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The tattoos have been there since birth, as immovable as flesh is from bone. They’re black and varying shades of grey, as detailed as the lines on your hand, and unmoving. But they’re not unchanging, no—they change as day changes to night, morphing over time so it feels natural—and yet it still feels as though it happened all at once.
Goro’s tattoos were always lacking—a cat, a piece of jewellery, a blank face—and everything disappeared over time.
“They belong to your soulmate,” is what his mother told him, hushed, and every night before he fell asleep. Not every night in actuality, but he pretended she did. She really only ever said those words on her good days, which were few and far between. But when she did say them, he held onto them like gemstones. Precious.
And even now, in the dead of night, when he can’t fall asleep—he’ll hear her saying those words.
His soulmate.
Goro thinks she’s wrong, of course. Because when the first detailed, the first real tattoos mark his skin, he knows that person can’t be his soulmate.
The first tattoo comes in early July—the first host of them, actually. A masculine face—spiky hair, easy grin. And a memory comes along with it, a memory of a boy with sunny brown eyes. Blond hair. He was with Kurusu.
Kurusu.
And that face isn’t the only tattoo—no, there’s a girl’s face, a girl with twin ponytails, and a cat’s body, small, on the back of his hand. There’s a mug of what Goro presumes to be coffee. There’s a painter’s hand. An odd domino mask.
Kurusu Akira.
He has no way to prove his theory, apart from the fact that those are Kurusu’s friends. Who he frequently sees him hanging out with. And the mug of coffee, Kurusu’s current place of residence. A café.
And time glides by quickly. Months feel short and long all at the same time. Goro keeps his eyes on Kurusu.
The leader of the notorious Phantom Thieves.
More tattoos mark his skin—an odd icon. One that, as Goro learns, belongs to an infamous internet hacker known as Alibaba. Futaba Sakura, he suspects. Isshiki’s daughter.
Another face. Makoto Niijima.
He’s given up hoping that the marks belong to someone other than Kurusu. The faces, the coffee, the sudden boost in tattoos ever since this year, the year when Kurusu finally escaped the clutches of his past life and fell into a new one, the year— of course it’s this year. The year when Goro’s due to take down Shido.
But of course, Goro has no need for a soulmate. And Kurusu hasn’t realised. Goro wonders if there are even any tattoos littering the other’s skin.
And yet, Goro can’t resist entertaining Kurusu for a little while. Even the night before he’s due to kill him.
Even after he dies, and is brought back to satisfy two saviour complexes.
And when he wakes up on February third, he disappears.
Better no soulmate ever have to worry about him.
—
Kurusu Akira has only ever had one tattoo mark his skin. It’s been there for as long as he can remember. An obscured face—as if whoever it belongs to couldn't particularly remember the details—and long, flowing hair to accompany it. He’s positive it’s a woman.
Perhaps his soulmate’s mother.
Kurusu Akira is patient, though—he believes he’ll meet his soulmate when the time is right. He’s had crushes and loves that all eventually fall away like leaves, he’s had his heart shattered and broken and he’s cried so many times. But he never loses the hope that someday, he’ll find his person.
He’s found his friends, after all. His people. His soulmate will come, when the time is right.
And yet, he wonders if he’ll be able to go with them. Be with them. His heart will—should want it.
His heart, though, is still very stuck in the past.
His first prolonged crush—the reason everything always falls apart. The reason nothing sticks. The reason all of his friends sometimes worry about him.
Akechi Goro.
At the beginning, he thought Goro was his soulmate. He could see behind the mask, see the cracks in the smiles, and when he said his mother passed and everything—Akira was sure. He was sure when he sat alone in the interrogation room, as Goro shot his cognitive double. He was sure—even when the wall came crashing down. They had a promise, Goro wouldn’t be gone like that. And when Igor revealed everything—he was positive. It was more than just speculation back then. Back then, when a naive teenager was sure everything he thought was fact.
In that winter month, January, he was more sure than anything. Akira wondered which tattoos marred the other’s skin. His friends? Leblanc? Goro probably already knew. Akira waited for the perfect opportunity to bring it up.
On February second, he didn’t know what to think.
Was it a cruel trick of Fate? Was his soulmate supposed to die before Akira got to live and enjoy life with them?
He wanted to say a final, heartfelt goodbye to Goro. He wanted to keep him from leaving. He wanted to hug him, to say “I think I’m your soulmate” and for everything to be alright.
Goro died on the cramped floor of Mona’s helicopter, final words to any of them being typical grumblings.
And now, Akira thinks they weren’t soulmates. Fated enemies, rivals, perhaps. Not soulmates. Not Goro.
Even so, he holds onto the glove. The piece of him that hasn’t disappeared.
When he meets his soulmate, Akira thinks he’ll finally be able to give up. Finally be able to forget about Goro. (Not entirely, of course. But enough to fix his heart.) Everything will finally be over. And he’ll be okay.
—
Goro’s own face is tattooed to his heart. He knows it’s his face, because it’s the most detailed tattoo he’s ever had—every plane of the face is perfect. Like his soulmate memorised it.
Like he memorised it.
And even so, he stays far away from anything related to Kurusu Akira. Far away from coffee shops and anyone who still talks of the Phantom Thieves and taxis (he ran into Maruki once) and jazz clubs and darts places and anywhere in Tokyo that still has traces of Akira.
He ignores everything that marks his skin. Tries not to search for a new face, a more detailed face. Akira can fall in love, he tells himself. Goro’s not Akira’s keeper. Soulmates they may be, but Goro’s erased himself from Akira’s life.
And he’s not going back.
But it’s three hours, and he’s tired and hungry. Goro slips into a convenience store, scrubbing his face and heading straight for the ramen aisle (he ran out at home). And he reaches for a pack, and there’s a cold hand against his own.
He glances up.
Tired anthracite eyes stare back.
Goro jolts his hand away, as though he were burned, and stumbles back.
No. Not here.
Akira whispers, “Goro?”
And Goro wants to run. He’s spent three years hiding, running, and hiding, all for everything to lead up to this. To him finding him again. To them meeting again, in a ludicrous place such as this. Goro wonders if Akira realised, in the short time they had together, that they were soulmates. Now, despite the plethora of other things he has to think about, he wonders if that’s the reason his own face is inked on his heart.
Akira loves the idea of him. Of them being soulmates.
Because Akira wouldn’t love him.
An ache, deeper and stronger than anything he’s felt before crashes against his chest like an ocean wave—drenching him in…something. Akira wouldn’t love me.
They stare at each other, unmoving. Statues facing each other on the top of a church. Gargoyles.
Until Akira says, “What the fuck.”
Goro wants to laugh, at the obscenity, at the absurdity of the situation—but no sound makes its way past his lips. Nothing. He’s still a gargoyle, and Akira, under some magnificent spell, can move. Like a fairytale.
But that fairytale is cut short, because he sees the cutting edge to Akira’s gaze.
And he realises then, that he was right. Akira’s still angry. About the interrogation room. About everything. There’s no way the image above his heart is correct.
Akira’s fist connects with his cheek, and he doesn’t fight back. He meets those fierce anthracite eyes—eyes he’s memorised, even with the depth and complexity—and he doesn’t fight.
The cashier says nothing when he comes up to the counter with a pack of ramen clenched tightly and a bruise blooming on the right side of his face.
Goro thinks it’s what he deserves.
—
If Goro were alive, there were a million things Akira dreamed of doing. To him. With him. He dreamed of kissing him, of coffee shops and long conversations and black velvet skies and magic. He dreamed of magic.
He never dreamed of punching him in the face.
And yet now that he thinks about it, there’s really no other outcome. Because if Goro were alive, after all of that time, that would mean he never bothered to tell Akira. He never thought about Akira. He never cared.
So when he sees Goro’s face—the planes he’s memorised and the eyes he sees every other night in his dreams—he does just that. Punches him. It’s a good punch—not strong enough to maim, but just strong enough to leave a bruise. A mark.
He storms out of the convenience store without looking back. He has ramen—food—back in his apartment.
Yusuke makes no comment about his mood the next morning, and Akira makes no move to explain.
Goro’s alive, not fucking dead.
And a familiar, naive thought strikes him at two hours, when he can’t sleep because everything about him is haunting.
Goro could be his soulmate.
—
Goro’s had the phone like this—waiting to dial an old number—for hours now. And he’s had this image, the thought of doing this—in his head, for days. Call him. Talk to him. Apologise.
He knows it’s what he should do. What he should've done a long time ago. Apologise. For everything.
But he can’t press the button.
Akira doesn’t want to talk to him. Akira doesn’t want him. That’s proven by the punch. He’s still angry over everything, and that anger has been left to stew for so long, because no one ever turned off the stove. It’s been simmering for years.
And now.
Now he doesn’t know what Akira will do with him.
He presses the dial button.
And waits.
And waits.
And the phone flashes red. It was declined.
Goro doesn’t try calling again, after that.
Akira didn’t even know it was him—he tries to reason. Hell, it probably wasn’t even Akira’s phone. New phones, new numbers and all of that. And if it were Akira’s phone—maybe he just doesn’t take new numbers.
No, that wouldn’t make sense. Goro kept his old number, even when he switched phones. He’s kept the number.
Akira didn’t recognise it, then.
That’s fine.
But the small, nagging part of himself says Akira just doesn’t care. And he thinks that part is right.
—
Akira knows Goro tried to call him. He’s had the phone number memorised—could say the digits in his sleep. Probably has. People have told him he sleep talks before.
But he doesn’t pick up. He declines.
Goro doesn’t get to worm his way back into Akira’s life. No matter how hard he tries, or if he begs to be forgiven, or anything. Akira knows this entire thing will end in flames. In ashes. Everything will end in ashes.
So he declines. Akira weaves his way through his life, repressing everything.
But everyone knows something is off.
“I thought you were seeing a therapist,” Makoto chides, the next time she sees him. He’s well aware of the bags beneath his eyes. He can’t be bothered to do the make-up to hide them.
But he shakes her off.
Ann understands, somewhat. She says, “I know it’s hard around this time of the year—want to eat ice cream and watch a movie?”
This time of the year. It’s February first, and everyone wants to distract him.
But he declines that offer. Sends Mona away when he comes scratching at the door. Yusuke’s not home, anyway—off to see some art in Paris. Akira’s grateful for the silence.
And he stares at his phone. His apartment is dark. Quiet.
It’s February second. His friends fire his phone with calls. He eventually puts it on silent and takes a walk. An evening walk, past Leblanc, through the streets. On the train. He walks through Kichijoji. Past Jazz Jin and Penguin Sniper. Past everything.
He wants to shove everything in the past.
When Akira finally takes his phone off silent, it’s twenty three hours and his friends have stopped trying. His cheeks are flushed from the cold air, his legs shoved under the couch blanket in an effort to create warmth.
He stares at his phone.
His phone starts ringing.
As if he were on autopilot, he answers, not registering the numbers until he hears a voice on the other side, a whispered voice. Like they were spilling all of their secrets.
The voice says, “Akira.”
But he knows that voice, knows that number. Knows Goro would never share anything about his life. Knows Goro will shove him away again.
His finger hovers over the end call button.
But the voice on the other side of the line stops him.
“I can hear you breathing. I know you’re there.”
Akira stays as silent as ever.
Goro continues. “Don’t hang up yet. Please. Hear me out.” And when Akira doesn’t say anything else, he takes that as a sign to continue. “I’m sorry. For not saying I was alive. If that matters to you at all. I’m sorry for everything I did when I was younger.”
Akira finds his voice—rasped, as though he’d been screaming all night. “You expect me to forgive you?”
“No,” comes the reply. Short. Cutting. Exactly how Akira remembers his voice. “I’m apologising, Kurusu. I don’t expect anything from you. But I figure, there’s something you should know.”
Akira doesn’t hold his breath. Maybe Goro will hang up now. Leave him again. Akira should hang up now.
—
“I believe we're soulmates.” Goro says the words before they can escape him, before he loses his courage, before Akira hangs up and before Akira can deliver a blow harsher than any punch. And he continues. “The tattoos—all of my tattoos are of your friends. And the cat. And coffee.”
He doesn’t mention the tattoo on his heart.
Akira doesn’t say anything.
And the line goes dead. Akira hung up.
Goro falls back against his bed. His soulmate doesn’t want him. He was right. Good. Akira is smart enough to distance himself. Hell, if Goro were in that situation, he would’ve blocked the number before he even had the chance to call once.
But his phone starts ringing again, and Goro scrambles to pick it up. In the darkness of his room, the bright numbers are screaming at him. Familiar numbers. Akira’s number. Akira’s calling him back.
“Hello,” Goro says.
The other side is silent.
Goro opens his mouth to say something—anything, but Akira interrupts and says, “Don’t talk. It’s my turn.”
Goro nods, even though Akira can’t see.
“I thought you were my soulmate,” Akira says, “back when we first met. You wore masks just as you wore clothes, and you were filled with hatred. Cruel as it might sound, I thought whoever was your soulmate wouldn’t have very many tattoos.”
It’s not cruel. Goro thought—still thinks—the same thing. It’s how Fate likes to work regarding him.
“I only have two tattoos,” Akira continues. “The first one, I’ve had for as long as I can remember. An obscured face, with long hair. I always assumed it was someone’s mother. And when I met you, I wanted it to be your mother.”
Goro’s breath catches. I wanted it to be you.
“But I gave up after Maruki. Fate doesn’t give soulmates like that.”
Akira lapses into silence.
Goro says, finally, “And the second tattoo?”
“My face. On my heart.”
The news isn’t any shock to Goro. He’s known since the wall crashed between them.
Quietly, Akira adds, “It wasn’t there until three days ago.”
That isn’t any shock either. Goro didn’t realise until three days ago. Goro wonders if he should tell Akira about the face on his heart. He wants to. He wants to tell Akira everything.
But again, no words escape him.
And Akira’s voice cuts through the silence, but it’s anything but a knife. “I’m—tired of this, Goro. Tired of waiting, tired of hoping.” Akira pauses, like waiting for the words to take effect, then adds; “Tired of you.”
Those words are the knife. Not Akira’s voice. The words. But it’s a knife he’s expecting, and he takes the blow in silence.
“I’m tired of this, Goro.”
A knife.
“But I still want you.”
Goro stares at the ceiling above him, even though he can scarcely make out anything.
“I’m tired of fighting and waiting and being on opposite sides. I’m tired of shoving you away and getting pulled back in. I’m tired of fake deaths and Metaverses and false gods. And I want you.”
Something beats a drum, in Goro’s heart—something not entirely unidentifiable.
“I want—coffee shop dates and late night movies. I want to hold your hand and I want to wake up by your side. I want midnights and mornings. I want to exist. With you.”
Akira stops.
Perhaps it’s the late night or perhaps it’s the effects of everything from the last four years, but Goro’s eyes are watering. Fuck.
Even so, he manages, “I think—maybe I want that too.”
There’s a breathless laugh from the other side of the phone. Akira’s breathless laugh. Akira.
“You don’t hate me, then?” Goro asks. (He hates how desperate it makes him sound.)
“I wish I could hate you,” Akira says. “But no—fuck, I don’t think hating you is possible.”
“Because I’m your soulmate.”
“Because I love you, dummy.”
Goro’s breath catches again.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Akira says a moment later. “The tattoo is enough.”
But Goro says, “There’s a tattoo on my heart too.”
“It better be an Aero bar—Ann bought me some when she went to Canada a year ago. Best chocolate ever.”
“No, you dolt—”
And he’s cut off by the sound of Akira’s laughter. Ringing. Joyous. Akira’s laughing. Because of him. Joking, again.
Their conversation—their relationship—is cracked, but Goro thinks…
Everything might be okay, in the end.