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This timeline has been bad.
Even through the haze of drugs and pain, Akira can remember that much.
Niijima-san is sitting in front of him, trying to interrogate him.
The words aren’t there.
It’s only by routine that Akira is able to eke out the words to greet Sojiro, to make it to his new room. His throat is closed tight against more than what is necessary.
(He can’t save Ann from getting in the car with Kamoshida.)
(He has no wit to ease the mood when imprisoned with Ryuji.)
He has no voice, as Sae Niijima stares him down, barking out her questions and demanding answers. It takes tremendous willpower just to move his hand to his throat, and mime a knife cutting it. Then he puts the finger on his lips, a mimicry of shhh, before zipping them shut.
“Kurusu-kun, I can’t help you if you don’t answer me!”
Even his choked laugh is silent.
Arsene helped, more than Akira could ever thank him for. Flames lapping at his throat, easing the pain, easing the knots tied with his vocal cords.
He has the space to speak, if only barely. Answer the questions he’s been asked nineteen times. Mention the name Madarame coming up multiple times. Push through the paralysis to shake his head at Yusuke, to look at him and go can’t you see, this is how he views you!
She sits there, and offers up paper, a pen.
His hands hurt. His fingers might be broken. He didn’t answer questions to the cops that arrested him. He paid the price.
Makoto is sweet, giving him the tools to write, even as she holds up proof of the Phantom Thieves. She lets him talk, converse. It’s a nicety the others have all afforded him, but it makes him smile to see her offer it while holding him at knife’s-end.
(He has a much more enjoyable time being held at fist-end, with her.)
It makes it easier to vouch for her, with the others. She listens, she knows respect. She wants to help others. We could help her.
(She could be one of us, he does not say, nor write. He loves them all so much, but he cannot force anyone’s growth into the group too fast.)
There are tears in Akira’s eyes as he slowly, through the agony, writes They broke my fingers. Can’t speak. Often mute. Hurts. Sorry.
He sets the pen down.
Futaba already understands.
Of course she already understands.
He can manage words for her, sometimes. But he doesn’t need to.
After her palace, after her slumber, they spend evenings leaning against each other, just texting back and forth.
Late at night, curled up tight, he sends her, ^I’m sorry. Things are going to be rough. Can you keep a secret?^
She nods against his chest, and he presses a kiss to her head.
^Goro Akechi is the black mask. He’s going to try and blackmail us, set us up to fall. We’re going to be Japan’s most wanted criminals, and he’s going to try to kill me.^
He doesn’t send that. He tries again.
^I know things I shouldn’t. I know you noticed. I wish I could explain.^
“It’s okay,” she whispers. She knows he was typing too long for that message. “I trust you. You’re just the silent protagonist type.”
Akira laughs, and it’s small, but there’s a note to it. She looks up at him, eyes wide. “Got you to make noise!”
^You did, you should be proud.^ He pats her head, and she gives him a beautiful grin.
^Be wary of Goro Akechi. He’s smart. He’s dangerous. He knows more than he shows.^ Akira hovers on the send button, before pressing it. She glances back at her phone before raising an eyebrow at him.
“Isn’t he your friend? Don’t think I don’t see you sneaking off to rank up your friendship with him!”
Akira huffs, rolling his eyes. ^I do care about him. I also know he’s dangerous, and I have reason to believe he knows about the cognitive world.^
Her eyes widen as she looks at her phone, and then back to him.
That could only mean so many things.
“What is going on? How did you change hearts? Anything!”
Akira considers Sae Niijima a friend. A confidant for sure. Older sister to one of his partners.
If his mouth weren’t so dry, he’d spit in her face for this.
Akira loves listening to Haru speak. To hear her discuss her plants, her dreams.
He hates having to hold her after her father’s death. But he can never find it in himself to hate that the man is gone.
Okumura hurt her. He hurt his daughter, Akira’s friend, one of his loves. That is not something he can forgive.
“Fine. If you have no answers, I may as well leave.”
Goro Akechi is… Complicated.
Akira loves him.
Loves him the way he loves all the others. They’re his thieves.
Even when Goro stabs him in the back. Shoots him in the head. He’s Akira’s.
He picks up on Joker’s nonverbal commands easily enough. Smooth in battle. Holding himself back. Akira knows his team, knows how to guide each and every one of them.
He still meets Goro for the duel.
(Akira still wipes the floor with him.)
“I hate you.”
He knows.
Staring down the barrel of a gun, his phone on the table, Akira just smiles, and cocks his head to the side.
Maybe it could be a smirk. Goro will think of it like that. Even as he goes on, all about how This is how your justice ends, it is all he can do not to laugh and get himself shot quicker.
Akira has enough left in him to take his pen, take his paper, and write three words before the gunshot rings out.
Waking up on the train, he groans.
That was deserved. Probably.
He’d always wanted to know what the original show was like. Brain shattered, blood against the table, oozing from his forehead.
It wasn’t an instant death.
The migraine is almost worth the chance to maybe speak again.