird contingency or ability or…

Akira knocked his shoulder into Akechi’s, and it drew Akechi’s attention back. “I’m sorry,” Akira said. “I should have put more thought into what I was doing, even if it was a habit.”

Akechi made a noise in the back of his throat. Not quite a harrumph, not quite an acquiescence. “I already said it was all right, didn’t I?” he tried to say haughtily, and mostly managed to sound soft enough to disgust himself. Akira would figure it out at this rate, and then what would Akechi do.

“You did,” Akira says, his eyes impossibly soft. Akechi stared, falling into the depths, tumbling with his heart beating too fast. As usual, Akira was incredibly unfair, but he wouldn’t be Akira if he was any other way.

“Idiots,” Morgana mumbled, breaking the silence like a hammer striking glass.

Akechi coughed, ripping his eyes away. Haru met his gaze, a smile poorly hidden behind a polite hand. Makoto merely looked tired; her brows furrowed as she shook her head. It made the back of Akechi’s neck itch and heat. “In any case,” he said firmly, ignoring Akira, “There are plants to be judged, yes?”

“Of course,” Haru replied, clearly taking pity on Akechi. She ran a hand over Morgana’s fur and Morgana purred, nuzzling into her hand. “They’re both magnificent, honestly. If I were to be honest, it’s an almost impossible choice. While Akira propagated his echeveria, Akechi rejuvenated his crassula. Both are healthy and of a good size, and I can see the love and care that went into them. I would love to declare a tie, but that would drive both of you up a wall. Which…”

Haru tapped her lip, contemplating.

“Don’t you dare Okumura,” Akechi bit out, and scowled when Haru laughed hard enough for her hair to bounce.

“You’re not helping your case,” she teased, her eyes dancing. “I could just say you both tied and have a nice day. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Please don’t. I’ll never hear the end of it,” Akira said quietly. He’d shifted even closer to Akechi, and Akechi could not deny it. It felt nice to have Akira so close. If Akechi wanted to, he could wrap an arm around Akira’s shoulders, and it would barely make any difference. Not yet, he told himself. Later, after. Well. Later.

“You’re never going to hear the end of it regardless, Kurusu.” Akechi forced himself to be still, to simply allow himself to marvel in Akira’s closeness. He smelled of coffee and curry; the scent of Leblanc to be sure, but it felt different than just the cafe. A thread of Kurusu himself twisted between the other scents, and Akechi memorized it, just in case.

“But I could mitigate some of your gibes.”

“Don’t you have faith in your own quick wit? Or are you slowing down in your old age?”

Akira pouted, pushing at Akechi. “I have plenty of faith! But I also have some survival instincts.”

“Oh that’s surprising, considering your everyday choices.” Akira’s pout deepened and Akechi smirked sharply, his teeth bared.

Makoto coughed. “Okay, knock it off you two. Haru has to decide because I can’t deal with this.”

“For the good of the Thieves,” Haru said solemnly, even as her eyes crinkled and a smile ghosted about the corner of her lips.

“At least you don’t live with one of them,” Morgana groused. “It’s impossible.”

Akechi nodded solemnly, ignoring Morgana. What made living with Akira impossible, he wondered. Akira did everything for that damn cat; Morgana ought to know how lucky he was. Even if something was weird, there was nothing odd about this part of the conversation. He and Akira were just being normal. “Of course. Our apologies.”

“Morgana, be nice.” Haru bopped Morgana lightly on the head. “And it’s no trouble. As I was saying, both of you did spectacular jobs, as much as I would like to denigrate one of you or be mean. Don’t worry Akechi, I’ll find something else to comment about.”

Haru’s smile promised trouble, and Akechi made a note to take extra good care of her plants when she left. He didn’t dare disappoint her.

“With that said, I do think Akechi’s crassula wins. While there remains only the single plant, I don’t believe propagating the crassula before this point would have been possible due to the plant’s original state. Judging by the photograph Akira provided, it ought to have died months ago. But not only did it survive, it is thriving. So I rule that Akechi wins this competition. With that said, I still expect you both to take care of these plants. After all, they are living things.”

Haru’s smile broadened, her eyes creasing shut. A chill ran down Akechi’s spine. “Of course, thank you,” He found himself saying just as Akira stuttered out the same phrase.

“Excellent! And perhaps as recompense, Akira can help you in the future with the nutrients. I think that’s only fair, no?”

Akira nodded rapidly. “Of course! What do you say Akechi.”

“Sure?” Akechi blinked. “If you really want to… there’s no need to really. I think I have Loki’s nutrient schedule figured out.”

Akechi ignored Makoto mouthing Loki to Haru and instead looked over at the crassula. It sat in its pot, its leaves splendiferous and green and smug, as if it knew it won. An impossibility, as plants weren’t intelligent, but if any plant was going to be intelligent, it would be his Loki.

Akechi politely rapped his brain and told it to stop it. This was going a little far.

A howl rattled the windows, and all four jerked. Outside, the world hazed white before the snow settled down. The snow clumped now as it fell and stuck to the earth, accumulating slowly beneath the darkened skies. The wind skidded through, slamming into walls and into windows, and Akechi realized something.

He rose to his feet. Akira made a strangled noise, catching himself before he fell over. “Well, as much as I would like to gloat about my victory, it appears the weather is taking a turn for the worse. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone by getting stranded here, so I do believe I will take my leave.

“Understandable,” Makoto said, also rising to her feet. Haru remained sitting, trapped by Morgana. “I’ll go get your coat.”

“Do you still want to stay Morgana?” Akira asked, the last to his feet.

The cat cracked open an eye. “Yes. Haru said she had the good sushi.”

Akechi rolled his eyes, walking over to Loki and retrieving the cloth he’d wrapped it in for the trip over. Slowly, he began to cover Loki once again. “So you accept bribes.”

“It’s not a bribe! Haru just knows how to treat me.” Morgana’s tail whipped up and Haru smoothed her hand over it.

“Of course,” Akira reached over and scratched Morgana under his chin. “I’m going to head out too; I know you and Makoto have plans. I hope the storm doesn’t ruin them.”

“If we have to stay in, we have options,” Haru shrugged her shoulders, her hands busy with Morgana. “But thank you. Let us know if you get stuck?”

“I will,” Akira said like a liar, and it took all of Akechi’s self-control to not say anything. Akira would die before asking for help; it was another thing they had in common.

“And you too Akechi. I would hate for you to be stuck on the train.”

“I will,” Akechi lied and Haru shook her head.

“You both are impossible,” she groused.

All too soon, Akira and Akechi were walking down the sidewalk to the station. Both of their plants rested in their arms. Akechi bent around his, shielding Loki from the cold.

“Congrats,” Akira said, his voice muffled by a scarf. “What are you going to do to celebrate?”

Akechi thought. While he’d hoped that he would win, in all honesty, he had never thought he would. He’d always assumed that Haru would just choose Akira over Akechi because of their past. That it would be no use. In retrospect, he couldn’t fathom why he’d spent so much time on Loki. On the other hand, Akechi knew that he would have tried hard regardless. He craved winning and he craved his competitions with Akira. Akechi craved Akira in general now that he thought about it. Akira’s time, his thoughts.

“Maybe get Loki a new pot,” he said finally.

“Loki deserves it,” Akira said, and shuddered when a harsh gust cut through both of them. Akechi eyed Akira out of the corner of his eye. Leblanc was even farther from Haru’s house than Akechi’s apartment, tucked away in Yongen-Jaya. If the storm continued worsening like this, it would be questionable if Akira could even make it home in time.

“Would you like to come over?” Akechi asked before he thought it through. His brain crashed, neurons colliding into a mish mash of chaos before straightening out. “The trains might stop running before you get home. My apartment is closer than Leblanc.”

Akira didn’t reply. Akechi took a few more steps before he realized that Akira had stopped. Akechi turned to find Akira standing a few feet behind, his eyes wide behind his glasses and his mop of hair. The wind must have been harsher than Akechi realized; Akira’s entire face was red, a bright brilliant scarlet that almost matched Akira’s gloves in the Metaverse. It made Akechi’s heart clench; was the cold really that hard on Akira? Akechi refused to inquire. Instead, he merely asked, “What?”

“Sure!” Akechi blinked as Akira scuttled forward. “Do you have food at your place? Or do we need to stop at a konbini?”

“I have some food,” Akechi said, thinking of his cans of soup and his takeout leftovers among other detritus left in his cabinets. “Not anything you could cook a meal out of, but things we could warm up.”

“That’s fine!” Akira said abnormally fast, catching up to Akechi and passing him. Akechi followed, easily keeping pace with the other boy. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” What had gotten into Akira? Akechi was just being practical. It wouldn’t be safe for Akira to risk getting caught on the trains; there was already a half inch on the ground and the clouds belched more continuously. It would be much better for Akira to spend a night at Akechi’s and then travel safely in the morning. It wasn’t like the storm would last all night, and that way Akira wouldn’t have to worry about getting a ride from the Sakuras.

Akechi nodded to himself, clutching Loki close. That was all. Akechi refused to overthink this, and instead focused on getting to the right station. They had to make it to Akechi’s apartment first regardless. There was simply no use in trying to understand Akira right now.

That could come later.

Chapter Text

“It’s a mess,” Akechi warned as they exited the elevator in Akechi’s building. It had been one of Sae’s requirements for his residence. An elevator for those days when walking proved to be hard. It wasn’t a terribly new building, but neither was it an old one. Akechi couldn’t afford a new one; while Shido’s money was vast, it wasn’t unending, and Akechi had other bills. Besides, he didn’t need a modern apartment; he’d lived in one while working with Shido, and the sight of modern architecture still made Akechi vomit a little. While his apartment was a mess without the threat of bugs and the ever present ghost of Shido, it was Akechi’s mess.

Still Akechi thumbed the key as he desperately tried to remember how messy it was. He’d taken out the trash two days ago, and his notes were all packed up. Finals had come and gone, and so now most of the mess was from work. There was always another case on the docket. Wright was even making noise about coming over or having Sae and Akechi over to the States for a business trip. Akechi desperately hoped such a thing wouldn’t happen, but he did have a sinking feeling that it would happen regardless of what he wanted. 

Perhaps his place wasn’t too messy. Was his futon rolled up? Akechi thought so. Akira followed him down the hallway, his head swiveling from side to side as they walked past myriad doors. He drank in the sights like a tourist. 

“Nothing’s going anywhere,” Akechi grumbled, fumbling in his pocket for his keys as they approached his door. “It’s always like this.” 

“But I’ve never seen it before.” Akira sounded like a kid in a candy store. Akechi felt bad for him; if this was exciting, Leblanc truly must have been cursed this holiday season. 

“It’s just an apartment.” 

“It’s your apartment,” Akira corrected, bumping his elbow into Akechi. Akechi squawked, clutching Loki closer. He ignored Akira’s laughter to finish fishing out the key and to slow to a halt in front of his door. 

“It’s the same as any other low rent apartment in Tokyo,” Akechi corrected, inserting the key and nudged the door open. “And it’s small.” 

“My place is small too; Leblanc isn’t that big.”

Akechi had to give Akira that. Leblanc wasn’t big, but it was certainly slightly bigger than his apartment. He strode over the threshold, hiding his sigh of relief when he saw that his apartment was clean. Or at least, it was clean for him. There were only three stacks of papers piled on the table, and most of them were half neat. Neat enough to perhaps be organized, even if Akechi knew there was no overall organization beyond by case. His food was all put away and while his futon remained on the floor, all the blankets sat piled on top of it instead of half dragged across the room. Manageable, as a first impression. 

“I’ve been busy,” Akechi said bustling over to Loki’s little abode after shedding his shoes. He delicately placed the plant down and turned back to Akira. “You can put your plant over here. It’s a sturdy table, so it should be fine.” 

Akechi turned around only to find Akira frozen a step in his door, his eyes wide and his mouth open slightly. Snow stuck in his hair; in the last few minutes of their walk, the storm’s fury picked up, sending snow and sleet hammering into both of them. Akechi knew his cheeks to be blotchy, his skin chapped by the sharp wind that ruined his hair. Akira merely looked windswept, carelessly gorgeous even as snow punctuated his black curls. Akechi should check Loki; he should turn around and look away, but he found that he couldn’t. He watched Akira gaze around his apartment instead, his grey eyes drifting over the sofa and the table, over the kitchen, and onto the walls where they slowly slid to a stop. 

“You do have a Featherman poster!” Akira said giddily, his eyes caught on a wall Akechi made sure Futaba never saw. “I always wondered how you would decorate.” 

“Kurusu, get your ass in here and set down your plant before the snow in your hair melts and makes a mess of my floor.” Akechi snapped, his cheeks heating as he stomped over to Akira. He refused to touch on how Akira had wondered about Akechi’s apartment. “And I’ll have you know that that poster is a collector’s edition. I saved up especially for it, and I won’t have you mocking it.”

Akira chuckled and let Akechi steal the plant out of his hands. “Where do you hang your coats?”

“There’s a hook by the door. Turn around.” Akira’s plant was heavier than Akechi expected. He shifted his grip on it to make sure he didn’t drop it and walked it over to set it down by Loki. The two plants took up most of the space, but somehow managed to not crowd out the other. Akira’s echeveria crouched low; Loki soared tall, balancing each other. Akechi would say it was as though they were made to sit next to each other, but that felt like the sort of sentimentality best left to Akira than to himself. 

“Found it,” Akira declared behind him. Akechi shook himself. “There’s only one hook, should I–”

“I can hang mine up in my closet,” Akechi said, already moving. He paused to turn on a light. The snow storm obliterated the sun and even if it hadn’t, night would be settling in sooner rather than later. The overhead light flickered to life and cast crude shadows over the contents of Akechi’s life, the sofa, the stacks of paper, the plants, Akira struggling at the door to get his coat to hang up properly. Akechi shook his head and dug out a towel. When Akira turned around, Akechi lobbed it at Akira. 

Akira caught the towel before it struck his face. “Thank you!” He grinned, unfolding the towel and immediately dunking his hair into it. Snow drifted off like a miniature blizzard onto the floor of the genkan, falling in wet plops. Akechi rolled his eyes before fetching a towel for himself. He made quick work of his coat, stripping it off and sliding it into the far corner of his closet where it couldn’t drip on anything else. He paused briefly, staring at his gloved hands. Even now, his hands were cold, and the gloves weren’t made for snow. They were made for cold. Akechi sighed, and slowly peeled them off. Hopefully Akira wouldn’t notice, Akechi thought as he attacked his own hair with the towel. 

Akechi decided he despised storms. They remained awful and uncomfortable in every form.  His legs were starting to ache, the little needles bleeding into his skin, his chest contracted, and Akira Kurusu stood in his entranceway ruffling his hair like it was a normal everyday affair. Akechi refused to look. 

Akechi watched Akira intently. The other boy didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t betray it upon his face. His hair rustled this way and that, his skin bright red from the wind. His long fingers dug into the towel, and Akechi wondered what it would be like to have this be a normal occurrence. To have Akira over for… anything really. For dinner or for movies, when the weather was good or the weather was bad. When they were both tired and they wanted to sleep or when they wanted to sit down and debate anything that came to mind. When–

“...Okay?” Akira’s voice cut through Akechi’s thoughts, and he quickly shoved his face into his towel. 

“I’m fine Kurusu,” Akechi muttered, attacking his own hair. “I just got lost in thought.” 

“Penny for your thoughts, as the Americans say?” Akira’s voice came from much closer than before; a few feet away at most. 

Akechi shook his head and pulled the towel away. It wouldn't do much good anymore. Akira hovered three feet away, the towel folded neatly over his arm. Before Akechi could protest, Akira snatched the towel from his hands and began to fold it. 

“It’s atrocious outside,” Akechi said instead, prying the towels out of Akira’s hands. “I’m going to hang these up. You go sit on the sofa or something.” 

“I’m going to investigate your kitchen,” Akira declared, and Akechi grumbled at him. Of course Akira would want to investigate the kitchen. It was a trash heap. Akechi prayed he had noodles as he slowly walked over to the bathroom to hang up the towels. He hung each on the proper hook and spared a glance for his face. Akechi frowned at the mess his makeup had become. The toweling and the snow ruined the carefully applied mask, smudging it and stripping portions of it off. Akechi glanced over his shoulder, contemplating his choices. It would need to be completely reapplied at this rate; everything was smudged. But doing that would take time, and Akechi’s knees already hurt. The towels sat in his hands, and everything he would need to take the makeup off correctly sat on the counter in front of him. Akechi sighed and reached for the washcloth and turned the water on. Hopefully Akira wouldn’t comment on his face. 

Akechi came back to Akira unpacking his cabinets. He rolled his eyes and returned to Loki. It wasn’t healthy to keep the crassula wrapped up for so long and now Loki would never need to leave the apartment again. Grabbing the end, Akechi began to unwrap his plant. In spite of the snow and the cold, Loki looked none the worse for wear. Of course, who knew if there had been long term damage. Akechi made a note in the little book about Loki’s travels, noting the return time just below the departure time he’d written in the notebook before leaving for Haru’s mansion. Akechi turned Loki in a full circle twice before finally nodding to himself. He’d have to keep an eye on the plant. 

By this point, a familiar ache had long settled into Akechi’s bones and he thumped over to his sofa to collapse in a lump. The soft cushions enveloped him, and a quick yank pulled the blanket off the back and around Akechi. He shifted until the minky blanket enveloped him fully, wrapped around him like a shroud, and only when a muffled chuckle escaped did Akechi remember that he was not alone in his house. 

“What Kurusu?” Akechi groused, casting a baleful glare over at Akira. Akira stood at his counters, having somehow found not only noodles but several bottles of sauces and a thing of salt that Akechi didn’t remember buying. He blamed Sae, even if there was no proof of it. 

“You just look so cozy. Like a large kitty.” 

Akechi huffed. “If anyone is a cat in this apartment, Kurusu, it’s you. I know how you are. I’m merely making myself comfortable as it is freezing outside.”

“Of course, of course. Hey, do you mind if I try something? I think there’s enough here for me to make a really simple dish.” Akira knelt, digging through Akechi’s cabinets. “Have you even used these pans? They look brand new.”

“The last time I cooked, I set fire to the house’s kitchen. I mostly keep things that are easy to not burn. There’s a pot by the stove I use if I want to boil noodles.” Akechi flapped his fingers in unspoken permission at the stove from beneath the blanket where it was warm. For Akira’s sake, Akechi ignored the chuckles. 

Akechi continued to shift until only his eyes and the top of his head popped out. The cold protested from where it rested deep in his bones. Akechi tamped down on the protests and snuggled deeper; he wasn’t about to let his legs dictate to him how he was going to feel. He blinked slowly, lizardlike at Akira who fluttered around his kitchen. Akira danced between the little range and the counters, digging through cabinets and containers of miscellany to find whatever he needed. If it had been anyone else, Akechi would have… 

Well. He didn’t know. No one else had ever been over. It struck him then that Akira was his first guest here. No, not just here. No one ever came to his old apartment either. Sae visited while he was in the halfway home, but now that his life was more stable, she respected his boundaries and trusted that he was mostly taking care of himself. Futaba and Ann saw the wall, but that was it. Only Akira saw the entirety of the apartment. A thread of uncertainty wound its way through Akechi’s gut; only Akira had entered the apartment. He’d let Akira enter the apartment; what had he been doing? What would Akira even think of this mess? Was Akira comfortable coming over or–

Akechi shook his head and pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders, burrowing into the dark red expanse. It enveloped him, holding him close in the small cocoon he’d made. Akira would have refused if he hadn’t wanted to come over, Akechi told himself. It was safer to come here, a shorter trip than the one to Leblanc. Akechi swallowed a yawn. Besides, it was Akira. Akira was safe; he was the best choice for a first visitor. After all, Akira had let him into his bedroom. Akechi could take a risk and let Akira into his. Akechi yawned again and slowly blinked, settling lower into the blanket. Yes. If anyone was going to come over, it would have to be Akira. Who else did Akechi trust like that? Akechi blinked and blinked again, before his eyes slowly slid shut. 

A warm hand found Akechi’s knee, squeezing gently through the cloth. “Akechi?” Akira whispered, and Akechi yawned, the top of his head popping further out of the blankets to expose only his eyes and the very top of his head. Cotton balls lined his mouth, and Akechi absently licked at the insides of his cheeks to help hydrate his mouth. 

“Kurusu?” he asked blearily. The sun had set, and even with the light on, darkness gathered in the corners of the room. A wall of white existed beyond the window, the wind howling in the distance. It whistled and shrieked, and Akechi stared at the blizzard outside. He’d never seen anything like it in his life; Tokyo didn’t get snow like this. It barely got cold enough for it to snow. And here Akechi was, sitting on his couch with Akira in his apartment cooking. No, that was wrong. Akira wasn’t cooking anymore. Akira knelt before Akechi, a bowl of noodles in his hand. “Did I fall asleep?” 

“Yeah. Too much fun today?” 

“I did win,” Akechi replied, more to mask the way his heart twisted as he slowly freed his arms from the blanket and took the proffered noodles. “Always a red letter day.” 

“Of course,” Akira grinned, picking up the other bowl of noodles off the side table and settling down next to Akechi. He remained further apart than on Haru’s couch, carefully tucking himself into the corner and turning his body to rest against the sofa’s arm. His feet swung up and Akechi shifted so Akira could tuck his feet under Akechi’s thigh.

Akechi scowled. “Your feet are freezing, Kurusu. Were your socks wet? I could have gotten you a pair.”  

“So kind,” Akira murmured, ducking his head. “They weren’t, I just was cold from the walk. You know how it is. You came home and bundled up”

“I did. And so should you, here let me–” Akechi set the bowl to the side and leaned forward to snag a corner of the blanket on his futon. He hooked it and dragged it up, throwing it over Akira’s legs. Akira fumbled with it, juggling his bowl of noodles. He recovered quickly, but not so quickly that Akechi didn’t have a chance to pull the blanket further up and around Akira’s waist. “There. Now your cold feet won’t be a menace.” 

“They’ll always be a menace. I have poor circulation or something.” Akira shoved a bit of noodle into his mouth, his cheeks reddening. 

Akechi tilted his head, entranced. He’d never seen Akira turn such a shade, or if he had, Akechi couldn’t remember it. He fetched his bowl of noodles back and settled back into the couch. Slowly, Akechi took a bite and swallowed slowly. “This is impressive considering the state of my kitchen.” 

“We really should go buy you some more herbs at least. You could season your meals a little more, even the take out ones.” Akira shook his head, his gaze slipping off Akechi and onto the kitchen. “Honestly, I don’t know how you live without a herb cabinet.” 

“As I mentioned before, some of us set fire to the kitchen if left unattended, Kurusu. I’m not fond of tempting fate anymore.” 

“Maybe you should, just this once. I don’t think herbs would kill you.” Akira took another bite, his nose scrunching up. The way Akira looked so distraught over Akechi’s lack of supplies was cute. Not that Akechi would ever say that out loud. 

“I think you just want an excuse to invade my kitchen and set it up how you like it,” Akechi said after swallowing some noodles. Somehow, they managed to taste like a restaurant’s. Not an upper end restaurant, but far better than Akechi normally ate.

“If it’ll get you to eat better, I’ll do it. And if the storm is really bad, we’ll need more supplies. The app said we’ve already gotten four inches and it's only been like two hours.”

Akechi believed it. Even if the window hadn’t been transformed into an opaque pane of white, the memory of their trip back would have. He shuffled deeper into the blankets as his legs twitched at the thought of enduring more cold. “There’s a konbini just down the block. Hopefully it’ll be open. If not, we’ll manage. There should be enough food for the week at least, even if it means you have to eat television dinners. A horror story for you, I know.” 

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing,” Akira admitted. He poked the noodles in his bowl, a small moue forming. “But I haven’t had any really since my first year in Tokyo, and I don’t really want to go back.” 

“Sakura let you eat a tv dinner?” Sakura, who was so picky about his curry and coffee? Akechi lifted a brow in disbelief.

Akira snorted, shaking his head. “He didn’t really know? I kept them for when I was working late at Crossroads. I didn’t want to be dependent on leftover curry. It felt…”

Akira trailed off. Akechi didn’t force him further. He waited for Akira to continue and ate his noodles in silence. 

“Bad,” Akira said eventually, after shoving an ugly amount of noodles into his mouth. “Expectant? I didn’t want to bother him.” 

Akechi’s other brow joined the first. Bother him? How could Akira of all people bother Sakura? Even disregarding that, there was one other important fact. “He was your probation officer and guardian. It was his job to feed you. You were a child.” 

“I was not a child,” Akira returned mulishly, slinking down against the couch. The blanket puddled around his middle and Akechi resisted the urge to make a comment about how cute Akira looked. It would be weird. Akechi refused to make this weird. 

Instead, Akechi shrugged his shoulders. “If you weren’t a child, then I wasn’t a child back then. I was only a year older. And we’ve had that talk plenty of times.” 

“That’s not the same and you know it.” Akira’s foot prodded Akechi’s thigh and because it was Akira, Akechi indulged him. “He’d done so much for me that asking for him to leave food out for me felt rude.”

“It’s not rude to ask for food. Guardians are supposed to provide that.” Akechi shifted, pinning Akira’s foot beneath his thigh. The offending appendage was cold, even beneath the blanket, but it would be worth heating it up. Akira would be warm and Akechi wouldn’t have to worry about a weapon of ice destruction being used against him. 

“I know that now but back then I was afraid if I sneezed wrong he would kick me out. You know how it is.” Akechi did. That was the worst part; Akechi understood that knife edge implicitly. Walk the line or be kicked out, removed to the next home, the next institution. There was no gray in that world, only black and white. Akechi hated it, hated the system that built the world like that, uncaring and unyielding. 

“I do,” he said, setting his bowl to the side. He could finish it later. Instead, he turned on the sofa to mirror Akira, turning his back to rest against his side of the sofa arm and to rest his feet by Akira’s. Their blankets pushed at each other, thinner minky soft against the heavier weight of the comforter. “Kurusu.” 

“Akechi.” 

“If you don't want to eat tv dinners, you don’t have to. I’ll go find something.” It was a dumb promise. It was the sort of promise that made Akechi’s legs ache in preemptive protest and his chest ache. It wasn’t even a big deal. Akira had even said it wouldn’t be the worst thing, but the fact that Akira mentioned it indicated how much of a deal it was. 

Akira sputtered, and everything was worth it to see the cool leader of the Phantom Thieves sputter as though he’d been tossed into the deep end of a pond. “No, that’s not. That’s not what I mean. You don’t have to. Akechi. I can eat a tv dinner, it won’t–”

“Nonsense,” Akechi interrupted loftily. “I can’t have you feeling uncomfortable. I would be a bad host.” 

Akira whined and then realized what he’d done.  “Akechi, it’s fine. We don’t have to. I dunno, debate this? There’s nothing wrong with tv dinners.” 

“Then why do you get grumpy when I talk about eating them?” Akechi inquired, and Akira buried his face in his hands. 

“There are better options, but I’m not going to like. Make you go get food in this weather when they’re acceptable in pinches.” Akira rubbed at his face, shaking his head. 

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to suffer,” Akechi said, half teasing. Akira’s ears were turning a fascinating shade of crimson, and Akechi couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“I’m not suffering. Just. Eat your noodles or something. Who knows if we’ll even be snowed in.” 

The wind chose that moment to rattle the windows, as if to emphasize the utter awfulness that was Tokyo weather at the moment. Akira sighed. “I’m going to be proven wrong, aren’t I?” 

“If you're that eager to leave my presence, I’m sure Sakura will come get you,” Akechi said helpfully, even as his heart twisted at the thought of Akira leaving.  

“No!” Akira’s jerked. His feet struck Akechi’s feet, jarring them and Akechi winced in pain at the strike as it reverberated up his legs. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m fine. That’s not what I meant and I’m just.”

Akechi almost missed the strangled argh Akira made. But his feet weren’t hurt badly, and so Akechi heard Akira’s disgruntled sound. What was even going on with Akira? Akechi tilted his head as the other man rubbed his forehead and muttered something inaudibly under his breath. Was being over at Akechi’s apartment really that unsettling? Akechi shifted, shoving his discomfort down, smashing it into the pit of his stomach. He’d made the offer thinking it would be kind, but if he was making Akira uncomfortable, well.

Akechi wouldn’t keep him. It would be cruel. Akechi’s stomach twisted; if Akira was uncomfortable over here, then any chance that Akira would return his affections was improbable at best. 

No, no. He wouldn’t catastrophize. After all, things had been fine until the conversation about Sakura. Akechi could help with that. “It’s fine,” Akechi said instead. “You’re fine. I just want you to feel comfortable.”

“I do,” Akira said in a tone that definitely did not sound comfortable. Akechi lifted a brow and Akira winced. “I do? I mean. I feel comfortable here, and I don’t want to be rude by turning down food.” 

“Kurusu, it's fine to not like something. Everyone knows I hate the majority of the world,” Akechi said drily, startling a laugh out of Akira. 

“You don’t hate the majority of the world. You’re grumpy about the majority of the world, but I don’t think you hate it.” 

“How do you know?” Akechi groused, folding his arms over his chest. “Maybe I hate everything.”

Akira cast a significant glance at the Featherman poster on the wall. Akechi huffed. “Featherman does not count, Kurusu.” 

“Of course it doesn’t,” Akira agreed magnanimously.

Akechi nodded imperiously. “Besides I’m not the important one in this conversation, so don’t deflect onto me. It’s okay to not like things, even things you’re offered as a guest. If I don’t know what you like, how can I make sure I have things here that you do like?” 

That curious shade of red intensified, spreading away from Akira’s ears and onto his cheeks. He was starting to look like a humanoid tomato, and Akechi decided to be kind and not comment on it. Akira opened his mouth. He shut it and rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze anywhere but Akechi. “You don’t. It’s. fine.”

“Is it? What sort of host would I be if I didn’t have everything my guests need?” Akechi nudged Akira with the tips of his toes and Akira jumped from the reminder of how they were sitting. “So what do you want then? I remember you mentioning a herb cabinet.” 

“You don’t have to get one,” Akira said quickly, and before Akechi could interrupt, continued. “It’s not about that, I’m just. I’m just happy to be here.” 

Akira gestured at the rest of the apartment, at the stacks of paper and the empty kitchen, at the table that Loki and Akira’s plant sat upon and the Featherman poster on the wall. “You’ve been over to my place a lot and I’ve never been here, and I'm just happy you felt comfortable enough to invite me over.” 

“Oh,” Akechi said verbosely. 

“Yeah, aha, it’s just. Thank you.” Akira’s toes brushed against Akechi’s through the blankets, prodding. 

“There’s nothing to thank me for. If anything, I should be thanking you for everything you’ve done for me the past few years.” 

“There’s no need. You’ve done just as much for me” Akira interjected, waving off Akechi’s words. He poked at Akechi with his feet again. 

Akechi poked back in spite of the fact it was juvenile. Akira smiled. Not one of his smirks, but a soft shy thing that Akechi so rarely saw that at first he thought it to be a mirage. But it lingered in the corners of Akira’s lips and Akechi felt himself smile in return. Akira was here, smiling, in his apartment. It should have been a dream, a dream that Akechi would never have suspected existed a month ago. What had even happened in the past month? The past year? 

“I don’t know if that’s necessarily true,” Akechi replied quietly after a few heartbeats of silence. “You’re the one who has always held their door open for me and have always tried to help.”

Akira hummed, his eyes flickering away for a moment. He shifted, before struggling. “I mean, you’re always there when I message you. And you came back. After everything.” 

“I came back late,” Akechi corrected, shifting. He should do something else, switch the conversation elsewhere. It had been fine when he pulled at Akira’s past; this felt raw, in a way Sakura’s behavior didn’t. 

“But you came back.” Akira reached forward and tugged at Akechi’s hand. Akechi let him, Akira’s calluses brushing over the back of Akechi’s hand. “You came back and you talk with me and you do stupid things with me, and you’ve let me come over, which you never would have done back then. And maybe you were late, but you came back.”

Akechi swallowed. Akira’s hands were cold, but not as cold as Akechi’s, and the calluses made it impossible for Akechi to ignore them. Not that he could have ignored Akira, the shining star of the Phantom Thieves. “I’m surprised you’re not angry.” 

“I was,” Akira replied. His thumb traced circles on the back of Akechi’s hand. “I was worse than angry. I was upset, and I hated it. I’d mourned you and then it turned out that you were alive, and then I found out Ryuji knew and didn’t tell me.  I wanted to hate you, but… I found out why you were so late, and well, hating you is hard, you know?” 

“Oh?” Akechi’s throat closed, an invisible hand curled around his throat. “It sounds easy, to be honest.”

“I know,” The smile turned wry, as Akira slowly stroked Akechi’s hands. It was slightly awkward; they both had to bend in, but Akechi found himself loathe to move. “But being angry, it wouldn’t help you know? You came back as soon as you could. A year late, but I’ve learned to not be picky.” 

Akechi bristled, bile rising to his lips. He swallowed it and took a breath. Words; he needed the right words. “You should be picky. You should have higher standards, Akira. You deserve so much better, and I hope you know that. You don’t deserve people who disappear without a word for a year, and you definitely don’t deserve people who have tried to kill you.” 

“But I don’t want them. I’m more than happy with you. And even if I was still angry, you’ve been trying so hard these past few years. You’ve been going to therapy and you’ve been trying your best with everyone else. You hang out with Ryuji and Ann and Futaba, Sumire adores you like a brother, and you’ve been reaching out to Yusuke and Makoto and Haru. You’ve spent so much time with me, and you check in on me, and Akechi, I–.” 

Akechi’s brain crashed into the words like they were a wall. Akira was happy? This made no sense. No matter what he was doing now, either for the Thieves or anyone else, it didn’t make up for his past actions. Akira made no sense. Akira must have sensed Akechi’s thoughts, for he laughed gently, slipping his fingers through Akechi’s to entwine them closer. “May I ask for something indulgent?” 

“Yes,” Akechi said before he could stop himself. Before he could ask what Akira wanted.

Akira flexed his fingers. His cheeks remained red, as did his neck. “Listen, you don’t have to do this–”

“Kurusu. Just ask.” 

Akira chuckled again, a weaker, more incredulous little sound. “Please don’t make fun of me?”

“Only a little,” Akechi promised. 

Akira made a noise. “I’m cold. Could we. uh. Share blankets?”

Akechi stared. First at Akira, and then at their hands. His eyes dropped down to the blanket and then roamed over the comforter. His heart thundered in his chest and in his ears and in his skull. “The comforter isn’t enough?” His voice cracked halfway and Akechi despised himself. 

“No,” Akira swallowed, before pointing at the window with his head. “Can’t you hear the wind? It’s cold outside.” 

The wind whistled; it sounded better than before, but Akechi was no expert. Regardless, if Akira said the comforter wasn’t enough, then options were limited. Akechi didn’t have many blankets, and if he was cold… 

“How do you want to do this?” Akechi murmured, slowly sitting up. He pulled his hands free, mourning the loss of Akira’s fingers as he swung his legs off the couch.

Akira brightened up, moving far faster than Akechi did. “Here, just… scoot, a little.” 

Akechi lifted the corner of his blanket as Akira wiggled out from under the comforter and clambered over. The long line of his side brushed against Akechi as Akira settled under Akechi’s blanket, and Akechi dropped the blanket over Akira. Akechi didn’t dare look at Akira as the other boy shifted and settled. Instead, he focused on grabbing the comforter and pulled it over them both. Akira took the opportunity to slip under Akechi’s arm, and Akechi forced himself to take a breath. 

This was dangerous. Too dangerous. Akechi should have said no. He should have found any reason to say no. Akira sat close enough that Akechi could feel the rise and fall of Akira’s chest, that he could feel the soft strands of Akira’s hair against his cheek, that when Akira moved, he brushed against a new part of Akechi. Mistake. This was a mistake. 

Akechi tucked the blanket around Akira and paused. Akira had invaded Akechi’s space, taking up the place Akechi would normally put his arm. Akechi left his arm hovering in the air awkwardly until Akira popped his hand out of the blankets and snagged Akechi’s hand. He pulled Akechi’s arm down and around his own shoulders, and audaciously burrowed further into Akechi’s side.

Akechi blanked out. Akira was cold; he hadn’t been lying when he said he was cold, but he was also so close. It was incredibly unfair; Akira had no clue how much Akechi cared, no clue what this was doing to Akechi, and yet he possessed no qualms against snuggling right into Akechi’s side. This was preposterous. Outrageous. Unfair.  

Akira sighed happily. “Much better,” he said, crackling a gray eye open. “Isn’t this much better?”

Better, yes. Also worse. Better and worse. Berse, a voice suggested in his brain that sounded like Ryuji, and Akechi immediately silenced it. “Are you still cold?” Akechi asked instead. 

“I’m warming up,” Akira hummed. It remained completely and utterly unfair how unaffected Akira was; he seemed content to burrow into Akechi’s side like a clingy cloak. “Akechi?”

“Yes?”   

“This is okay, right?” Perhaps Akira was not so unaffected. His voice, previously firm, wavered slightly on the last syllable, and in the darkness of the room, Akechi felt rather than saw the concern on Akira’s face. 

“If it’s what you want, yes,” Akechi replied slowly. He kept his arm loosely slung about Akira’s shoulders, his hand relaxed against Akira’s arm.

“But what about what you want?”

Akechi swallowed his first thought. Saying that his wants didn’t matter felt disingenuous. After all, Akechi didn’t just want Akira. He craved Akira in the same way meat craved salt, that lungs craved air. Akira, calm, sweet, kind Akira, curled against Akechi’s side in a way that Akechi knew he could never forget. He was used to craving. He was used to wanting and never getting. And Akechi knew at that moment that he would crave Akira into eternity, and Akechi was fine with that.

Mostly.

“I’m figuring it out,” Akechi whispered eventually, his arm tightening around Akira’s shoulders. “I’m sorry if that’s not the answer you want.” 

“It’s fine. You’re fine.” Akira turned his face into the hollow of Akechi’s neck. His breath tickled Akechi’s skin, even as the ice of his nose cut through Akechi’s heat. “Did you mean it?” 

“Hm? Mean what?” Akechi absently began to stroke Akira’s upper arm. This would be fine. Akira was the one who pulled Akechi’s arm about him, and Akechi trusted Akira to say if he didn’t like something. 

Akira’s voice turned small, shrank in the room until the studio felt massive. “What you said at Haru’s. About liking me.” 

Akechi blinked. “Yes? Of course I like you, Kurusu. I wouldn’t spend time with you if I didn’t.”

There was a moment of silence. Akira shifted beneath Akechi’s arm, pushing closer and then pulling away. A human tide, Akechi thought, finally pulled Akira closer. There was something here he wasn’t understanding, but he wasn’t about to let Akira stew on it. Not if he could do something about it. “What’s the matter?” 

Akira stiffened, his entire body stopping for a split second before Akira forced himself to relax. “I. It’s nothing. I’m being silly.” 

“Kurusu, this is not you being silly.” Akechi shifted, trying to get a look at Akira’s face. An impossible task, considering their positions. He contented himself with leaning as close as he could to Akira’s ear. “What is it? Just tell me.” 

“It’s. Well.” Akira huffed. “This is hard.” 

“Words are hard in general, but don’t worry. I’ll like you regardless of what you say, Kurusu.” Akira sighed against Akechi’s neck and Akechi waited. He could wait forever, past forever. After all, Akira waited for him; Akechi would return that favor. 

“You know you can call me Akira, right?”

“Mm?”

Akira frowned. Akechi felt it more than saw it. “If you like me that much, you can call me Akira.” 

“I.” Akechi gulped while his heart took off at a gallop. “Well. What changed your mind?”

“I’ve never said you couldn’t call me Akira.” 

“You never said I could either,” Akechi replied swiftly. He prayed that Akira couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating. It was unlikely that Akira couldn’t, with how close Akira’s head was so close to Akechi’s chest. 

“Call me Akira then.” 

“So petulant, Kur- Akira.” Akechi tripped over himself. Thankfully Akira didn’t laugh. Much. He did chuckle though, and Akechi scowled. “If I’m going to use your first name, you might as well use mine then.” 

“Goro,” Akira said all too fast and Akechi felt his ears redden. 

“Yes?” Akechi forced his voice into evenness. He didn’t even need Hereward’s chuckle to know he failed. 

“I like you too,” Akira said, altogether too fast. As though he’d had to scrounge up every gram of courage he possessed to say it. Which was odd because Akira rarely needed to think about telling people that he liked them. 

“What” Akechi said dumbly. 

Thinking back, Akechi couldn’t remember a single time that Akira said the phrase ‘I like you’ to anyone. He’d said that he’d liked certain things, but only under extreme duress and with no other option. So why did Akira tremble beneath Akechi’s arm and against his side? Why did Akira’s breath stutter as if he’d said something monumental–

“I like you,” Akira repeated, slower this time, but still faster than he usually spoke. He stared straight at Akechi, his grey eyes solemn and nervous, his breath coming in short little huffs. 

Oh. 

Oh shit. 

“Wait, shit. I didn’t mean to say that earlier! I was going to wait!” Akechi wanted to die. He wanted to disappear. He hadn’t meant it like that! But he’d also meant it like that! Why did Akira make everything so complicated?  Against him, Akira’s chest rattled as the other boy shoved his face into Akechi’s neck and wheezed.

“Stop laughing!!” Akechi wailed, covering his face. “I was going to wait for the perfect moment to say it and, I don’t know, buy you flowers or a gift, and take you out to dinner! Or something romantic, I don’t know! I didn’t want to force you into anything, I’ve done that enough already. I was going to make sure you were comfortable and okay with it and could leave if you didn’t want to go out with me and–”

Akira curled his arm around Akechi’s chest and squeezed him tight. “There’s no forcing, you actual goober. I’ve liked you for years. I was terrified that telling you would chase you off and make you disappear again.” 

Akechi combusted, his fingers digging into his face. His tongue thickened in his mouth and he swore that his cheeks were raising the heat of the apartment on their own. That long? Akira had cared for that long? Memories began to shift in Akechi’s head, the years of messages and outings and competitions. When Akechi felt terrible, Akira came, bearing cups of coffee and plates of curry. He would answer late night calls and play absent games of chess. It all shifted in Akechi’s mind, shifting and turning and sliding into place with a quiet certitude that made Akechi’s heart race. “Ah. Well. Ah. Years?”

“Yeah,” Akira nodded. He curled his fingers under Akechi’s and slowly levered them off Akechi’s face. Akira smiled, curling his fingers around Akechi’s crooked ones.  “Since you approached me after the television interview. I was rather starstruck that a handsome boy would come talk to me, let alone ask for my number.”

The television station. But that was. That was years ago. An age ago. “We had just met! How could you– didn’t you date Ann? And Makoto after that?”

Akira chuckled awkwardly, his fingers tightening around Akechi’s as though he was afraid to let go. “I was in denial for Ann. It was easier to date her than to admit to myself that I was interested in the cute know it all who was investigating me. And Makoto asked me to pretend to date me so that we could investigate her friend’s boyfriend. We tried dating after that, but when Makoto fell for Haru, I sort of finally allowed myself to. To think about you. To like you in that way. It was easier than breathing.”

“Oh,” Akechi said, for lack of anything better to say. He found his usual verbosity had abandoned him. Instead, he pulled Akira closer. “You’re an idiot.” 

Akira finally pulled his head away from Akechi’s neck to meet Akechi’s gaze. His eyes danced merrily as he smiled. “But I’m your idiot, Goro. And you’re my idiot.”

“Yes, you are, and no, I’m not an idiot.” Goro smiled slowly as the words sank in. Akira was his idiot. And he was Akira’s idiot. His stomach flipped, flopped, and settled.  And if Akira was his idiot… “Would you like to go out for dinner later this week? Weather permitting, of course.”

“Yes!” Akira grinned, one of his wide, mad grins he always wore before doing something dangerous. “Can I kiss you?” 

Finally.  

Goro swore virulently at the persona in his head and ignored Hereward’s chuckling as he pulled his hands free of Akira’s and hauled him closer, as close as possible, curling his arms around Akira. It felt right. Akira felt right; he felt like home. “If you want,” he said gruffly, pulling the blankets up around Akira’s shoulders. 

Akira laughed. “Of course I want to,” he said, leaning in and cradling Goro’s cheek with his hand. His thumb swept over one of Goro’s scars and his breath ghosted over Goro’s mouth before Akira closed the distance. Akira’s lips were cold and they were chapped, and they were gone all too soon. Goro grumbled and chased Akira, kissing him again. 

“You should finish what you start,” Goro said ages later, when his mouth felt pleasantly sore and his breath short. 

“I always do,” Akira said breathlessly, boneless against Goro. “Though you should finish your noodles. Even if they’re cold.”

“I’ll finish them later. They’ll reheat fine.” Outside, the storm was finally dying, the shrieking fading into softer gusts. In the distance, buildings slowly appeared, all covered in a thick layer of snow. Not that Goro cared. Akira sat in his lap, curled closer than Goro’s heart. 

“Okay. Fair enough.” Akira hummed. “But you should eat before we go to bed. You need food.” 

“If that’s what you want, Akira.” Goro smirked at the noise Akira made. “Should I not use your name?”

“Don’t you dare stop,” Akira retorted, pressing a kiss to Goro’s cheek.

Goro threw back his head and laughed at the absurdity of it all. But it was his absurdity, and he would have it no other way.

Chapter Text

“And that’s it really. I’m very sorry for not telling you the truth sooner, Dr. Kaname.” By all accounts, it was a beautiful day. The sun shone in through, reflecting off the remnants of snow that littered the roofs of nearby buildings. The myriad plants in Dr. Kaname’s office drank it up happily, their leaves jostling for the best position. Goro sat in his normal chair across from Dr. Kaname, his hands flat against his thighs. He still wore his makeup, but for the first time in years his gloves remained off. His fingers aligned crookedly over his pants, and Goro ignored the imperfect lines.

Across from him, Dr. Kaname sat peacefully, her hands folded on her desk. Not much had changed about her in the past half year. She still smiled, her hair tucked back behind her ears, and she inclined her head gracefully at Goro’s apology. “It’s quite all right Goro. These things happen. Thank you, though, for telling me. I appreciate it.”

Goro felt his face twitch, and he let it. There should be more, there should be–

Dr. Kaname tilted her head and Goro sighed. “I expected you to be angier about it.”

“About the plant I gave you?”

Goro nodded stiffly. “You gave it to me in hopes that I would prove myself wrong, and then I still killed it. And then I started a competition with Akira over a new plant.”

“What would happen if I had been upset?”

“I–” Goro pursed his lips. He hated questions like this; it always felt like he was missing a vital piece of the puzzle. So what would have happened if he had told Dr. Kaname about the death of the original plant? Nothing, a part of him said. Everything, said the other bit. She would have given up on him, having realized that all he could do was kill things. It sounded silly now that he thought about it. Dr. Kaname had a legal, court mandated order to speak with Goro on a regular basis. “I was afraid that you would be disappointed. Not that I care what you think, but I didn’t want to have to explain that I had only affirmed my fears by trying the task you set for me to do.”

“I see.” Dr. Kaname nodded. “Is it really the worst thing to upset me?”

“No,” Goro replied. “But I didn’t. Want to. If that makes sense. It was a simple task, and I failed. I didn’t want to report my failure.”

“Is raising plants a simple task?”

Goro thought back. Thought about his notebook for recording Loki’s height and his nutrients, thought about replanting Loki and the music. Thought about watering Loki and keeping Loki warm, adjusting where Loki sat so that the right amount of sunlight each day.

“No. It’s not,” Goro says slowly.

“Raising plants is hard. Each requires its own unique amount of love and care. And even if raising plants was a simple task, it’s okay to fail. You don’t always have to succeed.”

Dr. Kaname smiled gently, adjusting the books on the corner of her desk. “Sometimes, it is just enough to try. I won’t ever be mad at you for failing at something.”

Goro shifted, ducking his head. “You make it all seem rather silly.”

“My apologies; I’m not trying to make it seem silly. It’s more… hm. May I ask you a question?”

“You’re going to regardless, aren’t you?”

“I don’t have to. It’s always your choice,” Dr. Kaname said, the books set to the side. She folded her hands on top of the desk, and she waited.

Goro sighed. “Go ahead. What question do you have?”

“Would failing be the worst thing in the world?”

No. Yes. Goro failed so many people, so many tests and trials. He descended to the worst of humanity, he killed and he murdered, and he spurned the hand that helped him. But he’d also survived. Somehow, he’d come back after dying, he had come back and made friends with people who should never have given him a second thought. A boy who he’d tried to kill once sat outside in the lobby as Goro sat in a therapist’s office trying to unpack that tangled mess that was his life.

“I don’t know,” Goro said in the end, his mangled fingers tracing over his pants. “I’ve failed and I’ve won, and I’ve started to repair bridges I thought were completely burnt. I don’t know if failing is the worst thing in the world, but perhaps failing those I think highly of is the worst. I can’t say for sure.”

“And that is fine. It’s something to think about.”

“Among everything else,” Goro grumbled. He ignored Dr. Kaname’s quiet chuckle. “I hate this.”

“You always hate pulling apart things. Or well. Your own emotions apart.” Dr. Kaname’s eyes crinkled. “How is that Akira of yours?”

Goro’s cheeks bloomed crimson. “First of all, he isn’t my Akira. Second of all, he’s fine. We’re going out to dinner after this.”

“Excellent. I’m very happy for both of you.” Dr. Kaname ignored Goro’s sputtering to rise to her feet. “And with that said, we are out of time. Shall I see you in two weeks?”

Goro blinked and checked his watch. It was in fact close to the end of the hour and he wrinkled his nose at the way time betrayed him. Bracing himself against the arms of his chair, he lifted himself to his feet. “Yes. And I apologize once again about the entire plant situation.”

“Oh don’t worry about it. What’s important is that you felt comfortable enough to talk about it.” Dr. Kaname circled around her desk and plodded over to the door. She waited as Goro picked up his coat and slipped it on, followed by his scarf. “Remember, I will always be here for you. As will your friends, and Akira. It’s okay to stumble.”

Goro grumbled something; he wasn’t sure what, but it sure was something as he adjusted the collar of his coat. “Thank you,” he said eventually, as he stood by the door.

“Of course.” Dr. Kaname patted Goro’s shoulder and grasped the door handle. “Now you have fun on your date.”

“I will.” Goro strode out of the door and vaguely waved over his shoulder at Dr. Kaname. His eyes focused forward on the sight that greeted him in the little lobby. Akira sat slumped over several chairs, his jaw dropped open as he snored inelegantly. One of his arms was thrown over his eyes while the other flopped at his side, his coat abandoned behind his head as a sort of makeshift pillow.

What a disaster. Goro shook his head, slipping onto the balls of his feet so that he could prowl lightly towards his partner. Akira, unaware, continued sleeping. Goro smirked to himself and waited until he was mere inches away before he leaned down and flicked Akira’s cheek. “Rise and shine. It’s time to go.”

The other boy jerked, his arm flying out in a wild smack. Goro dodged the blow with a snort that evolved into laughter as Akira began to blink furiously. “Goro,” He managed to say around a very dry mouth. “S’not funny.”

“I seem to remember someone doing the exact same thing to me a few days ago when I fell asleep in their room after working on some essays,” Goro replied, watching his boyfriend stretch. Akira’s fingers intertwined and reached far above his head as Akira sat up, pulling on his shirt until it exposed a small slit of skin at Akira’s navel. Goroi traced it with his eyes and tried to not be obvious about it.

He failed; Akira laughed, rolling up to his feet as he snatched Goro’s hand. He winds their fingers and brushed his thumb over the back of Goro’s hand. “Yeah,” Akira said, squeezing Goro’s fingers gently. “But that was funny because I was the one doing it.”

“I see,” Goro drawled. He pulled on Akira’s hand, ignoring the other patient who brushed by them as Dr. Kaname called them in. “You adhere to a double standard.”

“Of course!” Akira waved at Dr. Kaname, and she must have waved back, for Akira smirked broadly before darting forward to grab the door. Goro indulged Akira and let Akira drag him along. “I have to keep you on your toes somehow.”

“I see.” Akira bowed Goro through the door. Goro rolled his eyes and stepped over the threshold, Akira following a second later. After all, it was hard to stray apart when Akira kept such a firm grip on his hand.

The door shut behind them with a soft clack as the pair walked down the hallway to the elevators. “Otherwise, you’d get bored. And we can’t have that.”

Goro lifted an eyebrow “Bored me is the danger? Who among us ended up making three pots of curry when they were bored and then we had to figure out what to do with it? Or ended up on top of Leblanc when the others were twenty minutes late? Or–”

“We’re both menaces,” Akira cut in, bumping against Goro. “Let’s go with that?”

“Perhaps,” Goro said magnanimously. The rest of the hallway remained deserted, and even the elevator was empty in spite of the late afternoon time. “Did you need to do anything before dinner?”

“Nope! I cleared my schedule just for you, dear.” Goro’s ears burned at the endearment. Akira politely didn’t mention it, shifting his hands about so he could continue to hold Goro’s hand with one and could tuck his other hand into his pocket.

“Good.” Goro ignored the buzzing of his phone. Whoever it was, it could wait. Akira, however, was much more easily distracted.

“Who’s that?” Akira asked, his free hand dipping towards Goro’s pocket. Goro twisted away, shaking his head.

“I don’t care.” The elevator dinged and opened. Goro strode out, and Akira followed into the lobby. The crisp air bit into their cheeks as they left the building, the crowd swallowing them as they walked towards the subway.

“Aww, but what if it’s Futaba? She’ll hack your phone.” Akira folded into Goro’s side, his grip tightening on Goro’s hand. Goro held on firmly, even though there was no real reason to. After all, Akira’s hand felt nice in his own.

“Sakura is calling with Fey tonight. They’re watching some Steel Samurai movies Futaba hasn’t seen.” Goro had given in eventually, picking up the call one night when Akira slept with his head in his lap. Their own movie droned on in the background as Goro explained the boundaries of what he was willing to do with Wright’s assistant. Maya agreed, and then promptly ignored them upon meeting Futaba.

They truly were a nightmare that Goro did not want to think about. Ever. Even though he now watched movies with them once a week and argued with them about Featherman and Steel Samurai.

Goro shook his head. “Besides, isn’t Morgana with her tonight?”

“Oh. That’s right. Maybe Ryuji then? Or Yusuke? Weren’t you helping him with some art?”

“Sakamoto is training with the track team. He’ll be back Thursday for our runs. And Kitagawa said earlier that he didn’t want to be disturbed as he was working on his Mementos project.” Akira hummed, twisting to the side to avoid bumping into someone. He never let go of Goro’s hand, and Goro never commented on it. It was… Nice. To hold Akira’s hand, and if Akira wanted to hold hands, Goro wouldn’t say no.

“Sumire?”

“Sumire is touring colleges today. Which, by the way, we need to call her tomorrow to see how that goes. I promised we would check in.”

Akira cooed, leaning in to whisper into Goro’s ear. “That’s so sweet of you.”

Goro sputtered. “It’s not sweet! She’s our friend and she wants to tell us how it went. Not that we should make any decisions for her. Don’t try to solve anything for her when we do call; you know how highly she thinks of you.”

“Of course dear.” Goro scrunched his nose and Akira pecked his cheek. “You know, she’s getting better about that anyways, so…”

A man across the way saw Akira and made a face. Goro scowled at him, his eyebrows drawn together. Keeping clear eye contact with the man, Goro turned his head and pressed a kiss to Akira’s cheek until the other man hurried on. Goro smiled to himself and started to pay attention to Akira’s rambling again.

“I hope she enjoys college. Or well. Culinary school? She always did make good bentos. She used to make them for me a ton back in high school.”

“Did she now?” Goro asked, bending his head away when Akira nodded his head rapidly. He didn’t want to get hit by Akira’s loose curls or by his skull.

“Yeah. She was good at it. Really good at it, even if she said she wasn’t. But I’m sure she’ll tell us all about it.” Akira hummed. “Maybe it’s Ann?”

“She’s also going out on a date tonight with Shiho, remember? I was talking with her about it yesterday while we were playing chess at Leblanc.”

Akira mouthed an oh with his mouth, nimbly adjusting his pace as they reached the stairs down to the subway. They descended in tandem as the world acquired an echoey quality. “I guess the same for Makoto and Haru–”

Goro blinked. It could be Haru; she was out of town after all, and Makoto was with her. Goro promised to look in on her plants while they were gone this week. He dug into his pocket and flipped out his phone, finally checking the message.

It wasn’t Haru.

Goro blinked. It was a text from Akira. He clicked it open and stared at the message. On it was a picture of tickets to an old movie theater, one where they showed movies that had long been out of theaters. Flowers framed the tickets and the old, dark wood behind the cream tickets made the tickets stand out. Goro read the name of the movie on the tickets slowly, taking in the stylized calligraphy of a theater he’d heard of, but never been to. It was the name of an old movie, a Featherman movie that he’d wanted to see when he was a child and hadn’t been able to. His mother had been too busy, too tired, and too poor. It was easier to wait until the movie showed up on the television. Goro swallowed, and turned to Akira.

Akira shuffled somehow, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “Do you want to go? We should be done with our dinner by that time, and I know you never got to see it in theaters when you were a kid.”

Goro opened his mouth and then closed it, throwing away his first sentence to find a new one. A better one. “What would you have done if I hadn’t looked at my phone?”

Well, he’d tried.

“I would have figured something out.” Akira shrugged, squeezing Goro’s hand. “It was very romantic of you to not answer your phone because you were with me though.”

“I’m trying to give you attention, Akira.” Goro's throat felt tight, and getting the words to emerge was harder than fighting a shadow in the depths of Mementos. “You’ll always be first.”

Now it was Akira’s turn to blush and stammer, his voice failing him. “You can’t just say that.”

“Why not? You say it to me all the time.” A thrill ran through Goro when Akira stuttered out something incomprehensible. Goro chuckled and pulled Akira along. “And I would love to go with you to a movie after dinner, Akira. You could have just asked me.”

“I was trying to be romantic! You always check your phone, so I figured the easiest way to ask you would be a text like that.” Akira huffed, shaking his head. “The one time I wanted you to check your phone is the one time you don’t because you’re a sap.”

“Me? A sap?” Goro laughed. They’d paused outside the turnstiles, having found a corner to finish their talk in. “Says the man who went and found tickets to a fifteen year old movie to take me to.”

“I’m a romantic, not a sap.”

“You’re both,” Goro said affectionately. “And I love you for it. Now come on, let’s go to dinner. I’ve been looking forward to spending time with you.”

Goro squeezed Akira’s hand. He realized that he’d forgotten to put his gloves back on, and here, with Akira so close, Goro found that he didn’t mind. Akira squeezed back, smiling broader and brighter than Goro had ever seen. Goro’s heart danced in his chest, and for the first time in a long while, he realized that he could get used to this. Doing things with Akira, meeting up with their friends. Going out on dates and going home to sleep together, curled in each other's arms after taking care of the plants. It wouldn’t always be easy; that was life. But these small moments, these small fragile moments where Goro let himself be seen and to see in return…

He could get used to that. Goro could get used to a life with Akira and maybe one day. Maybe one day, this would be normal and not something to wonder over, to marvel over an impossibility.

“Goro?”

Goro blinked. Akira stared at him, concern in his eyes. Goro marshaled a smile, holding tightly onto Akira. “Sorry. I was just thinking how lucky I was to be with you.”

“Oh.” Akira ducked his head, but not not far enough to hide his smirk. “Are you now?”

“Yes.” Goro squeezed Akira’s hands one last time, relishing the feel of bare skin against bare skin, of allowing his crooked fingers to be seen and held, before facing the turnstiles. “Now come on, we have dinner to eat and a movie to see. And then we have to get home to take care of the plants. It’s Loki’s nutrient day.”

Akira chuckled softly. “Of course dear,” he said as he fell into step with Goro, a soft look in his eyes as they paid their fares and slid into the station to wait for the train. They walked together, not into some grand adventure, but many little adventures, ones where they could raise plants and make mistakes together, where they met their friends or they spent time alone. They walked into a life where Goro and Akira could love and laugh and, most of all, live.

In the end, that was all they needed.