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Goro spends the evening before signing his own death certificate listening to tinny jazz music and sipping on a drink that's too cold to really enjoy in the February air, and all he can focus on is the relaxed slant of Akira's shoulders.
It's almost dizzying. Akira is so calm, entirely oblivious to the weight of the decision he'll have to make in a day's time. He looks put-together, sure of himself. And, really, there's no reason for him not to be—as far as Akira knows, things will go entirely according to plan from here on out. Tomorrow, they'll send the calling card. The day after, they'll fight Maruki. Goro doesn't spend much time ruminating on what will happen after that. It would be a pointless endeavor.
And yet. And yet, something about the soft warmth in Akira's eyes when he looks at Goro makes him want to… consider. Indulge in a fantasy, something just beyond his reach. He'd thought, perhaps, when he'd first woken up in this reality, before everything had clicked into place with all the finality of a bullet to the head…
But the time for such naivete has passed. Of course, such musings amounted to nothing more than the ravings of a madman in the afterimage of a rose-tinted world. Goro is no fool, and he's certainly not an optimist. He knows the borrowed time in his stolen hourglass is running out, sparse little trickles of single grains where there used to be a hearty stream of sand. There's no use in toying with hypotheticals.
Even still, Akira remains pleasantly, disgustingly, devastatingly unaware. He drums his fingers on the side of his glass along to the beat of the song echoing from the overhead speakers and smiles softly at Goro when they make eye contact. There's something about him that's so peaceful, entirely timeless. It's as if he has his own gravitational field, pulling in Goro and near everyone else who meets him.
Goro could break that surety. A few simple words and he's certain Akira would crumble. It wouldn't even be difficult.
He almost does. Telling Akira now would likely be the best idea from a tactical perspective, if only to ensure he's not surprised while confronting Maruki. A few months ago, he would've relished the thought of having information that could be used to shatter Akira's resolve. Now, though, he's not so sure.
What does it say about him that he'd rather keep it secret one more night? That he'd rather keep this evening between them, as impossible as it is? That he'd rather keep Akira smiling than tear it from him? If he's selfish or a coward, it's really nothing new. The most surprising part is that he's choosing to be kind, but even then, it might be kinder to get it over with.
Of course, keeping his impending death a secret is not a show of kindness in the slightest. Goro is under no delusions of the sort. It is, naturally, pure self-indulgence.
One song fades into the next—a song they've heard performed live enough times that Akira can hum along to it, barely audible but still obvious enough for it to tug at the pitiful strings of Goro's reanimated heart. It's pathetic, just how badly Akira affects him. He wants to do just about anything for this enigmatic boy, enough for it to ache. The wanting—this pitiful yearning—could so easily consume him if he were to let his guard down. It's more than a little frightening.
"Akira," he says, just because it's been some time since they've spoken and Goro almost missed the shape of his name in his mouth.
Akira looks up from the circle of condensation on the tabletop; a quick glance at it shows he's been drawing nonsensical shapes in the water. It's ridiculously mundane. Goro might just be in love with him.
"...You're certain you're prepared to confront Maruki tomorrow, yes?" he asks, instead of the horrid mush his hopeless mind keeps circling back to. "He's most likely going to throw some curveballs at you. You'll have to brace yourself for whatever he might say."
"I know," Akira agrees. "I'm ready for anything. I'm not worried about it."
"You say that, but I need you to be certain. No matter what leverage he has, no matter what he offers—nothing is worth staying in this reality. Nothing. Do you understand the gravity of this situation?"
"I do. Believe me, Akechi. I've got this."
And it's just so easy. Akira smiles, not wide and cocky like Joker but confident nonetheless. Clearly, he believes what he's saying entirely.
"...Alright. I suppose I'll take your word for it," Goro says. It's hard not to trust him, even when that trust means handing him a loaded gun and believing that he'll shoot.
"What brings this up?" Akira asks. He leans forward a bit, straightens his shoulders like he's slipping a little further into Joker. "Did something happen?"
"Nothing new." It's not technically a lie. "I guess I'm just feeling stir-crazy. We're so close to escaping from this faux-paradise, it's easy to imagine the opportunity slipping away."
Akira seems to take it to heart. He relaxes back into his chair but nods so solemnly that Goro can't imagine him as anything but completely serious.
"I know. You can trust me," Akira assures. Horrifically, Goro does.
"...Right. Of course," he agrees, almost without meaning to. Still, it makes Akira smile again, so that's—something. Good, probably. Terrible, equally likely. Both, somehow.
In the first few days—after Goro woke up under red skies and watched as the manifestation of Akira's heart shattered a false god’s skull, his thundering utterance of “checkmate” (case closed) echoing through Goro's bone marrow—he'd decided it would be a waste to keep up pretenses.
If he was going to get a second chance for whatever reason, he wasn't going to pretend any longer. So he allowed himself to be snarky and mean, allowed himself to feel Akira's gaze to pass over his “new” costume, equal parts hungry and curious, allowed himself to return it in pointed sneers and more-pointed comments. He'd thought that with Shido's game over, they might get the chance to know each other without the masks. Even in the hazy false reality they fought to dismantle, they could finally afford to let those lingering looks mean something. It could be everything.
That was, of course, a misled daydream. Goro had figured out as much within the first week. If Isshiki Wakaba, Okumura Kunikazu, and surely countless others could be rewritten into existence, not as cognitions but as themselves, the gap in Goro’s memory started to make sense, and it started to make those pitiful daydreams of possibility curdle in his chest.
Nothing but useless sentiment. Of course the world wouldn't deign to give him that sort of break. His life was just another way the fates decided to fuck with Akira. He'd been a fool to think anything else.
And yet there are moments when Akira looks at him, just as pleased and wanting as he'd been a month ago once the shock of Goro's apparent existence wore off, that make him… reconsider. Not to take Maruki's deal, of course, but to run back over the facts. Could there be any way he might have survived, even despite the memory gap? Is there a possibility that what he so desperately aches for—what is right in front of him, with eyes as kind as they are sharp—could be achievable?
He's no fool. Isshiki and Okumura were resurrected by loved ones, and Akira's knee keeps nudging his under the table playfully like there might be something between them that he can keep.
How horrifically fitting that the one thing Goro has wanted so badly he's destroyed himself for is finally within reach, and he has no choice but to crush it between his fingers before he's even learned the weight of it in his hand.
“So, once we defeat Maruki, what will you do?” Akira asks. It's only because they've spent so long together now that he can hear the optimistic hope behind the deliberate nonchalance in his tone. It's pathetic. It will destroy them both if he gives it the chance to.
“Worry about that after we've taken down your egotistical counselor,” he says in lieu of a proper response. Akira deflates a little at the rejection. The pathetic dead thing pounding impossibly in Goro's chest yearns to soothe him just as much as it wants to fall still and cold.
How pitiful that his biggest regret in a life filled with devastation is that his unfortunate affections will never be realized. He's never felt more eighteen than he does now, sitting across from the first friend he's ever had and willing himself not to be too obvious about the most complicated, world-altering crush ever to be obviously reciprocated and never acted upon.
“...You'll find out soon enough,” he says. He's not sure he means it as a comfort, but Akira seems mollified. He nudges Goro’s knee again. Horrifically, he finds himself echoing the move before he can think better of it. Akira's pleased little smile almost makes it all worth it.
The song playing overhead fades into another, less immediately familiar. Akira tilts his head curiously as he tries to identify the tune; the way the lights reflect off of the lenses of his glasses briefly creates the illusion of stars in his eyes. He doesn't need the help to look ethereal, but the cozy warm glow of the atmosphere and the clever little pleased way he relaxes once he recognizes the tune feel both otherworldly and devastatingly mundane.
Akira isn't doing anything special—he's hardly doing anything at all—and yet watching him Goro feels like a moth slamming its body into glass, desperate to throw itself into flames. He wants so badly to let himself be consumed. It's sickening.
It would be kinder to tell Akira. It would provide a much-needed tactical advantage. Goro knows this. He knows. Any hitch in the plan could be ruinous; any uncertainty could leave them trapped in this perfect plasticine world forever. He should rip the bandage, pull the trigger, show Akira just how he bleeds and fade away before he can know whether or not Akira would catch him when he falls. It would make the most sense.
“Akira,” he says. It comes out so quiet that he'd be surprised if Akira hears it; of course, Akira looks to him immediately, attentive and clever as always. The resolve he'd built crumbles to ash on his tongue. “...Do you want to play darts? There's still time before Penguin Sniper closes for the night.”
When Akira smiles, the warmth in his eyes nearly sears off Goro’s moth wings. How pitiful. How foolish.
“Sure. Whatever you want,” Akira agrees. It's so absurd to consider—whatever he wants—that Goro almost laughs right in his face. Instead, he just nods. When he pushes himself up from the table, his knee presses again into Akira's, solid and sturdy. Akira leans into the point of contact until it burns.
It's certainly worse to prolong it. He should end this now before it has a chance to become worse than it is and stop pretending he's ever had a chance at happiness. It would be the only logical thing to do.
What he wants. Ridiculous.
Goro keeps his mouth shut and follows Akira out into the cold air of this pristine reality. Allowing himself one more impossibility should hardly rank in terms of his crimes, but it feels like the most damning. Maybe that's why he feels a little warmer than he should, or maybe it's just Akira by his side. Whether it's impending hellfire or just shared body heat, the result is the same.
Forty-eight hours from now, Goro will be dead, the way he should have been two months ago. Twenty-four hours from now, Akira will know just how he's been mooning after a reanimated corpse. Now, though, Goro watches puffs of their breath mix together in little clouds of impossible life as they walk through the backstreets of Kichijoji and decides not to shatter it quite yet.
There will be time to mourn later. For now, he'll use this stolen time for all it's worth.