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Akira slammed his controller against his thigh in mock frustration as ‘YOU LOSE!’ flashed over his character again, letting out an exaggerated groan and tilting his head to side-eye Akechi, whose red eyes were twinkling with thinly veiled amusement.
“I believe that makes our score 3-0.” He said prettily, a touch of arrogance slipping into his usually placid Detective Prince voice. “Is everything alright, Kurusu-kun?”
Akira glared at him and resisted the urge to stick his tongue out, starting to regret inviting Akechi over to try out the new game he bought last week.
He could’ve asked Ryuji, who jumped at any excuse to avoid his homework despite Makoto’s best efforts to make him take school seriously. Or Futaba, who would’ve crushed him as easily as Akechi but without any of the prickly tension that had hit boiling point after their fight in Mementos.
But no, his first thought after walking out of the game shop in Akihabara was that this seemed like something Akechi would like, and before Morgana could yowl at him about the dangers of hanging out with the person who had literally blackmailed the Phantom Thieves into disbanding, Akira had already texted him.
Whoops.
The verbal tongue-lashing the not-cat had given him when they got back to Leblanc and hiss that he would be staying the next few nights with Haru was worth it, though. This was probably Akira’s last chance to see him—his Justice, his rival, his friend—before they sent Sae’s calling card, before they went back to being on opposite sides of a battlefield, before—
He didn’t want to think about what was supposed to happen. Not now, anyways.
Akechi raised an eyebrow, and Akira remembered that he had asked him a question and that he should probably, you know, answer it before he got concerned and started asking him what was wrong.
He let out a small hmph and said, “You don’t have to sound so happy about defeating me, you know.”
The stirrings of a genuine smile, darker and wilder than the one he wore on TV, tugged at the corners of Akechi’s lips. He set his controller down and patted Akira’s shoulder, somehow managing to be placating and patronizing at the same time.
Akira let out a sigh of relief disguised as exasperation; Akechi didn’t seem to think anything was off. Or maybe he did, but was choosing not to address it?
Why did he even accept his invitation to come over? What did he gain from keeping up this pretense of being their ally, acting like he cared, when it wasn’t necessary?
His thoughts spiraled, not helped by the very distracting feeling of Akechi gently caressing his arm.
“Don’t worry, Kurusu-kun,”
Akira felt no shame in grabbing the fishhook that was Akechi’s lyrical voice and letting it reel him back to reality.
“I’m sure you’ll familiarize yourself with the mechanics soon.” Glossing over the fact that Akechi hadn’t played this game before either. “It seems there are still some fronts on which you haven’t yet caught up to me.”
He retracted his hand, and Akira couldn’t help but want to lean towards him to let the contact linger for a moment more.
Embarrassed at himself, he tugged his bangs over his forehead and turned back to the TV. “I’m trying my best here!”
“Well, practice is typically one of the best ways to improve.” Mirth and smugness dripped from Akechi’s every word— he wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. “Would you like to play another round? Maybe put your glasses on for this one?”
He gestured to Akira's fake glasses, which were currently folded on the desk. He had taken them off after their first game, claiming that he lost because they were messing with his vision. Akechi hadn't said anything, but the twitching at the corner of his lips told Akira that he hadn't bought it for a second.
In lieu of a response, Akira got up from his chair, dramatically turned away from Akechi, and flopped facedown onto his bed to hide the inconvenient wave of heat flushing his face, murmuring something into his pillow that even he couldn’t understand.
“I’m sorry, could you say that again? I didn’t quite catch that.”
Okay, he was definitely laughing at Akira now. He rolled over, pushing his bangs out of his eyes and pointedly avoiding looking at Akechi, who had turned his chair to face the bed.
“How are you so good at this?” Akira scrutinized the Lexy doll on his desk, wondering how many teeth it had.
He couldn’t imagine that Akechi had much time to play video games—on top of school, work, interviews, and perpetuating mental shutdowns and psychotic breakdowns, Akira was surprised he even had time to breathe.
“A bout of beginner’s luck, I suppose.” Akechi answered smoothly, and Akira could pinpoint the moment his eyes flicked onto him. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
His voice took on a more acerbic tone, and worry coiled in Akira’s gut at the possible implications. Did he think that something was off?
He made the mistake of glancing at Akechi, and the slightly feral, sincere smile that split his face open and illuminated his oddly alluring eyes made Akira’s breath catch. An idea as incredibly reckless as it was impulsive struck him, and he felt a matching grin spread across his own.
“I’ll play another round,” he said coquettishly, “if you can drag me out of bed.”
The speed at which Akechi’s face shifted through a myriad of increasingly alarming expressions before settling on apprehension was hilarious.
“Are you serious, Kurusu-kun?” Akechi stalked to the side of the bed, staring Akira down with storm clouds brewing behind his eyes. “How childish can you be?”
Akira hoped that Akechi didn’t see him shudder as his gaze sharpened. He had changed the game they were playing, and he could tell that Akechi was unsure of its new rules.
“Do you want to ‘verse me again or not?” he countered, raising his left arm and making grabby hands in the air.
He was baiting his rival with all the subtlety of an anvil, hoping that his predictable unpredictability that Akechi hated and admired in equal fervor would help disguise his true motives.
Akechi scoffed and entwined his fingers with Akira’s, and he inwardly cheered at the small victory.
“You’re awfully lucky that I don’t have to-”
Akira yanked on his arm, quickly moving out of the way as he sent Akechi stumbling and crashing down onto the bed. The detective let out a small noise of surprise, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to process what had happened.
Checkmate.
Akira couldn’t help it—he giggled at Akechi’s rumpled hair and downright adorable look of confusion as he rolled back on his side to face him, still not letting go of his hand.
“Akira,” Akechi breathed, voice heavy as those gorgeous crimson eyes met steel gray and raked over their compromising positions. The bed wasn’t big, and the way Akechi had landed put his face centimeters away from Akira’s own, so close that the other’s breath fluttered against his cheek.
“Akira,” he repeated, just as softly, “what are you doing? ”
The intimacy of Akechi saying his given name in that low voice set electricity off in Akira’s lungs, undercut by a cold slice of fear at the words that followed. He had thought their tension was boiling over before, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating weight it manifested as now. What if he had misjudged him? What if his Justice hated him? What if he had ruined everything?
But Akechi wasn’t moving away.
He seemed perfectly content to stay on Akira’s bed, only raising his hand to tuck his hair behind his ears. The vaguely irritated look he wore would have been a cause for concern, but Akira knew that that was basically Akechi’s default face when he dropped his princely mask. The harsh edges of his expression were also more muted than usual, like Akira was viewing him through a soft focus filter.
And, most damningly, he was still holding Akira’s hand.
“Goro,” a small part of Akira burst with elation as he realized Akechi was blushing under his layers of makeup, “can I- can I kiss you?”
Red eyes widened, and Akechi’s glossy lips—did he use lip gloss? that would explain a lot—parted slightly.
“Um,” Akira floundered for words, thinking that he might have come off too strong, “you can say-”
“Yes.”
“-no, I know that this- wait, what?”
Akechi giggled, and the sound went straight to Akira’s pounding heart, “I said yes, Akira. It is a time-sensitive offer, though.”
He searched maroon eyes for any signs of deception or trickery, and relaxed as he found only candid anticipation and delight, tinged with sorrow that he pretended not to notice.
“Okay.” Akira whispered, closed his eyes, and leaned in.
Their first kiss was awkward and chaste, more of a cautious peck than anything else, but Akira still felt butterflies rush inside his rib cage. Akechi’s—no—Goro’s lips were soft and pliant and warm and everything Akira had tried to pretend he hadn’t dreamed of.
He could feel the tension in the room snap and rush over them in a wave that Akira wouldn’t mind drowning in, because he realized all at once that this, this, was how his world would begin again.
Goro drew back with a low chuckle, and Akira’s eyes snapped open just in time to see him smirk, crimson eyes flashing with—was that affection?
Akira had only seen rare glimpses of that emotion on Goro’s face, always shadowed by resentment, so seeing him display it so overtly sent his heart into another tizzy.
God, he was beautiful. God, how Akira loved—
Goro cupped his cheek and pulled him in for another kiss, and Akira was sure that he had been struck with a ziodyne because every nerve in his body was short-circuiting. He kissed back insistently, melting into Goro with a soft exhale.
They were twin stars on a collision course that had finally crashed into each other, and Akira reveled in the ferocity of the supernova they had caused.
His hands found their way to Goro's brunet hair, and he was reminded of their not-date in the café all those months ago when he had mussed those same silky locks, grinning like a maniac the entire time—
and falling in love with his flustered expression when Akira winked and slid his glasses onto Goro's face.
Heat radiated from the small of his back where Goro had pressed his free hand, and Akira shifted towards him eagerly. Their lips met again and again, and Akira sighed contentedly as Goro moved to pepper kisses along his jaw. He tilted his head to give him easier access, half-closing his eyes and surrendering himself to the tsunami that was Goro Akechi.
A series of beeps sounded from somewhere in the room, and Goro stiffened, eyes widening as he sat up ramrod-straight. Akira looked around to find the source of the noise, wondering if the video game they had left idling had suddenly come back to life.
"That was my phone," Goro explained as he mechanically smoothed his hair down, "my, uh, apologies. It means that the trains will stop running soon."
Akira stared at him blankly, not processing what he was saying. He was still on cloud nine, the remnants of the lightning bolts that were their kisses echoing in his ears.
Goro's mouth was still moving, but his voice was indistinct, like he was listening to him from underwater.
"Akira," the unexpected seriousness in Goro's tone made him snap to attention, focusing on the pained twist in his rival's lips, "I have to go."
"You-" Akira started, beginning to panic as his words sank in, "wait, what?"
No.
No.
They would not end like this.
Akira refused to let them end like this.
"I'm sorry, I-"
"Goro, please." he rasped, not caring how pathetic he might have sounded, "Please don't go. You don't have to go, you can stay the night here."
He was aware that he was rambling, words falling from his lips like raindrops during a storm, frenzied and overlapping. It didn't matter.
Akira's pleading eyes met the detective's conflicted ones as he put all the words he couldn't say into his expression, knowing that Goro could read him well enough to understand.
Please stay with me.
Goro's mouth opened, closed, and opened again, like he couldn't figure out what exactly to say. The tinge of sorrow Akira had seen earlier had eclipsed his face entirely, and he wanted nothing more than to smooth away the pain in his features.
"Please," Akira pushed, breathless and more than a little desperate, "stay."
Goro held his gaze for a heartbeat longer, then looked away, eyes landing on the floor. For a moment, Akira was sure that he would leave him, sure that this would be the last he saw of his Goro Akechi.
"Okay," he whispered, dropping his hand from where it was reaching for his gloves on the couch, "I'll stay."
Akira's eyes shone with delight, and the bed creaked as he moved over to give him space. Goro gave him a wan smile as he took a makeup wipe from his briefcase and cleaned his face, revealing the freckles and imperfections that he had only seen once before, blurred by the steam in the bathhouse.
Goro had rushed to Leblanc's bathroom after they got back, coming out 20 minutes later with flawless skin and a camera-ready smile fixed in place.
The message was clear: That reveal was a slip-up, a momentary crack in his façade that he made sure to patch up the moment he could. Even during their call later that night, when Goro was reflecting on how nice it was to not have to perform for him, Akira could hear the undercurrent of fear in his voice at just how much he had bared that day.
What Goro was doing now was deliberate, though.
He was taking Akira backstage, letting him see past the smoke and mirrors, beyond the show he put on for the world. Somehow he was even more beautiful like this, with the moonlight shining on his face like a halo—Akira would treasure this show of vulnerability forever.
Goro slipped back into Akira's bed like he belonged there, wrapping an arm around him and tugging him closer until all he could smell were old books and vaguely floral body wash, so distinctly him that Akira couldn't help but relax into his hold, resting his head against Goro's solid chest.
His last thoughts before they fell asleep were of comfort and warmth and something shining and golden that he dared not name. If this was to be their farewell, their swan song, Akira would go to his fate without regrets.
He hoped Goro could say the same.