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Summary
They’d spent the remainder of the evening like that, the shrill whine of cicadas outside lulling them both to sleep. Akira’s fingers had been partially entangled in Akechi’s hair when he woke up, and if they’d had a revelation about the trajectory of their relationship the following morning, neither of them acknowledged it.
“God fucking—fuck!”
Akira upended the stack of photos and watched them scatter across the floor, suppressing the urge to grind them beneath his heel.
By this time the following evening, Goro Akechi would be dead.
By this time the following evening, Akira Kurusu’s heart would be buried with him.
Written for Antithesis last year.