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In between pressing kisses to his neck, on one pleasant but innocuous night, Goro asks, voice rough yet smooth like lightly sanded wood:
"How do you feel about handcuffs?"
And Akira trains his face so he doesn't grimace. Historically, handcuffs haven't been associated with great things in his mind. But this is Goro, who he trusts, who he loves, who loves him, so he says:
"Sure, we could try it."
Then Goro moves his kisses back to Akira's mouth, deep and passionate, and the thought leaves his mind in favor of much more pressing matters.
—
It doesn't come up again for some time. A couple weeks pass, just long enough for Akira to forget the conversation almost entirely. He's got other things on his mind, like the new manager at his job and helping to plan Ann and Shiho's overseas wedding. He and Goro say lots of things in the throes of the moment, with varying degrees of sincerity. One more goes largely unnoticed.
Until, one day, Goro comes home with a small box tucked under one arm and a devilish look in his eye. Akira's heart skips a beat at his expression alone; it takes all of his self control to finish cooking the dinner he has on the stove and not abandon it in favor of devouring Goro whole instead.
While they eat, they talk about their days. It's charged—there's an undercurrent of something behind every word, and it makes Akira's stomach turn with excitement. It sounds like a challenge. It sounds like fun.
As they're washing their dishes in the sink, with a forced air of casualness, Goro says, "I ordered a pair of handcuffs after we talked about it. They finally arrived today."
And Akira grins, because Goro's excited so he's excited, too. He doesn't expect them to do much for him, but if Goro wants to try it, who is he to refuse? So he pushes Goro up against the wall to kiss him, deep and slow, and Goro kisses back hard and biting, and then they find their way into the bedroom and shut the door. Goro pushes Akira's shirt off with firm hands on his back, and Akira rakes his fingers through his hair. And Goro pushes Akira back onto the bed and straddles him with that devilish look again, and Akira smirks to match. And Goro says, pleasant and sharp, "let's give this one a go, shall we?" and clicks the cold metal against his wrists, and Akira—
Could be miles underground. He knows, in theory, how deep beneath the earth the police have taken him, knows it was part of the plan, but he can't focus on the number right now. He's been in and out of consciousness since the butt end of a rifle first landed on his face, and whatever drugs he vaguely remembers being stuck with can't be helping. His hands tingle beneath the tight cuffs, though whether it's thanks to a lack of circulation or just his returning awareness, he's not sure.
The police surrounding him are harsh and cruel. He's never been in so much pain, hit and kicked and bruised again and again until he can barely think. He's crying, he thinks, but it doesn't matter. The security camera won't save him, nor will it care if he sheds a few desperate tears.
They want a confession, of all things. The officer who will go on to break his leg gestures for his handcuffs to be removed, and as he frees him he says:
"Akira? Akira, sweetheart, answer me. Can you hear me?"
Akira blinks, confused. His settings slowly come back to him. Right, of course. He's in their bedroom, with Goro kneeling above him, stroking his hair with one hand and rubbing circles into his palm with the other. The handcuffs are notably missing. Akira takes a breath, deep and shuddering.
"Sorry, I—" he says, and hates how his voice cracks. "I don't know what that was. We can keep going."
"Are you fucking with me?" Goro demands. It would be the perfect time for a joke, but Akira still feels unsteady, and Goro's glaring at him that way he does when he's worried out of his mind and can only express it through anger, though it's been muted through the years. "I'm not just going to ignore you freezing up on me and crying just so I can get my fucking rocks off. That's fucking ridiculous."
"A lot of fucking in that statement," Akira says halfheartedly. Goro's glare sharpens—he's no stranger to Akira's evasive maneuvers.
"Akira," he says firmly. He moves his hand from Akira's hair to his cheek and rubs it gently, and—huh. It's wet. Maybe he really was crying.
"I'm okay," he says, quiet as a whisper. "I was just remembering some things. The arrest and everything."
"Ah."
Goro lets go of him and sits back. He looks troubled, regretful.
"Hey, it's not…" Akira says, and trails off. "I don't blame you. I blame every asshole who set up the government and the police force so that they can beat up teenagers and get away with it unscathed, but I don't blame you. You were in that boat with me."
"I blame every bastard who's ever laid a hand on you," Goro seethes, but he won't look Akira in the eye. Akira knows he's including himself in that category. Akira just ducks his head. It's a fight they've had before, and one they'll have again.
He catches a glimpse of the handcuffs on the ground and hates the way his breath stutters out of his chest in a shaky staccato. He closes his eyes and does his best just to breathe. Goro's hands find his again.
"Hey. It's okay. You're safe here," he says, voice quiet and steady. Akira's heart soars at it—it had taken months to get Goro to accept he wasn't actively dangerous to Akira, and years to get him to know he was good. To hear him call himself safe, in the gentle confines of their bedroom, lifts a weight off of Akira's chest.
"I am," he agrees, and Goro squeezes his hands. "Hey, I love you, you know that?"
"I do know, actually. You remind me incessantly." Akira opens his eyes to level a wounded glare in Goro's direction, and Goro laughs. "I love you, too, idiot. This isn't news."
"No, it's not," Akira agrees. He bites his lip and shimmies his shoulders halfheartedly. "So, did you want to pick up where we left off, or…?"
Goro rolls his eyes, and Akira grins. He could have guessed the answer, but annoying his boyfriend was rarely not worth the effort.
"Not particularly, no," Goro drawls. "I can't say I find your PTSD particularly sexy. A flashback is a bit of a mood killer."
"Rude." Akira pouts, exaggerated. Goro looks absolutely done with his shit, so he's succeeded. "I think your PTSD is plenty sexy."
"Do you now." It's not a question. Akira snickers. Goro climbs off his lap and tugs him towards the edge of the bed. "Come on, let's go watch a movie or something. I'm sure Morgana will appreciate an early end to his sexile."
Akira allows himself to be pulled to his feet. As they head to the living room, he rubs lightly at his wrist—unmarred, unscathed, free. It's been years since he was in any real danger. Goro watches him, gaze steady and full of understanding. Akira smiles at him softly, a quiet it's okay. Goro nods. On the couch, he pulls Akira against his shoulder, tender and loving. When Morgana takes one look at them and crawls into his lap without a word, Akira lets out a deep sigh, and with it the rest of his fear. Here, inside their home and with people he loves, he's safe.