Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a void.

Within the ever-expanding Sea of Souls, there was a void. The only ones who saw this void were the beasts that lurked in the depths, whose forms were so grotesque they were indescribable and whose power was so enormous that no man could wield it. They rather enjoyed this fact, as each one held within their own hearts nothing but malice: they yearned for destruction, for decimation, for annihilation—all but one, who gazed at the void and wailed, knowing not its importance but the lost opportunity of a world of perfect order, of total control.

And all but another: a seething, roiling mass that struck down everything in its path. It held no thought save for anger; it desired nothing more than to harm. It drifted aimlessly, another piece of flotsam within the tides of the Sea—

—until, after many ages, it reached the void.

Only there did it pause, its seething arms searching. For the first time in eons, a thought struck it: how odd it was, that void. It was a distinct tear in the fabric of the Sea. The mass had never felt it before.

The mass wanted to fill it.

It wriggled and writhed and squeezed its way inside, compressing itself down and down and down until it was no larger than a silken strand of a spider’s web—and it would have been content to stay that way, small and insignificant and yet fulfilling some grander purpose, if not for the fact that beyond the void was the land of men, the weavers of the Sea.

All around the mass were more voids, each far shallower than than the one it had crawled through, merely a pinprick in the delicate fabric of the Sea, and yet it wished to fill these, too. It drifted from one to another, unknowingly easing old aches and troubled minds. It neither knew nor cared for its soothing presence. It desired only the next void, and the next, contorting itself to fit the missing pieces of these lost souls. Only occasionally did it find a deeper void where the emptiness threatened to overtake it—there it grew, expanding to fill its new home until the void cracked and broke open, spilling it free.

It did not understand those ones, though after a time it wished to. The ones that cracked open were no good anymore; those voids became nothing, and not even the shattered pieces of a mind were left behind. There was no longer something to hold a void, and the mass hated that most of all.

It was a waste.

(It was the first thought it had held in eons, though it did not know this.)

But it continued on, lured by the temptation of other voids to fill. On and on it went, with next to no care for what it left in its wake save the shattered ones—

—until, after countless voids, it came upon one it recognized.

It was a strange feeling for the mass.

(This, too, was the first feeling it had held in eons.)

There was a void. And yet, as the mass attempted to fill it, it found its shape familiar—

And the void recognized it in return.

Azathoth, it whispered. The mass shivered.

(This, too, was the first name it had been called in eons.)

It did not like this recognition. It did not like this name. It was not the name held within the void, though the void could not tell it such.

And yet, though the mass did not like the recognition nor the name, the mass found itself desiring to stay. It did not know why—perhaps it was the warmth the void held for it, perhaps it was being welcomed for the very first time, perhaps it was tired at last of drifting—but it wished to stay.

It couldn’t.

The mass did not know this, but all the voids it had filled before began to heal upon its arrival. It left too soon to be expunged—but the longer it stayed in this void, the less room it had for itself, until there was no longer a void to fill at all.

It wanted that void. It wanted that warmth.

And in the last instance of its search, it found a thread. The last of its kind and swiftly turning to ash, the mass made a decision to follow wherever it went. Surely the void it needed was on the other side, and once the mass had it—

It did not know what it would do.

But as it slipped home at last, the mass felt satisfaction.

It whispered its name and slept.

Fifteen-year-old Goro Akechi flopped onto his bed and frowned.

It was too soft. His new room had its own air-conditioning unit, and it pumped out air that was too cold. His new wardrobe was full of name-brand clothing, each material finer than the last. There was a pen on his desk that was made of actual silver. His new uniform itched with starch, every inch tailored to his body.

“Only the best,” he murmured, low under the hum of… everything. The air-conditioning, the electricity, the bustle of servants in the halls. He sank his toes into too-plush carpeting, stomach queasy of the too-fine dinner, and stared at wallpaper that appeared to have real gold on it.

He wanted to rip it to shreds.

He rolled over. His duvet was thick, the sheets were silk.

This was what he’d wished for, years and years ago: a family. A rich father to take care of him and his mother, raising them up out of poverty, pulling them out of a red-light district lifestyle. But Mama was dead, and Masayoshi Shido’s face kept popping up whenever he closed his eyes.

“ Someone tells me you can be useful, Akechi.”

Goro shivered. His room was too cold. His room also had an en suite bathroom, complete with a tub big enough to fit a pair of grown adults. He wondered what would give first: his resistance to hot baths, tempered by a youth spent sitting in bathhouses where the geriatric ruled, or his new father’s wallet. Goro, most likely. A CEO’s wallet was practically bottomless. All of the dishes used at dinner were hand-washed and hand-crafted. He wanted to break every last one.

He took a bath instead, leaving his new uniform crumpled on the too-plush carpeting. When he came back—ears full of the echo of every splash of water, eyelids replaying Masayoshi Shido’s satisfied grin as Goro took his hand and shook it—it was hanging in the closet, ironed and pressed.

No, Goro thought, stomach heaving.

He sat at his desk—redwood, polished to a mirror shine—and thought:

What Shido wanted was a puppet, someone he could order around to do his dirty work. His lackeys so far had been fulfilling that role, but Goro was special. Goro had left a weapon in a laboratory he shouldn’t have been able to enter, and a few hours later, Shido and his lackeys had access to the research of their dreams, their biggest roadblock having been hit by a car.

The air-conditioning was still too cold. He turned it off and shivered and thought:

Shido had used his mother. Shido was using his lackeys. Shido was, therefore, going to use Goro. Mama had whispered, sometimes, when the man appeared on TV: “Still so far from Prime Minister, huh, Masa?” There was a mountain of old hats sitting in seats that Shido would want full of his own people. There were dozens of rivals vying for the Prime Minister’s seat; rumor had it that the current one was ready to retire, and his rivals were vultures circling. As soon as Goro had been shown the head researcher’s photo, he’d known what they would want.

A tool.

And they thought they knew what he wanted: fame and fortune and a family, status and a career and an education. Nothing a mere orphan could ever achieve on his own, nothing a bastard child whose mother wouldn’t be claimed by a single family member could ever hope to have.

But what Goro really wanted wasn’t something he could be given. He only had to wait. He only had to be good.

His fingers itched for his phone, hidden away in his bag. He wanted what he always wanted: those childhood dreams of late-night phone calls with Ren, laughing at nothing, trying and failing to explain a funny story, enthusing over the latest Featherman episode. There was a flat screen TV wider than Goro’s outstretched arms on one wall; he tried to imagine what his favorite episodes would look like there and couldn’t. There were bookshelves full of educational material that Goro would never need to read and classics that he had already read dozens of times over. He had a feeling if he tried to substitute any one of them with something he liked, it would be found and tossed within the hour.

He had a feeling there were cameras, everywhere. He heard them, humming, whirring—

He only had to wait. But how much longer?

He only had to wait. But he couldn’t be good; if he was, he would be sitting in a jail cell, doing time for a crime he didn’t commit—or worse. Shido had lackeys. He had ambitions. One little orphan boy wasn’t going to ruin his plans. He wouldn’t let it happen.

He only had to wait. So how was he here, in this room, in this mansion of an apartment?

Goro stared down at his desk. His face stared back amid the grain and whorls of knots, stained red. He hated the idea of using this desk, that pen, the exorbitant amount of fancy, creamy paper in the drawers. He hated the idea of sleeping in that bed, in those pajamas. He hated the idea of wearing clothes made by men and women who were just as pompous as Shido was. He hated the idea of waiting, every day, for that enormous bath to fill, the noise reverberating until it shook his very core. He hated the thought of asking servants to do it for him, hated the idea of personal chefs making his every meal, hated the notion that he couldn’t even go to school on his own, hated knowing that from now on every moment of his life was being watched, recorded, and analyzed.

No, he thought, and nearly choked holding it down.

No. A tool didn’t need a fancy casing to be a proper tool; it didn’t need to be shined and polished and kept in a glass case until its next use. A rusty wrench did the same work as any other. A hammer tossed into a beat-up toolbox did the same work as the one hung from the board.

Yes, he could use that. A CEO was a busy man; he didn’t have time to be pampering children, and Goro’s life was about to get very, very busy. He could be a good tool—he would be a good tool—if only he was allowed to choose his own environment.

Yes, he thought. If he played up how much more useful he could be if he was comfortable… If he helped them understand that he had been taking care of himself for years, now… If he claimed Shido’s jobs would be messy, too messy for a bunch of servants to avoid gossiping about…

(If Akira were here…)

He breathed. Though his breath shuddered in his chest, though his hands reflected red, though the very thought of betraying Akira like this made him want to abscond to that otherworldly place for the rest of his days—he would do it. Shido had the research; it was only a matter of time before he dragged innocents into his schemes. It was better for Goro, with the blood of thousands already staining his hands, to do it. What was one or two or a dozen or more?

And who knew? Maybe Goro could stop him.

(Maybe Goro could rip him and his smug grin and cocky attitude to shreds.)

And if not…

Well. He could figure that out later.

Futaba Isshiki—no, Sakura, she was a Sakura now—stared into the mirror. Her reflection stared back, the same as ever—except for the bright red locks framing her face. They bleached the color from her face, made her veins more prominent, or maybe that was only a trick of the light. Sojiro’s bathroom didn’t have good lighting. Futaba suspected he never cared much for it.

“F-futaba has leveled up! Mission, start!” she declared in a whisper, watching her face for any sign of the new her, the one that had to exist, now that Mom was gone and Uncle Youji was taken care of. The new Futaba was supposed to be happy, living with Sojiro.

Instead she only felt like a burden. Her newly-dyed hair felt so heavy on her scalp, the chemicals too strong in her nose.

She bit her lip, made a pose for the mirror—just a character running a quest, that was all she was—and then crept out of the bathroom and down the hall, stopping and flinching at every creak of the old house around her. Every sound could be Sojiro, waking from his slumber, wandering his domain. He’d want to know why she was awake. He’d want to know what she was doing with a shoe box filled with devices she’d cobbled together from his old, gutted cellphones.

He’d want to know why she was taking Leblanc’s key from its spot by the door.

Futaba hugged the shoe box to her chest. The key dug into her fingers, shoes gripped in her other hand. She swept out the door like a ghost, then hurried down the street on socked feet.

She was just a character on a quest. She’d leveled up her stealth stat at Uncle Youji’s—no one was going to see her in the dark, much less hear her coming, and by the time they did, she would be gone.

Because this had to be done, and it had to be done tonight.

The walk to Sojiro’s newly-bought cafe seemed to take forever, even though it was right down the street. Every rustle in the dark of Yongen-jaya’s cramped streets was her uncle, come back to take her away. He’d want more money, more than Sojiro had. Futaba didn’t want to do that to him, didn’t want to make him choose between a livelihood and her. She thought she knew what he would pick, before today and the box of hair dye waiting for her on the kitchen table. Now she wasn’t so sure.

And Futaba didn’t like being so unsure.

So she crept past the grocer’s, where the display boxes outside smelled of old fruits and vegetables rotting in the sun. And she crept past the tobacco seller, the bricks beside his shop stained with smoke and spat drippings. And she crept around the corner, Leblanc’s awning flapping in a weak breeze—

—only to come to a standstill, scream stifled by a shoe at the last second.

A pair of bright, bright eyes stared back at her from beside Leblanc’s door. A person, or a ghost, or something, not an inch taller than she was and staring, staring, staring.

Futaba’s knees quivered with the urge to run, to flee, to dash straight back to Sojiro’s house and dive for cover beneath her new bed. But she was the new Futaba! She was strong, and brave, and—

With a yowl, whatever had been staring at her turned and jumped with a dull clang, landing on the wall beside the shop, then stared at her some more before sauntering away.

—and leaving her slumped to the ground, knees turned to jelly with fear.

She sat there a while, willing her heart to slow, breathing in the smell of her own feet and dirt caked on her shoes. These were the shoes she’d worn when Sojiro came to see her. These were the shoes she’d worn when he took her to live with him.

“You won’t have to live like that anymore, Futaba,” he’d said, gripping her hand so tight she thought it would break. Futaba had been too terrified to read the emotion in his eyes, but she was sure it was disappointment. She wasn’t good enough for Uncle Youji to take care of. She wasn’t good enough for her own family to want: she killed their precious daughter, their wonderful sister, the bright mind that would have led them all to a better tomorrow.

Sojiro knew that. Sojiro took her anyway.

When it felt as if standing wouldn’t mean coming apart at the seams, Futaba crept the few feet to Leblanc’s door, struggled to put the key in the lock, and then slipped her shoes on once the door was open.

Time to get to work.

Sojiro’s old cellphones weren’t the best money could buy. He didn’t care much for electronics, preferring paper and pens to computers and keyboards, but he’d still gone through a number of them over the years. Futaba found them stuffed in a drawer, each one apparently too precious to throw away, and scrubbed them for data: texts from Mom, old email accounts, call logs. She read what she could get her hands on, over and over again. She could hear her mother in every word, in every reprimand and innocuous question and exasperated refusal. Futaba saved every last scrap, down to every old voicemail.

And then Sojiro said he was buying Leblanc and starting a cafe.

Sojiro refused to see the danger that was so obvious to Futaba: her uncle would find out about the cafe; he would come by, extorting Sojiro for money faster than he could keep up with; Sojiro would lose everything, Futaba included. She would go back to that hovel of a house, pushed into a corner like an old, unwanted toy, and live out the rest of her days knowing that she was hated.

No. Futaba was not going back there. Not if she could help it.

So she pattered around the cafe floor, searching for innocuous spots to place her bugs: by the register, close to the door; under the booth by the stairs in the back; inside a fake potted plant by the window. Any place where the squeak of leather and bustle of the kitchen wouldn’t drown out conversation and then some, just for safety’s sake. She couldn’t be too careful, after all. This was Sojiro’s business; this was Futaba’s new home; this was her mother’s last legacy.

When she was done and home again, holed up in her room testing the connection to her bugs, she thought she would feel better. Instead her hands continued to shake, every nerve alight. If Sojiro ever found out… But she did it for him, for her, for protection—he would understand that.

But a little part of her screamed that he wouldn’t. That he couldn’t. That he knew what she was and what she’d done and was only waiting for the chance to throw her out on her ear.

Futaba stared blankly into her monitor, unable to refute it.

The locker room door slammed shut.

“Shitty fucking principal,” Yuma Komaki spat, before slamming a fist into the lockers. They rattled with every hit, save for the one with a strap hanging out—Komaki hit that one even harder, pissed that he wasn’t getting the noise and satisfaction he wanted. “Fat tub of—fucking—”

Toma Aizawa shuddered. The noise grated on his ears. “Komaki,” he said, a touch too soft to be heard.

But Komaki must have heard him. He stopped, whirled, eyes nearly screwed shut with rage. “The track team—”

“Yeah,” Toma said.

“He’s gonna fucking kill ‘em, Aizawa—”

Toma felt for his wrist in its bracer. Volleyball practice was ordinarily tough, but Kamoshida’s was grueling. Every joint in Toma’s body ached, and it was a rare practice that went by without an injury or two—except for the girls’ team, which seemed coddled by comparison—so he couldn’t begin to imagine what the track team was going through. That any of them could walk after was a miracle. “He won’t,” Toma said. “It’ll—it’ll look bad—”

“And this doesn’t?”

Komaki gestured: the first aid kit, a whole cardboard box of bandages and gauze pads and cooling disinfectant and bruise balm, sitting on the sole chair in the club room; the freshly-opened boxes of bracers and compression sleeves and an arm sling tossed without care to the floor; the smell of defeat in the air, so palpable that it was nearly choking.

Toma knew it was a terrible excuse, but still countered, “It’ll look worse.”

Komaki turned with another primal yell. He bent over, hands threaded through his hair and pulling, muttering more obscenities to the floor.

Toma let him. Komaki needed to; it was painfully obvious that their usual thing wasn’t going to work today. No soothing words were going to quell the rage he felt. Toma’s strained wrist would only make it worse.

He still couldn’t be sure how it started. Sitting in the middle of the club bus and falling asleep on each other after a lost practice game? Bandaging each other’s bruises and icing each other’s sprains? Whatever it was, Toma loved it, every second and every touch.

What a stupid thought.

But it was the only thing keeping him going after almost a year of grueling practices and difficult schoolwork. It was the only thing he looked forward to anymore, the moments where Komaki dared to thread their hands together when no one was watching, where Toma could think that maybe this time everything would work out better. They could survive this if they just did it together.

But…

“Komaki,” he said, “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

Komaki turned to look at him over his shoulder. “This…?”

“Practice,” Toma blurted. He sounded hysterical. The air was too thick, too choking. Every breath was a fight he was losing. “And Kamoshida. And—and these injuries, and the principal, and… everything. I can’t—I can’t keep doing this.”

Komaki took his hands, rubbing idly.

“You hate it, too,” Toma said.

“It’s not right,” Komaki said, still bitter, but lower, more controlled. “None of this shit is. Tell me it’s not.”

“It’s not,” Toma agreed, letting his head rest on Komaki’s shoulder. “But they’ll come looking soon. Kamoshida—”

“I don’t give a damn about Kamoshida. We can—we can skip. We can go home. Hell, Toma, we can quit, if we want to. Let Kamoshida have his pissy fit. Let him say we’re quitters, and we’ll never get anywhere in life.”

Let them talk, in other words. But Toma knew how dangerous words could be, how damaging the gossip mill really was, and Komaki didn’t—or didn’t care. It would be like him not to.

And then he seized on a word. “You called me Toma.”

Komaki fidgeted on his feet. “Yeah.”

“What’s that mean, then?”

A shrug. Komaki took his hands back, only to wrap them around Toma, pulling him in close. “If I read this all wrong—If you don’t like it—”

“No, I do. I love it. I love you, Yuma.” To prove it, he burrowed in closer. It was strange, how safe he felt in Yuma’s arms. Toma never thought it could be so warm, so inviting.

He could hear Yuma grin. “You do, huh?”

“Yeah, I do.”

He heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Someone from the team come to fetch them, as late as they were for practice, and definitely not minding the lost time, by the sound of it. Yuma heard them too, and gripped him tighter.

So he didn’t want to go back, either. Toma could work with that.

“Hey,” Toma said, pulling back, “I’ve got an idea. Something even Kamoshida won’t let slide.”

Yuma, at least, didn’t ask for an explanation.

When Oono slammed the door open, their teeth clacked together. Then he was screaming and running, and all Toma could hear was the snicker of his classmates, their jeers and calls in the inevitable fallout. He wouldn’t come out of this unscathed, and neither would Yuma.

But they wouldn’t have to face it alone, either.

They stood there a while, long enough to let Oono scramble back to the gym. He would tell Kamoshida. He would tell the whole team. He would scream it from the rooftops, for all the school to hear.

Let them, Toma thought. He was tired of hiding.

Hand in hand, they stepped out into the light.

Takuto Maruki sat back in his chair. The girl sitting at the other side of the table only stared at its surface, utterly miserable and completely unwilling to talk.

She was only here because her parents made her, Takuto reminded himself. But they chose him, out of dozens of other therapists and counselors throughout Tokyo. They chose him, intern though he was, and he wanted so very badly to see this girl smile.

“We don’t have to talk about anything if you don’t want to,” he told her. “We can just chat, if you’d like.”

No response, not that he was expecting one. Grief did that to a person.

“I know, I’ll start: the other day a neighbor of mine gave me a box of apples. What in the world could I possibly do with them all, I thought, and then it hit me: I could make curry.”

Not that it turned out too well. Rumi was the chef in their relationship and even she burned the food too often, but Takuto had been craving curry. The spices, the mildly sweet aftertaste, the way the two of them laughed when the potatoes were undercooked or the rice too firm or—

He shook the thought away.

“But it didn’t turn out too well. I’m still trying to figure out how I managed to make such a mess out of such a simple meal, actually. Maybe there’s a trick to it I just don’t know yet.”

Slicing? Cutting? Dicing? Takuto couldn’t be sure. Everyone had such differing opinions.

“You have to grate them,” the girl across the table said.

“Oh?”

“Grate them. That will bring out the flavor without ruining the texture,” she said.

Takuto chuckled—“You must be quite the cook!”—and the conversation, as it was, took off from there. Sometimes he felt guilty for teasing people open like this, but it was his job to hear their problems. An unbiased, unfamiliar ear for their troubles was often all they needed; most felt better after venting, some only needed the help of medication, while others…

Well, others were like this girl.

No support group, or a flimsy one. An earnest desire to change some fundamental aspect of themselves but an unsurety of how to do so. Straining themselves under the pressure of society or family or their peer group to be better, and watching as everyone else moved forward without them, or were scorned or ridiculed for not simply trying harder.

Harder. Takuto knew how far hard work could take you.

And so did the girl.

“Every day, I worked so hard,” she said, voice trembling with the promise of tears. “I worked so hard, and—Kasumi was always right in front of me, no matter what I did. Kasumi was the only one any of them saw. I was always just her—her shadow, trailing just behind.”

“I’m sure you have your own talents,” Takuto told her, a flimsy excuse. If her talents weren’t getting her where she wanted to be, then perhaps they really were useless for her.

“No one ever cared for me,” she all but spat. “Not me, not my talents—only Kasumi’s. Kasumi was the only one who mattered. I always thought, I wish I was her. Maybe then people will look at me, too.” She sniffed; Takuto passed her the tissue box and she took one, dabbing at her eyes and nose. “Now they look at me and they only see the failure. With Kasumi gone, that’s all I’ll ever be. And I—I don’t—”

“Want that,” Takuto finished with her. She nodded; his heart ached for her. No one should live like this, as if they were unwanted by the world. No one should face the world alone.

No one should be so unhappy.

He leaned forward, threading his fingers together. “I wonder, Yoshizawa: would you say you could be happy if you were Kasumi?”

“Be her?”

“Yes,” he said. “If you could, somehow, become your sister, would you be happy?”

“If I could be…” She thought it over: bold Kasumi, friendly Kasumi, the one everyone saw, the one who outshone her own twin. Kasumi who could never understand Yoshizawa’s suffering. Kasumi who didn’t seem to want to.

Kasumi, who was dead. Yoshizawa, who was alive instead.

“If Kasumi were here,” she said slowly, “she wouldn’t be acting like this. Not—not like this. She wouldn’t let something like this bring her down.”

Strong Kasumi.

“And—if she were here, she would be practicing,” the girl said. “It’s all either of us knew what to do with ourselves. Maybe she’d dedicate a win to me.”

Dedicated Kasumi.

Sumire Yoshizawa gripped the tissue in her hand, knuckles white against the table. “And if she were here, she’d be so much happier than me. I wouldn’t be holding her back anymore. I wouldn’t be a burden on any of them anymore. They’d all be so much happier if she was here.”

Cheery Kasumi.

It was possible it was all surface-level understanding. Kasumi Yoshizawa was a person like the rest of them, with her own complexities and thoughts and desires. No one but her would be able to tell what got her down or how hard she worked; no one but her would be able to tell how happy she would be with her dear twin gone.

But if Yoshizawa wished to be Kasumi—if it would make her happy, make her smile, make her hold her head high and look to the bright, beautiful future—then Takuto would make it happen.

No, he had to make it happen.

He let her talk while he worked, the presence he had tentatively dubbed Azathoth a comfortable weight in his mind. Cognition was such a difficult thing to grasp, and so different from the memories he had grown used to changing. He couldn’t simply overwrite her whole being—the seeds of the old would always be there, buried deep under the new—but he found he could change her grief into resolve, and her despair into hope, and from there Kasumi took shape. Takuto felt every bit an artist, molding something new out of the muck that was Yoshizawa’s mind, and with nothing more than a thought.

Azathoth rumbled with strain—but in the end even it was pleased with the result: gone was the despondent Sumire, chained to her own despair by guilt and inferiority. In her place sat Kasumi, as cheery as her sister imagined her to be, head held high.

“Doctor?” she asked. Even her voice was different—just another effect of cognition. “Are you alright? You look tired all of a sudden.”

Takuto managed to give her a shaky smile. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, Yoshizawa. It’s you we’re here to talk about today, not me. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

She stared down for a moment at the glasses in her hand, noted a lock of hair that fell over her shoulder, and tied it all back with a ribbon from her pocket. Finally she said, “Do you think she’s happy now? I’m not sure why she would do such a thing, but—”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean to cause you so much pain,” Takuto said, “just as I’m sure she didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Our feelings, well—they’re difficult things to understand, even for ourselves.”

“They are, aren’t they,” she agreed, softly, and ran a delicate finger over a lens. Searching for cracks, no doubt, but Sumire Yoshizawa had been a gymnast. She would have owned more than one pair, just as Kasumi owned more than one ribbon.

The girl that was now Kasumi only smiled at him, and Takuto smiled back and escorted her to the waiting room, where her father was already setting up another appointment. He was shocked to see the drastic change, and as Takuto informed him of the need for follow up sessions—“For the sake of her continued mental well-being, you understand”—couldn’t stop looking at her. His daughter, or one of them.

Takuto wished he had the power to change her entirely. The power to change the minds and memories of everyone around her so that they, too, would only see Kasumi when they looked at her. But he was still weak, still just a hatchling swimming in the great sea of the mind, and just this pushed him to his limits. He wasn’t even sure how long the change would hold for; there were no problems with Rumi, no problems with a few of his earlier patients, but he could never be sure.

But not for long, Takuto promised himself. Not for very long at all.

He said his farewells when they left, that dull-eyed girl who’d sat like a corpse in his counseling room now all smiles and waves. The door clicked shut behind them. Takuto sagged into a chair, the waiting room thankfully empty.

The receptionist eyed him over her desk. “You really do have a way with them, don’t you, Doctor?”

Takuto managed a chuckle. “I’m just an intern, but… Do you think so?”

“How could I not?” She threw a pointed look at the door.

“All they really need is someone to listen and understand,” Takuto deflected.

“If listening and understanding did that much, my kids would talk to me, too,” she remarked, getting up and pouring him some water.

He took it gratefully, sipped at it, said, “Oh, you’d be surprised how often I’ve heard that. The truth is that not everyone truly understands. They try to compare these experiences and feelings to their own, without any thought that these are other people in other circumstances, living completely different lives. The children of today grow up differently than the children we used to be, and they’ll continue to do so. Tell me: what’s one thing you do or don’t allow your children to do, that wasn’t the same for you?”

She had to think on that, turning to stare out the window. The large picture window stretching floor to ceiling gave them a wonderful view of the Tokyo skyline. If Takuto focused he could see the Olympic stadium in Odaiba being built, and over it—

“They have phones,” the receptionist said. Takuto startled, turned his attention back to her. “My kids—even my youngest, and he’s only eight—they all have phones. We can call and text each other any time we want. But we don’t see each other as often. I suppose I wouldn’t know if they were going behind my backs about the things I’ve asked them not to do.”

“Such as?”

She shrugged, not willing to answer. No doubt she thought they had plenty of freedom, with their parents away from home for work all day. No doubt she thought they lazed away all day, neglecting their studies with manga and games.

Finally she said, “I just want them to be safe.”

Takuto had nothing to say to that. She wasn’t willing to listen; she was barely willing to talk.

But she was talking. And to him, of all people.

He said, “There’s a difference between safe and happy. Can you say they’re happy based on their own experiences, or on yours? Remember how difficult it was, being their age?”

Eight. He couldn’t remember being eight, couldn’t remember what he loved or hated, couldn’t remember what he studied in school or his scores in gym class. But he did remember how important it all felt, those tests and races. How proud he was to bring home gold stars or to be in charge of the class pet, how the slightest thought of disappointing his parents slid him down the slope to despair.

“They’re trying their hardest, too,” Takuto told her. “Everyone is. All we have to do is understand that.”

But she shook her head, moving back to her desk. “They’re kids, Doctor. They don’t understand a thing. Your next appointment will be here, soon.”

He nodded, finished his water, wished very much to go home and sleep off the exhaustion Yoshizawa’s change had caused him. Instead he stared out the window to the stadium in Odaiba, where the construction lights made the building seem larger and grander than it was supposed to be. The air seemed to shimmer, like a heat mirage in the Tokyo desert.

But it was January, the chill of the winter air seeping into every building. Summer was a long way off.

YOURS, Azathoth rumbled.

Takuto looked over the illusion of lights, of a tower, of some grand marvel of architecture that couldn’t ever stand in the real world. All of a sudden he was reminded of a lab, of all the talk that ultimately went nowhere. His heart raced.

Mine, he thought.

And if it was his, surely he could see it for himself, couldn’t he?

So he took the train to Odaiba, jostling with the dinner crowd for standing space, heart lodged somewhere in his throat and pulsing. If it was there, he wasn’t going slowly insane. If it was there, it would be proof that Azathoth was real, that Takuto’s newfound powers were real, and that everything he’d been through had led him there.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking, sweat beading on his temple despite the bite in the air. Just nerves, he assured himself, Azathoth’s assenting rumble like the purr of a giant cat soothing the worst of it.

Takuto took hold of what reserves of strength he had left and marched on, down one street and up another, the haze of the mirage flickering and wavering. One moment he was blinded by lights in the sky, and the next it was all scaffolding and the steel skeleton of the stadium. It was by chance that he found the back entrance, a flimsy metal gate barely large enough for a small truck to squeeze through. A path shimmered beyond it.

Takuto gave his surroundings a cursory glance and hopped the gate. Gravel crunched under his shoes, then smoothed out to stone. He felt fit to choke on air, so thick was it with expectation, an animal waiting dutifully for its master to return.

His. This place was his. He was its master.

Takuto paused in front of a pair of shimmering golden doors. The button beside them promised to take him up: up into the heart of this otherwordly space that felt so much like home; up to where his heart would surely be fulfilled; up to where he would finally begin to make a difference.

It was his. That meant he could use it, didn’t it?

But once he did—once he crossed the threshold, once he stepped into the fountain of knowledge it would bestow upon him, once he became aware of what lay beneath the surface of understanding that had taken humans decades to dredge up—what would he do?

Use it, of course. Use it, for the greater good. Why else was he chosen?

But still, his hand hovered as his heart wavered. “Azathoth,” he asked, “will I find you beyond these doors? Will I see you as you truly are?”

What a human thing, to want to look into the eyes of a higher power and understand it—and yet Azathoth had come to him, had chosen him, had brought him here. It had to be what Azathoth wanted.

Without waiting for an answer, he called for the elevator. The doors slid open and he sped inside, jamming the only button available. There was a presence behind him in his reflection, a gaudy gold-plated thing hovering above his shoulder, its eyes eerie but familiar, and then it was gone.

You are not alone, it seemed to say. I am with you, always.

Takuto breathed, measured but shuddering. He wanted this. He wanted to understand what was happening to him, and he wanted to understand why he was chosen. Why Takuto, out of the millions of others living in Tokyo? It couldn’t be his strength. Even he knew throwing himself into work in the wake of the accident was denial.

And yet this place was his, and Azathoth answered to him and him alone.

Surely that meant he was blessed, chosen.

(Wanted, thrilled some little part of himself.)

By the time the elevator stopped, his resolve was unshakable. No matter what horrors he found on the other side of its doors, Takuto would persevere. Azathoth was helping him help people; he wouldn’t be led astray by anything his own mind could conjure up so easily.

But what lay beyond the doors wasn’t a grotesque nightmare of the mind. It was a… hospital, in gleaming white marble and shining gold. At the top of a set of stairs, holographic display boards flickered through ideas faster than Takuto could read them. He ran a finger down an ornamental heart hanging in a cage on a pedestal, and it pulsed in time with his own.

He should have been unnerved. Somehow, he was elated.

A door creaked open behind him. “Doctor,” said a hulking man in a white lab coat and full-face mask whose features were as distorted as a Picasso painting. He bowed. “We have been awaiting your arrival. If you would please follow me, sir.”

“Right.” It should have startled him how calm his voice was. Takuto’s knees barely shook as they walked further into the place, one set of doors after another, down one gleaming hallway and up another, until Takuto felt he should have been thoroughly lost. Instead, he knew exactly where he was and how to leave if he needed to.

His, indeed.

He was led into what looked like an amphitheater, rows of bleachers ascending the walls and a raised platform in the middle. Screens hung from the ceiling, all of them dark.

“This is the farthest point, sir,” he was told.

“Farthest?” he asked.

“If the doctor so wishes it, this place can become larger than any man could dream of.” The masked man’s voice, as coarse as gravel stirred in a bucket and just as deep, sounded eerily like Azathoth’s. “Anything you desire to conduct your research, any amenity at all, and this place will give it to you, sir. You are doing’s a god’s work, after all. No request is too large.”

“And… funding?”

“Sir,” chortled the man, “funding will be the least of your worries, here.”

A wave of relief washed over him. If he didn’t have to worry about funding, he could truly accomplish anything. “And… test subjects? No, patients. I’ll need access to those. Real, live people.”

“Ah, sir. You already do.” The mask seemed to draw him in. It was looking into a bottomless hole, an abyss that nothing could possibly begin to fill, and yet Takuto wanted to. It was a strange thought. “You only need to realize it.”

It took Takuto a moment to understand his meaning. “You mean my patients from… outside.” A nod. “But I can’t possibly bring them here! They would never agree to anything like that!”

“They would if you wished it, sir.” He got the feeling the man was smiling beneath that mask, grinning ear to ear like a madman. “But there is an easier way, and if you would excuse your humble servant for saying so, he would be happy to help you realize what it is.”

Takuto shook his head. If it really was so simple, he should be able to think of it on his own. He turned to look over the room once more: lecterns sat in front of screens atop the bleachers; a catwalk dripped with cables high in the rafters. There wasn’t much else.

It was so empty. No patient would want to see him here. He would have an easier time waiting for their next appointment and hoping they would feel the need to show. Even Yoshizawa, as despondent as she’d been before their talk, would become too engrossed in her practices to bother returning. And it wasn’t as if Takuto could go and find her; it would be wildly inappropriate.

But if he could just see her, just to know how she was doing, how well his power was keeping hold on her psyche, then…

“An observation room of some kind,” he murmured. “A… monitoring room? A… surveillance room? Can this place make one of those?”

“Anything you desire, sir. Anything at all.”

And it did: the man led him out of the theater and across the hall, to where a door shimmered into existence as Takuto stepped up to it. “Do be careful,” he was warned, “as it may not be entirely stable, yet.”

Just a peek, then, he decided, popping his head into the room. Cables snaked over the floor, writhing like live wires, plugging themselves into dashboards with rows of yet more screens atop them, some of them flickering to life. Takuto caught a glance of a dark, dank place before the one died, then shut the door on it all.

“Is there anything else you require, sir?”

Everything, Takuto wanted to say. He needed an actual lab space, and storage rooms for records, and patient rooms, in case any happened to wander in. A place for them—and himself—to relax, taking in the sight of nature’s beauty. There was nothing better than a lovely field of wildflowers to soothe the soul, he found, but Tokyo was lacking in such things.

And he felt, somehow, the space beginning to distort around them, accommodating his every whim. He had no doubt he could ask for more, but it seemed unwise. If this space was his, then he shouldn’t strain it too much at once. He knew very well what happened to minds that broke under those conditions, and he wouldn’t be able to help anyone else if the same happened to him.

“No, not at the moment,” he decided, and asked to be led back to the entrance. This time he paid attention to the workers filing past in the halls: men and woman in lab coats clutching clipboards, their faces masked, the backs of their heads covered in shadow. Takuto began to shiver as they neared the waiting room, teeth chattering at the wide space filled with sunlight even in the evening.

Impossible, his mind told him.

Azathoth rumbled. Takuto focused on the sensation, shutting his eyes to the light and the gleam of new marble and the echo of his shoes on the floor, until all that was left was the purr of the power inside him.

Takuto breathed. He opened his eyes; the Odaiba back alley greeted him, gloomy in the evening’s dying light. Cars whizzed by on the nearby street; groups of people laughed, some sober, some drunk, and chattered about dinner plans.

Takuto dared a glance over a shoulder. The illusion was still there, floodlights flickering through the sky.

Mine, he thought, and shuffled to the street, to the lights, to the pull of people in need of his power.

He could help them. He could help all of them.

And Azathoth, deep in a corner of his psyche, rumbled on.

Chapter Text

There was a pile of books by the stairs. Sojiro Sakura caught himself frowning at them, then at the attic. The kid did a good job of cleaning it up and settling in, and Sojiro had thought for a split second that anyone who could treat Wakaba’s books with such care couldn’t be such a terrible person.

And then the school called.

The nerve of that brat. Every instinct Sojiro had was telling him to throw the kid out, get rid of the troublemaker, let him reap what he’d sown. Sojiro came up here ready to throw that damn box out in the alley and then he spotted the books and the made-up bed, like the kid was trying as hard as possible to take up as little space as he could, and found himself faltering. There was a plastic bag with an empty instant ramen cup in it. One of Wakaba’s books was open on the workbench, pages wrinkled and warped, and her bamboo plant sat in the light pooling in from the window; Sojiro nudged it out of the rays. The nearby shelves were dusted. The rafters were clean and cobweb-free.

Resolve wavering, Sojiro flexed his hands. So the kid cleaned up, so what? That didn’t change the fact the he was skipping class to do—whatever the hell he was doing. And on his first day!

But, whispered some small part of his mind, he wasn’t used to Tokyo. He was used to small towns where the schools were within walking distance. He was used to taking a bus out to the neighboring city for practices. He couldn’t possibly be used to the train schedules and the cramped cars and the rush of the crowd.

Sojiro sighed. Anger still simmered, but it was hard to stay angry. The kid just didn’t look like a delinquent, with those thick glasses and that quiet demeanor, but looks could be deceiving. The kid could be a psychopath, Sojiro told himself. He could be good at lying, at manipulation. The clean attic could be nothing but an act.

He still found himself thumbing pages through the open book. Cognitive pscience was never his field and the jargon went right over his head, but he could hear Wakaba in every word. His heart ached.

What would Wakaba tell him? To give the kid a chance? It was only his first offense, and people acted out in anger or hurt all the time, and—

—and he reminded Sojiro of Futaba, with his cup noodles and attraction to jargon-heavy research journals and how meek he acted. Futaba had withdrawn all on her own; if Sojiro came down any harder, would he drive the kid into hiding, too?

He didn’t like the thought.

He sighed again, left the book alone. Whether all of his fears were true or not, time would tell; until then he would have to wait it out and watch with a wary eye.

His phone rang. The school, calling again. “Sakura speaking,” he said, making his way over to the stairs and ambling down.

“Mr. Sakura, good afternoon,” the speaker said. The same one from his meeting with the principal, the exhausted-looking teacher. Kawa-something. “Ah, earlier I called to ask if Amamiya had left for school. Well, he turned up a few minutes ago. Said he felt sick on the train. Can you, ah, confirm that?”

Sojiro snorted. “You need me to confirm whether a country bumpkin like him gets claustrophobia on a Tokyo subway?”

“Yes,” she said, slowly. Then she sighed. “Look, I know this has to be hard on him. The term’s already started, he’s moved recently, all that. But it doesn’t look good on his record if truancy officers catch him out on the streets, you know?”

What a hassle, her tone said, and Sojiro agreed. Why the hell did he take in a delinquent?

“I’ll make sure he understands that,” Sojiro told her. “Go ahead and—” He stopped, stared at the coffee makers, bulbous bottoms covered in a thin layer of soot, and felt his blood run cold. “Wait, you said he felt sick? How sick?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “Dizzy? He looked out of it when he arrived. Pale, maybe a bit feverish.”

How long would it take someone to digest a cup of coffee? Why had Sojiro pushed it on him, despite how apprehensive he’d been to drink it? The longer he thought about it, the sicker Sojiro felt. He could have killed the kid, and with a goddamn cup of coffee, to boot. “Well, go ahead and consider it confirmed, then. It’s my fault. Shouldn’t have fed him that.”

“Fed him what?” She took a moment, shifting through papers. “Oh. Right. Well, as long as it’s all cleared up, we can give him a break for today. But just today, understand?”

“I’ll make sure he knows.”

“Good. Have a nice day, Mr. Sakura.”

Sojiro grunted out a farewell. His hand hung limp at his side for a long while after as he contemplated the consequences—the kid’s parents could sue, the courts could place him elsewhere, he would lose that second chance they were all so desperate for, the courts could take Futaba—until it felt like the room was spinning, the air too thick to breathe.

He sat down on a stool. Breathe, Sojiro, he told himself. No use getting worked up over it if the kid was fine. The school was going to give him a pass. Nothing was going to happen.

But…

“Now, where did I leave that list?” he asked the room. Under the register? By the sink? Tacked to the fridge? There was a pile of papers and boxes stacked on one of the counters. It could be there.

His phone buzzed. Yellow clip, was all the message said; Sojiro dragged himself to his feet and shuffled over to the fridge, where the list was, in fact, clipped on with a yellow magnet.

He shuffled back over to the bar, read it over, and waited.

Akira sighed.

His first day had gone well enough—up until the incident at the castle, which earned him side-eyes and scorn from nearly everyone at school. Even the pretty foreign girl who sat in front of him had glared as he made his way to his seat, snarling something under her breath to the hushed chatter and giggle of their classmates:

Liar.

Akira was a lot of things, but he’d never considered himself a liar—not up until the past few months, anyway. It wasn’t as if he could go around claiming to be the returned hero of a terrible isekai story; he would only prove himself insane on top of violent, and then where would he be?

So he endured it. Endured the jeers and stares and Ryuji’s shaky grin by the stairs and headed home to Mr. Sakura staring him down over the bar counter, raised brows asking enough questions that Akira couldn’t sort through them all. He endured the ensuing interrogation of where he’d been that morning and why and only slunk up the stairs when the man seemed satisfied with his answers.

It was only when his back connected with his lumpy mattress that he realized how tired he was.

And yet his thoughts whirled, sleep fluttering just out of sight like a spider’s web. He’d died on Ra Ciela but it had been a quick, clean death with barely enough time for panic. The dungeon he’d almost died in just hours ago had reeked of piss and mold, the manacles hanging from the ceiling spotted with rust, dirt and dried blood staining the walls. The swords at his throat had shone with an evil light.

But if Zill couldn’t kill him—if the Chimon couldn’t kill him—if Goro couldn’t kill him—then some nameless soldier in a grimy dungeon wasn’t going to, and—

Rest, child, chided Arsene.

As if Akira could. But the presence within him was familiar, the weight of it floating just out of reach, ready to take his hand if need be. A phantom sensation of wings draped over his shoulders, talons digging into his chest. Power, familiar but alien, washed down his spine.

Akira could almost see his Arsene sitting there. He placed a hand over a talon, traced the scaly skin of a foot, and whispered, “I missed you.”

But his Arsene was long gone. All he had was this one, now.

But even so—

“I missed you so much.”

—it had to be said. His weak, skittish partner had become something great, something everlasting. He had done the only thing he could to save the people he worked with. Without Arsene, there would be no Aru tribe, and there would be no Akira laying here, missing him dearly.

But even so—

Sleep, child, chided Arsene, and Akira promised, if only to himself, to never let him go.

By the time Hirotaka Mishima made it to the diner, the kids were already there, laughing and joking with one another, food spread out over the table and their bags piled underneath. The conversation shut off as he approached, and the kids snatched up plates and made room for him; he squeezed onto the edge of the seat and returned their greetings.

This was research, he reminded himself as they went back to their food. Yuuki’s old teammates dug into grilled chicken platters and baked potatoes and omelet rice; not a single one of them wore Shujin’s uniform, and their skin glowed with a vibrancy that Yuuki’s didn’t have. Youth, some would say, but Hirotaka was sure that wasn’t it.

“So, Mr. M,” drawled a lanky one with hair in his eyes, “what’d ya want to meet up for? Can’t be for old time’s sake, right? Mishima ain’t here, after all.”

There was a chorus of assent from the others. One by one, they dared to stare at him.

Hirotaka readied himself. He was going to be laughed out of the diner. He just hoped none of this would get back to Yuuki; after the debacle with his mother he was on edge and far too skittish. “I wanted to ask you about your practices.”

The lanky one snorted. “What about ‘em?”

But the boy shoved into the corner said, “Mishima goes to Shujin, doesn’t he?”

A collective shudder went around the table. The boys scowled at their food; one turned green. “Poor sap,” said the lanky one, and speared a piece of broccoli.

Hirotaka did not like where this was going. “I know Shujin’s practices are tough, but—”

“Mr. M, we got a term for those poor sods who go to Shujin thinking the great Suguru Kamoshida will turn ‘em into volleyball stars: the walking dead,” said the lanky one. His friends all nodded. “The ones who can keep up with the practices are set for life, okay? They go on to be on national teams. They make bank. But the ones who don’t, well.”

He shrugged.

“Explain,” Hirotaka said. Then added, “Please.”

“My cousin went to Shujin,” said a soft-spoken boy squeezed in next to Hirotaka. “He still has nightmares. It’s been five years. He can’t hold a job because they keep him up at night.”

“Whenever they lose a game, even a practice one, it’s like watching a funeral procession,” shuddered another boy with freckles spattered across his nose. “And they’re good. We all know that. Anybody who plays against them works for that win. But I always thought it was weird, how terrified their benched players looked when they lost.”

“Not disappointed?” Hirotaka asked, just to be sure.

“Nope,” said the freckled boy. “Terrified. They’d stare at each other, totally silent, like one of ‘em was gonna die.”

“I tried to talk him out of it.” The soft-spoken one stared at his plate, pushing crumbs through sauce. “We weren’t very good at keeping up with practice, Mishima and I. Shujin’s brutal, I told him so. But he said he was set on it. He said his parents wanted him to go. He didn’t want to disappoint them.”

I’m doing everything I’m supposed to be, Yuuki had said, and the betrayal in his voice made sense at last.

Hirotaka steeled himself. “And your cousin,” he started to ask, but the kid shook his head.

“He won’t talk about it. I only know what I do because I overheard our parents talking about it at a party. He…”

“You don’t gotta,” said the lanky boy, and several others nodded along.

But the kid kept going. “He hurts himself. Hits himself. Hears things when it’s too quiet and freaks out when there’s a sudden noise. They don’t know what to do with him anymore. He almost hit a deliveryman for ringing the doorbell, once. I don’t know what Shujin did to him, but it wasn’t good.”

“I see,” was all Hirotaka could think to say. It explained the sleepless nights Yuuki would have, and the way he would rub at his arms at the dinner table, as if they itched on such a deep level no scratching could satisfy.

But it was just one boy out of dozens or hundreds, he reasoned to himself. Just one boy who couldn’t keep up; it could have been the workload that did him in.

But Yuuki’s grades were awful. Hirotaka could understand if he was trying, but…

I’m going to practice, had been Yuuki’s grit argument. I’m going to school. I’m doing everything I’m supposed to be.

“Just one more thing, then, please,” Hirotaka said, and as one they turned to him. His heart leaped into his throat trying to imagine all of these boys with bruises like Yuuki’s. Yuuki’s had been so dark they nearly bled into the shadows of the apartment. The rest of him had been so pale by comparison, all the color leeched out of his skin until it was as fragile as tissue paper.

But he had to know. “May I see your arms? Just the forearm is fine. Please.”

They glanced at each other. The lanky one was the first to yank up his sleeves, showing off bruises of his own, albeit light ones clustered around the middle of his arm. The other boys all looked the same, save for the soft-spoken one, whose were darker and spread from wrist to elbow. He flushed at the sudden attention and explained, “I’ve been practicing more with Mitamura, but my receives still aren’t that great…”

But they weren’t like Yuuki’s. Hirotaka wasn’t sure how to feel about that—relief that not all volleyball practices were so intense? Despair, because his son’s were?—but swallowed it all down.

“Thank you,” he told them. They gave him shaky grins and, one by one, left the table until only Hirotaka and the soft-spoken boy were left. The kid fiddled with the strap on his bag.

“Is Mishima okay?” he finally asked.

Instinct told him to say yes, everything was fine, but it wasn’t true. “I don’t know,” Hirotaka told him.

The boy nodded. He sidled out of his seat, then stood by the table. “If—if he needs help—”

“I’ll give it to him,” Hirotaka promised.

The boy only nodded once more. He rubbed his arm, bit his lip, worry plain and evident.

“He’s my son,” Hirotaka told the kid. “I won’t give up on him just because of volleyball. I’ll support him, no matter what he decides to do. I… could have spoken up about Shujin, but… if it’s as bad as your cousin remembers, then…”

He should have done something. He should have done this back when Hiyoko was stuffing brochures down Yuuki’s throat. This research of his was coming far too late, and it wasn’t leaving a good taste in his mouth.

“… then I’ll do something about it. None of those boys will turn out like your cousin ever again. I swear it.”

The boy nodded, flashed him a grin that shook too much at the edges, and left Hirotaka with his empty promise. Where would he even begin to start? With the cousin? With other former team members, down on their luck and their mental health spiraling? The successful ones boasted Kamoshida’s training techniques—Hirotaka had read enough of those to get sick of them—so they were out of the question…

His head spun. A waitress came over to clear the table; he couldn’t help but ask if they sold beer. He was going to need one to deal with this.

A plan. He had to make a plan. He had to help Yuuki, somehow, or…

He didn’t want to think about it.

Ann Takamaki waved to the transfer student as he boarded his train, leaving her behind with Ryuji Sakamoto, Shujin’s resident delinquent. Sure the transfer student was one too, but Ryuji was louder and far more obnoxious with his choice of clothing, and the transfer student scared off anyone nearby with only a look. Ryuji was fun to make fun of; the transfer student was terrifying even to talk about.

Especially now that she’d seen him shoot a pixie out of the air.

“Takamaki,” Ryuji said, ready to start arguing again, but she stopped him cold.

“I’m not quitting. Not now, not with other girls’ lives on the line.”

God, she was so angry. The way that thing that looked like Kamoshida treated her, just for being a girl. His precious princess, delighting in her torment. As if she’d ever.

“Yeah, y’know, that’s, uh, cool ‘n all, but…”

“But what?”

“Maybe I’m worried, dammit,” he ground out, scuffing the floor with a shoe. “Me ‘n Akira, we went in knowing things could get bad for us, okay? But you—you got any idea how bad that coulda got?”

She had every idea. The lounging, topless volleyball girls had given her a good idea of what to expect, and if it was half of what Kamoshida had been asking her to do all this time…

“I do,” she said. Until Ryuji and Akira had shown up to her rescue, she’d been helpless. Without them, she would still be in that… room, strapped to that thing, enduring whatever Kamoshida wanted to do to her. Thinking about it made her skin crawl. “You think I don’t know? You think I haven’t heard every story there is? I know what could have happened. But…”

Shiho. She was doing this for Shiho, and for every girl Kamoshida had ever laid his hands on.

“I can’t just sit back and do nothing,” she said. “I… It took me this long to decide to do something about it. It took Shiho”—she still couldn’t say it, couldn’t stand the image of her best friend laying on a stretcher, as broken and delicate as a butterfly swatted out of the air, and Ryuji nodded when she choked on the word—“it took almost losing her to decide I’d had enough. I am ending this, with or without you and the transfer student.”

“He’s got a name, y’know.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

He let her dab tears from her eyes. All around them were students going home or to cram school or work, their whispers echoing in the station. Businessmen and -women bustled by, some anxiously checking their watches and craning their heads for the next train, some nearly asleep on their feet.

Ann wondered how many of those men were ones like Kamoshida. She wondered how many women were like Shiho. Surely none of them were like her and Ryuji and the transfer student.

But it would be nice, if some of them were.

Ryuji filled her in on everything Morgana had told them so far, and everything that had happened on the transfer student’s first day, and she shivered despite herself. She might have been locked up like a trophy, but at least she would have been alive at the end of the day.

“This… really is dangerous, isn’t it?” Ann asked. She flexed a hand—one that had only hours earlier hefted a sword as long as she was tall with ease and cleaved her doppelganger right in two. Every strike from Kamoshida’s guards had felt real, and her body ached with the memory of each one.

Ryuji snorted. “Would you trust the police with this?”

Ann shook her head. Like the school, the police would turn a blind eye to it all—or worse, call her insane. That was the last thing she needed to happen.

She needed to avenge Shiho. She needed to watch Kamoshida pay for his crimes. That was all that mattered.

“But I trust you guys, and Mona,” she added. “We’ll make this work, together, won’t we?”

Ryuji’s answering grin was way too confident—but it did its job. By the time she felt she could head home without falling asleep on the train, she was ready to take on anything.

Takuto’s heart raced.

It had been a long time since he sat in a school principal’s office, and the place felt very much the same: leather couches lining a low table sitting in front of a desk covered in papers; trophy cases lined both walls, most of them for volleyball. All of it screamed of importance.

Takuto wasn’t quite sure what he was doing there, sitting on one of those leather couches, six years out of his own high school, but there he was.

The principal of Shujin Academy stared him down from the other side of the table. At his side sat the vice principal, a man much older than either of them by at least twenty years and with the wrinkles to prove it. Worry lines framed their faces; the principal, Kobayakawa, dabbed at a bead of sweat with a handkerchief and humphed.

“Well, now, Doctor, er—”

“Maruki,” Takuto said for the third time in five minutes. “Takuto Maruki. And really, I’m not actually a doctor quite yet—”

“Details, details,” the principal dismissed. “You do work as one, don’t you? And you’re, ah, quite successful, at that. Quite impressive, really, for one as young as you.”

Takuto clamped down on the urge to correct him. He was still just an undergraduate, struggling to complete his thesis in a department of increasingly uninterested colleagues, surely barely tolerated by the only counselor in the city who didn’t care about his true field of study. His track record despite all of that was quite impressive.

At times he wondered where he would be without Azathoth.

“… Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot to me, sir.”

Kobayakawa offered him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and said, “And to me as well! I’m sure you’ve heard that one of our honor students is a patient of yours. Her father sings your praises; says you’ve done well for his daughter in her time of need.”

“And I suppose you have an interest?”

“As I’m sure you remember, Doctor,” the vice principal said, “but high school is a very… taxing time. No more so for our students, who go on to be the best and brightest our nation has to offer. As ones who are tasked with raising up future leaders and innovators, we are all too aware of those who… buckle under the strain of our expectations and cannot live up to their full potential. These students—these bright young children with their whole lives ahead of them—often take to… rash actions. We worry for them.”

And for your reputation, no doubt, Takuto thought. “I see.”

“It’s rather serious, I’m afraid.” Kobayakawa shook his head. “Not that I would be so crass as to disclose the details with a member of the public, but… It is rather serious. Tempers run high in teenagers, and easily. And they have such promise…”

Takuto barely restrained a laugh at their acting. Did they think they were being coy? “I’m well aware, yes,” he said. “I’ve helped many troubled teens since I began practicing, although my number of patients has been rather low. I always believed that to be a good thing.”

“And it is!” crowed the principal. “But we believe there are just as many troubled youths out there who can’t bring themselves to talk to a professional about their problems. Stigma, and all that.” He leaned forward. “That’s why we here at Shujin have decided it may be best to provide such help, should they require it. An unbiased ear, unattached to their lives in any way. And may I say so, but you come highly recommended, Doctor Maruki.”

“I… can’t say I’m not flattered, sir, but—”

“Your credentials or lack thereof are not a problem,” the vice principal cut in. “What we require is someone who can listen and give the occasional bit of advice, should a student desire it. From what we understand, you have a way with them unlike any other. You could provide just the thing they need to stand up tall and reach their fullest potential.”

“We can, of course, offer a salary,” the principal went on, “and you could still earn your internship hours, of course, Doctor. We wouldn’t make you do this for nothing!”

“I… see,” said Takuto.

They went on, blathering about guaranteed hours and days off and a salary only a bit higher than what he was making already. He would have access to the cafeteria and faculty parking. The school would provide him with anything he needed, save his own space—no room for that, unfortunately—and the longer they talked, the better it sounded.

Takuto waited for some sign from Azathoth, and received nothing.

“Will you let me think on it?” he eventually asked, and nearly folded at the transparent attempt to cover up their disappointment. “Just a few days, to give your offer careful consideration and make proper arrangements and such, really.”

He should have known they would leap on that. It was practically a yes.

He was still kicking himself as he left the building, the narrow alley lost in a haze of heat and sun. Takuto tried not to feel conspicuous, but knew he was drawing every eye in his casual clothes as a complete stranger—right up until a trio of students popped into existence across the alley and he stumbled over the last step. There were giggles. No one was paying the students—a pair of blonds, that much he could tell—any mind, even as they dusted themselves off. There was a loud, disgruntled meow.

Takuto forced his eyes on the pavement and kept going. He was halfway to Odaiba before he realized where he was going, feet leading him back to his shimmering laboratory.

It… had certainly been a while. He could pop in for a few minutes, take another tour, ask for more rooms—

But there was a girl standing outside the entrance, peering up at it over the fence. Yoshizawa fingered her hair ribbon, with a distant, thoughtful look on her face.

Why was she here?

“Yoshizawa,” he called out, willing himself to calm down as he approached her. This space was his, so why was she here?

“Oh, Doctor Maruki,” she said, a bit too listlessly. He was eager for the cheery Yoshizawa from the office; this dour one was too much like her sister. She offered a bow. “Hello. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Ah, right,” he said. “I wasn’t aware you enjoyed visiting places like this, Yoshizawa.”

“Oh, well…”

It must have been the wrong thing to say: she looked even worse after, eyes shining with tears, splotches of color forming on her cheeks. She took another look at the construction site. Said, “My sister and I were going to compete in the Olympics together. It was our dream.”

“Oh,” Takuto gasped, with a force like a punch to the gut. No wonder she was here, then.

“Um, if I’m honest, Doctor, I… haven’t been feeling that well, lately,” she confessed. “I’ll lose myself in the middle of a routine and forget which move comes next. It’s been hard to get out of bed in the morning, too. So, I thought coming here would help me remember what I’m working towards. This isn’t just our dream anymore; it’s… it’s her legacy. It’s…”

A single tear traced a path down her cheek. Takuto’s heart ached. It was a good thing he had suggested follow-up appointments, if she was sliding down the path back to her old self so quickly. “Yoshizawa,” he said, but couldn’t find the words for anything more. Her suffering hurt her more than he could ever understand, but as he stood by and watched, she composed herself.

She brushed a tear from her eye. “I’m sorry. I… don’t know what came over me. I’ll be fine, Doctor.”

He shook himself out of his stupor. “Are you sure, Yoshizawa? You know I’m always here to listen, if you need me.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Her smile was bashful, but she looked so much better as she did it, even though underneath it Takuto sensed her pain, rolling back like the tide. It would come again, and again, and again, and all Takuto could do was watch and help her weather the storm of her grief. “Really, I’ll be fine. I suppose I’ll see you at our next appointment?”

“Yes,” he said. “Although…”

Shujin’s offer rolled through his head. If he took the job, he could keep a closer eye on her and help dozens of students just like her with their troubles. They wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.

But it would mean letting his current patients slip back into suffering. Rumi hadn’t yet resurfaced from the countryside, but her circumstances could be an outlier. She was happy there, and as long as she was happy, she wouldn’t return.

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He gave Yoshizawa a smile of his own, felt the pull of muscles like a mask, assured her everything was fine and sent her on her way.

Then he stared at the construction site, at the glimmering shadow of the lab beyond it. The draw of it tugged at his core; he wanted nothing more than to go in and take it all in again—it was his!—but instead he drew back. He couldn’t afford an early night tonight.

Takuto had a lot to consider.

The bell rung. Ann swung around in her seat before the last chime finished pealing, Mr. Inui’s half-hearted admonition a drone from the front of the classroom. The door swung open, then shut from the force of a few escaping volleyball players, even before he finished speaking.

He sighed.

“So,” Ann asked, as whispers took up all around them about Kamoshida’s bad temper of late, “how are preparations going?”

Akira didn’t look up from his homework. “Another day or two. Morgana’s new sword is being more difficult than I thought.”

“And I appreciate your hard work, Joker,” Morgana chimed in from Akira’s desk. The kid behind Akira looked right at him, possibly considered turning him in, and then shrugged to himself, stuffing pencils and erasers into his lime-green case.

Ann was going to have to buy the guy a treat. Just as incentive.

“Not to mention Ryuji’s leg’s been acting up,” Akira went on. “He says he’s fine, but he’s not. If we’re going to do this, I’d rather not worry about it giving out on him again.”

“Yeah,” Ann agreed. Last week they’d gone into the Palace on a rainy day; Ryuji had complained of some pain, but they were assured it was nothing he couldn’t handle and everything was fine—up until an ambush in close quarters meant slamming it into a wall, knocking him out of commission for most of the fight. Luckily, the enemy had been small-fry. Not so luckily, they’d been down a fighter at the very height of their infiltration. Ann and Morgana had worn themselves ragged keeping the three of them healed up for every fight after until Akira called it quits.

Her gaze drifted over the classroom: there were the two girls chatting about limited-time foods in Shibuya; there were the on-duty cleaners taking out the trash; there was Mishima, staring at his desk like the world was ending. He made no move to get up, and possibly for good reason: what point was there in going to practice when he was going to get expelled at the end of the week?

Poor guy.

“We’ll fix this,” Akira declared, his gaze locked firmly on Mishima, too.

“Yeah,” she and Morgana agreed. Ann took a page out of his book—with no shoots today she had time for her homework, and Akira helped her puzzle out the harder problems—and time flew by. Before they knew it the classroom had emptied and the sky was beginning to turn gold with the sunset.

Ann said, “Let’s get some crepes.”

Akira hummed, contemplating. As far as she knew, his guardian let him fend for himself for dinner, and Morgana had mentioned a dwindling stash of instant noodles somewhere in Akira’s room. Ann liked the stuff too, but everyday? She’d get sick of it.

And it was the least she could do for her fearless leader.

“Sure,” he said at last, and jotted down one last answer before packing his things away. Morgana hopped in his schoolbag with practiced ease, and Akira hefted the whole thing on his shoulder. He gestured toward the door with an elaborate flourish that would have been grand if not for the mad scramble to catch his bag at the last second. “Lead the way, my lady.”

Ann couldn’t help a snort. She led the way.

They chattered the whole way to the train station. With their infiltration route secure, it was only a matter of when to send the calling card, and Ann shared Akira’s hesitance. This was too big a task for a trio of teenagers and a talking cat to accomplish; for that matter, they held Kamoshida’s life in their hands. If they went too far, even on accident, even to protect themselves…

Ann thought of Shiho—a crumpled, broken form underneath hospital sheets, the wheeze of her breath as she struggled for just one more slip of air. She thought of Shiho grasping her hand the whole way to the hospital, in that ambulance filled with noise. She thought of Shiho, gasping, “Ann, I don’t want to die.”

When Ann thought of Shiho that way, it filled her with rage. When she thought of Kamoshida that way, a white-hot burst of pleasure coursed through her. It would be what he deserved, given to him at last.

Then she felt guilty for even thinking so.

There were people who considered Kamoshida as precious to them as Shiho was to her, she had to remind herself, over and over again. They wouldn’t want Kamoshida to die. He was a person just like any other, even if he was a creep.

“I know,” Akira said, when she voiced it aloud. “Even villains have their reasons.”

It sounded like he was speaking from experience, but Ann didn’t press for an explanation. She only gripped his blazer sleeve, taking comfort in the warmth of someone beside her. They got crepes—for Akira, a savory chicken teriyaki; for Ann, strawberry with extra whipped cream—and fed Morgana the occasional scrap. Akira promised him a can of tuna when they got back to Leblanc when he griped about not getting a better share; Ann scratched under his chin and giggled as he purred despite himself.

“Hey,” she asked, when Akira went to throw their trash away and get drinks, “has he told you why he wants to be called Akira?”

“Ryuji asked me that, too.” Morgana stared out at the crowd where Akira had vanished and sighed. “All I know is that’s what he wants to be called. A name is a kind of mask itself, you know.”

“You think he’s trying to be someone else?”

Morgana humphed. His tail lashed. “It’s hard to say. I know he has a strong sense of self—I felt it, when he first awakened—but it must be malleable, for him to use so many Personas. It could be that ‘Akira’ is just who he has to be to access that power.”

“Like, what, another personality?”

“No. I’m certain of that.” Now he was kneading her tights, and she winced at the pin-prick pain of his claws. “It’s—I think it’s complicated, but also simple. He… decided to change, and that meant throwing away who he used to be. Now he’s Akira. That’s all there is to it.”

“I don’t know,” Ann said, “can it really be that simple?”

“I don’t know,” Morgana said, simply. “But he’s Akira, now. You’ve seen how he gets when the teachers call on him in class. He doesn’t think of himself as Ren.”

They watched the crowds. Akira was nowhere in sight.

If Ann was being honest, Akira terrified her, still. The ruthlessness he displayed in battle and the gentleness he showed at other times could be switched on a dime; his iron-fisted leadership still shook her. There were times when Ryuji clearly wanted to scream at some puzzle or another but clearly deferred to some warning of Akira’s, gritting his teeth so hard she could hear them grind over the squeak of chains or the rumble of the floor as it gave way beneath them. It wasn’t healthy.

“Still,” she said, but wasn’t sure what to add. How odd it was was obvious; how sad it was, less so. She couldn’t imagine feeling the need to change that strongly. She couldn’t imagine ever needing to.

“Lady Ann?”

“No, it’s nothing,” she said, and there was Akira’s mop of hair drifting over the crowd. She grinned and thanked him for the water, and they sat together, sipping and talking at their leisure.

She wondered what he would do if she called him Ren. Ignore her? Stare until she used the right name? Pretend she never said it at all?

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Why Akira?”

Akira stared at her, bottle halfway to his mouth, lips parted just so. “What?”

“Why Akira?” she asked again. “Why not Ren?”

“Lady Ann,” Morgana tried to warn, but by then Akira’s bottle was forgotten. His face went soft and distant with reminiscing, and all the edges fell away to reveal a boy her age, just as lost and alone in the world as she was.

Even his voice was different. It was filled with longing. “Someone I love called me that.”

He was silent for so long she thought that was the end of it, but then he said, “But I left them behind to come here. ‘Akira’ is all I have left of the time we spent together. I was so…”

She waited for him to finish. He didn’t; he shook his head, gave her a soft, disarming smile, and held his bag out for Morgana. The cat slinked inside, tail pulling the zipper shut.

No, Ann thought. Not like this!

She grabbed for his arm again, caught at his sleeve, and rejoiced in the startled look Akira wore. “You were what?” she asked.

Akira stared at her hand, then back to her. He leaned in close. “Happy,” he finished. “And sad. Overjoyed that finally someone saw me; despondent because they left. They turned me into everything, then told me I had to become nothing again. I have never felt for anyone the way I did for them. That’s why ‘Akira.’ Call me a fool, but I can’t let go.”

He pried her hand off, as gently and carefully as he would Morgana’s claws snagged in on his blazer. There was something in his eyes that said it was the truth, and Ann shivered at the depths they tried to drag her into. Maybe he saw her fear; he said, “I would have watched the world burn if it meant another minute spent by their side, Ann. But it would have torn me to pieces. They knew that, and they pushed me away. Now all I have is the name they gave me. Isn’t that a good enough reason?”

Her mouth worked. Nothing came out. But just as he dropped her hand and turned, she managed to squeak out, “They?”

The smile he gave her told her everything: he wasn’t going to tell, not until he was ready. Then he was gone, swallowed up by the crowds again, and Ann was left with nothing, not even Morgana’s comforting weight. She shivered in the late spring evening, suddenly cold despite the day’s warmth.

And she thought of what it would mean, to love so fiercely as to ignore the world around her. To have someone cling to every scrap she gave them like they were made of gold. To be so consumed and to consume in return.

She breathed—in, out, chest shuddering—and drowned in the noise of the crowd.

Chapter Text

Takuto sat in the middle of his office and pondered.

It wasn’t really his office. It was the cubicle he was given at the practice he interned at, a tiny desk shoved into a corner and forgotten. The receptionist’s desk was barely five feet away, and his chair was always running into the wall of filing cabinets lining the back of the room. When he first started his desk was a dumping ground for unfiled paperwork; it had taken him days to clean it off and figure out the filing system.

Now it was empty. A plastic bag held everything he’d brought with him to the job—a mug Rumi had given him, the set of sticky notes she left at his apartment that weren’t erased with her memories—and everything he’d been loaned sat in a neat pile. Takuto never thought he would use so many paperclips in his life, but in the few months since he’d started, the box was already half-empty.

He picked it up and shook it.

“It’s a good thing you’re going, Doctor,” the receptionist said. “Those kids will need you.”

“Right,” he agreed. Some of their parents had already come by, looking for an appointment at Mr. Yoshizawa’s recommendation. The curt manner they’d been dealt with made Takuto’s heart ache—no one who felt they needed help should be turned away so brusquely—but he would help their children anyway, once he was employed at Shujin. They wouldn’t have to suffer.

And he could help them, Azathoth’s power or no.

Silence dragged on. Takuto’s boss was a man who always set appointments but never looked at a clock, and Takuto couldn’t leave until he returned. It was proper etiquette, and Takuto had been raised to be polite, even if it meant taking on the man’s patients while he was out wandering the streets.

He wondered who would help them, once he was gone.

“I tried what you told me,” the receptionist added.

“Ah,” Takuto intoned, thinking it over. Then it hit him. “Listening and understanding?”

“Yes,” she said. She tapped a finger on her keyboard; the dull click resounded. “My oldest is a junior in high school. He’ll have his career forms due at some point in the school year. I asked him what he wanted to do. He said he didn’t know.”

(“What do you mean you don’t know, Takuto?”)

“That’s a very reasonable response. Not many do, after all.”

“No,” she agreed, then laughed. “When I was in school, I wanted—I wanted to be a bartender. To listen to the everyday lives of customers and make their day a bit brighter—plus all the alcohol! I was on track to getting my license when I met my husband. My dreams fell apart after that. So, so when my son said he didn’t know, I thought, Oh, he’s a bit like me. I don’t know if I could go back to chasing my dream anymore. I have a family to look out for, after all.”

Takuto frowned. Was this really understanding?

“And then I remembered what you said, Doctor. Times change. People are different. My son is different from me. So I asked if he had a—a grander dream than a job. Did he want to create something great? Did he want to have a family? He didn’t have to. I told him so. He didn’t have to have anything of the sort. I just want him to be safe and happy. And, Doctor, I don’t think he believed me.”

“And why do you think that is?”

The answer came rapidly. “Because I never listened. I never understood. Before I knew it, my little boy was a teenager. Where did the time go, Doctor? We had—we had all this time—”

She broke off. Takuto’s chest ached, and deep in his mind, Azathoth stirred. He asked, “Would it make you happy, to have more time?”

“Doctor, I could have all the time in the world and it wouldn’t matter,” she said through a strangled throat. “All I want is for my children to be safe and happy. For my sacrifice to matter. That’s all.”

“That’s a mature way to think.”

But staring at her quivering shoulders made him think it was all an act. Of course she didn’t want to give up on her dreams; of course she wasn’t happy, watching her children grow up to be miserable. But… “Just because you grow up doesn’t mean you have to give up,” he said. “Just because your children need you now doesn’t mean they will forever. And when you’ve helped them grow into the adult you believed they could be, maybe then you can go back and do what you always wanted to.”

Maybe that would be her own kind of happiness.

She laughed wetly, and dabbed at her face with a tissue. “Do you think so, Doctor?”

Takuto opened his mouth, ready to answer—of course he did; just because her dreams were put on hold didn’t mean she couldn’t find them again; that just because she wasn’t happy now didn’t mean she wouldn’t be in the future—but the door banged open. Takuto’s boss, a man in his middle fifties whose face was just beginning to sag with age, shuffled through. His gentle smile didn’t so much as shake as he took in the crying receptionist and Takuto’s empty desk.

“Ah,” said his boss, “that’s today, is it?”

“It is,” Takuto said.

“Ah,” sighed his boss. He took a seat in a chair. “Let’s see it, then.”

Takuto didn’t rush to give him the paperwork, and the man didn’t rush to read it, going over every page with careful consideration. He signed where he needed to, asked the occasional question, and when he reached the last page, said, “You haven’t signed yet, Maruki.”

“No, sir,” Takuto said.

“Thought it would be presumptuous to?”

“Well…”

A laugh. “Of course you would, boy. At least you care.” A scribble, a stamp. He passed the papers back. “There, done. And at the end of your tenure, Maruki, if you decide you want to return, we’ll have a place for you.”

Now Takuto’s eyes burned. He blinked back tears and bowed. “I—thank you, sir.”

“Now, go on.” There was a distinct twinkle in the man’s eye, one Takuto couldn’t decide if he liked or not. “You’ve got students waiting for you.”

So Takuto went.

The principal’s office was much the same as last time, except there was a distinct air in the room of nerves stretched too thin for too long. Kobayakawa visibly sweated under the lights, his bald head gleaming.

Takuto thought of the trio of teenagers, popping into existence at the end of the alley, and the tensions running high in the halls. He placed the paperwork in front of him; the vice principal grabbed it up, looked through it, accused, “You haven’t signed yet, Doctor.”

“No,” Takuto said. He braced himself. “Because there are some questions I’d like to ask, first. Requesting a counselor for a school’s own personal use isn’t common, you understand.”

“Of course not!” Kobayakawa blurted. “We’re only worried for our student’s health, that’s all!”

“So it wouldn’t have anything to do with, say, thieves?”

That had been the word on everyone’s lips, coursing through the halls like a live wire. Something was stolen and no one knew what, and naturally that meant everyone wanted to know.

“Just a prank!” Kobayakawa assured him. “You understand how volatile a teenager’s emotions can be, Doctor. They get upset, act out, and then forget about it.”

Takuto regarded him. The vice principal was better at keeping tight-lipped, it seemed, because he went on, “Really, Doctor! We can’t tell you any more unless you’re contracted. The safety of our students comes first, after all.”

“Right,” Takuto said. He took the papers back, signed on the dotted line, and stamped. He gave them back to eager hands, leaned back in his seat, and got comfortable. “So. My answers, please.”

The two traded looks. “We… may be here a while, Doctor,” warned the vice principal.

“I have time,” Takuto said. “Surely you do as well?” To which he received a flurry of assurances—yes, they did have time, they had all the time Takuto was willing to give them—and a promise of refreshments, now that they were all working together. Takuto let them get the pleasantries out of the way while they waited for drinks and snacks to be brought in, and then sipped at a delicate blend of tea he would never be able to remember.

Then they got down to business.

The gist of it was that there was a… problematic member of the staff. He was capable of producing talented athletes—Shujin had won the volleyball Nationals numerous times under his coaching—but just as quickly burned through them. Talented or not, his athletes wound up with issues later on in life, whether it was an inability to handle stressful situations or an inability to so much as leave their home. Several had tried to commit suicide on school grounds. They weren’t sure how many attempted such off campus, just that the number of alumni donations had dwindled over the years.

(Money, thought Takuto, with far more scorn than he thought he was capable of.)

And recently there had sprung up rumors that this same staff member leaked private student records. That he pressured female students into sexual favors. That he goaded hot-headed students into violence. That he threatened the ones he didn’t like with expulsion, and that he was crafty enough to never be seen doing any of it by a faculty member.

“These are, of course, just rumors,” Kobayakawa said, sweat dripping down into his suit collar. “But here at Shujin, we take rumors seriously. We strive to create a place of learning where our students are both comfortable and secure in their safety. These actions are…”

Takuto tuned him out. He was tempted to ask how it had ever gotten this bad, but one look around the room at the trophy cases and placards on the walls gave him enough of an answer: Shujin prized results over everything else, and his being called here was a temporary fix for a much larger problem—worse, his being called here was nothing more than a PR stunt to help the school save face.

And if he could see that, surely the students—and the more general public—would be able to as well. They wouldn’t accept him or his help. Takuto feared he would sit in an empty office for days at a time with nothing to occupy his mind.

He would have to find something. His thesis, maybe, sitting largely forgotten on a flash drive in his apartment, even though the thought of returning to it made him remember his treatment over the past couple years. He hated thinking about it. He also hated thinking of changing focuses.

“… and so we would like to give the affected students priority counseling,” Kobayakawa finished. “No doubt they’re angered by their treatment. We want them to know we care, and that their voices can be heard.”

“I see,” said Takuto, who had at some point been given a rather thick file. He flipped through it: names and faces, years and grades, athletes and not.

The vice principal cleared his throat. “There is also the matter of the transfer student, Principal.”

Kobayakawa sighed.

Takuto glanced from the file. “A transfer student?”

“Shujin Academy has been graceful enough to accept his transfer while he’s on probation,” said the vice principal, and Takuto started. It wasn’t the way it was said, but the man’s attitude: as if he expected gratitude just for the offer, and he wasn’t receiving it. “And yet, despite warnings to keep clear of trouble, he’s been friendly with another troublesome student, was late on his first day—”

“That was, I believe, settled as a matter of his health,” the principal cut in.

“—and has, in general, been making a rather large commotion. And I don’t believe it was a matter of his health, sir. He was seen with Sakamoto”—this sneered, lip curled to bare a set of slightly crooked teeth—“and teenage boys like them will make any excuse they can to save themselves from the consequences of their troublemaking when they’re caught at it.”

Another heaving sigh. “In short, Doctor, I’m afraid you’ll have your work cut out for you. We’ll do what we can to alleviate some of your trouble, but the rest will have to be up to your own ability.”

Which was exactly what Takuto intended. But, “You think they won’t come to see me willingly.”

“Their trust in authority figures is… dubious, at best, yes,” was the response, and Takuto kicked himself. He should have realized. These delinquent students and the problematic staff member were connected, and it made him wonder how many other students would be the same way. How many still trusted an adult to listen to them? How many believed they could be helped now, after all this time?

I could have all the time in the world and it wouldn’t matter.

“I see,” Takuto said. He had his work cut out for him, then. If these students were ever going to be happy, they had to learn to trust him. He could help them then. He could, like Rumi and all the others, erase their troubles with the blink of an eye, a wave of a hand. They could work through the rest from there—because once they were happy, they would recognize that they had a future to look forward to.

And nothing would make Takuto happier.

When the meeting was finally over, Takuto paused by the entrance gates. If he concentrated hard enough, there was a faint shimmer in the air in the alley across it, and he thought he heard the slosh of water under his feet, and felt a desolate presence behind him. He dared to turn, and startled at the sight of ruin overlaying Shujin’s facade: tumbled stone walls, crumpled pennants, the glint of a half-shattered window whose glass had once been a colored marvel.

And then it was gone, in the blink of an eye.

For a while longer Takuto stood there, trying to discern whether it had been a trick of his mind—and then remembered the lab in Odaiba, and Azathoth’s words. YOURS, Takuto had been told, and it had been his.

The castle, then, must also be someone’s. Or maybe it had been, and its fall signaled… what? A collapse of thought? The very foundation upon which the mind built itself, disintegrating like so much sand?

He retreated to the alley, thinking of delinquent students and problematic staff members and the castle in ruins. The trio of students had appeared here and none of their peers had so much as acknowledged their presence. Leaked records and the threat of expulsion might have done that, and for all Takuto knew it was true. And who could prove that they’d appeared out of thin air? Anyone who said so was more likely to wind up in a therapist’s office than be believed.

“Azathoth,” he murmured, straining his eyes for another glimpse, and felt a presence unfurl within him, giving him its attention. “What do you think happened here?”

HURT, Azathoth said.

The students, was Takuto’s first thought. That much was obvious. But Azathoth waited, patient, and Takuto could almost envision the panic of a man at the end of his rope, clinging to the one thing that would bring him happiness, and fearing it being stolen. Thieves had been the word on everyone’s lips, and yet no one knew what was taken. How could they, if it was a castle? How could they, if it was—

He shuddered.

—if it was the pillar through which the castle was built upon, the very source of its expansive pride and its heavy-handed greed and its walls hung thick with lust? Look at me, those banners and windows and great towering turrets had once said, and know how great I am.

“Yes, I see you,” Takuto said, with a great, wrenching pang in his chest. If only he had known—if only Azathoth had come to him sooner, if only the school had requested his help faster—then there wouldn’t be a need for castles and kings to rule over them. There wouldn’t be a need for thieves.

But Takuto hadn’t known, and as always, he was left to pick up the pieces.

He headed for Odaiba, thoughts in a daze.

By the time he arrived at the lab, it was full dark. His limbs felt heavy; his head swam. If his lab was as vulnerable to thieves as the castle, then he needed fortifications and guards and—

“Doctor,” said the masked man as Takuto stumbled through the elevator doors. “It is good to see you return. Do you require something of your humble lab, sir?”

“Yes,” Takuto said. His work was going to make a great many people happy, and he couldn’t manage it on such a large scale without the lab. It had access to places Takuto didn’t, in a way he couldn’t understand. Why could he come here, and not enter the ruins of the castle? How many other places just like this one existed?

More important: could he help the ones who ruled over them, safeguarding their most important treasures?

Even more important: did he have such a thing as well?

So he said: “Show me that which I hold most dear.”

The masked man bowed and led him through the lab. Here was a cavernous hall with glass partitions that could very well be a research lab for medicines. There was a warehouse with the beginnings of shelves in view. Here was a series of rooms with the neat, crisp corners of hospital beds. He must have stopped there, staring; the masked man paused in mid-stride and said, “With any luck, this lab will take on patients in your name, sir. You shall not need to overburden yourself, and we will help a great many more people. We have even begun readying an area for patients with severe cases of suffering.”

“Severe?”

“Yes,” said the man. “Ones who will reject your aid, Doctor, without even questioning it. But the truth is that you care for them all deeply, is it not? Watching them do so—your humble assistants concern themselves with your well-being. All we wish is for you and your ideals to thrive.”

“You care,” Takuto said, haltingly, “about me?”

“You care about everyone,” said the man. “Why should some not do the same in return? Come, now. We are close.”

And so they went on, past the hospital rooms and up to the beginnings of a grand garden. Takuto blinked in the sudden daylight streaming golden through the branches of a large tree. Motes of dust winked silver in the light, and the perfume of flowers pervaded the air. He took a deep breath: daisies and primroses and wild ginger and the dry scent of grass baking in the sun. A trickle of water bubbled up from the ground at his feet, and before he knew it Takuto was knee-deep in a small pond upon which lotus blossoms floated.

“This is mine, too?” he asked.

The man only nodded. Takuto stood there for a long moment, thinking of warm spring days baking in his uniform and the field of wildflowers on the way to school and Rumi, who would stop to sniff one flower or another, her hair tumbling over her shoulders as she stooped.

His breath caught in his chest. If he shut his eyes, he could see her: the pollen on her blazer sleeve, the barrette she wore in her hair. The gentle smiles she sent his way, on the rare occasion she noticed him standing there, watching her and the dance of dragonflies in the field. Rumi was beautiful when she smiled. Everyone was.

And to smile, they needed to be happy.

“Alright,” he said at length, once the ache in his chest subsided. “Let’s keep going.”

Up they went, through another field of flowers, blossoms and vines trailing over archways, shading the gentle, sloping path and perfuming the air. Branches heavy with unripe fruit hung low over the horizon, just as golden and green as the sunlight filtering through the leaves. The fields were beautiful, and peace was heady in the air, thick enough that one could drown themselves in it. The only thing out of place was the staircase circling a large trunk, leading up into the canopy.

“This is as far as I may go, Doctor,” the masked man said as they came to it. “Forgive your humble servant for saying so, but it may be best if you were to see it for yourself first. It is a sacred place. It is yours and yours alone.”

“The lab is mine,” Takuto said, confused.

“So it is.” The man chuckled. “But it is also a place where we will receive patients, when the time comes. What lies ahead—none may enter except yourself and those wishing to harm you. It is the safest place to keep that which is most dear to you. We, your servants, will do our utmost to keep anyone from this place.”

He bowed. Takuto stared: first at the man, then at the staircase. Then he said, “You aren’t my servants. You’re my assistants. Together, we will help everyone we can.”

“You are too kind, sir.”

With that, Takuto braced himself and set foot on the staircase. He made his way up, and the light gradually thinned until it was night. The only illumination came from the floodlights outside; Takuto paused at the very apex of the stairs to spy the city of Odaiba spread out before him, dizzying in its smallness, through a gap in the branches that made up the wall. Night was well in swing down below: cars sped by; pedestrians stumbled, weary with exhaustion or drunkenness or both; storefronts and apartment lobbies twinkled like so many stars. It had its own charm, Takuto could readily admit, but…

He missed home. The fields, the air, the slow rush of the streams and rivers…

But Tokyo was where he needed to be.

He turned. The latticework of branches was loose, letting in light whenever the beams of the floodlights passed by. At the far end of the room was an altar, over which hovered a dazzling ball of light.

Takuto turned, surveying the room. There was nothing else here.

He turned back to the ball. When he put a hand out for it, it came to him, but its shape remained as amorphous and glittering in the palm of his hand as it had been drifting ten feet off the floor. He thought he could see things in it—the field, Rumi, dragonflies—but they blinked out as fast as they came, leaving his head aching the longer he tried to concentrate on it.

Was this really what he held most dear? Was this shapeless mass truly what he wished to protect, with all of his heart?

It couldn’t be.

And yet the masked man had said it was, and Takuto believed it, and—

YOURS, Azathoth rumbled, and Takuto could almost spy something curling down his arm, like a tendril or a vine, to touch the sphere.

“And you’ll help me protect it?”

MORE THAN THAT, Azathoth said. PROTECT IT. PROTECT YOU. PROTECT EVERYONE.

“Everyone?”

But Azathoth didn’t say. It retracted its tendril as Takuto let go of the thing he held most dear, whose shape wasn’t visible even to himself, because who could know what they held most dear until it was gone—

Ah. Was that how it was?

As he made his way down the stairs, Takuto thought he could rest easy on that particular worry. He was helping people. He was making them happy. The only ones who would come here and steal from him would be the exact kind of people he needed to help, and his assistants and guards would stop them before they ever made it to the top of the lab.

But… just in case…

“Was it to your liking, Doctor?” he was asked.

Takuto thought of that dark room, the tangle of branches blocking out so much of the light. How barren it was, and yet how exposed. It needed better protection.

“It needs better surveillance,” Takuto said. “This whole place does. If ones who wish to ruin my life’s work do come, I want to know where they are and what they’re doing at all times. Can that happen?”

“Of course, Doctor.” Beneath his mask, the man had to be grinning. Takuto heard it in his voice. “Anything you require will be yours.”

“Good,” he said. He took a deep breath of sun-dried grass and flowers and let thought seep out of him for one blissful, transient moment.

If only no one had to worry anymore…

If only no one had to hurt anymore…

Then they, too, could know such bliss.

And then they could finally be happy.

Akira was nowhere in sight when Ann got back to the table.

She plunked her plate down. Every square inch was covered in cake—several different kinds of chocolate, red velvet, matcha, a few she couldn’t even pronounce—and she took up her fork, trying to decide which one to try first. Strawberry? Orange? Cinnamon?

She shut her eyes, stabbed at random, and took a bite.

Delicate cake melted on her tongue. The icing held just a hint of fruit—raspberry, she thought—just enough to be refreshing, and it mixed well with the flavor—

A heavy thunk interrupted her thoughts. Across the table, Ryuji was hidden behind a mountain of meat. He practically drooled at the sight of it. “Oh, man,” he groaned in anticipation, fork hovering.

“What about Akira?” Ann asked.

“What about him?”

She indicated the empty couch they’d left him on. The only sign that he’d sat there at all was a small dusting of cat hair about the middle, and she definitely hadn’t seen him up and about at the buffet. He’d even taken Morgana with him.

Ryuji, loyal friend that he was, stared for a whole two seconds before shrugging. “Maybe he’s using the can.”

Then he tucked in, leaving Ann to stare at the buffet.

Akira had led them through hell and high water. Akira had commanded them in battle, had maneuvered them through a series of traps and puzzles and had, ultimately, helped them stand up to Kamoshida. He deserved a little more than assumptions of using the restroom.

(Even if they were true, Ann registered faintly.)

So she left her plate on the table, crossed to where Ryuji sat, and tugged him out of his seat. “Come on,” she told him, “we’re going to make up a plate for him. Wouldn’t you want some food waiting for you when you got back?”

Ryuji sputtered something about his meat going cold, but at a twist to his ear, growled out, “Alright, alright!” and stormed over to the buffet, where guests mingled in front of the tables. They seemed to take forever to pick out a single piece of food, chatting and gossiping instead of looking over their options.

But then again, they probably came here all the time. They could afford to be choosy.

Ryuji and Ann waited for several of the lines to die down, but after several minutes of standing around and listening to tittering laughter, they were still in the same place. Ryuji grit his teeth.

Ann caught his arm. “Don’t make a scene.”

He swallowed his protest. They looked around; the only buffet table that was clear offered a selection of beans, both domestic and exotic; Ryuji snatched up a plate, hurried over, and poured out several spoonfuls of each until the pile was as large as his head. “There,” he said, when he returned. There was a crazed look in his eye. Ann didn’t fight it.

By the time Akira came back clutching a stack of ceramic plates, cutlery gleaming silver over the top, she was three cakes into her own plate, Ryuji was devouring his cuts of meat at a rate only a vacuum could match, and the beans had grown cold.

“Got started without me?” he asked, taking his seat.

“Mm-hm,” Ann said, mouth too full with a thick, syrupy concoction that glued her teeth together.

“Don’t worry, dude,” Ryuji said, “we got ya some beans.”

“Beans,” Akira said, dryly.

Morgana popped his head out of Akira’s bag, regarded the pile, and said, “But Akira can’t have beans.”

“I can have some beans, like coffee,” Akira corrected him, staring with amusement, now, at the plate. “But definitely not that many, and not off that plate. These are gold-plated plates, Ann. Gold. Plated.”

Ann tried to say something, but between the syrup and a throat thick with cake, all that came out was a muffled, questioning sound. Akira gave her a small smile. “But I do appreciate the gesture. It’s a shame you’ll have to eat it on your own.”

He left with one of his plates, Morgana peering over his shoulder. Ann watched them make the rounds at the buffet—now cleared out, just her luck—pausing to peruse the selection, listen to gossip, and ask the occasional question of the workers. Whenever he did, they left disapproving frowns in their wake.

It was the cat hair, Ann thought. The stuff got everywhere. She dared a bite of beans—cold and greasy—and shoved a spoonful at Ryuji. He raised a brow at it.

“Akira can’t eat beans,” she explained, and got an eyeroll for her trouble. “Just eat it. We’ll get charged for waste if we don’t.”

Ryuji grumbled, staring from his plate to the beans, and then asked, “Think Mona’ll have some?”

Which was the reason she got to sweet-talk the cat into eating cold beans off Akira’s special plates. Akira himself had a modest selection of food that he seemed to pick at; it took him ten minutes to work his way through a steak, and by that time Ann had coaxed Morgana into having another spoonful of beans and Ryuji had gone for seconds to the meat table.

Ann said, “You don’t like the food, huh.”

Akira hummed. He gave Morgana a pity cut of ham. “I think the point is more for it to be enjoyed rather than shoveled down. And, well…”

He didn’t have to point it out: they stuck out like sore thumbs among the polished patrons, Ann and Ryuji with their blond hair and Akira looking like he didn’t know the business end of a brush, all of them high school students in Shujin’s uniform.

But they’d paid the fee to be here, just like the rest of them. What they thought shouldn’t matter; whether they believed the trio of students to belong didn’t matter. Ann and her friends had earned the right to sit among them and to enjoy the fruits of their labors.

… But Akira was right. It left a sour taste in her mouth.

It wasn’t fair.

Ann tossed her hair back and grinned. “Don’t worry about them,” she said, “just think about how good this food is! Wasn’t it worth it?”

“It certainly was, Lady Ann,” Morgana said. “Pass me some more of that fish, Akira.”

Akira used a spare fork to pass it to Morgana’s plate, then added more beans. The cat grumbled, but gamely downed another mouthful. Akira stared for another long moment at his plate, the trimmed fat from his steak, the finely shredded bok choy, a peach tart. He picked at a piece of broiled eggplant. “Right,” he murmured.

Ann let that sit for a moment. She stared at her plate of cake, felt her stomach turn over. Akira didn’t like it here. He wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

“You know,” she said, “if you really don’t like it—”

“I do, Ann,” he assured her, and threw her a grateful look. “It’s the people I can’t stand. I ask for plates I can use, they act like the world is ending. I ask what’s in the vegetable medley, and they sneer. They can’t even tell me if there’s real vanilla in the cakes. It’s…”

“Annoying,” she finished, and he nodded. He gave Morgana another piece of fish, then prodded at the plate of beans.

“I thought I was used to it. It’s really not that I don’t want to be here, Ann. Really.”

But now she was feeling awful about it. Akira put so much thought into what he ate and the staff couldn’t answer a few of his questions? And Ann had brought him here, all because she wanted to eat her way through the dessert menu?

(But she’d earned the right to. They all had. Hadn’t they?)

“Ann,” Akira said. “Really, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” She stabbed at her cake. She was almost glad Ryuji was taking so long at the buffet; he wasn’t here to see her blink furious tears back. “I should have—I don’t know, asked, beforehand. Ryuji would be happy anywhere, as long as there’s meat. You would be, too.”

“I like a bit more balance than that,” Akira denied, softly. “And if we went anywhere else, what would you be having? Would you be happy there?”

Now she was blinking back relieved tears. Akira cared. “But, I mean, you—”

“I’m happy with this, Ann. Really.” He nudged the cat at his side. “Morgana, too. All the fish he can possibly eat. How can I not be happy when you are?”

She sniffed, and forced herself to take another bite of cake. Chocolate, rich and smooth, melted on her tongue. Ann heard him get up for more food, heard Ryuji sit down, stuffing his face before his plate even hit the table, heard him come back.

She asked, “Can you really not eat beans?”

And Akira laughed, and explained.

Chapter Text

The squeal of feedback still rang in his ears hours later. Takuto found himself very busy for his first day on the job—swarmed not just with students who wanted counseling, but with students who wanted nothing more than to stare at him from the doorway; Takuto felt guilty every time he had to mention they had to leave space for anyone who wanted his ear and they groaned in dismay as they dispersed.

He didn’t remember high school being like this.

But then again, he hadn’t been nearly so interested in the goings-on around him. A new teacher or a temporary nurse or a transfer student wouldn’t have turned his head, much less caused him to gossip with his peers.

Then he frowned. Had he ever gossiped with his peers? He couldn’t remember. Surely he had—he remembered rumors, remembered rolling his eyes at how outlandish some of them were—but he couldn’t recall if he had been a part of the conversation or not.

How strange.

A knock at the door; Yoshizawa’s red hair preceded her as she peered in. “Hello, Doctor!” she chirped.

“Yoshizawa, hello,” he said, filled with relief at the sight of her smiling face.

She wandered in, hands clasped behind her. “I just thought I’d come in and say hello today,” she said, “and give you this! I know it’s not much, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

She held out a can of melon soda that couldn’t possibly have come from the vending machine in the courtyard. She set it on the table, then sheepishly added, “I wasn’t sure what kind of drink you usually enjoy, and this was the only, um, normal one, so…”

She was such a wonderful girl. “Thank you, Yoshizawa,” he said, and meant every word. “I’ll have to enjoy it later. And, if you’d like, I believe we’ve some time for a session.”

“Oh, no! I really just came to say hello and wish you good luck during your time here.” Her face fell. “I can’t take up time you could be using to help others, Doctor. I can wait my turn.”

He could push. It would be easy to; Yoshizawa liked to please, and Takuto thought they were long overdue for a session. But he said, “As long as you know you’re welcome anytime. I’m here to help you as much as everyone else.”

“Right,” she said, but then frowned. She looked to the floor for a moment. “Well, actually, I… I was hoping…”

“Yes?”

“One of the upperclassmen helped me out of some trouble the other day,” she admitted. “But, when I got to school, I learned he isn’t exactly, well… upstanding. But he was so nice to me. Do you think that, um, well…” She trailed off. Takuto let her collect her thoughts. “Will you please listen to him, Doctor? Whatever he has to say. I-I’m sure if you do, he’ll feel better, just like I did. I’m sure he’s not as bad a person as everyone is saying he is, so, I—”

I’m worried, her face said. He doesn’t deserve this.

Takuto had a feeling he knew who she was talking about. “Of course, Yoshizawa. That is my job, after all. I’m here to listen to everyone.”

She left shortly after, happy with his unspoken promise.

But all Takuto could hear, for a very long time, was, Fucking useless bastard.

So he’d made a mess of himself within the first hour of his new job. So he’d bumbled his way through attempts to connect; all last night he’d tossed and turned, unable to sleep more than few minutes at a time, and now he was paying for it with every sluggish thought and action.

The student body seemed to be split in three about his arrival: most of them were like the boy in the courtyard, spitting insults to his face; some were like his friend and Mishima, who clearly wanted to stay as far away from the limelight as possible; others had already crowded Takuto’s door, desperate to be heard and given advice.

And Takuto couldn’t blame any of them their actions. They acted the way they thought was best, the way they only knew how, the way that protected themselves.

His toes were sticky. There was a can of melon soda on the table, right beside the snacks, when the rest of the vending machines on campus were empty. Takuto could imagine Yoshizawa packing it with her lunch, or buying it at the train station, and all to prove that there was at least one person who was genuinely happy to see him.

That’s right. Yoshizawa was happy, and happy people were kind.

… Weren’t they?

Perhaps not. But Yoshizawa was, and that was all that mattered.

But.

He picked up the can. How did she know? Or was it the thought process of a high school student, to see a drink in a vending machine and think it was a good gift?

He cracked it open. Listened to the pop and fizz of carbonation in the quiet of the nurse’s office. Dared a sip; sugar burst across his tongue, the taste of melon almost overpowering. Yoshizawa would think it good pick-me-up if only for the way it startled the taste buds; Takuto had never been one for sweets, or for overly-sweet drinks. Neither had Rumi.

A knock at the door. Takuto placed the can back on the table, carefully, and said, “Come in.”

He was not expecting Takamaki. He definitely wasn’t expecting the doubt stamped across her features; he showed her to a seat, put the sign up on the door, and made her a cup of tea.

“Thanks,” she said, with a small, grateful smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He soon found out why. Her story took a good while and several more cups of tea that she smiled and thanked him for, the heat doing nothing to buoy her spirits. By the end of it she was nearly in tears, and Takuto found himself speechless.

A problematic staff member, indeed.

“I see,” he said, making a note to get the full story from the rest of the staff—or better yet, from Kobayakawa himself. The man owed him answers; Takuto didn’t want to ply them from the very people he was tasked with helping. Just looking at them reliving their experiences made his chest ache. “What an awful thing to do to someone.”

“She won’t tell me exactly what happened, but…” Takamaki sighed, slumped back in her chair, gaze distant. “I know it was bad. And I know it was bad enough to make her… well, I’m sure you’ve heard.”

Takuto had not, but he could put two and two together.

“She’s been my best friend for years. Watching her be ground down like that, it… I hated it. I hated what he was doing. I hated him for hurting her. I wanted him to hurt the same way, too.”

“But?” Takuto asked when she paused, as if searching for the right words.

“But what good would it do,” she said, with another sigh, leaning her head back to stare at the ceiling. Her hair fell over the back of the seat in golden waves. She ignored it. “What good would it do anyone, I thought. Him dying wouldn’t help anyone he’s hurt. It wouldn’t make Shiho better. It felt like, if he did the same thing, he’d be getting to run from the consequences of his actions. Maybe it’s petty, but I want to see him suffer for what he’s done for a long, long time.”

Takuto thought of a man with a knife. Of Rumi, screaming and falling to the floor. Of a bloody bedroom and her tears cutting tracks down her face. Of wishing for nothing more than to see that man go through the same. “I don’t believe it is. Petty, I mean. We all have things we can’t forgive. In fact, I’d say it’s rather mature of you to realize your first line of thinking wouldn’t help anyone. That there would only be instant gratification and nothing to follow.”

That surprised her. She jerked forward. “I—I don’t think it was that big a deal—”

“But it is,” Takuto insisted. “He’ll have to face what he’s done, now. What could be worse than that?”

“I can think of a few things,” Takamaki said, but didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to: Takuto could fill in the blanks on his own.

She finally dared to peruse the snack basket, picking out a small bag of cookies and diving right into them. “Ugh, now that I’ve said all that, I’m so hungry all of sudden. I don’t give a rat’s ass about Kamoshida anymore—he’ll get what he deserves and that’s all that matters. I just want to hang out with Shiho like we used to, before everything got so…”

“Out of control,” Takuto suggested.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I know that if it all hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be the person I am right now, but at the same time, it’s… still kind of hard to accept. I want her to be happy, but I also like the friends I’ve made because of it, too. Does that… make me a bad friend?”

“Sometimes we have to be a bit selfish with our friendships,” Takuto said. “One where you simply give and give and never take time for yourself, that isn’t very healthy. But you’re a wonderful person, Takamaki. I’m sure you could have made friends without a tragedy to tie you together.”

She hummed in thought, digging through the bag for crumbs, but came up empty. “You think so?”

“Of course,” he said. Bright, cheerful people always attracted others. Rumi had been that way—their classmates and Takuto himself had been drawn to her easy smile and her inclusive personality. With Rumi, no one ever felt alone.

He missed her more than he realized.

“Huh,” Takamaki said, staring at him, now.

The clock was behind her. Takuto broke her gaze to check it and startled at the time. “Goodness, we’ve been at this for a while, haven’t we?”

She checked it; her jaw dropped. “Oh, no!” she panicked. “I told Akira and Ryuji I was going to join them for lunch! What’ll I do?”

“You still have some time,” Takuto said. “We can call it here for the day, and know that you’re always welcome back anytime, Takamaki.”

She stared at him, hard, then grinned. “Even if it’s just for more cookies?”

“I’ll be sure to stock up.”

She left. He took down the sign, thoughts brimming over.

The castle had been Kamoshida’s, he thought. Its ruin was tied to the theft of its cornerstone, and if the masked man in Odaiba was to be believed, the guards of the place wouldn’t have let it leave without a fight. And Kamoshida himself… his change of heart was tied to that, somehow.

A metaphysical space like that… How had those teenagers gotten inside of it? Were they, too, like Takuto? Or were they different, being able to traverse inside it?

If they were… If they truly were…

Did that mean Takuto could, as well?

“Man, Ann’s late,” Ryuji grumbled.

Akira, his lunch already eaten and packed away, only nodded. Morgana was making laps around the rooftop, muttering to himself about suspicious counselors and how he should have gone with her for her safety, and the restraint with which Akira kept himself from reminding him that it would have been a violation of her trust to deserved some kind of award.

The cat was obsessed. It was kind of creepy.

“Dude, Mona, knock it off,” Ryuji said, sweeping the cat up in his arms. Morgana hissed and whined and bared his claws, and that was all the incentive Ryuji needed to throw him back to the floor. Stupid effing cat. “Ann’s fine. She prolly just got caught up talkin’. You know how girls get.”

Morgana only glared, kitty pride bruised.

Then his ears pricked up, his whole body at attention—the door to the roof slammed open, and he ran and hid behind the exhaust vent.

“I,” Ann panted, “am so sorry, guys!”

“Finally!” Ryuji set his chair down on all fours with a solid thunk; Morgana crept out from hiding as Ann made her way over. Her lunch sat exactly where Akira had set it twenty minutes ago, and she dug in with gusto.

“I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?” she asked, through a mouthful of rice. “I just lost track of time, I guess. Doctor Maruki is super easy to talk to, and unlike some people, he actually listens.”

Ryuji’s indignant Hey! was lost under Morgana’s mewling laughter.

Akira waited until the noise died down and asked, “That so?”

“Yeah! I feel loads better. You guys should totally try it!”

Talk to some crummy adult the school brought in to save their own asses? As if. Ryuji would rather deal with Kamoshida’s weird-ass Shadow all over again.

But Akira was making a considering face at her words. “Oh, no,” Ryuji groaned. “Not you, too, man.”

“Unfortunately, it’s mandatory for me, with my record and all,” Akira said, and tugged at a hunk of hair. “You really think he’s that great, Ann?”

“Not great, exactly, but…” She paused. “I just got the feeling that he really cares, you know? And he doesn’t judge, either. That’s, uh, probably part of his job, but still.”

Akira hummed and shut his eyes in thought. Morgana wheedled some bits of Ann’s lunch out of her, and Ryuji wondered what the big deal was, with counselors and all that junk. What good would talking to a stranger do? Doctor Maruki didn’t know him, and Ryuji didn’t want his pity.

Akira nodded to himself. “I’ll go after school. Give everyone else the chance to see him, if they want to.”

Because just the sight of Akira would scatter them all like birds to the wind. Assholes.

But it didn’t matter. It was their loss; Akira was easily one of the best people Ryuji had ever met, and he didn’t deserve to be stared at like some kind of exhibit or whispered about like he had the plague.

They chatted until lunch ended, then hurried back to class. Ryuji, never able to sit still for longer than five minutes, fidgeted and struggled to focus on the board—one minute it was math, the next it was English, and when he glanced down at his notes there was just a scrawl of information that ended just as abruptly as it began.

Classes ended. Ryuji, faced with the idea of waiting for Akira after his counseling session, decided that he didn’t want to hear how great it was. Maruki was some last-ditch effort from the school to look good, and they all knew it, so why bother?

He headed home, thoughts flipping between Akira looking as if he was looking forward to talking some random adult’s ear off and questioning why Ryuji wasn’t good enough to vent to instead. School-mandated or not, a little more apprehension on Akira’s part would have been nice. More than nice.

Ryuji toed his shoes off at the door, caught sight of his face in the mirror hanging on the wall—brow furrowed, angry frown, jaw clenched—and stared.

“Ryu?” his ma said, glancing over from the kitchen. The smell of cooking meat filled the apartment; her lounge shirt, already covered in stains, now boasted a few more.

She needed an apron, he thought, though it wasn’t as if she would ever wear one.

“Hey, Ma,” he muttered, still pissed but now feeling guilty about bringing it home. She didn’t deserve to see this. She didn’t deserve to deal with it.

She made it her business anyway. “Did something happen? You look, well. Upset, dear.”

Her tone made it sound as if it could be anything from a failed test to a skinned knee. Her eyes asked if it was another Kamoshida, another rotten adult taking advantage of her only son.

“It’s dumb stuff, Ma,” he assured her. “Don’t worry about it.”

He moved past her into the living room. He thought about Akira and what he would be doing, now. Whether he would come to school tomorrow singing Maruki’s praises like everyone else. Whether Ryuji would be able to stand it.

“It’s that counselor the school hired, isn’t it?”

He froze in his tracks.

“They sent out an email about it,” his ma said. “They sent me a follow-up saying you have to go, Ryu. Is that it?”

“It’s just ‘cause of Kamoshida.” He thought of priority. He thought of preferential treatment. The thought made him sick. “’Cause of, y’know, what he did. Guess they think I’m still mad about it.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” he snapped. “But it ain’t just Kamoshida, it’s—it’s their whole effin’ attitude. They never cared before, when it mattered, and—”

Ryuji bit his tongue to keep from screaming. If none of it had happened, he wouldn’t be friends with Akira. He told himself that like a mantra: he wouldn’t have Akira, he wouldn’t have the Phantom Thieves, he wouldn’t have his own goddamn pride.

But if it hadn’t happened, Ryuji would still have the track team, and his leg wouldn’t be effed up to next Tuesday, and he would still have his scholarship. He wouldn’t be such a burden. It was too goddamn much.

“And now, lo and behold, they’re extending their goodwill unto us all,” his ma said, one hip resting against the table. “Fat lot of good it does you and me, huh?”

“Yeah.” His voice did not break. It didn’t. It didn’t.

“Come here, Ryu.”

He knew that tone: she wouldn’t take no for an answer. He dropped his bag and shuffled over and folded into her embrace, her hair in his nose and her hands raking through his, the sizzle and pop of the pan on the stove lost to the thrum of her voice humming away in his ear.

After a while, she said, “If you really don’t want to see him, I’ll tell them so. It’s none of their business going around doing this after what you’ve been through, anyway. But you’ll be alright, won’t you, Ryu?”

He thought of Ann and Akira and Morgana. They were making a difference. They were helping people.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be alright.”

But he stayed close to her for the rest of the night. They ate dinner; they watched a movie they’d seen a dozen times before, when Ryuji was laid up in bed after the incident. Halfway through he stopped watching it to focus on her: on the new wrinkles setting in on her face and the sudden thinness of her hair and how small she seemed, now that he was older. He thought of Ann saying, He doesn’t judge. He thought of the look in Akira’s eye, expectant and eager.

And he thought, if it didn’t burden his ma any more… if it didn’t mean excessive emails about the school’s concern… if it didn’t mean watching her worry so damn much…

“Guess I can give it a try,” he muttered, during the loudest part of the movie. His ma didn’t hear, too engrossed in the action, and this was his favorite part.

Ryuji sat back and lost himself in it.

Ann was quiet when she entered the room.

Shiho’s pain medication made her tired, and she slept most of the day away—a good thing, by her own words—and today was no exception. She didn’t stir as Ann made her way over and changed out the flowers at her bedside, or when she placed down the thick book she’d asked Ann for, or even when Ann sat in the chair by her bed. It gave a low squeak of protest that made Ann wince.

Shiho didn’t notice.

She slept for a while longer, long enough for Ann to finish her homework—

(“You should be doing it, you know,” Akira said, after she’d admitted to forgetting not once, but two days in a row. “A little here and there goes a long way.”

Morgana piped up with, “And we don’t need any more lugheads like Ryuji, either.”)

—and to pull out her phone. Texts from Ryuji and her agency and her parents, and she thought, with guilt, that right now they weren’t the ones she wanted to be talking to. Akira was the only one who seemed to understand how painful it was to look at Shiho like this, like a washed-out version of her old self. But she hadn’t been her old self in a long time, and Ann had been too blind to see it.

But now? Now Ann saw the truth.

Shiho’s fingers were cold when Ann took her hand. The nails were in serious need of a trim, and Ann resolved to bring her manicure kit next time. It would be just like their middle-school sleepovers, except this was a hospital. Ann wasn’t sure if she could bring nail polish in, but hell if she wasn’t going to try.

Shiho deserved everything. Shiho deserved a lot more than lying here in this hospital bed.

And to think, it would have been so easy to bring Kamoshida down to this pathetic, pale excuse for an existence. The Phantom Thieves had changed his heart; they’d been ready to do it or die trying, and it still bewildered Ann that they came out the victor.

It’s always going to be like this, Ann realized. Life or death battles in a cognitive world to match the life or death fights everyone fought everyday—the only difference being that in the cognitive world, anything went, and in the real one…

Shiho sighed, stirring. She squeezed her hand, squinted into the bright lights of her room. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. “Ann?”

“Shiho! Hey,” Ann said. Even this was a victory, and it buoyed her heart to know that Shiho had survived.

Shiho tried to match her grin for grin. It shook and wobbled, and before long she was yawning. “Sorry,” she muttered, as Ann fetched her some water. “If I knew you were visiting, I would have stayed awake.”

“You can’t help it,” Ann reminded her. “How long do you have to be on that stuff, anyway?”

“A while. I’m not sure how long.” She took a long sip of water. Ann dug through her bag, determined to find her present; it was buried underneath her science notes, and to her relief, hadn’t dripped cream all over everything. She presented it.

Shiho stared at it.

“Go on,” Ann said. “It’s for you!”

Shiho began to giggle. “Only you would sneak a crepe into a hospital,” she said. Then she asked, “Is it blueberry?”

“Of course! Only the best for you, Shiho!”

That cheered her up; she unwrapped it and dug in. With every bite she made little squeals of delight, and by the time she was swiping the leftover cream off the paper and licking her fingers, Ann felt as if she was on top of the world. Nothing could bring her down from this, not even—

“Oh, that’s right,” Shiho said. “I’m being moved to the rehab center next week.”

“The… the rehab center,” Ann said, slowly.

“It’s right down the road. I won’t be going far.” She stared at her lap. “You saw how I fell. Everyone says it’s a miracle I woke up at all. But everything hurts, Ann. I can’t even use the bathroom without help. You don’t know what that’s like, to go from—” She broke off.

“From who you were,” Ann finished for her, “to this.”

Shiho nodded.

Ann bit her lip. There was a lot she wanted to say—that it didn’t matter what her condition was, as long as she was alive and conscious—but she thought of Ryuji, and how he would have reacted last year. He’d think he was being patronized. He’d spit in her face, full of red-hot anger.

The old Shiho wasn’t like that. But maybe she needed to be. Maybe it would have been good for her, to be angry at Kamoshida’s treatment.

But maybe it would have been good for them all.

So she blurted out, “The teams got disbanded, you know.”

“I do,” Shiho said, and looked to the flowers at her bedside. Ann hadn’t been the first one to bring a bouquet, but she’d done so every time after, and the tiny forest of vases had gradually shrunk to two.

“So, um, everybody’s lost right now. Everybody’s feeling”—crippled? No, not that word. Something else, something less dreary—“hobbled, and—”

Shiho laughed. “Hobbled, Ann?”

“You know what I meant! Hobbled! They can’t—you know! Move around so well!”

“Right,” Shiho said. “Hobbled.”

A bit of hair was brushing her chin. Ann flicked it out of her face. “So! I think you aren’t the only one feeling like this. Lost, and confused, and—”

“Hobbled,” Shiho muttered, with a grin.

“Right,” Ann said. “Hobbled.”

Then they shared a look, and broke out into laughter.

When the worst of their giggles died down and Shiho was left clutching her ribs and brushing tears from her eyes, she said, “You’re awful at this, Ann.”

“I know,” she agreed. “I just couldn’t stand to see you so down, and everything I wanted to say felt, I dunno, condescending? You’re alive, Shiho. You know that’s all I could ask for.”

“I’m alive, huh.” She took a moment to ponder that. Ann got her more water. “And if I didn’t want to be? What would you do then?”

Ann jerked so hard the glass nearly slipped from her hand, soaking her fingers and sleeve. For a long moment she couldn’t speak; when she did, her voice was a whisper. “What do you mean?”

Shiho regarded her. The look said everything.

“I—” It wasn’t something she liked to think about. Life without Shiho in it would be like a life without strawberries or chocolate. It would be like not knowing the warmth of sunshine on her skin or the refreshing breeze of a brisk autumn day.

But. If that was what Shiho wanted…

“Is that what you want, Shiho? Do you still—still want to—”

Could she be that selfish? Could she make Shiho live on for her sake?

Sometimes we have to be a bit selfish, Doctor Maruki had said, but it felt as if all she had been doing was being selfish. She wanted Shiho to be happy, too.

“If—if that was what you wanted, Shiho, I—”

But she couldn’t say so.

“I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

“I thought so,” Shiho said.

“Seeing you like that,” Ann said, “all broken and—and twisted, a-and—I hated it! I hated it so much! And I hated feeling like I let you down, that I m-must have missed something, that—”

“Ann,” Shiho said, gentle and soft, as Ann broke out into sobs.

“And then I hated that I was thinking only about myself,” Ann managed to say. “You were hurting, and all I could do was—”

Shiho’s cold fingers in her hair. Shiho’s hand, as gentle and soft as her voice. “So was I,” she said. “So was I, Ann.”

Ann didn’t ask her to elaborate. It would be too much. Ann wouldn’t be able to handle it. So she rested her head in Shiho’s lap and let herself cry—at the relief of having her best friend again, at the anger she still felt for herself, at the whole world for being such a cruel and unjust place—and Shiho cried too, for reasons Ann only wished she could understand.

Or maybe she did. Maybe Shiho was relieved, too, to still be alive despite everything. And maybe she was angry at herself, too, and hated how unfair the world was.

So they clung to each other, desperate for a lifeline in the turbulent waters their lives had become.

Her phone was acting up again.

Kasumi Yoshizawa prodded at it, willing it to work, but the screen fizzed with static. Like the dozen times before, nothing she did worked; she couldn’t even power it down if she wanted to.

And just when she’d been thinking of calling Yuriko, too.

It was such bad timing she couldn’t help but think it might be deliberate. That some god somewhere didn’t want her to reach out—that perhaps she would find only more bad news, only more tears and heartache, only more grief and sorrow—and she, helpless, was caught in their whims.

She gave up and stuffed her phone in a pocket.

Outside, the late night crowd rushed by. If she only dared to enter it she would return home to a hot meal and a warm bath and her mountain of assignments; if she only dared to become a part of the throng, she, too, could emerge from her bed well-rested and ready for a new day.

Instead she sat, gym bag at her feet, muscles aching.

She didn’t remember ever working so hard on her routines in her life. She certainly didn’t remember coach yelling quite so much, or the disappoint on her face, or the whispers of the other gymnasts as Kasumi struggled with what used to come so naturally.

Or… maybe she did. She had a feeling it had always been that way, but she just hadn’t seen it. Maybe she’d just been putting their gossip as far back in her mind as she could, and now she couldn’t ignore it anymore, and that was the real reason she didn’t want to step out into the crowd: too much chatter all around her, too many roving eyes, too many people expecting her to be—

To be—

To be… what? Perfect? No one was perfect.

Then, what? Grief-stricken? Would she be better off lying around in bed all day, bemoaning her own misery, reliving that day over and over again, wondering what if, what if, what if—

Her phone rang. Her dad, calling, worrying. Another train delay, another accident. Yes, maybe he should come pick her up; she wasn’t feeling the crowd tonight, and she wanted him nearby, where she could reach out and hold onto him if she wanted to. Reach out and pull him back to her, if she had to. Reach out and save him. She couldn’t stand the loneliness the thought tried to drown her in.

And maybe he heard it in her voice, or maybe he couldn’t say no, after what happened: an hour later he was there, a warm arm around her shoulder in the crush of the crowd, so brief on the way to the waiting car, her dad’s voice in her ears.

Kasumi sat, safe and nestled in her seat, and for the first time in hours let herself relax.

Everything was going to get better. She just had to give herself time. That was all.

But as she stared out at the Tokyo night, that small shred of doubt remained. Something or someone didn’t want her to talk to Yuriko, and it was such a silly thought it seemed almost laughable, except for the evidence buzzing away in her pocket, resisting her at every turn.

No, she thought with a bemused huff. There was just something wrong with her phone. Maybe it had broken in the accident and she just hadn’t noticed until now—yes, that was a much better thought than some god toying with her for their own amusement.

But she still asked, “Have you heard from Yuriko lately?”

“Yuriko?” her dad asked. “Just that she did well at her last tournament. Your aunt and uncle were very proud. Why, what brought this on?”

“No reason,” she said. She couldn’t even remember why she wanted to talk to Yuriko. Something about the ache deep in her chest. Something about the way Coach Hiraguchi had stared. “I just got to thinking about her earlier, that’s all.”

“Oh,” her dad said. “Well, you could give her a call. Catch up a little.”

“No, I shouldn’t. It’s late,” she deflected. “She’s a senior now. She has”—more important things to focus on than little Kasumi, lost and alone—“tests and such coming up. She should focus on those. We can always catch up later.”

Her dad hummed, not liking her answer. But he didn’t pry, either. The accident was still too fresh in everyone’s minds, and Kasumi didn’t want to be the one to remind them of it, and he had to know that.

Even if she did want to talk to Yuriko.

Even if she couldn’t remember why.

Kasumi gazed out at the night, and tried to think happier thoughts.

He had his work cut out for him.

Shujin was more than just a den of angry teenagers, Takuto was finding. It was a tangle of other realities, all of them layered over the school in a hodge-podge of scenery: greenhouses and gladiator arenas and circus tents and the ruins of that castle, its bricks lying at his feet. He was safe in the nurse’s office, but outside its door things slithered or clanked or glided by when he let his mind wander. He was reminded of his lab assistants, pacing the hallways in endless pursuit of intruders that didn’t exist, those eerie masks giving them only the semblance of humanity until Takuto stopped focusing and forced himself to relax.

With all of these people in need of his help, he couldn’t go and burn himself out so quickly.

But even still, he found himself walking the familiar streets of Odaiba, searching for the floodlights of his lab, walking that bricked path, gliding up in that gaudy elevator.

When the masked man stepped forward to greet him, Takuto stopped him with a hand. “I want to meet Azathoth. Can you do that?”

A deep, referential bow. “Of course, Doctor. Right this way.”

And Takuto followed, thoughts swirling.

By now the maze of hallways was beginning to be familiar, and Takuto let his mind wander as they went. There was no question that his lab and the castle were one and the same. There was even no question that the men and women—and Takuto used that term loosely, now—patrolling the halls were one and the same. They looked different, but underneath, they were made of the same material.

And this way Takuto had an explanation of where they came from. A very basic explanation, but one all the same.

And Azathoth had led him here.

By the time they stopped Takuto’s resolve was set even further. Tonight, he would meet Azathoth. Tonight, he would have his answers.

What was it Akira had asked? If you could save thousands through the suffering of one, would you?

And Takuto had replied that it was the only way. Someone always had to suffer. Someone was always going to be the axis around which the wheel of good fortune turned. Someone was always going to hurt so that someone else might thrive.

… And Azathoth had led him here.

“If you will, Doctor,” the masked man said, and gestured to the medical table. Surrounding it was a plethora of machinery, and a screen covered in static hung high above.

Takuto did not see the point of it all. “What’s this?”

“A machine to see inside the heart,” the man said. “Though I fear it may do no more than to regurgitate trauma, it may still allow us to help those with more… troublesome issues. Ones they can not or will not speak of. It is the only device your humble assistant can think of that will allow you to find whom you seek.”

So Azathoth was no person, masked or otherwise. Just the confirmation was enough to make Takuto want to run; instead he set his shoulders and squared his jaw and asked, “Is it, now?”

“Yes.” A deep bow. “However, it has not yet been tested. Perhaps we should find—”

“No,” Takuto said. “I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever I have to.”

Because Akira’s words rung out louder than ever before, ones that Takuto had been avoiding asking: Why did it have to be me?

Takuto only hoped he liked the truth.

Chapter Text

She was beautiful.

Takuto peered at her over the edge of his book. Lit gold by the setting sun, a gentle smile on her face, the wind blowing petals into her hair—Rumi was beautiful.

He stared down at the pages, determined to hide his heated cheeks. Even thinking her name gave him goosebumps and sent a pleasant tingle down his spine, like the first touch of a hot bath on a cold day. He wanted to soak in the sight of her until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. He wanted to see her, always, just as she was now: utterly beautiful and radiant enough to rival the sun.

But Takuto was a coward. He plowed on, reading the same sentence over and over again, determined not to let her realize he’d been watching. He only breathed when the fragrance of the wildflowers in the field was lost to the stone and exhaust of the residential street and the rustle of dry grasses gave way to the laughter of children rushing home before curfew.

One of them ran right into him. Startled, Takuto looked down to spy a mop of honey-brown hair and a glare so fierce it made him take a step back. “Ah, sorry,” he said. “Are you hurt, or…”

His words hung in the air as the kid turned, still glaring, and ran down the street. Takuto watched him follow the stream of other kids in hand-me-downs and beat-up backpacks to the bus stop, where they would board and ride out to the edge of town.

Orphan kids. No wonder the boy had glared, then.

Takuto fished his book from the sidewalk, brushed the dirt from its pages, and continued on home. The tiny two-story home he shared with his parents sat square in the middle of the residential street, and as he came in through the gate Takuto noted that the flowers in the front garden needed watering. They always tended to wilt in the heat, and summer was just around the corner.

Summer. Endless days to spend however he pleased, whether it be lazing about with a book or two or meandering the streets until the sun set; his few friends, set to inherit their family businesses or busy with part-time jobs for the summer, wouldn’t be around to eat his time.

He dreaded it.

“I’m home,” he called softly at the genkan, toeing his shoes off. From the kitchen came the scent of slow-roasting meat; his mother, at the table, looked up from where she shelled peas to give him a tired smile.

A bad day, then.

“How is he?” he dared to ask anyway.

“Fine enough, now,” his mother said, brushing hair from her face. “There was a… commotion, earlier, and you know how he gets.”

He wasn’t always like this, Takuto wanted to remind her, but from the tears shining in her eyes, she knew already. This was not the same man she’d married all those years ago. This was a shell of a person, given back to them after…

Well, Takuto still wasn’t sure what had happened. Something had, or his father wouldn’t have returned like… this.

Instead, he only mentioned the wilting flowers in the garden and offered to take care of them so his mother could rest for a while longer. She gave him a grateful smile, and sent him off, and it was only as he was passing the room by the stairs that he heard the shuffle of paper being folded; Takuto dared a peek.

The man inside sat hunched over a table, bone scorer in one fist making the slow, slow fold. His shirt hung loose on his frame, and his hands were so thin Takuto still couldn’t believe his father was only forty. The shock of gray in his hair didn’t help; neither did the glacier-like pace of his actions.

Takuto wondered what it was this time. Origami? No, not on a bad day. Envelopes, then. Something simple where the slide of the scorer would wash away the noise of the day and he wouldn’t have to worry about folding some delicate wing the wrong way.

As if the man worried. As if he wasn’t anything but… this.

Takuto continued on. He watered the plants. He thought of Rumi, later that night as he did his homework at his desk; what would she be doing over summer vacation? What sort of plans could someone so vibrant make?

He wanted to know.

But he knew that he would never be able to ask.

“A summer job?”

Takuto paused. His bite of scrambled eggs fell back to his plate.

“Ms. Umeda and I got to talking at the store,” his mother explained. “You know I wouldn’t have, but that poor woman—she has twice as many children to look after as last year, and she looked so—so exhausted, you know, the next thing I knew I was offering to help.”

“Offering me to help.”

A nod. She at least had the decency to look ashamed. “You’ll be out of the house, most days.”

“I could help you.”

“You just make it worse, Takuto,” she said. “You know that. He doesn’t—he still thinks you’re a child. He can’t put two and two together. And, think about it—you’ll have the chance to talk to those kids. To see if you can help, like you say you want to—”

“I don’t just say it,” he defended. “I do want to.”

“Just think about it,” she said, too sharp, and that was the end of it.

He went to school, thinking of the orphan kids running around the streets. He found himself wondering what Rumi would do; she was a good person who would be more than willing to take his mother up on her offer, and she would be happy doing it. Rumi, he thought, wouldn’t need to think it over. She would have said yes at the table.

If he thought about it, he was just angry his mother hadn’t asked him first. Sure, he didn’t want to stay at home, but even the illusion of choice was better than nothing.

But his mother had her hands full with his father. Her emotional state was far beyond frayed. Takuto didn’t want to make it worse.

“I’ll do it,” he announced when he was home again.

The next weekend found Takuto cresting the hill on the outskirts of town, a homemade lunch and some snacks stuffed into the bag bouncing at his hip. From the bus stop to the orphanage it was a decent hike; Takuto couldn’t believe kids did this every day. It didn’t feel right. Anything could happen to them on the long trek home, and he didn’t want to think about how early they had to leave to catch the bus into town. He could imagine them huddled together in the darkness of an early winter morning, breath fogging the air as they passed under streetlights, the hushed quiet broken only by the scuff of their shoes on the pavement.

And then he rounded on the orphanage proper, and laughter echoed all around.

The building itself had seen better days: the paint was peeling and the garden was overgrown and the stones making up the fence were loose in their placement. The gate squealed a protest when he entered; the laughter cut off just as quickly.

Takuto shut the gate, wincing at the noise. He turned back to the yard, where kids had frozen in place, various toys clutched in their hands. A boy Takuto’s age brushed dirt off his back and made for the door, sending a questioning stare over his shoulder.

Had Ms. Umeda not mentioned his visit?

“Relax, guys,” said a boy still on his back, with several children clinging to his arms. “Ms. Umeda mentioned we’d have help over the summer, didn’t she?”

“We don’t need help,” someone grumbled.

“Says you,” was the retort. “You runts are more work than you realize, you know.” He brushed off their hands, stood with an easy grace, and then wandered over. Even hunched he was taller than Takuto, with a lop-sided grin that reached his eyes. That grin quirked as he took Takuto by the elbow and steered him inside.

“They don’t like strangers too much,” the boy explained as they crossed the threshold into an entrance hall; a large shoe rack filled one wall, filled with more pairs of ratty sneakers than Takuto ever thought he would see in one place. The slippers weren’t much better; the pair Takuto put on had a loose heel that dragged as he walked.

He thought of strangers coming around all the time. Potential new parents, new fosters, social workers, children. “I don’t blame them.”

A snort, as if it was funny. “That so?”

“Yeah.”

He got an appraising look for his trouble. They veered past a large dining room, table covered in a mess of notebooks and papers and various writing utensils, and into the kitchen, already bustling with activity.

Of course, Takuto thought. It took a lot of work to feed so many kids.

His guide asked after Ms. Umeda; a twelve-year-old girl answered, her too-large apron covered with various stains, her wide eyes focused on Takuto. “She’s with Akechi.”

“Again?” his guide sighed.

She nodded. “He was using the phone again.”

A groan. She was thanked, and stared after them as they left; Takuto’s guide muttered about phone calls being expensive and how the finances were stretched thin enough without Akechi calling his friend every week. Takuto wondered aloud why he didn’t just send letters.

“Because apparently he doesn’t know the address,” his guide said. “Just the phone number.” He stopped in the middle of a hall to finger a broken piece of banister on the stairs beside them. “Between you and me, I think he wants to hear a friendly voice. Who doesn’t? But calls to Iwate are… well, they’re kinda out of the question, you know?”

“Right,” Takuto said.

“I’m Teppei, by the way. Good luck helping me wrangle the kids all summer, uh…”

“Takuto,” he offered.

A grin. “Takuto. Cool.”

They rounded the stairs. Teppei said, “Akechi’s not really a bad kid, you know.”

“Is anyone?”

“Sometimes,” Teppei said. “But most of the time, you know, there’s a reason. Keep that in mind, okay?”

“Of course.”

A reason. There were always reasons, just as there had to be a reason for his father’s sudden change in behavior. He’d been different before his trip to Iwatodai, and after…

Takuto didn’t like to think there wasn’t a reason for it, despite every answer equating to nothing.

Ms. Umeda’s office was at the end of a long hall lined with bedrooms where bunks lined every wall; the woman herself sat at her desk, fingers pressed to her temple, staring at the phone sitting on a corner. She looked up as they entered. Her face softened in relief, just a tad. “Maruki. Good to see you’ve made it.”

“Ah, yes,” he said with a bow. “Thank you for the opportunity, Ms. Umeda.”

“Right.” She looked him over, raising a brow at his over-stuffed bag, and he explained the snacks, how it wouldn’t be right to impose without bringing a gift and making it enough to share.

Teppei snorted laughter. “Oh, they’ll like you, alright.”

“Ushida will take it downstairs,” Ms. Umeda said, and Takuto handed his bag over. Teppei hefted it with ease and left, leaving him standing there in the door.

“Ushida?” he asked.

“Teppei Ushida,” she said. “He’s one of the ones that’s been here the longest. Have a seat, Maruki.”

He did, at a low table in front of her desk. Offices were much the same everywhere, and Takuto took in the drawings taped to the walls as Ms. Umeda made tea.

“You know I can’t pay you,” she started when she took her own seat.

“I don’t expect payment,” Takuto said.

“But you want it, don’t you? Everyone does. Even if you don’t start out that way, it catches up to you. Did your mother tell you what you’d be doing here?”

He shrugged. “Helping.”

“Right,” she sighed. “That is what I said I needed. But more than that, well—your mother said you want to be a psychologist, and—”

“You want me to listen to them?”

She looked so tired. All of those kids in the yard and in the kitchen, the piles of homework left on the table, the shoes in the rack—it was more kids than any one person could reasonably handle, and she had been at it for months. “Someone should. I’d do it myself, but there are so many of them, I won’t be able to get to everyone over the summer. Most of them will be gone by the time the next semester starts. I want them to know someone cares.”

“Even if that person isn’t you.”

“Yes.”

“And that means it needs to be me?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll still take the help, Maruki. I might even get through them all myself if you and the older kids take on more of the work. It won’t be much of a way to spend a summer, but…”

Another shrug. Takuto thought of the work going on in the kitchen, and of the surely impressive pile of laundry, and how tedious the homework.

And he thought it really was an opportunity, even if he had no idea of what to say or how.

“I can’t guarantee I won’t step on any toes,” he said.

“That’s alright,” she said. “I don’t think anyone here expects you to be perfect. But if you find they want to talk, listen.”

“I suppose I can manage that.” It seemed simple enough, anyway. And if he bungled it—well, he didn’t want to think about that. He would just have to try not to.

Ms. Umeda lost herself to her thoughts for a long moment. “Actually,” she said, “why don’t we try right now?”

Panic seized him. “What? Right—right now? I-I don’t know, Ms. Umeda. This is a bit sudden.”

“They say the best way to teach a child to swim is to throw them in the water,” Ms. Umeda said, already rounding her desk. She searched one of the bookshelves lining the wall, came up with a file stuffed to the brim with papers, and set it out on the table. “This is no different, I believe. I’ll go get him. Take a look at those in the meantime, Maruki.”

“What? But—” She was already gone. He stared around him in terror, fighting the urge to flee. This was several kinds of wrong. This was a breach of privacy. If anyone found out, he could kiss his future career goodbye.

But…

It was an opportunity.

A very risky, potentially damning opportunity.

His heart was pounding and he hadn’t even opened the file yet. It would be better to talk to the boy without looking, without prejudice, but if Ms. Umeda wanted him to look at it, there had to be a reason. Something he had to know lay within.

Heart lodged firmly in his throat, he opened the file. To his relief it wasn’t filled with medical records or personal details but with photocopied pages of what looked like a diary and a meticulous list of various offenses. Akechi, read the name at the top, and most of them involved the phone.

But when they didn’t, he was fighting the other kids, or hurling insults, or refusing to do his share of the chores. Acting out, Takuto thought, like any kid would. He was surprised there weren’t more, but if the punishments were a bit more severe to deter any fighting, he supposed that would do enough of the work.

But not enough, clearly.

The diary pages were a mess. What would begin as calm and ordered writing devolved into what Takuto could only assume was angry ranting, if the strokes of the pen were guide enough. They were hard to make out, but he was sure they weren’t kanji. Another language, maybe, but where would he have had to time to learn—

A knock at the door. Takuto bolted upright, the papers still scattered across the table.

Ms. Umeda reentered. “Here he is, Doctor—”

Doctor! Takuto thought, panicking anew.

“This is Akechi,” she said. The boy at her side looked no older than ten, with a scattering of freckles across his nose and a determination not to look Takuto in the face. He stared at the floor instead, mumbled a greeting, and with a start Takuto recognized him as the boy who’d run into him days ago. He was different, when he wasn’t glaring. Maybe it was the way his hair hung in his eyes. “Go have a seat, Akechi. Remember, Doctor Maruki is here to listen to you. Alright?”

Another mumble. Probably an assent, as Akechi made his way to the couch opposite Takuto’s and sat down while Ms. Umeda took up a box from a corner and set the contents on the table: a pair of ripped dolls and a hunk of bone. A piece of stuffing fell onto the table. “When you’re done, you can take these back. Take better care of them, Akechi.”

And then she was gone, the door snicking shut in the silence.

It was better to get it out of the way. “Um, Akechi. You should know I’m not really a doctor. And—and we don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, alright?”

“I know,” Akechi said, through a throat that protested every word. “You’re Teppei’s age. You’re not a grown-up.”

Takuto couldn’t help but smile at his observation. “No, I’m not. So, uh, don’t feel the need to be formal or anything, okay?”

A nod. A long, uncomfortable silence passed between them where Akechi stared at the table; Takuto followed his lead. The hunk of bone he couldn’t explain—perhaps the boy had a morbid side?—but the dolls were easy, especially with Akechi’s name embroidered on the bird’s scarf. They were important to him, and something had clearly happened, and now…

“Things can be fixed, Akechi,” he started, taking heart at the way the boy’s gaze flickered to him for the briefest of moments. “I’m not here to tell you you’re wrong for being angry. These things are precious to you. They have meaning, and someone tried to take them. It’s understandable that you’d want to keep what was yours. It’s understandable that you wouldn’t want to share.”

A squirm: so his guess was right. In a place like this there had to be times where the kids fought over toys, especially personal ones, and the bird doll was cute. Takuto could see it being popular with girls.

He ventured, “So, why don’t you tell me about them?”

“That’s not going to help,” Akechi said.

“It might not help your things,” Takuto said, “and it might not help the others understand you right now, but it will be a start. If you can share with me, maybe you can share with others, later.”

And maybe then he wouldn’t get in so many fights. Maybe then all of this destruction could be avoided.

“I don’t need friends,” Akechi spat.

“It’s hard to go through life alone, Akechi.”

“I don’t need friends,” he repeated, sharper. “I only need Akira.”

No one had mentioned an Akira. “Akira?”

Akechi pressed his lips together, determined not to tell.

“Is Akira a friend of yours?”

No answer. If he was, and Akechi was here—was he the person in Iwate Akechi kept calling? Was that the reason he kept sneaking in to use the phone? Would Ms. Umeda allow it, if it was for Akechi’s well-being?

No, likely not.

“If you could see him, would that help you?”

Now the boy looked embarrassed, and Takuto scrambled for an answer. Maybe the person in Iwate really was no one, and Akira was an imaginary friend. A ten-year-old would certainly be embarrassed to have one of those.

“Where is Akira?” Takuto asked.

“He’s not here,” Akechi finally said, just as sharp as before.

He wasn’t getting anywhere, and so much for his promise of not talking if the boy didn’t want to, but now he was curious, and it was winning out over common sense. “If he’s not here, then where is he?”

“Not. Here.”

Takuto sighed, leaned back, shoved his glasses higher on his nose. A bird flew by the window behind Akechi; Takuto locked onto a drifting cloud. Ms. Umeda would want some kind of answer for why Akechi was using her phone so much. Ms. Umeda would be expecting Takuto to pry it out of the boy, and he’d gone and tried to do just that, like some overeager brown-noser.

But he really did want to know. “Then, perhaps this boy you’ve been calling knows?”

That did it: Akechi’s face screwed up with rage, and he yelled, “Don’t bring Ren into this! He’s not Akira yet—” And snapped his mouth shut, cheeks flushing.

Well, he’d at least gotten somewhere. But for a long time after, Akechi kept silent, cheeks flaming, hands clenched in his lap. Angry with himself for saying anything, most likely, and now that he’d caught himself slipping he was determined to keep quiet. Takuto eventually relented—sure that if he kept pushing, the boy would hate him more than he already did—saying, “Why don’t we call it a day? There are some snacks downstairs. If you hurry, there might still be some left.”

Or he hoped so, anyway. For all he knew, someone could have mistaken his lunch as part of the gift and set it out and all of it was gone. Takuto didn’t want to depend on Ms. Umeda’s hospitality so quickly.

Akechi frowned at him. He looked from the table to Takuto and back again, as if gauging the validity of the statement, and then reached slowly for his things. Takuto didn’t stop him, and soon enough his arms were full, a piece of stuffing square in his eye.

As Akechi turned to leave, however, Takuto remembered something. “But, um. Maybe cut down on those phone calls?”

Akechi paused long enough to look like he was considering it before nodding. He scrabbled for the doorknob; it turned and swung, nearly hitting him in the face, to reveal Teppei on the other side. Akechi scurried out of the way and ran down the hall, leaving Takuto with the mess of papers and a bemused Teppei in his wake. He held up a box in one hand: Takuto’s lunch.

“Thought so,” he said at the look on Takuto’s face. He plunked the box down and then sprawled in Akechi’s seat, the whole sofa creaking with effort. “Reo almost had the kids convinced it was more snacks. You’re lucky I spotted it in time.”

“Thanks,” Takuto said. He couldn’t help but watch the hall, wary of tiny feet and curious gazes peering in, but there were none. One by one, he gathered up the photocopies, looking them over once more before setting them back in the file.

Akira. Huh.

Teppei asked, “So? Get anything good?”

“Well, that’s not for me to say, really. If Akechi wants to share—”

“No,” Teppei groaned, “in your lunch! Your lunch!”

“My—my lunch?”

They cleaned up, chatting. Teppei led him back downstairs for a brief introduction with the kids, who stared at him with a mixture of awe and wariness even as they sucked the salt and sugar from the snacks off their fingers. Akechi was nowhere in sight, and as far as Takuto could tell, all of the snacks were gone.

It was a shame. He would have to bring more, if he ever did so again.

By the time summer started in earnest, the kids had gotten used to him. He visited every weekend up until semester finals, gradually putting names to faces and cursing the countryside heat; it radiated off the pavement, and, with no trees nearby to provide any kind of shade, baked Takuto thoroughly on his walks to the house.

(He hated thinking of it as an orphanage. For now, it was a home. Wasn’t that all that mattered?)

If that wasn’t bad enough, more often than not he was roped into one game or another in the yard, or to help with weeding or the laundry, but Takuto grinned and bore it. It was an opportunity, and the kids were growing on him—some had even wanted his ear about their problems. Most were benign things—they missed their parents, their family, their old homes and neighborhoods and friends—and he got the feeling Ms. Umeda was vetting them somehow, dealing with the more serious ones on her own.

Just as well. He wasn’t sure what he would do, if one of them had a serious problem.

“Oh, that,” Teppei said, as they took a break in the shade of the back porch. Someone had gifted Ms. Umeda a watermelon, and the kids ate in the yard with juice running down their arms and chins. Ants crawled up Reo’s leg in search of food; he brushed them off and kept eating. “They know you’re not an adult, like Ms. Umeda is, so they know you can’t do anything. Plus you’re nicer than she is. Sakura said you give good hugs.”

Said girl stared at the pair of them, doe-eyed, from among the circle of girls. She was only nine. “She grabbed me,” Takuto defended.

Teppei snickered. “Yeah, I know.”

Takuto managed to set aside a slice for Akechi—the boy came and went like a ghost, there one second and gone the next—and went off in search. He’d spied him hanging around upstairs, huddling in corners with his diary—a notebook that had certainly seen better days—and muttering to himself. He did his chores but put next to no effort into making friends with the other kids, and Takuto thought it had to be a lonely life, even if most of them would be gone soon.

Even he, too, would leave soon.

But what about Akira? The thought came unbidden; Takuto paused, taking in the floor, the ground-in dirt and the wear in the wood. So many other children here, and Akechi clung to some—what? Imaginary friend? Old classmate? A crush?

It wouldn’t be the strangest thing Takuto had heard since starting. And it would explain his behavior…

Resolved, Takuto continued his search.

Akechi wasn’t in the boys’ rooms, the beds neat and tidy and their things packed away in trunks at the feet. And he wasn’t in the girls’ rooms, either—though Takuto glanced in for only a second—or hiding in the toilet. Ms. Umeda’s office was silent, the door locked. The stairwell to the roof—

—swung right open, instead of resisting, as it usually did.

Takuto frowned, glanced back at the hall, and finding no one watching, headed inside. A soft murmur echoed but stopped at the sound of his footfall.

“Akechi?” he dared.

That stony silence greeted him.

He dared to move to the steps. The watermelon shook on its plate; he said, “I brought you something to eat. I, ah, thought it wouldn’t be fair if you missed out again.”

“Don’t want it,” Akechi said, soft and low.

But his stomach grumbled, giving him away.

“I’m working,” he insisted, embarrassed. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“I just told you. I brought you a snack.” Takuto rounded the bend in the stairs. Akechi sat near the top, a metal box with a light bulb poking out clutched in his hands, which were covered in a series of scratches and splotched with grease. The tool set at his side was a rumpled mess of cloth, wires, and various metal bits; Takuto set the plate down on the step above and took it up, straightening out the kinks in the cloth and setting the tools to rights.

A screwdriver poked out from between Akechi’s hands. Rather than take it outright, as he had seen countless of the older kids do, Takuto, asked, “What were you working on?”

“None of your business.”

Fair enough. “Can I ask where you got it from, then?”

“No.”

And that, too, was part of the problem: Akechi didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to talk to anyone except whoever he was calling—

(Akira, Takuto reminded himself, but not really, not yet)

—and it frustrated Takuto to no end. He wanted to know. “Would you tell Akira what it is?”

A scowl; a proud curl to his lip. “Akira knows already.”

“Does he?”

A nod. But then Akechi looked to the box, fingers tracing the edges, the screws, the dials and buttons. He said, “It doesn’t work.”

“But you don’t want anyone to touch it?”

“It’s all I’ve got left,” Akechi said, even softer than before.

That was fair, too. Takuto pointed to the plate. “You should eat a bit. Maybe then you can fix it.”

Akechi, after a moment of deliberation, set his box aside, wiped off his hands, and took up the plate. He dug into the slice with barely restrained enthusiasm; Takuto settled onto a step and fussed with the toolkit. A name had been written on the side with marker, but age and use and worn it away.

Akechi said, apropos of nothing, “Teppei’s not nice.”

“Teppei?” The same Teppei who always joked and cajoled with the kids? The same Teppei who often gave his shares of the snacks away? The one who always had kids running around his feet, begging him for lifts or piggyback rides? But Takuto knew better—all he had to do was think of his father, reduced to a shell of his former self in the blink of an eye. Mankind was capable of hiding all kinds of secrets. “What do you mean?”

Akechi only shrugged. “He’s not nice. What’s not to get?”

“I just don’t understand why you think that.”

Another shrug. Akechi chewed some more, licked juice from his fingers. Said, “Just feels that way, I guess. He doesn’t… feel right. He’s all…”

His face screwed up. He was eating the seeds, Takuto noted, even though most of the kids had spat them out in the yard, determined to start their own watermelon patch. He was even eating the rind, nibbling at it with a dogged determination.

(Goro thought and thought but found no right answer, not one that Maruki would understand. Teppei was bloated with anger and resentment but pushed it all down and down, down far enough that he could pretend it wasn’t there and paste on a nice smile and laugh the worst of the pain away—that much he’d thought was obvious. But everyone liked him. People liked you when you smiled, and Teppei knew that all too well.

But it wasn’t getting him anywhere. Teppei also knew that all too well; the only reason he kept doing it was hope, even as the realization that there was nothing to hope for continued to smack him in the face each morning.

It was almost like…)

“… he’s all scrunched up on the inside,” Akechi finished. “You’re nice, though. He might scrunch you up, too. That’s why I’m telling you he’s not nice. You shouldn’t listen to him so much.”

Takuto thought that over. “You think he’s going to hurt me?”

A shrug. A distant, thoughtful look in his eye. “I don’t know. If I could look in his heart… but I can’t do that anymore. I promised Akira. I promised.”

He went silent, save for chewing. Takuto didn’t push the conversation further; it was the most Akechi had said to him since their first meeting, and he didn’t want to ruin whatever trust the boy was beginning to hold for him. Before long, Akechi was done with his snack; Takuto accepted the plate back, got to his feet, and wondered if there was anything else he could possibly say.

Akechi sat, waiting impatiently for him to leave, his chin wet with the remains of juice.

Takuto asked, “Can I call you Goro?”

“No,” Akechi said.

Takuto nodded. Left with nothing else, he rejoined the others.

The days blurred together. Takuto woke one morning, surprised to find the summer already half-over; the call of the cicadas in the trees reached a fever pitch, and Takuto was forced to bathe himself in bug repellent lest he arrive at the house covered in enough bites to make him insane with the urge to itch; the kids complained he smelled, but all but the most sensitive paid it no mind. They shadowed his every footstep, trailing behind him like ducklings, young Sakura in the lead of a very dedicated fanbase.

Teppei snickered as he said it.

The next day Takuto was down with a summer cold. He spent most of the time in a feverish daze, wondering how the kids were doing, wondering if they thought he’d abandoned them. He would never, he tried to explain to their ghosts, but in reality it wasn’t true: Akechi glared at him from on high, mouth twisted into a frown, words warped with derision as he said, “I can see your heart, you know. You’re not nice, either.”

And Takuto hated that he was right.

The day after there was a car out front. Takuto stopped in the road at the sight of them, bag stuffed full of snacks heavy on his shoulder. Ms. Umeda stood by the gate, speaking softly with a man no older than Takuto was. She gestured Takuto over, then asked him to stay with the kids in the house.

Takuto went, sparing another glance at the car, the young man, the box half-hidden on a back seat. He shivered.

The house was silent as the grave when he entered; Sakura broke it with, “Mr. Takuto’s here!” and a hug that nearly toppled him. The others soon joined her, until Takuto was the lone island in a sea of crying, terrified faces and hands reaching for his person. Even the older kids crowded around, worry plain on their faces. Rio took his bag, her ponytail swinging, and then stood there, the strap pulled taught in her hands.

“What happened?” he dared to ask.

It was the wrong thing to say: a chorus of voices started up, a cacophony of noise that hit Takuto’s recovering head like a brick wall. He grimaced; Rio took pity on him. “That’s enough!” she said, and began swatting heads. “Mr. Takuto is still recovering! We’re lucky he came today at all!”

“But—” Sakura’s face was a mess of snot and tears and drool; several of the other kids didn’t look much better. “But—Mr. Takuto’s not gonna die, right?”

Pity seized him. “Die?” he asked, thinking of cancer, of car accidents, of exhaustion.

Were they really so terrified of a cold?

“Mr. Takuto had a cold,” Rio said, extricating kids from the huddle, “and Teppei is going to be fine. Now, who’s going to help Jiro with the snacks Mr. Takuto brought? Reo, how about you?”

Reo took the bag with a solemn air belied only by the tear tracks running down his cheeks. One by one the rest of the kids peeled off, either to help with the food or to huddle in twos and threes wherever they could. Takuto scanned faces, sure that something was off.

Then he scanned them again, and that settled it: Teppei was missing.

“Rio,” he said, “what happened?”

She pursed her lips and said, “Follow me.”

So he followed her up to the second floor, then again to the roof, skirting Akechi at the top, still fiddling with his machine. Even he seemed untouched by the sadness pervading the house, though that might have been a trick of the light on his bruised cheek. The door shut on his tiny back with a very final click.

“Rio,” he said again, and she collapsed to the floor.

“Sorry,” she muttered, knuckles pressed to her eyes, “I just—it was a-a long day, yesterday, and…”

“Tell me,” he said.

The door creaked open. Akechi, shading his eyes from the sun and saying, “Someone’s calling the phone.”

Rio cursed. She took a moment more to collect herself, said a quick sorry to Takuto, and was gone, leaving him with even more confusion than before. “Akechi,” he said, startling himself with how calm he sounded. His voice gave no hint of how lost he felt. “Tell me. What happened?”

Akechi licked his lips, winced at the split in his lip, and said, “Teppei’s dad came for him yesterday. He wanted Teppei to go home with him, to take over the family business. His dad didn’t have anybody else to. He said Teppei should be grateful to be getting out of here.”

A father? A business? Teppei had never mentioned either—but why would he? He had no reason to.

“Everybody thought he’d say yes,” Akechi went on, voice flat. “It’s why we’re here, after all. But Teppei asked why should he, when he’s been sitting here like the rest of us, like we’re toys to be pulled out of storage when it’s convenient. His dad just said he needed time to think about it. Said he could finally fulfill the promise they made when Teppei was a kid.”

But seventeen years was an awfully long time to think about it. “And you heard all this?”

A quirk of the lips. Light flickered in his eyes. “They were really loud. I could hear them through the door. But…”

“But?”

His mouth twisted. He stared at a patch of moss growing between the cracks of the roof tiles and beyond it to the laundry drying in the sun in the yard. He asked, “Did Teppei have to go?”

“I don’t know,” said Takuto. “I’m sure it’s very complicated.”

“Rio was saying it’s the only way we can really be people,” Akechi said. The bruise on his cheek seemed awfully dark. “We have to have parents. We have to have people who love us.” His chin wobbled. “It’s not fair.”

“No,” said Takuto. “It’s not.”

A nod. That proud half-smile quivered, then dropped. Akechi rubbed his bruise. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we’re all not nice people. Maybe we have to have a family to be good. But me and Mama were a family, and we weren’t any good. Everybody said so.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Though Takuto could never be sure, could he? His platitudes meant nothing. He had a family, even if part of it was broken.

“But it is true,” Akechi said, with all the confidence in the world. “It’s true, which is why we’re here, and—”

He was woefully unqualified to handle this. If Takuto searched, he could find the road, and the car, and Ms. Umeda by the gate, but it was useless: these were kids who had nowhere else to go, who had to work two or three times as hard to earn even the smallest morsels of respect, whose futures were shaky at best and downright tumultuous at worst. Teppei had never spoken of the future, of what he would do once he was of age, of what sort of life he wanted to live.

They had dreams, Takuto thought. They lived buried deep inside them because reality was—

A loud, broken sob interrupted his thoughts. Akechi, staring holes into the floor, his hands tugging at his hair, muttered to himself. “tau-yan;” he said, over and over again, punctuated with the occasional sniffle. “tau-yan; Akira, I didn’t—I didn’t—”

(A voice: “Say it with me now: tau-yan. It means—”)

“—I kept my promise, Akira. tau-yan; tau-yan; When will you come back—”

(“—okay? Try it on your own, now. What do you mean it’s too hard? It’s an easy one! tau-yan! Come on, Takuto!”)

“I don’t want to live like this,” Akechi cried, voice breaking into a hundred different shards that Takuto felt lodge squarely within him. “Akira—Mama—somebody—I don’t want to be alone! tau-yan!tau-yan!”

I promised, came the words, unbidden. I promised, I promised—

And what good did it do?

Takuto, who had no answers, who only had the swirling pit of pain his body had become to guide him, fell to his knees. He wrapped the child up in his arms—so small—and patted his back—so small!—and felt the shards in his chest move and grind together like so many pieces of glass.

It hurt. Why did it hurt?

(“You promised, Takuto!”)

Because he failed?

(“You promised!”)

Because he was powerless?

(“Why?!” shouted the boy, face red, chest heaving. His room, spread out behind him, was in disarray; the only thing that had been spared was the bed, too heavy for him to toss and throw. The monitor glistened with spit and did not answer. He turned from it, pacing, yelling wordlessly, kicking at whatever got in his way.

In the end, it did nothing. The monitor stayed dark. The boy yelled, lost and utterly, completely alone.)

Or was it simple empathy, at the grief of all these kids?

No, it couldn’t be. Teppei had been his friend, too, of a sorts. Teppei had been kind despite the malice Akechi said simmered under his skin. Takuto wanted to believe in it.

But the world was too large for any one person to understand, and so was a person. Takuto could only hope to graze the core of their being by studying psychology; any more than that and he feared they would shift beneath his touch, becoming something different and new, and how would he study them then, if they slipped through his fingers like fine silk?

Takuto didn’t know. He waited for the pain to lessen.

Ionasal kkll Preciel sat in a soft-lit living room, on a sofa with cushions worn down by the years. He tried to focus on the walls, covered in photos and drawings, and on the dark screen of the Cielnotron, but his gaze kept sliding back to the fabric pooled on the table: all that was left of his ceremonial robes, now in tatters and scraps.

He shivered and pulled the blanket tighter.

Ruray had laughed at his modesty at first. Delta, bright-eyed at the thought of a real, live prince in his living room, had exclaimed that his mom wouldn’t see anything she hadn’t seen before, earning him a good smack on the ear. They’d bickered for a good while about anything and everything, until Delta had been tasked with running the dye bath he wanted so badly while Ionasal changed.

Now the white fabric was gone, leaving him with the red: tattered, frayed, and torn, the cloth as bright as freshly-spilled blood. Ionasal would know; he’d seen enough of it over the last two years to last him a lifetime. He would have loved the color back home, bright and vivid as it was, but this red seemed brighter, somehow, in the lights of Ruray’s living room; he reached a hand out, determined to inspect it closer, when the door slid open.

“My goodness, that boy,” said Ruray, red-cheeked as she entered with a tray of tea. Ionasal snatched his hand back under the safety of the blanket and curled in, tugging it tighter. Ruray paid him no mind, making room for the tray on the table and sighing at the work ahead of her.

“You don’t have to do this,” Ionasal told her.

“Don’t be silly; of course I do! A young man like yourself needs proper clothes to wear, not these rags.” She clicked her tongue at them. “Honestly, those people. No respect for another person’s dignity. Well, we’ll fix that, won’t we?”

He didn’t know how to sew. He couldn’t touch a needle back home, but the ones here didn’t give him a reaction—maybe his body wasn’t allergic, or maybe the metal was made of different compounds. All he knew was that he was going to be a burden, and that he had no choice but to be.

Ruray took his silence as hesitation. “Everything will be fine. We’ll make you a fine new set of clothes, won’t we? Even if the dye’s a bit too weak, the cloth will still be good. You’ll see.”

She reached out. He stiffened. When all he received was a pat on the head, he stared.

“You’ve been through so much today, haven’t you?”

His voice wasn’t working. Words lodged in his throat. Ruray ruffled his hair like it was the easiest thing in the world. She didn’t know what he was; she didn’t know that this body was stolen; she didn’t know he didn’t belong here.

But I do, he thought with a shiver. This is the only place that wants me.

But it didn’t feel like home.

But home was a long ways away from here. Home was so far he would never be able to return—not in one lifetime or two or ten or—

“It’s alright,” Ruray said, as the hot burn of tears welled up. “No one will hurt you, here. Delta and I will keep you safe for as long as you like.”

“B-but I—”

“No buts!”

And she let him cry, and at some point he reached for her and she pulled him to her, and he buried his face into soft cloth warm with the heat of her body, and he thought how it wasn’t fair, that he had to wait so long and endure so much just for this one moment, and that he still had so much left before him. The unknown world he was expected to win over was too big, too alien, too… everything, for him to comprehend. Kanoyeel was already the favorite; he was just the prince tacked on the side to make everything look fair. He was nothing.

And yet, he had to try.

By the time he was done crying, Ruray’s shirt was sopping wet. She gave him a smile and said, “There, now. Isn’t that better? Have some tea.”

Ionasal was barely aware of how loose the blanket had gotten; as he reached for his tea, it fell from his shoulders. He jerked back, but not before Ruray caught one of his arms and clicked her tongue once more. She looked him over. He tried to pretend she wasn’t taking in the latticework of scars across every inch of his skin, but it was difficult. He wanted to dive back under the blanket and not come out for the next week.

She let him go. He bundled back up, relief and dread crawling through his veins, as she rounded the table and settled down. She took up the tattered remnants of crimson cloth, fingering the frays and tears.

Ruray said, “You’ll need to save some to give out. We can save those big pieces for that. As for this, it’ll make a fine sash, won’t it?”

What was she doing? Pretending she hadn’t seen for his sake? He wanted to follow along, but blurted out, “You don’t care? About—about my—”

She pinched a piece of fabric. “Of course I do. If I knew who did that, I’d give them a piece of my mind! But there’s nothing to be done about it now, is there, except decide if you can stand the idea of anyone seeing them or not. I’m afraid we haven’t much to work with, Ionasal.”

“Right,” he admitted. There was never going to be a way around it; eventually someone would find out. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like them.”

He thought she would disagree. The scientists had told him the scars would make him look tougher, more manly, and help him appeal to a bigger crowd—that was impossible, now that he’d glimpsed the assets Kanoyeel sported—which would help him cement his victory in the trials.

But Ruray said, “No. Of course not.”

And if it took him a few minutes of soft conversation to finally reach out and make his own suggestion, Ruray paid it no mind.

Summer ended. One by one, the kids in the house left. Even Akechi, there and then gone, the only reminder of his presence an oil stain on the stairs.

Takuto wondered if they all found happy families.

Takuto wondered what part of him was that naive.

Takuto wondered if Teppei was happy among the family that had once shoved him in a box, a fail-safe kept for later years.

Takuto wondered and wondered, but nothing came of it but more questions.

Takuto woke. For one disoriented moment, he didn’t recognize the ceiling above him—it glowed and shimmered with lights, and he thought his curtains should never be able to make such a display—but then with a shock, he remembered.

His lab. The machine to look inside one’s heart, to confront what had never been confronted, to see what depths made up one’s psyche. It had been eight years since that summer in his hometown; it had been eight years of indistinct pain that Takuto laughed down and filled with company and food, because if he could forget that pain even for a moment, that was happiness.

Then he remembered why he did it.

“Azathoth,” he called, his voice a croak. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting: a surge of power, or a sudden understanding, or even for the voice in his head to rumble back. He received nothing.

Was it all a waste, then? All that time spent looking at himself from eight years ago, remembering the kids in that orphanage, remembering Teppei? Remembering—

“Azathoth!”

He groped for his glasses. Without them, he felt bare, and pathetic, and—

He blinked. The lights from the screen weren’t blurring together, as they usually did. Takuto was incredibly near-sighted, his already terrible vision worsened by years of studying. He’d had to wear them even when kissing Rumi. He’d wanted to see her, even if they got in the way.

But…

He shut his eyes, trying to calm down. The door to the room slid open with barely a whisper, and a woman’s voice rang out, “Doctor? Have you need of something?”

“Where are my glasses?” he asked. Then, angrier, “Where is Azathoth?”

“This is a place where one can always see clearly, Doctor,” came her response, as polite as the masked man’s. Takuto sat up, and sure enough there was the same mask on her face, the same inky blackness to her skin, and the same professionalism, all rolled up into an impossible hourglass figure. Her features weren’t blurred or distorted; he could see even the wisp of hair she pushed out of her face, as ink-black as the rest of her, as she went on, “As the one who rules over this place, you, above all others, should be able to work without such hindrances. But if you truly desire them, they are on the table over there, with your other things.”

He followed her finger; sure enough, there were his glasses and jacket and shoes. He stumbled over, limbs on pins and needles, a distinct heaviness to his arms.

“And if your humble assistant may say so, sir? You are very handsome without them.”

Rumi had said so, too. Takuto couldn’t help the flush that rose, unbidden. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

“You are welcome.” A pause. “As for the one you call Azathoth, sir… This assistant does not understand. You mean you do not feel him?”

“No.” He reached for his glasses, but stopped—on the backs of his hands were tendrils of some kind, twined about down to the webbing of skin between his fingers. He touched one—soft and warm and oddly fleshy, it was almost like touching his own skin—and felt the slight rise of it.

Azathoth, he thought, and finally, there was a response.

I HERE, Azathoth said, the words louder even without being spoken.

“Leave us,” Takuto told the assistant. “I’ll call for you if I need you.”

“Of course, sir.”

With another whisper, she was gone. Takuto clenched his hands; they made perfect fists even as Azathoth’s tendrils crawled between his fingers. It was almost like holding someone’s hand. The thought made him want to laugh.

Instead he said, “So you won’t appear before me?”

YOU NOT READY.

“To see your true form? I think I can—”

YOU WEAK, Azathoth said. TOO WEAK.

And no amount of heart-searching was going to fix that particular issue, Takuto guessed. He could have asked what would make him stronger, but it seemed suddenly obvious that the issue was his conviction. Azathoth wouldn’t appear until he strengthened his resolve.

And what would that take? How many months or years of perfecting his power lay ahead of him?

So he asked, “Then what was that? Toward the end, there, everything was—distorted, somehow. And I…”

I don’t remember that boy, he almost said, but it wasn’t true. He had a striking resemblance to Amamiya—Akira, as he wanted to be called—except for the scars. Stage makeup, maybe, for a theater production. But it had seemed so much more real than a simple play, and Takuto had never seen one.

Azathoth only said, THREADS.

“A connection?”

But he didn’t answer. Takuto, unnerved, left for home.

Chapter Text

Goro grit his teeth.

Madarame’s Palace was a nightmare of gold leaf and hellish architecture, the buildings stacked on top of one another like so many building blocks, with no rhyme or reason as to the placement of windows or doors or even the occasional balcony.

He would give anything for a balcony.

Instead he hung there, dozens of feet from the ground, every muscle in his body straining to keep him from falling to his very certain death, and all because a group of thieves were running around.

“No visitors. No exceptions,” the guards at the door had said, with an unbearable smugness.

“’Check up on Madarame,’” Goro growled to himself, words tucked under his helmet. “’The old man’s up to something.’ What a waste of my time.”

If we drive him mad, he’ll really be up to something, Loki said, with a hiss of laughter.

Goro entertained the thought: Madarame, with all of his inhibitions gone, would either become a stark-raving mad old man or an even bigger abusive asshole than he already was. The only thing keeping him from locking Kitagawa up and treating him like the painting machine he wanted the boy to be was society’s expectations, and Goro had had enough of ruining children’s lives, even if the child in question was sixteen years old.

No, he told Loki. Besides, they needed Madarame coherent enough to explain himself. Loki clicked his tongue in annoyance.

You wrought havoc just last week, Robin Hood began, and Goro felt the beginnings of their argument as a low, pulsing headache. He stopped them with a curt, Shut up.

That was that. Goro climbed the rest of the way, clawed fingers grasping for any kind of purchase in the golden walls and scratching lines in the soft embellishments scattered across them, a litany of curses running through the back of his mind.

If only he could just drive the old man mad. If only there wasn’t a child involved. If only Goro didn’t care so much.

You couldn’t have known, Robin Hood assured him, but it fell flat. Goro was the cause of too much heartache for his own liking. If only—

Enough, he told himself as he crested the roof. Once over the edge he sprawled out, limbs screaming, an ache in his jaw demanding attention. He ignored it—once out of the Metaverse the pain would give way to simple exhaustion—but still felt around his teeth with his tongue, searching for cracks. Nothing.

He sighed with relief.

“God damn these effin’ stairs!”

He jolted.

“Knock it off, Skull! We get it, you’re tired! So are we!”

What the hell? Cognitions didn’t talk like that. Goro crawled to the edge of the roof, peering over. Crowded on a landing in a hellscape of stairs and glowing doors was a group of teens and a… not a child, but not exactly an animal. It looked like a cat, but walked on two legs and had a tool belt buckled at its waist. Goro goggled at it, even as it bounced with irritation, locked in argument with a blond boy. Skull, he presumed from the mask he wore.

Goro’s lips twitched. So it wasn’t that Madarame was up to something—the fraud wouldn’t have risked calling his security team otherwise—but that a group of thieves had infiltrated.

He hunkered down. The loudest two were Skull and the cat-thing, Mona. The second loudest was the blonde girl who kept trying to play peacemaker with increasingly aggravated results, her skin-tight suit a bright, bright red. A taller boy in a fox mask looked on, a weary drag in the sway of his body.

And the last one…

Goro sucked in a breath. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. It was someone else who looked very, very similar. It was an unfortunate case of bedhead making that nest of curls, and it was exasperation causing the curl to his lips. He hid it behind a glove and laughed. He spoke.

Goro’s heart sank.

“That’s enough, you two,” said Akira, in the guise of a masked gentleman out of every teenage girl’s dreams. Of course it was Akira. Of course he had to be here, mucking up everything. It was just what he did.

And just as they had back on Ra Ciela, his little group of followers heeded his every word. He calmed them down, promised that they would be out at the next safe room—Goro wrinkled his nose; who had time to sit around and wait in those?—and led them off, all the tension leaking out of them like water poured into a sieve. That, too, was just what Akira did. It was no wonder everyone liked him.

Goro waited a while. When the group of teens didn’t return, he sighed, stood, and worked his way over to the Treasure Room. The look on the Shadow’s face when Goro strolled in through the door would have been priceless if not for the revelation bouncing around in Goro’s head; the fear in its eyes would have been delightful, if not for the way he kept remembering Akira’s that way. He left the Shadow blubbering about taking care of the thieves threatening it and how Goro and his benefactor didn’t need to worry, and for the first time in months felt nothing, not even the relief of a terrible job finally done.

Because he and Akira were on opposing sides once more.

And Goro hated it.

A knock at the door. Takuto paused, regarded the list of students he’d drawn up, and said, “Come on in.”

Sakamoto slouched through the door, hands shoved in his pockets. “Uh. Hey, Doc.”

Takuto beamed and let him get comfortable as he put the sign up and the snacks out. Rather than dig straight into them, Sakamoto only stared at the wrappers, chewing on his cheek. After a long silence, he blurted out, “So. Uh. I don’t really got nothin’ to say, y’know.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“But—”

The defense was automatic. Sakamoto scowled, first at the snacks and then at himself. His knee bounced; he leaned onto it, nearly folding himself in half.

Hiding. Embarrassed to be here, after all the things he’d said. Nervous to be at another teacher’s mercy, after all the wrongs he’d been put through.

“You have to understand that I’m here to be on your side,” Takuto told him. “Nothing you say to me will get back to anyone in the school, staff or student. There wouldn’t be much of a point to confidentiality otherwise, would there?”

“But you’d tell the cops. Or a doctor or something. Right? If somebody was dangerous and they came to you, you’d hafta say something.”

“You mean if someone wanted to commit a crime or hurt themselves,” Takuto guessed, “then I would have to report them? That’s quite a heavy topic to start off with.”

Sakamoto gave him a hard stare.

“I’m here to help you reflect on yourself and become a better person,” Takuto said. “But… if someone felt my help wasn’t enough, or if I believed that only physical intervention could prevent someone from being hurt, then I would have to, yes.”

“So you would,” Sakamoto said.

“I did just say that. What brought this on?”

A shrug. That scowl. Then he leaned back and sighed. “Nothin’. It’s nothin’. Dumb shit. You know how it is.”

“If it’s bothering you, then it isn’t dumb, Sakamoto.”

But all he received was stony silence.

Takuto regarded the snack basket. Sakamoto looked like a meat kind of guy, and Takuto was fresh out of jerky. He selected some crackers instead, tore the package open flat, then set it on the table and took two.

Sakamoto huffed laughter. “Snacks, Doc? Really?”

“If you don’t want any, I’ll just eat them myself,” Takuto told him, and let him contemplate that. “If you’re asking whether I’d report someone, it must be because you’re concerned. Is it someone you know? You don’t have to give me names, by the way. Or answer.”

Sakamoto took a while longer. Then he reached into the basket, tugged out a bag of cookies, and said, “Ma always brings these home from work, but they’re always stale. Wonder how good they’d be fresh.” He set the bag up right next to the crackers, took one, and chomped it down in one bite.

Then he said, “It’s just Kamoshida shit. But—if you’d known, you’d would’ve reported him, and that’s good enough for me, Doc. What else d’you want from me? How pissed it all made me?”

Takuto thought of the staff’s dismissal of the boy. The eye rolls, the judging. The constant call-backs to a time before his leg was broken and all of his dreams went up in smoke. He might not have been smart, but at least he’d been respectful, they mourned. “No, I don’t think I do.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You don’t exactly strike me as the woe-begone type,” he said, “and anger is often the only other option in those kinds of cases. Plus…”

Far be it from Takuto to mention the general atmosphere of the school since he’d started. The whispers in the halls and the blatant glares would have been more than enough if there hadn’t also been that young man on his first day. Fucking useless bastard, he’d been called, and it stung.

Sakamoto snagged a cracker. He made a face as he ate it, as if everything he’d wanted to say was out there and now he was struggling to find something else. Instead he said, “Doesn’t mean I gotta be shitty to everybody, though, right?”

Lighten up the mood, Takuto told himself. Sakamoto clearly wasn’t one to brood over these kinds of things—all the teachers called him impulsive—but at the same time, if he wanted to discuss it, Takuto couldn’t say no. “Are you afraid of alienating yourself, Sakamoto?”

A snort. “Hell no! I have friends. It’s just…”

“You want to impress a crush, then?”

“A what?!” he screeched. “A—I don’t got a crush, dude!”

“You don’t?” Perhaps they mirrored each other’s shocked expressions; Takuto certainly felt as knocked off-kilter as Sakamoto looked. “Oh, but—I mean, I only assumed, you know, what with you being in high school and all—”

“That don’t mean I’m crushing on somebody!” Then he paused to take that in. “Unless—unless you did, Doc? You had a high school romance ‘n all that shit?”

He had Rumi. But Takuto wasn’t about to explain all of that—Rumi was still too much of an open wound. He forced a sheepish expression. “I was a bit more focused on my studies, actually, so… Not, ah, exactly…”

“That ain’t a no, Doc.”

“W-well, you have to understand, Sakamoto, we’re here to talk about you, remember?”

“So you did.”

Takuto felt his face flush. Sakamoto was oddly giddy about it; it was practically an assent. “Yes, but it ended rather badly,” Takuto told him, “so I don’t enjoy thinking back on it.”

“Shit, man, you coulda just said so,” Sakamoto said, before snagging another cookie.

But he was laughing, grinning ear-to-ear like a cat that just ate the canary, proud of himself for the brief crack in Takuto’s composure he’d caused.

Then he caught himself at it and scowled.

Takuto let the pause in their conversation stretch for a bit, then said, “Do you suppose you’d hate me this much if your friends weren’t happy with our conversations?”

“What? No, I don’t—”

“It’s rather obvious,” Takuto pointed out. “You could just tell me, you know.”

Sakamoto scoffed, ate a cracker, licked the salt from his fingers.

Takuto let him think.

It was as he’d told Akira: Takamaki and Sakamoto were venters. They were happy enough just to complain, to air out their grievances. They might sit and sulk but eventually everything came bursting out of them in a gush of emotion to rival the eruption of a volcano, and woe and betide to anyone caught in the path of their tirade.

But Takuto was used to outbursts. By now they were just par for the course.

“Running’s a solo sport, you know,” Sakamoto eventually said, his knee back to bouncing. “Back on the team, it was everybody for themselves. We’d only think about what somebody else was doing if it was holding the rest of us down. Now I got friends, and it ain’t like that at all. I guess… it feels like they need me, and I ain’t used to that. I got used to screwing up all the time and causing all these messes for Ma, when I told myself I wasn’t gonna be a bigger burden for her anymore.”

The issue with the track team had cost him his scholarship, if Takuto recalled correctly. But unlike Sakamoto, he wasn’t going to press.

“You know the school was buggin’ her about me not seeing you, Doc? And I just thought, shit, man, I’m just causing more problems. Like she don’t work hard enough and deal with enough shit already. Sometimes I think if I’d just shut my mouth and kept my head down, we’d all be happier.”

“You and your mother?”

Sakamoto rolled his eyes. “And the track team. And, hell, everybody else that asshole got around to lording over. All this goddamn mess just for one man’s ego. Effin’ stupid.”

Kamoshida was the reason Takuto was here, after all.

“Damn,” Sakamoto muttered. “It sounds pathetic when I say it, huh? Keep my head down. Shut the hell up. But…”

“You want to be better than what Kamoshida has made you,” Takuto guessed.

“Maybe? I dunno.” He looked at the snacks still left on the table: a couple of cookie crumbs; the crackers; their boxes of apple juice. “I just wanna run again, you know? Take back what he took from me and all that. But ain’t no way something like that’s gonna happen.”

“You never know,” Takuto said. “It could.”

Sakamoto snorted, grinned. “You’re a weird one, Doc.”

And when he left Takuto was left with crumbs spilling onto the table, their boxes of juice untouched. He could wipe up the mess and leave the juice for the next session, but nothing would bring those snacks back now that they were eaten, just as nothing could change the fact that Sakamoto’s leg had been broken badly enough that he’d needed surgery to fix it. Nothing could change the financial burden of it, either.

But there were some things Takuto could change, and those were the ones that mattered.

In the afternoon, Akira stopped by.

Takuto welcomed him as warmly as ever and let him get comfortable as he prepped the room. The juice boxes from Sakamoto’s visit still sat on the table; the notes Takuto had typed up in the meantime were hidden away in a zipped file on the computer. With his lab coat shrugged off, the chill in the air seeped through to his skin, and Takuto rubbed at his arms as he took a seat.

“So,” he said, “anything you’d like to talk about today, Akira?”

The name startled him. “You’re using it.”

“You seem to forget that I’d like for you to be as comfortable as possible while you’re here—within reason, of course—and if using that name makes you comfortable, I will happily do it.”

Akira hummed. He fiddled with his juice box, tore the cellophane from the straw, and ripped it into pieces. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to care this much,” he admitted.

“It’s the least I can do,” Takuto insisted. “You did agree to help me with my research, after all.”

“The pain felt in the heart,” Akira supplied.

“Indeed.” He thought of Rumi’s naked grief. Takamaki’s cleverly-hidden worry. Sakamoto’s beast of burden. Pain felt in the heart, wearing different trappings. “An abstract, unseen pain—trauma and stress and the like. Though from what you said before, you seem to be no stranger to it.”

“Is anyone?”

Takuto laughed off the deflection. “True enough. If we’re going to be accurate, however, we have to remember that it’s different from bodily pain. A doctor can bandage your wounds and set broken bones. You can take medicines to dull the pain of a headache. But stress affects everyone differently. I believe we talked about that briefly, last time.”

“A car accident,” Akira supplied once more, and shoved his straw into the box.

Stress, Takuto told himself. It was in the dark circles under Akira’s eyes and the nervous way his hands kept twisting the cellophane. Even his hair, normally messy, was unbearably unkempt, and as Takuto took a sip of his juice Akira reached up and tugged at a lock.

“Something on your mind? You know I’m here to listen.”

Akira only hummed. Then he shrugged. “Just not used to all this responsibility, I guess. Being on my own in a city I don’t know. That kind of thing.”

“My understanding was that you’re staying with a guardian during your time here.”

“He’s really hands off,” Akira said. Then, sheepish, “And all he makes is curry.”

“Getting sick of it, are you?”

“I think his last batch had too much garlic. I couldn’t tell him so.”

No such thing, Takuto was about to say—Rumi had certainly believed so—but then remembered his gloves. His allergy. “That must be difficult. But as your guardian, he should know these things, shouldn’t he?”

“He’s on the older side.” He held up his juice to the light. “I shouldn’t even have this, really. But I’m tired of thinking about it today—”

Takuto plucked the box out of his hand, taking a minute pleasure in the surprise on his face. “If you shouldn’t have it, I’ll save it for later, and get you something else. Anything you’d like?”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Takuto said, sternly this time. “As an adult and as a healthcare professional, even in training, I need to take these things seriously. It wouldn’t do to have one of my patients be sick in my care because of my own neglect.” Then he frowned. “That tea we had last time—should you have had that, Akira?”

“I can have tea,” Akira grudgingly admitted, “but not much. Mr. Sakura likes to give me coffee in the morning. I, um. I think this all slips his mind.”

“Or you told him you could have it,” Takuto guessed.

“Not much,” Akira insisted. “Just a cup with breakfast. Just a cup won’t kill me, you know.”

Takuto took a breath and shoved down the argument. It could. It could, but the boy was ready to snap, and pressing any further wouldn’t do them any good. He took his time putting the juice box in the fridge and tugging out water, and by the time he sat back down, Akira looked much calmer.

“Thanks,” he said, as he cracked open the bottle, “and I’m sorry. I should have told you. I’ll let Mr. Sakura know to cut back on the coffee a bit, too.”

“Just a bit?”

“It’s growing on me,” Akira murmured. “It’s, well. It’s better than I thought it would be.”

Takuto chuckled. “It is, isn’t it? The working man’s best friend, and all that—outside of beer. And I should apologize, too. You know your limits better than I ever could.” He took a look at the snack basket. “Perhaps a list would do me some good.”

Akira promised to provide one. They sat in silence, Takuto wondering how to bring up the topic of his research again, when Akira said, “I guess that’s one type of pain, isn’t it?”

“One type of—oh. Oh!” He chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“If you were going to make a list… betrayal would be another. Lying. Stealing, even.”

“Because it involves the loss of trust,” Takuto said.

Akira nodded. He sipped at his water.

“Then one could say that the loss of any strongly-felt emotion could illicit the same response.” He leaned back in his seat. Tried not to think of Rumi, of Teppei, of the children in that orphanage. “Pride, for example. Or hope. But I believe the strongest response would be to a loss of love.”

“A broken heart?” Akira supplied, something wistful in his tone.

“Have you had one?”

Unlike Sakamoto’s strong rejection, Akira’s was subdued. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Hundreds of miles from home, from family, from everyone he’d ever known. How could Takuto forget? “Ah. Of course. Not that I meant to pry, you understand—”

“How else are we meant to make conversation? That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

Takuto would let him have that. But… “Perhaps I’m trying to keep a professional distance.”

“The last I heard,” Akira challenged, “professionals don’t make deals with their subjects.”

Subjects. Takuto filed that away for later. “Even still…”

“You think you’re drumming up bad memories for me.”

“Like I said, I want you to be comfortable.”

Because he was important. Because he had done something, in that ruin of a castle. Because he was there, in that distorted memory.

Because the last thing Takuto wanted was to watch his face twist with pain and agony.

Akira thought for a moment. “Then I’ll tell you something important about me, Maruki. And you’ll tell me something important, too. And whatever this is”—he gestured between them—“can stop, then. Alright?”

He couldn’t lose Akira’s trust. He couldn’t. “Alright.”

Now it was Akira turn to lean back. He took his glasses off, inspecting the lenses in the light. “I’ve never had a place to belong. Sure, I was on a gymnastics team back home, but it didn’t mean we were friends, and other than that… it always felt like I was sitting on the outside, looking in. Even when I tried to include myself somehow, it never really changed. But here—it’s different. Mr. Sakura makes me coffee and curry in the morning, even though he doesn’t have to. You call me Akira. When my friends and I went to a buffet, they got me a plate of beans I couldn’t so much as touch, just because they wanted to. I have never felt so included. Never.”

(Except for one place, Akira thought, but that place wasn’t where Yuuki was.

And, if he was being honest… it was still the truth. He didn’t belong there. He and Goro both.)

“Your turn,” Akira said.

“Mine?” Takuto all but yelped.

He took a moment to think it over. There was no way he could mention the lab in Odaiba, or the visions of the castle, or even Rumi and Azathoth. But, even still… something important. Something that could match Akira’s divulgence. Something that would repair whatever was beginning to strain between them.

But… in the end, it was easy.

“I never did, either,” Takuto admitted. That house his father haunted like an angry ghost. The orphanage lost to the end of summer. The future he should have shared with Rumi. “I buried myself in my studies to leave home, to find my own place in the world, hoping that if I just worked hard enough, everything would begin to make sense. But it never truly does, I’m finding. But, here, helping all of you—maybe this is where it’s supposed to start. Maybe this is where I’m supposed to find that place.”

With you, he wanted to say, but held back. It wasn’t the sort of thing one said to a minor, no matter how well he carried himself. It certainly wasn’t the sort of thing one said when one was like Takuto, who held the trust of dozens of other students in his hands. Akira shouldn’t be any different.

And yet he was. There was a weight in his eyes, as if he was far older than his years would suggest, and Takuto found himself yearning to discover what lay on the other side of those depths.

Don’t think like that, he scolded himself. Akira was still a minor, still a student, still his patient.

And yet Akira was grinning at him, a soft, sly little thing. “See? Wasn’t so hard, was it,” he praised.

Takuto sucked down a breath, then forced it out. Let Akira think it was relief. Let him think whatever he liked. “Right,” Takuto said.

“So, a broken heart,” Akira said, and hummed again. “Yeah, I’ve had one. It still hurts. Sometimes it’s all I think about.”

And Takuto felt as if he was being dragged, across the chasm of professionalism that should have divided them, across the depths of years that lay within Akira, across even the expanse of air between them, shimmering and flickering like a spider’s web. A thread, connecting the two of them.

Azathoth writhed.

“A broken heart?” Takuto heard himself say. All he could see was the thread. “I would have thought you would be the one breaking hearts, you know.”

Akira raised a brow at him.

(Pouting. He was pouting, the understanding slamming into Takuto like a truck.)

“Now how would I ever know?” Akira was saying. “It’s not as if anyone told me so. Imagine admitting to your friends you’re crushing on the local outcast. If I were them, I’d be talking them out of it.”

“But you’re not, are you?”

A flicker of a smile. “No. I’m not.”

As soon as their session was over and Akira was out the door, Takuto locked it. The world seemed to rock beneath his feet; he could still see that shining thread, connecting him to Shujin’s infamous transfer student. He rested his forehead against the door, saw the shimmering light trail around the corner to the school’s entrance.

“Azathoth,” Takuto said, though his voice was weak and trembled, “what does this mean?”

THREADS, Azatoth said, and try as Takuto might, refused to say any more.

As soon as her shoot was over, Ann was gone; down the street in a huddle by a tree was a sorry group of boys who didn’t seem to know the first thing about Harajuku. Mishima was rattling off facts as if he was trying his best to emulate a Wakipedia article while Ryuji looked on, bored. Akira stared past them to the shops, Morgana curled up in his bag. In a crowd like this, the cat would only cause more harm than good, though he peeked out as Ann skidded to a stop.

“Sorry!” she said, panting for breath. Her legs screamed, and she was sure her knees were trembling. “My shoot ran late!”

“It’s alright,” Akira said.

“Yeah, Mishima was keeping us from ditching ya, anyway,” Ryuji said with a yawn. “Dude, how long did ya stay up memorizin’ all that?”

Mishima panicked. Ann would have found it cute if not for the way his voice shrieked, “I-I didn’t stay up late! Well, not any later than normal—”

“All night, then,” Akira muttered.

“I got sleep!”

This was… a little too much for her to handle. But after changing Madarame’s heart, she wanted nothing more than to relax—and nothing was a better stress reliever than shopping. Maybe she would buy Yusuke a shirt or two; it could be proof that she forgave him, if only a little.

… She hoped he was doing alright.

With a bit of coaxing, she managed to get the boys into the street; Ryuji made a beeline for the sportswear shop and practically drooled over the running shoes on display in the window, while Mishima and Akira took their time perusing what was out on the racks as they passed them by. Mishima tended to hide behind the plainer, simpler clothing while gawking at the more wild options: leather trenchcoats covered in belts; button-ups with four different kinds of animal patterns; the lace and ruffles of a lolita dress.

(Ann suspected that last one was more gawking at the girl wearing it than a desire to try it on. She knew the feeling; some people just looked better in certain clothes than others. She certainly wouldn’t look good in it, that was for sure.)

Akira was a bit harder to pin down.

He’d rifle through the racks, only to pause at one polo shirt or henley or another, all in solid, simple colors. But then he’d move down the aisle, finger the sleeve of a leather jacket as if testing the give, or pull out the most hideous pair of skinny jeans Ann had ever seen in her life, or inspect the cuffs of a shirt that looked as if it was shot through with thread-of-gold. Morgana had more than enough to say about those particular choices, but every time he did, Akira looked a little more put-out than before. By the sixth shop he stopped trying, and Ann almost felt her heart break at the sight.

When they took a break for snacks, Ryuji and Mishima went off to buy drinks. Akira fanned himself with a pamphlet forced on him by an overzealous clerk while Morgana perched on his shoulder, eyeing the crowd with his own brand of distaste.

Ann forced herself to remain calm as she said, “Hey, Mona. After the break, why don’t you go with Ryuji? You can tell him how awful he looks in all those jerseys he keeps picking up.”

Akira gave her a look obscured by the sun glinting off his lenses; from the slight frown he wore, she wondered if he realized what she was doing.

But this was for Akira. Ann hated to watch him stifle his curiosity for Morgana’s sake.

“Go with Ryuji?” scoffed Morgana. “Why should I? Besides—”

He broke off, ducking down into the bag. They watched the crowd go by for a while until whoever had stared was long gone. Even then, he cowered behind the zipper, tail thumping in its confines. “Besides, I’d much rather stay with this guy. He’s got no sense for fashion, Lady Ann.”

Ann hated to resort to this. “Well, honestly,” she said, ducking her head and biting her lip for good measure; she tried not to think about how stiff her delivery was. “I wanted to, um. Get a guy’s opinion on something…”

She trailed off, staring down the street to the froth of dresses outside a particular store. It was somehow even more frilly and frou-frou than the lolita dress Mishima had been interested in, and sure enough, Morgana’s jaw dropped when he spied it.

“L-lady Ann, you don’t mean—”

She could see where he was coming from: the summer fashions were out, and this year it just so happened that light, pastel colors were in; the dresses in front were a bright, blinding white in the sun, and to someone who didn’t know any better, they could almost look like wedding dresses.

Morgana looked from her to the shop, clearly in despair. “I-I’m a guy,” he countered, weakly.

Akira, who was staring down the street, too, said, “But you’ll get fur all over them.”

Morgana gasped, stiffening with shock. He turned to Akira’s shoulder—sure enough, covered in a fine layer of cat hair, like always—and then slunk into the bag.

Sorry, Mona, Ann thought. It wasn’t fair to lie to him, even if it made Carmen titter with laughter, and he was still sulking when Ryuji and Mishima returned, arms laden with drinks and snacks. Ryuji kicked up a fuss when presented with the Mona bag, and the second Ann pointed out the shop she wanted to visit, complained that she could go there by herself.

Luckily, she didn’t need to fight him on it. Mishima snatched up the bag, red all the way to the tips of his ears, and offered to watch the cat.

Not quite what she wanted, but it worked.

So when the food was finished, the trash thrown away, and Akira’s wallet tucked into a pocket, they parted ways: Mishima and Ryuji back to the sports shops, Ann and Akira down the street. Ann spent enough time browsing the frothy layers of lace and chiffon for the boys to disappear into a shop, then tugged Akira farther down the street.

He raised a brow.

“You’ll see,” she promised.

And he did: there was a shop that sold nothing but leather goods, and another that sold gothic wear, and yet another that had regular shirts in all sorts of patterns. Ann made a point of stopping in each one and taking her time browsing; by the third shop Akira finally caught on and started working his way through the racks on his own. Ann stifled a grin; it was obvious how much he was enjoying himself, now that there wasn’t anyone around to judge him for his choices.

He had a nice smile. When his face relaxed like that—when he finally looked sixteen, young and unsure and soft at the edges—he finally looked like a person.

It made her wonder how often he hid himself away behind walls and masks. Too often, if she had to bet on it. It was a shame.

So Ann let him indulge. Sometimes he would find something absolutely ridiculous and show her—tiger-striped slacks, or a jacket with real diamonds sewn into the sleeves, or a button-down patterned with hundred-yen bills—and she would laugh and do the same right back.

She liked his laugh, she found. She liked his grin and the way it quirked up at one end to show the barest hint of teeth. She liked the way he pouted, liked the way he ducked his head to tug at his hair when he mulled over whether to buy a t-shirt that looked as if it was made in the nineties. She liked the way his eyes lit up when she offered to hold onto it for him, because the boys would judge and he had to live with Morgana, like it or not. She liked the way he mustered up all of his confidence just to say yes, please.

So she wound up smuggling the shirt in her purse as they walked back down the street. “Have fun?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, still soft, still in disbelief. “Thanks.”

She liked the way he said that, too.

“I wonder if I’ll ever get to wear it,” he said.

“You should do it anyway! Who cares what the rest of them think? Especially Ryuji, with all those t-shirts of his.”

Akira chuckled, low and dry. “That’s not how it works in the country.”

“Good thing you’re not there anymore, then, huh?”

He thought that over, then said, “You know I have to go back at the end of the year.”

She did. They all did, even though Ann couldn’t imagine a life without Akira in it anymore. It’d be so dull without him around. But—“That’s months away! You should enjoy yourself a little more! Really make it worth it!”

He only chuckled again, going quiet. Before long, Ann spotted Ryuji and Mishima waiting by a street sign; Mishima was braving the prick of claws on his shoulder as Ryuji and the cat argued with each other. Ann sped up, all the quicker to intervene, but stopped as Akira said, “Ann.”

She turned. The sun was starting to set; she hadn’t realized how long they’d been at it, and Akira’s features were blurred with the beginnings of shadows. Even still, she heard the smile in his voice. “We should do this again.”

Ann couldn’t help it: she beamed, glad that he’d enjoyed himself, ignoring the little part of her that wanted to ask if it would just be the two of them next time. As long as Akira was having fun, that was all that mattered. She had to enjoy every moment while it lasted; the end of his probation year would come faster than they thought.

“Sure,” she promised, and tugged him onward.

Akira sighed. His head rolled back to rest on the bench as his teammates chatted among themselves. His body still ached from the fight even a couple days after, and he gnawed on the thought of whether or not Madarame’s change of heart had gone as it should. All Yusuke would say was that the old fraud had shut himself up in his room and wouldn’t come out.

Only time would tell.

For now his teammates were giving him pointed stares that he chose to ignore. When they ran off without so much as a goodbye, he didn’t blame them.

But it still hurt.

“Could they have been any colder?” Morgana grumbled from his bag, tail twitching.

“Yeah, actually,” Akira said. They’d at least worked with him. It was a far cry from the obvious cold shoulders and nervous actions he’d been getting up until then, and while it would be too much to ask for them to lighten up so soon, it made him nervous.

Was the rest of the year going to be like this? Left behind if his friends weren’t by his side?

Morgana snorted, then ducked back into the bag at the sound of approaching feet.

“I thought I recognized you,” the girl from this morning said. “I’ve been looking all over, hoping to thank you again for this morning.”

“It was really no trouble,” Akira told her.

“Don’t be silly!” She smiled. “It meant a lot to me, especially since… Actually, where did your group go, Senpai?”

“Where’s yours?” he asked, and regretted it at the wince she gave. “Guess we both got ditched, then.”

“I’d like to think it was a little less heinous, honestly.”

He studied her. “Yeah, I know. Me too.”

“Well,” she said, “since we both were left on our own, why don’t we eat together? It’ll be nice to have company.”

Akira thought of the communal soup pot simmering away over by the park’s fountain. Ms. Kawakami had been kind enough to inform him that it was mostly lettuce due to a budgeting issue, and his packed lunch sat under Morgana’s stomach.

But, still. The company would be nice.

“Sure,” he said. “But no soup for me. I brought my own.”

She looked surprised. “Are you sure? I heard it’s going to be good.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure.”

“I—then, what about a drink? I can bring you back one.”

She was hell-bent on this. “Water, then. Bottled.”

“Water, bottled! Got it!”

And she darted off, ponytail bobbing. Akira’s head pulsed with a dull ache at the familiarity of it. He’d seen that ponytail Before, he thought, but couldn’t place it. One of Yoshizawa’s cousins? That would explain their names being the same.

He put it out of his mind. No use thinking about it, and today was supposed to be all about resting up—Madarame had been no pushover—and saving their strength for the next fight.

Because there would be more. There would always be more.

“What about me?” Morgana grumbled. “Am I supposed to sit in this bag the whole time?”

Akira thought that over. “Maybe we can pretend you’re a stray.”

“I’m no stray! You take care of me, don’t you?”

“Hm, debatable,” he said, and laughed at Morgana’s indignant hiss. “You’re the one always begging for sushi, you know.”

Morgana started what sounded to be his same argument—he did a lot for the Thieves, and sushi was the least he deserved for it—but then ducked back into the bag as Yoshizawa’s cousin came running back. A pair of water bottles sweated in one hand; her bowl of soup sloshed wildly in the other.

“Careful, there,” Akira told her as she came to a stop, panting lightly.

“I didn’t want to keep you waiting too long.” She passed him a bottle. He took a drink as she sat, seemingly oblivious to the stares aimed their way. “Well, then. Shall we eat?”

“Just one thing, first.” Morgana shuffled out of the way of his questing hand; he picked out his bento box. “Are you okay with cats?”

“Cats?”

“What are you doing?” Morgana hissed.

“I love cats!” Yoshizawa’s cousin beamed. “My dad’s allergic, so we never got to have a pet, but I’ve always wanted one! Did you see one around, Senpai?”

“Come on,” he told Morgana. “Enjoy the sun every once in a while.”

To Yoshizawa’s cousin, he said, “Let this be our little secret.”

“Honestly,” Morgana groused, ears flat against his head as he slunk out of the bag. “You have no self-preservation. None at all. None of you.”

The girl brightened further. “Oh, he’s so handsome! Is he yours, Senpai?”

Morgana perked up under her praise. Akira said, “We just kind of adopted each other. Couldn’t get rid of him now even if I tried. Not that I want to.”

“Would it—would it be okay to pet him?”

Morgana balked, torn between the promise of yet more praise and the indignity of being treated like a pet. He looked to Akira as her hand hovered, eyes glittering with joy.

Fat chance of Akira ruining this. Morgana was on his own.

As he unwrapped the bento box, though, Morgana came to a decision. He rose to meet her fingers; she let out a noise of surprise. “Just so you know, not just anyone can pet me, understand?” he told her, even as a rumble began deep in his chest.

“Guess he only likes pretty girls,” Akira commented.

“P-pretty? Me?” Yoshizawa asked, suddenly flustered.

“Everyone thinks so. Why not a cat?”

“Well, it’s just… sudden, that’s all.”

“And it makes you think of this morning,” Akira guessed.

She mumbled assent. “I… still haven’t thanked you enough for that. I really wanted to be here no matter what, and that man… He was stronger than I thought. Or maybe it was just too hard to say no. Either way, I’m grateful for your help.”

She bowed over the bench partition, one hand still scratching Morgana’s cheek.

“Like I said,” Akira said, “it was no trouble.”

She laughed. “At this rate, we’re going to sound like a broken record! And I should eat before my soup gets cold. Say, does your cat like ham?”

They ate, feeding Morgana bits and pieces of their lunches. Yoshizawa’s cousin was dismayed to find out the soup really was mostly lettuce, as so many of their classmates were complaining about, but every other bit of meat she found in it went to the cat, who took her head pats and cheek scratches with minimal fussing. Akira scanned the crowd as he ate: no sign of Ann or Ryuji or even Yuuki, for that matter. Maruki was happily serving up soup over at the station, apologizing over and over for the lack of substance.

It wasn’t anything he could help, but he would say it regardless. The man held food to a high regard, if his supply of snacks was anything to go by.

But then again, so did Akira.

Yoshizawa’s cousin asked, “Have you been to see him? Doctor Maruki, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Akira said. “He’s… good.”

“Isn’t he?” She beamed. “He helped me so much, so maybe I’m biased. But I can’t help it! I don’t know where I’d be without him.” A chuckle. “Just like I wouldn’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for you, too, Senpai. Albeit a bit differently, of course.”

“Of course.”

“That’s why I’m sorry about what happened the other day. What Coach Kamoshida said about you just wasn’t true, was it?”

Akira watched their classmates go by. Some were done with the disappointing soup and chatted loudly about their plans for the rest of the day; the same people who could smile so readily for their friends didn’t so much as spare a glance to the three of them on the bench. It shouldn’t have mattered—he had friends of his own, and good ones at that—but it rankled, all the same.

Maybe I just got used to being wanted, he thought. How vain.

To Yoshizawa’s cousin, he said, “I was arrested for assault, actually. That part is true.”

She thought that over, then shook her head. “I just can’t believe that. Someone as nice as you, Senpai—there must have been a reason. I’m sure of it.”

“Isn’t there always?” he asked. That night was still a murky haze, all frightened shouting and the squeal of leather as it slid together and cold smugness. “But I don’t like to think what might have happened if I hadn’t. Same as you, I suppose.”

She caught his meaning quickly. Her face fell. “Someone really…? For helping them?”

Akira only shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore; reliving it with Ann and Ryuji had been enough. He was tired of thinking about it. “I’m just glad you’re both safe. That’s all that matters.”

“I see,” she said, then grinned. “You really aren’t like the rumors say. What a relief!”

“Oh? And what were they saying?”

“All sorts of things. Let’s see… there was burglary, murder, elephant tusk trafficking—”

“Those poor elephants never knew what hit them.”

She giggled, then went on. “Drug trafficking—oh, in that one you’re the leader of a notorious criminal gang in the States—kidnapping, arson… the list goes on, but those are the ones that stood out to me.”

He remembered overhearing his classmates talk about the weapons he kept in his bag. If only they knew it was only Morgana—and that the cat was a dangerous force all by himself—but at this point no one seemed inclined to change their minds. No one except Yuuki, anyway.

It was a start.

“It’s the unfortunate truth that I’m quite dangerous,” he said. “I even drive without a license.”

She giggled again. “Scandalous!”

“And you’re terrible at braking!” Morgana cut in, with a huff.

“I do well enough,” he defended, though it was true. He hated cars. And buses. And airplanes. Anything with a motor that he could feel rumbling under him was a no-go; at least the bullet train into Tokyo had been a smooth ride. Morgana’s incessant rumble as the car they rode in Mementos set his nerves alight; he was just glad he was crashing into the Shadows, and not the walls.

Another giggle. She had dimples when she grinned.

So did the Yoshizawa Akira knew. “Say,” he said, ready to ask, when someone gasped.

They looked over in time to see a red balloon drifting away from a teary-eyed child. It was already too high for her to reach; Akira leaped to his feet, ready to grab for it—

—when Yoshizawa’s cousin darted in front of him, ponytail streaming behind her.

She grabbed the balloon before it had the chance to drift higher, then tucked into a neat somersault to come up on her feet. She was all smiles as she turned to the little girl, tied the string to her wrist, and sent her on her way.

Akira, meanwhile, picked up the handbook that had fallen from her pocket, dusted it off, and risked a peek. Kasumi Yoshizawa, although the photo to go with it was oddly blurry.

He handed it over when she returned. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I couldn’t help myself. Just the thought of her losing that balloon… it’s silly, isn’t it.”

“It’s not.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said. If he remembered right, Yoshizawa had twin cousins. Sumi and ‘sumi, she’d always giggle, before staring at the results of their latest competition with fear in her eyes.

As far as he knew, this Yoshizawa was alone. It could be a coincidence.

“You know,” he said, calmly, “I don’t think we ever introduced ourselves. This is Morgana”—the cat puffed his chest with pride—“and I’m Ren Amamiya, though lately I’ve preferred Akira. Call it the first of my many crimes: absorbing my own twin in the womb.”

Yoshizawa froze at the mention of twin. Then she laughed, a bit more stilted than he liked. “I see. A born criminal, then. I’ll have to be more careful.” She turned the handbook over, brushing absently at the case. Then she bowed. “And I’m Kasumi Yoshizawa. I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“It never is with you, is it?” A small, wistful smile on her face. “So, let me guess: you’re trying to atone for your heinous crime by masquerading as your dead twin? That sounds like a plot from a drama.”

“Let’s just say I’m trying something new,” he said. Then, to change the subject: “So, you do gymnastics?”

“Oh, yes! Although lately I’ve been… off. I wonder if it’s the weight of everyone’s expectations. I haven’t been able to perform the way I want to.”

“Really?” Was that why she was seeing Maruki? “Is it a mental block?”

“I’m not sure,” Kasumi admitted. “I feel better after I see Doctor Maruki, but… Well, it’s not as if he can give me feedback on my routines, and Coach has been…”

“Demanding,” he guessed.

“Oh, you know?”

“They usually are.” Should he? He didn’t want to overstep, but if Maruki and her coach weren’t helping… “I used to study under Coach Teraguchi until, well, you know. If you’d like, I can take a look.”

Bald surprise. “Teraguchi? My cousin studies under him, too!”

“I know,” Akira said, and tugged at a lock of hair. “It’s distinct.”

She huffed. “You should have said something! I’d love to know how she’s doing—oh, but if you’re here, then you wouldn’t know, would you? And as for help… well, I’ll take as much as I can get! But it won’t feel right if I don’t offer you something in return.”

“Just the practice will be enough,” Akira said. “I might get rusty, otherwise. Can’t exactly join any clubs with my reputation preceding me, can I?”

“Oh, so you just want someone to practice with? I can certainly do that.”

“Then it’s a deal,” Akira said, “and since our classmates seem to be growing bored of the park… why not start now?”

They fled to a wide, grassy area where the grass was already dried by the sun. Morgana was left by the sidewalk to guard their bags, and they stretched and tumbled and somersaulted to their heart’s content, heedless of the stares they gathered. Kasumi showed a curious little girl how to do a cartwheel as Akira held a handstand; by the time he collapsed, track suit jacket bunched under his back and the smell of dry grass heady in the air, he was laughing. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the simplicity of a good workout, the burn in his muscles coming from simple overuse and not from a fight for his life.

It felt good.

It felt right.

And he couldn’t be happier.

Hirotaka sighed, stood, and stretched his back with an audible pop.

It was late. When he looked at the clock it was far past dinner, and Hiyoko wasn’t home. It had him wondering if this had been Yuuki’s reality until he’d joined volleyball: long, empty afternoons swallowed up by the dark, without even the smell of good, home-cooked food to break it.

He dared a glance at Yuuki’s door; the thin blue light of his laptop streamed out through the crack, and Hirotaka heard the unmistakable sobbing of that once-great master artist Madarame. Now the man was nothing more than a fraud, profiteering off the hard work of his students.

Hirotaka thought of bruises and forced himself to rummage through the fridge.

There wasn’t much. It had been a long while since anyone had bothered to go shopping, but there were a handful of eggs, a single potato just beginning to sprout buds, and a handful of vegetables left in a container. Hirotaka couldn’t remember when they’d first eaten them, but the leftovers would be enough. There was rice in the pantry, and oil for frying.

Omelet rice, Hirotaka decided. The hashbrowns would be a nice treat.

He worked his way slowly through the recipe. The oil spat and sizzled, and the rice cooker dinged with impatience, and the whole time Yuuki’s door barely moved. Hirotaka thought he heard sobbing over the frying omelets. He thought he heard pleas for forgiveness over the running water.

But Yuuki himself was silent as the grave.

When dinner was done, Hirotaka made himself knock and grit his teeth at the noise. The door swung open with barely any interference; there was indeed a video of Madarame’s press conference playing on Yuuki’s laptop, tears and snot dripping down the old man’s face. After a moment, it cut to a newscaster.

“Yuuki,” he said, “was that—”

“Madarame!” Yuuki said, barely restraining his glee. “They did it again! Did—did you see it? Tell me you saw it! People have to start believing in them now, right?”

“Right,” Hirotaka said. Dinner was on the table. It was going to get cold. But this was the happiest he had ever seen Yuuki, and he hated to barge in on the moment.

But the press conference and Yuuki’s internet friends could wait, couldn’t they?

“Yuuki,” Hirotaka said, determination catching in his throat at the sight of his son, working so hard on something he finally believed in, even if it was something as silly as phantom thieves. But dinner was going to get cold, and Yuuki liked hashbrowns and omelet rice. “Yuuki, I—”

“Can I make this post first?”

Hirotaka almost snapped no. He almost said that it was disturbing, how much Yuuki was glued to his phone. He even almost said that he’d worked hard to make something decent.

Instead he said, “I—I suppose so, if it doesn’t take too long.”

“It won’t,” Yuuki was quick to say, head already bent over his phone, Madarame’s press conference on repeat once more.

Hirotaka backed out to the kitchen. He sat at the table, dinner spread out before him, and waited. Ten minutes went by, then twenty.

The food was cold.

He forced himself up. Knocked on Yuuki’s door. Said, “Yuuki? How long did you say it was going to take?”

A few moments later all he received was an irritated, “I’m not done yet. Can it wait?”

It was already cold. Hirotaka supposed it could.

Though disappointment sat heavy on his shoulders.

Sae Niijima turned the corner. She visited this section of the station often enough, and yet today her skin thrummed with nerves: Ichiryusai Madarame sat in one of the holding cells stories below her feet, face a bleak, glum mess, eyes nearly swollen shut with tears.

Just like Kamoshida, from what few sources she could find.

Phantom Thieves. With the evidence sitting in front of her, it was almost enough to make her believe—but that was the child in her, still desperate for magic and miracles.

There were no such things as Phantom Thieves.

“Akechi,” she said, as she approached his desk. Akechi looked up from his work and gave her a smile.

“Miss Sae,” he greeted. “Is there something I can help you with?”

She grit her teeth, hating having to ask. “I wanted your insight on Madarame.”

His smile wavered. “You aren’t on that case anymore, Miss Sae.”

“Does that mean I can’t inquire, Akechi?”

“I suppose not,” he said. “But, ah, you are aware—”

“You can’t tell me how the investigation is going, I know,” she finished for him. As if he knew. “That’s not what I’m asking for.”

“Ah,” he said, and laughed. He stretched; the schools must have just switched over to summer uniforms, or perhaps he was hot: his arms were bare and prickled with goosebumps that stretched down to his wrists. He wore gloves to type, and concealer powder dusted the hems of his sleeves. Sae didn’t understand it. “Just my personal opinion, then.”

Sae nodded, lips pursed. Something about his personal opinions nagged at her. They appealed to the child in her, the one that still believed in truth and justice and the unwavering morality of the men and women who did true good in the world.

But Sae knew better. There was no truth or justice; there was no unflagging good. There was only greed. Anyone with a purse large enough could buy their innocence; anyone with enough charisma could talk their way into freedom. That was just how it was.

“You don’t seem happy about that,” Akechi observed.

Sae thought of the Phantom Thieves. She thought of how they were bringing criminals to their knees without a single trace of blood shed, and she thought of how incredibly unfair it was that her own father’s killers were still walking free. “It just seems too good to be true,” she said.

“Good things often are.” Akechi collected up his things, shut off his computer, and turned to her. “Shall we, then?”

“Right,” she said.

There was a relatively cheap sushi parlor down the road from the station; that was where she always took him when she wanted his opinion, or even when she just wanted to be sure he was eating. Akechi could pack it away just like any other boy his age, and Sae’s wallet—often a bit more bare than she would like, what with Makoto’s school fees adding up—simply couldn’t handle the strain of a classier restaurant. But tonight she bypassed the parlor and headed for the train station.

Akechi gave the parlor a confused glance and followed after.

By the time they made it to Ginza, Akechi was barely controlling himself. He looked put-together enough, but there was an eagerness in his movements that reminded Sae so much of Makoto that she found herself smiling, brought back to days when their father was still alive and the world seemed so much brighter. The exuberance Makoto had displayed for something as simple as hamburger steak or her treasured Buchi doll wasn’t something Sae was ever going to see again.

You are a drain on my life. Had she meant that? Or had the loss of her last case and Makoto’s tentative praise of the Phantom Thieves gotten to her? Or was it something as simple as the money Sae was spending on her education?

Or was it the slow creep of years catching up to her at last? The lost time in college as she sped through the program; the hours spent making a name for herself despite her youth and gender. She had to provide for Makoto, and she couldn’t do it on an apprentice’s salary.

But sometimes she wanted those days back.

And on days like today, she just wanted to feel as if it was all worth it.

Akechi kept his wonder contained well as they trekked from the station to the restaurant. Once they were outside, he let out a simple, “Are you sure, Miss Sae?”

“If you’d rather go back—”

“No!” He said it too quickly; his cheeks flushed pink for the briefest of moments before he collected himself. “I believe you mentioned before that you’re saving for your sister’s college fund, isn’t that right?”

“We’ll only have one round, then.”

“But—”

“If you’re so worried, you can pay, Akechi,” she said. “It’s kind of you to worry over Makoto’s future like that.”

He spluttered, at a loss. No doubt he was saving for his own future, and it wasn’t as if his internship was paying him serious cash. After a moment, his expression smoothed out, and he turned to consider the restaurant’s door.

Sae sighed. “I’m joking. I’ll pay today. Besides, this is a… special occasion.”

“Special? How?”

But she didn’t answer. She swept into the restaurant, ordered a round of sushi for two, and let Akechi wander in after her. Suddenly all his eagerness was gone. He looked very much like the child he was, out of place in a high-class restaurant.

Eighteen, those detectives had crowed. Two more years and they could take the prim and proper Goro Akechi out drinking, and wouldn’t that be a fun sight?

As if Sae would let that happen.

They talked over the cases as they waited for their food: what the public thought was a mix of disinterest from the skeptics and outright worship from the believers; the multiple scams stealing money from fans of the Thieves and running off with it; the inexplicable about-face of their victims’ personalities. So far none of the smaller targets Akechi had found had been as far gone as Kamoshida and Madarame, but one could never be sure. Everyone was good at hiding something.

“Even you, Miss Sae?” Akechi asked then, chopsticks hovering over his selection of sushi.

Sae had to admit it was going to be worth every yen she spent on it. The yellowtail practically melted in her mouth. “Even you, Akechi?” she shot back.

“You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“It could be.” She thought of Makoto, growing up without their parents around. Sae remembered their mother, a beautiful woman before cancer took her, and beautiful even after. Makoto would never say she missed their mother; she simply didn’t remember enough of her to. But Makoto never said she missed anything. It was as if in her race to become mature, she had forgotten what it meant to want something. Sae worried she craved the praise of being the best.

“Sometimes we hide things because we know they’ll hurt others,” Akechi said. “How we think or feel about them; how their actions cause a stain on our day. And sometimes we hide things because they’re received poorly. Liking certain media or foreign celebrities, for example.”

As if Makoto would hide things from her. But it wasn’t as if Sae was a huge part of her life anymore, either. She would have no way to know.

Akechi savored a piece of sashimi. He hummed with delight, chewing slowly.

“And sometimes we hide things because it’s simply easier to,” Sae added. The lies she’d spun in her prosecutions were necessary for her and Makoto’s survival; no one wanted a prosecutor that didn’t win. Losing a case did not put food on the table or pay Makoto’s tuition.

Akechi said, “Yes. That too.”

They ate. Akechi gave her a few cryptic tidbits tying back to his earlier statements about the Phantom Thieves, and Sae filed them away for later. When their sushi was gone, she ordered dessert.

“Dessert?” Akechi said, flabbergasted by the very idea.

He’d spent too long in the system. With any luck, he wouldn’t spend any more in there. “I told you, today is special,” she said. Even if it was nearly a month late, a birthday celebration was still a birthday celebration, and birthdays demanded dessert.

But no matter how hard he prodded at her for the occasion, Sae refused to tell him so.

Chapter Text

Ryuji heaved a sigh.

The sun beat down. With not a cloud in sight and tomorrow’s rain pushing the humidity through the roof, the last place he wanted to be was out baking in the relentless sun. But his ma had coupons and they expired today, and Ryuji thought it was a waste not to use them just because she was called into work at the last minute.

And if it meant he got to hang out with Akira for a while, how could he not grin and bear it?

“Damn,” he muttered, and rubbed his shoulder. “I still hurt from that landing, man.”

“Yeah,” Akira said. The bandage wrapped around his arm flexed as he cast the line; he spared a pitying look for the bag by his feet. Morgana was holed up in Leblanc taking the chance to recuperate, and Ryuji almost didn’t blame him. That briefcase had weighed a ton.

All the better. He had Akira’s company without the furball getting in the way; the last thing Ryuji wanted to do today was get pissed off at a cat.

How pathetic, that he let a cat piss him off so much.

He pushed thoughts of the cat out of his mind and tried to enjoy himself. Ryuji wasn’t much of a fisher, but neither was Akira (despite his country-boy status), and both of them were content to simply chat while the fish nibbled at the line. Every so often they’d get lucky, and by the time they had a passable pile of tags by their bags, the crowd had grown.

“Why’d it have to be so crowded today?” a familiar voice groaned, and Ryuji glanced over to spot Ms. Kawakami, fishing gear in hand and a sunhat shading her eyes. Her mouth twisted when she spotted them.

Ryuji felt it was only fair to acknowledge her. “Hey, Teach.”

“Not ‘Teach,’” she chided, taking a seat nearby. “That’s Ms. Kawakami to you, Sakamoto.”

She was pissed after Operation Maidwatch. Ryuji didn’t blame her. “Uh, sorry. Didn’t know you fished, Ms. Kawakami.”

“It’s relaxing. Normally there aren’t so many people out, though.” She humphed, casting her line with a flick of a wrist, and before he knew it, was reeling in a catch.

“Oh, well, there were these coupons—”

“That explains it,” she said. There was another fish on her line. Ryuji hadn’t even seen her bait it. “Oh, well, I guess. I came here to fish and I will. You two, though; are you going to be prepared for your exams next week?”

“Don’t remind me,” Ryuji groaned.

Akira clicked his tongue at another lost catch, then passed the rod to Ryuji. “We’ll see,” he told her. “I’ve got some studying strategies I wanted to try.”

“Dude, you gotta share ‘em with me!”

“You’re the one I wanted to test them out on.”

“Sakamoto, actually studying? I think I’d pay to see that,” Ms. Kawakami commented.

“Should I tell you what works, then?”

“Oh, please.”

“I ain’t some kinda guinea pig, y’know!” Ryuji cut in. His knee began to bounce; just his luck to get pissed anyway.

“But I thought of them just for you,” Akira pouted, and when Ryuji turned to give him a solid punch to the arm, actually looked disappointed. “After midterms, I thought you’d need the help. You don’t want it?”

“His grades are better than yours, Sakamoto,” Ms. Kawakami added.

“I do! I do, but…” Ryuji grit his teeth. His leg didn’t seem to want to stop jiggling; at this point he’d be happy to launch himself into the fishpond to get the conversation to stop, but his ma would wonder why his clothes were wet when he got home, and he didn’t want to disappoint her any further. Especially not today of all days; they were supposed to be celebrating. “Do ya gotta sound so weird when you say it?”

“I put a lot of thought into these, Ryuji.”

“Doesn’t mean I gotta like it, do I?”

Ms. Kawakami huffed a laugh. She pulled another fish off her line, added the tag to her pile, then tossed it back into the pond. “You two really are friends, aren’t you?”

Akira and Ryuji shared a look. They were friends, obviously. Even if there were things Akira didn’t want to tell him, and even though Akira had no idea today was Ryuji’s birthday—what else could they be but friends?

She went on without prompting: “Who knew that you two would get so close so quickly? Let’s hope for Sakamoto’s sake that your studying techniques work, Amamiya.”

Akira hummed in agreement. Fish tugged at the line in Ryuji’s hands, nearly taking the pole with it as he stared, slack-jawed, at the pile of tags by Ms. Kawakami’s feet.

“Man, Teach,” he said, barely hiding his awe, “you’re really haulin’ ‘em in, ain’tcha?”

“Not ‘Teach,’” Ms. Kawakami chided again, this time a bit sharper. “And this is just the result of diligent practice. Lots of it. If you put the work in, the results are bound to reflect that.” She turned, narrowed her eyes. “Got that, Sakamoto?”

“Y-yes, ma’am!”

“Amamiya?”

“Got it,” Akira said, far more composed than Ryuji felt. He pointed to her pile. “Teach me to do that, please, Master?”

She huffed another laugh, cheeks flushed, and muttered about how they dared to make her work outside school hours, but showed them anyway. By the time they called it for the day, they’d pulled in enough points for a bunch of extra bait. Ryuji let Akira keep it; he seemed to enjoy fishing more than Ryuji had, and some of the better prizes caught his eye as they looked them over.

And no doubt the cat would enjoy the thought of fishing, too.

Ryuji shoved his hands in his pockets as they ambled down the street. He was hot enough that he could fry an egg on his arm, and the crowds pressed in, and exams were next week—but he had dinner to look forward to, and maybe some cake, if he was lucky. There was a solid-gold briefcase he still had to sell squirreled away in his bedroom. It was supposed to rain tomorrow, but that didn’t matter, because right now he had Akira at his side, humming a tune under his breath. He had the fulfillment of a job well done with Kaneshiro’s bank blown to bits. It was two weeks until summer vacation.

What would they do with all that time?

He laughed.

“What?” Akira asked.

“Nothin’,” Ryuji said. If he did well on his tests, his ma would be happy. That was all he could ask for. “It’s just… ‘Master?’ Really, dude?”

Akira flashed him a quick, sly little smile—and that was enough.

They chased each other through the streets, laughing like idiots, and for once everything in Ryuji’s life felt right.

The kid goggled. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t offer if I weren’t,” Sojiro snapped.

“Well, it’s just,” the kid said, staring at the kitchen—empty, because it was closing and the last thing Sojiro wanted to invite inside was cockroaches—and the racks of pots and pans. Ceramic and cast iron and expensive as hell, but it would be worth it for the kid to eat decently. Sojiro knew what a lazy high school boy’s lunch looked like. He’d eaten them often himself.

“Just what?” he pressed, when the kid didn’t finish. Even his cat was staring, bright blue eyes wide with an almost human stupefaction.

“It’s your kitchen,” the kid said.

“That hasn’t stopped you from using it, has it?”

The kid cringed. Though he’d only been boiling himself water, and even then only in a ceramic kettle he’d brought from Iwate. Sojiro had thought he was content with leaving the kid like that, but his supply of instant noodles and snacks was running dangerously low, and…

Well, it was just no way for somebody to live, and Sojiro wasn’t about to sit back and let it happen. Not again.

“Look,” Sojiro said, with a sigh, “I… guess I just don’t want a repeat of your first day. If what I’m making you makes you sick, that’s on me, you know. Can’t have you having a reaction in my shop.”

“Really, I’ve been fine,” the kid insisted, but Sojiro stopped him.

“Not the way I see it.” Though he didn’t exactly have the best eye for these things. “Just think of it as… having more responsibility around the shop. I’ll even teach you the curry recipe. You can impress your friends with it; not to mention the ladies love a man who can cook.”

Ah. That got his attention.

The kid eyed the new cookware with newfound eagerness; Sojiro chuckled and wondered who the lucky lady was. Takamaki? Niijima?

Ah, hell. What did it matter?

“So,” Sojiro said, “help me break these things in, yeah?”

The grin he received was worth the fortune they’d cost.

Yusuke Kitagawa sat in the courtyard, contemplating his sketchbook and pointedly ignoring the stares and whispers of his classmates. They crowded by the doors, afraid to approach—and why wouldn’t they be? He was a fraud’s accomplice. There was no telling how much of his artwork was stolen.

The familiar burn of anger kindled in his gut. There was nothing he could do except wait for their interest to die out, and it wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to their gossip. They had simply exchanged admiration for empathy. He was a poor fellow now who needed to be pitied.

It almost made him laugh.

He flipped a page and took in the warped lines and jutting spires of Mementos, a cave made up for trains that would never pass through. Empty and echoing, filled only with the moans of Shadows—beings as imprisoned as he once was, their freedom imagined. He wondered if his Shadow had been down in that bleak landscape. He wondered what form it would have taken, once its mask was stripped away. He wondered if it would have begged for its life.

“Kitagawa,” someone called. He looked up from the page.

“Togo,” he said, taking in the green of her eyes, brighter in the sun, and the slight blush to her cheeks. His classmates were staring, shocked into silence. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“A mutual friend of ours asked me to make sure you eat lunch,” she said, forgoing formality. She held up her bento with one hand and a separately wrapped rice ball in the other. She flushed harder as he took it in. “It’s all I could afford without being, um… conspicuous.”

She was being conspicuous enough already. Yusuke didn’t mention it.“Akira asked you to do this?”

“He did,” she confirmed, and gestured to the bench. “May I sit?”

“Of course.”

So she did. Her movements were graceful, practiced. Yusuke thought of the long hours spent at Madarame’s side in galleries and at auctions, and the work he had put in to be an attentive assistant. The truth was that Yusuke had not felt like a person, even at Madarame’s side. Was the same true for her?

Surely not, he thought.

She handed him the rice ball, and for a long moment after there was only the sound of chewing and the whispers starting up anew from the windows.

Then: “Do you play shogi, Kitagawa?”

“Yes,” he said, “though most of the rules escape me at the moment. It has been a long time.”

“I’m sure they’ll come back with some practice. Would you like to play?”

“Certainly.”

It was a welcome distraction from his thoughts of the Kaneshiro heist and the rumors swirling through Kosei’s halls and of Madarame. Yusuke had been warned the judicial process would be slow; he may not see the money from his works for another year, perhaps two. Yusuke didn’t care about the money; he cared about Madarame facing justice and for the artists he made destitute to regain what had been stolen from them. He was still haunted by the look of a former student, sitting by the lottery stand by the station and mumbling under his breath.

It was then that he understood that Madarame took in orphans and the disowned for a reason.

But all thoughts of what Yusuke may have become fell out of his mind under the click and clack of shogi pieces on the board. Togo paused every so often to explain one rule or another, and he was forced to redo his turn—not that the handicap helped him much. Togo won by an obvious landslide.

They ate some more. They played another game.

And when the lunch bell rang, signaling the start of afternoon classes, Yusuke felt lighter than he ever had before. The feeling buoyed him throughout the rest of the day, up until he made his way through Shibuya to their hideout on the pedestrian overpass. A photographer was camped out by one of the station’s exits, and he called to every girl walking by: “Let me photograph you! You’ll be a star!”

And one by one, they declined, some with contempt and some with automatic politeness.

“So gross,” groups murmured to each other, tittering. “Can he be more obvious?”

Yusuke thought he couldn’t be. How else was he supposed to get models? And the man was, at the very least, asking first. It was only polite.

But. Did Yusuke sound that way when he asked for models? Did they, too, walk away mumbling to themselves?

No, he thought.

But the feeling nagged at him. He was odd and he knew it. He didn’t understand his classmates’ snickers and jeers, or the letters shoved in his shoe locker, or even why it was so strange to try and find models on the street. Good models didn’t simply wander in through the door, Madarame had always said. They were found out in the city, on the sidewalk, at the park. People were beautiful, and any true artist could bring that out. Yusuke once believed that the day he mastered that, there would be no question of his talent being equal to that of Madarame’s. Now he knew better: any talent he’d once held had escaped him the day he learned of Madarame’s betrayal of his mother.

But his passion for art would not fade. That much was certain.

Before long he made it to the overpass. He passed the time by sketching the street below until Ann and Ryuji could be heard bickering over the rush of foot traffic.

“You are such a jerk,” Ann told Ryuji, who scoffed.

“Come on, he just wanted ya to model,” Ryuji said. “How’s that different from what you’re already doing?”

“I work through an agency, duh,” was her response. She tossed a pigtail over her shoulder. “Nobody gets to photograph me without their approval. Besides, if he was really as good as he said he is, he wouldn’t have to hunt down models outside the station.”

By that time they were close enough that Yusuke could ask, “Why not?” without yelling over the top over everyone’s heads.

Ann rolled her eyes. “Because he’d have models lining up begging him to take their picture, Yusuke. That’s how you get exposure when you’re starting out.”

“She just thinks he’s creepy,” Ryuji cut in. “Kinda like you.”

“Ryuji!”

“What? It’s true, ain’t it?”

“Like me?” Yusuke wondered aloud. From here, he could barely see the station, and the photographer was lost in the crowd. “He was only looking for a model, wasn’t he?”

Ann went red, ready to yell. Ryuji beat her to it. “Uh, dude. You wanted Ann to model nude, right?”

“How else was I to depict the true beauty of her form?”

“Dude,” Ryuji snorted, “that’s like—it’s basic, right? Do I gotta explain it?”

“Kosei often employs the services of nude models,” Yusuke informed them. Granted, those sessions were after school hours and off campus property, but Yusuke would do anything for the sake of art. Madarame had paid the fee before, but now Yusuke was on his own. “So I’m afraid I do not understand the issue.”

Ryuji groaned, looked over to Ann who was now blushing fiercely, and grabbed Yusuke by the arm. With a short, “C’mon,” he hauled Yusuke down the overpass and into a quiet corner.

Then he scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Okay,” he said, “how do I explain it so even you get it? Do you think makin’ art’s some pure thing? S’that it?”

“How could it not be?”

“Madarame wasn’t pure.”

“Madarame was no artist.”

Ryuji groaned, gritting his teeth. His leg bounced, and something in his pockets jangled.

Yusuke waited.

“Okay,” Ryuji said, heaving a great sigh through his nose. “Y’know most people don’t see somebody on the street and think, I want to draw them, right?”

“A true shame,” Yusuke said.

“And y’know most people ain’t comfortable bein’ naked in front of each other, right?”

“You and Akira certainly had no problem with it when we went to the bathhouse.”

“That’s different,” Ryuji said. “That’s guys. But girls, they gotta be—do I really gotta explain it?”

Yusuke thought of Shadow Kaneshiro’s sly comments: a two-for-one deal; Makoto could pay off her loan with her body (and her dear big sister could even help!). It was vile, to be sure. Even Yusuke had understood the implications.

But Madarame had been different. Yusuke was different. The pursuit of beauty in art was the purest endeavor ever conceived. It was the one thing Yusuke wanted out of life. It was the one thing Madarame had trained him in, and yet—

“I would never,” Yusuke said.

“So you do get it?”

“Is that what you think of me? That I would commit such vile atrocities for the sake of art? I would never. Art is not meant to be desecrated like this—”

“They don’t know that,” Ryuji snapped. “Hell, we didn’t know that. You think me and Akira went with Ann that first time she modeled for ya because we were bored? You think we woulda left her with some stranger after the shit Kamoshida put her through?”

“I would never,” Yusuke asserted.

“That’s not how it looks!”

Yusuke ground his teeth. Ryuji didn’t understand; everything Yusuke did was in pursuit of that unattainable beauty, that unreachable perfection. His mother had only been able to paint the Sayuri once she let go of worldly desires; that was why it effused peace and tranquility. That was why it made Yusuke’s heart ache so every time he saw it, even before the truth came out. Nothing could ever be more pure than that one piece, her last and greatest work.

Even still, his voice was small as he said, again, “I would never.”

Use art as a means to satisfy his baser urges? Never. Becoming a master artist meant divorcing oneself from such things; until a painting was done there was nothing else in the world except his hands and the canvas.

… Or so Madarame had always preached. Had that been wrong as well? How many of his falsehoods had sunk their claws into his mind, digging their barbs as deep as they could go? How much of Yusuke’s life was built on lies?

No, Yusuke thought. Madarame might have been a fraud, but his teachings were sound. Even his teachers at Kosei agreed with them—even if that was not completely. It was the artists who forgot such things that gave art such a despicable reputation.

Yusuke would never.

Thoroughly affronted, he turned from Ryuji, ready to return to their hideout—and nearly ran into Ann, who watched them both carefully. “Akira and Makoto are here,” she announced. “We’re ready to go if you two are.”

Ryuji gave another groan. “Yeah, yeah. Be right there.”

“You, maybe,” she said. “I want to talk to Yusuke for a minute.”

He snorted, rolled his eyes. “Be my guest, then.” He stormed off, startling a pair of housewives with his scowl. They hurried on, whispering to each other in disapproving tones.

“So,” Ann said, “you’d never, huh?”

“Yes, that’s correct. I would—I would never.” He felt disgusting just thinking about it. Was that what the world saw when they looked at him? Just another self-proclaimed artist searching for easy pornography? “I would never use you, or any other model, for such a thing.”

“Ryuji was right, though: that’s not how it looks.”

And what did Yusuke care for how it looked? But he swallowed the argument—this was one thing he feared he and his friends, or the rest of the world for that matter, would never agree on—and bowed low. “Even still, I caused you discomfort. In my haste, I did not consider your feelings on the matter. Please, forgive me that, at least.”

“Even for the nude modeling?”

She would be beautiful, if only he could understand her body lines. Ann was more than simple curves and sex appeal, and one day he would prove it. “I… should not have been so adamant, perhaps.”

“Perhaps, huh,” she muttered.

What else was he supposed to say? Yusuke had needed her beauty. Madarame had wanted a soothing, comfortable piece, nothing like anything Yusuke had been producing at that point. Like a caged animal, he had latched onto the first thing he believed would relieve him of the discomfort of Madarame’s constant pressure and refused to let go. That thing had simply been Ann.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It will not happen again.”

Ann hummed. For a long, terrifying moment she didn’t say a word. Then, finally: “Okay. I’ll believe you, Yusuke. Besides, you had your own stuff going on. I get that you were desperate.”

“That does not excuse my behavior.”

“Oh? You want me to take it back, then?”

When he finally looked up from the floor, she was grinning, broad and stunning. The sunlight filtering in the windows of the overpass made her shine as if she was made of liquid gold.

Beautiful, Yusuke thought, fingers itching for a paintbrush. Even a pencil would do.

And, as they regrouped with the others, Yusuke wondered if it was that last thought that made him think she didn’t believe him after all.

The world spun back into focus.

He could never get used to the sensation. Goro blinked spots from his vision, noted the crowds in the streets, and checked his watch for the time. Later than he’d thought, and later than it had any right to be. His back and arms smarted with phantom pain; his stomach rumbled.

That… would be why the spots weren’t quite clearing.

He gave himself a few moments to let the dizziness pass, then made his way out into the square. He ignored the groups of chattering students and sullen businessmen, fully intent on heading to the nearest 777 and buying his weight in instant noodles, when a head of messy black hair caught his eye.

Akira, he thought, and before he knew it was interrupting a conversation.

His companion looked familiar—bright red hair, even brighter ribbon—and as she turned to him he remembered why. She’d come along to the studio with her father those first few weeks after her sister’s death, sullen and silent as the grave. Unnerving, most people would say, but most people weren’t Goro Akechi. He’d welcomed the quiet she brought with her.

But it was good to see that she was doing better.

They made small talk, Goro’s stomach burning a hole through his chest all the while. Yoshizawa was Akira’s friend, and they both did gymnastics—although Akira’s record made it all but impossible to join any kind of club, Goro recalled—and the girl was ecstatic over her most recent triumph: being chosen as her club’s representative to a summer competition.

Wistfulness passed over Akira’s face, masked quickly beneath congratulations. Goro offered his own, fighting off another wave of dizziness as Yoshizawa beamed and thanked them.

And, because he really, truly, could not stand to wait another moment for food—and because his own successes in life had never been met with any kind of enthusiasm by anyone but Ren—he offered to celebrate. It wasn’t because there was something… off about Yoshizawa’s cheeriness, and it definitely wasn’t because she’d been talking to Akira and a hot jolt of some unnameable emotion had coursed through him. He would be an awfully petty person to want to keep Akira all to himself like that.

But, once he found his Yuuki…

Goro shook the thought off. His favorite cafe was the same as ever, and he ordered without thinking, Yoshizawa and Akira following suit. They made more small talk as Goro’s stomach attempted to devour itself.

Akira must have seen his discomfort; he passed a pack of snacks across the table. “They were handing them out at Yon-Germain and I couldn’t say no,” he explained.

Goro took in the chocolate croissant. “Ah, but you can’t have it, either.”

“I’d give it to Morgana, but…”

Morgana. His cat. Yoshizawa perked up at the mention. “Mona! Is he here? Did you bring him, Senpai?”

To which Akira placed a finger on his lips and patted his bag, sitting by itself on its own chair.

“A daredevil, are you now,” Goro said, “but I don’t believe cats can have chocolate, either?”

“Morgana will eat anything and not care.”

Much like a dog would, Goro thought, tearing open the package and attempting to split it neatly in half, getting his fingers covered in filling in the process.

Yoshizawa giggled at him. “I didn’t think you liked sweets this much, Akechi.”

He hummed, passing her her share. “Believe it or not, it started out as a marketing strategy, and then I found out the sugar helps keep me awake. I wouldn’t be much into them, otherwise.”

“Not healthy,” Akira murmured to himself.

Even Yoshizawa was giving him a pitying look. Goro crumbled under their combined stares. “Yes, well… You are aware of how busy I am. This is just the sacrifice we have to make to become something, you know. And besides, it makes me seem much more approachable, doesn’t it?”

Akira only sighed. By then their drinks had arrived, and he took a hearty sip of iced cola before declaring, “You were cuter when you just admitted you liked something.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Yoshizawa giggled once more. “You two are like old friends. Oh! Is that how you know each other?”

They shared a look. It was Akira who said, “We’ve been pen pals of a sort for years. We never got to meet until this year. Remember the social studies trip we took in school? That’s where we met up.”

“It was a surprise hearing your voice after so long,” Goro lied. His coffee was too bitter, but after the spiel he’d pulled about not liking sweet things, how could he dare to pour in the sugar now?

“And a surprise to put a face to it,” Akira added.

“Oh,” Yoshizawa said, “so that was what all my classmates were talking about! I’d wondered what you’d done, Senpai, but I never thought it was something so…”

“Mundane?” Goro offered.

“Legal,” Akira countered, and smirked at Goro’s look of distaste. “No doubt they thought I was hauling you off to blackmail you into joining my criminal empire. No doubt you’ve heard of us: we smuggle cats onto trains. Very heinous.”

“I was actually going to say normal, yes, but…” Yoshizawa giggled again. “That’s exactly what they were thinking! Then they began to wonder if Akechi would be the right-hand man or the one ruling over the empire from the shadows. Then they started talking about how Senpai would make you see the wonder of the Phantom Thieves.”

Goro’s smile felt frozen. “How endearing.”

Akira hummed assent, then sipped at his drink. “Goro’s always been a bit of a yes-man, though. He’d only rule with my permission.”

“Must you?”

“Absolutely.”

Goro shook his head and worked his way through his coffee. With Akira’s help, Yoshizawa passed Morgana bits of her bread, content to spy his bright blue eye peering out from Akira’s bag.

But his thoughts kept drifting back to the Phantom Thieves and the crowd of adoring faces staring up at him from a sea of cables. How Akira was picked out of all of those students, as if it was fate.

Well. He would prove fate wrong.

“Let me posit you the same question I asked him, Yoshizawa,” Goro said, and at Yoshizawa’s expectant stare, asked, “What do you think of the Phantom Thieves?”

“The Phantom Thieves?” she asked. “That’s who my classmates think Senpai’s empire is?”

“Irrelevant.” Though he took a bit of pleasure in the way Akira choked on air.

“The Phantom Thieves, hm…” She took a moment to think it over. “I think… while I can’t say it’s not wrong to want to help those in need, I… can’t agree with their methods. It really feels like the public might become dependent on that. Eventually, they’ll let the Phantom Thieves solve all of their problems. They’ll stop trying to help and change themselves. I can’t see how that’s beneficial.”

“So you worry more for the growth of others, Yoshizawa?”

“Yes,” she said. “If we were to put all of our trust in the Phantom Thieves… I don’t think a society like that would last very long. I’m already hearing it happen at Shujin, to be honest.”

“With villains like Kamoshida and Kaneshiro under their belt, I can imagine why that is,” Goro said. “And you, Akira? Any rebuttal?”

Akira hummed, then shook his head. “She’s not wrong.”

“So you see it as well?”

“Anything can become a poison,” Akira said.

“Anything, huh,” she murmured.

They stared at their drinks. Goro found himself contemplating the dregs of his coffee, Akira’s words on repeat: anything can become a poison. Too much of a good thing, and all that.

Well. He would become Shido’s poison very, very soon.

“I, ah, didn’t mean to bring down the mood,” he said.

“Oh, no, it’s my fault,” Yoshizawa argued. “I should have known things would get like this, and after all the trouble you went through to help me celebrate, too…”

“You shouldn’t let it bother you. I did ask a rather loaded question, after all.”

She seemed ready to argue further, but her phone began to ring. She checked it. “It’s getting late,” she observed, and sure enough the streetlights were beginning to come on, lamps flickering to life up and down the boulevard. “My parents want me home soon. I hate to end this on such a sour note, but…”

“Duty calls,” Goro offered.

“We’ll just have to have a better party when you’re back,” Akira promised, and she beamed with gratitude, then said her goodbyes.

Goro waited until her bouncing ponytail was out of sight to say, “Poison?”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Akira dared him.

“You aren’t,” Goro admitted. That much was obvious. “I simply can’t believe you put it that way.”

Akira shrugged. As if on cue, his stomach growled, loudly enough for even Goro to hear. He didn’t even blush as he asked, “So, are you free for dinner, right-hand?”

“Hardly.” But half a pastry and some coffee dinner did not make, and Goro was starving. “But I suppose I can make some extra time for you if you never say that again.”

“What, dinner?”

Please, Goro thought as they wandered down the street to a proper restaurant, find your Yuuki soon. Become that lovesick idiot I remember.

Anything to make the bad jokes stop. Anything to put an end to the sick feeling in his gut every time Akira said something, intent on making him laugh.

Because it all would end soon, and Goro did not want to miss it.

A knock at his door.

When Takuto turned, she was already letting herself in: Makoto Niijima, Shujin’s student council president. “I hope I’m not intruding,” she said, standing sheepishly in the door.

Takuto gave her a grin. “No, not at all. Let me just get things ready while you settle in.”

She took a stiff seat as he put the sign up and brought over the snacks and drinks. He gave his usual talk about wanting her to be comfortable, how they didn’t have to talk about anything at all if she didn’t want to, but her gaze was trained on the snack basket. The tea she asked for steamed; his juice box dripped condensation on the table despite the air conditioning.

He was sweating just thinking about the train ride home.

“Niijima?” he asked, unsure if she’d heard him.

“I—yes! I heard!” she said, startled. She turned from the snacks; that was alright. Not everyone ate them. “I was honestly surprised you aren’t busier, actually, with exams being tomorrow and all.”

“Everyone’s a bit too busy worrying about their grades to worry about their mental health,” Takuto told her. “I’d say it’s a relief that they’re taking their studies seriously, but crunch time can be detrimental as well.”

“Oh, yes,” she laughed. “I’ve seen that happen often enough. And I feel I’m prepared enough for the exams—or, as prepared as I can be. A rest day is sometimes all you need.”

Niijima brushed a lock of hair behind her ear—and Takuto was suddenly, viscerally reminded of Rumi. They’d had nearly the same style, though Niijima’s was longer. He had to work past the lump in his throat threatening to strangle him. “Well, I’m glad you’ve chosen to spend your rest day here.”

She nodded.

They chatted for a while. Niijima shifted between shy, teenage honor student and dependable student council president: Let me know if you need anything. I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to help. I can; I can’t. She even laughed when she noticed herself doing so, and told him her friends were a much bigger influence on her than she first thought.

“It’s so easy to get caught up in their flow,” she said. “They don’t even mind when I make mistakes. It’s a bit of a relief.”

“Is it?”

Another nod. “They even called me stupid for taking on more than I could handle. I wasn’t sure what to think of it at the time, but… they were right. I shouldn’t have. Working hard for the sake of my future won’t matter if I’m not able to enjoy it.”

From what he understood from staff gossip, Niijima was a hard worker—and she worked herself to the bone trying to please everyone she met. The sense of responsibility she showed was astounding if one didn’t look further, but seeing her like this…

She looked like a little girl crying out for someone to love her. To notice her achievements. To give her praise.

But wasn’t that what anyone wanted?

“Ever since then, I’ve felt like all I’ve done is make mistakes, one right after the other. I suppose that’s why I thought a rest day might be good for me.” She shifted, tucked her skirt again. “I am old enough to know my own limits, after all. I should know when too much is too much.”

“But it’s hard to,” Takuto said, “when the adults who should have been protecting you rely on you instead.”

She was only a year or two older than he was when he went to Ms. Umeda’s. When she’d prodded and cajoled him into counseling her kids. When he’d met Teppei. The woman had had no choice but to rely on the older children, but it stung, even years later. Takuto had known his first attempts at counseling were all wrong even as the words came out of his mouth. He had been nothing but a child preaching to his peers, a son with a pair of (questionably) loving parents shoving his good fortune in their faces.

“Who should have been…” Niijima repeated to herself. Her face fell. “If I had been clever enough to realize it sooner, I wonder…”

Mentally, he double-checked his notes. Niijima was an orphan too, and… “You live with your older sister, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s been the two of us for so long I can’t even remember what a proper adult guardian is supposed to be like. I think—no, I know it’s been hard on us both. But what else could we do?”

He didn’t know. The older Niijima was a prosecutor of some report. For her to build a career while raising her little sister…

(“Now listen, Takuto,” his mother said softly, in the little backyard with frost covering the grass. His father was in the house, sleeping off a fit, and Takuto had no idea what he did wrong. He’d only wanted a hug. Maybe he was getting too old for them. “Your father’s been through a lot. We should be lucky he’s home at all. And from now on, we have to do things a bit… differently.”)

Sacrifices had to be made. Children were forced to mature for the greater good. No doubt Niijima the elder had held her bread-winning status over the younger’s head; maybe they both had understood what needed to be done and mutually agreed to the tasks they could perform.

That didn’t make it right.

“Do you ever miss them? Your parents.”

“I was too young when my mother died,” Niijima said. “But my father… yes, I miss him. But he would want me to be strong. It’s the one value he always upheld.” She laughed with derision. “Maybe that’s why I’m so uptight these days.”

At least she recognized it. Unless… “Did your friends tell you that, too?”

“Oh, no, I figured that out on my own, though they did help a bit.”

Her friends. Takuto had seen her following Akira through the halls, and there were rumors flying of Niijima and Takamaki getting crepes together after school. “They sound like good friends.”

“They are,” she said with pride. “I couldn’t ask for better.”

She looked to the snack basket again. “Although… sometimes I find myself berating them for their actions. I should be able to handle a few goofy antics, shouldn’t I?”

“You place a lot of personal value on conduct,” Takuto said. Be good. Be silent. When could they be children when they were expected to be small adults?

“Only because my sister would bear the brunt of responsibility if I were to act out,” she said. “I never wanted to be a burden that way. I wanted her to succeed, too. But it will all be worth it if I can create a future of my own choosing. What I’ve lost won’t come back; it’s what I do moving forward that matters.”

He shivered. Even as they ended the session, long after after she had gone, Niijima’s word echoed: What I’ve lost won’t come back.

Rumi would say the same, he thought. Once she was over her parent’s deaths, once grief had run its course and even if it never did, she would say the same.

Rumi would move on. Niijima would move on.

And Takuto… well, Takuto wasn’t quite sure what he would do.

So when there was another knock Takuto almost wanted to say he was done for the day—but exams were tomorrow, and he needed to be there for the students.

Except Akira was on the other side. “Do you have some time?” he asked, voice a bit more strangled than Takuto liked. He made up a lie about seeing enough of the nurse’s office for the day, shucked off his lab coat, and together they walked to the courtyard. The heat was oppressive. Akira’s silence was worse.

He would talk, if given enough time, but there were students filtering out of the clubs and classrooms, their chatter focused on the upcoming exams.

Akira said, “Do you ever feel as if you aren’t worthy of the love others show you, Maruki?”

Takuto, who had been scanning the courtyard for wayward students ready to eavesdrop on them, turned his head so fast his felt something in his neck crack. “What?”

Akira’s grin was pained. “Do I have to say it again?”

“I, well—I just—” Couldn’t believe Akira would say that. “What brought this on? Is something going on? Is it what we talked about last time?”

Dreams, and love, and longing for beautiful, bygone days.

But Akira said, “There are cuts on your hands.”

Takuto paused. There were cuts on his hands—cat scratches, nothing serious as long as he kept them clean—but as he sat there thinking of what to say, Akira reached out and traced one. “Do they hurt?” he asked.

“Just a sting, really,” Takuto assured him. “I—there was a cat stuck in a tree on my way to school this morning, and—”

Akira’s face went blank. “You helped it.”

“I did.”

“Even though it hurt you?”

“That’s right.” Takuto shifted; if one of the staff saw them like this, what would they think? “They won’t last forever, you know.”

“But you’ll think of them next time you see a cat stuck in a tree,” Akira said. “They’ll be the first thing you remember: how much it hurt just to help.”

“Yes,” Takuto agreed. Pain was like that. And then, because the touch of Akira’s fingers was threatening to drive him insane, “But imagine if we could treat such emotional wounds like physical ones. If only there was a balm for the memory—the trauma—of the cat attacking me. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful thing?”

Akira’s eyes fluttered closed. He swallowed. “Yes.”

That caught him off guard. It took all he had to ask, “Is everything alright, Akira?”

Akira grunted something that could have been, “Stressed.” After a long moment of silence, he added, “This is helping.”

“This?”

“This,” Akira said, and squeezed Takuto’s wrist. “Is that strange?”

No, Takuto thought. There was nothing strange about wanting comfort during a stressful time, but Takuto’s biggest concern was how inappropriate it was. Akira was one of his patients. They shouldn’t be doing this. Professionalism had to be maintained.

But Akira leaned forward, slow and steady, until his head rested on Takuto’s chest, heedless of his glasses digging into his nose. “Just for a little while,” he murmured, “please. You can talk about your research if you want.”

I shouldn’t, Takuto thought. But when was the last time anyone had wanted him like this? He couldn’t remember; after Rumi, everything became a blur of ridicule and sorrow.

But this wasn’t about Takuto. This was about Akira, and what he needed to get through another day.

So Takuto tugged off both of their glasses and set them on the table. Akira curled closer—some base instinct making him greedy, Takuto told himself—and sighed as he got comfortable. Takuto struggled to keep his hands to himself as he began to work his way through his latest bottleneck—emotional pain and the invisible scars of the heart—and couldn’t help but feel this was familiar, somehow. A head of hair tucked under his chin. A hand clasping his shirt. Warmth, bleeding through his clothes.

(He tugged Rumi close, closing his eyes to the corpses in front of them. The smell of iron was thick in the air, masking the sewage stink of loosed bowels. They were gone, and Rumi was screaming, clawing at his arms and biting his fingers, and blood oozed out of the hastily-wrapped wound in her middle—

[And she sighed, content and whole and laughing, “And how is Ionasal today, Takuto?”

Takuto chuckled at her eagerness. He groped for his phone on the bedside table. “Shall we see, Rumi?”

“I’d like that,” she said.]

—and it covered him, sinking through his wounds, entering his bloodstream, burrowing deep in his heart.

And Takuto wondered if he would ever be free of the pain.)

Inappropriate, Takuto thought. He pulled Akira closer.

Perhaps he was not meant for this line of work after all.

The heat was brutal.

Every inch of Kasumi’s body ached. From the crown of her head to the very tips of her toes, she ached. She ached so much it hurt, and yet it wasn’t enough.

She wondered how much the winners ached, and whether her own pain meant so little.

Then she wondered what they were doing right at that moment. Were they standing around, contemplating every little thing they’d done wrong in the shadow of a construction site? Likely not; they were winners and had nothing to prove.

Not like her.

Shrieks of laughter reached her ears. Each one stabbed into her like a knife.

She wasn’t—she wasn’t—

“Yoshizawa,” said a voice, and when she turned it was Amamiya-senpai, sweat beading on his forehead, his glasses not even hiding his concern. A pair of boys—his friends, she thought, of course he had friends—walked off down the alley, the blond one jostling the taller one. “What are you doing out here?”

She stared up at the site, and wished for rain. It didn’t come. “I wanted to see the stadium,” she said. It felt like a lie; what she’d really wanted was to run: from her parents, from her coach, from the inevitable whispers of her clubmates. She’d been picked out of all of them. They were bound to hate her. “I needed to give myself a pep talk. It’s, well. It’s a bit much to explain out in this heat.”

Senpai shifted on his feet. His cat poked his head out of his bag, meowing in his ear. He nodded. “How about lunch, then?”

“Are you sure?” His friends—hadn’t he come here with them? Why leave them now? “Don’t you have plans, Senpai?”

He shrugged. “It turned out to be a bust, so I’ve got plenty of time.”

“You do?” She hated the hope in her voice, but Senpai only nodded.

“Lead the way,” he said.

They wound up in the diner in Shibuya. The place was crowded despite the late lunch hour, and they found themselves crammed into a booth in the back. By then even her stomach ached, and Kasumi ordered enough food to replace what she’d used up in the meet—and even a Surprise Sandwich for Morgana, who ate the paste with relish. Senpai worked a knife to get at the paste-free side and used the bread to mop up the remains of his Nostalgic Steak.

“So?” he said, when the plates were empty and Kasumi felt reasonably human again.

So she explained, the disaster that was the meet still fresh and raw like an open wound. He was a gymnast; he understood the hang-ups of the mind, the way muscles locked up despite hours upon hours of practice. She hated herself for it. He’d helped her so much; she thought she was getting better.

But not better enough.

“These things take time,” he said, an echo of Doctor Maruki.

“I know,” she told him, “but that doesn’t mean I have to like it, does it?”

“No.”

That made her feel a bit better. So she hadn’t performed the way she wanted—everyone went through that. “Before, whenever this would happen, my—my little sister would help pull me out of it. We did everything together, even gymnastics—we were going to perform internationally, win every gold medal we could, go to the Olympics…”

She paused, the hitch in her breath obvious. Senpai didn’t call her out on it. He just sat and waited as she collected herself, her grief as clear as her body was sore. “But she died back in the spring in an—in an accident,” she finished. “So, well, when you came along and started helping me, it felt kind of like fate. Like she was telling me I could still make our dream come true, if I kept working hard.”

His voice was quiet when he spoke. “No one can say you aren’t working hard, Yoshizawa.”

“Right,” she said. Her hands curled in her lap until her nails dug into her palms. Sumire would want her to keep going. Sumire would rest happier knowing that she kept their promise.

And she had all of these people—her parents, her coach, Doctor Maruki, Senpai—looking out for her now. It wasn’t just her and Sumire against the world anymore.

(When had it ever been?)

“Thank you,” she said, “for always helping me, Senpai.”

“Of course,” he said. “So, what will you do now?”

“Start over from scratch.” He winced—a routine wasn’t an easy thing to come up with, after all. “And then I’ll have to work even harder! I look forward to your continued support, Senpai!”

He laughed then, nothing more than a chuckle, and his eyes said that he believed in her. “So do I,” he said.

Kasumi left the diner feeling lighter than air.

For once, they ate dinner at the table.

It was takeout from the diner down the street—hamburger steak with enough vegetables on the side they took up two plates—and the TV played, low and soft in the background. Yuuki’s mother was staying late at work again, but he could see her there in her seat, telling him not to slouch over his food.

Hirotaka never bothered. It was a relief.

As Yuuki pondered what kind of trolls he was going to have to deal with that night, a piece of carrot crunching between his teeth, a loud voice broke the silence.

“Yeah!” it said, and both he and Hirotaka turned to the TV. “We just, uh—we just love fruit, y’know?!”

“Fruit?” asked the reporter, and there was Ryuji’s face, smack-dab in the center of the screen. Amamiya and a rather tall boy waited patiently behind him. Yuuki read the newsreel without meaning to.

“A meat festival?”

“Oh, they do one every year,” Hirotaka said. “We took you when you were little, but they ran out of meat so fast it was rather terrifying.”

“Huh,” Yuuki said. He turned back to his plate—broccoli, carrots, the rest of his hamburger steak. He tried to remember any texts he’d gotten that day, but he’d been on his phone the whole time, working on the Phan-site. He would have seen them.

“We’ve never bothered to go back since,” Hirotaka went on. “But, if you’d like to, Yuuki—”

“N-no, we don’t have to do that.”

A meat festival. Even if they didn’t get any meat, they were at least together. And hadn’t Ryuji called him cool? Hadn’t he said he wanted to hang out with someone like Yuuki?

Apparently not enough. Maybe it was different with Amamiya involved.

He stewed on it over the rest of dinner and the bath after. Ryuji and Amamiya hadn’t texted him at all, and he knew they could hang out if they wanted to without him, but…

It stung. Every single insecurity he felt ever since Operation Maidwatch came back full-force, until his head spun with them. Why wouldn’t Ryuji want him there, too? Why wouldn’t Amamiya say anything to him? Was he going to be the one seeking them out forever?

Was it going to be just like middle school all over again?

“I don’t want that,” he muttered to the bathwater. Like almost everyone else in his life, it didn’t respond.

Fine, then. If they didn’t want to hang out with him, he would just have to give them a reason to: more targets, more fans. If Ryuji wanted people screaming about the Phantom Thieves on the street, Yuuki would give it to him; if Amamiya only gave him the time of day over their next target, Yuuki would give him one.

And someday, maybe… If Yuuki worked hard enough…

But the thought of success didn’t keep him from ducking his head under the water in a desperate attempt to stave off tears, feeling every bit like a drowning man.

Because no matter how hard he worked, there was every chance he wouldn’t be wanted in the end.

(And if he sulked until he couldn’t concentrate, that was his problem, wasn’t it? And if he texted Amamiya asking about the whole thing, it definitely wasn’t to appease the hurt child he’d become. Yuuki was better than that. He was making the world a better place, one person at a time.

If only the Phantom Thieves could see that.)

For once, Ryuji felt good.

Not that he didn’t usually—hanging with Akira or busting some Shadow heads or just going to his favorite ramen joint for dinner was all he needed to perk up—but for once the oppressive humidity wasn’t worming a hole through his leg. He could walk without gritting his teeth every other step, and—as he tested on his way to the station—he could run on it without feeling as if it was going to snap in two. He felt good.

He felt like his old self again.

He felt like he could run for miles.

It was Akira’s doing, he thought; training together to build up their stamina, skulking about the Metaverse to beat up some shitty adults, just having one guy in the whole damn school to talk to again.

(Yeah, he’d been lonely. He could say that now. He missed the track team, missed his classmates, and hell, missed his ma, even. Ryuji had screwed everything up big time for all of them, and he knew it. All he’d wanted was one person aside from his ma to look at him like he wasn’t a lost cause, a complete fuck-up, a traitor.

That person was Akira.)

And for once he’d gotten through the whole school day without anybody yelling at him. He shot off a text to Akira, grinning at the thought of running circles around him again—and then falling fast.

Not today, read Akira’s response, sent not even five seconds later. I made plans.

Cool, some other time, then, Ryuji sent back, before pocketing his phone with a bit too much force. His leg started to jiggle; he didn’t need Akira to go running, and he knew the guy was popular and had half a dozen part-time jobs already. It was inevitable that Ryuji had to wait his turn, even if it stung, and for a moment he considered inviting Mishima—then the guy walked by, nose buried so deep in his phone it was a wonder he didn’t trip all the way down the stairs.

No, it was just a couple of steps.

Ryuji winced and rushed over. Mishima fished around for his phone, eyes screwed shut against the pain. There was a growing dark spot on his knee, and Ryuji glared at everybody who stopped just to gawk. He pulled Mishima into a corner, shoved his phone in his hands, and then said, “I’m gonna see how bad it is, okay?”

Mishima nodded, wiping at his eyes with his sleeves.

It wasn’t too bad, just a scrape on the underside of his knee, but the blood made his skin look even paler. Ryuji left his pants leg rolled up and helped him hobble on over to the nurses’ office, where Dr. Maruki took one look at the wound and went paler than Mishima was. “What happened?” he asked, sounding as if he was expecting a gang fight.

“He fell down the stairs, Doc,” Ryuji said. Mishima sank onto a couch; Dr. Maruki began rifling through the cabinets, hands shaking.

For eff’s sake.

“I’ll do it,” Ryuji declared, pushing the doctor out of the way and reaching for the bandages, the antiseptic spray, the gauze pads. It was a big scrape, and Nurse Kajiwara, like most, never kept the big band-aids on hand, even though every athlete who came by eventually needed one for their knees or elbows. It pissed Ryuji off.

So did Dr. Maruki’s hovering, nervous form. “Go get some drinks or somethin’!” Ryuji barked at him, and as the man fled the room guilt flooded through him. He’d made it clear he wasn’t very good at patching people up, but couldn’t understand that he made everything worse by standing around looking like a cut was going to kill somebody.

Ryuji handed Mishima some napkins. “You doin’ okay, dude?”

Mishima stared at his knee through tear-ridden lashes. “Hurts.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll patch you up good, though, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mishima said. He sniffed. “Okay. Yeah.”

This was the same guy who’d hidden on a balcony with him, both hands pressed over his face, eyes wide with the terror of being caught and the humiliation of leaving Akira alone to face his fate. This was the guy who’d, over a table at Leblanc, had all but said he was a loser who didn’t deserve friends. This was the guy who’d caught onto Ann wanting some alone time with Akira on their trip to Harajuku. Ryuji was going to rib him for staring at every person who walked by for the rest of his life—not that he didn’t get why. Leather trenchcoats, in that kind of heat? You had to be insane to wear that shit.

Ryuji knelt on the floor and got started—but best to distract him a bit first. “Your phone okay?”

“Oh!” He tugged it out, pressed the power button; Ryuji sprayed a bit of gauze and swiped it right across the wound. Mishima hissed. “Ow, it’s, uh, it’s fine! Not even cracked! Man, that would’ve been—ow—a nightmare to explain to my parents.”

“What, they strict or something?”

“Not really. It’s just, you know, expensive.”

Ryuji got that. When he got accepted into Shujin on scolarship, Ma had taken him out to get a brand-new phone. Their jaws had dropped at the prices some of them went for.

Mishima was already working away, pain forgotten in favor of whatever he’d been so intent on that sent him spilling down the stairs. “Plus they’d just tell me to be more careful—not that I’m not, I just really had to take care of this troll, he’s been posting non-stop since lunch—”

Ryuji tuned him out. He liked the guy, he really did, but the technobabble, while cool, was a bit hard to follow. He was guessing websites didn’t run on plays like the ones they did in elementary school (Ma was so proud despite Ryuji’s stiff acting; he was, somehow, even worse than Ann), and he was guessing Mishima wasn’t talking about needing to take a leak, either.

Seriously, that shit was way too much for him.

Instead he focused on cleaning the wound and wiping the blood off and securing the gauze pad with bandages. Mishima used to be an athlete; he’d have the big band-aids at home, or could pick some up on his way. So long as he wasn’t about to bleed all over the train, Ryuji didn’t care.

But he wound up settling on the other couch, leg jiggling all over again. Mishima kept talking like he had to fill the silence or he would die. Ryuji chalked it up to nerves.

“Hey, uh, dude,” he said, breaking Mishima’s rant about how he could never make his site account-only, that would defeat the whole point, “you okay?”

Mishima took a second to process that. “Uh—yeah! I’m fine! It just stings, ha ha!”

“Yeah, it was a pretty nasty fall,” Ryuji said. “Uh, what I meant was, you ain’t freakin’ out about it, are ya?”

“Uh, why would I be?”

“’Cause your voice is like, a whole octave higher, that’s why.” Pain did that. Ryuji knew it very well. “You didn’t hit your head, didja?”

Get hit in the head and it screwed with your hearing, which screwed with your voice—or so Ryuji believed, anyway, and the way Mishima began to squirm didn’t help. Ryuji leveled a glare his way. “Dude.”

Mishima froze. For a long, blood-chilling moment that Ryuji swore up and down was deja vu, he said nothing. Then, “I just banged my nose on my phone when I fell. That’s all.”

“Dude.”

“That’s all. Really.”

Ryuji tried his best not to growl. Mishima flinched anyway.

“I fell down the stairs!” he yelled, phone grasped in both hands, body curled over it like it was more important than his knees, his hands, his own damn head. “Why wouldn’t it be scary?! Of course I’m freaking out! But I’ll be fine, I’m not gonna just drop dead on you, I’m not—I didn’t hurt anything else!”

The hot ball of rage growing in Ryuji’s chest simmered. His leg jiggled, up and down and up and down, over and over and over. He didn’t like the way Mishima was sitting, didn’t like the way he was acting so damn defensive, didn’t like the way it pissed him off.

This was the part where Akira would swoop in with just the right thing to say to calm Ryuji down and placate Mishima’s nerves—but Akira wasn’t here, and Ryuji couldn’t explain why he was so pissed off. Mishima’s nose wasn’t bleeding, and the wound on his knee was all patched up, so why was he trying so hard to avoid Ryuji’s notice?

“Mishima,” Ryuji said, something clicking in his brain. He leaned forward, checked the window out to the hall. Nobody was there. Good. “Mishima, dude—”

“I’m fine!” Mishima yelled, near to hysterics. He jumped to his feet, ready to bolt; Ryuji snatched at his wrist. His phone clattered to the table. He made a noise like a wounded animal.

Ryuji wondered where Dr. Maruki was. Probably getting mobbed by a bunch of his fans, which was good, because no one would interrupt. “Look at me, then.”

Mishima didn’t. He wasn’t staring at his phone, but at the cabinets by the door, tense as a wire. His wrist was too bony in Ryuji’s hand, too small to belong to a guy on the volleyball team.

“Mishima. Come on, man.” Nothing. Ryuji licked his lips, fought back the urge in his legs to move. He wasn’t Akira; anything he did would just backfire, badly. “Yuuki. Come on. Please.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Don’t sound like it.”

“Can’t I just be terrified on my own?”

“Nope,” Ryuji told him. “I ain’t leavin’ ‘til ya feel better. Let’s… sit back down. Okay?”

“I’m not scared of you, if that’s what you’re going to ask,” Yuuki said.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna believe that, either.”

Last year, after Kamoshida broke his leg and Ryuji had returned to school only to feel more alienated than he ever had in his life, he’d made the decision to go blond knowing what his bad posture and loud tees would add to the mix. All he was missing was a few piercings and a nicotine habit to be a real delinquent, and his return to training (and the fighting they did in the Metaverse) had given his muscles definition where there hadn’t been any before. Couple all of that with how easy it was to rile him up, and he was practically a mini-Kamoshida.

Ryuji didn’t like thinking it, but it was true.

Which was why snatching up Yuuki’s phone was so easy. Which was why saying, “Then you can go, but I’m keeping this until you wanna talk,” was so easy, even though holding the thing made his stomach sink with guilt. Which was why letting go and shoving his hands in his pockets was so easy. Ryuji had learned from the best of the best of assholes, and they both knew it.

He sat. Yuuki, after a long moment where he contemplated the table, sat.

It was a start.

So was, “You called me Yuuki.”

Ryuji shrugged. “It made ya listen, didn’t it? What, you don’t like it?”

He liked it enough to let Akira call him that, no matter what he’d said at first. “I don’t mind,” he said, an echo of what he’d told Akira, “it’s just… Nobody’s ever called me that except my parents. Feels kind of weird.”

“You get used to it. Call me Ryuji, if ya want. Ann and Akira do.”

“Sure.”

More silence. Ryuji wasn’t good with the quiet except on excursions into Palaces, where sneaking around was often a matter of life or death. Even his big mouth knew better than to start yammering away when some big boss Shadow could be right around the corner, but in the real world it pricked and prodded at him, especially now. He shifted. “So, uh…”

“I just lost my balance,” Yuuki explained, apropos to nothing. He laughed, short and stilted. “Haven’t been sleeping much. I guess it’s catching up to me.”

“Dude.” Ryuji wanted to walk over and smack him; he’d been an athlete, he knew what it meant to miss sleep.

Yuuki winced. “I know. Amamiya told me the same thing. Make sure to eat, and sleep, and go to school…” He blinked, eyes heavy and fighting to stay open. “Not like it matters. All I want to do is help—people, you know?”

The Phantom Thieves, Ryuji heard. You guys. Akira. It was always Akira. “Yeah. But ya can’t do that if ya bash your head into a wall.”

Not that he didn’t understand: throwing himself headfirst into something he thought would help was often the only thing that kept the creeping thoughts at bay. Before his broken leg, it had been running, the chance to win a scholarship to some big-name university, become a pro. Now it was his Phantom Thief work and the occasional video game; Ryuji had never been smart, and studying felt like trying to water plants in the desert. He hated it. Even training felt like a race against when his leg would decide it was enough. At least in the Metaverse healing spells took the edge off, kept him going a little longer.

“I know,” was Yuuki’s response, sounding as if he’d heard that from Akira, too. “But evil never sleeps, you know? Justice can’t, either. Plus all the trolls are nocturnal, and I can’t have their garbage cluttering up the Phan-site—”

He started up again. Ryuji, feeling guilty, tuned him out again in favor of watching him yawn three times a minute and blink furiously at the lights. He kept rubbing his knee and frowning at the cold spot of blood. He kept rubbing his eyes and trailing off, words abandoning him in favor of another yawn, leading him to restart his sentences. There were bags under his eyes that Ryuji only noticed due to the shadows they cast.

But he didn’t look sorry and beaten down anymore. That was good, right?

Ryuji couldn’t make himself believe it.

He had to all but wrestle Yuuki out of the building—Dr. Maruki, sure enough, giving an impromptu lecture on mental health in the courtyard, a rapt audience of both girls and boys crowding the tiny space by the vending machines—then down to the train station. He gave Yuuki his phone back only after making him swear that he would sleep tonight, a full eight hours at least, and eat a good dinner and breakfast. The last thing they needed was for the admin who kept feeding them targets to keel over from exhaustion. Yuuki agreed, yawning, but Ryuji doubted he would follow through until his body made him.

He knew that feeling, too.

When they changed stations at Shibuya, Ryuji was still itching for a run, for a good workout, for something other than the oily skein of disgust that had crawled over his skin in the past few hours. Easy enough to remedy: he always kept his gym clothes in his schoolbag, and the weather was perfect for a good run, so he headed for the park, expecting to see the usual parents corralling their kids at the playgrounds and the elderly on meandering walks down the paths and a few couples flirting on the lake.

What he didn’t expect was Akira.

He and a slim redhead were working through a series of tumbles, tinny music playing from a phone. Morgana basked in the sun nearby, protecting their bags, and as Ryuji approached, he yawned, pink tongue unfurling like a flag.

Ryuji watched Akira perform some kind of flip and couldn’t help an amazed noise. Akira, startled, slipped on the grass and fell flat on his ass. He leveled a glare Ryuji’s way.

Ryuji gave him a hand up. “Sorry, man,” he said, “I just had no idea you could pull off moves like that outside of—” He became aware of the redhead, eyes big and wide after Akira’s stumble. “Uh, outside. Uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to get in the way.”

They weren’t dating, he thought. Akira would have told him. Akira would not have left it a secret, especially when his girlfriend was as pretty as the redhead. But this was… something, definitely. Not quite a date, but—

“Senpai?” Even her voice was pretty, as clear and delicate as a bell. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. But we’ve been at this for a while; maybe we should stop here for the day,” Akira said.

“Dude, seriously, I didn’t mean to—”

Akira swept back sweat-coated bangs, and his kouhai, to Ryuji’s surprise, didn’t so much as bat an eye. “I’m alright. It’s fine. As long as Kasumi doesn’t mind the interruption, that is.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine!” Kasumi said. “Like you said, we’ve been at it for a while! And I guess this is a friend of yours, Senpai?”

Ryuji was surprised, again, that she didn’t know him. The whole school did; that was just what came with being the school’s resident delinquent. He introduced himself—it felt good to—and she followed suit, explaining that Akira knew her cousin up in Iwate, had been on a gymnastics team, and had been helping her through some tough maneuvers as they moved back to their bags and settled in to stretch and rehydrate.

“Can’t believe I’m this stiff after only a few months out of practice,” Akira mourned, forehead six inches from the grass and legs splayed in a stretch. Kasumi could actually touch it, and giggled that the grass tickled. Ryuji, however—

“Better than this guy,” Morgana crowed from his bag, eyes narrowed in kitty laughter. His tail thrashed—Ryuji had read somewhere that meant he was enjoying himself, the asshole.

“I’m almost as deep as he is!” Ryuji defended, swallowing down arguments. He wanted to look good for the cute kouhai, even if she did have the hots for Akira, and arguing with a cat in broad daylight definitely wasn’t showing his good side.

Akira peeked over and hummed in appreciation. “You’ll get limber again in no time, Ryuji.”

“At least someone supports me,” Ryuji grumbled.

“Limber again?” Kasumi asked, looking up, a spot of dirt smudged on her forehead.

This led to an explanation of everything that had gone on with the track team, and Ryuji’s leg, and how he’d lost all motivation to run again until Akira came into the picture and helped set everything right. They switched through several more stretches as the explanation went on, Morgana keeping time from Akira’s phone.

“I know I gotta stretch every day and all that,” Ryuji was saying, “but sometimes it’s just, such a big deal.”

“And you’re tired and want a bath and to not move for a while,” Akira added.

“Those days are the worst,” Kasumi agreed, which was a surprise: she’d been sunny and cheery the whole time, it was hard to picture her as anything else.

But from the outside looking in, everybody was the same way. Even Ryuji. Even Akira.

She flopped onto her back, stared at the sky for a moment. Said, “But it’s always awful when it’s hard just to move, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ryuji said. “Gettin’ my leg up to this point took forever, it felt like. Sometimes I’d wonder what the point was. It wasn’t like I was ever gonna run again, but running was all I had. When it was gone…”

When he thought it was gone, when that future that had seemed so close he could almost grasp it vanished like so much smoke, when all he could remember was Kamoshida’s sneer of a smile and the cold looks of his classmates—he’d missed whole weeks of school, sitting around at home, leg in a cast, hobbling around the apartment on his crutches. He blamed his lack of appetite on the pain meds. He blamed his anger on the itch under the cast. He blamed his late night pity-party sessions of insomnia on the lack of exercise. It was his fault and no one would let him forget it, not even his own body.

“It hurt,” Kasumi finished.

“Yeah.” He couldn’t look at either of them; he stretched out on his back to stare at the sky instead, wondering if he was seeing the same shapes in the clouds as she was.

Akira said, “I’ll be back in a minute,” and wandered off. He took his wallet, and Ryuji entertained the idea of cold drinks, the skittering fizz of soda or the bright sweetness of juice or the smooth refreshment of simple iced water.

His leg jiggled, there in the grass.

“So you run now?” Kasumi asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Meetin’ Akira—you know what it’s like.”

Like being dragged from the muck and hosed down until every part of him was bare. Like staring into a mirror where all of his flaws and strengths were reflected back at him with sympathy. This is you, Akira always seemed to say, and I’m here, even if you aren’t perfect. This is you. Don’t you want to be better? Don’t you want to be more?

“Yes,” Kasumi agreed, softly. “Yes, I do.”

Even the cat agreed in a soft chirp from their bags.

But Ryuji couldn’t help but think there was something wistful, something aching, in her tone. He couldn’t put his finger on it, drained after everything that had happened with Yuuki, and let it slip away. He knew better than anyone what it meant to pry into momentary weakness, and the kouhai was cute. He wanted to look dependable, not like an asshole.

He wanted to look like Akira, and Akira wouldn’t push.

They basked in the sun until Akira came back with drinks, then they went for a run around the park, Ryuji’s leg aching like an ember was buried deep in the bone, Kasumi’s hair trailing behind her like a ribbon, Akira’s piercing stare barely hidden behind fogged-up glasses. At some point Kasumi began to giggle, which made Ryuji start up laughing, then Akira followed suit until they were just a trio of teenagers gasping for air clustered off to the side of the path, everything else forgotten in the moment.

Ryuji wouldn’t have it any other way.

There were stacks of cash on the table.

It wasn’t nearly as much as Kaneshiro had shown off, but it still looked impressive, spread out over half of it. Makoto counted out the stacks and paled at the number.

For a solid gold suitcase, it was certainly a lot.

“Oh, man,” Ryuji groaned, already drooling at the thought of whatever feast they were going to have with this kind of money.

Ann was, too, her mouth watering at the very idea of cake buffets. Hot pot was good and all, but nothing beat a good slice of cake—and a bad one was hard to come by.

“We’ll leave it up to you, Makoto,” Akira said, tugging out his phone.

“Me?” Makoto squeaked, still staring wide-eyed at the pile of money. “C-can’t we just… I don’t know… split it? Like we were going to do?”

“Not much of a celebration then, is it?” Ryuji slouched even further in his chair, all but vibrating with anticipation. “So? Where do ya feel like going?”

“I-I don’t exactly…”

“Sushi,” said Yusuke, still eyeing the money.

“Sushi!” cheered Morgana.

“No,” Ann said.

Ryuji’s chair settled on the floor with a solid thump. “Dude, do you know how much good sushi costs?”

But Makoto bit her lip, glancing between Ann and the money and Akira, who frowned at his phone with next to no input. “I’m with Ann on this one. Sushi seems a bit—”

“Dude! Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Ann said, and threw him a look.

Did Ryuji not know? Was he not paying attention at the Wilton, too busy stuffing his face with prime cuts of meat to hear his own best friend explain that fish and gold plates and chocolate—Ann still could not believe the chocolate; she mourned for him—made him sick?

But Makoto knew, from the glances she was throwing around the room. She paled even further as she began to lie: “I—well, I had a bad batch of fish last week, actually. Please, no fish. No sushi. S-sorry, Morgana.”

“A bad fish? What a shame,” commented Yusuke. Sometimes Ann wondered if his back simply froze that way. That slouch did not look comfortable.

Ryuji groaned. “Then what the hell else are we gonna spend it on?”

They stared at the money. Makoto quivered in her seat, then sighed. “With this many of us, it’s going to be expensive no matter what, you know.”

“So?”

“So, why not get something we all can enjoy?”

Ryuji threw a dumbfounded look her way. “Ya sayin’ we can’t all enjoy some sushi?”

“That’s not it!” She was caving; this was bad. Ann stood, slamming her palms on the table, rattling the stacks and causing even Akira to look at her.

“Enough with the sushi already!” she said, taking in the boys’ stupefied looks. Akira, she hoped, was just surprised she was fighting so hard for his sake. “Us girls are going to go have a talk about this, downstairs. Okay?”

And she left them there, stunned and speechless. She greeted Boss on her way to the window booth, the faint shadows of people passing by on the street playing over the table. Makoto joined her shortly after.

“They don’t know?” was the first thing she asked.

“Morgana definitely does, but it’s sushi,” Ann told her. “You know how he is about that.”

“Not even Ryuji?”

Ann only huffed an answer about boys liking meat more than their own friends and stared at the potted plant on the windowsill. If Shiho had this same allergy, Ann would have memorized everything by now. She still couldn’t believe he couldn’t have chocolate.

She would die.

“It’s not like there’s a bunch of places that’ll let us in, either,” Ann said, thinking of the Wilton. All those stares and whispers. That woman getting pissed when she bumped into Ann. There had been a clear rift between the regular patrons and the upstart high school kids, and Akira had been the first to sense it. “Plus I don’t think Yusuke owns more than one good set of clothes, so, uh…”

Makoto winced. “I… see.”

They sighed. Boss wandered over with some water for the two of them, and asked, “What’s got you two so down in the dumps?”

There was no way they could mention the money sitting just upstairs. Ann was sure it was more than he made in a year. “Well, y’see, uh—”

“Exams are over and we’ve been trying to pick a place to celebrate,” Makoto told him.

“Ah,” he said, “and the kid’s giving you trouble?”

“Not quite that, but… We just want to pick a place even he can enjoy.”

Boss nodded. He frowned, looking back to his kitchen, at the racks of pots and pans. He’d bought new ones just for Akira to use, and they sat in a small stack in a corner. “Let me guess: he’s saying it’s all fine and well and it won’t bother him any, isn’t he?”

He wasn’t saying anything at all, actually, but… “Yeah,” Ann said. “It’d be easier if he just spoke up about it.”

Boss hummed, regarded the stairs. There was a new twist to his frown, something thoughtful, she thought—or she hoped, anyway. Maybe Boss was still angry about them asking about Futaba. Maybe he was angry at himself for not realizing his cookware might have been making Akira sick.

“He wasn’t blaming you, Boss,” she said.

Boss sighed. “Should’ve known anyway, shouldn’t I? But listen to me getting cheered up by a couple of kids like you two. You want somewhere you can take him, yeah?”

“You know someplace?”

“Nah,” he said. “I’m surprised he eats out so much. Lots of kitchens use the same pans I do, and you can’t just ask about it, can you?”

Typical boy, thinking he could just withstand it. Even Makoto seemed angered by the news. “Does he not care?” she asked the table. “I’ve read what it can do, you know. Why doesn’t he—”

“Too much work,” Boss said, “and if I’ve got him pinned right, it’s because he wants you all to have a good time. No one ever said it had to be a good time for him, too. I can tell when he’s had too much; he comes home with a rash across his face.”

So the way he’d picked and prodded at his plates at the Wilton had been… to reduce exposure.

Ann was ready to cry by this point. Why didn’t Akira ever say anything? If he dropped dead in the middle of class after that buffet, would she even have known it was her fault?

God, if they did go out for sushi… what would he do? Eat rice the whole time?

But Makoto stared at the table, then to the pans in the kitchen. “Some of those are cast iron,” she noted.

“Heavy as hell, too,” Boss said, “and twice as expensive as regular ones. The kid uses them sometimes, but he’s partial to the ceramic ones.”

“He can eat off cast iron,” Makoto said.

“I… yes,” Boss said.

She tugged out her phone and placed it on the tabletop. Smoothing down her skirt, she said, “Thank you for that, Boss. You’ve been a big help.”

Boss only shrugged and wandered off.

“Cast iron?” Ann asked.

“Older shops might still use their cast iron pans,” Makoto said, already searching, “it’s just a matter of finding which ones do and narrowing down where we’ll go from there.”

“But, it’s… metal, right?”

“A different kind. It won’t make him sick, Ann, I promise.”

But Ann was thinking of all the times Akira refused a canned drink in the Metaverse. He bought himself the bottled stuff and always looked pissed when it turned out to be lemon or orange or grapefruit. She thought of all the times she’d had to jump in and take a bone-jarring blow for him because he wouldn’t drink it and shuddered.

If… if he were Shiho… could she really understand?

“How can you be so sure?” Ann asked.

“I’ll tell you later.” There was a twinkle in Makoto’s eye—the same kind she got right before she exploited an enemy’s weakness and watched it crumple to the floor at her feet. Ann was glad she was on their side. “For now, I’ve got a restaurant to find.”

And if on their way back from their celebration they bought pastries for Boss and the elusive Futaba with the leftover funds, no one complained, least of all Ann, who noted the pleased look on Akira’s face at Makoto’s choice of venue.

He wasn’t used to being considered so much.

Well, that was going to change.

Takuto had intended to head home, the memory of Akira’s warmth bleeding from his fingers, thoughts muddied by the drink he’d had in Kichijoji.

When was the last time he drank? After Rumi, with Shibusawa across from him at the table, pity writ so large on his face it practically screamed it? After Shibusawa had gone, Takuto had kept drinking, searching for the release only a blackout drunk could receive.

Instead he’d gotten sick in an alley and curled up next to his own vomit. When he’d woken he’d sworn to himself not to drink another drop.

But Mishima made him want to. Peer pressure was a funny thing, even when it was unspoken, and Takuto had wanted to meet him as equals. Look, that beer said. We’re both mature adults, aren’t we?

But they weren’t. Takuto wasn’t—or he didn’t feel like it, anyway, not with desire burning through his fingers. Not with the memory of that thread tying him and Akira together hanging over him like the blade of a guillotine.

Unprofessional. Inappropriate.

But Takuto didn’t care. If unprofessional conduct and inappropriate behavior were the keys to unlocking Akira’s scarred heart, Takuto would do it. Takuto would do anything.

He stopped in an alley, vision blurring. His hands shook with need.

I want to—

He shut the thought down. Just because Akira was the first person since Rumi to desire comfort from Takuto’s hands didn’t mean Takuto had to badger him for more, and if he was honest with himself, he was afraid of what it would mean to.

Rumi had been his first everything. With Akira’s help he could avenge her unknown sacrifice. That was all.

And yet…

“Please,” Akira had said, and Takuto hadn’t moved an inch. He could have stopped him. He should have stopped him.

But it had made Akira happy, for a while, and wasn’t that what Takuto was there for?

But… if Akira wanted more…

“He wouldn’t,” Takuto told himself. Akira was a smart boy. He knew better. He’d apologized after, and joked about how Takuto could tell everyone the delinquent had tried to rough him up, eyes glittering with grief.

Grief. Why? Why that, of all emotions?

“And why am I so afraid?” he asked himself, uncaring if anyone on the street was listening. He was drunk, or tipsy, his stomach flopping around with a mixture of elation and despair.

Because he was weak, in the end. If Akira wanted it, Takuto would give it. Akira’s record of assault would even work in Takuto’s favor. No one would blame him.

He pressed his hands to his face. Days later and he swore they stilled smelled faintly of Akira’s laundry detergent. This overwhelming obsession had to end, for Takuto’s sanity if not for Akira’s health. He still had a thesis to finish, and his time at Shujin was dwindling.

“I have to help him.” Because Akira was in pain. Because, instead of seeking the comfort of his peers or confiding in his friends, Akira had sought it out from his counselor. What was he so afraid of admitting that it pushed him into the arms of someone nearly ten years older than he was?

(There were a number of things Takuto could think of, and none of them made him feel better.)

“I have to—to help him,” Takuto forced out around another lurch of his stomach. “Azathoth, how can I—”

Azathoth growled. It might have been words, but they were lost under a sudden wave of dizziness. Takuto leaned heavily against the bricks of the alley, and wondered what he could do to fix all of this.

The answer did not come.

Chapter Text

Lala never liked minors in her bar.

She catered to them, sure. She carried non-alcoholic beverages for the lightweights who came in—soda, virgin liquor, juice, all the works—but never liked them hanging around, gawking at the atmosphere or at her. She definitely didn’t like the ones who tried to schmooze booze from the businessmen who were too into their cups to know they were talking to kids, and she really didn’t like the ones who made jokes under their breath and laughed at her while they were tucked away in the corners. The kids who came to see Ichiko seemed that way, Lala thought. They were just there to stare.

So when the mousy, nervous one didn’t come back—and Lala couldn’t blame him after being cornered on the street by Angel and Julian—Lala thought that was fine enough. Good for him for realizing he was out of his league in her bar, even if she had thought the way he would stare and then turn away, face flushed up to his ears, was cute. Kids were cute, she thought. It was what they were supposed to be.

But the other one…

“Ichiko’s not here, honey,” Lala told him. She tended not to visit when she was swamped with work, and Lala was prepping for her inevitable return. No doubt she’d want to drink half of Lala’s stock while the kid regaled her with rumors of the Phantom Thieves.

He had a nice voice. Too nice for a kid’s. Lala could lose herself listening to him ramble.

“I know,” he said, and Lala squared herself. “I came about the offer you made.”

“To work? Honey, you know what this place is, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “You said you needed a hand sometimes, and I need the money. A friend of mine’s birthday is coming up. You know how it is.”

Lala was almost impressed by the smooth delivery—but a lie was a lie, and Lala was no fool.

But the kid hadn’t led Ichiko astray. He’d given her material, gotten her an interview, kept her from drinking so much when he was here. He had a voice that demanded your attention, like it or not, and if Ichiko forgot her drink existed while he talked, all the better for Lala.

A dead customer wasn’t a customer anymore, after all.

“Getting something special, hm?” Lala tested.

“Yeah,” he said, face softening. “It’ll be her first one with friends in a while. We thought we’d go all out for it.”

Fine, Lala thought. Let him lie. Let her believe him, too.

She laid out the rules: he’d be done before midnight, no later; he wouldn’t serve any alcohol; if a customer got too belligerent, Lala would handle it. The kid might be capable of handling himself, but Lala was sure he’d never dealt with a drunk before, and they were a class of stubborn all their own.

The kid only nodded through her explanation, then asked, “Do I have to crossdress?”

Lala huffed a laugh. “Of course not. I wouldn’t make a minor do that, honey.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but he seemed almost disappointed. He collected himself quickly enough, however, and they got to work.

And if Lala caught him glancing her way out of the corner of his eye every so often, discontent plain in the set of his jaw, well. He was a minor, and Lala was going to stand by the rules she’d set.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t earn it.

Long after he left for the night, Lala wondered what in her wardrobe would look best on him. It would be a treat, if he really wanted to, and he wouldn’t have to pay out the nose for the experience, either, and have the reminder sit in his closet for some unlucky guest to find. Discretion was always better with these things.

But she liked thinking about it. Mulling over makeup and hairpins and wigs; considering which sash and kimono complimented skin tone. Clearly he’d been thinking of it, too, and Lala remembered being sixteen and hiding fashion magazines under her futon, the makeup tutorials pressed between the pages of the study guides in her schoolbag, and how lost she’d felt until she bought her first kimono. Wearing it had been a revelation. She’d stained the fine silk with her tears.

No, she wouldn’t let him go through that. Better something from her wardrobe, something that didn’t quite fit her anymore. Better to give him help than risk discovery; times were changing but that didn’t mean things were that different. He had to be afraid, had to be scared.

Lala didn’t wish that on anyone.

Rumi always had a craving for somen noodles in the summer.

Takuto supposed it was normal—they were good served with chilled soy sauce—and he grew to crave them, too, so instead of wandering the streets of Kichijoji embarrassing himself again, he chose to stay in Shibuya, where the crowds were no less dense despite the heat. He practiced his power on anyone nearby who showed signs of panic at the imminent cleanse, and took heart at the calm that overtook them.

His power really was best when used for good like this.

But, how in the world did it fail to work now? Was it the language barrier? The expectant smiles causing him to panic? His own pathetically poor English-speaking skills?

“Um,” he said, searching for the right words, “ah, well—the—the station—is—”

Which was how he found himself in Kichijoji anyway, with a pair of very happy tourists bustling down the street ahead of him. Takuto sighed.

… There was no harm in roaming the streets during the day, was there?

So he did, observing the students out roaming. Some were obviously on dates, while others were simply groups out enjoying themselves. Takuto tried not to focus on the parents—he’d been thinking too much of Rumi, lately—but on the children that ran about their feet, grinning in the sun.

Had Rumi wanted children? Had Takuto? He couldn’t remember. He felt he should.

He tried not to let it bother him as he wandered. Rumi simply wasn’t an option anymore, and Takuto had a higher purpose, now: making as many people as possible happy. Even if he wanted to, it wasn’t as if he had the time for dating.

He sighed, stopped at a vending machine for a cold drink and sipped at it, watching the crowds go by. This was where he belonged: on the outside, watching for signs of trouble and discontent and fixing them before they ruffled any feathers. No one much liked people who caused trouble; they would have a hard time getting along with others, and isolation did not suit a social animal like humans were.

Hypocrite, he thought to himself, then threw his can away. When it clattered too loudly in the bin, he winced.

Forget everyone else—he was the one who needed to calm down.

So he walked, taking in the stores and stalls, buying a steaming croquette when his stomach rumbled and taking satisfaction in the way it crunched between his teeth. He browsed a selection of postcards outside a stationery store, and considered buying a new pen until he saw the price tag. Down the street there was an international grocery store, where he filled a large bag with foreign snacks that he hoped the students would like. If it was free, they would eat anything, right?

He hoped so.

Takuto took his time wandering back to the station. By then clouds were beginning to gather, and the shuttered restaurants along Harmony Alley were beginning to open; shopkeeps and cooks called to one another and to regular customers. Was Mishima down there, exchanging greetings as he took a seat at a table? Would he want company?

“Don’t be silly,” Takuto told himself. Mishima was busy with his work and his son, and even if he wasn’t, Takuto had no right to intrude once more.

But it had been nice, someone listening to his problems for a change, even if he had been tipsy while doing it.

No, Takuto decided. He would go home, cook himself dinner, and work on his thesis. It was coming along nicely thanks to Akira’s skills as a soundboard, though Takuto hadn’t been able to find any more ruins like the castle. If he could only test his hypothesis out on a structure that wasn’t his own, then…

Without thinking, he’d paused by the station. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a head of messy black curls—Akira, he thought, snapping to attention. He was about to call out when he noticed the boy following along—no, being led by the wrist, expression hidden by the brim of his cap except for the wide-open shock of his mouth. None of Akira’s friends at Shujin had that fall of hair, and Takuto struggled to place him as they swept by and into the station.

“I told you, Ria,” someone whispered behind him.

“But—Akechi wouldn’t—I mean, he’s not—” Ria defended, stumbling over her words. “That can’t have been him!”

“I’d recognize Akechi anywhere,” her friend countered, “and if that wasn’t them holding hands, Ria—”

“They weren’t,” Ria cried.

Her friend laughed, explained she was only teasing, then proceeded to beg for forgiveness as Ria began to cry in earnest, burying her face in her hands.

But it was too late: Takuto’s wheels were spinning once more. He stepped blindly onto a train, thoughts a blur of hands and wrists and Akechi’s stunned face, recognizable to his fans even beneath a disguise—and even to Takuto, though it had been over eight years since he’d last seen the boy playing with his machine in an empty stairwell. Akechi had been one of the first to leave Ms. Umeda’s house that summer, his things packed and his bed unmade before Takuto even realized it.

Those unwanted children had so little to call their own. It was no wonder Akechi was so afraid to have something all to himself, now. He likely didn’t think he was worth Akira’s time or attention.

It was a sad thought. The very idea that there were unloved children out there, desperate for a home of of their own, for loving parents—it tore at Takuto’s heart. He didn’t understand how anyone could be so callous as to hate their own children. He didn’t understand how anyone wouldn’t want to be a better person for their family. Were their hearts so filled with hate that they couldn’t see past themselves, or was it something else?

How would he ever know for sure?

Akira would know—but Akira was on a different train, Akechi’s pulse fluttering beneath his fingers. He could have told Takuto. Takuto wouldn’t have judged him—love was an amazing thing, a miracle all by itself—but that was the way of things, wasn’t it? If they were discovered, Akechi had a great many things to lose, all of them hard-won, and Akira was already ostracized, an outcast even before he began the school year.

No, Takuto wouldn’t push him to talk about it. It would come up eventually, as all things did. They had a decent level of trust between them, now, he believed, and perhaps it was just Takuto’s imagination, but Akira looked as if he enjoyed their conversations.

Perhaps, if he wove the topic in… That could certainly speed up the process, couldn’t it?

With that decided, Takuto sighed, switching the bag of snacks to his free hand. As he stared at the marks carved deep into his fingers, he wondered what it would feel like to hold someone’s hand again. Warm, certainly, but that was all that he remembered.

But even still, it was a connection to another person. It was a thread, tying them together for the briefest of moments. It was—

“Odaiba,” announced the PA system. “This is Odaiba. All passengers departing—”

Takuto almost laughed to himself. Instead, he made his way to the stadium, inspecting the fence blocking off the construction site and listening as the workers complained about the heat. He stood at the entrance to his lab, watching the world shimmer in and out of focus. It was an absurd thought that entered his head, then, but Akira had made mention of a collective unconscious during their talks, once. As a supposition it wasn’t the most unique—even Wakaba Isshiki had written a theory on it—but if it was true, then…

Takuto took a deep breath and entered his lab. The same masked assistants wandered the waiting room, leading faceless men and women off into the lab proper, and for the first time Takuto asked, “Who are all these people?”

“Think of them as simulations, sir,” responded the masked man. He was different from the one before, thinner in the shoulders and with delicate hands. “It wouldn’t do to be lacking in hospitality when the time comes that you open your doors to the world, would it? A long wait is irritable, and these people will be here for your help.”

“I see,” Takuto said, watching a mother and daughter be led off down a hall by a masked woman.

“Did you require something today, sir?”

“The monitoring room. I’d like to see if it’s stabilized yet.”

“Of course. Right this way, then.”

He was still holding his bag of snacks, and it smacked his leg with every step, and even though none of the assistants made any complaint over it, Takuto still winced at every smack. How long had it been since he’d lived in that house with his father, and he was still acting like this? How long would it continue to haunt him?

He didn’t know. It was irritating, how much he didn’t know.

By the time they made it to the monitoring room, Takuto’s skin was covered in goosebumps. The lab was chilly, and he hadn’t dressed for it. He hated to even ask for a coat.

“A coat, sir?” the masked man asked.

“Yes,” Takuto said. “It’s, well—a bit uncomfortable for me at the moment.”

“This is a place ruled by your thoughts and desires,” he was reminded. “Anything you wish for, you need only visualize it, even if that thing is a coat.”

“I… suppose that makes sense,” Takuto said. If he could manipulate the lab itself, why couldn’t he also manipulate the area inside of it? So he tried visualizing his favorite sweater—warm white wool, a gift from Rumi for Christmas one year—and felt its weight fall over his shoulders, the sleeves draping over his wrists. He sighed at the immediate warmth, set down his bag of snacks, and perused the monitors.

There were only a handful of assistants working the room, sitting ready at the screens with paper and pen. Some of the screens flickered through scenes from a nightmare: a bloody red world, its concrete halls lined with train tracks, dead ends covered in gravestones; grotesque monsters, hunch-backed and moaning, wandered aimlessly; men and women and children gathered at stations boarding trains that led nowhere, or kept to themselves in nooks carved out of the walls, shadows swirling at their feet, golden gazes roving as they muttered to themselves.

Takuto indicated one. “Those are?”

“Deviants,” said the assistant, her pen in hand. “As far as we can parse it, sir. They come and go, you see.”

“No thanks to the Phantom Thieves,” whispered another, and the whole room nodded.

He wasn’t going to pursue that thought at the moment. He pointed out a monster, black ooze dripping from the holes of the masks glued to its sides. “And that?”

They looked to each other. “A remnant, perhaps,” suggested the woman.

“They don’t seem to be tied to live people as the deviants are, sir,” whispered her companion. “We would need more information before making any further presumptions, of course.”

Of course, Takuto thought. But for all that they didn’t know, this was better than before, and Takuto had created it without much thought. Had he known, unconsciously, that there was such a place? Or was it another of Isshiki’s theories, once shoved into the back of his mind after Rumi, now rearing its head once more thanks to Akira? “Can we do anything for them?”

“We cannot, sir,” was the response.

Disappointing. He’d thought he had a decent idea going there.

A thread, a connection—if Takuto could see what ailed these people, he could help them, and with this monitoring room, he wouldn’t even have to meet in person to learn what ailed them. The deviants glaring at him from the screens wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. He wasn’t sure what he could do with the remnants. Set them free? Was that even possible?

Even still…

Was it possible that Akira and his friends had counterparts in those rank depths? Did Akechi have one? If only Takuto had better access to the place, he could find out. He could help them.

“Keep tabs on the deviants for now,” he decided. “Note down anything they say, even if it sounds like nothing, and especially if they mention names. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” chorused the room. Then the woman asked, “And should the Phantom Thieves intervene, sir?”

“Note that, too.”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked once more at the screens. Dirty, stained concrete looked back; blood dripped from the ceiling, collecting in pools on the floor. It was no place for humanity to reside, unconsciously or not. They deserved better: clean, brightly-lit spaces where the care spent on maintenance was obvious.

Or something completely new altogether.

He rubbed his hands on his sweater, felt the pull and give of the fabric. There were so many people just in Tokyo itself—could he really do this? Could he really make every single one of them happy?

“One at a time,” he told himself. One person would lead into the next, and for all he knew their happiness would bleed into their loved ones. It would make his job easier, if it did.

But, first…

Another day, another awful session with Rumi.

Takuto couldn’t think of it like that. She was getting better, she was sitting up and looking out the window, and sometimes she would look at him, too, even if it didn’t seem as if she remembered him. She was getting better.

So why wasn’t he?

Too spent to even consider cooking dinner, he collapsed on the sofa. Even with the blinds drawn, the light that leaked through hurt his eyes, and he covered them with an arm. He couldn’t dredge up the energy to move beyond that, and sat that way for some time. Minutes. Hours. He couldn’t tell.

Tomorrow he would have to go back to Rumi. She needed to see that he was there for her. It would help her get better. She could sit up, now, and look out the window. She could turn and stare at him like he was a painting on the wall, interesting but ultimately forgettable.

His breath caught in his throat.

Tomorrow he would have to go back to Rumi. Tomorrow he would have to sit there and talk to her, the same tired old stories she never seemed to remember hearing. Tomorrow he would have to endure her staring at him as if she’d never seen him before. Tomorrow he would have to wait for her to speak, and leave disappointed.

Rumi. He wanted to hear her voice again, her laugh. Even her cries would do. At least she would be talking. At least then he could help.

But he couldn’t say her name, throat catching around the sound—Rumi, Rumi—until it devolved into nonsense, into sobs that wracked his frame, into tears pressed against the lenses of his glasses.

How much longer would he have to endure this? How much longer would it be until Rumi came back to him? Even just to say she hated him. Even just to say she wanted everything to end.

But Rumi would never be so cruel. She was kindness itself. She was beauty. She shone with a light everyone could see, and to see her so dimmed made his heart ache, a hole punching straight through it. It burned with a terrible pain, and felt as if the wind whistled through it.

(In another life, in another dimension, Azathoth burrowed itself into that hole. A blind god for a blind man, part of the great void filled at long last. Azathoth could grow to fill anything, and as the hole grew larger, so did he, expanding into the greater void of the material world where the bearer of the hole walked and lived and cursed his own incompetence.

But this was not that life.)

He must have fallen asleep, tired out after crying; when next Takuto woke it was night, the light streaming through his blinds too weak to dispel the darkness. He grumbled at the dried tears gluing his eyes shut, then again as he rose and stumbled into the coffee table, and then again at his appearance in the bathroom mirror. He looked haggard and drawn, and dark circles had formed under his eyes.

He sighed, took a bath, and made a measly dinner of nearly expired eggs. Tomorrow he would have to go shopping; he needed groceries and shampoo and a new razor. He would buy flowers for Rumi. It would give her something else to look at, something nice. Maybe she would think of him whenever she did.

Takuto could dream, couldn’t he?

When the dishes were washed and put away and he finally felt a bit like himself again, Takuto went to bed—and found he couldn’t sleep. It was the nap. Whatever energy he’d used during his fit had come back to him, and his body was restless with it. He didn’t dare to look at the time but found himself reaching for his phone anyway—anything to wear himself out, even a little, even if Rumi always said the light wasn’t good for sleeping.

Takuto responded to a few messages from his classmates, Shibusawa’s being the most concerned, and promised to make time to meet up, whenever that would be. When Rumi was better, perhaps, or if Takuto got sick of eating eggs and rice for every meal, not that they needed to know that.

But once he was done the restless feeling wasn’t gone. He browsed aimlessly through his phone, contemplating starting up a game or two or reading the news, but knowing that it was all a distraction from Rumi and his sleeplessness and the grief tearing him apart.

He should get help. If he got help, he could help Rumi get better faster, but the thought of divulging his deepest, darkest fears to a stranger gave him pause. They wouldn’t understand him. They would tell him to put up with it. They would tell him this was just the way the world was going to be from now on. They would tell him—

He sighed, flopped his arm over his eyes again. Didn’t he want to be a counselor? Didn’t he want to help people through cognitive psience? And yet he couldn’t do what he wanted his own future patients to do. He couldn’t ask for help.

He would give anything for Rumi to get better. But himself? That was another story entirely.

Something buzzed on his phone.

Takuto risked a glance at it and discovered a wall of text scrolling by. He shrugged his glasses back on, nearly poked an eye out, and then stared in blearily disturbed wonder at the sheer amount of information rushing by. He couldn’t make out more than a handful of words. He hoped it wasn’t a virus—he’d heard about that lately from the nurses taking care of Rumi—but what else could it be?

Well, taking care of it could be its own distraction. He had important photos of Rumi on this phone. He couldn’t bear to lose them.

So he waited, and when the last of the text scrolled by and the screen went dark, Takuto slammed down the power button—

—and right before it shut off, a boy with dark curls and storm-gray eyes appeared, cheek resting on a fist as he inspected the screen in front of him.

(“Another dud,” Ionasal muttered, as the monitor flickered dead. He allowed himself the briefest moment of anger, then snatched up the blueprints from his desk. Something to work on, Morgana had promised him, and it sure was shaping up to be a colossal time-sink.

Oh, well. He grabbed up a screwdriver and got to work.)

That would have been the end of it, except when Takuto went to grab his groceries, the housewives down the aisle were at their gossip again.

Usually they asked him how he was, whether he was still dating, tried to foist their nieces off on him. Today they were clicking their tongues, murmuring “Distasteful. No tact at all,” to each other.

Takuto inspected the selection of snacks they’d stopped by—Rocky was Rumi’s favorite; maybe he’d surprise her with some—just as the plumper, curly-haired housewife remarked, “The boy’s been missing for months, now! Some people truly have no shame. If that was my son, I’d give them a piece of my mind, I would!”

“My daughter doesn’t seem to care that it just showed up on her phone out of the blue,” said her friend, a thinner woman with gaunt cheeks and stringy locks. “I told her to get rid of it. It’s obviously malicious. Besides, she has exams to think about.”

“Just more nonsense. What is the world coming to?” was the agreement. Takuto decided on a flavor of Rocky and left their whispers behind; he picked up cup noodles and rice, eggs and vegetables, splurged on a gallon of apple juice. It was enough that when he made it back to his apartment, his arms were sore. His fingers had turned purple at the tips; Takuto rubbed feeling back into them and made himself a simple dinner of fried rice. He was almost glad for the energy, after another afternoon by Rumi’s bedside. She’d liked the flowers he’d brought her.

He just wanted her to be happy. Then she would get better.

But nothing in life was ever that easy, he reminded himself as he cleaned up the dishes and put away the leftovers. The mind simply didn’t work that way; she would get better or she wouldn’t, and Takuto was sure she would never be quite the same ever again. He would love her anyway. He had loved her for all her flaws before, and that would never change.

He sighed and took a bath for lack of anything else to do. And after that, even though the hour was late and he would be better off going to bed, he laid up on the sofa and stared at the lights on the ceiling. The sharp edges of the wound in his heart tugged and ached; he felt like Rumi, staring blindly at the world around her, barely able to process a thing before it became too much to bear. The only difference between them was Takuto’s ability to get out of bed in the morning and pretend to be functional when all he wanted to do was gather up Rumi’s things, as if doing so would summon some version of her back to him.

If only Takuto wasn’t such a coward in the face of danger… If only Rumi hadn’t been hurt…

But he was, and she had, and there was nothing to be done about it now.

He wound up scrolling through news sites on his phone searching for articles about the incident, and coming up empty. There were no new developments on the man that had killed Rumi’s parents. Takuto wasn’t sure if he wanted to know if there were; the knowledge wouldn’t help Rumi, after all. It would only serve to satisfy his own ego.

He felt pathetic.

He sighed and rolled over to stare at the TV instead. He could watch something. Mindless television always seemed to put him to sleep, but he couldn’t work up the nerve to turn it on. It would ruin the atmosphere with its bright lights, and Takuto felt pathetic enough already. He didn’t want to feel worse.

But as he stared at his reflection in the screen, the boy from the night before flashed through his mind: he’d had life in his eyes, expectant and yearning and startling in ferocity. He wasn’t like Takuto.

But the app… The woman from the store was right; there was something wrong about it. It had to be a ruse. The developers were using the likeness of a missing boy to tug at heartstrings while they dug through personal data and stole everything they could.

But that boy had seemed so real, so lifelike. Too lifelike for a video game character. Was it a camera, then? Did the boy know he was being recorded? Did he know there were people out there watching him? He had to; he’d stared right at the screen.

Takuto hauled himself upright. His head spun.

It was a stupid thought, what he wanted to do. He could lose everything, even the ability to support Rumi as she recovered. But in that moment it didn’t matter: there was someone in front of him that he could help, someone he could do something for, someone who needed more than time and bright flowers at her bedside, and Takuto was nothing if not a responsible person. Shibusawa had once called him nosy, told him he liked to be in everyone’s business.

But if Takuto’s nosiness could help someone right now, then…

He searched through his phone. It took a while to find the app he didn’t recognize, nestled in between a few others, and another while to work up the nerve to press it. Text scrolled across the screen, and it was only when it went dark that he remembered how late it was. The boy would be asleep and Takuto would have wasted his time—

Except he wasn’t. The boy sat hunched over a desk, a mess of papers spread about him, one hand threaded so deeply into his dark curls that it seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes drooped. He yawned, blinked blearily at the tabletop, and then sunk to its surface, groaning. His free hand clutched a screwdriver striped with grease.

“Hello?” Takuto ventured.

“Take it apart again?” the boy asked himself. He didn’t seem to realize that Takuto was there. “I don’t want to, but… If I could stabilize the connection, then it might be worth a shot.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Takuto said. His hands shook. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”

“ If Morgana would help, that’d make it all easier for sure…”

Another yawn. Takuto fought his own down, searching the screen for anything he could do and feeling increasingly helpless. He was needed, wasn’t he? Then why couldn’t he do anything?

The boy grunted. The screwdriver hit the table with a resolute thud. “Tomorrow, I’ll take another look,” he decided, before propping himself up and staring right at Takuto. A faint light shone in his eyes. “It’s on again, huh? Is anybody there? Hello?”

Takuto bit his lip. If this was just a camera, talking wasn’t going to do him much good. But what else could he do?

“ Hellooo?”

He had no options. He had no choices. Despair gripped him; what was the point of following through with this insane idea if he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t communicate, couldn’t help? What good was he like this? What good could he ever do?

He couldn’t help Rumi. He couldn’t help this boy. He couldn’t help anyone.

“Wow, that’s strong,” the boy muttered. He rounded his desk, came close to the screen. His eyes were tired but bright all the same. “What’s with this thing? What good’s a screen if I can’t see you? Hello? If you’re there, can you do something? Anything will do.”

“I’m here,” Takuto said, to no avail. The boy couldn’t hear him. Just like Rumi, Takuto was talking to air. This was pointless.

But he hadn’t given up on Rumi. Takuto was nothing if not relentless; it came with the territory of being nosy. Takuto was done hiding behind walls, and he would be damned if he let anyone else do the same.

“You turn yourself around pretty quick,” the boy noted.

“It’s all I can do,” Takuto said.

But the boy didn’t hear. His eyes flicked between the screen and something just off to the side that hovered, glowing gold in the light. Takuto moved his thumb to get a better look and jumped as the screen jerked. An ominous creaking noise accompanied it.

The boy watched intently, all trace of drowsiness gone. He sat back in his chair. “Try it again, a little slower.”

So Takuto did. With his finger in the way he could barely see the hand that came into view, brassy and gleaming as it moved from one side of the table to the other. The boy watched it, and after a second pass over the curls of paper littering the desk, he took hold of it.

“There, see? It works,” he said. Then, more to himself, “It works. It works.”

Laughter bubbled out of his throat. The smile that bloomed on his face before he lost himself to giddy joy made Takuto’s heart overflow with warmth. How long had it been since he’d seen a smile like that? He couldn’t remember. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“It works!” the boy crowed, throwing his hands up in the air and laughing, laughing, laughing. Takuto couldn’t help his own chuckles—joy was infectious, he’d long since found—and together they laughed until they couldn’t anymore. By then the boy’s eyes were drooping again, his hands winding their way through his hair. The quiet, uncertain way he asked, “You’ll be back tomorrow, won’t you?” all but sealed the deal: Takuto couldn’t leave him now, not when there was such hope in the boy’s eyes.

Takuto couldn’t do anything for Rumi. But he could do something for this boy—and maybe for himself, too. What that was, Takuto wasn’t sure.

He moved the hand back over the table. They shook on it. And as the boy looked on in sleepy giddiness, Takuto powered his phone down once more.

He slept well that night.

When Takuto opened his eyes, the ceiling of his lab came into view. For a few disorienting moments, he still felt twenty-two, fresh from the loss of Rumi’s parents and her debilitating depression. He placed a hand over his heart, struggling to decipher whether it still ached every time he breathed—surely it wouldn’t after so long, but there was a phantom twinge every so often, as if it remembered how much it had once hurt—and let out a sigh of relief at the tendrils wrapped around his fingers. Azathoth hadn’t left him.

(But why would he?)

Takuto maneuvered himself upright. Azathoth was still here. He wasn’t twenty-two anymore; he was nearing the end of his residency, he was finally finishing his thesis, and he was helping people become happy. He wasn’t helpless anymore.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured, and watched the pulse of tendrils across the back of his hand.

Azathoth would be with him. Tomorrow and the next, until the end of Takuto’s life.

And yet, in that dream, Takuto had not felt Azathoth’s presence. Someone was there, someone important and precious—and yet all Takuto could remember was a laugh, a smile, the sheer joy of triumph.

“ It works!”

I know that voice, he thought. It was a bit different—he’d never heard Akira be quite so jubilant at their counseling sessions—but it was Akira all the same.

And he remembered, suddenly, a hand stretching towards bright red fabric crumpled on a low table, and the matronly mother who took it up and said it would be good for a sash. A bit of color would do him some good. Honestly, that son of hers.

Takuto’s eyes fluttered shut at the sudden spike of pain lancing through his skull. That, too, was familiar; Azathoth’s emergence into his life hadn’t come easily. Takuto had lived through many days with a terrible headache, and as he swung his feet over the side of the bed, he fought down a wave of nausea.

HURTS, Azathoth observed.

“It won’t last long,” Takuto told him, and stumbled over to his things. He dug through the pile, produced a bottle, and downed a pill, grimacing at the bitter taste and catching slide of it. He settled into a chair. “I think there’s something you need to tell me, Azathoth.”

Azathoth groaned.

“You don’t know?”

THREADS, was all the explanation he was given.

“Threads, hm.” Like the one connecting him and Akira. It looked to be a flimsy thing when Takuto managed to catch a glimpse of it, and yet its bond was stronger than steel. Why else would he have dreams of a different Akira meeting a younger Takuto, if it wasn’t for that thread?

… Unless it was Akira’s wish?

But, no. That was impossible. Takuto knew Akira’s wish, knew what would make him happy.

And yet, could he be sure? There could be more to it. What would make Akira happy—could Takuto truly say he knew exactly what the boy needed?

He looked to the machine. Who was to say that the depths of the heart didn’t include connections forged across universes? What kind of pathway had Takuto stumbled upon, and who else could be tasked with traversing it?

No one. No one. No one could have it, not until Takuto was ready to share its brilliance with the world. He wasn’t about to let it go the same way his research had, lost to him just as he had begun to see the glimmer of its promise, and perhaps he would never share this particular find with anyone. It was too tempting, too powerful. The wrong people would try to keep it under lock and key, left to gather dust as the years left it behind.

No, Takuto thought. This was his and his alone.

Goro still smelled like the bathhouse’s soap hours later.

He laid awake, the taste of bananas and curry on his tongue, the memory of fine sushi and ice cream making him salivate all over again. He wasn’t so pathetic as to get emotional over birthday dinners, but…

How old was he?

He didn’t feel eighteen. He didn’t feel as if he was a third year in high school. He barely felt like a member of the force, shoved off in his corner to file whatever was thrown his way (and Goro was very, very good at that, if he said so himself) and only pulled out when the case pertained to Shido and his plans. The fact that there was some business Shido didn’t trust a middleman to handle should have been empowering, and instead Goro was cowering beneath the constant threat of the system.

If he had never dropped that gun, where would he be now? Out of Tokyo in some halfway house, waiting to find out who was going to foster him next? Not spending his time with Akira and playing the perfect pet celebrity for the media? Miserable and alone, without even the promise of a future waiting for him?

He hated working for Shido, but the alternative was unthinkable. He couldn’t imagine the past few months without Akira hunting him down to hang out, all but beating down his door for a few minutes of his time. Goro had missed his easy confidence, his sharp wit, his dry humor—and even the lovelorn looks thrown off into the distance, as if he could pull his Yuuki to him through sheer desire.

Akira was certainly more human than Goro.

Not for the first time, Goro wondered what Akira would do if he spilled his guts about Shido, and the conspiracy, and Goro’s own role in it all. Akira would understand, once it was all out there. Akira would even forgive him. It was just his nature to.

That didn’t mean that Goro had to accept how easily he was brought into it all, how quickly he buckled under the pressure of men with far more power than he would ever have, how stupid he was for falling for it, despite his thousands of years of wisdom. But this wasn’t a world where he would have thousands of years; he had a hundred, maybe less, and that would be all. He had to make every moment count, even if he hated the outcome.

Like with Shido, his mind supplied. Pulling the trigger was frighteningly easy; choosing who to shoot wasn’t. He’d spun this matter around often enough, too, and he would do it again, all the way up until the moment came.

If Shido begged for his life, what would Goro do?

He didn’t know. The piece of shit that had strung his mother along, sired him, and then ruined her life for it—Goro couldn’t think of a punishment suitable enough. Goro wanted him to cry and beg and plead for forgiveness like those change of heart victims; Goro also wanted him to rage and scream and threaten, all of his carefully constructed facades falling one by one. Goro wanted everyone to know what kind of man his father was, but…

He didn’t want Akira to know. He couldn’t figure out why. Akira would never look at him differently, but there would finally be a reason for all of Goro’s destructive tendencies. Shido broke things, the same as Goro did, and Akira couldn’t clean up after them forever.

Like the whole mess with Medjed. Just another of Shido’s plots, but if the Phantom Thieves didn’t act, people would be ruined. It would be easy, too. The systems on Earth weren’t much different from Ra Ciela’s; Goro had broken into his fair share in middle school, just to prove that he still could, that the past five-thousand years hadn’t been a fever dream like the adults kept saying. It was easier to remember, now that Akira was around, but back then Goro had been forced to wrestle with doubt.

He scrubbed at his eyes, aware that every passing minute was a minute less he was getting on sleep. Akira wouldn’t like to know what Goro was doing to himself to keep up with his demanding schedule, but greatness did not sleep, and neither could Goro.

Even if ‘great’ was the last thing he felt like.

Even if all it would take to end it all was a single moment.

“Happy birthday, huh,” he murmured.

And if he rolled over and allowed himself a pleased grin pressed into his pillow, well—no one had to know.

“I’m sorry for making you do this on such short notice,” Makoto said, relief evident. “I know we’re supposed to be tackling Futaba’s Palace at the moment, but…”

“This is important, too,” Akira told her. “If we can get a name, we can do something about it.”

“Right.” She glanced about the room; with the lights up the planetarium wasn’t anything more than a sea of seats and a ceiling full of machinery. People milled in groups, chatting, and somewhere in the crowd a child began to cry. There was no one suspicious in sight.

At least, not until Makoto pointed out a young man by his lonesome, surveying the crowd intensely. The sleeves of his shirt were familiar. So was his bag.

“Yuuki,” Akira said, before Makoto got a word out.

Yuuki startled and turned, his eyes as wide as saucers. Akira’s mouth went as dry as the desert of Futaba’s Palace.

This was… definitely not good.

“Yuuki? Mishima?” Makoto questioned. She leaned in close for a better look. “Oh, it is you! What in the world are you doing here?”

“Same as you, I guess,” he said, crossing his arms. “Though we could have come together if someone had just checked his texts.”

“Had a late night,” Akira explained. He would have to check his phone more often. “Sorry.”

Yuuki regarded him coolly, then sighed. “Unless I’m wrong and this a—well, a, uh—”

“An investigation, yes,” Makoto said. “The student council has received complaints of a suspicious person frequenting the planetarium lately. All the reports said he was alone, so…” She offered a bow. “I’m sorry for assuming it was you, even for a moment.”

“This is my first time here since elementary school… And, wait, me? You thought I was—” He broke off, crossed his arms again. Akira felt his indignation—he’d gotten side-eyed going to the movies alone, much less to the diner in Shibuya—but there was nothing he could do about that particular issue.

“Oh, never mind,” Yuuki muttered to himself. To them, he said, “You want to know what info I’ve managed to gather, right? There was a post about it on the Phan-site, actually. Some guy shows up, totally disconnected from reality, ranting about the beauty of the universe and a worldly balance… Seems pretty crazy to me. I’ve heard he even cries at the end of the show.”

“Well, there’s… certainly nothing wrong with that…”

“Sounds a bit like Yusuke,” Akira said, though his voice was strangled. Something about Yuuki in the dim light of the planetarium—his aura? No, that was a bit much, even for Akira. He had none of the senses he’d possessed on Ra Ciela; seeing the brilliance of another person’s soul was lost to him, now.

But… even still…

“It does, doesn’t it?” Makoto agreed. “But if it is, how is he affording this? It isn’t as if the show is free.”

Yuuki seemed to shrink into himself. Akira’s hands itched to reach out and pull him close; it was the lighting, it was the suggestion of stars in the sky, it was his own stupid heart yearning for the one person he couldn’t have anymore. Yuuki said, “Another friend of yours, Amamiya? You sure are popular, huh?”

“Well,” Makoto said, “Yusuke is more—”

“What’s this about me?”

Makoto grimaced and whirled in place. Yusuke tucked an errant lock of hair behind an ear, waiting patiently. Akira was vaguely aware of Yuuki shifting on his feet behind them, at the mercy of Yusuke’s disarming stare.

“Yeah,” Yuuki decided. “Totally suspicious.”

“I am no such thing!” Yusuke defended. “Am I not allowed to ponder the wonder of the universe, laid out before us as if from a master’s brush? And can I not enjoy the sheer beauty that is the life and death of a star, born and dead before our time? And—most important of all—can I not take in the wondrous splendor that is air conditioning?”

That last bit set Makoto aback. “Does your dorm not have air conditioning, Yusuke?”

“Alas, I must leave my windows open so my paintings may dry,” Yusuke said. “It would not do to become ill from the fumes, and I was gifted a summer pass to the planetarium from an instructor at Kosei. It would be a waste to squander such a gift.”

“I… see.”

An announcement played over the PA system; Yusuke nodded once, declared that they should take their seats, and promptly settled into the nearest one. Makoto followed after, asking whether the air conditioning truly affected how fast the paint dried, and wasn’t he worried about the unpredictable nature of summer storms ruining his work?

Akira turned back. Yuuki stared on at Yusuke, a furrow in his brow and clutching at his elbows like his life depended on it. Upset he was ignored, if Akira had to guess, but it could have easily been the typical confusion that came from dealing with Yusuke. He was a hard person to get along with at first.

“Come on,” Akira told him, and Yuuki startled.

“Me?” he asked.

“Who else?” Whatever emotion it was, Akira wanted to see more of it. He shoved his hands in his pockets, where no one could see how much they shook. “Call it an apology for missing your text. I’ll check more often, I promise.”

“You’d better,” was the grumbled response, but as the lights began to dim Yuuki moved for a seat. Akira wound up sandwiched between Makoto and Yuuki as the show began; as it went on, the stony irritation melted away. Starlight lit Yuuki’s eyes and made his chin slacken with wonder. Akira couldn’t look away; he’d had enough of stars and the universe to last several lifetimes, and the only thing beautiful enough to make his heart skip a beat sat right next him, an arm within touching distance.

He could— He could—

But in the end, he couldn’t.

The sun shimmered off the water in blinding rays; on the shore, the call of children rang out over the park, carefree and wild as only children could be. Akira heard a wail rise above it all, one of the kind of profound loss only children could cry. His heart ached.

On the water, a boat carrying two siblings drifted away, the brother grousing, the sister pouting. He stared after them—another aching pang in his chest—and blinked back tears.

He’d been given a lot of freedom on the newly born Ra Ciela. Like the rest of his Council, Akira only ever had to appear in public for important events—the openings of the grand theater, the capital hall, and the temple all came to mind—and the rest of the time was left largely to himself. Not wanting to disrupt Sarly and Shirotaka’s work with the Reincarnation, and not wanting to make himself too at home in Casty and Delta’s love nest, he’d wandered the world, searching out sights that had been long lost beneath the Sea of Death. The great mountains Kanon made her temple home in, the vast plains a sea of grass that undulated like the tide with every breeze, the frozen tundras and ice floes—

—and the marshes, where the water sat as still as a mirror, reflecting the sky. Given a few more years the view would be ruined with scrub grass and spindly trees, but at that moment it was perfect: stars upon stars, galaxies upon galaxies, the whole of the universe stretching out beneath his feet with no danger to shatter the illusion of peace. That was the moment he thought he could manage staying there on that distant planet surrounded by the friends he loved. That was the moment he knew how much that love sustained him.

That was the moment he first wondered if the love Yuuki held for him was enough.

“Is something the matter?” Yusuke asked, forgotten at the prow.

Akira startled; the boat rocked beneath them.

“If the sun is too harsh on your eyes, Akira—”

“No,” Akira interrupted, too quickly. “No, it’s not that.” He wiped at his tears, that shimmering dance of light playing over and over again despite how tight he squeezed them shut. “It just made me remember something. That’s all.”

“Someone you love,” Yusuke said, as sharp and disorienting as a blow to the head.

Akira shook it off as best he could. “Yes.”

“And you couldn’t tell me? Despite knowing how much I yearn to understand the ways of the heart?”

“It’s not that simple.”

Yusuke prodded some more, disregarding his sketchbook in favor of lobbing questions Akira’s way and ultimately falling silent at the lack of response. Akira’s gut roiled; his friendship with Yusuke was still new, and while they could finally traverse the Metaverse with some ease, they were still working out the kinks in personal boundaries. Yusuke had been a child much obliged by his senior apprentices—and ostracized by his peers with no thanks to Madarame—and ordinarily Akira would take the time to do the same, or explain why they couldn’t simply chase after every single thing that caught Yusuke’s attention.

This was not one of those times.

The boat rocked. Yusuke, distraught both by the lack of geniality and by Akira’s expression, turned his papers and pencil to the other boaters. He made a few quick sketches, and Akira relaxed as each stroke of graphite brought him further and further from the questions he didn’t want to answer.

Because Yusuke would dig and dig and dig, earnest to a fault and not even realizing—

“Apologies,” Yusuke said, voice as soft as the water lapping their boat. “That was… out of line, wasn’t it?”

“Most people would say so, yeah,” Akira said, then sighed. He wanted very badly to sink back and stare at the sky, at the clouds drifting by, at anything other than Yusuke, even if his newfound friend was pretending to look everywhere but at him. “But your heart was in the right place. At first, anyway.”

Yusuke guessed, “Ah. The sun?”

“It is a bit bright.”

“Someone you… love,” Yusuke guessed, straightening. It was an odd feeling, looking someone as earnest and eager to understand as Yusuke in the eye, but Akira managed it and nodded. “Someone you miss dearly.”

“And someone I met in a dream,” Akira supplied. “Whether they’re real or not—whether I can find them—that remains to be seen. And sometimes I…”

Sometimes he hated it, this world, this life. Sometimes he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep and awaken in that long dream, Yuuki’s soul a beautiful Song in his ears, Akira’s chatter the only thing keeping loneliness at bay.

But that was no way to live. He knew that by now.

“Sometimes you wish they were here at your side,” Yusuke finished.

Akira looked back out on the water. They were drifting in lazy circles, the shoreline gone but the children’s shrieks still ringing in the air, and from nearby came the splash of a family of ducks as a young woman leaned over the lake to feed them corn and bits of stale bread. Her beau eyed the two boys with faint unease.

Or maybe he, too, was only her brother.

“Yes,” Akira said. “I want it so badly I can’t stand it sometimes.”

Love was what he’d returned for, and the memory of it was the only thing keeping him going at times. It was the reason he got out of bed most days, aside from the attention of a dozen different people pulling him in as many directions.

“I see,” said Yusuke, taking a moment to gaze at the other boaters, at the ducks gliding across the lake, at anything other than Akira’s tear-stained face. He took the chance to wipe at his cheeks again, knowing that it was futile. But he didn’t want to explain any further.

“Do you miss it?” Akira asked instead. “The atelier. Your naivete. Do you ever miss it?”

“It hasn’t been long enough to cause heartache,” Yusuke said, “but… sometimes I do, yes, the old times in my youth. I could ask a question of any of my senpai and they would guide me. I returned home every afternoon knowing that someone would be there, sketching or painting by the window or out in the garden if the weather was good. At times they had this look in their eyes; I realize now it was despondency—and I learned very quickly that any cheer would be met with anger—ah, but, that is another matter entirely.”

Not for the first time, Akira wondered what it was like to live in a house so full of people they were crammed against the walls at night. What was it like to know there was always someone waiting for him? What was it like when the first few had finally had enough and left?

Yusuke, after a moment of silence, asked, “This may be out of turn, Akira, but… do you miss it? That dream?”

Yes, he almost said, the word dancing on the tip of his tongue. No, he almost said, tears choking his throat. It was because of that dream that he’d met Yuuki at all, and yet Yuuki could never enter it.

(If he had, could Akira have woken up, or would he have been doomed to an eternity of sleep?)

“Sometimes I do,” he settled for. All he had to do was find Yuuki in the sea of Tokyo’s populace. All he had to do was win him over once more. “But I’m afraid, too. That the love I once had won’t be mine anymore. That it will be taken away by someone else. I keep thinking I’ll be fine with that, but…”

Yusuke glanced over to where Akira’s fist pressed against his chest. “It hurts all the same.”

“Yeah, it does.”

They were quiet for a while longer, long enough to hear the hush of conversation in another boat as it glided by, its occupants staring. The young woman and her maybe-beau, who now looked exasperated, his arms working the oars.

Yusuke frowned. “They were contemplating the same thing as that woman from earlier,” he said. His brow furrowed. “Is it so odd?”

“Weren’t you the one who said this was the best way to observe people in love?”

“I… did say that, yes.”

“So… two people, in an environment that even you admit is romantic, Yusuke?”

It took him a moment longer, but the realization that nearly caused him to drop his pencil was worth it. He was learning, Akira thought, even if it was half an hour too late. Yusuke sputtered, glancing from the other boaters to Akira and back again. “I—but—you must understand, that was not my intention—”

“It’s fine, I get it. They just don’t. Even if they’re the same as we are.”

Just friends. Just siblings. It wasn’t anyone’s fault a boat ride on a lake was romantic.

But it was far too open. Yuuki wouldn’t like it; Akira was sure of that.

“Even so,” Yusuke said, getting to his feet; the boat, already sitting low in the water, rocked so violently the side dipped beneath. Yusuke didn’t notice. “Even so, I must give you—”

“Yusuke, sit down—”

“—my most sincere apologies, Akira—”

“—you’re making it worse, sit down—”

“—in causing you such trouble—”

“I don’t care about the trouble,” Akira hissed, taking his arm and yanking him back into his seat. Their feet sat in a puddle only an inch deep, but Akira’s shoes weren’t waterproof. It soaked right in, the cold seeping into his socks.

“But—”

“Yusuke,” Akira sighed, “it really isn’t anything to get so worked up about. I know it’s not true, and you know it’s not true, and that’s all that matters.”

He was all too aware of the stares they were receiving, and soon so was Yusuke. He bowed as deeply as he could in his seat. Akira buried his face in his hands and fought back a groan.

Yusuke was his friend. His socially awkward, overly-dramatic, perpetually starved friend. If Akira explained, Yusuke would listen. But he only said, “Yusuke. Sit up. Please.”

“I cannot,” Yusuke argued. “After forcing you into such a situation when you have been so generous as to spend time with one like myself, this is the least I can do to apologize.”

“Can you do it back on shore, then? Please.”

“I cannot—” Yusuke started, but then stopped. Akira was beyond caring for his reasons and was only aware of how hot his face burned and the growing cold spot on his feet.

He didn’t care, he told himself. Whispers on the lake were the same as whispers in the halls of Shujin, fact and fiction blurring until all that was left was a bloated mess. The increasing embellishments of his record were nothing to this, however, and it was like he was back in his hometown again, listening to the rumors about Aizawa circulate, listening to the way his classmates giggled about him, and knowing very well that with the wrong kind of look he’d be on the receiving end of the relentless rumors instead.

“Akira?” Yusuke dared.

So this shouldn’t bother him. Yusuke’s antics were the same as always. Now was the perfect time for Akira to sit up and explain, patiently, that the boat wasn’t big enough for Yusuke’s tall, lanky frame to be bowing in, that his head had brushed Akira’s knees, that that was all anyone needed to fan the flames that fed the rumor mill. Akira hoped no one from Kosei was around. He could deal with his own circumstances; Yusuke would only make them worse.

“I’ve gone and done something untoward, haven’t I?” Yusuke asked.

“I’m taking us back to shore,” Akira told him.

As he rowed, he thought of Yuuki. Not only would he not like the public, open space of the lake, he wouldn’t like the rumors that would come of it, either. Yuuki was skittish even if he was brave, and Akira didn’t want to make him bolt on the first date—even if he did think that even Yuuki would enjoy feeding the ducks. Everyone enjoyed that. It was hard not to.

But, no. No boat rides, even if they were awfully romantic.

Yusuke at least waited until they were situated on a bench, Akira’s feet bare, his shoes and socks left to dry in the sun, to ask, “Did I do something?”

“It’s just how it looked, Yusuke.”

“Which was?”

As if he’d say so with children running around. “Give me your sketchbook.”

It had been a long time since he’d drawn anything, but Yusuke went red as the lines took shape. Good, he didn’t need to explain, then.

Although… “And who taught you something so naughty?”

“I, well… Several of Madarame’s students were of age to buy such paraphernalia, and I had the habit of rifling through the bookshelves every once in a while. I enjoyed some of the manga they tended to buy, after all, and didn’t think much of the cover…”

“No hiding it under their futons, huh?”

“No, no such thing.”

He took his sketchbook back, traced Akira’s lines with a finger. Somewhere down the path came the squawk of the ducks as some toddler rained corn upon their heads. Akira stretched his toes out in the sun, the grass baking beneath his feet.

“I suppose it must bother you,” Yusuke said.

“What, my wet shoes?”

He shook his head. “Those rumors. The whispers. Even I am not so deaf to them. I know what they mean.”

“What kind of paraphernalia was this?”

“This was my Health Education textbook, thank you,” Yusuke said with a sniff. “Kosei encourages such teachings, as it helps us grow and understand ourselves, and if you must know more, my entire class giggled about it for weeks afterward.” He frowned. “Or, I should say, they giggled about me.”

That was a hard line of thought to argue with. Not after Aizawa. Not after Tsukimoto, who became the next victim only by means of being sickly and weak.

(But he did have a nice smile, Akira thought.)

“But that is something I’ve only come to realize now,” Yusuke went on, “with all of you at my side, encouraging me to grow in ways I never believed myself capable. But I am afraid even this eludes me.”

“You’re passionate enough for art,” Akira offered, but Yusuke shook his head.

“Since meeting all of you I’ve come to realize my many shortcomings. Communication is among them—before now I only ever needed to focus on art, and not on connecting with my peers. I can speak with them on any matter related to art or history or politics, but I cannot understand love. I cannot understand how a mere feeling moves them so.”

If this was Before, Akira could have said he understood—that the notion of a feeling beyond his control could sweep him under a tide of emotion so strong he could lose himself in it, that the very idea of finding even one person in the entire world who loved him despite his faults was ludicrous.

But it wasn’t Before.

“But you do,” Akira said. “You feel that way about art. You sacrifice sleep for it. You forget to eat. When we first met you at the atelier, you looked like a man possessed, Yusuke. You might have been out of your mind with nerves, racking your brain for some idea Madarame could steal from you, despairing at the thought of creating another soulless piece—but that’s love. Madarame could only use it as leverage to make you do what he wanted because you loved it. If you loved it any less, it wouldn’t have worked.”

Yusuke hummed, thinking that over. Akira checked his socks. Still damp.

Yusuke said, “But that is different than love for a person, isn’t it?”

Before, Akira would have said it wasn’t. Now he knew better. “It is. Art can’t hold you. Art can’t reassure you when everything seems dark. Art can’t encourage you to keep going when all you want to do is stop and give in to defeat. There are things that only people can do for you. I won’t say that’s not true.”

By now Yusuke was watching the couples strolling by, the college students out on dates, the schoolgirls arm in arm, the schoolboys chasing each other down to play fight in the grass. Mothers wiped their children’s faces; fathers carried them on their shoulders; older siblings heckled and teased while the younger ones cried and complained.

It was everything Yusuke had never had, passing them both by without a second glance.

But there was one thing Akira knew that he didn’t: “Just give it time. You’ll find someone someday. When you do, you can come tell me all about it.”

“You sound so sure.”

Akira shrugged. “I’m not. I just believe it will.”

This was nearly the same man who had overcome his own jealousy to help him, after all. So long as he learned how to recognize it when it happened, Yusuke would be fine—and if not, Akira had no qualms setting him straight. These newfound friendships were too precious to him to be undone so easily.

“That is very kind of you,” Yusuke said. “Someday, hm? I can hardly wait.”

The only question was whether he would fall in love with the same person. That was not a love Akira wished on anyone, much less someone just learning the ropes of relationships, and Akira knew how badly Yusuke would take it.

“Someday,” he said, and hoped that none of that future to be came to pass.

Chapter Text

The air was different.

Impossible, Futaba thought. The Phantom Thieves had barely been in her room for more than five minutes, and yet she swore their scents lingered: perfume and soap and cat fur, cooked meat and curry and coffee.

“Did you really think they could help you, Futaba?” her mother hissed in her ear. She laughed, high and mocking. “A worthless little brat like you doesn’t deserve to be saved. I should have dragged you out onto that street with me.”

“What are they asking about her for?” Sojiro muttered to himself at the same time. Leblanc was dead this time of day, especially during the summer. It was too hot for coffee. “How’d they even know about her? Was it that detective the kid brought back with him?”

It wasn’t. It was her. She’d been the one to spill the beans after everything Sojiro had done for her. But she couldn’t say so; admitting that she put more trust in Wakaba’s research than in Sojiro’s parenting skills felt like betrayal. She didn’t want to hurt him like that.

But she was hurting him anyway. She was a bad daughter, a terrible daughter. She was the reason Wakaba was dead. She was the reason Sojiro had to live with heartbreak.

But… if he’d lost her, too… how much worse would he feel?

Futaba sniffed. She dabbed at the tears leaking from her eyes and turned her music up louder—not that it ever did anything to drown out her mother’s whispers—and then, limbs creaking, tugged down her stuffed unicorn. It had been one of the first things Sojiro bought her when he took her in, and Futaba had gone to bed far too many nights hugging it, as if she wasn’t fifteen and growing older by the day. She liked pretending it was Sojiro, or Wakaba, or a character from whatever anime she was obsessing over at the time.

She hugged it now, wishing desperately that the Phantom Thieves would be able to fix whatever was wrong with her, because her heart was cracking into a million pieces and she felt every shard and splinter dig deeper every time her mother opened her mouth.

And if they failed… well, the only person to blame would be Futaba.

(And if Sojiro wandered by her door later that night and knocked, so soft she could barely hear it, and said, “Futaba. I won’t let anything happen to you, understand?”

Well. How could she answer?

The shuffle of his feet back down the hall sounded like defeat.)

Yusuke wandered by the lake.

The heat was awful—but nothing he hadn’t endured in Madarame’s shack of a house, the air thick with the chemical stink of paint; it had been worse when there were other students crammed into the atelier, all that body heat trapped with nowhere to go. By the lake it was cooler, and the clouds thick in the sky cooled it further. A gust of wind kicked up, catching at clothes and skirts and the balloon in a little girl’s hand. It tore free, lost to the mercy of nature.

The girl began to cry.

As her mother shushed her, Yusuke wondered if his mother ever had the chance to do the same. Had she ever patted his hair like that, wiping the tears from his eyes? Had she held him close and promised him all the wonderful things in the world?

He huffed. There was no use in thinking about it. Illness—Madarame’s negligence—took her before he could remember her, before he could learn to miss her.

He wondered if he would be like Futaba, if his mother had survived another year. If she had lived only for Yusuke to witness her gradual decline, what then? How would he feel, then?

I should paint this feeling, he thought. But was it too private, too personal? Would anyone understand it? Did he care?

He did. It was too dark a feeling to be any good, too ugly to be any worth. What good did longing do him when it stilled his hands and stopped his brush?

“Yusuke,” someone called from behind him, and there Akira was, a bag thrown over one shoulder and his tracksuit spotted with sweat. Morgana perched on his shoulder.

“Akira, Morgana.” Not that Yusuke was surprised to see them. Akira turned up wherever he pleased, and that just so happened to be the places where his friends were. “What a treat to see you here. Are you on your way to a prior engagement?”

“Just some practice with Kasumi,” Akira said. He tucked his hands in his pockets. “Out people watching again?”

“Indeed.” Yusuke hiked his bag higher on his shoulder and felt it dig into the bruise there. “I have several life study sketches to complete over the summer, and I’m afraid I’m running behind. Our… other activities have been rather time-consuming.”

He could still hear the hiss of sand and the rasping slide of dry bandages across stone. He could still hear the guttural moans of the Shadows as they belittled and cried in turn.

“It’s been a tough one, yeah,” Akira agreed. “That’s why we’re taking it slow. We have to.”

“I’m aware,” Yusuke said. Even he did not have a heart of stone, after all—or a heart of ice, as it were—but it still surprised him how much those whispers and taunts affected him. Sometimes they sounded like Madarame.

Akira tilted his head. “Actually… since you need some models, why not join us? We won’t be able to hold poses for very long, but it’s better than nothing. If Kasumi doesn’t agree, you can always just draw me.”

“And me!” Morgana chimed in.

“I would be forever in your debt if you would allow me to,” Yusuke said, and bowed for good measure. The sheer amount of sketches required of him nearly made him dizzy, and he was barely half done. “And I will do my best not to get in the way of your practice.”

Akira chuckled. “We’ll see.”

He led them over to a section of the park where the wide, grassy areas were dotted with large boulders. A girl with red hair waved to them as they neared; she and Yusuke exchanged greetings, and she took a long moment to pet Morgana, who preened under her praise.

Then she and Akira got to work, and Yusuke settled down with his sketchpad. Watching Akira in the Metaverse was one thing, Yusuke found—the cartwheels and backflips and death-defying stunts seemed to come natural to him there—but out in the real world, where silly things like gravity and muscle elasticity tended to hinder one’s movements, was another. He and Kasumi folded themselves in half in stretches, held handstands for nearly five minutes, then began a series of tumbles that made Yusuke dizzy just thinking of attempting.

… Or maybe that was hunger. He hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning ,or dinner the night before.

But he did his best to simply watch, calling out with occasional awe, and sketched. Kasumi, her head cradled neatly on the arch of her foot. Akira, his arms tucked in a leap that sent him sprawling on the landing. They were a delight to draw, Yusuke found, and decided he didn’t care if it wasn’t close enough to the average, everyday life he was supposed to focus on. Their movement contained a vibrancy that Yusuke could only hope to capture in charcoal and graphite. Even Morgana, who at one point drifted off into a catnap, was full of life.

What was Yusuke in comparison? Nothing but a pale imitation attempting to mimic even half of the passion Akira exuded. The only thing Yusuke could bring himself to love was art, and even that, at times, felt like a sham: the more he reached for it, the farther it pulled away, leaving him wanting and empty.

But this divorce from art had been going on for a long time. Long before he spied Ann from Madarame’s car, long before he indulged in the pleasures of friendship, art had been pulling away from him. It was why he chased after Ann with such zeal: she was beautiful, and contained an awareness of her own self, even walking down the street. Yusuke did not have the words to describe what he felt when he saw her at the time, knowing only the promise of a beautiful piece for Madarame to sign, but he wondered now if he knew she would lead to his escape from the shackles Madarame had forced him into. Certainly her portrait would have been wonderful, had Yusuke been able to paint it.

He flipped through his sketches now: men and women engaged in the mundanity of everyday life, talking on the phone or arguing with their children or enjoying food; Akira and Kasumi, a blur of motion even on the page, full of color even in gray-scale. Akira possessed that same self-awareness that Ann did as he tumbled and somersaulted across the grass, while Kasumi—

Yusuke tilted his head, regarding his sketch. Kasumi’s figure was flawless, but something about her expression was off. Had she truly looked so desperate when he sketched her, or was it a trick of the light?

He glanced at her. Determination in the set of her arms, concentration in the furrow of her brow and the purse of her lips. He sketched it as quickly as he dared, and on the page sat desperation.

Fine, then. He could get to the bottom of this particular mishap later; for the moment he needed only more sketches, and so he did: Akira, sweat dripping down his face; Morgana, mouth stretched and fangs exposed in a yawn; Kasumi, boldness becoming erratic, daring exchanged for recklessness. Yusuke did not understand it.

So he sketched the people walking by, glancing at the practice with bemusement and awe and contempt or outright ignoring it. He sketched lovers out on dates (if his judgment was, at last, sound on that matter) and parents walking strollers and children chasing each other down the paved path. He sketched the pair of elderly women taking a rest on a bench, splitting a thermos of chilled tea and fanning themselves with their hats. He sketched the teenage girls reading manga in the shadow of a boulder, stopping to show each other one page or another. He sketched the man walking his dog, and the dogs walking a harried pet sitter.

And when he returned to Kasumi, she was the same as before.

Yusuke did not understand it.

“Geez, you’ve been busy,” Morgana commented, peering over the crook of Yusuke’s elbow.

“It seems my art block is affecting more than just my painting,” Yusuke told him.

“What are you talking about? These look great! Better than Akira’s drawings, anyway.”

Akira threw them a look over his shoulder. He and Kasumi were somehow even deeper into their stretches than before, and Yusuke sketched his pout in quick strokes as he said, “Perhaps they suffice for you, but not for me. Unfortunately, this may very well be what I turn in.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

What was wrong with it was the clear discrepancy between Kasumi’s real-life expressions and the ones on the page. By now his teachers understood well that when the mood struck him, all semblance of dignity went out the window; Yusuke’s sketches tended to be messy and he was not about to apologize for it. “Nothing, I suppose,” he said. “I am simply unsatisfied, and that is all.”

“Sorry we couldn’t help more,” Kasumi said.

“That is not what I am unsatisfied about.”

For a moment, she looked as if to argue. Then understanding overtook her. “You’re not satisfied with the results, but it’s all you’ve got, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Yusuke said. He shut his sketchbook; better to leave the matter for now. He could ponder it over later. With another bow, he said, “Thank you for indulging me. I believe my teachers will be very pleased with the volume, if not the quality.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “It was nice meeting another of Senpai’s friends.”

“I’ll have to introduce you to more of them, then,” Akira said.

“You have more, Senpai?”

Akira shrugged and rolled his shoulders. Her phone beeped with a strange, disjointed sound. She took a look and said, “Looks like I’ve got to get going. We’re having tempura tonight.”

Tempura, Yusuke thought, stomach rumbling. Their yakiniku party seemed like so long ago, now. He wondered if he had enough change for more bamboo sprouts. Perhaps he could haggle the nearly expired ones down a few dozen yen.

He and Akira waved goodbye and she disappeared into the evening crowd. Akira stretched out on his back, arms cushioning his head, and regarded the sky. “Looks like it might rain soon,” he murmured.

Yusuke took his own look: thick, dark clouds blotted out the light from the setting sun, casting a pall over the city. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Should we take our leave, then?”

Akira said, “Probably,” but made no move to stand.

Yusuke gathered up his things, stashed away his sketchbook and pencils, and gripped his umbrella. It was a cheap thing that constantly smelled of plastic, but it kept him and his materials dry. That was all he needed.

Akira said, “So you really do draw everybody, huh?”

“Yes,” Yusuke said. “The human form is a fascinating subject. Each one is different. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Akira said.

“I don’t believe that.”

“A lot of people would say the same about what you said, you know.”

“I’m aware.” And painfully so; Ryuji and Ann had made him very aware of that, and his classmates liked to snicker to themselves about it. Eccentric oddball Yusuke Kitagawa, at it again. Didn’t he realize that Togo was flirting with him when they ate lunch together?

He always wanted to snap that she wasn’t. They ate lunch; they played shogi. Sometimes they sketched the school peacock when it wandered over. Togo’s drawings weren’t much to look at, but they weren’t awful.

But how was he to truly know if she was or not? He’d thought siblings out for a day at the lake were lovers; how could he trust his judgment on such matters?

He sighed. “But it’s the truth, and no amount of questioning me on the matter will change that.” Then, lower, “Have I done something to offend you, Akira?”

“No. I’ve just been thinking too much, I guess.”

“I’ve apologized to Ann, you know.”

“Did you? Good.”

Yusuke traded looks with Morgana, and judging from the cat’s expression, he had no idea what was going on, either. They waited for a while; the sky grew darker and the park emptied out and the distant thunder rolled closer. Yusuke turned over the issue in his mind: there were people who made exceptional models for paintings and the like, and people who were simply enjoyable to draw but who, Yusuke knew, would never be acceptable in a work of art, and people who were neither. Yusuke had not yet met anyone he was not willing to draw, but that didn’t mean that person wasn’t out there.

But finally, Akira sighed to himself and sat up. “Maybe I just wonder if that makes us the same,” he said. He gathered up his bag, Morgana safely tucked inside, and tugged out his umbrella.

“Me?” Yusuke asked. “The same as you?”

“Yeah,” Akira said. “But I won’t bother you about it. Like I said, I was just thinking too much. Let’s get dinner.”

“I want tuna!” Morgana cried, right before the first fat drop of rain hit him squarely between the ears.

Yusuke shoved the events of the day as far back in his mind as he could; it was the least he could do for a meal. They walked off into the rain, arguing over dinner.

Food Yusuke understood.

At the height of summer break, Hirotaka took an extra-long lunch break and went for a visit.

It wasn’t someone he should be visiting, he thought, but Yuuki’s increasing distance worried him. As his father, Hirotaka should care, shouldn’t he? Who knew what sort of scars a violent man like Kamoshida could leave? Who knew what would make itself apparent only when it was far too late?

Hirotaka didn’t want to find out.

Miss Suzui lived in an extended care unit, and Hirotaka thought she’d had her fill of flowers and well-meaning cards and fruit baskets, so he picked out a small gift at the underground mall and was on his way. The receptionists gave him a good, long stare before letting him up.

He supposed that was fair. How could he blame them?

Miss Suzui didn’t room alone; there was an older woman in the bed beside the door reading who returned his bow when he walked in. Miss Suzui herself sat by the window, and she stared out at the street rather than at the TV, the volume turned so low it was almost static.

For a while he stood there, taking her in: this tiny girl in her too-big bed, her arms littered with bruises for a different reason than the volleyball players’, her toes curling and uncurling under the sheets, her feet sliding back and forth. Then she noticed him in the window and turned.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” he said back, then gestured to the chair. “Do you mind if I sit, Miss Suzui?”

“Only if you introduce yourself first.”

“Oh, well.” How could he explain this? That he was just a father, that worrying was what he was supposed to do, that, while there might be no place and no reason for him to visit, he felt the need to?

How could he tell her he only wanted to understand his son?

“I’m Hirotaka Mishima,” he said, “Yuuki’s father.”

“Shiho Suzui,” she greeted in turn, “but you already knew that, didn’t you?”

They traded bows. He took a seat, handed over his gift, watched her eyes light up and then dim again at the miniature exercise equipment: the grip strengthener, the lightweight dumbells, the resistance band.

He indicated the flowers in the vase and the basket at its side. “I thought you might like something to do besides, ah, watch television and look at flowers. They say exercise helps keeps the mind sharp. We use these quite often around my workplace, so…”

“No, it’s wonderful,” she said, and truly seemed to mean it. “Thank you, Mr. Mishima. Honestly, I was getting tired of game and talk show reruns—although, if I make a game out of it…”

“A curl for every time that handsome detective boy says ‘justice’,” suggested her roommate.

“Or gets asked what he thinks of the Phantom Thieves.”

“Or what his relationship is with that friend of his.”

They traded matching grins. Miss Suzui set her new things on the table beside her flowers and basket. As she gave him another smile, Hirotaka wondered: how could she go from the low that landed her here, to this?

“How are you, Mr. Mishima?” she asked.

“As fine as I can be,” he replied, shifting in his chair. “And—I suppose you’re doing well, Miss Suzui?”

“Much better from where I was before, yes,” she said. “And I’ll say this: no one else’s parents have come to visit, so this feels…”

“Awkward,” he finished when she did. She laughed, a short, breathy thing. “I realize it must be,” he said, “but once I heard, I couldn’t stop thinking about it until I saw it for myself. Proof that you’re”—alive—“alright. Proof that you’re recovering.”

Proof of everything he had to lose.

She ducked her head, embarrassed, and when she looked back up her smile was dimmer. “Well, thank you for visiting. I’d thought, when you introduced yourself, that Mishima—um, your son, might have come with you, but he hasn’t, has he?”

“No,” Hirotaka said, slowly. “I… understand you were teammates, Miss Suzui, but—”

He broke off, not sure of how to say it. If they had been dating, that would explain Yuuki’s obsession with his website—of course he would idolize the vigilantes who changed his coach’s heart and avenged his girlfriend—but Miss Suzui wasn’t acting like a girl meeting her boyfriend’s parents for the first time. She was only surprised by his name, nothing more.

“—have the teams not been by to see you?” he decided on at last.

“In pairs and such,” she said. “They would bring me cards and flowers. Captain Takaoka gave me a thick study guide I’ve already managed to work through.” She frowned. “But not the whole teams, actually. Captain Kiyomi, for example. And Mishima. It was just a few people I was close to or who wanted to see me. Even a couple of dropouts came by.”

She indicated her hair tie—a simple thing with a charm clipped to it—then showed him the basket, packed with an assortment of ties and brushes, clips and charms.

She put it back with care, then leaned back against her pillows. “But I see. He hasn’t come with you. But that’s alright—he doesn’t have to.”

“You should just say you want to see him, Shiho,” chided her roommate.

“I don’t want to see him if it makes him hurt,” she argued. “I know him. He would hate every second of it. If—if it helps him move on, he doesn’t have to come. I just—”

She broke off to stare out the window for a few moments. Hirotaka wasn’t sure how to fill the silence, wasn’t sure how to breach the subject, wasn’t even sure what he was doing there, anymore. What sort of adult put a child through this kind of thing? What sort of parent asked—

“You’re here because you’re worried about him,” Miss Suzui said, eyes bright despite how tired she suddenly looked. “You’re here because he’s pulling away from you. You’re here because you’re afraid he might do the same thing.”

It was impossible to admit otherwise. “That’s true. But I meant what I said when I told you I was worried for you, too, Miss Suzui.”

What sort of person wouldn’t be?

“You’re trying to change,” she said. “You’re trying to be there for him—and for everyone else, too. That’s wonderful, really. You still have a chance to save him, if he lets you.”

Ice flooded his veins; he did not like the sound of those words. “What do you—”

“We never thought anyone would help us,” she said, voice quivering. “We thought we had to endure, to keep enduring, because if we did, we could be somebodies. We could have a future doing what we loved, and there would be people who praised us for it. We’d have fans and sponsors. We’d have people who knew our names. We’d be surrounded by people who loved the same things we did. We thought it would be worth it.”

She stared out the window—not down to the street, but up to the roof, where row upon row of sheets dried in the wind. Nurses pulled them down, racing to finish before the clouds overhead opened and let loose the promised afternoon storm.

“So when some of us decided we’d had enough, we did it all on our own. Chikamoto, Sonozono, Aizawa, Komaki—and me, too. How could we drag the rest of them down with us? How could we, when we knew just how hard they were working?”

She reached for her phone, swiping for a well-used website, then showed it to him: a black-and-red monstrosity that was as hard on the eyes as it was on Hirotaka’s conscience. “Ann showed it to me,” she said, letting it fall to her lap. “He’s worked so hard on it—and he still is, and you’re afraid he’s running from something that’s just going catch up with him, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t come here to make myself feel better,” he said.

Miss Suzui was kind, however, and understanding: “I know. I know you didn’t. And I know you meant it when you said you were worried for me. It was very sweet to hear. But…”

“I didn’t come here so you could cheer me up, Miss Suzui,” he said.

“I know,” she said. She looked straight at him, eyes bright and shining. “I know. But I worry about him, too. I know what he’s been through. I know how much it hurt him, every time—” She stopped, took a deep breath. “I know. That’s all. The Phantom Thieves, and Akira—they saved him once, they saved the teams, they gave him something to live for, but how many more times can they manage it? How long will it last? When it’s all over, when it’s gone, what’s going to be left?”

And he thought, strangely, of a week where he came back to the apartment and it was spotless. Every surface shone like new, and the smell of cleaning supplies chased even the brave Hiyoko away. The one time Hirotaka caught sight of him Yuuki looked half-dead, standing in front of a fridge full of strangely-flavored drinks and staring. Hirotaka, about to call for him, startled at the sob that escaped his throat.

Hirotaka knew what heartbreak felt like, but he’d had work in the morning and left him to it.

And this was just as bad, he realized. This wasn’t Yuuki fanboying over some up-and-coming idol; this was months of lost sleep and slipping grades and missed meals for a website. It wouldn’t be something a week of cleaning and feeling despondent would fix. It wouldn’t be something some pity money could alleviate.

Hirotaka asked, “Akira? Is that a friend of his?”

The look Miss Suzui gave him spoke more than she ever could. Then she blinked, frowned, brows furrowing. “I… suppose,” she finally said.

“She must be getting tired,” said her roommate.

Hirotaka’s alarm beeped; if he didn’t leave soon, he would miss the next train back to work. He tried to excuse himself, but a hand shot out, gripping his sleeve. Miss Suzui stared up at him, every inch a scared teenager far, far out of her depth. “Akira is who…” she said, struggling to get the words out, “who he always talks to. On the phone. Akira is the one who saved him.”

Somehow he knew the rest: Akira is the one he was so heartbroken over.

Miss Suzui leaned back again, resting among her pillows once more. Her eyes slipped shut; Hirotaka held her hand for a moment and wondered what it would be like to stand here every day staring at his son nestled among the sheets. He wondered where Akira, the boy in the phone, was.

Then he went back to work. Though fear gnawed at all his edges, Hirotaka had a job to do, a family to support. He wouldn’t be lucky enough to find a place this forgiving ever again. He needed to do his share.

Even if it felt like it was barely keeping him afloat.

As much as Ann wanted to enjoy her strawberry parfait, she found she couldn’t. Shiho’s expression troubled her—tight, drawn, pained—and the deep breaths she took only proved that she had pushed herself too hard. They’d walked too far, Shiho’s desperation for some kind of normalcy as plain as day.

But it wasn’t as if they had all the time in the world. Another month or two, and Shiho would transfer, leaving Ann and Tokyo behind. She wanted this time together, spent window shopping and nibbling at whatever sweet treat caught Ann’s eye. Once she left, nothing would remain the same between them. They wouldn’t have these carefree days anymore.

“You should eat it before it melts, Ann,” Shiho said, with only the barest hint of exertion.

She really was amazing. “Same to you,” Ann fired back, jabbing her spoon at Shiho’s pancakes. Whipped cream ran in trickles down the stack, and it looked like even the syrup was beginning to melt in the sun. The blueberries on top withered in the heat.

So they ate, Shiho pausing every once in a while to survey the crowd and rub at her legs. In jeans no one could tell how scarred she was, and Ann wondered if getting them on had been an exercise in and of itself. Probably it was.

Ann couldn’t imagine it. Struggling, just to put on clothes? Impossible.

And yet every step Shiho took was one she wouldn’t have been able to manage a month ago. Why wouldn’t clothes be the same?

“You know,” Shiho said, “I saw a magazine with you on the cover the other day, Ann.”

“Did you?”

She nodded. “Someone down the hall from me had a visitor bring her a copy. She wants to be a fashion designer. She was shocked when I told her how many sweets you eat.”

“Hey, that’s private info!” Although Ann had gone and told Mika the same thing. She was trying to be better about it, but Makoto had very little time to spare for gym visits in between everything else, and Ann wasn’t about to ask Ryuji or Akira to spot for her. Ryuji would leer, she was sure, and Akira…

She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to or not. She wanted to impress him, to show him her good sides. It felt odd, after everything they’d been through.

Shiho only chuckled. “She didn’t think you could enjoy food and be a model, so I brought it up. It made her rethink the whole industry, and then she told me she’d design clothes that anyone could look good in. She said she’d get so good you’d have to model for her. She even showed me some of her designs.”

“I’ll have to keep an eye out, then,” Ann said, and popped more parfait in her mouth: sweet cream and tart strawberries. It would be better with some chocolate, but she was trying to be better about that. Akira couldn’t have any. It just wasn’t fair.

“You should,” Shiho said. “She’s very good. She’ll make it.”

Ann only hummed at that. Not everyone could be a fashion designer; not everyone had the taste or the talent or even the money to be one. Not everyone knew that for every success story there were dozens of failures. Ann sometimes wondered where those failures wound up.

They stared for a while at the street. Ann wanted to keep the conversation going, but there was nothing else to talk about; with Medjed’s cleanse only days away and the final stretch of Futaba’s Palace left to traverse, it felt as if the stakes were higher than ever. No matter what, they had to do this right, or millions of lives could be ruined. None of them wanted that on their conscience.

But Shiho, after downing another few pieces of her pancakes, asked, “So, how’s Amamiya? You haven’t mentioned him once today.”

“I don’t mention him that often, do I?”

“Only two or three times every time you visit,” Shiho said.

“It really can’t be that often!”

“I’m not offended, Ann,” Shiho chuckled. “If anything, I’m glad. I was worried about what you’d do once I transferred. Looks like I don’t have to worry.”

“But what about you?” The last thing Ann wanted was for Shiho to wind up alone in some backwater town—or worse, one without a volleyball team. She was strangely adamant on getting back into the sport. Ann wasn’t sure she could ever do the same. “Once you’re gone, you’ll be alone too, you know?”

“Weren’t you the one who told me I could make friends with just about anyone? I’ll be fine. Now, you didn’t answer the question: how’s Amamiya?”

“Shiho,” Ann whined, tempted to bury her face in her hands. “You don’t have to bring him up just because I didn’t!”

“But I have to! As your best friend, it’s my job to relentlessly prod at your love life, Ann!”

“My—huh? My love life?”

What in the world did Akira have to do with her love life?

“Oh—was I wrong, then?” Shiho wore the shock rather well. It wasn’t fair. “You’re always talking about him, and last time you said he’s been great helping you out with your modeling work. How can I not think that one of you is interested?”

“He’s just like that,” Ann defended. “He helps everybody. Everybody, Shiho. It’s kind of creepy, actually.”

“Because he doesn’t have more time for you?”

“What? No! It’s—” because of the Phantom Thieves. Everything Akira got in exchange for helping those people went right into their heists. He was a smoother talker, better listener, and could appear as threatening or as not as he pleased. The medicines and weapons helped, too. “Don’t you think he’s stretching himself too thin? It can’t be good for him.”

“Maybe not,” Shiho said, “but if it’s what he wants to do…”

Ann groaned, “Don’t say it.”

“But it would be a great way for you to get closer! Think about it!”

“That stuff only works in dramas,” Ann said, but now that Shiho had brought it up, she couldn’t help but think of it, too: forcing Akira to take a break, spoon-feeding him porridge when he broke out into a stress-induced fever. He’d have to see that she was more than just a kind girl with a bubbly personality, then. He would have to fall for her.

But she didn’t want him like that, like he owed her for taking care of him.

And besides… “He’s got that whole thing going on with Akechi, anyway,” Ann muttered. She didn’t know anyone who made someone a home-cooked meal for their birthday when there wasn’t something going on behind the scenes, and the way Akira looked in some of the photos Akechi posted on his food blog was not the kind of look he was throwing Ann’s way. He looked at the camera like the person behind it was the most precious person the entire world, and yeah, it made her jealous.

She wanted to be special to someone, too.

Shiho caught her meaning. “Oh, Ann…”

“I could be wrong, you know,” she said, “but I don’t think so. You know he ditched us on the last day of the field trip to hang out with Akechi? Me, I’d want all my friends to be there, even if it got weird. But…”

But he hadn’t. Akira had barely looked at her as he headed down the street with Akechi, more comfortable in their mutual silence than Ann had ever felt. And she had known that if anyone was going to break through that prettily perfect exterior Akechi had built for himself, it was Akira. They’d all heard his slip-up; Akira had to want to know what that was about. Ann wanted to know what it was about. If Black Mask was Akechi, Akira would be devastated.

And then he will come crawling back to you, Carmen whispered.

Ann shivered. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Mishima, tucked into the crowd, gaze trained on the pavement, hands shoved in his pockets. She watched him long enough that Shiho turned in her seat and spotted him just before he turned a corner and disappeared.

I wouldn’t want him like that, Ann told her other self. Outwardly, she said, “You didn’t want to say hi, Shiho?”

“I wouldn’t want to dredge up old feelings,” Shiho said, softly. “I think he’s finally stopped beating himself up about what happened to me. We all know it wasn’t his fault, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still blame himself.”

“But…”

Shiho was deadly serious. “The only person to blame for what happened is Kamoshida, Ann. If it wasn’t for him, none of it would have happened. And Mishima’s doing something good, now. I’ve seen his site; he’s really trying to help people. He’s changing, little by little.”

Was he? It wasn’t as if Ann spent tons of time with him, and she didn’t know what he was like before the whole mess with Kamoshida. She had a worrying feeling only Akira gave him the time of day; he really was kind to everyone.

The feeling nagged at her, even as Shiho changed the subject back to Akira and Ann was sent spinning back into denial. Mishima did way too much work finding them targets, and Ann hadn’t even talked to him yet, even to say thanks. That didn’t sit right with her. She didn’t want to take advantage of anyone like that, ever. She’d have to find a way to talk to him soon.

She tried to ignore Carmen’s whisper: And then your dear love will have to take notice of you.

She wasn’t like that. She wasn’t.

But she couldn’t help but think it would be a nice bonus, all the same.

The sun seemed to set even faster in the summer. Ryuji’s ma had made him a promise to be home by dark; she would make dinner while he puzzled over his homework at the table, despite his grumbling that he wasn’t a kid anymore. He didn’t need to be watched.

“You’re not the ones getting emails about your late assignments, Ryu,” she’d said, and swatted him to help it stick. So he’d be forced to analyze essays and short stories and make diagrams of—were they cells? He couldn’t tell—science-y stuff and solve math equations to the smell of frying meat and fluffing rice and simmering vegetables, hunger making his focus slip.

He knew that was why she was doing it: ever since he’d let that little studying habit Akira had found out slip, she’d been searching for ways to distract him just so he’d have to focus harder. The horrible part was that it was working.

Tonight, though, it wasn’t.

Part of him was solving equations on autopilot, while another part tuned into the crackle and spit of oil on the pan. The biggest part of him, however, was focused on his last conversation with Akira at Protein Lover’s: how Ryuji and Ann had invited Yuuki to the gym, and the instant Ryuji said his name, Akira’s gaze had gone distant. For one horrible moment, it had been as if there was no one in the room but Akira and—whoever the hell that look was for. Not Yuuki, definitely. That’d just be weird.

But even after he snapped out of it, he’d been closed off. Gone were his jokes about Ryuji’s obsession with the treadmill, and he’d gotten lost in thought spotting for him at the barbell, causing Ryuji to have to start over. He’d muttered to himself as they counted out reps with the dumbbells, words Ryuji didn’t understand.

And when Ryuji had snapped, “What is wrong with you today?” Akira hadn’t said anything at all.

But the look on his face spoke volumes: he didn’t want to tell Ryuji. He didn’t trust Ryuji with that kind of thing. What the hell.

“Language,” Ma chided from the stove.

“Sorry,” Ryuji muttered. He scribbled out a few more lines, trying to focus on the numbers—things that made sense, according to Ms. Usami—but found that the harder he tried to force them into order, the quicker they were to swim out of reach. Ryuji groaned and all but threw his pencil across the room; instead it hit the table and skittered to the floor.

He buried his head in his hands.

“Is something the matter, Ryu?”

Ma’s hands, warm and steady, brushed through his hair.

“Nothin’,” he said. “Stupid stuff.”

“That sounds familiar,” she said. “Is it the school again?”

Could he tell her? He could probably tell her. She’d know what that look meant, just like she’d know what Akira didn’t want to tell him.

But Ryuji didn’t want to hear it from her. “Friend stuff,” he muttered. “That’s all. You don’t gotta worry about it.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t help you through it, does it?”

“You’re gonna burn dinner.”

“It just needs to simmer for a few minutes.” She gave him a pat, rounded the table for his pencil, and sat. She wasn’t planning on making a big deal out of it if she didn’t drag the snacks out, and Ryuji wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He almost missed those stupid stale cookies she always brought home. Maybe there just hadn’t been any lately, with all the shit going on. “So, tell your mother what’s wrong, Ryu.”

Ryuji groaned into his elbow. When he finally had the courage to look at her again, she was waiting, expectant, kicking her feet under the table like a kid. “Is it a girl?” she teased.

“Wh—no!”

She tilted her head. “Is it a boy, then?”

“Ma! Don’t say it like that!”

“So it is, then!”

He groaned some more as she laughed. Then he grumbled out, “It’s not like that. I ain’t—like that.” But now that he was thinking about it, maybe—

No, no. Akira wasn’t like that, either. He’d been just as excited for Operation Maidwatch as Ryuji and Yuuki were—just in his own way. He wasn’t like Aizawa and Komaki, the fags of the volleyball team, mooning over each other in the halls.

“Ryu,” Ma said, “you know I wouldn’t care if you were, right?”

His face went red. “I’m not.”

She kicked his shin. “Alright, then.”

“It’s just—” He fought for the right words. Yusuke was the real weirdo of the group, with his obsession over art and his nonchalant attitude toward nude models. He’d probably seen more real-life breasts than Ryuji ever would, and Ryuji did not believe for one second he couldn’t feel anything from that if he wasn’t gay, too. He had to be, at least a little. For Ryuji’s pride, if anything else.

(Ryuji could almost see it, too: Yusuke going doe-eyed for some guy. He’d buy Yusuke dinner, or art supplies, and that would be that.

The alternative was just too sad to think about.)

And Akira was no Yusuke. He made clever quips and understood references that flew over Ryuji’s head. Hell, he made several references that flew over Ryuji’s head, the wording so twisted it almost sounded like the exact opposite, until Ryuji’s head spun trying to decode it. Sometimes it felt like he was talking to Akechi, and whenever Akira’s grin began to slip, Ryuji always felt terrible.

Akechi would understand him. Akechi would know what those looks were about. Akechi would know what it was that Akira was searching for. They were childhood friends; why wouldn’t they tell each other those kinds of things?

What did that make Ryuji, in the end?

“If—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. “If one of your friends was keeping something from you, what would you do?”

Ma didn’t tease him about it actually being boy trouble. He was almost glad for it. “I suppose it depends on how big a secret it is, and whether or not they need my help.”

“Your… help?”

“If they’re hurt or being taken advantage of,” Ma explained. “Even if all they need is a break from their kids for a day or two. That’s what friends are for, aren’t they?”

“Guess so,” he mumbled. He was doing plenty to help in the Metaverse; that had to be enough, right? Ryuji wasn’t all that smart, so it wasn’t like he could help with studying, and it wasn’t as if Akira needed that kind of help, anyway. His grades were miles better than Ryuji’s. “Don’t think it’s that, though.”

“You think it’s some big secret, then?”

“What else could it be?”

“Something mundane he thinks you’ll make fun of him for,” she suggested.

“What, like bein’ homesick? As if,” he said, but even as he said it it felt wrong. How was he supposed to know that wasn’t it? Akira kept lots of things to himself, and it wasn’t as if they’d ever talked about their families or homes, either. With Yusuke and Makoto—and hopefully Futaba, once they stole her heart—around, family was going to be a touchy subject.

Ma rested her cheek on a fist and stared him down.

“Okay, maybe he could be,” Ryuji relented. “But if he was, he could talk to me about it. He knows that.”

“Does he? Really?”

“Well, I want him to!” Ryuji realized. He wanted Akira to tell him stupid stuff about his hometown. He wanted to hear stories about what he got up to with his friends there. He wanted to know what his parents were like. Ryuji wanted to know more about Akira than Akechi ever could, and their Metaverse heists weren’t enough anymore.

Yuuki was right. Maybe I am jealous.

And who couldn’t be, of Goro Akechi? Who couldn’t be, when their best friend practically threw himself at his feet, like it was just another celebrity crush? What was Ryuji next to that?

Nothing. Just a guy who liked to run too much. Just a guy who couldn’t even do that anymore.

The timer on the stove went off. Ryuji jumped up to clear the table as his mother plated food, and all throughout dinner the thought haunted him: what was he, now? Just another dumb jock who spoke before he thought and shoved his foot in his mouth too much. Just another person Akira couldn’t trust.

And he hated it.

“A robot, huh.” Makoto winced. She didn’t think she was nearly that bad, but perhaps she had been—following whatever orders she was given like a good little machine, never opening up to her peers…

“You aren’t,” Akira said. He wrinkled his nose; Eiko’s perfume lingered in the air, and while Makoto enjoyed the scent of it, it was rather strong in the stuffy room. “I’ve met some, and you aren’t nearly as homicidal.”

Makoto sighed. “Sometimes I really can’t tell if you’re joking or not, you know.”

He chuckled. “I’ll let you decide on that.”

“Even still,” she said, looking to the door where Eiko had flounced out, “you and me, dating? That’s going to be a hard one to believe, isn’t it?”

“Only if she gets the rumor mill going. After that…”

They both sighed. Makoto stretched, then got up and pushed in Eiko’s chair. Akira studied the wall and tugged at a lock of hair, expression flattening out.

She could ask. She should ask, especially since it would still the butterflies in her stomach. “Say,” she said, “would you want to? Date me, I mean.”

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about it?”

“It’s not like I could go wrong with you,” she reasoned. “As far as I’m aware, you’d be the perfect boyfriend. Although I, ah, don’t have much experience with all of that.”

He hummed. “So it’s not that you’re into the bad boys, then, Ms. President?”

“If I was, I’d be into Ryuji, wouldn’t I?”

Not that Makoto quite understood what the appeal behind that was. A bad boy? A criminal, or simply someone with a bad reputation? Akira was technically both, though he acted like neither.

He hummed again. “You mean you don’t know who you’re into?”

“Don’t tell me you do,” she snapped.

“Of course,” Akira said. “Someone earnest but lonely, with a beautiful soul. I’d think to myself that I could fix them, even though they wouldn’t be the same after, and even if it turned out they didn’t need me anymore once I was done. You know, the typical type.”

Now she just felt silly. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“Well, there’s more to it than that.” He shrugged. “I could regale you with every detail, but I wouldn’t want to bore you. I’ve heard I can get pretty bad.”

“From Akechi,” Makoto guessed.

“Who else?”

“Ryuji, maybe,” she said. “Although… somehow I don’t think he’d be able to sit still for a talk about love, of all things.”

“You just don’t know how to get him to sit still.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“You don’t.”

She couldn’t help it; she laughed. The stress of the last few days had finally caught up to her—the collapse of Futaba’s Palace, the imminent cleanse the hacker was about to sleep right through, Eiko—if she was finally laughing to one of Akira’s dry jokes. “Then why say it?”

“But that’s the trick,” Akira insisted. “You don’t get him to sit still. You make him do leg lifts or curls. You tie weights to his ankles and let him run around the block every fifteen minutes or so. He’s just not the type who can absorb everything like we can.”

“Hunching over a desk isn’t his thing, is it?” Makoto couldn’t see it. A studious Ryuji? That would happen when hell froze over.

“It’s not, no,” Akira agreed, and Makoto believed him. He’d known Ryuji the longest out of all of them, after all. “As for a talk about love… I don’t think that would be a good idea. Not with Ryuji. Not right now.”

“You’re afraid he might be afraid of you after,” she guessed again. Akira winced. “It’s not that difficult to put two and two together, you know. If you meant a girl, I’m sure you would have said so.”

“I could have meant one.”

“My point still stands.”

For a long moment, he was silent. Then his hand was back in his hair, tugging and tugging. “And you don’t care?” he asked.

“I’ve never seen a problem with it, no.”

He hummed, rocking back in his chair. Just a nervous ball of energy, now that all their stress had no outlet—no, just a boy like any other, worrying over whether his friends would accept him for who he was. She didn’t have the heart to tell him anyone who didn’t wasn’t worthy of his time; Ryuji and Ann had been his first friends in Tokyo, the first ones to accept him as he was, and for them to betray him over something like this…

“Akira,” she said, causing his head to snap up. “I’ve no problem with who you choose to love. No matter what happens, that won’t change. You’re the one who helped me realize that I don’t need to conform to anyone’s expectations except my own. You helped me when no one else would. I won’t leave you over something like this.”

He regarded her for a long moment, then sighed. “Thanks,” he said, shoulders sagging. His chair hit the floor; his elbows banged into the table. He didn’t look much like a leader then, curling in on himself with his fingers buried in his hair and tugging—but no one could be composed all the time. Even Makoto had limits, ones she’d reached far quicker than she’d believed she would.

She wondered if it would be alright, what she was about to do—then swallowed that down. She rounded the table, stood behind Akira’s chair, and squeezed his hands. She explained at his grunt of surprise, “I… read somewhere that men prefer physical displays of affection over words. If it’s too much, or if you don’t want it—”

“I don’t mind,” he said, quickly, “but… warn a guy, first?”

How embarrassing, to forget herself like this so easily. “Right.”

He leaned back until his curls kissed her chin. Makoto lost track of how long they spent like that, but it was long after her feet started to ache that Akira said, “Even the stars burn out, you know.”

“Yes,” Makoto said.

“Goro just wants me to be happy.”

“I’m… sure he does.”

“He’s got a strange way of showing it, but he does,” Akira insisted. “That’s just how he is. After everything—”

She waited. Even Makoto knew of Akechi’s sad life so far—orphaned at a young age, passed around from home to home with no place to dig in his roots and no family to call his own, only to discover his father in high school. How much more awkward would those family dinners be, with years and years of lost time between them? Did he and his father ever sit down and share a meal? Was there anyone in the world Akechi could be himself with besides Akira?

“After everything,” Akira said, “that he did to me… after everything that happened to us… He just wants one of us to get our wish, I think. It would be too sad if we both didn’t.”

It hit her, then: there was a history between them that she would never be able to understand. It was more than quick, hushed conversations over the phone, and it was more than a simple desire to see each other be happy. There were dirty truths buried under the surface, and for a brief, fleeting moment, it even sounded as if Akechi had broken Akira’s heart.

But that was impossible, Makoto told herself. She’d been listening to Ann talk too much about her favorite dramas. There was no way Akechi was paying recompense for some past transgression, just as there was no way Akira was burying the pain of a broken heart.

It was a silly notion. It was exactly the kind of thing Makoto never would have thought before joining the Phantom Thieves, thinking herself above all the drama that came with being a teenager. Even still, she asked, “What did he do to you?”

And Akira sighed, “Everything.”

And that, she thought, was enough.

Long after Makoto left, Akira wandered the halls of Shujin. It was eerily quiet, even with the drone of summer classes, and as he passed over the courtyard, he could hear the calls and cries of sports teams hard at practice in the gym, the doors flung wide open to let in any stray breezes. He paused to watch them for a moment, then shambled on.

This wasn’t like him.

It was Futaba’s Palace, he thought. It was the face of her mother, sneering at them all from high above. It was her voice, snarling detriments. It was her hands, claws raised high and poised to gouge and slash and strike. Just a cognition, but a haunting one all the same. How could any of them forget the sight of it?

And how could he, when Futaba felt poised to disappear, just as he had?

She wouldn’t. He knew that. Dr. Takemi had assured them she was just sleeping; Boss said it happened all the time. “Like she ran out of batteries,” he’d said, and she only needed a few days to recharge, like she was some kind of machine. She wasn’t being run out of the house. Boss wasn’t even angry with them anymore.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t decide that Akira was too much trouble to keep around, now. If Boss decided that Akira was sticking his nose into things he shouldn’t be, Akira could kiss his probation goodbye. The courts wouldn’t need proof to throw him in juvie.

A gray cell. Long, endless hours of silence broken only by his own pleas. It would be better than what he went through on Ra Ciela—the torturous tests, the knowledge crammed down his throat, the Genom—but his dream haunted him. He didn’t want to go back to that—the silence, the expectation, the waiting.

Like Futaba, shut up in her room, scared of her own shadow and awaiting the day it all ended.

Akira shivered.

Stop thinking about it, he told himself.

But how could he? How could he, with the memory of his mother’s tears hitting him all over again, with the way she’d screamed for him to leave ringing in his ears?

And…

Even the stars burn out, he’d told Makoto. Even love died. Akira had never thought that his would ever begin to fade, and yet there it was, dimming like the last ember in a cold fire. It made him sick, to think he was so awful as to forget. Yuuki was out there, waiting for him.

And yet…

Akira sighed, sinking to the floor beside a bank of lockers. The practice building was as silent as the grave and as dead as his love life, and his skin prickled with memory: the stifling quiet in between his sessions, his throat screamed raw and bloody, every inch of his body crying out in agony. His fingers had traced every new scar until he’d been sure he had split the wounds open again, and his head had spun with the knowledge shoved into it.

It was funny what he could bury until he couldn’t anymore.

Sweet child, Isis murmured. Calm washed over him, though it was a temporary respite.

It would have been easy to tell Makoto yes. They would go out, and Akira would be the perfect gentleman she wanted, and maybe he would grow to be happy that way. He wouldn’t have to worry about things like being accepted, only with the feeling he was betraying Yuuki.

If he could only be sure they were the same person… If he could be sure his Yuuki and this one felt the same, down to their very souls…

Petty, he thought. But this Yuuki was cute, and the way he tried so hard to be useful tugged at some buried memory. Akira liked his proud, shy smiles. Akira even liked the way he pouted when he was left out or his plans didn’t succeed. This Yuuki didn’t have the same blinding radiance his Yuuki did, and Akira was suspecting he didn’t need to. He was cute; that was all Akira needed to want to tease him until he blushed red up to the tips of his ears.

But it had barely been six months since his return. Wasn’t that too short a time for love to die out? Didn’t that make him awful, for craving another so easily?

“Akira,” Maruki said, and when Akira tilted his head up, found the doctor staring down at him, concerned. “Are you alright?”

He had the feeling they’d had this conversation before. Was it before finals? After? Akira didn’t remember. “Just thinking too much again, I guess,” Akira told him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s summer vacation,” Akira said. “I shouldn’t even be here.”

“But you are,” Maruki said, simply.

And he’d had the chance to walk out the door with Makoto, too. Instead he’d wanted to stay. Why? Because the quiet halls of the school made for excellent self-reflecting grounds? Because he had wanted to simply be alone with his thoughts for the first time in months?

Because Maruki was here, taking a seat across from him? Because Maruki didn’t expect him to say anything, or to fix his problems?

“Is this alright?” Maruki asked, shrugging off his lab coat.

“You’re already doing it, aren’t you?”

“But I’ll leave if you want me to,” Maruki said. He clasped his hands about his knees, hugging them to his chest. His toes wriggled in his sandals. “Do you want me to?”

Yes, Akira thought. But out loud he said, “No.”

It irked him that it was true. He wanted a mess of things that didn’t make sense. The silence of the halls bothered him even more now that there was someone else present, and the twisting, roiling mass of his thoughts begged for a distraction from Yuuki and love.

Just as it always had, back in Iwate, back on Ra Ciela. Anything to keep him from thinking would be good.

“Talk to me,” Akira said. “How’s your paper coming along?”

Maruki might not have liked the topic change, but he followed it all the same, and Akira relaxed into the technical jargon and the thought experiments, Maruki softly prodding the occasional answer out of him.

And Akira didn’t mind. In a way, it felt like home.

Chapter Text

By the time it was over, Futaba was ready to sleep for another week.

She collapsed face-first into bed, too drained to even consider taking off her glasses, much less her headphones, and heaved a sigh.

Six more days of this? She wasn’t going to make it.

A knock at her door startled her. Akira peered in and asked, “Want to help me make dinner?”

Futaba only groaned. “Too tired… Stamina, depleted…”

“I’m not letting you have an energy drink, Futaba.”

“You’re worse than Sojiro,” she complained.

“It’s no wonder you crash if you drink that stuff all the time,” he said, settling onto the bed by her feet. She kicked him, heel landing squarely on his ribs, but he only laughed it off and caught her foot. His hand was warm—hot, even—but when she tugged her foot back he gave it up. “So, how was it, really? You have to tell me so I’ll know when to tone it down.”

She grunted. Futaba wasn’t sure if there were words to describe the torture she’d been put through that day; her Featherman figures still looked off, even after Makoto helped her put them back together again. Stupid Inari, messing with her stuff like that.

“I’m not that good with small talk.” If Akira couldn’t understand her, too bad; she rather liked being smothered by her pillow. “Zero EXP, absolutely. Especially with the goody-two-shoes type; those ones are the worst.”

“Because you think they’ll be praised for it.”

Without thinking, she’d stretched out: her feet rested in his lap, and he rubbed circles into her ankles, like a reward for enduring his friends for the day.

It felt familiar. Weird.

“I’m not some mob character they can grind off of. Once they get what they want, they leave me. They always do.”

He huffed a laugh. “I don’t think you need to worry about that with Makoto. She won’t leave, even when she’s satisfied. I think you can guess why.”

“She feels sorry for me.”

“She feels responsible,” he corrected with a squeeze. “She’s the oldest one of us, after all.”

And she was Student Council President, and top of her class. Futaba knew all that—knew, even, that Makoto and her weren’t all that different. They were both terrible at conversation, and watching Makoto struggle for words had made Futaba feel a little bit better. There were things even people like Makoto couldn’t handle.

Futaba rolled over, wincing as her headphones dug into her neck. Akira stared around her room, fingers working, looking everywhere but at her. “Do you feel sorry for me?”

“No,” he said. “I’m angry for you.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer. His fingers dug in, hard enough to bruise, but Futaba held her tongue. It was a dumb question; she’d seen his records, knew his assault charge, had all the evidence that it was as bogus as it sounded. She didn’t need to ask. “Sorry,” she said. “Just forget about it.”

“But I won’t,” he said. “I’m angry for you. We all are. There were people out there you were supposed to trust, and they turned on you and abused it. Who in the world would do that to a grieving girl except the scum of the earth?”

Her eyes began to burn; no one except Sojiro had cared before, and now there were so many—so many—people that she didn’t quite believe it. Her voice wobbled. “But I blackmailed you.”

“You wouldn’t have followed through.”

“How can you be sure?”

“If you trusted the police, you wouldn’t have become Medjed,” Akira said. “If you trusted any of the hackers that took that name, you wouldn’t have become Alibaba. You wouldn’t have gone digging. Or were you looking for the truth that corroborated their story when you did?”

What had she looked for, when she first went digging? Her mother’s research, scrubbed clean from any servers; the lists of journals updated, Wakaba’s name deleted from their indexes. Proof that her mother had existed, that she’d lived and loved something fervently, even if that something wasn’t Futaba. But it had been gone, and not even Futaba had been able to find any trace of her, and soon enough the only Wakaba left was the one in Futaba’s head, hissing lies in her ear.

So she said, “I just wanted Mom back.”

And Akira said, “I know.”

They sat for a while longer, silence easy between them. It was strange, how comfortable she felt with Akira around, even as he began to dig his fingers into her heels. She never would have guessed he was the touchy-feely type, but he had no problem working the kinks out of her feet and rubbing her toes between his fingers.

If this was friendship, she could get used to it.

And when her stomach finally growled, relaxed at last, she asked, “What were you going to make for dinner?”

Akira’s smile was warm. She could get used to that, too.

They’d gone to the beach.

Sojiro couldn’t quite believe it. He was still reeling from Futaba’s first appearance in his cafe, how nonchalantly she had walked in, as if the past two years had been a bad dream for both of them.

It was the kid, he thought. The kid and his friends, concerned and persistent, asking and asking after her, even after Sojiro had made it clear they needed to drop the matter like a hot coal.

But it was the kid. He was nothing if not an expert in ignoring perfectly good advice, and Futaba was back. Sojiro couldn’t remember the last time he saw her this happy. He could barely remember the last time he saw her, period.

“Are you happy like this?” he asked.

But unlike before, there was no answer.

He tried to focus on the news segment—the kid’s celebrity friend was giving another interview, looking much more put-together than the bedraggled boy the kid had dragged in barely a month ago—but found his eyes blurring with the hot sting of tears.

Perhaps it was because it was near closing. Perhaps it was because of the heat, driving his customers away. Perhaps it was simply because he still could not quite believe it.

Sojiro said, “Futaba. You’ll be happy from now on, won’t you?”

But there was no answer. Whatever the kid had done, Futaba wasn’t minding her wiretaps anymore—and of course Sojiro knew about them; how could he not, with her amateur handiwork on display like that? But he had hidden them a bit better and left them alone. Anything to help her feel better, he’d thought, but perhaps he’d been a part of the problem.

He stayed that way for a while, trying to focus on the news while blinking back tears, and before long the door jingled open.

Futaba groaned, launching herself into the nearest booth. “Sojiro… So hungry… Need curry…”

The kid and his cat followed after her, arms laden with bags. He set them on a table and then sagged into a seat, head lolling back.

“Didn’t you feed those friends of yours?” Sojiro asked him.

The cat meowed. “It was gone in ten minutes,” the kid groaned. “Yusuke wasn’t even chewing. It was terrifying.”

“It was delicious. Five stars, easy,” Futaba commented. “But now it’s all gone… Sojiro, please, hurry…”

Sojiro chuckled. “Alright, alright.”

As he moved to fix them some plates, the cat meowed again. Futaba argued, “I did so chew, Mona! I’m not like Inari!”

Another meow.

“I-I’m not like Ryuji, either!”

“I don’t want to know who sold him all that yakitori,” the kid muttered, “so neither of you should tell me, understand?”

They lapsed into a tired silence broken only by the cat’s plaintive meows; Sojiro fixed him a plate of leftover chicken and let him work at it as he gave Futaba and the kid their dinners. The kid groped for the bottle of water and pressed it to his neck, sagging even more bonelessly into his seat.

Sojiro couldn’t help the amused grunt. “Keep that up and I’ll have to peel you off that seat with a spatula.”

The kid only groaned. He peeled his eyes open with obvious effort, tugged his glasses off, and set to work on dinner. Futaba had inhaled half her plate in the time it took him to even pick up his spoon, and soon enough was begging Sojiro for more.

How could he say no?

Sojiro washed the bento box while they ate. It really was empty; not even a crumb remained of the extensive lunch he and the kid had put together. In one way, it was gratifying. In another, it was terrifying.

Just how much could these kids eat?

It would worry him if he didn’t remember being a teen himself and eating everything sight. The expenses, however, were suddenly a much more important issue. That was likely the reason the kid was working so much—and definitely not because he was distracting himself from his probation.

But, after Futaba was done eating and had dragged her feet out the door to head home, Sojiro stayed behind, finding new things to wash and giving the tables a second wipe. When the kid finished his meal, he washed his dishes while the cat dragged out towels from the bags and ran upstairs. When it came back down carrying a brush, Sojiro gave it a scowl.

“Down here, cat? Really?”

The cat only glared. It twitched, then jumped up on the table, paws kneading the cloth.

“He doesn’t want to risk getting sand in the kitchen.” The kid wiped his hands dry and took up the brush. “Not that we don’t take precautions when I brush him upstairs, but…”

Just his luck to be getting cat hair in the food. “Just… clean up after, got it?”

The kid grinned. “Sure thing, Boss.”

They settled in at their table. The cat quickly turned into a ball of putty under the kid’s hands, eyes slit with contentment and purring like an engine. The kid hummed as he worked; it wasn’t a tune Sojiro recognized. One of those anime theme songs Futaba liked, maybe, or an original made up on the spot like before.

Not that Sojiro quite believed that excuse.

But whatever it was, it was enough to keep the kid happy for a while. Sojiro didn’t want to break the spell that held his cafe in thrall, but at some point he had to ask, “Kid. You doing alright? Not pushing yourself too hard or anything like that?”

The kid hummed, thinking. “Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m pushing myself too hard or not. I do what I have to, and that’s all.”

“How can you not be sure?”

“How can anyone be sure?”

Sojiro huffed. So much for that.

As he struggled to word his next question, the kid asked, soft and hesitant, “Hey, Boss. Futaba’s mom—you loved her, right?”

The cat’s ear twitched.

“Not ‘loved’,” Sojiro corrected. “I still do, and I will until the day I die.”

“Even if you find someone else?”

“Love’s not like a—a transaction, kid.” He raked a hand through his hair; it was getting thinner, and there was nothing Sojiro could do to stop it. Time marched on, whether he wanted it to or not. “It doesn’t end until it wants to. Even if I find someone I love as much as I do Wakaba, that won’t change the fact that I love her.”

“But it’ll be different, won’t it?”

Sojiro studied him. The kid didn’t look like he was battling heartbreak or wrestling with some crush back home. He looked like Sojiro had, back when the news of Wakaba’s accident came out—shocked, stunned, and winded with the dawning realization that nothing was ever going to be the same again, that no matter how much he loved her Wakaba was never going to come back.

Sojiro settled in opposite him. “There’s somebody you love, isn’t there?”

The kid nodded.

“And there’s somebody else you love just as much. Somebody who isn’t here.”

A sharp inhale. The kid blinked back tears, then put his face in his hands. “What do I do?”

If Sojiro was being honest, he didn’t know. What was a little action on the side during a long-distance relationship? But the kid was as serious as they came; cheating wasn’t in his vocabulary.

So Sojiro asked, “Can you go back to that person?”

“No. I can’t. I—they’re too far away. So far. Millions of light-years. Whole dimensions.”

Sojiro was just going to ignore that last bit. “If you can’t be by their side, I think the answer’s obvious.” He shifted. “I said I’ll love Wakaba until the day I die, and that’s true. But, if I find another love, one I can love just as much, that doesn’t make either love a lie. And if it’s betrayal you’re worried about—Wakaba once told me something. ‘The sting of it only lasts as long as you let it.’”

“That doesn’t sound like good advice.”

“What else do you want from me, kid?” Sojiro sighed. “You make this too complicated. You should love who can while you can. You never know when things might change.”

The kid scrubbed his face. He sniffed, once, then twice, and the cat offered him a meow that was plainly concerned. “I’ll be fine,” he told it. He offered Sojiro the shakiest smile he’d ever seen.

The kid cleaned up the mess on the table as Sojiro prepped to leave, fussing with the towels and the brush until it looked like the kid wouldn’t cry himself to sleep. They said their good-nights, and as Sojiro rounded the bar he remembered something.

“Kid.” He turned from creaking up the stairs, arms full of wet, sandy towels. Sojiro offered him a reassuring smile. “That somebody—you’ll introduce me, won’t you?”

The kid clutched his towels tighter. In the silence, Sojiro heard the rasp of grains hitting the floor. But then the kid grinned. “Sure,” he said.

However it turned out, Sojiro hoped he’d be happy.

Summer was winding down.

Another week or two and it would be over, and all Ryuji had to show for it was a pile of half-finished assignments and Futaba’s heart successfully stolen—not that he could turn in that particular accomplishment for a grade.

“This sucks,” he muttered.

“Geez, excuse me,” Futaba said, squinting at him in the mirror. Boss’s bathroom was bigger than the little washroom at Leblanc, and the lighting was miles better, which meant he could see every stain on the sink. This wasn’t the first time Futaba had touched up her roots in here. “If you’re so bored, you can make like a leaf, y’know.”

“It ain’t that.” He wanted to meet girls. He wanted them to fawn over him. If he was entirely honest, he wanted to get a little lucky, even if it was an accident. At this point Ryuji would even take that over the nothing he was getting.

“You were the one who wanted to come over, too,” Futaba reminded him, “so I don’t get what the griping is about.”

“I ain’t griping,” Ryuji said. “I just wanted to spend summer vacation differently, okay?”

“Oho! Wanted to get a girlfriend, huh?”

“How did you change this much in a week?!”

Futaba snickered. “I am Alibaba! I know all, I see all! Also, it’s, like, the biggest trope ever, and you were talking about girl-hunting on our trip to the beach. Just because I was a shut-in doesn’t mean I don’t get these things.”

“You called me a trope, ‘taba.”

“If you don’t like it, don’t act like one.”

Like she wasn’t one herself. But she had to know that, so he let it drop.

The place stank, although the fan was running; he should be used to the stink of dye by now, but it never failed to burn his nose. Ma complained about the smell, too, but would help him with his roots anyway.

She snickered as he turned away. “Maybe you should learn to cook like Akira. The ladies love a man who cooks!”

“Yeah, ‘cause it means they don’t gotta,” he muttered as he escaped into the hall. Futaba’s bedroom door was wide open, a piece of caution tape fluttering in the wind of a fan.

To think barely a month ago Futaba had cowered behind that door, terrified of the world beyond those four walls, and now she was cackling agreement and talking about equality.

And—okay, maybe she was right. Ma liked it whenever he made dinner, after all, even if she complained it was mostly meat and rice.

Once his head stopped spinning, he peeked back into the bathroom. Futaba sat in front of the mirror, glasses perched on the counter. The tips of her ears were orange with dye, though she didn’t seem to care; she hummed a song he didn’t recognize. It was probably from one of the bajillion games she played, but the tune was catchy, and she scrolled through the Phan-site on her phone. Ryuji peered over her shoulder—tons of posts, though the trolls were working faster than Yuuki could delete them, apparently—and felt a stab of pride.

This was all for them. For the Phantom Thieves.

“Lookin’ for targets?”

“Nah.” Her face was mere inches from the screen. “I’m just looking. The code’s not the greatest, and the design is awful, but nobody seems to care too much about that. I’d give the admin props if he wasn’t off his rocker.”

“Yeah—wait, what? ‘Off his rocker’?”

That didn’t sound like Yuuki. He was insecure and socially awkward, but he wasn’t deranged. He didn’t live in a fantasy world like that kid at school, making up lies about being a Phantom Thief, eyes alight at the attention.

Ryuji tugged his phone out.

“Uh, yeah,” Futaba said as he navigated to the site, “dude’s totally losing it. Complete power trip. Just look at some of the stuff he’s been posting: ‘If you don’t change your ways, the Phantom Thieves will get you!’ and so on. If that’s not out of it, what is?”

Ryuji grunted. There were an awful lot of those posts. As a deterrent, it was working—the sheer number of apologies almost made Ryuji’s head spin. What was Yuuki doing this for? Was he saving the Phantom Thieves the trouble of going after weak targets while they worked on Medjed, or was it something else?

But if a post on a website was enough to make these people change their ways, didn’t that mean they weren’t worth their time? Ryuji didn’t want to spend his days fighting petty criminals. It’d never end.

“I’m sure it’s nothin’,” he assured Futaba, and if she threw a disbelieving look over her shoulder, he pretended not to see it. Futaba didn’t fight him, either; when her roots were dry enough that she could move, they headed to her bedroom to play games until dinner. Futaba kicked his ass at everything, snickering the whole time, and when Ryuji left for the night he’d almost forgotten about the posts.

But it nagged at him; Yuuki wasn’t like that. He wasn’t the type to threaten people, wasn’t the type to dangle power over others—but maybe he was, and the Phantom Thieves had just given him the push he needed to be a tyrant in the making. When Ryuji thought of Yuuki parading around like Kamoshida, he saw red, but if push came to shove—

No. He didn’t want to think about that.

He paused by Leblanc. The light was on in the attic, and before Ryuji knew it he was barging through the door and barreling up the stairs, a hasty greeting hurled over his shoulder as Boss rolled his eyes at the counter. Akira sat at the workbench, a stuffed doll forgotten in favor of his phone. Morgana, who’d been napping on the couch, opened an eye enough to see who was barging in and then rolled over.

“Ryuji, hey,” Akira said.

“Hey, yourself,” Ryuji said, hurtling halfway across the attic before slowing to a stop by the window. “Sorry for runnin’ in like this, but there was something I wanted to ask you.”

“You can’t copy my homework.”

Damn, Ryuji thought. He’d been hoping Akira would let him—but then he shook his head. That wasn’t the issue. “It ain’t that! It’s somethin’ else.”

Akira turned in his seat. One of Morgana’s ears perked up; his tail thumped against the cushion.

“Listen, you hang out with Yuuki, right?”

There, that look on his face—gaze going distant, cheeks turning pink. Akira ducked his head and tugged at a hank of hair. “Yeah.”

“You notice anything, I dunno, off about him lately?”

“Off.” Akira hummed. “His classmates from middle school interrupted our—our chat the other day. They made a big deal about how he was a nobody. He laughed it off, but I think it hit harder than it used to.”

Ryuji sank onto the flimsy mattress Akira called a bed. “You think it was bad, dude?”

“He’s been posting those comments for a while, Ryuji,” Akira sighed. “I don’t know what to think.”

Which just meant it was bad, and he didn’t want to say so, because the last thing he wanted to think was— “What if he winds up like Kamoshida?”

Akira paused for a moment, then let out a shaky breath. “You think he might?”

“You don’t?”

“I think,” Akira said, “he hasn’t had anyone to listen to him in a long time. I think he’s used to being forgotten. I think what he needs is for us to be there as his friends, not as Phantom Thieves ready to dole out justice just because his head got too big. This—the posts, the chatter—that’s him, too. We can’t think the worst of him for that.”

“You’re just gonna forgive it all, then?”

“I don’t know,” Akira said, angry. “What do you want me to say? That we need to keep him on a leash, like a dog, just in case he starts running his mouth? That’d be like Kamoshida, Ryuji. Keeping him down isn’t going to help.”

“That’s not—” Ryuji broke off, yelled wordlessly, stormed over to the stairs. So he wasn’t Yuuki’s best friend in the whole world, and there were things they didn’t talk about. Fine.

But Ryuji drew the line at watching him spiral out of control.

Before he could say anything, though, Akira said, voice still sharp at the edges, “He won’t wind up like Kamoshida. I won’t let him. Not him. Not—”

And when he broke off Ryuji turned to find him hunched over the workbench, hands tangled in his hair, shoulders quaking. Ryuji creaked back over to the bed and sat down, anger burning a hole in his chest.

Akira said, “I’m worried, too, you know.”

Ryuji flopped back to stare at the dusty ceiling. “You think he won’t listen.”

“Not right now.”

Not when his ego was so inflated it could resemble Kaneshiro’s bank. Not while he was riding high off the success of thwarting Medjed, and it didn’t matter that Yuuki hadn’t done a thing to stop them. He was the one dealing with the public so Ryuji and the other Thieves didn’t have to; he was the one losing sleep managing the Phan-site. Who wouldn’t get a big head over that?

“But I don’t gotta like it,” he murmured, and Akira agreed.

Long after Mishima had gone, Takuto stood out in the rain.

The only sounds were the drum of rain on his umbrella and the hiss of water as cars sped through puddles out on the main street, and yet he could almost hear a voice in his ear. It whispered his name, over and over again, pride welling up with every intonation.

I could hear you, it seemed to say, even though I couldn’t before—

(“Isn’t that strange?” Ionasal asked, eyeing the brass hand. He took it by a finger and fiddled with the joints, waiting, hoping, expecting—

It certainly sounds that way.

“It’s faster to talk that way, huh?”

It is.

And it meant Takuto didn’t have to painstakingly think out every single word for Ionasal to hear. Rumi always told him he had a tendency to ramble, or to lose track of his thoughts halfway through a sentence, or to change course midway through. She’d laughed about it. She’d called it cute.

“ What’s cute?”

Takuto panicked—how had that gotten through, but nothing else?—and Ionasal laughed. He cradled the hand in his, fussing and fiddling, until he added, “I think I prefer it like this. If I hold it, I can almost tell what mood you’re in. Like reading body language, I guess.”

You guess?

He hummed. Pressed those long, long fingers into brass joints and pushed. Even while he worked, his gaze remained locked on the screen, those storm-gray eyes searching for even a hint of a word. “It’s like an aura, I suppose. When you walk into a room you can tell if the atmosphere’s tense, right? And when you look at people who have been friends for a long time, they relax more around each other. It’s like that. Does that make sense?”

He supposed it did, though Takuto would have given anything to understand how it worked through a machine. The possibilities would be endless. Rumi would have been ecstatic to hear about it, too. She loved things like this.

To reach someone’s heart, even when asleep… even when unresponsive…

“You must love her very much,” Ionasal said.

I do, Takuto responded. She is everything to me.

Ionasal shut those gray eyes and sighed, “I see.”

And Takuto couldn’t be sure, but he sounded wistful. Almost longing.

He did seem to be around that age. You’ll find someone, I’m sure.

His only answer was a hum.)

—and it sounded almost like Akira. The way he hummed to himself during their sessions. The careful way he held himself. There was nothing wrong with fidgeting, Takuto always thought, and yet the boy’s nerves tended to shut him down more often than they riled him up, and—

(“Takuto,” Ionasal sang to himself. “Takuto. Rumi.”

Paused in the middle of his work, cheek resting on one fist, needle bare inches from his skin, gaze so distant Takuto wondered how long he’d been lost in himself, in the memories they were slowly recovering. It was so like Rumi that Takuto’s heart threatened to stop in his chest.

Not you, too, he thought. Not you. Please, not you.

And after a long, long while Ionasal blinked and put needle to cloth, and the thing that had been strangling Takuto loosened.)

—there had to be a reason. It simply wasn’t what people did—but then again, Akira was doing a great many things that weren’t what people usually did. So was Takuto.

He shuddered, suddenly aware of the rain soaking his slacks, his socks, his shoes. Moving involved a tremendous amount of effort that Takuto didn’t want to expend; his glasses had slipped down his nose and the world had blurred into a gray mess, sullen and silent save for the rain. Even the hiss of tires on the street were distant and muffled. Takuto only had eyes for the thread surrounding him, knotting itself about his throat, circling his torso.

“Azathoth?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper. “What is—”

(Ionasal said, “A festival? That sounds fun. I wish I could go, too.”

But then it rained, and Takuto stayed in, content to reread old research papers while Ionasal prattled on from his phone.)

“—going on? We aren’t in Odaiba. We aren’t in my lab.”

THREADS, was all the explanation Azathoth offered.

Threads. The thing tying him and Akira together—was it tying Mishima to Akira, too?

But, no. There was no way they’d met. Akira would have mentioned meeting his friend’s parents, surely, would have surely mentioned getting married, would have definitely mentioned the ostracization of being a gay man in Japanese society. He could talk to Takuto about these things. Takuto wanted him to; it was what he was there for.

But he hadn’t. Because it was outlandish, Takuto decided, and not because Akira didn’t trust him. Mishima had just had an—an episode, that was all. He was tired. Exhausted, even, and making connections that simply weren’t there.

But the way he had sounded, so riddled with despair—

(“Do you think they’d hate me for it?”

He wasn’t looking at the screen. Curled up under his covers, as if the blankets might protect him from the truth: that yes, his parents might hate him for it, and that there was nothing he could do about it.

But Takuto liked to believe in the best of people. He liked to believe that bigotry would lose to the likes of love and kindness. He liked to believe that under those veneers of selfish hate was a heart that wished it could love so freely, too. He liked to believe that worry made them insist on meeting the status quo.

He would have loved to say, with certainty, that Ionasal’s parents wouldn’t hate him for being the way he was, but he couldn’t. All Takuto could do was put every thought of acceptance he could ever think of into his touch. As the brass hand ran through Ionasal’s hair, he shuddered, and shuttered his face behind a cover of blankets.

But he couldn’t hide the sobs that rang out.)

—as if he knew without a shadow of doubt that it was true…

Takuto shuddered. Then, as if the floodgates had opened, he shivered. His toes felt like ice despite the warmth of the night, and his teeth clattered, and a sudden migraine began to lance through his skull.

The boy in these waking dreams looked like Akira. Could they be one and the same?

No, Takuto thought, shivering even harder at the thought. Impossible.

It was nothing but a dream. It wasn’t real. It was all because Takuto had been talking to him so much, wishing that he could figure out what would make Akira the happiest. It was turning out to be far more complicated than he’d thought, however, and so Takuto ruminated when he wasn’t working on his paper. That was all.

That was all.

But, even so…

“Azathoth,” he murmured, teeth clacking, “what is really tying me to these dreams?”

But Azathoth didn’t answer.

Takuto, left with nothing, returned home.

It was quiet.

Akira was over at the bathhouse taking a long soak. Boss was closing up shop down the stairs in a rattle of pans and dishes. Futaba had long come and gone, her wide grin not quite reaching her eyes, as if she realized there was something going on.

And there was. Morgana knew it. He could still hear that awful sound echoing around the park: a ripping, tearing, screaming sound. Morgana had followed the noise to its source. He had tried his best to understand what happened, fully aware that now that it was done there was nothing he could do.

He rolled over. Uselessness welled up within him. He was only a cat—but if Akira hadn’t heard that awful sound, that meant he was, in fact, good for something, right?—and only Akira and his friends could understand him. His words meant nothing to the boy that was left behind.

Was that what it was like to love someone?

Of course not, he told himself. He would never force himself on Lady Ann. He would never corner her against a wall and take advantage of her fear—and Lady Ann would never let him, either. She was too strong not to fight back. He’d seen it himself in Kamoshida’s castle.

But Mishima, on the other hand…

Morgana groaned and rolled over. His tail thumped the cushions; his claws caught at threads. It was a good thing this was an old couch, or he’d feel awful about tearing it up—but better here than Akira’s bed, where the sheets were so thin they were practically made of paper.

Paper. Ripping, tearing paper. Something other than tears blooming inside Mishima’s eyes; a golden glint, there and then gone.

Was it because he lost something precious, like Lady Ann’s friend? Or was it sheer frustration at being so weak he couldn’t defend himself? Could it be both? Neither?

How could Morgana ever know?

It would be easiest to simply go and ask his Shadow, but Morgana couldn’t do it alone, and there was no way he was going to tell Akira until he had to. Morgana trusted his instincts—they had yet to lead him astray—and at that moment they were screaming that the last thing he should do was tell Akira. Akira wouldn’t stand it.

But. He couldn’t not tell someone.

It was confusing. He wanted to know, but the only ones he could expect input from were the Phantom Thieves. Even Mishima’s Shadow wouldn’t comprehend what had happened to it.

But that noise… That awful, terrible noise…

It was the same noise from his dreams, down to the gulping of air that followed after; like a newborn child emerging from the ichor of Mementos’ womb, clawing its way free of whatever was so determined to keep it down, hidden, locked away. Morgana didn’t want to think that he’d been born that way, some golden-eyed castoff plucked from some child’s drawing of a cat. He had to have existed first, in the real world, like Mishima and Kamoshida and all the others.

Yes, he had to have existed. He’d had a flesh-and-blood body, one that wasn’t a cat’s, one that had hands to hold and a voice that could be understood by everyone around him. Something had just gone wrong, that was all. Perhaps Morgana had met his Shadow self; perhaps he’d lost the fight, and that was why he couldn’t remember anything and why he looked like… this.

His claws dug into the upholstery. With an awful tearing noise, they pulled up threads.

He whimpered, and the noise made him think of Mishima.

Maybe… if it was only for a while, and only if he was careful…

He shook his head. No, definitely not. There was no telling how deep inside Mementos Mishima’s Shadow could be, and Morgana could be out all night searching for it. Akira would worry, and ask where he’d gone, and Morgana would have no choice but to explain himself, and then Akira would get angry anyway.

Could he… if it was roundabout, maybe… But Akira took love so seriously…

He shivered. When Akira finally returned, Morgana announced he was headed to Futaba’s for the night, because her room had air-conditioning, and he was tired of the humidity.

Akira shrugged and let him go.

He tagged along with Boss when he left for the night, then crept up to Futaba’s room. Like before, the door was closed; unlike before, it wasn’t locked, and Morgana fumbled with the knob for a few moments before it swung open. Futaba’s room spilled familiar blue-green light over the hall before he kicked the door shut; Futaba herself crouched at her computer, the screens of her monitors glowing bright in the dark.

Morgana looked away—how could anyone stand it? Just a split-second glance made his eyes hurt—and hopped on the bed, where the sheets sat in disarray. He should be disappointed; instead he was just glad she was sleeping. The last thing they needed was their navigator falling asleep in the middle of a Mementos run.

He listened: the whir of fans; the crackle of the monitors; the rapid-fire tapping of her keyboard. “Futaba,” he called.

“Just a sec,” she replied, and he settled down to wait.

It took some time, but eventually she turned from screens, noticed him squinting against the glare, and then turned back around to shut them off. Then it was just the light from the curtain plastered with glow-in-the-dark stars.

“So, Mona,” Futaba said, “what’s up?”

His tail lashed. There was no way Futaba, of all people, would understand. There was no way she knew, either. “Well, I was wondering… if you happened to know when your Palace formed.”

“My Palace? That’s what you wanted to talk about?”

“Well,” he said, “among other things, but…”

“’Other things’?” She hugged her knees. “Like, say, me taking your spot on the team?”

“What? No!” Navigating was the only thing Futaba could do, and Morgana was good for more than just his nose. Plus, the deeper they went into Mementos, the less it seemed to work, and her scanning abilities would be the best asset for the team.

… But that wasn’t why he was here!

He groaned. “Okay, maybe I am a little upset about that. But it’s not like you can help it, and I’m not about to blame you for that. I just… wanted to talk about some stuff, that’s all.”

“Stuff you can’t talk to Akira about?”

Her room smelled like plastic and metal and the salty soy sauce seasonings for her instant noodles. It was nothing like the stink of that cigarette at the park. It was nothing like singed flesh. “Yeah,” he said.

Futaba hummed with delight. “Something even Akira doesn’t get to know, huh? Ooh, I wonder what it is! But, my Palace, huh…”

Her face fell. She fiddled with the wire on her headphones, lost in thought, until she said, “I can’t really say I do. When Sojiro took me in, I think that’s when it really started. I had all this time to just… think, since he’d let me do whatever I wanted. I’d already thought I was awful before, but Sojiro treating me like I was a person somehow made it worse. I guess, anyway.”

“Because he was kind to you, huh,” Morgana murmured.

“Kinder than anybody since Mom died,” she agreed. “But this is Palace stuff, right? You said before I was a special case. If we’re talking about, say, a normal bad guy having a Palace—”

“He’s not bad!” Morgana argued. “At least, I don’t really think so.”

“Same diff,” Futaba said. “A bad guy’s a bad guy. Even I threatened you guys. So, what makes you think Nishima’s got a Palace, huh?”

“I-I didn’t say anything about him!”

She rolled her eyes. “I can put two and two together, Mona. You’re all so quick to defend him, but from where I’m standing, he’s just a guy on a power trip. I haven’t even met him and I know that.”

Because of his posts on the site. But there was more to him than that—Morgana hadn’t exactly spent a lot of time with him either, but his heart was in the right place… or it had been until now.

Now, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

He kneaded her bedding under his claws, wincing every time they caught in the fine weave, but Futaba didn’t say a word about it. “You wanna know if he’s got a Palace, huh? A little spot carved out just for him in Mementos? Say the word, and Futaba will quest until she has answers!”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said. “I know he has one. I just want to know why.”

“Beats me, then. The way I see it, this was a long time coming.”

“Like fate?”

A shrug. Futaba turned again, reaching over her monitors for the stuffed unicorn lying on a shelf and tugging it down. She hugged it to herself, pressing her cheek against its mane. “I think I get it, though. Mom—I could see her getting more stubborn with her research. She was proud of it, but then she got… defensive with it. She stopped leaving her notes lying around the house, she stopped talking about it with me… And then she died. I wonder if she knew. Maybe she stopped doing all that stuff to protect me, even if it meant pushing me away. So… maybe Nishima’s just trying to protect himself.”

He only seemed to have guts online, where no one knew his face. In the face of authority, he tended to crumble. When someone stronger than he was came around…

When he was forced to remember just how weak he was, despite trying so hard to become stronger…

Was that why, then?

“It’s different from gaining a Persona, huh,” Futaba commented. “Somebody with a Palace withdraws, while people like us break out. Or… something like that, anyway.”

“Not everyone changes the same way, huh,” Morgana said. Not everyone had the confidence or support to truly be themselves. He wondered what Mishima’s true self would look like, if he could ever be as strong as Akira or Lady Ann or even Futaba.

Morgana couldn’t see it. He was just a follower, just a guy riding their coattails, starry-eyed at every bit of attention Akira threw his way. Someone like that would never have the strength to rebel.

Then Futaba said, “What if we took him to see his Shadow? We can do that, right?”

“We… could, but…” It seemed like a bad idea. Morgana huffed, settled down further on her sheets. Unlike Akira’s, they were comfortable, and soft, and smelled miles better. “Shadows tend to get aggressive easily, and they’re all the bits and pieces of yourself that you’re hiding. I don’t think anybody would take it well, having to hear all of that. If he rejected it, there’s no telling what could happen. And if it came down to a fight…”

“We wouldn’t be able to protect him, huh?”

Plus there was Akira. Akira would never let one of his friends into a dangerous place like Mementos, even if it was with the protection of the Thieves. He was a mother hen, through and through.

“What should we do, then, Mona? Bring it up with everyone else?”

Morgana’s tail lashed. He didn’t like the idea. He didn’t like the thought of what Akira would do, hearing about one of his friends gaining a Shadow. He was overprotective to a fault and Morgana could see him storming Mementos, refusing to leave until the wrong was made right.

But the idea of leaving Mishima be and letting him get worse didn’t sit right with him, either.

He huffed a sigh. “Maybe we should. Just a little.”

“A little?” Futaba laughed. “What would that even sound like?”

“Y-you know what I mean!”

She snickered all the same; Morgana huffed, this time with irritation, then turned his thoughts to how they would even begin to mention this to Akira. He already had some idea of Mishima’s mental decay; he had to be worrying over whether or not this would happen. Morgana would just have to nudge him in the right direction—mention that Ryuji hadn’t been as far off as they’d thought, or that Morgana had heard troubling rumors, or that Futaba had stumbled onto something online.

But just the thought of making Akira angry sent shivers down Morgana’s spine. He kneaded some more at the bedspread. A plan… if they could only come up with one…

But try as they might, neither could think of a thing.

Chapter Text

“Good evening, Doctor,” greeted the masked man. “To what do we owe your visit today?”

Takuto wasn’t sure. The folder of photocopies, held snug to his side, felt heavy. It was the weight of responsibility, he thought: whatever the issue was, it was Takuto’s job to fix it.

But Akira didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to explain. Why he’d been at the school over summer break, despite not needing to be, Takuto didn’t know. He wanted to know—no, he had to know—what it was that happened to Akira, to Goro Akechi, to himself.

Because if he squinted in just the right light, there were more threads than the one connecting Takuto and Akira. There were threads connecting Akechi to some of his fans, and strangers on the street to Akira. Some threads tied those strangers together, despite having no obvious connections to each other; they didn’t look like parents and children, or cousins, or even classmates. Takuto observed a schoolgirl no older than Shujin’s students tied to a businessman ten years older, and wondered why.

But here, in his lab, he was free from those visions. The people lined up at the front desk possessed no threads—and, as Takuto found out, no faces, either—and his assistants didn’t seem human enough to develop bonds such as those.

But, well. He could be wrong.

“There was something I’d like to test, actually,” Takuto said, and they moved through the lab’s halls. A series of assistants squared up chairs in small conference rooms and set vases full of flowers in alcoves; one set down a particularly delicate statue of a heart suspended in a whirling cage of spindly gold. The heart seemed to pulse in time with his own, glowing bright as they passed by.

He could almost feel the moment the lab took his insubstantial idea and remolded itself: the floor trembled, the walls stretched, and as they turned a corner a new hallway presented itself. The masked man led him to the new room, large and empty save for the machine sitting at its center. It sprouted from the floor like a tree and spread silver-and-chrome arms like branches across the ceiling. One dipped low enough for Takuto to eye the barbed hooks on the ends of fingers.

“We would need to test it, of course, sir,” said the masked man as Takuto pressed his own flesh-and-blood finger to the mechanical one. Barely a prick, and yet he was aware that it had caught something—and when he pulled his hand away, that shimmering thread stayed behind, connecting man and machine.

And Takuto could feel its loss—or the beginning of it. He said, softly, “Not that. I’m afraid I need it for now. Give it back.”

Azathoth laughed and groaned as it wound its way back into him.

Takuto would be more than happy to test it himself if the circumstances were different, but he needed his dreams to understand Akira—or the boy that looked like him. It was hard to say for sure if the boy and the dreams were products of Takuto’s own mind or something else. A mandate from God, perhaps?

No, no. Takuto had never been a big believer in religion. What kind of god would choose him for this task?

And yet he had been chosen. That much was certain.

“We would have to bring some of the affected individuals here, huh,” he mused aloud, regarding the gleaming arms and the fingers like the drooping boughs of a willow tree. He frowned; it was all too menacing. He wanted guests to feel comfortable here. What sort of person could relax in a room like this? “No, not here. Somewhere else—perhaps this is where we can store what we gather. Perhaps—below? Would the arms be able to reach through, say, the ceiling?”

The floor shuddered. Takuto became aware of a series of rooms opening beneath his feet, and the arms of the machine whirled into place, fingers poised on the floor.

The masked man regarded them as well. He suggested, “A relaxing environment, perhaps, Doctor, to keep your patients from a panic?”

“Perhaps…” Takuto wasn’t quite so sure if the sight of the machine wouldn’t be enough to induce a panic of its own, no matter how relaxing an environment he could conjure. There was something inherently sinister about the fingers, the hooks—simple machine coldness, he thought. No one would ever understand. It rested in their DNA, like a fear of snakes or insects or of the night. He sighed. “No matter what, I’ll have to be present to make sure it works. The real issue will be how to bring someone in. It isn’t as if anyone can walk in…”

Except for himself and the Phantom Thieves, and Takuto did not want to test this on Akira. He wasn’t sure what kind of havoc that would cause, just that havoc would be what followed. He also couldn’t be sure if Akira could withstand the loss of so many connections all at once.

(Takuto would help him through it, of course, but it would be best if he didn’t have to. Akira would be better served by a return to normalcy as quickly as possible. Confinement didn’t suit him.)

Perhaps, then… if he could just bring one person… if he could find Goro Akechi…

His mind whirled with possibilities.

Futaba squirmed.

This wasn’t unusual behavior, she thought; until a handful of weeks ago, she’d never had friends. The amount of people she’d let in her room could be counted on one hand—just Sojiro, and when she was alive, Wakaba—and they never stayed for long. But now everything was changing—Akira visited, or they went out together, and Futaba had spent the better part of the night distracting herself from the conversation she’d overheard by searching her closet for an old promise list. She’d expected the paper to have yellowed and turned brittle with age, but it was still white, the ink a bit faded.

Be friends with Kana.

It sat under her keyboard now, where even somebody like Ryuji wouldn’t bother to look for it. Beside her, he set his jaw and glared at the screen, one leg bouncing.

Futaba couldn’t even care that he sent her fighter flying offscreen; all she could think about was that conversation, and how she should have stopped listening, should have respected Akira’s privacy.

But she had to admit she was curious, too. Akira was never up that late unless he had to be—Morgana practically dictated his sleep cycle—and she’d been so close to that trophy in her game she couldn’t be bothered to mute her headphones.

She’d never thought he swung that way. Although it wasn’t as if he was a stereotype from one of her games, wearing makeup an inch thick and going overboard with feather boas and slinky, sequined shirts. Futaba had never liked those characters—they were too over the top, too loud, too everything—but Akira…

“Maybe he could pull it off,” she muttered, and then remembered she wasn’t alone.

Ryuji didn’t catch her meaning. He grinned and attempted a combo that made her worry for her controller. If he broke it, he was buying her a new one.

She could fix the old one, but a new one? Sign her up.

All he managed to do was send his fighter spinning before jumping onto a platform; she couldn’t help the snicker that escaped her. “You suck at that.”

“Shaddup,” he mumbled. “Like you can do better.”

She snorted, then executed the combo he was going for; his fighter flew offscreen to a roar of applause. She didn’t have to gloat to know he was stewing in jealousy, but what did he expect? Futaba was ranked in the top fifteen in the nation. Some scrub off the street wasn’t about to beat her.

Ryuji groaned, hanging his head. He pulled his schoolbag closer; papers spilled out of it, and he grabbed a handful and squinted at them.

Futaba settled back. “Twenty minutes, starting… now!”

He got to work.

It was horribly inefficient, she thought. Better to just get it all over with in the beginning, then kick back and relax for the rest of summer vacation—but Ryuji had waited and waited, and now the start of the semester was only days away, and he had to finish some of his assignments if he didn’t want the staff to harass his mother. Futaba got that—she’d never seen the point of homework, either, until Wakaba broke it down for her—but watching him stress out over it was funny in its own way.

Through her headphones, the cafe was quiet. Akira and Inari and Mona had retreated up the stairs a couple hours ago—something about a DVD Inari wanted to watch—and had yet to come back down. She couldn’t even make out the noise of Sojiro’s TV over the rain lashing the windows.

She wondered what Inari’s DVD was about. Art, totally, but Akira didn’t strike her as an artsy kind of guy—but she’d been wrong about him on one thing. What were a few more?

She chewed a nail. Switched the games out—racing was pretty fair, right?—and settled back into her nest of pillows as Ryuji clicked his tongue at his homework.

If she thought about it, they had been spending a lot of time together…

She grunted. No, that was dumb. Somebody like Akira, falling for a knuckle-brain like Ryuji? As if.

Inari? No, that was weird, too. Inari was weird. Her poor figurines would never recover.

Who, then?

She could hack his phone. According to anime, the ones he texted the most would be the biggest suspects—but this was Tokyo, and Akira was nothing if not a face-to-face kind of guy. He wouldn’t hold conversations over text message if he didn’t have to, and the only guy he’d ever brought back to Leblanc was Akechi.

Futaba wiggled her toes. Akechi would work. Detective Pretty-Boy and the Phantom Thief. It sounded like a bad light novel, but that was Akira’s whole life. Childhood friends discovering they’re on opposite sides, fighting through their differences, overcoming all obstacles and finding love at the end of it—now that was something the community didn’t need more of, but Futaba would read it.

Which made her wonder…

Ten minutes later they went back to the game, Ryuji’s homework in a crumpled, sorry pile and Futaba’s brain attempting to understand how many people got off to fiction about real, live people. She knew one of them personally! She knew his skin would swell up at the first touch of handcuffs and gun barrels; she knew he couldn’t eat chocolate without breaking out into hives or worse.

But it was fiction, she reminded herself. Half of those people didn’t know Akira or Akechi and it showed; Akira wasn’t nearly so devious or malicious, and Akechi definitely wasn’t the angel everyone took him to be. No one had a TV-ready personality twenty-four-seven, not even Akechi, and even hardened delinquents had soft spots.

Or so all her shows told her, anyway.

Futaba let her mind wander while they raced. Ryuji took racing games as seriously as he took fighting games, and before long he was hunched over, leg bouncing, controller in a white-knuckled grip. She wondered what Akira and Inari were doing up in the cafe’s attic—no DVD ran this long, surely, even if it was an artsy-fartsy mess. Was that who Akira was into? Weirdos?

“Stop thinking about it,” she told herself.

This time Ryuji caught on. “’Bout what?”

“Stuff.” She slapped down a banana peel; his racer went careening off the side of the course. “Girl stuff,” she amended. “It’s dumb.”

“It ain’t dumb,” Ryuji asserted. “I know I’m not the best for girl talk and stuff, but if you wanna—”

She groaned. “Don’t be gross, Ryuji.”

“How’s offerin’ to listen gross?!”

“Because you’d think it’s gross, that’s why!”

Ryuji set his jaw, turned back to the game—his racer sitting neatly in the middle of the course, the other racers whizzing past. One of them threw a shell at him. “So it’s Akechi, then.”

“What makes you say that?”

He started back down the course, fully in last place and a lap behind everyone else. “’Cause it’s always Akechi. How pretty or perfect or smart he is, how he’s so much better than everyone else. Didn’t think you’d like a guy like Akechi.”

“Maybe I was wondering why people like that kind of stuff.”

He snorted with derision. “You wouldn’t look so guilty if you were.”

“Akechi’s a tool.” But he was also Akira’s friend, and maybe his boyfriend, and that wasn’t something Futaba wanted to think about anymore. She already knew as soon as Ryuji left she’d be back on her phone, skimming terrible RPF. That was not the way she wanted to think about one of her friends, either. “But he hangs out a lot with Akira, and—”

“Don’t remind me,” Ryuji said, voice nearly a growl.

From what Ann and Makoto had told her, nearly all of the Thieves didn’t like Akechi—his smarmy comments and constant belittling of their good deeds rubbed them the wrong way, and Ann had mentioned something about pancakes, which didn’t make sense but Futaba wasn’t ready to ask about—but with Ryuji… “Why’s it so personal with you anyway? Got a grudge? Or”—she gasped—“don’t tell me you’re jealous!”

“Jealous? Of him? Who would be?”

“Because the girls throw themselves at his feet, duh,” Futaba said, finishing neatly in third place, done in by Princess Pitch at the very last second. She watched Ryuji attempt to finish higher than dead last and fail. She added, “And because he spends all that time with Akira. Come on, you can tell Futaba!”

She prodded at his ribs and he squirmed out of reach, expression caught between a laugh and a grimace. “What’s wrong with that?” he defended.

“Nothing,” she said. “Akira’s a cool guy. Even I can see that much. Who wouldn’t want all his attention?”

Futaba sure did, eating up what little she got like a starving man lost at sea. So alone for so long—how could she do anything but? He was a great listener. It was almost scary how good he was at it.

Ryuji huffed a sigh, tugging his homework closer. He ignored her to bend over his worksheets, pencil tapping rapid-fire.

Futaba went back to her phone.

There wasn’t much to look at—not nearly as much as the K-pop bands and the idol groups and the American celebrities, and Futaba thanked her lucky stars it wasn’t that bad—but the collection was sizable and would take a few hours to go through.

Why was she even thinking about doing that, again?

Akira’s voice, softer than she’d ever heard it. Because the friend I like is a boy. I’m bi. And that’s weird.

Weird. Weird like Futaba; weird like Inari. Weird like Ann and her cake-based diet; weird like Makoto and her perfect grades. Weird like Ryuji, beating his pencil against his homework as if the work would do itself. Weird like Mona, talking cat or not.

So she asked, stupidly, knowing Ryuji would hate every word: “Do you think Akira likes Akechi?”

“Well, they’re friends, so, yeah,” Ryuji grumbled.

He’d tell his best friend, she thought. Maybe that was why Ryuji was so pissy about Akechi, and he was making it look like it was the slander about the Thieves doing it instead. “No, I mean—like, likes him enough to date him, maybe.”

She expected a blow up, or maniacal laughter—how could she ever suggest a thing?—but Ryuji only froze, furrowed brow digging trenches across his forehead. He turned, slowly, to face her. “You—’taba, you think—Akira and Akechi?”

She held her phone up like a shield. Page 8 of 24 stared back at her; she grimaced. “I’m not the only person to think so, y’know.”

“Akechi?” Ryuji seethed. “He’s—just—even Yuuki’d be better than that prick! Even Yusuke would!”

She felt so small. Even with her phone shield, she could see the glare of his eyes, the contempt in the twist of his mouth. Her voice was brittle. “It was just a—just a question, okay?”

Ryuji growled to himself and seethed for a few minutes more. Futaba dug her toes under a blanket; the phone shield gradually lowered. He wouldn’t hurt her—he was just angry, that was all—but she couldn’t help the fear leaping like electricity up her spine. She’d never thought Uncle Youji would hurt her, either, until she was met with stony silence and an old dog bed in the corner.

There were lots of ways to hurt someone.

“Sorry,” Futaba said, feeling every bit as weak and pathetic as she sounded. A strong wind could blow her to pieces and it would be no one’s fault but her own, and—

“Nah, I’m sorry,” Ryuji said, voice rough with residual anger. “Shouldn’t blow up at you just ‘cause ya brought it up. It’s just—Akechi. I can’t stand that guy. Dude’s a total faker.”

“You kind of have to be. TV’s been like that for years,” Futaba reasoned. She wasn’t going to bring up how brave he had to be to speak against the Phantom Thieves when they were as popular as he was; for all she knew, those comments were as scripted as his personality.

Ryuji only snorted, tired of having to hear the same excuse over and over again. Another tense silence filled the room, broken only when Ryuji said, voice soft, “They do act different together. Like they’ve got some big-ass inside joke or somethin’. They don’t—they don’t act like they just met for the first time a coupl’a months ago. Y’know?”

“Neither do I,” Futaba pointed out.

Ryuji screwed his face up, mulling that little bit over, then said, “That’s different! You had a Palace ‘n you asked us for help! This is—it’s—”

He stared holes through his worksheet. The paper was crumpled in his fist, knuckles white, fingers bloodless. “Guess I thought havin’ friends meant there wouldn’t be any secrets between us. It feels—it feels like I’m gonna lose him, ‘taba, and there ain’t nothin’ I can do about it. And that idiot, he…”

Ryuji trailed off, brow furrowed, frown deep.

Futaba kind of understood. Akira was meant for everyone; it was fair that his attention was split evenly between his friends. For one of them to try to hold more of it meant there was less for everyone else.

Or… not? Futaba shook her head. Akira was meant for everyone, she knew that, but that also didn’t mean everyone stayed by his side.

Her head ached. She wanted nothing more than to curl up with her favorite show until the pain stopped; instead she muttered, softly, “You think he’s gonna get hurt?”

It sounded right. She wasn’t sure why, but it did, and Ryuji’s answering shudder told her everything.

It was only later that she realized Ryuji hadn’t meant Akira at all.

Days before classes were set to start again, and Kasumi was wandering the streets of Odaiba, headed for the stadium.

Practice had gone… well. Well enough that she found herself bored with nothing to do—summer homework finished, routine set, the ache in her muscles as familiar as breathing—except practice some more, and Coach had told her to take the day off. Give her body time to rest, her mind time to recharge, the same advice they’d been given for years. Training camp? Rest after. Competition? Rest after. A long summer vacation spent practicing until her legs gave out?

Well, it should be obvious.

They couldn’t perform on sprained ankles or twisted knees, after all.

But, even still… Sitting still didn’t feel right, anymore, as if she stopped long enough something would come and gobble her up, old fears mixed with new grief. It wasn’t like her.

She wanted to see Doctor Maruki. He always made everything better.

Soon, though; when classes started back up she could see him. It wasn’t fair for her to take up his time on summer vacation; he deserved to enjoy what little time off he got, and the sports teams no doubt needed his guidance. Until then she would just have to endure.

Even if she did feel miserable doing it.

Part of her hoped she would run into Akira, too. He was always busy, running around the city with his friends and his cat—what she wouldn’t give to pet Morgana’s silky fur right then!—but she liked the little moments he managed to carve out for her: practicing at the park, going to diners, chatting with him and Akechi… Akira made her feel better, too, but in a different way from Doctor Maruki, though Kasumi couldn’t quite put her finger on the difference.

When she finally made it to the stadium, she stood there for a while, mindless of the summer heat. Looking at it always made her think of Sumire, of everything they’d endured, all the heartbreak and the triumph. She ran through her routine in her head, knowing how Sumire would move here, how she would trip there, how she would struggle with one transition or another.

(It did not occur to her that Sumire’s mistakes were her own.)

It had been their dream to stand on the world stage together. Sumire had let doubt and insecurity overcome her, however, and that dream had become too big, too out of reach. She’d been devastated; it was no wonder she—

Kasumi shook herself. She looked to the stadium, tarp and supports shimmering in the heat haze, and imagined what it would be like to perform there without Sumire by her side.

It was different, to be sure, but in four years… in eight… in ten…

“I won’t give up on our dream,” she promised. The space beside her felt as empty as ever.

She wondered if it would ever feel full again.

Summer was ending.

Shiho Suzui made her way into the school building, her parents parked down the street just in case she needed them. Supportive, even after everything she’d gone through. Shiho supposed they had to be. She’d made it very clear that she wouldn’t accept anything less.

It was almost funny, the million ways she’d broken since that day back in April.

Her legs ached as they pushed her through the doors. She wandered the first floor for a while, feeling out of place even in her uniform, a cold sweat forming at every squeal of shoes in the halls, the drone of teachers in the classrooms, the smell of bleach in the air.

“Why, Ms. Kawakami, you’re so good at this!” Ms. Chouno crowed from down the hall. Ms. Kawakami’s answer was a grumble muffled by distance; Shiho turned, not wanting to meet either of them.

They weren’t why she was here.

When she finally gathered enough courage to head out to the courtyard, her heart was lodged firmly in her throat. The gym doors were wide open, letting the slam of balls and squeal of sneakers and calls of teammates out into the air; as Shiho watched, a group of boys in shorts and a mixture of t-shirts and tank tops ran by, vying for the basketball.

Her legs ached for a different reason, now.

A stray breeze swept by. Shiho said hello to the third-year girl tending the flowerbeds in the courtyard, curly hair tucked up under a wide-brimmed hat, dirt smudged on her cheeks, a bucket of weeds by her side. The third-year girl beamed at her, said hello back, and my, what wonderful weather, isn’t it?

Bright and sunny, with barely a cloud in the sky. Shiho agreed; it was fine weather.

Then she shuffled over to the nook and collapsed onto a bench. Her legs felt as if they were filled with ants, and she clenched her hands into fists and rubbed at the scars. Better than scratching; Ann would ask questions if she tore her skin open doing that, but they ached so much and itched like the devil himself. Shiho hoped it was temporary. She didn’t want to live with this constant discontent running under her skin.

It took her a while to realize there was a small cooler sitting on the other bench. It must have belonged to the third-year girl; it was too small to belong to any of the sports clubs. Whistles blew in the gym; the third-year girl stood and picked her way over to the nook, gave Shiho a smile, and then dug through the cooler. She pulled out a pair of drinks and small bags of ice and offered Shiho one of each.

“Oh, no, I—” haven’t been here in months, haven’t done anything to deserve this.

But what reason did there need to be for kindness?

She took them, rubbing both on her legs, skirt hitched up dangerously high. The cold helped calm her down, and before long she almost felt like herself again. “Thank you,” she told the girl.

“Oh, you’re welcome,” said the girl. She fanned herself with her hat. “I thought it would be best to share, since I brought so much and the vending machines are out. No one needs to faint from heatstroke, do they?”

“No,” Shiho replied, scanning the vending machines. Sure enough, they were all empty, save for a lone can of hot corn soup. As far as she knew, it had always been there.

The third-year noticed where she was looking and stifled a giggle. “I almost feel bad for it. Perhaps when classes start again, I’ll buy it.”

“I think it’ll like that,” Shiho said. “It looks almost lonely, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” was the agreement. She dabbed at the sweat on her neck with a towel. She must have been boiling in that tracksuit, jacket zipped all the way up to her throat, but if there was one thing Shiho understood it was the uncomfortable nature of being a girl surrounded by boys—even worse if the boys were like Kamoshida and prone to leering.

Shiho sipped at her water and shivered despite the heat.

They made small-talk; the third-year was more than happy to show Shiho the late summer flowers just beginning to sprout buds in the courtyard, and Shiho regaled her with tales of Ann’s sweet tooth. Ann had once devoured an entire chocolate cake without thinking twice, and while it was certainly impressive, it was also worrying. Shiho didn’t want her best friend to make herself sick. That sort of thing didn’t simply disappear overnight.

When she realized she was just worrying aloud, Shiho gave a small laugh. “Sorry,” she said.

“Oh, no, it’s no trouble,” said the third-year. She toyed with her hat. “I enjoyed it, really. Not many people talk to me, you see, so I… Well. I enjoyed it.”

“Really?” Shiho didn’t understand it; but it was Shujin, whose rumor mill had fabricated a crime for the transfer student to commit even before he stepped foot on campus. According to Ann, it got worse every month. People could be such cruel creatures. “You don’t seem like the type of person people avoid.”

“There are… reasons.”

But whatever they were, she didn’t care to elaborate. She exuded sadness and the kind of loneliness that came from being an outsider that desperately wanted to join in. Her zipped-up tracksuit spoke volumes.

Shiho wasn’t going to press. Whatever her reasons were, whatever her circumstances, she reminded Shiho of herself. “Will you be okay?”

The third-year’s face fell. “I’m… not so sure. To be honest, I put in a request on the Phan-site—have you heard of it? They say if you ask for someone’s heart to be changed there, it happens. But my requests are always ignored. I… don’t want to name the one who is bothering me. But, I…”

Her lip wobbled.

Shiho asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“You would listen?”

“Of course.” It was what she would have wanted, back in April: the strength to speak out, even to a stranger, about the abuse Kamoshida inflicted on them all. Instead she had hung back, fearful of Ann’s safety. No matter how strong Ann was, Kamoshida was stronger, and the law wouldn’t help a mixed girl like Ann. They would take one look at her blonde hair and blue eyes and tell her she deserved it. Foreigners just asked for it.

So she sat and listened. The third-year tried to keep it as succinct as possible—an arranged marriage, her fiance’s lack of decorum regarding her personal space, her father’s uncaring attitude.

“I don’t want to do it, but… at this point I don’t have much of a choice,” she finished. “I thought, if the Phantom Thieves could change my father’s heart, or perhaps my fiance’s, I would be able to endure it, but…”

It wouldn’t erase what she had already been through.

“Right now, I feel… I can’t betray my father that way. He raised me himself, and I understand how stressful it can be. He’s… surely only thinking of my future. He just wants to know that I’m being taken care of…”

They sounded like excuses. The third-year had to realize that; she fiddled some more with her hat and said, “I know it must sound strange. I should be able to tell my father that I don’t want to go through with it. But the match is important for him, too. He’s spent an awfully long time setting it up, and I… well, I just don’t want to disappoint him.”

“He’s important to you,” Shiho said. Like Ann was to her; they would do anything for each other, and they had. Kamoshida had depended on that. A shame it had backfired on him in the end. She was just glad her parents took her note seriously.

“Yes.”

Shiho wasn’t sure what to say to that. Going along with something she hated to save someone else—that was Ann’s thing, not Shiho’s, and yet she’d stayed on the volleyball team so long, thinking one day it would be worth it…

And look where that stubbornness had gotten her.

It was important to be happy, she thought, instead of making decisions based on what everyone else wanted or needed or expected. If she had just spoken up sooner… if she hadn’t trusted Kamoshida not to go that far… if she had told Ann…

What could have changed?

Just as she was about to say so, the practice building’s doors flew open. The third-year ducked her head, checked that her hat was secure, and stood just as a man rounded the corner. Ann had mentioned Doctor Maruki during one of her visits, and it surprised Shiho to see him: he was younger than she thought, with the barest hint of stubble on his chin and a faint smile on his face.

“Hello, Doctor,” the third-year said. “I’m afraid the machines are out today, unless you’d like corn soup.”

His face fell. He stared at the lone can as if wishing it could transform into cold juice or shaved ice. “I see,” he said. “Thank you for telling me, Miss Okumura. Are you about to get back to your weeding? The courtyard looks wonderful already.”

“Oh, I’m only partway through,” she informed him, pleased that someone had taken notice of her work. “As for drinks, I brought a cooler. You’re welcome to have one if you’d like. I bought too many.”

Maruki regarded the cooler. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to impose on a student.”

“Not at all! Consider it a thank-you for everything you’ve done so far. And it wouldn’t do to develop heatstroke, you know.”

Maruki hummed, pleased, and said his thanks. Okumura said goodbye to them both and moved her bucket of weeds to the far corner of the courtyard, where the shade of the gym building kept the worst of the sun off her back.

Shiho gripped her bottle. Something about the way Maruki rooted through the cooler set her nerves on edge—just paranoia, she told herself. The third-year was right there. Nothing would happen.

Or it might, whispered a small part of her. He could threaten her, like Kamoshida. He could do anything. He could—

“Miss Suzui, is it?” Maruki asked. Shiho startled, plastic crunching in her hand. Maruki’s bottle slipped from his hands, gone slick in the sudden summer heat.

They stared at the splatter of condensation on the concrete. The third-year called, “Is everything alright?”

“Y-yes!” Maruki said. When he bent to retrieve his drink, he collided with the table; when he straightened, he did the same. He stared mournfully at the bottle, now covered in a fine layer of grit, before cleaning it off on his lab coat.

Shiho couldn’t help it. She started to laugh, and before she knew it, Maruki was laughing, too.

It was the first time in a long time that something other than Ann’s terrible jokes had made her laugh. Shiho thought she wouldn’t be able to, especially after her best friend had her heart broken, but it felt good to laugh until tears streamed down her face and she was doubled over, stomach aching.

But when she calmed down, she found Maruki staring at her, that same gentle smile from earlier on his face. “It’s good to see that you’re doing well. I don’t suppose you know who I am?”

She did, and said so. “You’re every bit as clumsy as Ann said you were.”

“Hey, now… But it’s true. My first day here I headbutted the microphone and covered myself with soda.” He looked to the corn soup, worrying the cap of his bottle with a thumb, likely thinking that corn soup would never do that to him. Then he shook his head. “Ann, hm? Takamaki mentioned me? I don’t suppose she also mentioned—”

“You want to talk with me,” Shiho guessed, “about what happened with Kamoshida.”

“Only if you’d like to,” Maruki said. “Otherwise, we can simply sit and enjoy the weather.”

Shiho hummed, considering. Ann liked the man, but Ann tended to like everyone. She wasn’t exactly the best judge of character—but neither was Shiho. They’d never thought Kamoshida would sink so low, and who could tell what lay beneath that gentle, smiling mask the doctor wore? She wanted to believe that his clumsiness wasn’t a ruse, that his offer to listen was genuine.

But part of her screamed that he was lying. He wanted something more.

A cheer kicked up in the gym; Shiho locked eyes on the doors and then found her gaze climbing, trailing over the windows glaring in the sun, past the decorative brick lining between floors, up and up to the roof covering the courtyard—but she could still see the fence lining the roof, could feel the metal burning her hands as she climbed, the hot sun beating down upon her.

I could have died, Shiho thought, not for the first time.

“It’s a bit hot to enjoy the weather, isn’t it?” she asked.

If Maruki was disappointed by her rejection, he wore it well. He chuckled. “I suppose that’s why the machines are out. They haven’t been this empty since I started here, especially with—”

He broke off, struggling to open his bottle. The seal was too tight, and he studied it with a perplexed exasperation. This, too? he seemed to be thinking.

“All lot of them seem to do that lately,” Shiho said as he pried the cap off, seal and all. Maruki took a long drink and then sighed, content.

They talked about a number of mundane things—how her summer was going, the sprained ankle Maruki had had to look up a YouCubed video to bandage, Okumura’s flowers—until Shiho’s phone buzzed. Her parents, finally annoyed at having to wait for so long.

Shiho explained that they were waiting down the road, and Maruki smiled that gentle smile—shivers raced up and down her spine; there was just something so off about it—and sent her off with another bottle of water from Okumura’s cooler. The third-year waved as she left the courtyard, and Shiho couldn’t bring herself not to wave back. The girl was in for some hard times; Shiho only regretted she couldn’t be a bigger help.

But if she knew Ann, her best friend would help. Ann wouldn’t stand for it, either.

Shiho passed through the gate. She turned, taking another look at Shujin Academy: once that gate felt like a prison door, locking all of them away from the rest of the world. Inside that domain Kamoshida had ruled, forgiven of every transgression simply because of a shiny medal sitting around his neck. Kamoshida was the reason the school had so many students; Kamoshida was the reason it was held in such high regard.

Not anymore.

Her gaze drifted to the roof. It would be different to stand on it, to feel the wind tugging at her clothes, to see the sky bordered by high-rises and skyscrapers. But for now there was no draw, no pull, no call deep in her soul to escape. She was strong enough to stand on her own two feet again, down on the ground.

She wondered if she would be strong enough to do the same up there.

She shivered in spite of the heat and nestled herself into the seat of her parent’s car, safe for another day.

Takuto wiped his hands on his slacks. Nerves skittered up and down his spine like live fireworks; this wasn’t any old visit to Rumi. He had no flowers, for one. He’d forgotten to buy them, and the nurse at the station down the hall had looked surprised to see him without them.

(Was he so predictable?)

Instead, his phone sat heavy in his pocket. The weight of what he’d seen sat heavy on his mind.

He couldn’t imagine what the knowledge was doing to Ionasal.

But that was why he was here. Rumi, Ionasal… Maybe they would be good for each other. Maybe they wouldn’t. Takuto would never know unless he tried.

So he opened the door and stepped inside.

Once he was settled in his seat, he said, “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about today, Rumi.”

Rumi made no answer. She stared out the window, as disinterested as ever—but that wasn’t her fault, he reminded himself. It was all she could do.

He plowed on: “The truth is that I met someone.” Was that a twitch of her hand? A muscle jumping in her neck? “Not—not a new lover, or anything like that, but… I suppose it wouldn’t be wrong to say he’s become special to me, too. I think we’re becoming good friends, even.”

She turned to face him. It was the most reaction he’d gotten in weeks, ever since her last blowup, and even though her eyes were trained on his elbow, Takuto didn’t care.

It was more than he’d thought he would get.

“But, you see, he’s going through a bit of a rough patch right now,” he went on. “He’s been avoiding me. I think he might be embarrassed to feel so… down.”

If one could call his reaction down.

“So I thought it might be better for him if he talked to someone else. Someone who doesn’t know him so well, who won’t care if he overreacts.” He shifted; never before had his seat felt so warm, not even in the dead of summer. He admitted, “And I thought I’d like the two of you to meet, too. You’re both special to me. Would you like to meet him? Will you—will you try for me, Rumi?”

It didn’t feel right to add please, but it sat on the tip of his tongue, ready, waiting.

Rumi didn’t answer. Her hand twitched.

Takuto pulled his phone out, nearly dropped it on the floor, and then swiped to the app.

Please, he thought. Please, let this work.

For Rumi. For Ionasal.

He tapped the app and set his phone in Rumi’s lap. She stared at it as it booted up and blinked as the screen resolved into the now-familiar walls of Ionasal’s house. He slumped over his desk, head resting on crossed arms; only his curls were visible.

The prompts came up; Takuto wasn’t well-versed in reading upside-down, but if they were the same ones as always, then…

Ionasal.

“I told you,” came the muffled response, “I don’t want to talk right now.”

More prompts; they went ignored. Over the past couple of days, that had been the only thing Ionasal had told him: I’m tired. I don’t want to talk. Please leave me alone.

But it couldn’t be true, otherwise he wouldn’t be sitting in front of them, despondent over his own fiery death.

Staring it right in the face certainly wasn’t the best way to go.

“I don’t know what to do, Rumi,” Takuto said. His hand itched for hers; he pulled it close, let it worry a beat on his lap. “I can’t talk to him, he doesn’t want to talk to me… I want to help him, but…”

Rumi was always better at getting people to open up. She was positive, and outgoing, and always ready with a smile or a shoulder to lean on. People liked Rumi; her nondescript boyfriend never stood out much in their minds as a result. Takuto never felt lesser; he rather liked it that way. Being the center of attention wasn’t his thing.

Like now, as Rumi stared at the boy on the screen as the prompts faded from view. Takuto settled in to wait; Ionasal wasn’t going to need him anytime soon, and for once he didn’t have much to report to Rumi. If he said anything, he might let it slip: that the real reason was because Rumi and Ionasal could share their pain with each other. Takuto knew he was just a bystander watching them suffer; telling him about their pain wasn’t lessening it.

What a depressing thought.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat there in the silence of Rumi’s hospital room. Long enough that Takuto felt his eyes slip closed, missing the moment that Rumi dared to brush a stray piece of lint from the screen. He jolted awake as the brass hand crashed into the desk, sending Ionasal into a screaming panic; the boy jumped out of his chair, knocking it over, then tripped over it in his haste to get away. One knee banged into the desk; a foot flailed uselessly in the air.

Takuto, who had leaped to his feet, adrenaline surging, stared in horror.

Ionasal was going to hate him now. He was going to be ignored outright until he screwed up the courage to delete the app at last, lest he be reminded of his failure.

They’d been doing so well, too. Ionasal remembered more and more every day, and Takuto’s pantry was full of all sorts of strange snacks and various sundries. He wanted to try each one out with Rumi, when she was well enough to visit. But now—

“Takuto!” Ionasal yelled, finally righting himself. He blinked back tears as he rounded the desk. “What was that for?! Why would you—I told you I didn’t want to talk, so why would you do that?!”

“Takuto?” Rumi asked, each syllable stilted, her voice barely a creak. She looked at him, and for the first time in months seemed to realize he was there.

“ Takuto! Answer me!”

“It’s some kind of telepathy,” Takuto explained. His hands hovered over the bedspread, over his phone, over Ionasal’s rapidly reddening face. His eyes shone too bright. “He doesn’t get complex ideas, but he can understand if it’s simple or repeated, I think, and—”

Her thumb pressed the screen. The brass hand hovered; Ionasal eyed it with a wariness that made Takuto’s heart sink.

Then he grabbed it and pressed it to his cheek.

Takuto prepared himself for the worst. Tears dripped down Ionasal’s cheeks; he scrubbed fruitlessly at them. “You aren’t Takuto,” he muttered.

“Rumi,” Takuto said, “maybe you should stop. This was a bad idea, I shouldn’t have suggested it, I’m so, so sorry—”

“Oh, he rambles, huh,” Ionasal murmured.

Takuto, stunned into silence, took his seat once more.

“ Show me again?”

A conversation with Ionasal was always awfully one-sided. The boy talked, and Takuto could do nothing but listen and occasionally pick a prompt. It was good practice for his eventual career as a counselor—even with Wakaba Isshiki paving the way for future cognitive psientists, Takuto wanted to keep his options open, and it never hurt to learn how to listen.

But during all of his conversations, he had at least some idea of what was going on. This was decidedly different: he felt even more like a bystander, listening to half a conversation.

Ionasal broke out into giggles. Takuto had to wonder what Rumi was telling him, and how.

Then Rumi said, “Takuto. Water?”

Takuto jolted. “Y-you want water, Rumi?”

She nodded. He tried not to take heart in the faint spark of life in her eyes.

Rumi’s room was always bare of everything except the flowers, but Takuto scanned it anyway. Nothing, not even a cup; he would have to leave to get her anything to drink. The nearest vending machine was down in the lobby, all the way on the first floor. Maybe the nurse would know if there were any closer ones…

He bit his lip. “Are you sure? You—you don’t mind staying with Ionasal while I’m gone? I can take him with me.”

This time, sterner: “Water. Takuto.”

“Okay,” he said. “Water. Okay.”

His knees shook as he left the room.

As it turned out, there was a vending machine by the stairs. Takuto stared at the assortment of snacks and drinks, his head swimming: Rumi and Ionasal, all alone together. Exactly what he wanted, and yet a part of him was afraid of what he might find when he returned. Rumi, having another fit? Ionasal, more despondent than before?

But he’d giggled, and he was talking to Rumi, and Rumi was talking to Takuto. She’d asked him for water. He couldn’t remember how much change was in his wallet until he spilled half of it on the floor. He wasn’t aware of the stupefied look on his face until he saw it staring back at him from the bottom of the vending machine.

Rumi and Ionasal, together. Exactly how he’d wanted them.

Takuto took his time collecting his change. He bought Rumi her water—mineral water, her favorite kind—then bought himself a drink, too. He couldn’t stop staring at the snack machine.

Maybe… just maybe… he could get Rumi to eat something, too.

But nothing in the machine would appeal to her. She liked strange snacks—wasabi-flavored gum or sardine-flavored hard candy—and the selection of pretzels, chips, and cookies was terribly mundane. The oddest thing inside was an orange-flavored KidKat.

He bought it for her anyway. Just in case.

And just in case, he took his time getting back to the room. Takuto knew most of the nurses on the floor by then, and he greeted each one. One looked surprised at his drinks; all he could do was give a small, hopeful smile.

Rumi asked me for water, he imagined telling her, knowing that she would go squealing about it to her coworkers. They might press Rumi to get better faster. No need for that, not after it had taken so long just to get this. He wanted to keep it to himself.

He tried not to think that she might slip back into her old ways after he left. No need for that, either.

He paused outside her door to listen. Nothing but silence, so, heart in his throat, he stepped inside.

Rumi was doubled over, wet sheets pressed to her face. Her shoulders shook, and she let out a muffled cry. From Takuto’s phone, Ionasal sobbed openly, too distraught for words.

“Rumi?” Takuto asked, shuffling forward, berating himself. So stupid to leave them alone together; so stupid to think that a bottle of water and an orange KidKat was going to fix this. He set the snacks down on his chair and knelt by her side. He wanted so badly to touch her, pull her close, let her cry on his shoulder—but that might set her off. She’d hated him touching her ever since that night.

“Taku—to,” she said, sobbing.

He grabbed his phone. What happened?

“I don’t want to be dead, Takuto,” was the response.

“Don’t want them to be—to be dead, Takuto,” Rumi said.

“ It’s not fair!”

“I don’t—”

“Of course it’s not fair,” Takuto said, as soothing as he could manage past the racing of his heart. “Of course it’s not! But—but there’s more to life than grieving, isn’t there? That’s what we have to live for. Tomorrow won’t be better until we believe it will be.”

“And if it never is?”

He wasn’t sure which one of them asked that. His thumb pressed his phone screen, and Ionasal grabbed for the brass hand like a drowning man would a lifeline; his other hand brushed Rumi’s knuckles, her hair, the shell of her ear. Rumi looked at him—looked at him!—with tears burning in her eyes, begging him to make her pain stop.

But he couldn’t. Future counselor or cognitive psientist or not, Takuto didn’t have the words.

“You’ll be alive,” he said. “Every step you take will be one that you couldn’t take the day before. Even when you stumble and fall, even when you’re wracked with indecision, even when the future seems so bleak that you can’t bear to move anymore—you’ll be alive. If it hurts too much to stand, turn to me. That’s what I’m here for. I’ll let you cry however long you wish.”

He was dimly aware of Ionasal weeping, but all he could see was Rumi. Her hair, long enough to brush her shoulders, tangled in knots and in dire need of a wash. The deep lines etched by her mouth: a lifetime of sorrow compressed into a handful of months as grief took its toll. The deep, dark well of her eyes, threatening to swallow him whole. He would gladly drown in her.

(Ionasal gasped, dropped the brass hand as if it were a hot coal, and backed away to his desk.)

“Takuto,” Rumi said, and even though her voice was still a hoarse, choppy mess, he loved it.

How could he ever ask for anything more?

“Doctor?”

Takuto came to slowly. A crick had formed in his neck, and it twinged as he looked around: the courtyard at Shujin, bathed in the light of a setting sun. Miss Okumura stood by her cooler, a second bucket of weeds by her feet, a frown on her face and dirt streaked in her hair.

She said, “Are you feeling well enough to head home, Doctor? Sleeping outside in this kind of heat can’t be good for you.”

He yawned. Forget his neck; his whole head ached terribly. His cheeks itched with dried tears, and he had a sudden craving for orange KidKats. He rubbed his fingers together, certain that he’d been touching something—someone—else not too long ago.

Rumi.

Just a dream, he told himself. “I’ll be fine, Miss Okumura. It’s nice of you to worry, however.”

She tilted her head. “Are you sure, Doctor? I’d be happy to give you a ride.”

A ride. Takuto didn’t want to explain himself to her parents—and what an explanation it would be. Their daughter’s counselor, exhausted from too many sleepless nights working on his thesis and establishing a metaphysical laboratory. He could practically hear them laughing.

Takuto gave her a smile. “Really, I’m sure,” he said. “We adults are hardier than you’d think. Plus I can sleep some more on the train.”

“If you’re sure…” Though she didn’t sound convinced, Okumura gave him a bow and collected her things. He was tempted to help her haul it all, but she hefted it easily and made her way to the incinerator to burn the weeds.

His bottle of water sat, forgotten and warmed, on the table. Takuto grabbed it and chugged it down; it did nothing to quench the sudden dryness in his throat.

“Azathoth,” he said.

NO ANSWER, Azathoth growled.

“I wasn’t even tired,” Takuto said. “I just came out here for a rest. Just a drink, and then I’d go back to my work. How can you not know what is happening to me?”

Azathoth only growled once more. He writhed even more violently than usual, then calmed down. Agitated, because Takuto was. It was possible he only knew as much as Takuto did as well.

Takuto deflated. “I’m sorry. I just—it’s frustrating. I’m not the only one this phenomenon is affecting, after all. I have to know what’s causing it in order to treat it.”

THREADS, Azathoth offered. SNIP SNIP.

“That’s not an option. Not right now.”

He knew he was letting his curiosity get the better of him. He knew it would be better to follow Azathoth’s advice; he had yet to be led astray, after all, and with Azathoth’s power he was helping people. The thing that dwelt inside him wouldn’t lead him to ruin.

And yet…

He came back to the same old questions. Something was going on, and Azathoth couldn’t provide him with answers, and Takuto was never a quitter. Not with the orphans, not with his schooling, not with Rumi. He’d cut himself off for her sake. It was different from giving up.

Even if it felt the same.

If Akira were here…

Takuto shook the thought away. This was his burden to carry, his mystery to unravel. Takuto couldn’t involve the boy anymore. It wouldn’t be right.

But it left a hollow feeling in his chest.

Takuto sighed. He gathered up his things and went home.

Chapter Text

Ryuji never tried to worry much.

It didn’t do his ma any good. Back when his dad was around, she was always worrying—was he going to hold to his promise not to buy any more booze this time, or was he conveniently going to forget and come home with enough alcohol to destroy an elephant’s liver, and what was she going to do about the bills and groceries in the meantime? She and Ryuji needed to eat, even if her husband wanted to subsist off beer and shochu.

Of course Ryuji picked up on it; it was hard not to, in an apartment as small as theirs. The walls were thin, and his dad got loud whenever he was drunk, which was most of the time, and he snored loudly enough to rattle the pens on Ryuji’s desk when he finally fell into a drunken stupor. Ryuji had shoved them all in a drawer and never pulled them back out again.

When his ma decided to divorce the guy, she’d pulled Ryuji aside the day before. She’d made a little feast of snacks on the table—stale cookies, jerky as tough as a leather boot, expired gummy worms—and let Ryuji eat as much as he wanted as she explained what was going to happen. Dad wasn’t going to be around anymore. If Ryuji saw him at home or at school, he had to call the police. There were bruises around her wrists and a suspicious red mark across her throat, and all Ryuji had wondered was when it had happened—the bruises, the marks, the tremor of fear coursing through her.

That was when Ryuji decided he didn’t want to be the kind of guy people were afraid of. He wanted to be the kind of guy they kept close, the kind of guy they turned to.

Too bad Kamoshida ruined all of that. The trustworthy Ryuji Sakamoto had died far too quickly for his liking. Just like that, Ryuji went from being the guy everyone could look up to to being the shit on the bottom of their shoes.

He was bitter, yeah. But he tried not to worry about it. Promised himself he’d do better next time, if anybody else gave his sorry ass a chance—and then Akira came along, and Morgana, and Ann, and Yuuki. Akira and the Phantom Thieves made Ryuji feel strong, made him feel like he’d finally found a place in the world. Yuuki reminded him he was just a guy like any other outside the Metaverse.

“You’re cool,” Ryuji had told him, way back in May when the summer heat was beginning to kick up. They’d sat at a booth in Leblanc eating curry and Yuuki had given him a look. What are you talking about? it had seemed to say. You’re the cool one here, Phantom Thief.

But it wasn’t true. Inside the Metaverse all Ryuji did was smash Shadows with his club; nine times out of ten his gunshots missed, and Captain Kidd’s Zio spells were way weaker than anything Akira could dish out. Outside the Metaverse all Ryuji did was kick up a fuss about not being praised for his heroic deeds and workout, bum leg or no.

Yuuki was the one doing cool shit, making a site just for them. Yuuki was the one hanging around shady spots, looking for their next target; Yuuki was the reason they’d gotten Kaneshiro’s name. He’d gotten them Nakanohara’s. He’d promised to make the Phantom Thieves a household name. He wanted to make the world a better place, just the same as Ryuji and Akira did.

Ryuji never liked to worry, but he worried now.

He thought he was prepared for the possibility. Yuuki with his own Shadow, hurling insults at the whole world. Hurling insults at them, probably, for daring to change his heart.

Hurling insults at him, for not realizing sooner.

“Pick up, damn it,” he muttered. The train picked up speed; his phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. Too absorbed in the damn site, probably. It was the only good Yuuki had ever done.

After the fifth time, Ryuji clicked his tongue. He contemplated a text, but Ryuji never was very good with words, and he was like his dad: the angrier he got, the louder he became. He didn’t want to yell at the guy. That wasn’t what this was about.

Futaba clung to his sleeve. Across the car, Yusuke contemplated the floor. Ann had Akira’s phone tucked in her back pocket; Makoto drilled holes through Akira’s skull, daring him to make the wrong move. Akira himself looked ready to both burn the whole world to the ground and to sink into the deepest hole he could find; Ryuji got that. Yuuki was their friend, and they’d failed him.

Especially Ryuji. He’d called the guy cool and then hung him out to dry. What an asshole move.

But that wasn’t entirely true, he thought as their train pulled into Shibuya station and they filed out. Yuuki sat with him at lunch sometimes when the Phan-site wasn’t in dire need of a purge, or he wasn’t exhausted from pulling an all-nighter, or when he wanted fresh air.

(A lot of conditions, but that didn’t matter: Akira had his own, and so did Ann, and just having someone to sit and chat with once a week was better than nobody at all.)

So… they didn’t get to hang out all that much. And when they did, all Yuuki tended to talk about was the Phan-site—once upon a time all Ryuji had ever talked about was the track team, so he guessed he was reaping what he sowed with that one. But he should have seen it coming.

At the entrance of Mementos, Morgana sniffed the air. “He’s here,” he said, solemn as the grave.

They piled into the van. Ryuji and Ann kept Akira squished between them and didn’t pull away, even when he began to flicker like a light show. Ryuji got a face full of some fancy-ass flower that simultaneously crunched under his cheek and wasn’t there at all. Ann held a hand that had lost half the fingers on the gloves.

Ryuji didn’t ask. Even if he did, Akira was in no state of mind to answer.

So he kept his mouth shut. They barreled through a portal, climbed out of the van, and observed.

The little cave Yuuki’s Shadow had carved out for himself was the same as any other: train tracks spiraled into the back wall, interlaced with throbbing, pulsing veins that glowed an unsettling shade of red. The platform under their feet was grimy with years of dirt and dust and sticky strands of ichor; Ryuji kicked at a rock and watched it fly straight into a spiderweb made of oozing black threads, where it stuck fast.

Yuuki’s Shadow didn’t notice. He only had eyes for Akira, who was standing there, staring back.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Ryuji asked, not sure who he meant. Akira’s little light show was one thing, but the Shadow was another: there was a wary, haughty look in his eyes Ryuji didn’t like.

Was this how Yuuki saw them?

“I don’t know,” Makoto answered, sounding as if she wasn’t quite sure who she meant, either. “Morgana? What do you think?”

But Morgana shook his head, looking on with pity.

Akira stepped forward. No one followed; somehow it felt wrong to, as if this was Akira’s screw-up and his alone. Ryuji itched to join him anyway; he’d seen this coming. He could have stopped it. He hadn’t.

Failure kept his feet planted to the floor.

Akira and the Shadow talked, softly enough that the Thieves couldn’t hear. Ryuji strained his ears trying to listen anyway; this was his friend, too, dammit, like hell he was going to just sit back and let Akira fix this—but Akira was way better with words than Ryuji, even when he was clearly off-kilter.

The way the Shadow deflated was proof of that.

When they all turned to leave, Ryuji stayed behind, feet like cement blocks. Akira had stopped flickering, and the faint smirk he wore told them everything was done, but Ryuji couldn’t help it. He stormed halfway across the platform, stopping only when the Shadow sunk to the floor, staring at his hand.

Ann pulled him around. “We need to go,” she said.

“Yeah, but—”

“We have a chance to fix this out there,” Ann said. “We can be better friends, Skull. Mishima’s not that bad a guy. You said so yourself.”

“Yeah, I did.” Now the Shadow was flickering, threatening to break into pieces and return to wherever he came from. “But I gotta say somethin’ first. I’ll be real quick, okay?”

Ann searched his face, liked what she found there, and let him go.

When he reached the Shadow he sat on the floor and moved his mask out of the way. The Shadow gasped, “Ryuji?”

“’Sup, dude,” Ryuji said, as if this wasn’t the weirdest thing he’d ever done. Talking to a Shadow instead of beating the shit out of it? Unreal. “Joker talked to ya, so I figured I’d get a turn, too.”

The Shadow cradled his hand to his chest, as if it burned. He was wide-eyed, awestruck but terrified, but all Ryuji could focus on was the burn on his chin. “You’re—you’re not—”

“Mad? Nah. I kinda get it, really. Even I wanna use my P. Thief status to get the girls, okay?”

As if it was that easy. Who’d ever believe him?

“And the money? Sure is sweet when we rake it in after takin’ down a big baddie. But that ain’t what I wanna talk to ya about.”

“You shouldn’t be telling me,” the Shadow suddenly sneered. “Tell the guy who matters! Honestly! What is with you people?”

He startled when Ryuji clapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, I’m gonna tell him, too. But I wanna tell you first. That way he’ll know it inside and out.”

The Shadow didn’t seem convinced. “Inside and out?”

“You’re him too, or somethin’ like that. Don’t tell Mona, but I still don’t really get that part. But!” Ryuji clapped the Shadow on the shoulder once more, and this time the Shadow grunted with the effort of staying upright—or fully formed. Motes of light rose in plumes like dust around Ryuji’s fingers; any second now the Shadow was going to disappear, returning to the mind that housed it.

… Or so Ryuji understood, anyway. Whether it was true, he couldn’t be sure.

“You’re him, too,” Ryuji repeated. “You’re the nasty shit he tries to hide; you’re the voice in his head whisperin’ that everything he’s been doing is okay.” He took a deep breath. “And that’s the kinda stuff I thought he’d tell me about, because we’re friends. I get wantin’ to impress Joker with his good side. But I’m just some guy, and I don’t wanna be friends with just the good Yuuki. You get that?”

“You want to be friends with… me,” the Shadow guessed. His lip curled; the burn on his chin flexed. “Why in the world would you ever want to do that?”

“Do I gotta have a reason? ‘Sides, this side of you that says what he wants—that’s pretty cool, too.”

The Shadow thought that over, likely thinking that Ryuji never had much of a reason to do anything. Which wasn’t true: even he had hesitated to go after Kamoshida until the incident with Suzui. Ryuji was a lot of things, but just the idea of being complicit in murder made his skin crawl.

He was better than his dad. He had to be.

Finally, the Shadow huffed a laugh. “You’re pretty weird. You know that?”

Ryuji only grinned. The Shadow fell to pieces; even the motes of light clinging to his glove flickered and vanished. He stared at it for a moment, reliving the terror in the Shadow’s eyes, the wariness, the defensive shit-slinging. Go tell him and leave me alone, he’d practically screamed.

Ryuji got to his feet. He didn’t like being the guy on the other end of looks like that—they made him feel like his dad, like Kamoshida, like every shitty adult who abused others just because they could and it made them feel better—but he’d earned it. Some friend he was.

He tugged his mask back into place. “But I’m gonna be better,” he promised. The platform trembled, as if it heard and was holding him to it.

Because if he didn’t, next time…

He didn’t want to think about it. It made him sick.

He tore from the room, the bud of steel and concrete collapsing in his wake.

When he got home, belly full of weird fish paste and the broccoli Makoto insisted he eat, Ryuji shot off a text message. Thunder rumbled, heralding the beginnings of the promised late-night storm; rain splattered his bedroom window.

Kamoshida’s change of heart had taken a few days. So had Kaneshiro’s and Madarame’s; big targets and old fogies stuck in their ways, he’d thought. Of course they’d take a few days. The smaller targets in Mementos usually took only a couple of hours. Ryuji had enjoyed waiting for the inevitable apology post on the site, if there happened to be one.

Now, though…

His phone rang. Ann, calling at this hour?

“I was thinking we should check up on them tomorrow,” she said, after greetings were out of the way. “Akira and Yuuki, I mean. I think today’s been… really hard on them both.”

“Okay,” Ryuji said. “So who do we see first?”

“I was thinking that I’d visit Akira, and you can visit Mishima,” she said. “No one else knows where he lives, right?”

That didn’t sound right. Ryuji had never been to Yuuki’s place before—but now that she’d mentioned it, he did recall the guy mentioning which station he started off at. It was a forty minute ride from Shibuya and definitely not a journey Ryuji wanted to undertake alone.

“That don’t mean I know where he lives, either,” he told her, though it felt like he did.

Yusuke’s words came back to him: it’s like a dream of a time long forgotten.

Whatever the hell that meant.

“Wait, really? I could have sworn you’ve visited him before. You told me so!”

“I never—”

But he had. He remembered waiting outside a door, suspicion and anger burning low in his chest, leg bouncing the longer Yuuki made him wait. The taste of mango soda. Guilt, heavy across his shoulders as he fled the building.

The hell would he feel guilty for? Ryuji would remember something like that.

“Maybe I have,” he corrected.

“Maybe I’m the one who’s wrong,” Ann murmured. “Today’s been so crazy, I just—I could have sworn you told me. Besides, maybe he’ll tell you what Morgana saw. I don’t think he’d talk to me about it.”

“You think he’d tell another dude some guy was messing with him?”

“It’d be guy stuff!” she insisted. “You wouldn’t admit it to a girl if somebody did that to you, right?”

She had a point. Girls weren’t interested in guys who got bullied; it was easier to say they were just messing around and laugh it off. But… “That don’t mean he’d tell me. If it’s somethin’ bad, I don’t think he’d say so.” He scowled. “Stupid cat. ‘Somethin’ weird’ could be anything.”

Then his scowl deepened. “And how come you get to go and visit Akira, huh?”

“Because he’ll talk to me,” Ann said, with absolute confidence.

“And why would he do that?”

“You’re changing the subject, Ryuji!”

“So are you!” He growled, flopping back into bed with his arms outstretched. It was better than throwing his phone, even if he could still hear Ann arguing that she was not changing the subject.

So there was something Akira would only talk to Ann about. Big deal. But Ryuji got the feeling that it was important—and more importantly, secret. He was trying to be patient, but even Ryuji had his limits. When was Akira going to tell him the big secret?

“Fine, whatever,” he muttered.

He expected Ann to start on some angry rant about how it wasn’t whatever, but all she said was, “He just needs some time, Ryuji. I promise it’s not anything bad, and he’s not keeping it from you on purpose. I just think he needs someone who understands that part of him right now. And Mishima—you’re friends with him, and I don’t think he’d want to see Akira right now. It’d be like a reminder of how awful he’s been.”

“So you think I’m somehow better?”

“As much as he might look it, Akira’s not that great with people,” Ann said, which was news to Ryuji. The guy had made a dozen friends in barely six months; people wanted to talk to him, tell him their problems. He was like a magnet; he attracted people of all kinds. “He’s good at listening, but not reacting. Sometimes I get the feeling… it’s like he forgot how to have a conversation, so he’s overcompensating by staying as quiet as possible. You’d be surprised how well it works.”

“And lemme guess: but he’s good at talking to Akechi.”

“Akechi’s just good at dealing with him. You’d see it, too, if you just tried, you know,” she huffed. “But, back on track! You’re better at reacting, at cheering people up. What Mishima needs right now is somebody to prop him up, make him feel better. And I bet there’ll be things he’ll only tell you, too.”

“As if,” Ryuji grumbled through the swell of pride. So there was something he was better at than Akira. It wasn’t as if it was that difficult, with the glass wall separating him from the rest of the world. It was like he didn’t want it to be real; that was half the reason Ryuji liked to cling to him so much. It dragged him out, whether he wanted to be there or not.

“I mean it!” she insisted. “You’ll get mad for him! We all would! But Akira—”

“Just gets effin’ terrifying when he’s mad, yeah.”

“Terrifying is an understatement.”

Ryuji sighed. His legs itched to move despite the weariness tugging at his muscles—the Metaverse had that effect on people, and Ryuji wished they’d had the chance to take out at least a few small fry before leaving. He could have used the workout.

And what Ann was saying was true: Ryuji really was the closest guy to Yuuki aside from Akira. If there was anything he wanted heard without Akira knowing, he’d tell it to Ryuji. But… “You really think he’d tell me? I’ve been kinda shitty, you know. As a friend.”

“So just be there for him now!”

He clicked his tongue; she made it sound so easy.

But, really… if he thought about it, maybe it was. Maybe they could just… start over, as if the past few months hadn’t happened. Gaining friends in Akira and Ann and giving himself purpose with the Phantom Thieves had been overwhelming for long enough; maybe it was time for Ryuji to step up and be there for the guy who hadn’t even had that.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” he said, and winced at her cheer. Long after they shared good nights and good lucks, Ryuji stared at his ceiling, something like a hazy plan forming in his mind.

So he didn’t know the whole way to Yuuki’s place. If he started from the station and worked his way from there, he’d find the place in no time. And if he didn’t, he could always ask Futaba—although whether or not she would let him live down the humiliation of not knowing Yuuki’s address was unlikely. He had the feeling she thought he knew the address, too.

It was a strange thought. He rolled over and tried to put it out of mind..

A call woke Takuto from a sound sleep.

For a brief confused moment he stared at his phone, trying to comprehend how it could be so dark so early in the morning and why his alarm was going off, before it all clicked.

“Hello?” he said, pressing a hand to his temple. The screen jabbed daggers at his eyes and his fresh migraine throbbed, demanding attention. He reached for the painkillers on his bedside table.

“Maruki,” Hirotaka Mishima said, teeth chattering, voice low. “I’m sorry for calling so late.”

“Don’t be.” It was inevitable, after all. Takuto had accepted that the moment he’d handed over his card. “What seems to be the problem?”

A long pause. Takuto took the chance to put his phone on speaker and down a pill; the ghostly perfume of Rumi’s shampoo still lingered in his nose. He wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep and that wonderful dream, but for now Mishima sighed, a harsh, rattling thing that bordered on a sob.

“It’s Yuuki,” he said. “I didn’t think—I never thought he’d—”

Takuto came alert. “Did something happen?”

“I don’t know if I should say.”

Of course. Everything in its due time, and not a moment before. “What can you tell me, then?”

Another long pause as Mishima wrestled with himself. On the one hand, if it was serious, Takuto hoped Mishima the younger was en route to a hospital. On the other, just because it seemed serious to his father didn’t mean that it was. Mishima the younger was a teen going through a very traumatic period. He was bound to worry his parents.

But the last time Hirotaka had gotten this upset it was because—

“I thought he was doing better, Maruki,” Mishima said. “I thought—he has this website, you know, he spends all his time on it. He said he has a friend at school. But he’s hanging out in shady places and doing God knows what and—”

He broke off to breathe, harshly but controlled, exactly the way Takuto showed him how to.

“I’m worried,” he finally said.

“Most parents are,” Takuto said.

“No, I—if you’d seen him, Maruki, you’d understand. But I can’t even say it. God, I—”

He was in shock, Takuto realized. “Is he alright? He isn’t hurt, is he?”

“No, no,” Mishima said. “He’s in the bath now. He said he was cold, and we were wet, so I told him to warm up. I can stand the shivers at my age. He’s… not quite as… hardy.”

“You shouldn’t downplay this, Mishima.”

“He’s my son. He comes first.”

“Which is why you shouldn’t downplay this,” Takuto reasoned. “He needs you to be there for him, which you can’t do if you catch a cold, you know.”

A harsh laugh. “That wouldn’t be any different from what I’ve been doing already.”

“Mishima—”

“I’m scared for him,” Mishima said. “Hiyoko hates him, and Akira—Akira didn’t stop him this time. He should have. He did it before, he should have done it again.”

Another spike of pain. Takuto relaxed back into his pillow, hoping the painkiller would do the trick. Myself and Akira and the stars, that boy at the diner had said. A dream long forgotten. An ode to an unborn star.

Through a screen, through a dream.

Takuto choked as bile rose; one of those migraines, just his luck. He managed to stagger over to the bathroom, phone clutched in one hand, listening idly as Mishima kept talking—more nonsense like his babble in Kichijoji, but every word seemed to send a nail through Takuto’s body.

It hurts, he thought, kneeling by his toilet and thanking his lucky stars he’d cleaned it recently. He hadn’t had a migraine this bad since the incident with Rumi’s parents—there were days where he was left so indisposed due to the pain that he could barely get out of bed, much less out of the apartment, where the light was too bright and every noise too loud, like a hangover without the bad decision of alcohol. Wakaba Isshiki was dead and his field was quickly becoming the butt of the biggest joke in psychological studies and his father—

He gagged, heaved. Nothing came out.

The ultimate cause of these migraines had been Azathoth, Takuto thought, wiping drool from his chin. Now they were back, but why?

It couldn’t really be Akira, could it?

It couldn’t really be Ionasal, could it?

He shivered. He was aware of Mishima asking a question—Takuto forgot his phone was on speaker, perfect—but couldn’t bring himself to answer.

That song. If only that girl hadn’t mentioned it—if only Mishima hadn’t called him—if only Takuto hadn’t had a craving for hamburger steak. If he’d gone straight home, he would have been fine. He’d be able to give Mishima the attention he deserved.

“I’m sorry, Mishima,” he said at last. “It seems I’m a bit under the weather, but if you give me a few moments, I can be there—”

“No, no,” Mishima said. “You should have said so sooner. I’m, ah, sorry for bothering you—”

“You weren’t!” He gagged, coughed, spat up bile, tried not to feel relieved and failed. The last thing he wanted to do at the moment was brave the storm still rattling the windows, and he berated himself for it: any decent professional would have been out the door at the first word. Wasn’t he supposed to be there for the students? Wasn’t that his job?

But Mishima the younger had never gone for counseling. It could just be a bad nightmare. They could talk about it at school, if he wanted. If he went. “This is just—it came on so suddenly, perhaps it was something I ate. I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning. I’ll—I’ll call you back. But—but for now, you need to take care of yourself as much as you can. You need to take care of your son, but you can’t neglect yourself in the process. It’ll just—ugh—cause a cycle. Alright?”

He waited for Mishima’s feeble farewell, then hung up, feeling wrung out in more ways than one. The idea that came to him was insane. He was going to be sore in the morning, but…

“If this is something you can do, Azathoth, then…”

He gagged. His phone clattered to the floor, as loud as a gunshot. His gut ached and bloomed with an acidic burn; his legs shook. His arms prickled with goosebumps.

“Let me listen to it once more. That song. That requiem for a lost star. Please, I—”

His hands fell limp to his sides.

Ionasal decorated a tree.

It was a twisted mass of scrap metal; each piece had clearly been painstakingly pounded straight but still kinked and bent in places, and between the curlicue ends and the mismatched color, Takuto almost asked what it was. Then he saw the ornaments—strings of vacuum tubes and woven balls of dried grass and scraps of leftover cloth and an… extension cord tinsel garland that he was not going to ask about—and couldn’t help the smile that broke out on his face.

“Rumi, look,” he said, passing the phone over.

She stared at the screen for a moment, a glazed, sleepy look on her face, before recognition hit. “Christmas?” she guessed.

“It’s next week. He must have felt it when we were talking sometime.”

She shook her head. “He… knows Christmas?”

“Oh, well…”

He took his phone back. Ionasal was supposed to have amnesia; Takuto had been helping him remember his past on Ra Ciela, but as far as Takuto knew, the other world didn’t celebrate the holiday. “Perhaps it’s something like it, then?” he suggested.

Rumi, not liking that answer, reached out and plopped a finger on the screen. Ionasal, who had turned to pick up what looked like a blown-glass candy cane, grinned beneath the obstruction.

“Takuto! Rumi!” He hurried over to the monitor. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but, um—I thought it’d be nice to have some decorations, and—”

Brass fingers pressed into his hair. His smile wavered.

“Rumi, don’t press him too hard, okay?” Takuto asked. Rumi hummed acknowledgment.

“How do I… know Christmas?” He hummed in thought. “I’m not sure. But when Takuto thought it was almost Christmas, I recognized it. Christmas. Is that odd?”

“Rumi, what are you thinking?”

She sat back. Prompts popped up on the screen; Takuto ignored them in favor of waiting for her to speak. It took a while for her to collect her thoughts these days, but it was better than before, when she’d barely had a thought at all and no energy to even voice them.

But Ionasal plowed on: “It’s Christmas, and that means a tree, and decorations. I’d make presents for you, but… it’d be hard to give them, wouldn’t it? But it’s not really a tree without presents. It feels kind of lonely, doesn’t it?”

Rumi made a noise in the back of her throat—agreeing, Takuto hoped. She was getting that look in her eye again, all thoughts drifting from her head in favor of wading through old memories.

Perhaps she just needed some space to think.

What kind of presents did you get? Takuto asked Ionasal.

“Me? Um…” He trailed off, grabbing a fistful of hair. “The last time… I got a coat. To wear… around the neighborhood. The one for school was warm but it had to last three years, and it… was always really cold on my jogging route. My parents didn’t want me to wear it while I was running.”

He paused, then said, “I think.”

“Takuto,” Rumi said, voice wobbling. When she reached for him he met her halfway; her grip was painful, but it was a small price to pay to share her agony. The day of the incident, Rumi had worn her new coat. She’d wanted to show it off. It was a nice color that suited her well—a rich chocolate brown—and she’d twirled for him outside her parents’ door.

“If it’s too hard, Rumi,” Takuto began to say, but stopped when she shook her head.

“You said he was special,” Rumi said, and Takuto nodded. “And he… knows places like school. Where on Ra Ciela would there be room for a nice school like that?”

“A floating colony?”

Rumi shook her head again. “Only for three years? And he saw his parents? And there were jogging routes?”

“Takuto? Rumi?” Ionasal asked.

“There’s a lot we don’t know about the place, Rumi.”

She stared at her bedspread for a moment. Then she plopped her finger on the phone screen, all but slapping the boy on the other side right in the face. He stumbled for a moment, his eyes glazing over.

“Rumi,” Takuto said, “maybe we should leave it here for today—”

But her lips were moving, mouthing a question only she could understand as the brass hand made for Ionasal’s head. He pursed his lips as it neared but stood steadfast as metal fingers threaded through his hair. He whimpered, either at the onslaught of Rumi’s questions or the pain.

Takuto could end it right now. He could take his phone back, slip it into his pocket, and let Ionasal recover. But now that she’d mentioned it, he was curious, too; how could Ionasal know such nice places like a school and a cafe if he’d lived on Ra Ciela his whole life? How could he know about Christmas?

So Takuto left it as it was.

It turned out to be a mistake.

The longer Rumi peppered him with questions, the more Ionasal shook. He squeezed his eyes shut but stood, resolute, against the onslaught. The noises that escaped his throat sounded like sobs; every so often one would turn into the beginnings of pleas for it all to stop. One broken word sounded like Takuto’s name.

Guilt ate its way through his stomach. Takuto could stop this. He should stop this. “Rumi,” he said, “really, that’s enough—”

“He knows,” she said.

Ionasal dropped to the floor like a puppet with his strings cut.

Takuto snapped to his senses. He shoved the phone in his pocket; Rumi refused to speak to him for the rest of his visit, choosing to stare out the window rather than face what she’d done. It wasn’t like her to hurt a child, but nothing about her now was her usual self, and Takuto was beginning to realize she might never go back to the way she was.

It was strange, that he still loved her despite that.

By the time he made it back to his apartment, his phone was burning a hole in his pocket; the app drained his battery like a siphon, and only a portable charger had kept it going on the train. Takuto hadn’t wanted to leave Ionasal alone; he’d paid cash for his ticket, plugged in a pair of earbuds, and listened to the boy cry to himself on the floor. I’m sorry, he’d mouthed, over and over again, as if the sentiment would get through just by wishing.

Now he had the chance to say it.

Ionasal had managed to crawl to his bed—his desktop was overflowing with tree ornaments, and nowhere else was sat high enough to see the screen—and had dragged himself up, wrapping himself in his sheets. Large wet patches spoke to how long he’d been crying.

Takuto’s heart ached for him.

I’m sorry, he chose. Ionasal winced at the brightness of the screen.

“Don’t be,” was the response, hoarse and weak. “I don’t… think Rumi is wrong. I just…”

You don’t remember.

A nod. “I know Christmas,” he said. “I know school. But it’s all in pieces. Sometimes when we’re in a memory I remember what I was thinking, too, and… The old me, he knew these things. But I don’t. What did I study in school? What was I training for? Who were my parents? I don’t know.”

He sniffed, burying his face in his sheets again. Takuto let him cry a little longer, then chose, Maybe you’ll remember when this is over.

“ You think so?”

Takuto couldn’t be sure. Perhaps there would always be pieces missing from his memory—places and people Ionasal should remember but couldn’t, their meaning stripped from him—but perhaps there wouldn’t. It was hard to be confident as he chose, I do.

Ionasal chuckled. “You have more faith than I do, then.”

You don’t think so?

“I think… I don’t want to remember everything. Rumi, she—she scared me. It felt like I was about to remember something I didn’t want to, but I didn’t know why I didn’t want to remember.” He touched his cheek, still red from the hit. “It felt familiar. Being hit. Being hurt. Being ignored. I didn’t like it.”

No one does.

He shivered. Under his blankets he looked like a child—not a sixteen-year-old boy tasked with saving the world nor the prince facing a daunting trial, but an ordinary child. Small and weak, his cheeks splotched with tears, his teeth chattering. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Takuto won’t hurt me,” he murmured into his pillow. “Takuto would never. Even if there’s something I know but don’t, he won’t. He won’t.”

I’ll have to talk to Rumi about this, Takuto thought. The last thing they needed was another breakdown; after their simultaneous crying session at the hospital, they’d both been too drained to talk much for a few days, and Takuto had a feeling they were about to head into the deeper, darker waters of Ionasal’s memory. His mental footing would be treacherous enough without Rumi pushing him to remember more.

He would have to be better about it. Keeping Ionasal safe and stable was going to be just as difficult as dealing with Rumi, now that she was emerging from her protective stupor. The responsibility should have felt stifling, crushing; instead it gave him focus, sharpening his dulled mind.

I’m going to be better than that, Takuto decided. I’m going to be better than whoever he thinks of when he gets like this. I’m going to be better than whoever did this to him. I have to be.

He guided the brass hand over to the bed; Ionasal’s dark curls poked out of the top, tangled and messy. Takuto slid the hand into place, imagining it was his own. Ionasal’s curls would be coarse, almost rough to the touch, but Takuto would untangle every knot with the utmost care. It was what the boy deserved.

Everything is going to be alright, he thought, over and over until the shivering stopped.

Ionasal sniffed. He peered out from under his blankets with a single tear-filled eye. “Do you mean it?”

“Always,” Takuto said.

He got the sentiment. “Forever?”

“Forever,” Takuto agreed.

The boy hummed, liking what he felt. Takuto stayed up with him until he fell asleep, new tears drying on his cheeks, the faintest of smiles on his face, one hand holding the brass one tangled in his locks.

Takuto couldn’t bear to take it away. It made him so happy.

Just as he was about to power down his phone for the night, Ionasal murmured, “Takuto. ih-cyen sirak; yaya-ne sirak;”

Takuto wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but from the happy sigh the boy let out, it had to be good. He ducked under his own covers and entertained thoughts of what it would be like to have someone sleep at his side again, whispering little secrets into the dark.

Maybe someday, when Rumi was better…

But he was asleep before the thought finished forming.

Ann was surprised when she arrived at Leblanc to find it open.

Akira sat at the bar, nursing a hideous nest of bed-head and a cup of coffee. Boss stood behind the counter, eyeing the kid still in his pajamas at nearly seven in the morning as if Futaba wasn’t still deep in her own dreams just down the road.

It was one thing for kids in pajamas to hang around at home. It was another for them to hang around in a business, she guessed.

“Morning!” she called.

Akira turned to her, looking like death warmed over. He’d shoved a spoonful of curry in his mouth, and got confused when he tried to talk around it.

“Miss Takamaki, was it?” Boss asked over Morgana’s shout of “Lady Ann!”

Morgana abandoned his plate of shredded chicken in favor of furiously cleaning his whiskers.

“It’s awful early,” Boss went on. “What’s a girl like you doing out and about? It’s summer vacation.”

“Yeah,” she said, sliding into a seat. Akira stared at her blearily; Ann hoped her concealer was doing the trick for the bruises under her eyes. After that conversation with Ryuji, she hadn’t gotten much sleep. “But I’ve got a big day planned for Akira here, and I just got so excited about it I woke up super early. You know?”

It was… technically true. The whole hour of sleep she’d managed after the storm blew over totally counted, and after Futaba no one could tell her it wasn’t healthy to miss a night of sleep.

Besides, Akira looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink, either.

“Oh?” Boss said, with a knowing smirk. “A big day, huh?”

Akira hummed around his spoon and blinked. Peeling his eyes apart seemed to take serious energy; if Ryuji was any indication, Akira should have been sleeping until noon. What was he doing up so early?

What was Ann doing up so early?

“Yup!” she said, with a grin. She hoped she’d brushed all the chocolate croissant out of her teeth. “Big day! I don’t really want to bore you with the details.”

“Oh, no, I’d love to hear about it.” Boss moved into the kitchen. “Care for some breakfast? Coffee? Consider it on the house after everything you’ve done for the kid.”

More like an excuse to tease his charge about a date while Akira tried to drown himself in his coffee cup, Ann thought, but said, “Sure, thanks! I was so eager I skipped eating, actually.”

Now Akira was glaring. Boss let out an agreeable, “Well, that’s no good,” and fixed her up a plate of curry that had scrambled eggs and diced eggplant in it. Something just for Akira, she supposed, as he blearily ate another bite.

He stifled a yawn in a fist. Ann fought to keep from following suit as she regaled Boss with plans that had to sound like a date—shopping, a movie, lunch—but she hadn’t had much on her agenda aside from getting Akira someplace safe where he could cry or gush if he wanted to.

If she still saw that Shadow’s sneer every time she closed her eyes, she didn’t want to think about what Akira was seeing. No one wanted to discover that their crush was using them. No one wanted to see the ugly side of the one they loved.

So she dug into her food, exclaiming at how tasty it was—eggplant had never been her vegetable of choice, but she could almost see the appeal—and enduring the heat of her coffee while Akira slogged through his breakfast. She offered to wash the dishes while he got ready.

“No need.” Boss threw a dish towel over a shoulder. “You think I can’t wash my own dishes?”

After Akira disappeared into the bathroom, Morgana asked, “Are you going to ask him about last night?”

“Something like that,” she said. Boss was right there; it wasn’t as if she could just come out and say it. She wondered what excuse Makoto had given for their abrupt departure. Whatever it was, it had to have been good. Ann forced another grin. “I know you’re worried, Mona, but it’ll be fine. Give it time.”

Like she was trying. It was hard to get over broken dreams when the guy you’d been crushing on was a great guy like Akira. Ann supposed that was just the way it went.

And besides, if she needed someone to vent to, Shiho was still here. Who did Akira have? Goro Akechi?

Ugh, no.

Ann scratched him under the chin, just to keep him quiet. In no time, Akira was ready; he held his bag open for the cat, but Morgana darted over to the stairs. “I’ll let you two enjoy yourselves today,” he declared, as haughty as ever but with an undercurrent of hurt.

“Are you sure?” Akira asked.

Morgana humphed and flicked his tail. “Even I have a need for some alone time, you know. Go on and have fun. Besides, if I get bored I can always bother Futaba.”

Akira didn’t seem to buy it. He still said, “If you’re sure…”

“If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t say so! Now go on, get going!”

Akira seemed primed to argue the issue for another hour; Ann took him by the arm and hauled him out the door, saying her goodbyes to Boss and Morgana as the door jingled shut.

They took the train to Shibuya. Akira spent the ride in a funk—the only difference from last night’s was his lack of a death grip on his phone, though he kept checking it anyway. He spent so long staring at the MetaNav that Ann worried they would find a new Palace or two just by standing there and eavesdropping. His face was carefully blank.

(It was subtly different from his usual blank expression. Ann was almost proud of herself for noticing until she remembered that the only reason she’d noticed in the first place was her crush on him. She liked to think that it was because they spent so much time together, but as far as she knew, no one else had noticed.

It made her feel special.)

It quickly morphed into surprise when she pulled him out of the station. The air in Shibuya Station Square was already blisteringly hot and still muggy from last night’ s storm. Pedestrians skirted puddles; rain still dripped from the trees surrounding the Buchiko statue, hitting the groups gathering under their shade. One girl squealed as a drop plopped right under the collar of her sundress, to the amusement of her friends.

Ann felt for her. But right now she had to focus on Akira.

She rounded on him once they were out of the way of foot traffic. “So! I know I told Boss we had all these plans, but we don’t have to do them. I just wanted to be sure you were okay after last night.”

Akira opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. “Ann,” he said.

“I know! Aren’t I the greatest?”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, you are.”

They settled into silence as he decided. Every so often his gaze would trail from the people going by or the trees still dripping rain to his phone, screen dark, the MetaNav waiting to answer his call. He shifted on his feet and sniffed.

“I think I’d like to… talk to you, Ann,” he said. “If you don’t mind listening.”

“It’s no problem!” she said, feeling her heart break over the conflict on his face. Shiho had been good for her—someone to talk to, someone who might not have understood much except that her best friend was hurting—and even though this was the boy who broke her heart, Ann wanted to be good for him. Whatever they had between them, she didn’t want to end in tears.

There wasn’t anyplace quiet enough for the delicate conversation they were going to have—Ann spotted no less than five Shujin students in the square as they were standing around, and the last thing she wanted to do was out him to the whole school on accident—so she took him home.

Not her best decision, really. But where else were they supposed to go? The diner?

The apartment she shared with her parents was large—her room alone was easily the size of Akira’s attic bedroom and far less drafty—and Akira stared about in wonder at the bleakness of it. There weren’t any decorations aside from the ones that came paired with the furniture, and everything was sleek and clean, if not several years out of fashion.

For a pair of trendsetters, her parents had never cared so much about interior decorating. She told Akira so as he looked over the kitchen, exclaiming over the counter space.

“I don’t think the oven has ever been used,” she said.

He opened it and sniffed. “Once or twice, maybe,” he said, and she laughed.

“How can you even tell?”

He didn’t elaborate. He kept staring around him and it hit her that the austerity of it all didn’t sit well with him. There were no stains on the carpet, no grease collected over the stove. There were no photos hanging from the walls. The place didn’t even smell lived in. If she hadn’t brought him here herself, it would have been easy to assume the place was empty, abandoned.

But Ann lived there.

“Come on, let me show you the rest,” she said, tugging him out of the kitchen. Her parents’ room she ignored, but she showed him the bathroom in case he needed to go and then padded into her bedroom.

She was glad she’d cleaned it. At least she could see the floor.

She let Akira have the place of honor on her bed; he took up a throw pillow and ran his fingers through the fringe, looking from the photos of her and Shiho she had taped to the walls to her desk overflowing with the remnants of summer homework to her closet doors bulging with the clothes she’d hastily stuffed inside. He frowned at it.

“It’s not a big deal!” Ann said.

Akira hummed; he didn’t agree but it could wait, she thought, as he hugged the pillow to his chest. Ann snatched up her vanity chair and sat it closer to the bed, obscuring his view of her closet.

The only one who needed to be hurt when the dam finally broke was her.

“So,” she said, voice going soft. “How are you doing? Didn’t get much sleep, huh?”

“No,” he said. He tugged off his glasses and tossed them in his bag; his face was so much more intense without them, all angles and eyes. They were hard not to focus on; Ann had never seen a color so mesmerizing before. “I was up all night, worrying. Yuuki wouldn’t respond to my texts. If he tried something drastic, Ann—”

She laid a hand on his arm. “There’s no way he’d do that!”

Akira shook his head. “Sorry, but I don’t quite believe that. We don’t know what he’d do. Not really.”

Which was true. Up until Shiho tried to jump off Shujin’s roof, Ann had thought there was no way her best friend would ever do anything like that. She had too many dreams, too many aspirations, to die like that.

Akira said, “I should have tried to help him more. Steer him clear of—of all that junk he was pulling.”

“Even if you had, someone else might have pressured him into it.”

He sighed. He looked so tired.

Ann hated to see him that way. “Look, if he had done something drastic, we would have heard about it by now. It’d be all over the news, I bet: ‘The Phantom Thieves Target One of Their Own!’ or something like that. The media would eat it up.”

Akira nodded. “Futaba was sending me updates on news sites until she crashed this morning. There was nothing. But, I still—”

“—want to beat yourself up because you aren’t perfect?” Ann guessed. “Want to overanalyze every conversation you’ve ever had looking for signs of where it all went wrong? Want to worry over every little thing you said or didn’t say because maybe it would have made it better? It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

He winced.

She knew it was harsh, but it was the truth. “It was late for me and Shiho, too. When she jumped, I—I was so scared, Akira. You know that. The only thing that saved her was how low the roof is and that flowerbed. And I did the same thing you are now. But Shiho and I talked through it, once she woke up. We were only doing what we thought was right for each other. We never thought Kamoshida would turn out to be such a scumbag. We never thought she’d break so easily. But it happened anyway. I’m just glad Shiho pulled through. And Mishima will pull through, too. You’ll see. He’s tough.”

Anyone who could stand around in Shinjuku that often had to be tough, especially after how rough his first night there was. All Ann really knew about it was a drunk reporter and some drag queens, but she could guess the rest.

But Akira shook his head. “He’s not tough. Everything he’s doing, he’s doing for the Thieves. For—for me, Ann. I get the feeling I was the first person to look at him like he was a person and he—”

“Got hooked on it?”

He nodded. “I don’t want him to love me just because I make him feel like he’s a—a normal person. Just because I want to listen to what he says, or because I make time for him out of the week. That’s normal, isn’t it? That’s what you do when you’re friends with someone.”

“Well, yeah,” she said, thinking it over. “So… you think he’s trying to impress you? Just because you’re friends?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t sound happy about it.

That didn’t sound much like friendship to her. It sounded like hero worship, and Mishima was definitely in it deep. He’d built that website in three days, and Ann saw the way he glanced at Akira in class.

But… just maybe… maybe it was something more, instead.

She decided not to voice that little tidbit. It just brought them back to square one, anyway. “But… isn’t that normal? Wanting to impress your friends, I mean. I told you how Shiho and I met, right?” He nodded. “Well, after that, I practiced painting so much my parents actually bought me an easel. I thought I’d get so good that Shiho would have to be amazed at my superior skills. But I… didn’t really improve. I just made a lot of bad paintings. She laughed at every one. You know what she was impressed with?”

“What?” Akira asked.

“That I kept at it despite being so bad. Then it was because I modeled sometimes. And I was impressed by how good she was at volleyball; she tried to teach me to play, like I tried to teach her how to walk a runway, but we both weren’t very good at either. But we didn’t stop just because we weren’t impressing each other anymore, and…”

She screwed up her nose. Where was she going with this, again?

But Akira was humming to himself, gears turning. “So I should… show him I’m not perfect?”

“At least, yeah.”

A hard task when the guy could cook, and sew, and work a dozen part-time jobs while keeping his grades up, all without mentioning his Phantom Thievery. Mishima’s website didn’t look like much in comparison, but Ann would bet money Akira couldn’t code.

(Once upon a time in another dimension, he could.)

“The point is,” Ann said, “he’s trying to impress you. And it’s working, right?”

“Well,” he mumbled, “kind of.”

“Kind of?”

Akira groaned, low in his throat, and hugged her pillow tighter. “Is it bad that I think it’s cute how hard he’s trying? Because it is, Ann. He’s cute. I just…”

He buried his face in her pillow. “Didn’t want this to happen?” she guessed, and he nodded.

He mumbled something that sounded like, “They’re the same,” but she didn’t question that. When he finally peeked back out, he seemed embarrassed. “It must be weird, hearing me say that.”

“That Mishima’s cute?” She rolled her eyes. “Akira, Shiho’s cute. Futaba’s cute. There are lots of girls I walk by every day that are cute, and I don’t think it’s weird to say so.”

“It’s different with girls,” he defended. “Girls are supposed to be cute.”

She hummed. Now this was her kind of talk; no more heavy stuff, no more what-ifs. “Do you think he’s cute because he’s trying so hard to impress you, or because he’s just cute?”

He made a noise and buried his head again. She laughed; Akira was always so put-together it was hard to take in. Their leader, utterly embarrassed over having a crush on a boy—who would have thought?

“Akira,” she teased.

This time the noise he made sounded more like a gurgle. “Ann,” he groaned.

“I’ll have you know I’m a master interrogator, mister!” She prodded him in the side; he curled up tighter, muffling laughs into her pillow. “Out with it! Spill the beans! Tell me everything about Mishima that’s so cute, understand?! Pretty Detective Takamaki has to know!”

“’Pretty Detective’?” Akira managed to say, in between peals of laughter. He looked good when he laughed, face scrunched up until those eyes of his screwed shut, his grin brighter than Ryuji’s could ever be.

“You know! Naoto Shirogane was the Detective Prince, Akechi’s the Ace Detective—but I see what you’re doing, distracting me! Out with it! Come on!”

He only laughed harder. Every peal made her heart leap, crashing every time it came down. If she opened up her chest, she wouldn’t be surprised to find it shattered like glass, every beat driving the shards farther into her flesh, and she would relish the pain if it helped Akira.

He would be okay, she thought. Now it was Ryuji’s turn.

Ryuji sighed. The sky was dark; his ma expected him home soon. His feet hurt from walking the streets all day, searching fruitlessly for one apartment building among millions. They all looked the same.

He kicked a pebble down the sidewalk. He’d thought for sure he would recognize the place if he saw it, but he’d wandered the whole damn ward by this point and had nothing to show for it.

Ann was going to be pissed. He was pissed, too, and he wasn’t about to waste another day searching for a guy who couldn’t even answer Ryuji’s texts—but then he bit that anger down. It wasn’t Yuuki’s fault Ryuji didn’t know where he lived. It wasn’t his fault he felt like he should know but didn’t, not really.

And—

(“’Sup, Yusuke,” Ryuji said, approaching the table. It felt empty without everybody else there, the spots they’d taken up noticeably bare.

But Ryuji was still here, and so was some redheaded chick, curled up on her seat like a gargoyle, eyeing Yusuke’s finger-painting like a hawk.

Yusuke gave Ryuji a cursory glance, then went back to his paper. “Ryuji, hello. I’m almost finished.”

“Up for another?”

Yusuke hummed. Ryuji grabbed a seat, jostling the table and messing up a line. Yusuke eyed it, then muttered, “No, I think not.”

“Anythin’ else ya wanna do, then?”

Ryuji tried to ignore the slump of his shoulders, the disappointment hiding behind that curtain of hair. Transferring was hard enough; it was harder when nobody came to visit. Ryuji wished he could make more time for the guy.

The hell was Yuuki’s deal, not visiting?

He shook that thought off. Something about the guy rubbed Ryuji wrong these days, and Ryuji wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was. He wanted to distract himself, at least for a while longer.

So he turned to the redhead and said, “How ‘bout you? You up for somethin’? Me ‘n Yusuke’ll join if you don’t wanna do it alone.”

The girl startled. She ducked her head, mumbling, “I-I-I’m just waiting for S-Sojiro.”

“Sojiro? Who’s that?”

“Her guardian,” Yusuke supplied. “He visits every day. Were we all so lucky…”

“Dude, I’m sure he’s just… busy. You know.”

“Who?” the girl asked.

“A friend.” The artist pursed his lips, then pushed his painting away. Like always, it left a smear of paint on the table. His expression went sour. “But now I am… not so sure on the matter. I believed we were. Perhaps I was wrong.”

“If I knew where he lived, I’d drag him out here myself,” Ryuji swore. “But ‘til then looks like you’re stuck with me, Yusuke.” He turned to the redhead again. “You too, if you want.”

“If I had my computer, I’d find his address for you, but…” Unsure, she stared at Yusuke’s painting. It looked like a bunch of abstract junk to Ryuji, all lines and circles and shit, but the chick seemed dazzled by it.

The hell? It was just a painting.

Then it clicked. If Yuuki didn’t want to come to them, Ryuji would just have to go to him, and the chick was his best bet. “You can do that kinda stuff? Like finding addresses, and tracking, and all that?”

“It’s easy,” she muttered. “You can find all sorts of things on the ‘net, duh.”

Ryuji couldn’t help himself. He leaned over the table to ruffle her hair. She squealed. “Then I guess when ya get out, you’ll hafta tell me! ‘Til then, I’m stickin’ to ya like glue, hacker girl!”

“She has a name,” Yusuke said.

“Oh yeah?”

They looked to her—Ryuji expectant, Yusuke troubled but trying his best to hide it—and she squirmed under their gaze. “You want to be f-f-friends with s-s-somebody like me?”

“Yeah!” Ryuji grinned. “’Course we do!”

“It’s certainly more pleasant than being alone,” Yusuke stated.

“Oh,” she said, and flushed a red that almost matched her hair. Then again, “Oh. You do, huh. Um, then, I-I-I’m F-Futaba. Futaba Isshiki.”

“Cool,” Ryuji said.

Because at least Yusuke wouldn’t have to sit at such an empty, lonely table anymore. Yeah, that was the reason. Not Yuuki and his bullshit.

He tried to be happy, and pulled them both into another painting session.)

“Futaba would know,” Ryuji mumbled to himself. It pained him to ask her for a favor, but the words he’d told Yuuki’s Shadow still haunted him hours later, and he didn’t want to wait until school started to say them. Yuuki deserved better than that.

Ryuji palmed his phone and dialed.

Chapter Text

Summer was nearly over, and Hirotaka didn’t know what to do.

Yuuki’s passport had come in the mail. The picture was the same as the one on his student ID: a terrified young man, cowering from the whole world, the edge of a bruise peeking out from beneath a bandage on his cheek. Hirotaka had stared at it for several minutes and wondered how he could have possibly missed it for so long.

But it was obvious: he hadn’t been a good enough father. He still wasn’t, if what happened a few days ago was any indication. The chill of the rain haunted his bones; every little noise became thunder roaring in his ears. His throat had yet to recover; he’d very nearly lost his voice shouting against the storm.

And yet.

Behind his bedroom door, Yuuki was silent and still as the grave.

Hirotaka resisted the temptation to knock and ask if he needed anything. This was no different than before, except Yuuki was barely eating, barely moving, barely talking. He wasn’t touching his website; he wasn’t even touching his phone, which had rung and buzzed with messages until the battery died, every single one unread.

If Hirotaka were a better father, he would know what to do now. Giving Yuuki space was his gut reaction, but he no longer trusted it. What good did it do anyone to always be one step behind, forever out of reach?

Nothing. It did no good at all.

And he couldn’t bother Maruki about it, either. He’d sounded wretched over the phone, in the midst of a summer cold, no doubt, and Hirotaka didn’t want to disturb the man. He deserved to rest as much as Yuuki did.

Hirotaka just wished he knew what to do. If only he was a better father, all of this mess could have been avoided. If only he was halfway competent, he wouldn’t be standing around waffling over what to do.

His stomach gurgled. It was long past lunch and closing in on dinner and the cupboards in the kitchen were growing empty; he would have to go out shopping if he wanted Yuuki to eat today, but the thought of leaving him alone that long made bile rise in his throat. He couldn’t. Not again.

Then the doorbell rang. Hirotaka jumped nearly six feet in the air, though the room behind Yuuki’s door remained eerily still, eerily silent.

Asleep, maybe. Hirotaka hoped so as he padded over to the door. Beyond the peephole was a young man, bleached-blond, a pair of overstuffed bags slung over his shoulders. His t-shirt was the bright red of spilled blood, and Hirotaka tried to ignore it. He cracked the door open. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“Oh, uh—I’m, uh, one of Yuuki’s friends from school,” the boy said. He gave the best bow he could to the crack. “Ryuji Sakamoto. We ain’t in the same class, but since he ain’t been pickin’ up his phone, I thought I’d stop by. There’s, uh, some stuff about the trip ya gotta sign off on for. Ma told me to tell you, and I can let you see ours if you haven’t gotten it yet.”

He dropped one bag to rifle through the other. One was a large canvas bag packed to the brim with tupperware containers and several bottles; the other was a schoolbag, packed with what looked like mail and hastily-packed homework.

It was only when he let out a triumphant shout that Hirotaka realized, “The trip is when?”

Sakamoto’s grin wavered. “Uh, soon? Soon-ish? Like, a couple days, maybe?” The papers, crumpled from a day sitting in his bag, crinkled in his hands. He tried to look past Hirotaka, inside the apartment, searching—

For Yuuki. Of course.

“Give me a moment.” The door slammed in his face. Hirotaka braced himself against it—the trip was soon, why hadn’t he realized that? How long had it been since he stepped foot outside of his apartment? How long had he let Yuuki lay around feeling sorry for himself?

(But he deserved to, Hirotaka thought. No one tried to kill themselves and bounced back from it that quickly, and even if he hadn’t meant to, he still could have been hurt. Hirotaka only hoped he was realizing that. Hirotaka only hoped it was shock.)

When it finally felt as if he wasn’t about to break down in front of a teenager, Hirotaka unbolted the door and let Sakamoto inside. He grinned, bright and energetic, and toed off his shoes—even his socks were a bright, violent red—and handed over the papers.

Hirotaka took a cursory glance at them—itinerary for the trip; info about the flight and hotel; a small packet describing acceptable behavior in a foreign country—then set them on the kitchen table. “Listen,” he said, “about the trip—”

“How is he?” Sakamoto asked.

“I don’t think he’s up for traveling right now,” Hirotaka told him.

“What, he sick?”

In so many words, yes, Hirotaka wanted to say, but swallowed it down. He didn’t want to have to explain—not to one of Yuuki’s friends, his first in ages, and not after what Miss Suzui had done only months ago. But there weren’t any other words to explain it. Hirotaka wasn’t even sure what had brought it on.

But if Yuuki wouldn’t talk to Hirotaka, and he couldn’t talk to Maruki, then maybe…

“I’m sure he’ll be fine in time for the trip,” Hirotaka said, forcing a smile. “It’s just—he’s been a bit… under the weather, lately, and he doesn’t seem to trust me enough to talk to me about it. Must be a teen thing. Maybe, ah, he would talk to you. If he’s up for it.”

For a split second, Sakamoto’s grin wavered. Then it came back full force and even brighter than ever. “Sure thing, Mr. M!”

Mr. M? That was… certainly new.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine in no time. Everybody gets down once a while, yeah? Just tell me where he is and I’ll have him packing for the trip in no time! I even brought some food with me; we can share!”

He brandished the canvas bag. Hirotaka chuckled at the enthusiasm. Teenagers really were something else. “Why don’t you two do that, then? I’ve got some shopping to do myself; you can have the house to yourselves for a while. Just don’t bother the neighbors.”

And if he was going to be out for a while, there was no need to leave his work sitting around. He crossed over to the couch to shut down his laptop, motioning Sakamoto to Yuuki’s room. He was a teenager; he wouldn’t have any reservation about barging inside, and sure enough, the last knock was barely fading before he threw the door open. He immediately grumbled about the smell, or the state of the room, or Yuuki himself. Hirotaka imagined his nose wrinkling in disgust, brow furrowing with distaste.

“Take care of him, please,” Hirotaka said, soft enough that it wouldn’t carry, and Sakamoto’s answering cheer was almost a relief.

He could trust Yuuki to this boy for an hour or two. He hoped he could trust Yuuki to this boy; he hoped they really were friends. Yuuki needed friends. Yuuki needed more than an absent father.

He headed out before the negative spiral swallowed him whole. Though he was determined to buy more groceries, Hirotaka found himself wandering the street, first for dinner—heavier than he wanted—and then just to wander. The groceries could wait if it meant giving Yuuki time with his friend, but there was nothing else to do to fill the time save window shop, and all the displays were clearance summer wear: hats and sundresses, shorts and tank tops, sandals and swimsuits. Most stores had fall jackets out, with jeans and sneakers and skirts. Long-sleeved tees caught his eye; the one Yuuki wore so often was getting thin. Maybe Hirotaka could surprise him with a gift.

Or two. Or three.

But maybe that wasn’t Hirotaka’s place anymore. Maybe it was Yuuki’s friends who were supposed to take him out clothes shopping. They’d have a much better idea of what was fashionable—but Yuuki was never one for fashion, and Sakamoto’s blood-red tee screamed he wasn’t, either.

It was just like a teenage boy, not to care.

And Yuuki was going to Hawaii—if he was up to it—where the weather would be hot and balmy and not at all fit for a brand-new wardrobe. Some sun, that was what he needed: sun and sand and time to be a stupid teenager with his friends. Maybe Yuuki would feel better, if he went to the beach and fooled around in the water and exerted himself a bit. He sat too much in front of his computer. He gave every scrap of energy he had to that website of his, too.

(Hirotaka was too much a coward to tell him that that could all wait until he was older, when his joints started to go and the screen gave him headaches. Hirotaka was, in fact, just happy he had the drive to maintain his website and the energy to go to school. It was the bare minimum he needed to exert, but it was better than the past few days.

Anything was better than the past few days.)

Sakamoto looked like a sporty kind of kid. Hauling those bags around couldn’t have been easy, but he’d done it. Yuuki had mentioned going to the gym with him once or twice, though he’d never mentioned what they wore while they were there. School tracksuits were one thing, but they wouldn’t be in school forever, and Hirotaka knew for a fact that Yuuki’s lounge wear was a size too small. His shirts cut into his shoulders; his pants ended far above the ankle. He needed new ones, and gym clothes, and casual wear. He needed more than a single pair of well-loved sneakers, too.

And then he realized: it wasn’t just street clothes and pajamas Yuuki needed. If he was going to the beach with Sakamoto, they’d end up in the water, and Hirotaka couldn’t remember the last time Yuuki wore a swimsuit. Elementary school, maybe: the trunks with the wave design, floaters on his arms, Hiyoko calling out, telling him not to head too out far to sea. Hirotaka had watched by the shore, the waves lapping at his toes and laughter lapping at his ears, as Yuuki swam out and bobbed, stopping just once to look to his parents and wave. He had looked so happy Hirotaka had promised they would go to the beach next year, too.

But that was the year Hiyoko got her promotion. Her hours lengthened, and never mind a vacation anymore, she barely had the time to come home and cook dinner.

Yuuki had been disappointed but understanding, and Hirotaka wondered if that was when all this started, with a single broken promise.

But Hirotaka wanted to do better. If Yuuki was going to the beach, he’d need a swimsuit, and a towel, and some sandals, at the very least. Sunscreen, too; the boy had always been pale, even after starting volleyball. He’d burn to a crisp in the Hawaiian sun.

And just as Hirotaka, determined at last, turned back to the shops with the clearance displays in the windows of last little flings of summer, his phone rang.

He paused, and sighed, and dug through his pocket, trepidation like waves of ice rolling over him. Not Yuuki, he begged, though to who or what, he didn’t know. Not Yuuki’s friend, on his behalf. Please, please—

It was Maruki.

He sighed again, this time in relief, and shuffled beside a sidewalk display of fall hats and socks with patterns of chestnuts and colorful leaves. “Maruki, hello,” he answered. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, better, for the most part,” the man said. He sounded stuffed up, but if he said he was fine, Hirotaka would believe it. A runny nose had never killed anyone. “I’m sorry I had to cut our conversation short the other day. How are you feeling now? If you’re up for it, I’d be glad to have a listen.”

He thought of Sakamoto, grin bright but eyes shadowed with worry. Yuuki was going to be fine, he told himself; he had friends who were willing to bring him food and company. He had friends who would understand better than Hirotaka ever could, and he just had to accept that from now on, he wasn’t going to be the first person Yuuki turned to for advice. If he had ever been, that was; maybe it was Hirotaka’s time to do the same, even if Maruki was over a decade younger and in the prime of his youth. “I suppose panic just got the better of me,” he said, softly, “that’s all. I was so—so scared, you see, and you were the first person I thought to call. Isn’t that strange?”

“I am a councilor, you know,” Maruki reminded him, “but… even before your wife, you mean?”

Hiyoko. She wouldn’t take the news well; Hirotaka was sure she would jump straight to disownment. She hated the boy, hated him because he was average, and a victim, and gay.

He sucked in a breath, brow furrowing, then let it out. “She hasn’t been very… supportive, even with what’s been going on,” he said. “Nothing that’s happened is his fault, but she’ll sit there and berate him for every choice he couldn’t have known to make—or the ones he did make but was ignored for. I thought since you’re counseling at his school, well… You’d understand. Better than I or my wife could.”

“Ah,” Maruki said.

“And I thought he might talk to you,” he went on, “especially if you’ve talked to his friends. Yuuki’s never been one to go against the flow. If they liked you, he’d like you, too. And you’re closer to the root of the problem, I think. Closer to understanding it, anyway.”

Unless the root of the problem was something inside Yuuki, broken from the day he was born.

… Unless the root of the problem was in Hirotaka, too, buried beneath the drive to provide.

He didn’t much like that thought. When did he start living only to work?

“… I would have to talk to him in person to really establish an understanding, however.” Maruki hummed, and under the noise of the street Hirotaka heard papers rustling. “So if he’s going on the trip, it’ll have to wait. Unless you’d like me to tonight? I can make some time.”

“No! No, I think… I think he can make it a while longer, now. He has good friends, and Akira needs him. It was just…”

Just a brief moment of despair. Just a desperate desire to hurt. Just a burning need to feel something after weeks of anticipation, like waiting for a blow that never landed.

Burnout made people do all kinds of strange things, after all.

“Just another way of dealing with it all,” Hirotaka decided. It hadn’t been the first time Hirotaka had caught him on the roof, and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last, either. Everyone had places where they felt the most at peace, and Yuuki’s was rooftops and balconies, the fresh air and the wide sky and the clouds scudding the horizon and the stars glimmering in their expanse. Hirotaka couldn’t blame him for that. “But I think I’ll ask him if he can share it with me or with you, Maruki. Or with his friends. With someone.”

With Akira, his mind supplied. No doubt the boy beyond the stars would jump at the chance to be useful to Yuuki for once, though as Hirotaka searched for a reason why, it slipped through his fingers like starlight: there, but not for him to ever grasp.

His head throbbed. He shook off the pain just in time to hear Maruki say, “—a good idea. It doesn’t have to be with me. As long as he’s listened to sincerely, that will be a tremendous help. And saying that, I’ll add this, too: if you need anyone to talk to, I’m here. I’m only sorry I couldn’t be there for you before.”

“Don’t be sorry. You couldn’t have helped it. It was just bad timing all around.”

Maruki hummed, neither acknowledging or denying. “Even still… if you ever find yourself in need of an ear, you know where to turn. My door’s always open to friends. And I have snacks!”

Friends. So even Maruki thought so, and Hirotaka couldn’t help the laugh at his proclamation. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Maruki.”

They said their goodbyes. Dusk was just beginning to settle over the street, and yet the crowd had yet to abate, growing even denser despite the hour. Students, grumbling about homework or tests; couples, hand in hand as they searched for dinner; lone men and women, old and world-weary or young and bright-eyed but altogether impeccable in their suits.

And then there was Hirotaka, still in his lounge wear, bare feet stuffed into his loafers. There was a dampness at his toes that he hoped would dry up, but they were doing the job well enough.

Another hour or two, and then he would head home, back to Yuuki and his friend, back to Yuuki and his boyfriend trapped behind a phone screen.

His head throbbed.

“Snacks, huh,” he murmured, and went off in search of a swimsuit.

The truth was that Takuto wasn’t quite as over his cold as he hoped. None of the sinus medication Takuto had could clear the gunk stuffing his nose, and after a day of pitying looks from students and staff alike—and a reproach from Mr. Ushimaru that boiled down to stay home if you’re sick, damn it all—Takuto headed out for dinner. His head, though clear for most of the day, had gone fuzzy as the hours dragged by, and he no longer trusted himself to cook.

He just hoped he could stay awake long enough at a restaurant to get his food. Something spicy would hopefully clear out his sinuses and the last of his cold. He was thinking curry. It had been a long time since he’d had a good plate of curry.

And if he was being honest, he was still worried about Akira’s living conditions. Ever since he’d overheard Ms. Kawakami grumbling about the dust and ever since Akira’s incident with garlic, Takuto had promised himself he would visit. Akira was still a teenager; it was Takuto’s job to make sure he was being provided for properly.

That was all. Really. It certainly wasn’t because it had been a long month without his soundboard. Takuto had lain awake more nights than he could count debating with his shadow on the wall, and sometimes he swore it actually talked back.

But that was just another trick of the light, like the Odaiba laboratory, or the flicker of Azathoth’s skin pressed to his within its walls—or even of the ruins that now pressed in around him in Yongen-jaya’s back alleys, sand puddled against doorways and walls, brick and mortar giving way to sandstone and mud. First the air was moist with humidity, and then it was dry and filled with dust before it switched back again, and Takuto’s nose raged at it. Leblanc’s sign coming into view was a blessing.

The bell over the door jingled pleasantly; the rich mix of curry spices and coffee that hovered over Akira finally had a source, and Takuto breathed it in for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior.

“Welcome,” said an older man standing behind the counter. “Sit anywhere you’d like, and I’ll be with you in a moment.” He turned to a girl sitting at the bar, kicking her feet as she watched Featherman reruns on her phone. “Didn’t I just tell you? Go on—”

But he was interrupted by a cat jumping off a stool; the girl cried, “Hey, Mona!” as it fled up the stairs in the back in a black-and-white blur.

The man behind the bar cleared his throat as the girl charged up after it. “Sorry about that,” he said. “So, what can I get you?”

“The spiciest curry you have, I suppose,” Takuto said, making his way over to the bar. A cat. Ms. Kawakami also liked to complain about the cat hair, and several of the teachers insisted they could hear a cat on campus. They liked to assume the noises were ringtones, and so had Takuto, but…

A cat. Akira had mentioned taking one in. Maybe he liked having it close by.

“Caught a cold, have you?” asked the man, turning around to the small kitchen. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling; a stack of glass baking sheets sat neatly on a shelf. There were post-it notes on the fridge; on the longest one, garlic sat on the bottom, underlined several times.

Garlic. So this was Akira’s guardian, then.

“I’ve been feeling much better lately, despite how I sound,” Takuto said. “I was hoping something spicy might flush the rest of it out. It always worked when I was younger.”

“Ah, age,” the owner said. “Pretty soon not even this’ll work. Just how it is, I suppose.”

Takuto hummed, agreeing. “All the more reason to enjoy it while it lasts.”

That earned him a laugh. “That’s true!” He brandished a plate that was painfully red, and even through his face mask Takuto could smell the spices. His eyes watered from his seat; by the time the food sat in front of him he was crying.

The owner gave him a look. “You know, if it’s too much, just say the word. Consider it on the house.”

“No, no,” Takuto said. He took a bite, and his tongue nearly shriveled—when was the last time he had anything this spicy?—but as it hit his stomach he could feel his sinuses clearing, nose dripping. He grabbed a handful of napkins to stem the flow.

When Akira came back, Takuto couldn’t be burdened with the vestiges of a cold. He needed to be able to listen to him properly; he needed to be able to thank him properly. He couldn’t be sincere with a stuffy nose.

Worse: he didn’t want to pass his cold on. Not with the new semester just starting.

“Really, I’ll be fine,” Takuto assured him. “And if I’m being honest… I work at Shujin. I wanted to see the kind of place Akira’s staying at. Some of the comments I’ve heard had me worried.”

Not that the cafe seemed to have issues. It was a bit dim, but Akira was the type to be out and about rather than sit around, and the owner kept it clean enough. It wouldn’t pass a health inspection if he didn’t.

“I don’t think I need to ask what kind of things you’ve been hearing, do I?” He combed fingers over his goatee. “I’ll admit, it’s not the best place to live. But if you’ve been talking to him, you should know by now that he’s more than the rumors say. When I agreed to look after him, that was all I knew.”

He glanced back to the stairs. Takuto guessed, “You were worried for your daughter.”

He choked, coughed, then spent a while getting his breath back. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I was. But that kid—I swear he can make friends with just about anybody. He’s got the kind of charm you can’t help but envy. I’m just glad he’s using it for the right things.”

Takuto took another searing bite and wondered what this man would do if he found out Akira was one of the notorious Phantom Thieves. Turn him in to the police, maybe. It would be the right thing to do.

“So, uh—Shujin, huh? Let me guess: you teach biology. You look like the type.”

“Oh, uh, no. I’m actually just a counselor there. But Akira’s case is so unique I’ve been spending quite a bit of time with him. I suppose this is what you’d call favoritism, isn’t it?”

“Some kids just need more help than others,” he said. He set down a cup of coffee, freshly brewed, and extended a hand. “Sojiro Sakura, though I’m sure you knew that already.”

Right, his name was in the file. Takuto gave him a firm handshake and his own name, adding, “And though everyone calls me so, there’s no need to call me doctor. I’m still working on my doctorate.”

But with his thesis nearly done and out of the way… But no, it was still too early to tell. It needed to pass peer-review first. He couldn’t get his hopes up until then.

But who would ever review a paper like his?

“Mr. Maruki, then,” Mr. Sakura agreed just as the stairs creaked. The redhead from earlier crept back down, dejected.

“Sojiro, Mona’s mad and he won’t tell me why,” she mumbled.

“I’m sure all he needs is some space. He’s used to hanging off the kid; he probably misses him.” Ah, so it was Akira’s cat upstairs. “Although I’m sure he knows to expect a nice treat when he gets back.”

She groaned and slumped back to her seat—then perked up. “Wait. Wait a minute. Is that—Sojiro, did you really?!”

Takuto took another bite of too-spicy curry and she swung his way, whole face aglow—then paling as she wailed, “Sojiro’s Super-Special Ultra-Deluxe Mega-Extreme Spicy Curry! Sojiro! You promised!”

“There’s enough left for you, don’t worry,” Mr. Sakura said. “And what’s with that name, huh?”

“It’s a good one, isn’t it?” She grinned. Mr. Sakura shuffled back to the kitchen to make her a plate and paired it off with a glass of juice from the fridge. She drooled as she said her blessings before digging in like a ravenous animal.

Takuto watched as the plate was decimated in under a minute—the clock behind the bar counting every second with an incredible persistence—as Mr. Sakura asked, “So, you’re working on becoming a doctor? If it’s counseling you’re doing at Shujin, it must be that psychiatry stuff, right?”

“What?” Takuto, startled from the spectacle of a teenager downing curry in record time, jumped. His spoon clattered to the floor. Futaba cheered that she would get it, and before long he was presented with a new one. “Oh—thank you, sorry. As for my doctorate, it’s a small field, really. Fairly new. I wouldn’t want to confuse you with the details.”

“Oh, not at all,” Mr. Sakura said. “I used to work security for a team researching cognitive psience, if you can believe that. I picked up a thing or two.”

“More like you picked it up to impress Mom,” Futaba quipped from the sink.

“And nothing impressed your mother,” Mr. Sakura told her. He turned back to Takuto. “So? You don’t have to say, just trying to make conversation, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Takuto said. “Right.” Because of course as a working adult he’d want to gripe about his problems or explain his career to everyone he met, but— “I’m sorry, did you say a lab researching cognitive psience? With a P-S-I, not—”

“S-C-I,” intoned Futaba and Mr. Sakura at the same time Takuto did.

He blinked. Stared down at his plate for a long moment. Looked back up to find them both on the other side of the bar, Mr. Sakura grinning and Futaba’s smile wavering at the edges.

“Nobody’s ever heard of it,” she said.

“Yeah,” Takuto said.

“And now there’s three whole people who know,” she said.

“Aside from your friends,” said Mr. Sakura.

“Aw, they don’t get it. Aside from Akira. He gets everything.”

“ I have to believe, Takuto. And if I can believe, it can come true—”

“You alright there? You’ve gotten a little pale.”

“I just—it’s hard to believe, that someone knows,” Takuto said. “Everyone I’ve ever met has thought it’s just a fantasy. Psience. It’s no better than being an ESPer to them, or—”

“Or one of those cheesy magical girl heroines,” Futaba said as he broke off. “Yeah, I get it. The power of friendship and the heart and all that.”

“The power of belief,” Takuto corrected. “That’s all it is.”

Belief in the self, belief in others. Belief in victory and defeat, and in perception and understanding. The world was made up of dozens of different beliefs woven into a single tapestry, and it was Takuto’s (future) job to help unravel those strands.

“But it’s fascinating, isn’t it?” he asked, and it was worth it as Futaba’s face lit up.

They chatted about the lost research—her mother had been rather prominent in the field, up until her death two years ago, and all of her work had been lost in the chaos that came after—and Takuto showed her his most prized possession: a dog-eared research journal with her mother’s work as the centerpiece. She flipped through it with a reverence Takuto had only ever seen in the deeply religious, as if drinking in her mother’s presence through her words. He worked through the rest of his curry and ordered a second cup of coffee—now that his sinuses were blessedly free of muck, he could taste again—and tried not to voice any of the thoughts swirling in his head.

He wondered how this girl knew Akira. He wondered what gave Mr. Sakura such a change of heart as to his treatment. Was it simply a matter of charm, or was it dogged pursuit—or was it the last remnants of a vast desert sloughing quietly through the streets?

He eyed the pair. Surely not, but the ruins around him once again begged to differ. It no longer felt like a coincidence, and if he asked he doubted he would be surprised to find that Akira had been sniffing around asking questions of his own with that infuriating charm.

But it was nice, to sit and chat about his field of study and not have to endure the looks such talk always garnered, as if he was still a boy with his head stuck up in the clouds, dreaming away every moment and searching for the most fantastical excuse for everyday occurrences.

But everything good came to an end, and before long Takuto’s second cup was dry and the clock showed the late hour. Takuto took back his book and, noting the way her gaze lingered on it, asked, “I was wondering: if you could have any one wish granted, what would you like it to be?”

Futaba looked to Mr. Sakura, who looked back fondly and with a bit of grief in his eyes, and said, “I’d wish for Mom to be alive again. I miss her, you know? I never—I never even got to say goodbye. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like, to live with her and Sojiro, like we were a real family.”

A real family. “I see,” Takuto said. Then he turned to Mr. Sakura. “How about you, sir? Is there anything you’d wish for?”

“Just for Futaba and the kid to grow up happy and healthy,” Mr. Sakura said, earnest desire betrayed by the ever-present grief. He was nothing like Takuto after granting Rumi’s desire: empty and aching for a love he had to give up on lest he lose himself in misery. “What about you, then? Any wishes you’d make, doctor-in-training?”

“Me? I…” He thought for a moment. “I don’t believe so. I’m helping the students and staff at Shujin. I’m making steps to advance my career. All I could wish for is to keep doing that.”

And to find out where his daydreams were coming from, and Azathoth’s role in it all… but those were wishes best kept to himself.

Futaba mumbled, “I guess adults are just different, huh.”

“Not all adults,” Takuto said. “Just like not every child is the same, either.”

Like Akira, so different and yet so similar to his peers. Takuto doubted he would ever find anyone as interesting to puzzle out as he was—or anyone as interesting to talk to, for that matter. The boy could certainly carry a conversation when he wanted to—Takuto loved those rare moments when he really engaged—and could talk for hours when the mood hit him.

But his words struck a chord with her. She gave a small grin. “Yeah, you’re right.”

And when Takuto paid and left, he barely paid any mind to the sand swirling like so much dust at his feet.

“It’s still missing something,” Ruray murmured. She took a step back to take him in, his newly-dyed clothes stiff, pins poking into his back and legs. It was nothing he hadn’t endured worse of, and yet under her scrutinizing gaze Ionasal shrank, mind frantic.

“He looks fine, Mom,” Delta said, yawning. “I like the red. That’s a good touch.”

“Half your clothes are red, Delta. Hush.”

She fussed over him, fixing the fit of his gloves—“Not too tight, are they?”—or adjusting the fall of his sash so that the embroidery they had managed to save rippled like the sun over the sea—“It’s never going to stay, Mom!”—until Delta grew tired and bored and finally announced he was going to bed.

“See? Not a word about it, just like I said,” Ruray declared.

Because it was too much to take in, Ionasal thought. With all of his scars on display he felt… wrong. Like a bug pinned in place, meant only to be studied. And Delta had studied him, traced those lines of scars up and down his skin, eyes full of a careful pity.

Ionasal didn’t want to be pitied. He wanted a jacket and pants.

But he had to make do. The rules were clear: he couldn’t accept clothes, only food and shelter. These scraps of robes were all he had left to wear for the next two years. He would become synonymous with his scars, with his pain, with those months spent in a cold, gray cell.

Just the thought of that place—those scientists, those doctors, that awful, glaring Genom—sent a shiver up his spine.

As he stared into Ruray’s dimpled, smiling face, he said, “I can’t do this.”

“Sure you can, dear,” was Ruray’s only response. “You have to. You’ve already been declared candidate, haven’t you?”

“Look at me!” It was work to keep his voice down. He wanted to scream, wanted to cry; instead he dug his fingers into his scarred arms, feeling out the ridges and lines, the burns and lacerations. “Next to Kanoyeel, I’m—I’m not—”

Pretty Kanoyeel, he thought. Cool-headed, buxom Kanoyeel, with hair like the fall of starlight and a stare that could pierce solid steel. Kanoyeel, who hadn’t been tortured. Kanoyeel, with skin as creamy as milk.

He shouldn’t have been jealous, but he was. Kanoyeel surely didn’t have scars running in between her toes and across the webs of her fingers. Kanoyeel was perfect.

Ionasal was not.

Ruray took his face in her hands. “Listen to me, dear. You can do this. You can be a voice for all of us. Kanoyeel is strong, but you are strong, too. Look at what you’ve managed to bear so far, and yet you’re still here.”

She didn’t understand. No one ever would, he thought. Still, he tried again: “But I—I just can’t—”

“You can,” she said, and gave his cheeks a pat for good measure. “Now, wait here. I just had a great idea!”

She turned around to rummage through a box of scrap fabric. When the bits of his robes weren’t enough for her liking, she’d dragged the box out, determined to make him even the slightest bit more comfortable, though all she could do was lengthen the hems of his shorts and fix the frayed edge of his sash. Ionasal looked on with envy at the colors pouring out of the box: deep forest green; bright sky-blue; indigo on shimmering satin; neon yellow, bright enough to sting the eyes. And red, in dozens of shades and fabrics.

Delta’s favorite color.

Ruray exclaimed, coming up with a long ribbon of light-blue tulle, and with a few deft twists and pokes of her pins, had it bunched up into a shape vaguely resembling a flower. She presented it to him. “Nothing in the rules says anything about an accessory, does it?”

Ionasal stared. With a few accents—sparkling rhinestones in the center, maybe, or a fluffier edge in a different shade—it would look nice. And it would be something he’d never worn before.

An accessory. Just because.

But.

“Wouldn’t it look strange? I’m a boy,” he said.

“Don’t be silly! You’ll look lovely.” She moved it around, from the knot of his sash to the button of his vest to the side of his head. She grinned as she held it there, then moved aside, holding up a hand mirror. “There, see? It brings out your eyes.”

It did. He liked the way it looked, another splash of color amid the blacks and grays of his dyed robes, and he thought that if he could dye his robes and style them differently, then surely an accessory or two wouldn’t hurt, either. He thought about the silver necklace he’d bought with his birthday money, the one he never got the chance to wear. He couldn’t even remember which drawer in his desk he kept it in.

“It’s nice,” he admitted, and in the mirror he was smiling for what felt like the first time in years.

Years later, he let Ann place a hibiscus in his hair on a beach in Hawaii. Striking a pose for Yusuke, he asked, “How is it? Is it me?”

“Stunning,” Yusuke said, then ducked behind his sketchpad. Hifumi held his phone, taking photos. Ann had given her a lovely braid threaded through with flowers tropical and not, and Yusuke had accepted a gaudy flower crown whose petals slipped over his eyes at nearly every moment, but Ryuji—

“No way in hell!” he howled, shoving Ann and her offending final hibiscus away.

“Take one for the team, Ryuji!” she told him, bowling him over in her attempts to get the flower anywhere near his hair. There were very little places he could put his hands that would be appropriate, and she knew it.

“Dude, this ain’t fair!”

“It’s just a flower! Even Akira’s wearing one!”

“Akira ain’t—hey! Don’t move like that, dammit!”

“Language, Sakamoto,” sighed a passing Ms. Kawakami. It was enough to get the two to stop fighting, and she eyed the group in front of her, Hifumi and Yusuke in particular. “I’ve never seen you two before. Let me guess: you’re with that Kosei group that showed up earlier.”

“Y-yes,” Hifumi said, bowing. “Akira is a good friend of ours, and we thought, well…”

“There aren’t many others who give us the time of day,” Yusuke said, pencil still working. There was pride in his voice as he added, “But I also have good friends in these three.”

“These three, huh?” Ms. Kawakami almost didn’t believe it. Akira shrugged at her questing gaze, and she sighed. “Just keep the roughhousing to a minimum, will you? I don’t want any injuries on this trip, got it?”

She nodded at the chorus of got its and yes ma’ams, then turned to Akira. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something, Amamiya. If you’ve got a minute to spare, that is.”

Akira never was one to turn someone down. “Sure thing,” he agreed, and they walked a bit away, where the only thing he could hear was Yusuke exclaiming over the photos Hifumi took.

“Look, about Mishima—”

“I can’t force him out of the room,” Akira told her. He understood. It was irritating, to be on a trip and watch one of his friends—to watch Yuuki—shut himself away. “I’d say he’s pushing himself to be here. Just give him some time.”

“It just seems like a waste,” she said. “This is the sort of vacation adults dream about, you know? I know you’re enjoying it, Amamiya, but he’s—”

“Not the traveling sort.” Akira dared her to say another word about it, and in the same instance realized it was too harsh. He schooled himself and tried again. “He’s working through some stuff, that’s all. School trip or not, there are some things you can’t leave behind. Right?”

Ms. Kawakami, with bags under her eyes and barely the faintest or tremors in her hands, had to agree. School trip or not, her woes with money and those greedy guardians were still there, lingering in the back of her mind, eating away at whatever rest her vacation tried to give her.

“I’ll talk to him. Tonight.” There was a luau he wanted to go to. The beach barbecues on Ra Ciela were a bit too much like Japan’s, and he wanted to watch the dancing, listen to the music. “But don’t think this was a waste for him. I feel like we’re lucky he came at all.”

“And that’s got nothing to do with you holding his hand the whole plane ride, does it?”

She grinned as he sputtered—held his hand? When? Why didn’t he remember?—and then went on, “I just worry about you kids. If anything happens, I don’t…”

Don’t want to responsible, some people would hear.

But Akira heard: I don’t want to go through that again.

“Yuuki wouldn’t blame you, Ms. Kawakami,” he assured her. From her face, it didn’t do much. “And from what Ryuji told me, neither would his dad. This is just something he has to work through, that’s all.”

“Easy for you to say. Does anything get you down?”

“Well,” he said, “I don’t much like flying.” That earned him a laugh, and she looked five years younger, all the worry etched into her face suddenly gone. “But… right now, too. I wish he was here, enjoying this. I’d feel better, knowing he was safe. But all I can do is give him his space, let him work himself up to joining us.”

He found himself staring at the hotel, where Yuuki sat in their room on his phone, monitoring the Phan-site, like always. He wondered if Yuuki had ever been the outdoors-y type or if he had joined volleyball in an attempt to change that backfired miserably. He wondered if this was simply the way Yuuki was, content to hole up inside no matter how nice the weather.

But, no. That wouldn’t explain his info gathering in Shibuya and Shinjuku. No one wandered the streets at night and in the rain unless they wanted to, and Yuuki had admitted to staying out for hours hunting down gossip. His dedication was worrying.

But that dedication was the same as his Yuuki’s. How could Akira be anything but fond of it?

“Everything will be fine,” he said, then for good measure plucked the flower from his hair and offered it to her. She took it, confused. “Think of it like a promise. And a bit of color suits you, you know. You should enjoy yourself a bit more.”

“Easy for you to say,” she griped, but kept it as he walked back to his friends, Ryuji finally sporting the hibiscus. He squawked with disbelief and subjected Akira to the longest noogie of his life, and Akira wondered how he could possibly get a reclusive admin out of his tower.

And he thought about a hand holding his.

Maybe he didn’t have to try as hard as he thought.

It was probably a good thing, Ryuji and Ann barging in with nowhere else to go. Ryuji was snug in Yuuki’s sleepwear, the shirt stretched tight across his chest, and Ann had splurged on pajamas from the gift shop with a dangerous smile that promised her roommate was going to pay her back and then some, and they kept Akira from wondering what he would have done if he hadn’t been interrupted.

He wasn’t sure, but how could he resist a blushing, stammering Yuuki?

So it was a good thing that he wound up on the couch tonight, the rough cushions digging into his back. One of his feet dangled off the end, the other stretching over the arm rest; he ran through a series of toe maneuvers, curling, pointing, flexing—

“Thanks for doing this, Akira,” Ann said from his bed.

“I wouldn’t have left you out in the hall,” he said. Neither would Makoto, but she was rooming with another third-year girl, the one who was always alone. She never looked happy. He wondered why, then pushed it aside. “Either of you.”

Ryuji tugged at his shirt for the umpteenth time that hour, frowning at the ceiling.

“Just take it off if it’s bugging you that much,” Ann told him.

“Can’t. Yuuki’d feel bad, after he loaned it to me,” he complained, though there was that contemplative furrow between his brows, and one of his feet kicked, itching to race as fast as his mind was. “I just—back when we all went to Harajuku, he shoulda bought somethin’.”

“You think Mishima would like that kind of fashion?”

“Prolly not, but.” He sat up, scrubbing at his neck, staring at the bathroom door, firmly closed as Yuuki took his bath. He’d let everyone else go first, meek and deferential.

Just another way of apologizing, Akira thought.

But Ann shifted until she peered over the foot of Akira’s bed and asked, “What, was it that bad?”

“There wasn’t a thing in there that wasn’t a size too small,” Ryuji said, voice dropping, “or smaller. Like, I think his uniform was the only thing that fit right. We pulled out everything, okay? Everything. It was kinda sad.”

“I guess when you’re always at school playing volleyball, there isn’t much need for a wardrobe, huh?”

Except he wasn’t anymore, and that was the problem.

“You didn’t bring much with you either, huh, Akira?”

“Just a few outfits,” he said. “Nothing major. Just what could fit in the box.”

“You know,” said Ann, “we could always go on a shopping trip! Not to Harajuku; Shibuya has plenty of low-key stores. Though if you want something fancier—”

“Who the hell can afford somethin’ fancy?” Ryuji muttered.

“I mean,” she said, shooting a conspiratorial glance Akira’s way, “the usual’s okay, but if you want to go on a date—”

“A date?! With who?!” Now Ryuji was staring at him, something like betrayal in his eyes. “Is it Togo? I bet it’s Togo. Can’t be Makoto; she’s got a frozen heart—”

“That’s rude,” Akira said. “You’d know that if you got to know her at all, Ryuji.”

He groaned, annoyed. “Then who’s the type of chick you’d want to date, huh?”

“Ryuji,” Ann hissed.

“Is it Ann? Teach? Ya gave her that flower; guys don’t do that unless—”

Akira shoved an arm over his eyes. So much for a good thing. “I can’t do it just to be nice? Just to make someone’s day? You know Makoto and Ms. Kawakami haven’t relaxed since they got here, right?” None of the teachers or chaperons had, to be exact, but Akira worried for his teacher, already worn down from her shifts at the maid agency, and his teammate, the overly-responsible Student Council President. What was so wrong with a nice gesture, to show they were appreciated?

“Well, if ya ain’t dating one of them—”

“It was hypothetical, Ryuji!” Ann cut in.

He groaned and flopped back, landing hard on the floor. The towel Yuuki had loaned him didn’t do much aside from keep the carpet stink out of his nose, even if it did smell like coconuts. His foot tapped. Ann shifted back around, the sheets rustling.

Yuuki was taking an uncomfortably long time in the bath. Someone should check on him. Akira should check him. He sat up, determined to do so, when Ryuji said, “Then hypo-whatever speaking, if you liked guys you’d tell me, right?”

Ann scrambled up. “Ryuji!”

But Ryuji didn’t heed her; he glared at the ceiling a moment longer, then sat up himself and glared at Akira. “Nothin’ would hafta change if you did, y’know,” he said, challenging. “I don’t give a damn if you do. I just wish one of my best friends would tell me.”

Don’t hide from me anymore, his eyes said. Akira met that glare with one of his own and said, “It’s not that simple. You know how hard it is to fight bad habits. Out in the country—”

“You ain’t in the country, man!”

“But I’ll have to go back,” Akira reminded him. “Back out to my hometown in the boonies, back where everyone knows everyone and anything you say or do gets run up and down the rumor mill until it’s blown out of proportion. Back where—”

He thought of Aizawa, and the flowers on his desk, and all because of a rumor.

“—where everyone is cruel, and without realizing it. Without caring,” he finished.

But Ryuij barreled on: “I’d tell you, dude.”

That made Akira pause, then laugh. He would, wouldn’t he? “Even out in the country?”

“Yeah,” Ryuji said. “As long as you guys’re there, I’d stand anything.”

Akira tried to imagine Ryuji in his old school’s uniform—a gakuran in the ugliest shade of green—or arguing with his teachers over his dye job. He’d get dozens of scoldings for his t-shirts alone and keep wearing them. No matter where he went, Ryuji would never change. “Yeah, you would, huh.”

“Akira,” Ann said.

“It’s fine,” he told her. “If he says so, I believe him.” He took a deep breath, let it out, looked Ryuji in the eye. “Yeah, I do. Now I’m going to make sure our admin hasn’t drowned in the tub.”

“What? Dude, I wanna ask you so much right now. Let’s give him a couple more minutes, yeah?”

If not for the eagerness with which he said it, Akira might have gone. But he agreed that Yuuki might need a bit more space: he’d spent all this time beating himself up, and now there were three Phantom Thieves in his room, and one of them was Ann. For a guy as shy as Yuuki to sleep in the same room as a girl, Phantom Thief or not, was a big step.

So Akira settled in and asked, “Like what?”

He expected questions like, How did you know? and When did you find out? and Why guys anyway? Those were the sorts of questions his classmates asked each other as rumors of Aizawa first began to circulate, the sort of hubbub only a tiny school in the countryside could generate. Akira never understood them, and had never been included in the discourse except to be prodded for evidence of his own weirdness, and all of a sudden his childhood antics were a blessing. He had no friends to betray him.

But he had no allies, either.

“Like… dude, if ya like guys, why’d ya go along with me ‘n Yusuke?”

It took a moment for Akira to understand, but then it clicked: at the beach, celebrating Futaba’s joining the team, Ryuji insisting the guys all comb the beach for girls. Of course he had enough tact not to mention it in front of Ann, but she rolled her eyes. “Let me guess: you guys went girl-hunting.”

“What?!” Ryuji gaped. “Dude, how’d you—”

“We could see you,” she said. “The whole time, we could see you. Didn’t you get hit on by some drag queens?”

“Don’t—don’t remind me.” He went pale just thinking about it.

“They do come on strong, don’t they?” Akira agreed; he’d thought them nothing more than another pair of drag queens haunting the streets of Shinjuku, but their dogged pursuit of getting Ryuji into a dress and makeup was… odd, to say the least. He didn’t have the body to make it work.

But maybe that was the point. It was hard to tell.

“But you know, Ryuji,” Akira said, “I never said I didn’t like girls.”

“You never… huh?”

“I never said I didn’t like girls,” Akira repeated. “I like both. So I don’t mind that we went girl-hunting. We all know Yusuke needs to socialize more, anyway.”

Even if all of his pick-up lines had been requests for models for his paintings—and in one case, an insistence that her swimsuit didn’t match her complexion.

“Oh, yeah. Yusuke totally needs to get out more—but, you like both? Is that a thing?”

“It’s a thing,” Ann said. “Don’t tell me you thought it was one way or the other.”

“Well… kinda.” He sat back, looking a little lost. “So Ann knows.”

“And Goro and my parents,” Akira said. He hesitated a bit before adding, “And Futaba, although I’m sure she didn’t mean to overhear.”

“You… told Akechi before you told me,” Ryuji said.

“Goro knew before anyone,” Akira said. “He was the first person I ever told. I was so afraid he’d hate me for it, but he just rolled his eyes and called me an idiot for sitting on it so long.”

Or that was how Ren remembered it, anyway. He could hear it over the phone.

It was nice to think that, in a world where Goro hadn’t had Akira, he still had Ren.

Ann’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t really sound like Akechi.”

“You don’t know him that well. Sooner or later he’ll get comfortable and then you’ll see the real him.”

“A snarky Akechi? That sounds even worse than he is now,” Ryuji muttered.

“You get used to it.”

He heard shuffling from the bathroom: Yuuki, finally done with his bath after over an hour in the tub. Akira tried to prepare himself for the sight and fussed with his blanket: Yuuki, flushed with heat from his head to his toes, his pajama shirt riding up his stomach as he stifled a yawn.

“Doin’ okay, man?” Ryuji asked him.

Yuuki picked his way over to his bed. It was only after he was settled under his covers that he said, “Just tired. I didn’t think it would be so exhausting.”

It was more than the luau, the fire dancers and the hula girls and struggling to pick what to eat when nothing was familiar. It was Yuuki’s apology and the weight of guilt that had sloughed off his shoulders all at once. It was Akira and his actions.

He cursed himself. He shouldn’t have done it, but he couldn’t help it.

Yuuki was probably glad Ann and Ryuji were here, too.

And as they settled down for the night, that thought struck him again: if Ryuji hadn’t interfered, if Ann hadn’t needed a place to sleep for the night, then what would he and Yuuki be doing right now? What would they have worked out between them?

But it was too late; as the rest of the room drifted off into slumber, Akira stayed awake, wishing for what he couldn’t have.

Chapter Text

Akira was never very good at gift buying.

He liked more personal touches to his gifts—a meal, a day out, a clean house and a silent son—and so he perused the gift shop at the airport with detached interest. Tiny caricatures of the Waikiki beach and King Kamehameha dangled from keychains; wax flower leis hung in bright bundles from the ceiling; stacks of masks squatted in pyramids on the floor. There were flip-flops and I ♥ Hawaii pins and Hawaiian shirts in several dozen colors and flower combinations; Ryuji had picked up a surfboard from a rack and was waving it around, nearly upending a display of plastic sea animals. Yuuki and Ann looked over the selection of pre-packaged sweets—“Pineapple Kitty-Kats… Coconut Kitty-Kats… Wait, shrimp?!”—and Yusuke and Hifumi were busy examining the glass knickknacks, holding each one up to the light to examine the iridescent color. She was particular to the flowers; he was most interested in the lobster.

Naturally.

Makoto was the only one with an actual purchase. She’d beelined for the CDs, a selection offering calming beach sounds and traditional Hawaiian music and even, to Akira’s surprise, several soundtracks to the Lila & Stitch movie. The thing hit theaters when he was a toddler. He couldn’t believe people still remembered it, but apparently they did, and Makoto’s lawyer sister had a soft spot for it. And for beach sounds. Makoto was sure she’d love them.

So Akira examined the CDs, too, and the shirts, and the dubious candy. There was a selection of instant noodles in tropical fruit flavors. There were DVDs of luaus, documentaries on the rise and fall of the Hawaiian royalty, video lessons for your new ukelele. Akira hovered over the traditional music only briefly; Leblanc had no CD player, so unless he wanted to buy one, he was out of luck.

It was a shame, but there was always Youcube, and Youcube had subtitles. Sometimes. If he was lucky.

So he found himself by the books: biographies, indexes of tropical flowers and how to grow them, photo collections of the landscapes. That quiet third-year they met yesterday was there, perusing the flower books, head bowed over the pages. From her hunched shoulders, she wasn’t happy.

Akira picked up a nearby book and flipped it open to a photo of a volcano. An aerial shot, the red-hot molten heart framed by black rock and green, green palm trees. “You alright?” he asked softly.

“I’m…” she started, but didn’t finish. She put down her book on flowers and picked up one on ghosts, skimming the page she opened up to.

“You’re?” he asked.

“I’m just not looking forward to going home,” she said.

“To the absolute end of summer, or something else?”

It was what their classmates were bemoaning: going home to strict parents and school and clubs; going home to part-time jobs or babysitting their siblings or taking care of their grandparents. Going home to mountains of homework and tests and one boring, droning lecture after another. Going home where the only bright spot in the day might be the game of basketball played during lunch, or fast food after school, or news of the Phantom Thieves.

“Something else,” she admitted, softer than ever. “But it’s nothing, really. I shouldn’t even be worrying about it. There’s nothing I can do to change it, after all.”

It sounded familiar. She sounded like Yuuki and the volleyball team at the beginning of the year. She sounded like Yusuke, begging Ann to model for him. She sounded like Futaba, so sure of her own demise and dreading it. Akira said, “Even if it’s nothing to worry about, I’ll worry. It’s bothering you. Isn’t that reason enough?”

“Amamiya,” she said, then thought better of it, and he wondered where she’d heard his name from. A teacher, maybe, or Makoto—or worse, Shujin’s grinding rumor mill.

But she didn’t look at him like a criminal. She didn’t look at him like he carried a knife in his bag and blackmailed CEOs and punched people for looking at him wrong.

She just looked sad, as if he was another well-meaning acquaintance saying the same tired platitudes. She just looked defeated, as if her future was already set in stone and there was nothing either of them could do to change it. She looked at him like he was as powerless as she was.

She looked at him like he was a person.

She glanced at her watch, gave him a quick bow, and saw herself off. A sour taste filled his mouth; people like her were the ones the Phantom Thieves should be protecting. He’d have to talk to Yuuki about it; he could learn something if he sniffed around Shujin long enough. Probably.

And Akira could help, he thought as he moved to the scented candles and car fresheners. They could spend hours together hunting down rumors, and Akira could see more of that smile, that burning righteous fury in his eyes, that—

“Boo!”

Akira whirled, packet of car fresheners poised like a paper-thin knife between his fingers, and stopped just shy of Kasumi’s cheek.

Her eyes went wide. “Wow, Senpai,” she said, “I had no idea your reflexes were this good!”

She said it like it was a good thing. Akira put the packet back on its hook and shoved his hands in his pockets as he turned. He took her in: signature ponytail, but her club tracksuit was not meant for the Hawaiian heat, and strands of hair clung to her forehead and neck with sweat. Just looking at her made him feel hot, so he led the way down the aisles to a little cooler filled with ice cream and bought them both a cup. Somewhere in the store, Yuuki’s laughter rang out, and over the shelves Yusuke’s masked head bobbed, hands outstretched in his blindness.

“You didn’t have to, you know,” Kasumi said, but took her cup.

“Sure I did.” Now Makoto was yelling, telling Yusuke not to move, he was going to run into a display. He came to a stop, arms pinwheeling for balance, and as the display fell over with the disappointing fwump of a hundred plastic starfish rolling across the floor, Akira said, “I’m hot just looking at you. On your way back from your training camp?”

“Yes! It was so much fun, Senpai! I wish you could have gone, too.”

Ms. Kawakami caught wind of the disaster; Ryuji and Yuuki righted the display and threw armfuls of starfish back in, but it was too late to stop her or Makoto’s fury. Yusuke, dazed, was slumped on the floor, mask still in place. Makoto pried it off his head. Hifumi had vanished, likely looking for books on traditional Hawaiian board games.

“Maybe in a different lifetime,” Akira said. “If I was still back home, our training camps would have been different. There’s this old temple we got dragged to every year; I don’t think we have the budget for anything fancier.”

A week’s stay in a decrepit building, their fees paying for gas for the bus and food only. Baths had been a luxury; actual washing machines even more so. That the kitchen had working electricity was a godsend, because the rest of the place certainly didn’t, and the boy’s team had far too many sleepless nights in the sweltering heat.

“That’s too bad,” Kasumi said, over the sound of Ms. Kawakami’s and Makoto’s double-teamed rants. “You would have loved it. And my dad is always saying that we should travel while we’re young; once you’re older, it gets hard to, I suppose. All that work they do, no time off…”

“But he takes pride in it, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” she said. “And so do I. Did you see that show Akechi was on last week? I missed it because of the camp.”

They chatted over ice cream; Akira had not seen the show in question but was sure it was on Youcube and searched for it while the shop clerk got involved in the mess. He was oddly understanding about rambunctious teenagers playing around with the merchandise, was glad nothing was damaged beyond his ability to fix— “Imagine if he’d stumbled into the glassware!” he laughed—and shrugged it all off. Akira wondered if it was a Hawaiian thing, not to care.

But each of them grabbed up some little thing—Yuuki the weird, shrimp-flavored Kitty-Kats; Ryuji a scented candle; Makoto spotted Yusuke for a keychain with the mask head on it—and headed up to the register.

Ann, arms laden with bags of sweets, wandered over.

“Can you really fit all of that in your carry-on, Ann?” Akira asked her.

“Oh, I’m sure! I made lots of room!” she declared, then spied Kasumi at Akira’s side. Her grin wavered.

Akira introduced them to the beep of the register. Kasumi returned Ann’s bow and stared at the bags in her hands with awe. “Are those all souvenirs?”

“Some of them, I guess,” Ann said. “I was planning on eating most of them myself, though—uh, not all at once or anything, but—you know?”

“I do! Sometimes after practice I just start craving something sweet, and there’s nothing I can do except oblige. Ice cream always hits the spot,” she admitted.

And if Akira wasn’t watching her, he would have missed the confusion that flitted across her face.

“Ooh, ice cream’s always good,” Ann agreed, “but for me it’s crepes. You can’t go wrong with a good crepe! Right, Akira?”

“Right,” he said. “Even the chicken teriyaki is good, if you’re craving something savory.”

“Oh, that does sound good,” Kasumi said. “But it’s cooked, right? Are crepes any good in this weather?”

This led to a conversation regarding the merits of hot food in the summer and cold in the winter as they exited the store to find their gates. Kasumi’s was a ways down a different lane, and after they said their goodbyes, Ann hooked an arm through his.

“So?” she said. “Tell me everything.”

“Tell you what—”

“You know! You. The boy you like. Sharing a hotel room. I know Ryuji and I crashed your happy couple’s retreat, but—”

“Ann, no.”

She froze. “Huh?”

“Nothing happened.”

Now she was staring at him, aghast. “Huh?”

“Ann.”

People were staring. Their classmates were staring. A few gaggles of Kosei students were staring. Why were there so many Japanese high school kids all in one place, anyway? Were all of their planes departing at the same time? Akira dropped his voice and said, “Nothing happened, Ann. We shared a room. That’s it.”

Now she was confused and—thoroughly aware that they had stopped in the middle of foot traffic to have a conversation about his love life—tugged him toward a wall, where her bags of souvenir sweets pressed into his thigh.

Akira explained, “You can’t really expect me to come out and say it just like that, can you?”

It was Yuuki, who liked girls, and who definitely did not like Akira as anything more than a friend, an aspiration, a goal. Yuuki, who had happily gone girl-hunting with Ryuji just the day before on a beach in a foreign country. It made Akira wonder how he really felt about sharing a room with a guy. It made him wonder how he felt about sharing it with Akira.

“But,” she said, brows knit, “I mean, on the flight here—”

“I never thanked you for that, did I? It really did help. Although I do feel bad I drooled on Ryuji’s arm, he doesn’t seem to be too mad about it.”

Now she looked ready to cry, lips pursed, annoyance leaking through in a long, aggravated noise. Ann scanned the room, then ducked close, pulling them together. “It wasn’t Ryuji’s arm you drooled on, okay?”

Akira’s breath stopped short.

Ann took another furtive glance around the room and went on, “You had your eyes closed, so I took you to a seat, and—I thought you’d like the aisle seat, you know, away from the window? And Ryuji wanted the window seat so he could take pictures for his mom—”

“Ann,” he groaned, understanding flooding through him. He buried his face in his hands.

No wonder Ryuji hadn’t smelled the same. It wasn’t Ryuji he’d been sleeping on.

“And Mishima offered to take the middle seat, okay, I thought there was no way you’d be scared of the flight if he was there, but I guess you passed out before take off, and—”

“No,” he groaned, because it was true, he had. He remembered that welling feeling of panic, of reaching for something to cling to, of finding an arm, a hand. Ryuji had been nearby when he sat down, had talked him through the pre-flight check, had stored his carry-on in the top rack.

No wonder Ryuji had clung back to him so tightly. It wasn’t Ryuji at all.

“I… have a picture?” she offered, but he shook his head.

No wonder he’d felt so safe, up in the air in a metal box powered by a very combustible engine. No wonder Yuuki hadn’t said anything on the beach when Akira grabbed his hand.

It might not be something guy friends did, but… If it was for his hero, Yuuki would surely endure anything. Even hand-holding. Even kisses.

But… would he really?

That thought gave him pause. Ryuji might let Akira hold his hand—rolling his eyes the whole time and complaining that it was girly but wanting to be a good friend regardless—but he’d draw the line at kisses, Akira thought. Kisses would be too much. Not even Goro would, and they’d known each other for years and across two different dimensions. He would sneer and tell him to save it for his lover, his Yuuki, and Akira would oblige, if only because Goro’s hatred of affection betrayed the distance he wanted to keep between them.

But Yuuki, on the other hand…

Yuuki’s Shadow was supposed to be his innermost thoughts, the ones he didn’t even let himself think. Akira could barely remember how their conversation had gone, outside of the Shadow’s insistence that he talk, and talk he had. Akira was sure that was the most he’d spoken in a single conversation all year—but at the end, when Akira had darted back in, and grabbed for his hand? The Shadow hadn’t moved, hadn’t even flinched, had barely time to looked surprised as Akira pressed a kiss to his knuckles and stared him in the eyes. And those eyes had been afraid, sure, but in the moment before he left for good, Akira could swear they were happy.

Because…

Because for once someone wasn’t throwing him away at the first sign of trouble, Akira suspected. Because for once someone cared enough to go back and smooth the hurt over. Because despite all he had done and said, Akira was forgiving him.

Those would be words spoken out of fear, he thought. The fear of being hurt, of being used and tossed aside, of being mocked. You’re just like the rest of them. You make me sick.

And for the first time since hearing those words, hope flickered in his chest.

He said, “Send it to me.”

“If you tell me what you talked about before the luau, I will. Because if that wasn’t a moonlit confession, I will be angry, Akira.”

He groaned again, wordless and aware of the picture they made together. “He just apologized, Ann. Really. He… might have put himself down the whole time, and I might have propped him back up a bit, but it wasn’t…”

Okay. Maybe it was a little like a confession.

Akira with Yuuki’s hand in his, pressing kisses to his knuckles. The moon- and firelight on his too-pale skin; his eyes shining with unshed tears. Akira, telling him how brave and strong and smart he was. All he’d had to do was tack on how beautiful he looked, maybe a corny one-liner about how Yuuki was the thief all along…

Okay. Maybe it was a lot like a confession. Or a lead up to one. The mood had been perfect.

And Akira had blown it.

He took a deep breath as icy despair flooded through him. No, no; Yuuki was just getting over a self-induced change of heart, and Akira knew how quickly and easily he threw himself at anything that made him feel the slightest bit special. His bullies in middle school proved that; all they’d had to do to keep him going back was talk to him, and he ate up every single word like a starving dog fed scraps. He would throw himself into a relationship with Akira whether or not he liked guys, and he would do it just because Akira wanted him to.

And that wasn’t how Akira wanted him. Like a dog following around its master no matter how often it was beat down. Like a damsel in distress giving her hand away for rescue.

“It wasn’t,” he said again, when he was calm. Ann stared at him with a deep, profound sadness in her eyes, like she was near to tears. He felt them, too, pricking at his eyes, stinging with their own special pain. “But it could have been, yeah. I admit that. It was… definitely romantic enough, huh?”

“Like from a movie,” she said.

He nodded, took another deep breath, then another. Ann smelled like hibiscus and coconut, a little reminder of Hawaii, of a beach in the moonlight, of what could have been.

And he couldn’t shake the fear those words had put in him, couldn’t help but think he was right all along, and this moment was just another way of running from the truth.

You make me sick.

All he could smell was chrysanthemum blossoms, white as snow and curling prettily, delicately. All he could smell was the soap used to clean desktops and shoe lockers. All he could hear was a tremulous voice, tears threatening to break free.

And he said, “When you’re afraid, Ann, it… never really goes away. Not even for the right time, or the right place, or the right moment. I’ll tell him someday. Just not now. Not when I’m still…”

He wasn’t sure how he wanted to finish, but Ann only nodded, and hugged him tight, and hummed right by his side as they waited for the long flight home.

As soon as she stepped foot in the door, Ryuji swept her up in a crushing hug.

“Goodness, Ryu,” she laughed, breathing in the scent of him: sweat and soap and something tropical, something foreign. Maybe he’d bought a candle set as a souvenir. “What’s gotten into you?”

“He told me, Ma,” Ryuji whisper-shouted into her hair as she clung back. “He told me. Shit feels good!”

“Language, Ryuji!”

Though her admonishment was lessened with his laughter: he was too giddy to care, and she was too excited to hear the details to focus beyond the moment. It had been a long, long time since Ryuji was this happy. She patted him on the back, broke the hug, felt herself grinning as she said, “I’d say this calls for a celebration, then. What do you say to some all-you-can-eat yakiniku?”

Ryuji whooped, scrambled for his shoes, gave her another crushing hug.

His new friends were good for him. She was going to have to throw them a party, put names to faces, listen as laughter rang from the walls and their neighbors complained about the noise.

She loved her son. She could love his friends, too.

It was September, and the air was still hot.

September, and yet a heavyset man in a thick suit waited at an intersection. The heat haze shimmering off the pavement called to him—it looked like water, clean and pure and cool, and he thought of his students, off on a trip to paradise.

Paradise. White sandy beaches. Gorgeous, untouched forests. Water so clear the depths played tricks on the eyes; water so clear it rippled in turquoise waves, as beautiful as a jewel.

Paradise. It was the least he could give them.

It was the least he could give himself—a bit of an extended breather, one last hurrah of summer before the next semester ate his school alive, before the next scandal erupted and took yet more of his students away.

Yes, a breather—but a little voice inside told him it was too late. Principal Kobayakawa was thoroughly aware of his faults on that particular front. He’d trusted the Niijima girl. He’d trusted Kamoshida. He’d even trusted his sponsor, someone with deep pockets and even deeper paranoia.

He had no doubt about that: everything that was going on was his sponsor’s fault. Kobayakawa had only ever dealt with a middleman himself—and, while he hated to loathe someone simply seeking to make ends meet, could not find a shred of remorse inside of him as to that middleman’s fate—but he had phone records, transcripts, call logs. Every order, every second, every displeased word Kobayakawa had been forced to obey and endure.

(And he hated himself, hated the way he had to rely on some nameless rich man to build his crumbling school back up. It was his decisions that restored its reputation, wasn’t it? It was his time and effort going into the work, wasn’t it? Who else had gone through teacher and coach applications with a fine-toothed comb? Who else had seen a troubled youth and given him a second chance?

It was certainly not a man with deep pockets.)

But enough was enough, he thought as he stood at that intersection, watching cars whiz by, watching the heat shimmer, watching the timer on the crosswalk light tick down. He was drenched in sweat, but he had to put his best foot forward. They would have to understand him, then.

He was a victim, too.

Kobayakawa eyed the officers in front of the station and pulled a drenched handkerchief from a pocket. He wiped ineffectually at the sweat dripping down his forehead and neck and grimaced.

His school. His legacy. He had to save it, had to preserve it somehow, and this was the only way.

If they listened. If they would just listen…

The crosswalk turned green. Kobayakawa gathered up what shreds of courage he had left, braced his knocking knees, and crossed.

It was like walking underwater.

It was the heat, he thought. It was September, the tail end of summer, and the city of Tokyo baked with it. There was no respite in the concrete jungle he called home, only the promise of a police station with blessed air-conditioning. And he was… nervous, yes. Terribly nervous. Nervous enough that every breath seemed to take an age to reach his lungs, that his feet seemed weighed down with weights—

(balls and chains of his own making: guilt and desperation)

—that his own heart seemed fit to explode into a pulp right there in his chest.

He heard shouting. Just a word and nothing more, and it seemed so distant. He was drowning on a street in broad daylight, and even that seemed so suddenly distant: the baking sun, the tortuous heat, his phone in his pocket drilling a hole in his chest as it vibrated. The vice principal, most likely. It wasn’t like him to take a sick day.

And he felt sick, suddenly. It was the suit, it was the sweat: he was cold all over, ice flooding his veins and purging the thick, unneeded gunk from his system.

… Where was he, again?

… Who was he, again?

And as an officer from the station began to rush over to the man stopped dead in the crosswalk, a horn blared. Down the road came barreling a truck, its brakes squealing, tires veering for a clear lane. The car on its right braked, swerved, and slammed into the guard rail with a spray of sparks, but it was too late: one or two more steps or a faster response from the officer and the man might have made it.

But all that was left of him was meat and a phone, shattered into pieces on impact.

When Akira returned, he smelled of flowers.

It was a nice change from the dust and metal of Futaba’s room, where the window was never opened and the floor never cleaned. Morgana had attempted conversation: when was the last time she took out her trash, changed her sheets, or dug through that closet full of musty clothes?

But she had remained silent, fixated on her data. Data the Thieves needed. Data only Futaba could crack and parse. Data that she refused to explain even one sentence of to Morgana.

Fine, then. See if he cared!

But he’d gotten used to Akira, he thought. School was dull but at least he could pretend he was taking class, too, and he and Akira chatted during lunch breaks. Sometimes Ryuji and Lady Ann joined in, although lately with Makoto stopping by to give them pointers on their homework it wasn’t nearly as relaxing as Morgana would like.

But he sat by, watching them pore over their textbooks and notes, correcting the occasional mistake because yes, he did listen to the lectures, even if only from Akira’s desk. He liked to close his eyes and pretend he was human, sitting at a desk like Akira was, taking notes. He’d never be bored if he was human. He’d never have to deal with Ryuji calling him a cat. Maybe a know-it-all, but not a cat.

And he wouldn’t have to deal with… this.

“Well, I think we should go for it!” he said, tensing on the table. The others stared down at him, even Futaba, the smallest of the Thieves, peering out from behind Akira. Akira, who stood there and stared with that frown on his face. It was just the way he looked, but it made Morgana angrier than ever. “He’s clearly in need of a change of heart! We should do it!”

“But,” said Lady Ann, “I mean… going after him just because people tell us to?”

“The hell was Yuuki thinking with this poll, anyway?” Ryuji growled, staring at his phone.

“A big target,” Akira murmured to himself, soft enough for the rest of them not to hear.

But not Morgana.

“And these numbers… you can’t tell me there isn’t something off about this,” Makoto reasoned.

“Another investigation, then?” Yusuke asked.

“You’re not going undercover at Big Bang, Inari,” Futaba told him. “Do you really wanna get caught up in this for free food?”

“Free food?! They—they truly offer such a thing to employees?!”

And as the conversation went on without him, Morgana stared Akira in the eye. Akira, brow furrowed, mouth pinched, came to a conclusion. “Everyone downstairs. Morgana and I need to talk.”

They filed downstairs with little complaint, even Ryuji, who was usually the first to whine. When they were gone, Akira sat at his workbench, took off his glasses, and waited.

Morgana hopped over, then sat, tail curled around his feet. He couldn’t look Akira in the eye.

“Yuuki told me he wanted to find us bigger targets,” Akira said. “I guess this is one way of doing it. And I understand where you’re coming from, Morgana. I just don’t understand why we need to jump into it so quickly.”

Morgana hated that he was right: they’d always investigated first. “His name’s in the Nav,” he argued. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Ordinarily, yes,” Akira said.

“And aren’t all of these accusations enough?”

“People can say whatever they like. That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“You’ve worked at the beef bowl shop; why should Big Bang be any different?”

“I don’t know,” Akira admitted. Then he sighed. “Is this about something else?”

“No,” Morgana said.

“Morgana—”

“No, it’s not!” His tail lashed; he couldn’t stop it, and glared at it.

Stupid tail. Stupid cat body.

(And if his dreams were right…)

And Akira looked at him, pity in his eyes and the curve of his mouth, like he didn’t believe him. As if anyone did anymore. As if Morgana had any use at all, except for being a convenient ride in Mementos, and even then…

“Mona,” Akira said, and Morgana couldn’t take the pity in his voice.

“I’ve had enough,” he decided, and took satisfaction from the shock on Akira’s face. “If you don’t want to change Okumura’s heart, then I’ll do it myself! I don’t need you! I was doing this long before you guys showed up!”

And he bolted down the stairs, Akira’s cries going ignored, slipping past the feet of the milling Thieves, past the regular with her cat treats just coming in, and out the door.

Freedom at last.

(Akira, after all but crashing down the stairs, stared as Leblanc’s door jingled cheerily shut.

“Dude, what the eff was that about?” Ryuji asked, but Akira didn’t know, didn’t understand what could have come over him. He rushed to the door and pulled it open, stared down one side of the alley and then the other, but saw hide nor hair of Morgana. In the growing shadows he could have easily hidden away, tucking himself in some nook or cranny. In a few hours he would get hungry and he’d be back, Akira thought, acting as haughty as ever, offering no apologies until he was good and ready, and definitely no explanation.

But Akira had his ideas. And it was fine: if Morgana needed some time to himself, Akira would give it to him. He only wished the not-cat trusted him more.

But… maybe that was Akira’s fault, too.)

Freedom, as it turned out, didn’t amount to much.

Morgana was still a cat. There were still places he couldn’t go and things he couldn’t do without being chased off and ridiculed; life in Akira’s bag, being shoved down out of sight to keep Akira out of trouble, was almost worth it.

Almost, but not quite.

He managed to sneak onto a train to Shibuya without getting caught, but from there he was lost: he had no idea where Okumura’s Palace could be, no idea what form it could take, and no idea whether it was really worth his time, but he’d already told Akira he’d manage it. Morgana didn’t even need to rely on a phone: he had his nose, the putrid rank of Mementos drifting from the subway, the electric zing of the great Palace standing his fur on end.

Right. He could still do this. No, he could definitely do this.

Akira passed by Big Bang Burger often enough that Morgana knew where it was, and it was a good place to start. If the franchise was related to Okumura’s Palace, it would have that whiff to it, like Shibuya did during their heist of Kaneshiro, that pervasive rot confounding his nose. And if not…

Well, he was a cat. Some people liked cats and fed the strays. Maybe an employee would let something slip as Morgana feasted on burger patties.

His stomach grumbled, and off he went, sliding down alleys in the ways of the strays back in Yongen. Big Bang’s back alley wasn’t that far from the station, and sure enough the scent of cooking meat and fries soured as he approached. It was more than the Palace stink: dozens of trash bags filled the alley, filled to near-bursting with rotten vegetables and molding buns. It was overpowering; the closer Morgana got, the more he wanted to turn around.

Akira and the others really did have it easy, with their human noses.

Suddenly the door slammed open; a young man hauled yet another trash bag out, grumbling all the while. “Why did this have to happen today?” he whined, tossing the bag on the pile and then staring at the mountain of garbage before him. He blinked back tears that were from more than the stench, hands clenching at his sides.

Then he whirled around and strode back inside, heedless of Morgana following in his wake.

Morgana had accompanied Akira to many of his part-time jobs, both hidden and not—Ms. Shibuya at the 777 liked to give him treats, and Ms. Hanasaki chatted with him about flowers as if he were a person, and not the cat she thought he was—and of the many jobs Akira had worked, the beef bowl shop had been the worst. The teen was left to fend for himself with dozens of orders coming in faster than his hands could work, and despite the fact that the food was mostly ready-made, the tiny kitchen meant his rushing earned him more than a few bumps and bruises, and that was with one person.

Big Bang Burger’s kitchen was equally small but filled with people. Only a handful were actually cooking, and half the staff was in tears and soaked in sweat and they ran in and out of a walk-in refrigerator, piles of food in their arms. The place was sweltering.

“Shindo, another bag for you!” someone called, and the young man cursed, loudly. No one reprimanded him for it.

“Manabe, we need more bags!” that same person called, and a different young man ran out the front entrance, where the dining area was sparsely filled.

“And right at the end of summer, too? My goodness,” a customer was saying; Morgana didn’t dare to pause lest he be stepped on, and slunk into a darkened hallway. A break room on one side, with rows of lockers and a table and chairs squat in the middle, and—

“The technician will be in tomorrow, Ms. Okumura,” someone said. Morgana’s ears perked. “We’ll review the tapes and find out if it was sabotage and terminate the one responsible, you have my word.”

“I see,” a young woman said, sounding as if that was the absolute last thing she wanted. “And if it wasn’t?”

“A fridge this large doesn’t just break down on its own, miss,” said the manager, an older man built like a brick going soft at the edges. He dwarfed the young woman—and even the tiny office they sat in—and looked as if he could snap his desk in half with one hand. He looked as if he wanted to and was barely holding himself back, smile strained, one eye twitching.

“I see,” she said again, still none too happy about it. Her words unheard, her concerns dismissed—Morgana knew what that was like all too well.

“So, please, let the president know we have it under control,” the manager went on. “We can make up for the loss of profit easily enough. This location makes a great amount of sales every week, and the president can rest assured that this won’t happen again.”

“… I see,” said Okumura.

Then she spied Morgana, peering in through the crack in the door. Morgana froze. She did, too, for a split second.

“Actually, Mr. Sudo,” she said, “if it’s not too much of a bother, could I have some more water? I’ve become quite parched.”

“Oh, of course, of course!” There were a pair of paper cups on the table; Sudo picked them both up in his meaty hands and—

Headed for the door.

Morgana panicked. The first rule of Phantom Thievery and he’d forgotten it: don’t be seen.

The second: never sit out in the open.

He dashed for the break room and under the cover of the table just as Sudo thundered into the hall, every step like a miniature earthquake. For a moment Morgana contemplated leaving right then—but just getting in the building had been a stroke of luck, and he had found an Okumura. He needed to ride this for as long as possible. He needed to prove—

The break room door slammed shut.

“This is seriously never going to end,” someone complained, slumping into a chair.

“Yeah, and we’ll be lucky if Sudo doesn’t pin the blame on one of us,” said his friend. Both of them stank of sour milk and rotten eggs. “Guy doesn’t listen to the inspector the first time, and now look where we are. It wouldn’t have cost us anything to close for a day back then. Some people really will do anything to make an extra yen.”

“You think we’ll have to close for a while?”

A laugh. “Not likely. We’ll just sell what we can while we can. Sudo’ll cut hours down to nothing, though, if he doesn’t start sacking people.”

“I can’t afford that,” said his friend.

“Just take what you learned to Bikkuri Boy or somewhere,” was the response. “Kitchens need hands, you know, and fast food’s all the same. Hell, a diner’ll get you into a real kitchen, not just another joint like this.”

“But it’ll just be the same in the end. Why leave?”

“You’ve seen the news. If the Phantom Thieves decide to do something about Okumura, we’re all done for.”

“Why would we—”

A loud knock. Sudo, glaring in from the hall.

A deep sigh. “It hasn’t been five minutes, sir.”

“Doesn’t matter. Those rotten eggs aren’t going to throw themselves away, are they?”

“No, sir,” the two agreed, and lingered a little while after he was gone, footsteps thundering all the way back to the office.

Then one asked, “How long do you think Bikkuri Boy’s breaks are?”

And then they were gone, and Morgana breathed a sigh of relief even as the knowledge settled: cut breaks and short hours and the blame for failing equipment falling on the rank-and-file employees. It was more than enough evidence, and it was all thanks to Morgana—

Except, right. He’d stormed from Leblanc, leaving Akira and the others behind. If they knew this they’d have to agree Okumura was a perfect target, but Morgana was sure they would want more, when in reality it was plain to see they didn’t want to do it just because they were told to. It was like Mishima’s request to target that actor all over again, except everyone in Tokyo was saying so, and it was true.

So. A little more digging. If Morgana could find Okumura’s Palace—no, better yet, if he could steal the Treasure waiting inside—before the rest of them did… they’d have to acknowledge him, then. They’d have to tell him he was right, and useful, and good for something.

Akira’s face flashed through his mind. Morgana shook it off, heard the office creak open, and slunk behind Sudo and Ms. Okumura like a furry shadow. She wore a Shujin uniform and floral patterned leggings and smelled, even with the stench of bad food all around them, like flowers and freshly-cut wood.

They paused by the entrance. Sudo, with all the charm of a greasy snake, said, “We will have this all ironed out soon, Ms. Okumura, so—”

“I will tell my father so, I assure you,” she interrupted, clearly bent on getting out of his hands as soon as possible. She bowed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Of course, of course!” A laugh, fake and ringing. “One mustn’t keep a young lady like yourself out so late! Do take care on your way home, Ms. Okumura!”

Morgana followed her as she made her way to the station—where a chauffeured car sat waiting. His heart dropped; even in the late rush hour traffic, there was no way Morgana could keep pace with a car. Frantic, he did the only thing he could.

He dashed forward just as the door slammed shut. The underside of the car was a mess of pipes and tanks; he hooked his claws into the least damaging one (although how he knew so, he didn’t know) and held on for dear life.

It was September, and the lingering scent of coconuts and sea salt lingered in Haru Okumura’s nose.

The source was a candle she’d bought for her father, a souvenir from her school trip. Haru had bought herself a little packet of hibiscus seeds from a florist by the beach, one whose smiles had carved laugh lines into her sun-darkened face and whose Japanese was actually fairly good. The blonde second-year, Takamaki, had bought a bouquet just a few minutes before, and as she walked off with her prize Haru found she wanted flowers, too.

Just not for a day.

But she’d planted some of her seeds and given her father his candle—he accepted it with disinterest, as he did most things these days—and yet the car still smelled of summer, of a white, sandy beach in Hawaii, of a few more days of precious freedom.

Precious, precious freedom. She should treasure each moment while she could.

… But she couldn’t.

In just a few short months she would graduate. In a few short months she wouldn’t be a child anymore—not quite, not really—and it hung over her, her graduation day like an executioner’s ax poised to cut her off from her childhood.

In just a few short months, Haru would marry.

He was a good match, she thought. A wealthy young man with an illustrious political career ahead of him; a family line that could be traced back generations, every one of them a born-and-bred Japanese citizen (however much he dyed his hair); the very picture of a well-bred gentleman…

Except Haru didn’t much like him.

She tried to, but he was six years her senior and out of college. He touted his alma mater every chance he could get, promising her only the best of educations with the faintest look of disbelief on his face whenever she mentioned she was contemplating the idea, as if she would want to belittle herself with a college education.

She tried to, but her dates were chaperoned with either her father or his parents, and conversation always turned to politics if it didn’t turn to her schooling. They all sneered at the news in their polite, rich way: Phantom Thieves? More like hooligans running amok! Scandals? More like baggage left out in the open, ready and waiting for someone to trip over!

She tried to, but whenever they did get the chance to talk in private, their conversation tended toward how big the house he was going to buy would be, and how many children he wanted, and whether or not she might want the help of a governess. When Haru told him she wanted one, if only for some time for herself to spend in the garden she wanted to have, he looked at her as if the mere thought of having leisure time was a crime.

But, she supposed, perhaps he wouldn’t like being associated with a wife who dug around in the dirt. He said he would hire a gardener.

Haru did not want a gardener.

But it didn’t seem to matter to him what she did and didn’t want. All that mattered was what he wanted—children and a pretty, young wife and the ability to boast about it all—and Haru knew she would have no choice but to give it to him.

She thought of her laughing classmates on the beach, of Takamaki’s friends wearing hibiscus in their hair, and of the soft way that transfer student asked her if she was alright.

No one ever asked her how she was—or if they did, they never truly cared for an answer.

Not for the first time, Haru pulled her phone from her bag. Before she knew it, the Phan-site sat in front of her. She searched for her post, made just a few days ago at the airport, but it was gone.

She wondered if it was true, that the Phantom Thieves needed names to go after targets. She wondered why. She wondered why she never bothered to tell anyone, not even the (not quite so) anonymous admin.

Because… whose heart did she want them to take? Sugimura’s, like a doting lech’s? Her father’s, running his employees ragged? Either would be fine, she thought. She could stand an arranged marriage if the man cared about her—but she wouldn’t be in this predicament at all if it weren’t for her father’s ambitions.

And either way… what would become of her?

That thought scared her the most.

So she tucked her phone away, resolution quivering in her heart.

When the car rolled to a stop in the parking garage, Haru told the driver, “You can head home, if you’d like. I can manage from here.”

The driver, at least, was a nice man. He listened, even when her father and Sugimura wouldn’t. “Are you sure, miss? It isn’t much farther.”

“I’d like the walk,” Haru insisted. “I suppose I got used to fresh air in Hawaii. And they do say exercise is good for you, don’t they?”

The driver, who often took her to the gardening supply stores she liked so much, gave her look in the rearview. “Your father wouldn’t be happy with me if something happened to you.”

And that what was she hated: being escorted everywhere like a child likely to wander off at a moment’s notice. Her classmates didn’t have drivers. Her classmates were trusted to wander around on their own and to do whatever they pleased.

“But,” he acquiesced, “it is just a short ride on the elevator, isn’t it? There might not be a need to escort you all the way to your door, miss.”

You’re old enough to manage that, aren’t you?

And she was. She was. She was seventeen, and a senior in high school, and in a few short months she would be married whether she liked it or not. “Yes, of course! I do appreciate you always doing so for me, of course.”

“Of course,” he agreed, and came around to let her out.

She wondered what he saw in her, as her shoes touched pavement. It was a scant few minutes of freedom, but it was hers, and that was surely all that mattered.

Haru made her way over to the elevator. Okumura Foods’ headquarters was a large, sprawling building; most of it was offices and conference rooms, a towering server room filling the basement, endless amounts of space made to look modern and chic. But the top floor was where she and her father lived, a penthouse so large Haru always wondered how they would ever fill it, if her father even wanted to. She had a feeling he didn’t. He liked the open spaces and the vaulted ceilings and the uninterrupted views of the Tokyo skyline.

It was so different from the cramped little shop his father ran, after all. Haru couldn’t fault him for that.

She waved to the driver, standing by the car and watching her go. He bowed back; the doors slipped shut.

But just before she pressed the button that would take her home, the air shivered.

Haru paused. Out in the garage she heard the driver round the car, get in, restart the engine. He would be heading home to his family, glad for the extra few minutes and unaware of the way Haru’s vision swam, the bright buttons of the elevator panel blurring together, herself frozen even as her knees began to shake.

And then, between one blink and the next, the world shifted around her.

Haru, settled on her bed with the brand-new cat brush poised over Morgana’s fur, said, “Your friends seem nice.”

Morgana’s tail flicked. Dinner had been sushi, a treat Akira would have gifted him with reluctance if only for the price tag; yellowtail and fatty tuna still danced on his tongue, oddly sour despite how long he’d desired them. They were supposed to taste better, he thought.

But… just maybe…

“They came all the way here just to find you,” Haru said, “and that’s awfully sweet of them, don’t you think?”

“Guess so,” Morgana grumbled. All he could taste was sour fish. When he closed his eyes all he could see was Akira, wreathed with fire like a dying star, pouring his heart out in the middle of a Palace.

And it was because it was a Palace that Morgana could smell the slight lie. Everything he said was the truth, but not quite. Some little detail was missing. He couldn’t help but think of the songs Akira hummed in Leblanc, and the nonsense code he and Akechi used, and even the way they talked to each other. They didn’t talk like childhood friends kept separate by their circumstances.

But what did Morgana know? He was a cat.

Well, he wasn’t quite a cat, but…

But he wasn’t quite human, either. He had the feeling Akira knew that. He had the feeling Akira didn’t care.

“They saw your dad’s Palace, you know,” Morgana reminded her. “They’re the types that will stick their noses into things, even when you tell them not to. Is that what you want?”

Haru paused in her brushing. “What I want?”

“If I know Akira”—and he did, it was only the natural outcome after spending months at his side—“he won’t storm the Palace until you say it’s okay to. And then he’ll try to rope you into it, because the more the merrier, I guess, and you are a decent enough fighter even without a fully-awakened Persona. He’ll watch out for you.” Then he thought a moment. “They’ll watch out for you. But I’m…”

Just a cat. Just tiny and weak. Without Zorro, that was all he was.

“I can’t protect you,” he admitted. “Not here. Not in there, either.”

And she had to know that. They spent most of their Palace excursions running from the Shadows, and it stupefied Morgana how much of her dad’s company Haru couldn’t even set foot in. She lived in the penthouse. She was the heir to the whole thing. Didn’t that count for something?

“Oh, Mona,” she said, soft and sweet and with tears pricking her eyes. “Aren’t I the one who can’t protect you?”

He rolled over on her lap, watched her dab at her tears. “I’m the one showing you the ropes, here. It’s my job to protect you!”

“But we’re partners, aren’t we?”

That gave him pause. Partners. That meant they shared everything, from the responsibility of a well-done heist to the blame of a failed fight. That they shared even their own powerlessnes.

(“Stuck, huh,” the frizzy-haired kid said, contemplating Morgana’s words only for a moment before throwing the lever.

Morgana dashed from his cell, regarding the two of them—frizzy hair had a weird nonchalance about him, a relaxed posture that didn’t mesh with the way his gaze darted about the dungeon; loudmouth, however, was all frantic energy and quick, jerky movements.

But they were powerless. They needed him.

And he—)

“We need each other,” Haru went on. “And your friends need you, too, Mona. It doesn’t matter to them that you can’t contribute the way you used to. They came looking for you because they care.”

“You’ve never talked to Ryuji,” he grumbled. “That oaf can’t even pass his exams half the time and he has the nerve to tell me—me!—that now that Makoto and Futaba are on the team, I’m useless! That pea-brained oaf who can’t grasp even the most basic of concepts of the Metaverse! And Futaba—”

He went on like that for a while. Futaba, treating him like the cat he wasn’t, refusing to talk to him as she mined that data—but that was just Futaba, that was just the way she was. He remembered trying to talk to her as she took down Medjed, Akira in the background cleaning her room until he pulled the cat from her side to make dinner. There had been a glimmer in his eye, as if he was remembering someone precious as he watched her work.

And Lady Ann—she was gorgeous, and kind, and took Morgana’s compliments as well as could be expected—but she was also scatter-brained, and couldn’t act to save her life. Makoto was an equal mixture of terrifying force, beautiful brains, and social ineptitude. Yusuke was… Yusuke. Morgana was still surprised he remembered to eat most days, but he took his studies seriously enough and fought with a passion that rivaled only his love of painting.

And Akira…

Haru giggled as he stalled. “It sounds like you love them a lot.”

“Well, you know,” he said, “we did work together this long. I just…”

That hesitation. It was the same hesitation they’d always shown, amped up by the issue with Mishima and Medjed. Morgana recognized that.

But they’d promised to help him. More recognition meant they could delve deeper into Mementos, and maybe, finally, Morgana would have answers for the dreams he kept having: him, springing to life from a pool of Shadow ichor, eyes the bright gold of the deluded. It almost made sense: why he couldn’t remember his past, why he knew so much about the Metaverse. He’d wandered it, just another Shadow among Shadows, piecing together bits of information until he’d arrived at some semblance of consciousness—and that consciousness, after having spent so long among the masses muttering to themselves that they were human, only human, why couldn’t anyone see that, convinced itself of the same.

Morgana was a human. Morgana was just the same as anyone else. He just looked different, that was all.

And now that he wasn’t quite so sure that was true anymore…

He didn’t want to put up with Ryuji’s taunts, or Makoto’s knowing expression. He didn’t want to hear that Lady Ann would love him anyway, or that Futaba didn’t care what he was so long as she could smoosh his cheeks. He had no idea what Yusuke would do; say the same as Lady Ann, most likely.

And Akira…

“Let me think about it,” he said.

“Of course,” Haru told him. “But, Mona—”

And her next words were so much like Akira’s Morgana could hear him say them as if he was right in the room. Akira said them so often it was a wonder he had to keep repeating himself—but maybe he only said them so often because he wanted someone else to say them back. He wanted a partner. He wanted friends he could trust again.

“I care about you,” she said. “No matter what, I’m on your side.”

“Even if I get us hurt?” Morgana challenged.

“Even then.”

“Even if I get us lost?”

“Yes, even then.”

“Even if—”

“Mona,” she laughed, “that won’t matter. As long as I’m with you, I won’t be lost anymore. You helped me find myself—or a part of it, a small part I never wanted to acknowledge. How can I leave you, knowing everything you’ve given me?”

He didn’t know what to say to that. His tail thumped her thigh, once, twice. “I’m still mad at them, you know.”

“Of course,” she said.

“And… maybe they deserve to miss me a little longer.” She giggled at his daring. “And maybe I deserve to know how far they’re willing to go to get me back. Especially Ryuji, that knuckle-brained idiot.”

Especially Akira, who had kept his secrets so close at hand and, even now, wasn’t willing to fully divulge them. If he just waited a little longer, maybe the truth would finally be out.

Morgana placed a paw up in the air. “So, are you with me, Beauty Thief?”

Haru gave him a high-five, just like he’d taught her, and grinned. “Now and always, Mona.”

And that felt better than any guilt.

Chapter Text

Better results.

Kasumi kept hearing it, over and over: better results, better results. Third place was good but not good enough. Third place was good but it was all she ever managed anymore, as if third place was where she was meant to be.

Which wasn’t right. She’d always been first, before the accident. This was just grief talking. This was Dr. Maruki’s pitying look thrown her way across the table. This was the impassive tone of that teacher who didn’t even know her, some third-year math teacher who couldn’t even look at her when he told her she needed to provide better results.

Better results.

She sniffed, the world going blurry once more. Dr. Maruki was on her side, as he always was, but it wasn’t enough. Her scholarship didn’t depend on the words of a temporary counselor.

It depended on her. And she wasn’t doing enough.

But she was, she wanted to say. She’d given her all and gotten third place—how could she do better than that? How could she ever do better than that? It was as if Sumire’s ghost hung across her shoulders, dragging her down. She’d never had problems like this before.

And now her good-luck charm was gone, too. Perfect.

But—no, it wasn’t. Senpai picked it up for her. Senpai was on his way here now, she would bet money on it. Senpai cared. Maybe if she practiced with him more… yes, that had to be it; her third place was only because she’d stopped practicing with him over the summer. They would have to pick that up again.

And she liked practicing with him. He wasn’t like clumsy Sumire, who tripped over her own two feet more often than not, but more like Kasumi—fierce and bold, performing every move as if it were planned well in advance.

… Which was nothing like her, lately. She felt more and more like Sumire with each passing day. Sumire would be the one with the cell phone on the fritz; Sumire would be the one who dropped her charms. Sumire would be the one told to produce better results.

“So useless,” she murmured to herself. “You’re Kasumi Yoshizawa, aren’t you? Act like it. Picture it, just like Dr. Maruki said. And if you can’t, then just do what you can, just like Senpai told you.”

But it was so hard to when she needed Dr. Maruki’s advice to perk her back up, or Senpai’s attention to pull her out of her funks. It was so hard to, with all these expectations weighing her down.

She was the one and only Kasumi Yoshizawa. She could do better than this.

She had to, if she wanted to perform here one day.

The grand stadium in Odaiba looked no closer to being complete than the last time she’d been here. It was no surprise—with four full years left until the Olympics, the construction team had plenty of time to finish. Only a disaster the likes of which the world had never seen before would halt it—and possibly not even then. The amount of money going into the project was insane. The nation surely wouldn’t stand to see it all wasted.

But, as she found out as a couple passed by, throwing out guesses as to what the building might be as if it wasn’t plastered all over the Internet for anyone to find, they didn’t care.

Just like the school didn’t care.

“It’s a stadium,” she told herself, long after the couple was gone. One day she was going to compete in it—but not the way she was now, not with third place being the best she could achieve. She needed to do better. She needed to produce better results.

She clutched her phone, unaware of the static running through the screen. An eye glared at her from between lines of white noise—and then it was gone, the air warping all around her, pulling the very breath from her lungs.

She cried out, nearly collapsing, but caught herself just in time as a flood of light washed over her. Gone was the stadium and in its place was a gaudy thing of spotlights, corruscating telescopes, and a whirling, golden heart, the whole thing lit up from within until it shone like a beacon.

And from beyond the gates in front of her was a flash of long, red hair.

She gasped, knees quivering, then steeled herself, chasing after it. It was easy to leap the locked gates, but she couldn’t make it to the elevator at the end of the path in time—it flew up into the building, and was a long time coming back down. She fidgeted as she waited, aware of just how dark it was underneath this great, shining building.

But—if that was Sumire—if her ghost really was haunting her, then the least Kasumi could do was find out why. She knew Sumire hadn’t been happy—always third-rate, always second-best—but to punish her own sister for doing better? To drag her down when she knew she needed results?

Kasumi had to know. She had to find out why.

She couldn’t live with herself, otherwise.

By the time the elevator came back, she was a mess of nerves. Her heart hammered, her stomach quivered—but she still went up into the building, taking in the empty, vaulted spaces, the banners hanging from the ceiling spelling out gibberish. Her footsteps echoed, far too loud. Sumire would hear her coming.

But Kasumi would find her. She had to.

There was a door at the top of the stairs. It was cracked open, and she peered through the gap, afraid that even the creak of the hinges would scare Sumire away. She’d always been skittish like that—jumping at the drop of a hat or shrieking at the top of her lungs, and then running away until she felt better.

She never felt better.

But the hinges were well-oiled; Kasumi slipped through, spying Sumire by another large set of doors, back turned. Waiting, as if she knew Kasumi was here.

Which was impossible, but so was this space, so Kasumi approached as quietly as she could. Anything to make Sumire leave her be. Anything to help her sister rest in peace. Anything—

Except as Sumire turned to look at her, footsteps resounded from the ceiling. Someone fell to the floor with a quiet thump, the rustle of cloth following. No, go away! she thought, panicking at the thought of someone discovering her and Sumire and what Sumire was doing to her, following her around like a ball and chain.

Sumire’s dead eyes flashed gold for the briefest of seconds. And then she spoke, in that voice Kasumi hated so much, so soft and weak it could never be heard. “That’s right,” she said. “Go away. Don’t look at me. All of this is my fault. It’s my fault… Kasumi…”

A single tear slipped down her cheek. A single tear slipped down Kasumi’s, and when Sumire took a single step forward, Kasumi mirrored her, just as she always had. They were twins. It was just what they did.

“Please,” said Sumire, reaching out a hand for her. Kasumi reached, too—only to collapse at the sudden spike of pain lancing through her skull. Sumire gaped as she fell before collapsing, too, her back sliced into black ribbons, some kind of shadow come to life behind her.

“Please,” said Sumire, even weaker than before, still reaching out, her dead eyes begging—but for what, Kasumi couldn’t tell before Sumire dissolved into a thick, black sludge. Like motor oil, she thought. Like blood on pavement, spreading and spreading as it pooled out of a broken body.

“No,” Kasumi gasped, the pain so vicious it was blinding.

“How dare you,” whispered that black shadow, skin bubbling from within. “Spurning the lord’s good mercy? Heretic. How dare you.”

“No,” she said again, thinking of Sumire and her dead eyes and—what had she looked like, running out into the street? Had her hair been a red stream behind her, or had that been blood, so much of it, as she flew through the air, or—

“Yoshizawa!” someone called.

“Yoshizawa!” someone else called. Senpai’s voice, calling out for her, frantic. Kasumi struggled to keep herself upright, could barely see past the pain, could barely see past the image of Sumire and her dead eyes and that sludge like so much blood.

To think it could have been—

Someone knelt next to her, hands hovering. Senpai, she thought. “Are you alright?” he asked, concern blatant.

The hovering shadow burst apart; Kasumi winced as so many splatters went flying. Sumire, she thought. How her hair had streamed in the wind. How she’d flown.

“Such foolishness it is to suffer,” whispered the monster hovering above them. “The lord laments every moment. Such kindness is offered. And yet, heretic, you spurn it still.”

“This is bad,” said that other voice. A kid, she thought, but what would a kid be doing here? “That thing’s about to go on the rampage, and it’s strong! We won’t be able to protect Yoshizawa like this!”

“Can you move?” Senpai asked her.

“My legs won’t work,” she told him, “and my head—”

She broke off, gasping in pain. Senpai was here, protecting her. Just like—just like—

Just like Doctor Maruki, she thought. Always speaking up for her. Always telling her it was alright to feel the way she did. They were the only ones on her side, and she was so weak, so useless—

“She just needs to get… better results,” she heard.

“She can’t even act like she deserves special treatment,” she heard. “It’s totally unfair.”

“That’s not true,” Senpai said. “You’re doing the best you can, Yoshizawa.”

He tried to pull her up as a faint growl resounded through the room. The shadow, still not done hurling baseless accusations she couldn’t make heads or tails of. Every single voice she’d heard over the past several months, telling her she wasn’t worthy, wasn’t succeeding, wasn’t good enough. As if she would ever compete at the Olympics like this, taking home third place, if that.

“I don’t care what they say about me,” she said, aware of Senpai latching onto every word. “I can work through anything. I can get better. But—but—”

Sumire had never been good enough, either. Sumire had known she would have to work harder than anyone to stand on the same stage as her sister. Sumire had suspected she never would work hard enough to make it. There was always someone better.

But—

“It was our dream!” Kasumi yelled, through the pain and the noise and the memory. “It was our dream! No one—no one—has the right to ridicule that! I won’t stand for it!”

She struggled to her feet, aware of Senpai at her side. Someone was always at her side. Someone was always—always—right beside her, ready to catch her when she fell, ready to push her up when she was down. Before, that was—

“Don’t put all this pressure on me and then say it’s my fault for failing!” Who was it? She couldn’t remember. “Don’t tell me you have expectations and then threaten to drop me for not living up to them!” It was Kasumi, she thought, but she was Kasumi. She was. “If it’s just what you want—to hell with that! I might flounder, and I might falter, but I will never throw in the towel, because I—”

“Ah,” whispered the hulking monster before her, pleased as punch.

“—I am Kasumi Yoshizawa! And no one can take that from me!”

(Akira thought it was impressive, the ease with which Yoshizawa accepted herself—but there was something off about it. It was too easy. Even for someone like him, who had thought he’d accepted every part of himself, it hadn’t been so… clean. So cut and dry. So simple.

And the way the Shadow laughed, as the three of them cut it down… that was disturbing. No Shadow he’d ever fought had been happy to be ripped to pieces, and yet it had grinned the whole time, happy to be proven wrong.

But wrong about what, Akira never found out.)

By the time the fight was over, Kasumi’s knees trembled like a newborn fawn’s. The awful pain in her head was gone, replaced with an ache and a new, unfamiliar pressure—Cendrillon, all dancer’s poise and grace but with a ferocity that refused to be denied. Senpai and—a kid in a cat costume? Though it was awfully realistic; even the ears and tail twitched—his friend turned to her. In the face of their ease, she forced herself taller.

“Impressive, considering what you just went through,” praised the kid.

“I’ve been through worse,” she said. Competitions did get rough, and the pressure to perform despite every muscle in her body screaming not to… well, there had been more than a few times where she let talk get to her. “But, um… why are we dressed like this?”

“Long story,” Senpai said, eyeing the ceiling as a groan resounded through the building.

The kid clicked his tongue. “Look like we need to get moving. No matter how good you feel right now, Yoshizawa, another fight won’t be. Let’s go.”

She followed after him, Senpai sticking to the rear, one eye at their backs in case another shadow crept up on them. She thought she heard more whispering in all those groans—heretic, suffering, how dare you, how dare you—but drowned it out with the screams of her body, pushed far past its limits. She was going to coddle it tonight. A long, hot bath sounded very, very good. So did a big dinner.

She wanted a treat. She wanted some ice cream.

But first—getting out. They crammed into the elevator, rode it all the way down, and then ran up the path and vaulted over the gates, the cries of the monsters behind them becoming more distant the farther they got until they vanished entirely, the air warping all around her once again—and then they were back in the alley in front of the stadium, warning signs posted every ten feet, tarp covering the fence. There was no sign of the gaudy building they’d just escaped from, though Kasumi searched high and low for it. It was just… gone, as if it never existed.

“Yoshizawa,” Senpai said, concerned, back in his uniform. His cat sat at his feet, wearing a matching expression.

“You aren’t going to find it,” the cat said. “It only exists in the Metaverse. Once we return to reality, we’re safe.”

“If you say so,” she said, sure her mind was playing tricks on her. How tired was she, to imagine Senpai’s cat talking?

“We can explain further, if you’d like!”

“Oh, yes, I’d like that very much—” Her stomach growled, longer and louder than those monsters had been, and far more insistent on being listened to. Her face went hot as she blushed. “Maybe over an early dinner? If that’s alright?”

Senpai already had his phone out, searching for pet-friendly places that wouldn’t mind his cat at the table or buffets that wouldn’t break the bank. With the other, he held out her charm. Kasumi took it, grateful he’d come all this way just to return it. There weren’t many who’d do the same, and she’d needed his combat expertise—without it, she wasn’t sure where she would be right now.

But she was here, and she was safe, and she finally felt strong enough to walk on her own two feet.

Akira was avoiding him.

That was what it felt like. Akira would see him in the halls and duck his head, pretending to be small; Akira would catch him out of the corner of his eye and turn the other way, his back a silent warning.

And that was alright, Takuto thought. Ever since the school trip life had been hectic for the both of them: Takuto, struggling to finish his paper; Akira, at the center of every new rumor spreading like wildfire throughout Shujin. Takuto feared that neither of them were taking the stress well.

But with his paper finally finished… maybe they both deserved a break.

He sent out a tentative text at lunch, sure that Akira would ignore, that, too, but not even five minutes went by before he received a reply: Sure thing.

It was astounding, how easy it was.

He spent the rest of his lunch break making reservations and grilling the concierges on allergen information. This was Akira, not some random teen who could eat anything and everything. Takuto had to be careful. Takuto wanted to be careful.

Takuto wanted to show this boy just how much he cared.

It was a thought he pondered for the rest of the day: that he cared about Akira in a way that bordered inappropriate. It was the incident over summer vacation, he thought. Plenty of students had cried in front of him but he’d never held them while they did so, choosing instead to keep a professional distance. It was better for everyone that way. But holding Akira felt like second nature, like something Takuto should be doing regardless of his profession.

(And it felt nice, but that was not something he was going to admit.)

But with his paper finished, Akira surely wouldn’t want to come around anymore. Their deal would be done. Takuto had nothing left to glean from him save the secrets of his heart, but it felt too much like prying, now, and he was afraid of what would happen if the boy divulged more. Takuto liked talking to him, liked the vulnerability he showed only to Takuto. He even liked how easy he was to read.

Like now, awkwardness rolling off his shoulders as Takuto clocked out for the day and grabbed his jacket, every step they took to his car dragging. Takuto paused by the door, keys in hand. “We don’t have to do this today, if you aren’t feeling up to it,” he offered, but Akira gave him a small, self-aware smile and assured him it was alright.

“I’m more worried about you, doctor,” he quipped as they took their seats and fastened their belts. “Leaving campus with a student? That’s not exactly proper behavior, is it?”

“Perhaps not,” Takuto agreed, if only to assuage the niggling feeling that, yes, this was wrong, and why didn’t he care about that more? “But—and I realize the blame is mostly mine, of course—it feels as if you’ve got quite a lot on your shoulders at the moment. They must be quite heavy. I’m truly sorry I haven’t been able to keep up with our sessions. This is the least I can do to apologize.”

Akira hummed and said, “Kidnapping a student?”

Takuto stared at the steering wheel, his keys dangling from the ignition, the engine dead beneath them. “Akira,” he began to say, but was interrupted.

“It’s fine,” Akira said. “I’m just… you’re right. It’s been a long summer, and the least you can do to apologize is listen to me complain about it, right?”

“Right. Of course.”

And then they were off, the streets of Tokyo congested with cars. Akira led with a few normal things for a student to worry about—how his summer homework was graded, how he’d done on his midterms—then into a few more personal items—how his cat ran away after the school trip, how he’d been picked up by Okumura’s daughter, how he and his friends had welcomed her into the group with open arms. Akira had even made friends with his guardian’s reclusive daughter, who was more of a terror than any of them had initially thought her capable of being.

Takuto laughed where he thought it appropriate, and asked the occasional question, but let him talk. If Akira was in a talkative mood, Takuto’s only desire was to oblige. He liked listening, he found, even if most of the boy’s problems were ordinary. He had a voice that begged to be heard.

Akira said, “I didn’t know you had a car.”

“I don’t drive very much,” Takuto admitted, “but every so often I do get the urge to. It’s calming, in its own way. Maybe when you have your license you’ll understand.”

“Maybe,” Akira said, briefly going pale. So he was one of those people, then. He didn’t like the responsibility—or perhaps it reminded him too much of flying. Takuto didn’t blame him.

But he had a feeling driving wasn’t what was eating at him. “Is something wrong?”

He slumped in his seat. “Is it obvious?”

“A bit,” Takuto told him. “I’ve said this before, but body language can say as much as words do—sometimes more. And yours is telling me something is wrong. Ah, you don’t have to share, of course—”

“I never do, do I?” Akira said, mostly to himself. He was quiet for a long moment, the car rumbling away beneath them. Finally, he said, “I’ve just… been thinking a lot lately. It feels like I’m chasing after something I can’t have, something I shouldn’t want. But it’s hard to ignore how badly I want it. It’s overwhelming, to be honest.”

“Ah,” Takuto said. “So you’re in love, then?”

He barked laughter. “Is it so obvious?”

“That’s just how love is,” Takuto said. He thought of Rumi, of all those school days spent watching her from afar, of finally having her in college, of losing her. It was for her sake, but it still hurt him. “It’s normal, especially for a high school student.”

“I know, I just…” He sighed. “My friends have figured it out, for the most part, or I’ve told them. It’s surprising how much they don’t care about it. Back home, in Iwate, I never—never would have been able to say so. You know?”

“Ah,” Takuto said, thinking of Akira and Akechi on the streets of Kichijoji. There was a blurry video of them singing together in a jazz bar. They really did compliment each other. “That must be difficult to understand, indeed.”

“Culture shock,” Akira murmured, and Takuto agreed. “And I—even though it’s such a strong love, I can’t help but hold myself back, too. Part of me says I should just say so and get it over with and I’ll feel better, knowing the truth. Another part says I shouldn’t, that what I’ve got should be enough, that I shouldn’t hope for anything more. Another part keeps focusing on all these comments. I can’t help but wonder what they mean, sometimes.”

“It would be hard not to, when they’re said by someone you love.”

Akira hummed agreement. “I wonder what it would take for me to say it. I’ve come close, but it’s so hard to, and I—” He broke off with a huff.

Takuto waited for a while, wondering if he would finish that thought, then realized— “You… haven’t told them?”

“No,” Akira said. “How can I? It would be too strange, coming from me. After all, I’m…”

A criminal. A boy. Akechi surely wouldn’t want to date either, but Takuto was sure gender had nothing to do with it. Akechi looked at Akira as if he held the whole world in his hands, and he had to know the truth behind Akira’s probation.

Takuto said, “You shouldn’t think that way. Everyone deserves to be happy, and that includes you, too.”

“And you don’t mind that I’m like this, do you, Maruki?”

“Of course not.” If it did, Takuto was in the wrong profession. “But you do. Is that it?”

“It would be easier if I weren’t, I think.”

“Love isn’t easy, no matter who winds up being the target of your affection.”

Akira thought on that for a while. It was only as they pulled into the parking garage that he said, “It really isn’t, huh.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“And all I can hope for is the love and support of my friends, huh?”

“Exactly.”

His lips twitched into something resembling a smile, and for the first time that day Takuto felt as if he accomplished something grand. They made their way into the hotel and through the lobby; Akira looked at the gaudy décor with a detached interest, and then at the concierge with vague amusement.

The concierge stared back, displeasure curling his lip. “Maruki, party of two, I presume.”

“Ah, yes, but how did you—”

“I try to remember the ones with… allergies, sir,” he said, and led them to a table already set with stacks of porcelain plates, glass cups, and proper silverware. “If you need anything more, you need only ask, sirs.”

Then he turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving Takuto to gape at his conduct.

Akira sighed. “My friends and I have been here before,” he explained. “I, uh, might have had to argue with him about the plates and cutlery. And, um, with the buffet staff, too. I guess some people really don’t forget.”

“I… see,” Takuto said, and it hit him all over again, how terribly inconvenient Akira’s allergy was. He wondered how much of the food in the buffet Akira could actually eat, how much of it was served in the wrong warmers. How incredibly short-sighted Takuto had been—but this was the restaurant Rumi had always wanted to celebrate at, and Takuto had been so fixated on going…

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” he began, but Akira cut him off.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I know what I can have here. Although, now I’m wondering what I’ve done to warrant such an expensive gift. Did something good happen?”

“Oh, yes,” Takuto said. “But first, why don’t we get some food? We only have an hour, after all.” And the smells drifting over from the buffet had him dizzy with hunger; he could tell why Rumi had always wanted to come here, even if he and Akira felt underdressed in their respective uniforms. Takuto was, at least, wearing a tie and nice slacks, but next to the suits and brand-name dresses of the rest of the buffet-goers…

“Sure thing,” Akira said, as easy as breathing, all the doubt he’d shown in the car dissolving as he grabbed up a plate and all but sauntered over to the buffet, where he proceeded to stand in line for steak.

On a whim, Takuto proceeded to grill the buffet staff with his own questions—what was in the vegetable medley, what kind of spices were in the potatoes, what kind of grain was in the bread—and came away with a plate much like Akira’s, all meat and colorful vegetables and a single roll of white bread. Akira eyed his selection with amusement that gave way to embarrassment.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“But I want to,” Takuto told him, and dug in. He was glad the Wilton tended toward Western cuisine: there was no wide variety of fish and sushi to choose from, no sprouts in the vegetables, no sesame seeds sprinkled on the meat. On his second plate he allowed himself a lovely piece of salmon filet. On his third, he noticed Akira still on his first plate, sitting back between bites to people-watch.

Takuto thought of garlic and onions, of citrus-based marinades, of whole-grain flour thickening the gravy. He said, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Akira said. He looked to his plate, then to Takuto. “It’s just… rich, that’s all. And I’m, well, you know.”

A teenager in a high school uniform—in Shujin’s uniform—and with a food allergy. Of course he wouldn’t be wanted around, by staff and patron alike. “That shouldn’t matter, should it?”

Akira shrugged with a wince. Takuto thought of the whispers floating up and down Shujin’s halls of a vicious criminal of a transfer student, one who kept deadly weapons in his bag and beat anyone who looked at him wrong. The farther along in the school year they got, however, the more the rumors died, although there were a few students still on about it. Takuto had yet to figure out why.

“Akira,” he began to say, but for the second time was interrupted.

“You never did say what this was about,” Akira said. His foot tapped a rhythm on the carpet. “Dinner in a fancy hotel like this? It must be good.”

Takuto tried not to let the brush-off get to him. “Oh, well.” He looked at his plate, a nice selection of mixed rice and vegetables with beef on the side. He’d always believed in a balanced diet, but he could understand where Akira was coming from: everything was slathered in butter and salt. He took a bite; the meat was tender, the vegetables roasted to a delightful crisp. “I, um. I finished my paper.”

“Your thesis?”

“Yes,” he said. “All I need to do now is to get it peer-reviewed. I realize it’s too early to celebrate, of course, but after putting a stop to our sessions to work on it… and you’d been such a big help, too…”

“Oh,” Akira said, wide-eyed. “You… actually finished it?”

“Yes!” And he was rather proud of it, too. Between sessions with the other students, check-ins with his old boss at the clinic, and running out to the lab in Odaiba… He thought it would take longer. Much longer. “And, well, I’d always dreamed of coming here once I did. When I thought of how much I owe you for your help, it just… clicked.”

And he felt like they’d gotten somewhere on the drive here. It felt like a milestone, for Akira to talk so easily, so readily, so much—but it also felt normal. That was what teenagers were supposed to do: talk your ear off about anything and everything in an attempt to connect, and Akira’s usual silence unnerved him.

That wasn’t the way he was supposed to be.

“I see,” Akira said, ducking his head in a bow over the table. “Congratulations, then. Remember me when you’re rich and famous, yeah?”

“Oh, I doubt I’ll ever be anything close to rich and famous!” Though it was a nice thought. Who wanted to worry over finances? Certainly not Takuto. “Just as I doubt I could ever forget someone like you. Really, this is all thanks to the help you’ve given me. Truly, I’m grateful.”

It was his turn to bow over his plate, tears pricking at his eyes. Without Akira, without the Phantom Thieves, without Azathoth… where would Takuto be?

Not here. Certainly not here.

Azathoth writhed in content agreement.

“You’re the one who put the pieces together, not me,” Akira said.

“Even still,” Takuto started—but as he straightened, he caught sight of a man standing over their table, amused at their antics. Takuto knew that good-natured face even as he startled to find it there. “Shibusawa? What in the world—you could have said something!”

“And miss out on this? Not on your life, Maruki,” Shibusawa said, laughter in his voice. “It feels like it’s been forever. You’re in grad school now, right?”

“Right,” Takuto said. “Ah, but first—Akira, this is Shibusawa. We went to the same general college together. Shibusawa, this is Akira. He’s, um…”

He floundered for an answer. Akira found one faster. “The good doctor’s sounding board,” he said. “Although I do get free snacks for listening to him talk.”

Takuto sputtered; Shibusawa laughed, and Akira let him go on a while before correcting himself: “Maruki actually counsels at my school. We wind up talking a lot. His research is more interesting than I thought.”

“Oh?” Shibusawa said. “So you actually went into counseling, Maruki? I’d heard so, but I guess seeing is believing, huh?”

“But you’re the one who suggested I give it a try,” Takuto said. After Ms. Umeda’s orphanage he’d been on the fence about it—but it was Shibusawa, not Rumi, who suggested it as a way to pay the bills and put in the hours for his doctorate.

“Nobody starts out knowing exactly how to do their jobs, Maruki,” he’d said, “especially not scrawny high school boys from the country.”

“And you’re the one who actually followed through with it,” Shibusawa said now, grinning. “Good on you! But, wow, that was only a couple years ago, wasn’t it?”

“It was, yes,” Takuto said.

Shibusawa looked them both over, then said, “Why don’t I join you guys for a while? You can catch me up on everything—especially on Akira, here. Like, what’s with the special plates?”

And he sat down, just like that. Akira hid laughter behind a fist at Takuto’s expression and said, “I’m allergic to the gold plating on their normal ones and to the nickel in the cutlery. I don’t even want to know how much extra these were.”

“Allergic, huh?” Shibusawa settled into a seat; Takuto made room, dragging his plate with him. “So those are real gold-plated plates?”

“It’s an alloy, but it’s close enough that I don’t want to risk it,” Akira said.

“Huh,” he said. “And Maruki knew about this?”

“It’s in my file. And Maruki here likes to give out snacks, so I thought he should know what I can and can’t eat in better detail. You’d be surprised what’s in some of them.”

Citrus and chocolate and soybean powder, Takuto thought. Not even the rice crackers were completely safe. Finding ones Akira could actually have made his wallet weep.

“I never thought about it that way before,” Shibusawa said. “And your school, Akira—it’s Shujin, isn’t it? The one that’s been on the news so much. I think I’d recognize that uniform anywhere by now.”

“Some parents suggested me to their principal earlier this year,” Takuto said. “Though like at the clinic, it’s only part-time. I’m just glad I can still earn my hours.”

“Huh,” Shibusawa said, scrutinizing the two of them. “So this is… what, a private counseling session? I’m not intruding, am I?”

“Oh, no, of course not!” Akira excused himself to the restroom; they watched him go, hunching between one gaudy patron and the next. “I told him this earlier, but my thesis is done. He was a big help; I think I’d still be floundering, trying to organize my thoughts, without him. So, I, you know. I thought this would be a good thank-you. What teenager doesn’t like to eat good food?”

They eyed Akira’s plate. It sat, nearly finished but untouched, his food gone cold.

Takuto said, “If I really wanted it to be a private session, I could have gotten delivery at Shujin. Maybe I’m overstepping my bounds here, but I did genuinely think this was a good idea. Now, though…”

“I’ll admit, he doesn’t look as ecstatic about it as some would, yeah,” Shibusawa said, thoughts racing.

“There’s been a lot going on. It wouldn’t surprise me to find that there’s more.”

“But that’s your job, isn’t it? To help them open up about that stuff?”

“Not for much longer. My tenure ends in November.”

And it was October, even if the air was still doggedly hot, still stifling. Even if Akira was still wearing his summer uniform, soon enough he’d be back to blazer and turtleneck.

“Say, Maruki,” Shibusawa said, contemplating the table, the plates, the silverware. Actual, honest silver. Takuto still couldn’t believe it. “Tell me honestly. Is a sounding board all this kid is to you?”

“He has circumstances I can’t talk about,” Takuto told him. “But our sessions are mandatory. I thought he’d take it easier if we didn’t have to talk about him all the time, and he’s a smart kid, and more mature than you’d think. Far more mature than most teens, anyway. Personally, I think he likes our arrangement. He gets to feel… needed, and wanted, and listened to. Isn’t that all anyone wants?”

“I suppose,” was Shibusawa’s murmur. His brow furrowed; in the air over him shimmered a shining thread, and Takuto’s mouth went dry. “It just feels like that’s not… quite right, somehow.”

“How do you mean?”

But try as he might, Shibusawa couldn’t answer. By the time Akira came back from the restroom, he and Takuto were back onto brighter topics—how much of a miracle it was that Takuto was still doggedly going at his thesis, how Shibusawa would review it for him just like the good old days, how the meal was officially on Shibusawa’s dime. Takuto took the liberty of making a new plate for the boy, a more diverse selection in smaller portions than his last, one that Akira raised a brow at.

“I checked everything!” Takuto insisted, and preened a bit at Akira’s quiet thanks as he sat down. If he felt self-conscious, Takuto would gladly wade into the shark-infested waters of the buffet for him, but Takuto had a feeling that wasn’t quite it.

Whatever it was causing Akira’s hesitation, Takuto would do all he could to alleviate it.

But Akira laughed outright at Shibusawa’s plate, a mountain of meat and beans, and told them the story of how, when he and his friends visited, they’d done much the same not knowing Akira couldn’t eat beans. He’d had to feed half the plate to his cat, sneaked into the restaurant in Akira’s bag, coaxing the animal through bite after bite with fish. That set Shibusawa off: he told story after story of their general college days, when they’d go out to buffets or diners for study groups and clean the place out. Takuto had been an especially big eater at those gatherings, never quite realizing he ate too much until after it was over and his stomach was complaining. He’d blamed it on his tendency to forget things like food and sleep while he worked; the same held true even today. Sometimes his counseling snacks were the only meals he ate.

But it was worth it, to help people. To help Akira.

This time, though, it was Shibusawa who gave up the ghost first; he sat back with a groan, plate of dessert finally clear. Akira worked through his second slice of cheesecake; Takuto was savoring a particularly wonderful slice of apple pie and wondering if he would have time to grab the cherry, too.

“I’m beginning to think you had the right idea,” Shibusawa told Akira, wincing as he took in the pile of dirty—but thankfully empty—plates. “Us old folk just can’t eat like we used to, huh, Maruki?”

“I think I’ve hit my caloric intake for the whole week,” Takuto agreed, gamely chewing. He hadn’t chowed down like Shibusawa, but he’d definitely eaten more than Akira, and it was finally starting to hit him. Maybe he wouldn’t have that cherry pie after all.

“Tell me about it.” Shibusawa shook his head, trying to clear it of post-meal sleepiness, and winced again. “It’ll be just my luck, too, to get chewed out for packing on the pounds like this.”

“By who?” Akira asked.

“Oh, uh, my girlfriend—no,” Shibusawa shook his head again, “she’s my fiancee. We’re getting married soon. If I don’t fit in my tux she’s really going to let me have it. We’ve been planning this wedding for months.”

“Oh, congratulations!” Takuto said, and was ashamed not to have noticed sooner. Why else would Shibusawa be here, at a buffet like this, if not to celebrate his last few days of bachelorhood?

“Oh,” Akira said. He set his fork down, stared at his plate, then asked, “Can I see it?”

“The wedding?”

He shook his head, “No, your ring. If you don’t mind.”

“Well… sure, why not.” He twisted it off, waiting while Akira tugged on his gloves. “We don’t have a matching pair—she likes her diamonds, you know—but I like this one well enough. We’re gonna get it engraved for the ceremony. It’s uh, cheaper…”

He trailed off. Akira sat with the thin band of gold cradled in his hands and cried silent tears, and Takuto itched to hold him like he had months ago. Inappropriate, he told himself firmly, especially with Shibusawa and a venue of judgmental rich folks nearby.

“Akira,” he said, helplessly, but Akira only shook his head, handing the ring back and wiping at his tears.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured them. “It’s just… you know, something I’ve always dreamed of. Getting married. It must be nice.”

“Well, the planning’s not so great,” Shibusawa told him, “but… it’s what comes after. That’s what you mean, huh?”

A life together with the one he loves, Takuto thought as Akira said, “Yeah.”

He studied his ring. “I’ll admit, I am looking forward to it. I’m just kinda surprised. I thought if any one of us would be tying the knot first it’d be you, Maruki. But I guess you’re still…”

“What happened wasn’t Rumi’s fault,” Takuto said. “It was an extremely unfortunate accident, and parting ways was simply better for her in the long run. I’ve heard she’s happier, now.”

“… I was, uh, gonna say still single, actually,” Shibusawa said. “But, uh—”

“Even the stars die out,” Akira murmured.

“The stars, huh,” Takuto said, giving him another look over. There was pity swimming in his eyes, but understanding, too, and the tip of a finger rubbed at the spot a ring would sit like it did on Shibusawa’s finger.

“Sorry for bringing it up, you two,” Shibusawa said. “Look at us. This was supposed to be a celebration! And you know… just because everybody around you’s getting married doesn’t mean you have to go and jump the gun, too. Take your time. Find somebody you really love and want to spend your days with. You can live life at your own pace.”

There were a few bites of his cheesecake left, but Akira was done: he murmured agreement, then stood and excused himself for the day, tears trailing anew down his cheeks. The two men left behind watched him go, then stared at the dessert.

Takuto tugged it over, determined not to leave even a single scrap of food, and dug in.

“I really didn’t mean to,” Shibusawa said.

“I had no idea he’d react like that, either,” Takuto told him. “And these days… you know it’s complicated. But it always has been.”

Because teenage heartthrob Goro Akechi wouldn’t marry someone like Akira. It would tarnish his image too much. Takuto almost understood why: if he was a celebrity, Akechi could never be left alone ever again. No one would ever abandon him.

It just seemed a shame, when it was obvious Akira was willing to give him the world and then some.

Shibusawa hummed agreement, gaze trained on the plates, the cups, the dirtied cloth napkins. He waited until Takuto was done eating to say, “Maruki. I hope this is just me being, you know, careful, but… that kid. He’s… I mean, not that you seem the type, but—”

“He’s really just a student,” Takuto assured him. “I know how it looks. Really, I do. If you knew half his circumstances you’d understand.” With a clatter, the last plate was stacked, and over by the entrance the concierge frowned at them, eyeing his watch.

Takuto stared at the table before him: all this good food, and Akira had picked at it. Just nerves, he thought. Midterms were over and the school festival was days away, but with what happened to the Okumura girl’s father… Takuto was sure no one, much less Akira, wanted to be slandered as a murderer. His sheer determination to continue life as normal instead of buckling once more… Takuto was impressed.

Impressed and worried in the same measure.

“You know,” Shibusawa said, “you really dote on him. Like a father would.”

“Do I?”

Takuto thought of his own father, sunk into his own head and throwing tantrums at anything that was too much, too sudden, too different. The man hadn’t been able to care for himself, much less anyone else. He’d looked at Takuto and his mother like they were strangers.

How much Takuto wished he could go back to that day and tell him not to go on that trip. Scream at him that he wouldn’t come back the same. Beg and cry and plead like the child he was for his father not to change.

But people did. Maybe if he stayed, it would have happened anyway, as inevitable as the sun setting every night.

He ruminated on it for the rest of the night after parting ways with Shibusawa; he treated Akira like a father would his son. He treated Akira like he was someone precious to be doted over.

And the thought grabbed him and refused to let go.

Her phone chimed.

Haru had given the servants off for a few days—a paid vacation, she told them, and definitely not a lay off—while she recuperated. Her father’s agent had indeed helped her take care of everything, from taking care of the funeral arrangements to ordering dinner every night. She didn’t have to lift a finger to do more than mope, and cry, and generally feel…

Well, she was sad. Her father was dead, his change of heart gone horribly wrong, and any chance of knowing that kind and caring father she’d glimpsed in his Shadow, beaten down on the floor of his Palace, was gone for good.

And she was irritated. Irritated at herself for taking so long with the request, irritated at her friends that it had taken dire circumstances and a poll to get them to do anything, irritated at the world for laughing over her father’s death, saying he got what he deserved, that it was karma for all the workers he’d worked to death. Irritated at Sugimura who, barely a few minutes after the funeral was over, was insisting on a date.

As if she would ever.

But mostly she was restless. Without the funeral arrangements, without the need to cook, but without the urge to step foot outside of her home just to walk down the street, she was restless. She paced, back and forth, in front of the enormous window in the living room, and grew irritated that she could without bumping into furniture. Then she paced in her room, smaller but still larger than her friends’, and grew irritated that she was bumping into furniture.

So when Yusuke sent her a simple request for her company at his school festival, she cried with relief. She was still wanted, despite cursing her friends out several times over in her head. She was still cared about. They likely felt as bad as she did—Makoto assured her they would give her space until she was ready to go back to school—and the guilt of being responsible was all that kept them from reaching out to each other.

But there sat Yusuke’s text, and here sat Haru, in a tiny classroom cafe in Kosei. She nursed her cup of honey-hazelnut coffee and admired the tailoring on the uniforms and wondered what her class was doing for the festival.

(Whatever it was, she wouldn’t be expected to participate.)

And here Yusuke sat right across from her, framing everything with his hands, his (likely store-bought, it was so wonderfully decorated) matcha cupcake going uneaten. She’d bought it for him, certain that he wouldn’t eat otherwise. Her own sat half-finished.

And here, between them and their cups of coffee and plates of dessert, sat his condolences for her father and her accusations of the Thieves, unspoken.

Her accusations of herself, unspoken.

And Yusuke was oddly quiet. Haru wasn’t sure when she got used to his exuberance—to the Thieves’ exuberance, to the way they did everything boldly, loudly, announcing themselves to the world at large just by existing—just that she had, and she found she missed it.

She missed it more than she did her father, at any rate.

But she didn’t press him. They ate and went to a few other food stalls and cafes. They watched a group of interpretive dancers in the courtyard; they looked over beautiful pieces of flowers locked in resin, the smallest good for a bookmark, the largest a slab that could fit on the living room wall. She bought it, and then several other pieces, because why not? There was no one to tell her what she could and couldn’t buy anymore, and no one to tell her where she could and couldn’t display it. That too-large penthouse was her home, now, and hers alone.

Yes. Just hers.

The thought made her eyes burn; she ducked her head, determined to wait them out, but Yusuke saw and tugged at her sleeve, led her to a quiet, shady spot where the din of the crowd was nothing but a murmur. A peacock snoozed in the nearby flowerbed, and the bench Yusuke sat her down on was cool.

She dug a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her face. Lavender filled her nose. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I’m sure it was that hideous tea cozy,” Yusuke said.

Yes, it had been hideous: clearly a first attempt and covered with the snags and snarls to prove it. If it had been Haru’s work, she never would have displayed it in a festival stall. She would have unraveled and reworked it until it was right, until it was—

“Such clashing, loud colors would never suit any tea service,” Yusuke said. “It would utterly ruin the ambiance. Unless… I suppose if one were to commission a service set in the same colors… but, no…”

“No?”

“I simply cannot imagine anyone partaking in tea from such violent teaware. And yet, there surely must be someone who will, for the very simple fact that that is what they love.”

“But,” Haru said, confused, “it was so… amateur.”

Yusuke looked at her. “This is a school festival, yes.”

“But… it’s Kosei’s school festival.”

Kosei, known for its arts. Kosei, where only the finest, most ambitious students tended to gather. Surely one of them could knit better than that.

“Kosei or not, Haru, there is no knitting club here,” Yusuke informed her. “Or… did you miss the sign that stated the class number?”

“Class number,” she murmured.

He nodded. “Homemade goods, from charms and key chains and phone straps to hideous tea cozies, lumpy ceramics, and poorly-painted jars. I suppose it’s fine work for the general course students, of course. And they were awfully proud of each one.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling very rude, very suddenly. “I thought… well, I didn’t mean to say—”

“That because it isn’t perfect, it’s worthless.”

She winced. “Yes. That.”

Yusuke hummed. He dug through her bag of purchases, tugging a resined flower from the mix. When he held it up to the scant light filtering in through the shade, the sprig of lavender came alive in purples and pinks, as vibrant as the day it was cut. Haru had no idea where she would put it, save that she wanted to see it every day, lit up from within with frozen life.

She shivered.

“And yet, perfection comes at a price,” Yusuke said. “Notice the trimmed spots here, and here, and here. Wilted flowers, I suspect, and therefore unwanted. If it’s to be sold, it must be perfect, and to make it perfect—”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

And now she saw it, too: those trimmed branches, those open wounds left on display. She would never be able to look at it now without seeing them.

“A price for perfection,” Yusuke mused, “like the price for beauty. The harder we strive to reach those pinnacles, the more they cut into us. Is that not right, Haru?”

“I—” She started to speak, but her throat closed up. She and Yusuke were different, she thought: Madarame’s outright mistreatment and her father’s emotional neglect weren’t the same. Haru had everything she could ever ask for and then some; repaying his generosity with obedience only seemed natural. That was what a daughter did.

That was what her father said a daughter did.

“Cry, if you must,” Yusuke told her.

And she did, though every tear felt like a knife, flaying her open, stripping away the years until she was young and naive enough to think that her father could love her, to think that without it she was a terrible daughter, an impertinent daughter, a daughter who did not love her father back. She wondered if Madarame used the same excuses: that if he couldn’t be obeyed, he wasn’t loved; that if he couldn’t command, he was hated.

(Yusuke thought of that first night back in the atelier. How angry he was after discovering Madarame’s lies, how sick of how he was forced to play the obedient son in front of a man who had stolen from him for years—and who had stolen from his own mother, left her to die to claim her greatest piece as his own. It wasn’t the first time Madarame had scowled at him like that, but it was the first time that Madarame made him swear not to bring anyone else to the atelier, and his eyes glared promises Yusuke didn’t doubt he would keep: that if a word of the secret room got out, Yusuke would be the one paying the price.

Even though the Sayuri was his birthright. Even though the Sayuri was all that had kept him going over the years.

And the thought of it all—of being used and manipulated and groomed, of being accused and vindicated and mocked, of being proud of it all until the last several hours showed him otherwise—was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

In the silent, empty space of the atelier, Yusuke laid on his thin, thin bed and cried.

But when he was done—)

By the time she was done, the peacock had left in a huff to find another quiet place to nap. Haru dabbed at her face and wondered how swollen it was, then decided she didn’t care: her father was dead, and it was her right to mourn, no matter where or when the urge took her. She asked for the lavender sprig, held it up to the light, thought briefly of dashing it to the ground—but it had done nothing wrong save not be perfect enough. Why couldn’t she love it, despite its scars?

And didn’t her friends do the same for her?

“Thank you,” she said. She stood, dusting off her skirt. The sun beyond their shady spot was bright, and laughter and calls rang out from the festival. Yusuke gave her a small, knowing smile.

Then his stomach grumbled.

She laughed and promised him lunch.

Haru had never much liked doctors.

They poked and prodded; they pinched and pulled; they shoved their fingers in places Haru was vaguely sure were indecent but was too polite to object to and declared her fit, and it wasn’t up until the last month that she learned what, exactly, she was fit for.

So visiting Doctor Maruki was a bit… difficult.

After her talk with Yusuke, however, she was beginning to see the issue with that. She had scars where only the trained eye could see, flaws pruned and polished and buffed until she was scrubbed raw in pursuit of a perfection that didn’t exist except in cheap adventure stories that catered to boys. She was prim and proper with a wealthy upbringing, but what she feared that translated to was innocent and obedient and with a hefty dowry to boot.

She didn’t like that.

So she sought out Doctor Maruki, knowing that his advice would be to simply enjoy herself as a teenager: hanging out with her friends, socializing with her classmates, most definitely not flaunting her money in ways that caused her friends to gape at her and for Akira to gently say, “Haru, that’s a bit… much, isn’t it?”

But it wasn’t. Canceling would have been the bigger waste; he’d understood once she explained the contract and fees, but still wore a drawn shock on his features for the rest of the night. Even Makoto had left looking overwhelmed, and she was the one who understood budgeting the most.

Haru just had more wiggle room than most of her classmates. That was all.

But now that she was here, with a delectable tea in front of her and a basket of snacks waiting to be perused, she was tongue-tied.

It was the lab coat, she thought. All of the other doctors her father took her to wore one; why wouldn’t Doctor Maruki do the same? He kept his pens in the same pocket, and Haru had no doubt there was a notepad in another, ready and waiting for the results of the pinching and prodding, the poking and pulling. Haru wouldn’t even have to say a word.

“You must find this strange of me, to come for counseling only to struggle for words,” she said, her voice loud in the quiet room. A first, that. Even at home, she was drowned out by all the empty space.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Doctor Maruki assured her. “It takes some getting used to for some people. If, at the end of the day, all you’ve done is have some tea and a snack, then I’m not going to complain. I want you to be comfortable, after all.”

Haru hummed. She did like teatime. At home, it was the only thing she had any control over aside from her garden and parts of her wardrobe. When she was younger, she used to beg one of the maids to sit and drink with her, and it remained the only part of her father’s extravagant parties that she enjoyed. Even now, when she was alone with a good cup of tea, it was soothing.

She said as much, relief fluttering through her at Doctor Maruki’s agreement. There was no wrong way to go about this—and if she was as perfectly preserved as her newly acquired flowers, then it would be no small matter to chip away at the resin that had once been so protective until one day she would not be fit for anything.

Just as she liked it.

“So drinking alone brings you comfort,” Doctor Maruki said. “What about meals? I don’t suppose you ate alone very often.”

“Oh, no,” she told him. “Or, um, at least when I was younger, we would eat together, but my parents cared more for work than anything else. They would take calls in the middle of dinner very often—and then they turned into business dinners and catered events, exactly the sorts of places one wouldn’t take a child. They would sit and watch me eat and then go out. Eventually I told them I would be fine on my own, and that was that.”

At least until she got older and her father began parading her around without her even realizing. That very first dinner where she had met Sugimura… how many years ago had that been? Three? Four? Did it matter?

She reached for her cup and sipped, savoring the taste.

Doctor Maruki said, “That must have been terribly lonely.”

“Oh, no, I—” She stopped. Her parents may have been sitting at the table, but had they actually been there with her? Or had they been miles away, already at their dinners and events, chatting with one adult or another, someone who didn’t speak of banal things like classroom gossip and grades and gardens? She couldn’t remember. Even their responses seemed so… lackluster, with everything she now knew. “Well, I suppose it was, actually. There certainly wasn’t very much, um, engagement on their part. It was difficult to hold a conversation by myself, and by the time they stopped, I realized I hadn’t been doing much speaking anymore. It felt very…”

She stopped again, searching for the word. Doctor Maruki supplied, “Inevitable?”

She hummed. “I suppose, yes. Disinterest breeds disinterest, and theirs was more obvious than most. It stung a bit, to be honest. I wanted to think that, out of everyone in the world, my own family would want to talk with me, and then I felt selfish for thinking so. Their business deals gave me my nice life. The least I could do was give them space and quiet to work in.”

That was why she used to love visiting her grandfather before he passed away: he would let her help in his cafe, or show her how to weed his tiny garden, or let her peel the vegetables for dinner, and he would chat with her at every step, his voice like the smooth trickle of water in a stream.

But after…

“It’s such a mundane thing,” she said, “but I think that all I wanted was their company. That’s how children are: they want their parent’s company. But mine…”

Had been so focused on work that they never spent time with her. Haru had grown up surrounded by maids and nannies and tutors, all so her parents could continue strangling money out of their workers. She couldn’t even remember the last time she saw her mother before the divorce. She’d thought that, with her father’s change of heart, that would change.

“I wish we had more time together,” she finished, because it was the truth. Nothing was going to bring her father or grandfather back. Nothing was going to pull her mother away from her career and new family. Haru could only search for that company among her friends.

And it was terribly lonely when they weren’t around.

“More time—” The bell sounded, cutting Doctor Maruki off. They looked to the ceiling, perplexed at how much time had gone by without their noticing, and he chuckled. “Looks like time got away from us. If you’d like to keep going, Miss Okumura, I can write you a pass for class.”

She thought on that for a moment. She did feel more comfortable now than when she walked in, but it would be terribly rude to continue dumping her problems in his lap. Even her friends would have trouble keeping up. “No, I think I’m fine now,” she decided. “For the moment, at least. Even a good counselor such as yourself shouldn’t be overburdened. I… think I’ll come again, if that’s alright.”

“Alright,” he agreed. She supposed the others were right: he was very accommodating. It felt like looking at herself. “I’ll be sure to find snacks that pair well with tea, then. Until next time, Miss Okumura.”

As she left she felt… not quite lighter, but not any heavier. No great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. But it was nice to admit, finally, that she was just as selfish as every other teenager in the world: wanting and wanting and wanting, and now that she had friends she could want all she liked. They wouldn’t judge her.

And if, later that night in her too-large, too-comfortable bed Haru sent a text to the group chat asking if she could join them for lunch from now on—well, she was a selfish girl, and if what she wanted couldn’t be given to her, she would simply reach out and take it.

She would find a way to pay them back for indulging her later.

In the end, they skimped and bought cheap microwave takoyaki from Junes. Yuuki didn’t remember the price, but he did remember talk of borrowing both a microwave and a cooler, and all that was left for festival prep the day of was setting up the display and pushing together their desks.

So he wound up with a bit too much free time.

He wandered around the festival grounds, taking in the sights of the athletic clubs with their booths and the classes frying food in the open air of the entrance yard. The courtyard was reserved for the Calligraphy and Art Clubs, both putting on grand performances involving large pieces of paper spread out over the grass. The Home Ec Club had a mini fashion show going.

And Yuuki couldn’t enjoy a moment of it.

It was lingering guilt, he thought. It was Ryuji, off with Amamiya and their Thief friends. It was Goro Akechi, coming to Shujin of all places. It was the way everyone said he was only coming because of Amamiya. Shujin had nothing else going for it, unless they were part of another investigation, and it seemed so obvious from the videos on YouCube that the detective and Phantom Thief had something a little more than just a friendly rivalry going.

The thought made Yuuki’s stomach sink.

And with nothing and no one else around to take his mind off it, it stuck like a barb: Amamiya and Akechi, childhood friends, destined rivals. They were perfect for each other.

Especially after Akechi ate the spiciest takoyaki Class 2-D could buy, took off running—and Amamiya chased after him, oozing concern from every pore, so incredibly like a doting boyfriend that it made all the girls look at him twice. Yuuki had heard the girls in charge of the booth gossiping about it. Yuuki had then heard everyone else gossiping about it. He hated it.

What did all that on the Hawaii trip mean, then? He didn’t know, and didn’t want to ask, and Amamiya’s messages sat unanswered. Yuuki didn’t want to see him, not with all this going on.

Not after realizing he maybe—kind of—sort of—liked him.

So he wandered the practice building, where Amamiya’s group of friends was definitely not going to go, and listened to the chatter in the classrooms. He browsed handicrafts and bought a literary journal and kept the school turtle company so a teacher could grab lunch. He watched the performances in the courtyard from the third story and caught a hint of a band playing in the gym and spotted Ryuji’s bright yellow shirt, like a beacon in the crowd. Right next to him was Amamiya.

Yuuki’s heart skipped a beat. He ran up the stairs, determined to outrun… whatever it was. It couldn’t be love. It was just some stupid crush, because Amamiya was nice, and a natural flirt, and without Akechi he’d been lonely. Yeah, that was it. There was no way he had feelings for Yuuki.

No one ever did.

He all but slammed through the door to the roof, determined to sit out the rest of the festival in the relative peace and quiet and work on the Phan-site. Komaki and Aizawa and the new mystery mod were doing their best, but comments came flooding in every day and it was far more than they could handle, and any moment he could spare was another moment of sleep he could catch later that night, and—

Except Takamaki and Suzui were already there, huddled behind the Gardening Club’s planters.

Yuuki froze.

“Hey, Mishima,” Takamaki said.

Too late to turn tail and pretend he hadn’t interrupted something. Yuuki said, lamely, “Uh, hey, Takamaki.” He fought to swallow. “Hey, Suzui.”

“Hello, Mishima,” Suzui said, her face pale.

Takamaki sniffed, wiped at her eyes—had she been crying? Wow, his timing was as crappy as ever—and forced a smile. “Not enjoying the festival?”

“It’s kinda, you know, crowded.” It was a lame excuse. He just really, really didn’t want to run into Amamiya, even by accident. Who knew what the transfer student would force himself to do?

“Yeah, that’s why we came up here,” Takamaki said. “It’s nice and quiet, isn’t it, Shiho?”

“Yeah,” Suzui said, “and the breeze is nice.”

It was: a pleasantly cool breeze that brought with it the smells of cooking food from the grounds, and paint and ink from the courtyard.

“Yeah!” Takamaki’s forced smile was too wide, too full of teeth. “But, uh, you know, this is perfect timing, Mishima! I was just getting thirsty. I’ll go grab us some drinks!”

“Oh, no, I can do that,” Yuuki said, turning back to the door, but Takamaki beat him to it.

“Please,” she said, softly enough that it couldn’t carry. Her smile wavered.

After how nice she’d been to him in Hawaii, he couldn’t refuse. She disappeared into the stairwell in a flash of blonde hair, leaving him alone with Suzui and the vegetable seedlings.

He fought for words.

What could he say to her? That he was glad to see her again? He wasn’t, as rude as it was to say. Just the sight of her made him remember Kamoshida, and he wondered if he could ever live without the man lurking in the back of his mind like a particularly stubborn stain.

It was Suzui who spoke first. “Um, Mishima? You can come and sit down if you want. You look kind of cold.”

So did she, he wanted to say, but agreed and stepped over the planters to join her. It was still chilly, but the heat coming out of the exhaust vent almost made him sigh with relief. The breeze was nice, but it seeped right under his skin.

“Ann showed me your website,” Suzui said, after another long moment of awkward silence. “I’m impressed. You really made the whole thing yourself?”

“I—I, uh, used some old coding sites on the net,” Yuuki said, relieved and annoyed that he hadn’t been able to think of anything to say. “So they helped too, but… Yeah. All by myself.”

And it only took an entire three-day weekend with absolutely no sleep to pull off—but compared to what she’d been going through, a weekend of all-nighters was nothing.

“That’s amazing,” she said, resting her head on her knees. “I never would have thought of that. A website. Ann was so proud when she showed me, too. She said people like us would finally have a place to speak up for ourselves.” She sniffed. “I thought it was amazing, that you made it. And then I—I thought what good was it, when it was too late?”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be. It’s not fair to you. You stood up to him eventually. It was more than I could ever do.”

“I only did that because Ryuji and Amamiya did, too,” he said. Amamiya’s carefully controlled tone as he said I care what he does had spoken volumes. It was the sort of tone that demanded to be heard, and Yuuki had followed him willingly into the lion’s den.

“Yeah,” Suzui said. “Ann told me you were all going to get expelled. I remember thinking, Mishima? Expelled? That can’t be right. But it was true, and—you know, you’re braver than I am.”

“I’m not,” Yuuki said.

“You are.” She patted a leg; under her tracksuit he wondered what they looked like. “I only tried to save myself. But you and them, you all—you told him off. You, Mishima. I never could have done that. You tried to save everybody.”

“Not that it worked out.” Kamoshida had been angry right up until his leave of absence; the glares he leveled at Yuuki were far and away worse than the ones he gave Ryuji and Amamiya. The two school delinquents he wouldn’t have to worry about, but if the rest of the volleyball teams caught wind of Yuuki’s actions… maybe he was afraid they would tell him off, too, and then quit en masse. With no teams to lord over, Kamoshida would be just another bully of a coach, and he would be a long time recovering from the damage.

So of course he gave Yuuki’s class the worst drills he could think of. One volleyball traitor could be tolerated and made an example of, but he couldn’t bully the whole school, not without complaints.

“Still,” Suzui said. “It was brave, no matter what you think.”

Brave. He thought of Amamiya, the sincerity in his eyes on a beach in Hawaii, of the pride he wore just the other day in Akihabara, and flushed. But— “If I was brave, nothing would have happened to you.”

“I don’t think so,” Suzui said. “If you’d been brave back then, Kamoshida would have beaten you to a pulp and still done whatever he wanted. So… even though I got hurt, even though I tried to run away… It’s dumb, but I’m glad nothing else happened. I’m glad it was just me who had to suffer before something changed. I’m glad that little spark of courage held off long enough to keep you safe.”

She was crying, but he couldn’t look at her. He tried, instead, to think of what Amamiya might say to that: if he had gotten hurt, Yuuki would never have seen the calling cards posted all over Shujin’s bulletin boards, never would have gotten inspiration for his website, would never be the one responsible for helping so many people. The Phantom Thieves might have been the ones doing the hard work, but they were terrible at keeping low profiles. They never would have found so many criminals to reform without Yuuki’s hard work.

He let the familiar flush of pride wash over him even as he reminded himself of one important thing: “It’s just not right you had to get hurt, too.”

“I know,” Suzui said.

“And—and it’s not right that none of this happened after what happened to Ryuji and the track team, either.”

“Yeah,” Suzui said, “I know.”

“And—” There were dozens of other things he could say. That it wasn’t fair that the principal cared more for the school’s reputation than his students’ well-being. That it wasn’t fair nothing was done until everything was out in the open for the whole world to see. That it wasn’t fair that it kept happening; everyone was talking about the scholarship student, the gymnastics girl who’d lost her twin, losing her scholarship over third place.

Third place! What Yuuki wouldn’t have given to manage third place in anything.

“It’s not fair that it happens at all,” Suzui suggested. Yuuki nodded, about to agree, when the door to the roof slammed open. Ryuji all but fell through, the drinks in his hands protected only by their bottles. Takamaki rolled her eyes, half-hidden behind a stack of food trays and a pair of crepes in one hand.

Suzui made to get up and winced; Yuuki rushed over and took the trays, setting them on the nearby abandoned desks.

“Dude, so this is where you were,” Ryuji told him as Takamaki passed Suzui her crepe. “It’s blueberry!” she proclaimed to Suzui’s delight. She tore into it.

“It’s not like I had anywhere else to be,” Yuuki said. Ryuji’s class was doing a rest stop for a booth; no one needed to manage that for very long, so it was no wonder he and Amamiya had been browsing the stalls together.

Yuuki eyed the doorway. It remained blissfully empty.

“Still, man, you coulda checked out the festival with us. You shoulda seen Makoto at that shooting range the archery club set up—”

Ryuji regaled him with the highlights of the past two days: how Kitagawa the artist had to be hauled away from the performances in the courtyard; how Sakura the genius and Niijima the Student Council President had gone head-to-head in a trivia contest, and how Okumura the newcomer had come swooping in to steal victory from right under their noses with botany trivia. Takamaki had participated in the Home Ec Club’s fashion show. Ryuji had tried out several games and lost at them, badly.

Yuuki kept waiting to hear what Amamiya had done—much like with Akechi, he and Ryuji were practically glued at the hip—but the former track star kept quiet about him. It was a wonder; he didn’t even retell the circulating rumor of Goro Akechi vs. Spicy Takoyaki. It made Yuuki wonder if Amamiya asked him not to. It was no secret that Ryuji didn’t like the detective—or Amamiya’s cat, who he fought and heckled and argued with on a near-daily basis.

It was Takamaki who spoke up. “Wasn’t Akira with you earlier? Where’d he run off to?”

“He’s down in the gym,” said Ryuji. “He said somethin’ about a—a program that scholarship girl got invited to, and cheerin’ her on. That kinda thing’s not really for me, though.”

There was an awful lot of noise coming from the gym. Yuuki wandered over to the fence, wondering if he could peer in through the windows—the doors wide open but so jam-packed the students spilled out onto the walkway—but couldn’t see anything past the sea of black blazers and cream turtlenecks bobbing to the bass thumping through the speakers.

“I thought they were gonna be a while, so I got some food and found Ann,” Ryuji finished. “Hey, Suzui.”

“Hello, Sakamoto,” Suzui said, through a mouth half-full of crepe.

“How you been?”

It was amazing, really, what Ryuji could do with such ease that Yuuki couldn’t. It was as if all the so-called courage he held had fled him that night on the roof, and it was all Amamiya’s fault. The more Yuuki hung out with him, the more inferior he felt. He wanted to go back to June, before his head had swelled but after he started speaking up more in that annoying way Akiyama and his friends hated, back before he had nothing to prove and no one to impress.

And Suzui was surprised, too. “Oh, um, good,” she said. “I managed to make it up here. It’s more than I could have done a month ago. I didn’t even need Ann’s help.”

“It’s true; she was amazing!” Takamaki cheered.

“Cool,” Ryuji said, grinning. He passed around trays and disposable chopsticks. “Good thing I bought a ton, huh?”

“That’s just because you wanted to eat it all!”

Yuuki picked at his food as they bickered. 2-A’s yakisoba stall was pumping out insane amounts of noodles, no thanks in part to all of their connections to grocers and ramen shops, no doubt. It was vastly different than 2-D, who had spent most of their budget on the maid uniforms without thinking twice until it came back and bit them in the ass. The only reason they had microwave takoyaki at all was an allowance pool, one Amamiya had been exempt from but who Yuuki had spied adding cash to anyway. The way he and Ms. Kawakami got along would be suspicious if Yuuki couldn’t still hear her calling out Master in his nightmares.

But their bickering made Suzui laugh, which was good enough for him. They settled down to chat as they ate, Ryuji tapping his feet to the bass, Takamaki’s hair blown about by the wind, Suzui finally uncurling with her tray of yakisoba in her lap. It was nice to just sit and eat, he thought.

Then Suzui said, “So, um. I told Ann and Amamiya this already, but… I’m transferring.”

“Transferring?” Ryuji asked.

“My parents found a good school that can help, um, people like me,” Suzui said. She rubbed at a knee; Ryuji winced in sympathy. “I think they said it’s affiliated with a local college; some of their physical therapists train with the students there. And after what happened, they don’t want me back here.”

“Don’t blame ‘em,” Ryuji scowled.

“I had to think about it a lot, actually,” Suzui said. “If I came back to Shujin, I could still see Ann. She wouldn’t have to be lonely. But she has you all now, so I’m sure she won’t be, and I—”

She sniffed, tears falling into her noodles. “I want to play volleyball again. No matter what it takes, no matter how long I have to work for it. I want to play again. I won’t let that bastard take that from me, too.”

“Yeah,” Ryuji said, grinning. “Show him who’s boss, Suzui!”

“Right!” she agreed, still crying, grin wobbling.

Yuuki couldn’t imagine it: leaving everything behind to start over again, the past two years nothing but a very bad dream; wanting to play volleyball again that badly. Suzui had been a starter, though, and Yuuki barely managed benchwarmer status. His receives had never been good enough for Kamoshida’s liking.

“You’ll be amazing,” he said, for lack of anything better. Suzui loved volleyball. If she worked hard the rest of the year, she could rejoin a team her third year. “They’ll be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks, Mishima.” She hiccuped, shoulders shaking.

He tuned out the rest of the conversation, bewildered at Suzui’s courage. Hers was the real thing, not his. If there was one thing he never, ever wanted to do again, it was play volleyball.

But… Amamiya had called him brave. If that insatiable flirt said so, why couldn’t it be true?

And… when had he started thinking like this, that maybe Amamiya liked him, even just as a friend? He thought about Hawaii, and the plane ride, and the containers of food—maybe he’d just wanted them to mean something. No one had ever cared about him like that. It was easy to take it too far—just like with that actor, and Operation Maidwatch, and half of the outings Yuuki invited him on. Yuuki convinced himself it was one way, when it was always the other all along.

Right, there was no way Amamiya liked him. Not like that, anyway.

Yeah. Right.

Disappointment curled in his gut.

By the time Yusuke realized he had lost everyone, he had run out of the festival allowance Akira and Haru had so graciously given him. There had been a rousing demonstration by the Kendo Club that he had been drawn to, the easy grace belying hours upon hours of practice and devotion. There was a reason they were called the martial arts, and now Yusuke knew why: they truly did have their own kind of beauty, wholly separate from paint and ink, brush and pen.

To think that even movement could be beautiful!

Lost in thought, he wandered Shujin’s halls. He had yet to see Shujin’s turtle—Yusuke imagined it to be quite grand and majestic indeed—and wanted, if not a sketch, then to at least bask in its presence for a moment or two. Kosei’s peacock was grand, but Yusuke was sure there would be beauty in the wrinkles and folds of leathery reptilian skin, in the design on the shell, in the long tide of years in its eyes. And surely there would be beauty in every deliberate movement, every step and swivel arcing out over long moments.

Determined, Yusuke searched.

He found students, flushed and giggling over videos on their phones. He found noise, the long bass line of a top-forty hit thumping from the gym and the cheers following along to the harmony. He found lost visitors pouring over pamphlets and text messages. He found children, running through the halls without a care in the world, screaming and laughing in the way only children could. He found—

—a man in a lab coat crashed to the floor, freshly bought juice dripping down his front.

“Oh, dear,” Yusuke said. “Are you alright?”

Yusuke helped him up. His shirt and tie were drenched and there was a growing puddle on the floor where he dropped the bottle; Yusuke picked it up and offered it to him. “Thank you,” the man said, swiping a bit of wet hair from his eyes. Even his glasses dripped with juice. He sighed. “I should have known better than to leave it open, but it’s such a short walk from the courtyard I thought I’d be alright…”

“In this crowd that’s rather daring,” Yusuke said.

“Yes, I believe I’ve learned my lesson there,” was his response. “I’ll be far more careful in the future. Thank you very much for your assistance.”

He bowed, but Yusuke was not one to leave a mess half-finished, and said, “You may thank me when this is properly cleaned up. I’d hate for anyone to slip on the spill.”

He winced. “Ah, right. Stay and watch it? I can be right back with some towels.”

Yusuke agreed. There was a rather loud, long cheer from the gym, where the crash of music finally died. The MC’s voice rang out, words drowned under another sudden cheer.

Yusuke did not understand the excitement, but it seemed like something his friends would like, Ryuji especially. He lived to be loud. Yusuke could not imagine him any other way.

But he couldn’t imagine any of his friends any other way, either.

The thought warmed him. He had friends, friends he enjoyed spending time with and who enjoyed spending time with him. He had friends who didn’t care how eccentric he acted. He had friends who worried over how much sleep he got or how many meals he was missing, friends who laughed at his terrible budgeting skills but still spotted him train fare or food, and they wanted nothing in return save for Yusuke to simply be himself, always.

He was lucky. They were nothing like Madarame warned him they would be.

The man in the lab coat rushed back, thick stack of towels in hand. Yusuke helped him mop up the spill to the chorus of cheers in the gym, and it was only when they were done that Yusuke caught a good look at the badge pinned to the man’s pocket.

“Ah,” he said. “So you are Doctor Takuto Maruki.”

Maruki, with his hands full of dirty towels, blinked at him and gaped. “And, ah… you are?”

Yusuke introduced himself. It still felt strange, leaving off his connection to Madarame.

But that was, as always, not who he was anymore.

“Ann and Ryuji spoke quite highly of you,” Yusuke told him, “and I will admit, I find myself intrigued by the notion. Kosei does not employ anyone of your profession. A shame; I would be delighted to learn the ways to unshackle the human heart and peer into its endless abyss.”

Although, now that he was saying so, it felt very… familiar. Perhaps he had done so in a dream. He had a vague recollection of a giant, staring eye and an anger so intense it made him recoil. It made him think of Madarame.

“Ann and… Oh, you must mean Takamaki and Sakamoto,” Maruki said. He looked to the towels in his hands, then back to Yusuke. “I’d be delighted to talk this over, since there seems to be a misunderstanding. Let me just take care of these.”

“Certainly,” Yusuke said. He took charge of the remaining unsullied towels; Maruki really had brought too many. “Lead the way.”

The doctor turned on his heel and headed up the stairs. In a back room sat a collection of desks piled high with old printouts, advertisements, and lesson plans. It had a peculiar, stale smell, one Yusuke couldn’t place. Paper and old sweat, perhaps, if the stained laundry basket in the corner was any indication. Maruki dumped his towels there; Yusuke set his on a stack of binders and prayed it not to topple. It didn’t.

Maruki took a seat in the back of the room; a terrarium sat in front of him, its occupant deeply unsettled. Yusuke peered inside, and yes, there were the folds of skin and wary eyes and wonderful shell design he’d been looking for!

He tugged out his phone. “May I?” he asked.

“As long as there’s no flash, I don’t see why not,” Maruki said. “He’s a bit under the weather today. Too much disturbance, I think, because of the festival. Ordinarily he’d love a few photos.”

That made Yusuke think. If this turtle were a person who could agree, what would he say? If this turtle were Ann, under the weather but unable to say no, what would Yusuke do?

He thought of Akira. Not everyone wanted to be caught at their most vulnerable. It was rude to do otherwise.

Knowing he would regret it but making a note to ask Haru for photos later, Yusuke put his phone away. “I do hope you recover well, then, sir,” he said, and gave those wise old eyes his best bow.

“That’s kind of you,” Maruki said. “Not many people can back down like that, and over an animal to boot.”

“We are all only animals,” Yusuke said. “Mankind might think itself above everything else, but we are not so different. Every living creature has a mind that must be respected.”

“That’s certainly an interesting take.” Maruki gestured to an open seat; Yusuke pulled it over and sat. “I’d love to discuss it further, but, I believe you first mentioned an interest in my counseling. And you’re friends with Takamaki and Sakamoto?”

Yusuke reestablished that he was, in fact, both interested and had friends. “I’ve been attempting my own interpretation of the human heart,” he said, “but no matter how hard I try, I fail to truly grasp it. Is it ugly? Beautiful? So corrupt it makes your skin crawl? So pure it makes your soul sing? Some combination of everything ever experienced, so muddled and intertwined it cannot be told apart from one another? It’s vexing but fascinating.”

“And you thought I could help you with this?”

“Of course! It’s what you do, is it not? Peer into those fathomless depths and shine the light of knowledge upon what treasures lay within?”

Maruki blinked. It was a common reaction. “Oh, I—I don’t think it’s anything as fancy as that, Kitagawa.”

“Even still,” Yusuke said, “I would like only to see your skills in action!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Maruki said. “Sessions are private matters. It’s one thing for Takamaki or Sakamoto to tell you what we spoke of, but for a third party to sit in… it would breach not only my patients’ trust in me but our contract as well. I’m sorry.”

“Ah, I see.” He should have thought of that. Not everyone wanted to be caught at their most vulnerable. Not everyone wished for a stranger to peer inside their heart.

How could he have been so blind, so foolish?

“But, um. If you’d like—and I’m afraid it may not go the way you think it will—I certainly wouldn’t mind having a session with you, Kitagawa. It might give you a bit of insight.”

“With… me?”

“Of course,” Maruki said. “It’s not every day someone comes to me interested in the process. Most only want the results, and they aren’t interested in anything in between. But these things take time to learn and uncover, though I’m sure you’ll pick them up easily. You strike me as a very observant young man.”

“I’m an artist. I have to be.”

“An artist? And you said you go to Kosei?”

“Yes,” Yusuke said. It was the only thing he could take pride in anymore: he was a student of fine arts at Kosei, and that was all.

“You don’t seem too happy about that,” Maruki observed.

“Ah, well,” Yusuke said. It was a simple matter to explain Madarame and his plagiarism, and Maruki was not shocked in the least to find that that was how Yusuke had befriended students at Shujin. Akira had a way of charming everyone he met, and it appeared Shujin’s counselor was no exception. “I am truly grateful for everything they’ve done for me, of course,” Yusuke finished. “I’m aware I’m lacking in several aspects, and yet as they deal with each and every one in a kind and understanding manner, and I find myself wondering how I can ever repay their generosity. Even the staff at Kosei has gone out of their way to accommodate my situation. But.”

He broke off with disgust. Maruki said, “He was your father.”

“If that’s what fathers do, then yes, he was.”

“No,” Maruki said. “He was your father. You saw him that way for years. You struggled to earn his approval in just the same way as any blood-related child might. He took care of you, worried over your health and well-being. That, by itself, was not wrong.”

Yusuke did not like to agree, but it was true, wasn’t it? He’d been a happy child. He’d wanted for nothing except a bit more food on the table, and Madarame had been kind to him before there was a price tag on his paintings.

“No matter what happened to change his behavior, those experiences won’t disappear,” Maruki went on. “You’ll always see him as someone who loved you, and whom you loved back, and there’s no reason to put yourself down over it. You weren’t a fool for being deceived, Kitagawa, and you weren’t a fool for trying to protect the only way of life you knew. Change can be terrifying even at the best of times and with mountains of support.”

Yusuke did not like to agree to that, either, but his friends had also said as much. Even if Madarame’s name followed him for the rest of his life like a stubborn stain, nothing would change the fact that Yusuke was not Madarame and knew better than to traipse down that path.

“This would be difficult for anyone in your situation,” Maruki said. “And you’ve obviously spent a great deal of time working it over, just as they would. That’s natural.”

Natural, he said, as if anything Yusuke did could be called anything less than odd, as if Yusuke himself was anything less than eccentric. “And what made you arrive at that conclusion?”

“You have this rather fierce expression you use whenever you talk about him,” Maruki said. “It would be imperceptible, but I was watching rather closely, though it looks as if your guilt kept you from noticing.”

Yusuke sighed, sagging in his seat. He stared at the turtle, now peacefully slumbering to the cadence of their conversation. “That… is the long and short of it, yes,” he said.

“You were aware?”

“Self-reflection is the basis of any decent painting,” Yusuke said, “and when my hands refuse to draw even a single stroke, how can I not help but wonder why, even when the answer is obvious? I have lived my days surrounded by a fog of lies, and it stems back to Madarame. It’s his hands that still my brushes; it’s his eyes that see through mine—or, that is how it feels, some days.”

When he spots a lovely woman at the station, who tells him she is lovely, Yusuke or Madarame? And when he spies a group of boisterous young men, who tells him they are exuberant, Yusuke or Madarame?

“Then, wouldn’t you simply have to retrain that eye of yours? Learn to see the simple beauty in everyday life and surely you’ll feel his influence over you fade.”

“I have tried that, at several of my instructors’ suggestions,” Yusuke told him. An empty ramen cup. A duck upon the lake. A weed growing through a crack in the twisting paths at the park. His friends. Still that feeling lingered, as if he were searching for a beauty that wasn’t there.

“Ah,” Maruki said, sheepish. “That’s simply part of the job, too: leading my patients to conclusions that will make them the happiest. That doesn’t mean it’s always easy, however.”

“You lead them?” Yusuke asked. He thought of that glaring red eye, ever vigilant, the tiniest of movements drawing its weighty stare. He thought of cowering beneath it, day after day, wishing he could change even the tiniest moment that led him there. He thought of anger, indignation, though he couldn’t recall the reason why. “How can they say those are their own choices, then?”

“Well, sometimes it’s just a matter of having a third party agree it’s the best choice,” Maruki said. “Doubt and anxiety are strange things like that. We’ll work out the worst and best outcomes of following through, and from there it’s up to them. With others it’s a bit more difficult; having to make the choice itself is the source of their troubles. They can’t help that. So, if by casually suggesting they take one course of action over another, I ease a bit of the burden they carry… Well, one could say it’s equivalent to submitting to others’ will, but just by making the choice to be there and listen is a step in the right direction, wouldn’t you say?”

“And if it wasn’t their choice to be there?”

“Well,” Maruki said, “it’s still my job to help them. Any step, however small, is still a step. With enough time, they’ll be making choices of their own.”

That did not sound right to Yusuke, but he couldn’t tell why. Walking down a path someone else set down for him, convinced it was his own decision…

It rankled. It was that dream, that judgmental, damnable stare, that unceasing litany begging for forgiveness. Yusuke wanted nothing more than to purge it from his mind for the rest of time, but it felt important, too important to leave alone.

And… he couldn’t shake the feeling that despite the terror it instilled, there was hope at the end of it, lost to the fog of waking.

Desire and Hope, he thought. If he kept walking down a path set down for him by someone else… was that not his choice, then? Did his love of painting stem from Madarame’s tutelage or Yusuke’s own innate desire? Did it truly matter anymore which it was?

It didn’t. He was a fool not to see it.

“I see,” he said, pleased to come to the conclusion once more. It should have been disturbing how often he lost his way, but so long as he had someone to guide him back, he would truly be alright. The thought warmed him.

He truly did have such good friends.

“Do you, now? That’s wonderful,” Maruki said.

“As I suspected, the heart is a complex thing,” Yusuke said. “It yearns, yet feels unworthy. It desires, yet feels selfish. When it is swamped in a mire, it still hopes to see the surface. And when it loves, it can even love one it hates.”

Not to speak of the betrayal of the body—facial expressions, nervous gestures, the minutiae of tells that spoke louder than any word ever could. When it was lost, it would search for something to guide it. That was all.

“It is, isn’t it? That’s what makes it so fascinating.” Maruki’s joy was almost infectious; if Yusuke didn’t already know what such understanding felt like, he was sure the euphoria would have drowned out his next words. “Another thing I find fascinating is asking what my patients would wish for. You’d be surprised at some of the answers I’ve heard.”

“You mean to ask what I would wish for, then,” Yusuke guessed.

“Only if you’d like to share, of course,” Maruki said. He looked Yusuke over. “I’ll admit I’m not very good at guessing, however. You’re an artist, but I don’t suppose you’d wish for success, would you?”

“I would prefer my success be based on my own improvement through my own efforts, and not on the interference of some act of providence, yes,” Yusuke said.

Maruki blinked, taking a moment to process, though he seemed a bit perplexed. “I see.”

“If I had to choose…” But it seemed like such an easy answer. Surely Maruki would laugh. “My mother’s last painting was defiled. The world has never seen it as she meant it to be seen, and ever since I discovered that truth, I’ve lamented it every day. If there were some way for it to be known and appreciated for what it was, that is all I could ever ask for.”

But nothing in the world could undo the damage Madarame had caused it, neither to the piece itself or to its reputation. Yusuke supposed he would just have to settle for the small notoriety it picked up gracing Leblanc’s walls.

But then he realized: “Aside from a master who could take me in and guide my brush with care, of course. A wonderful one, the way I thought Madarame to be for the longest time. With a master like that, perhaps…”

Perhaps his mother would never have passed away, leaving Yusuke alone. Perhaps then he wouldn’t be so strange, so easily obsessed, so eccentric. Perhaps he would already understand the mysteries of the heart, and what his own yearned for. It was all he could do to survive and paint day by day; a master or mother he could pour his heart out to would be…

He wasn’t sure. It felt terribly selfish just to think of it. He had enough as it was.

And there was no use dwelling on thoughts of what could have been. Akira and his friends taught him that.

So Yusuke excused himself, thanked Maruki for the conversation and insights, took one last look at the turtle, peacefully napping, and went on his way.

But the thought swirled in his head long after, a world of if onlys that sank bittersweet on his tongue.

And in the dead of night, he roused himself to paint.

Chapter Text

The gaudy Palaces never ceased to amaze.

Kamoshida’s castle had sprawled and climbed; banners fluttered from every twenty-foot window, and everything inside had been plush and expensive, from the carpet to the candlesticks. Madarame’s gallery had been a towering monstrosity of pure gold that made Akira’s skin itch just to look at, and the interior paintings of dull-eyed men and women seemed to follow their every move. Kaneshiro’s bank with its literal money pool spoke for itself, and Futaba’s tomb, so far removed from the rest of the world, backed her hermetical tendencies. Okumura’s spaceport, vast and tricky, all too often gave way to wondrous views of the universe. Even the mystery Palace of last month had been a gaudy mass of gold and glass, preposterous in its design.

Niijima’s was no different.

Gone was the plain courthouse; in its place was a grand casino several dozen stories high covered in spotlights and blinking neon signs. Cognitions flooded in through the front doors; from up high, it was a river of business suits and carefully arranged hairdos kept in line by a series of masked security guards.

Akira didn’t like their chances already.

He sighed and turned back to the group. Goro’s Thief suit was a bright white band outfit, save for the short red cape and gloves, and—

“Tengu,” Futaba suggested. “Just look at his mask!”

Ryuji snickered. “Dude’s got a honker, alright.”

Yusuke hummed, taking in the Detective Prince’s plastic smile. The tail clipped to his belt twitched. “It is quite long, indeed.”

“I dunno,” Ann argued, lips twitching, “isn’t it kinda… too Japanese? All the rest of ours are in English. Not that anyone else will understand the theme.”

Goro’s eyes met Akira’s, pleading for assistance. Akira raised a brow, tilting his head; he mouthed Nero and fought back a grin at Goro’s sudden scowl.

(“I’m Goro,” insisted the boy at Casty’s side, little hands balled into fists, eyes narrowed to slits. All around them flowed the rest of the park visitors, young and old, male and female, deliriously happy. Even the laughter sounded forced, but that had to be a trick of his mind. Now that Ionasal knew what the park really was, all those happy, carefree smiles seemed so… wrong.

Never again, he thought. Then said, “But, Zill said—”

“I don’t care what she said! I’m Goro. Don’t you dare ever call me Nero again.”

Ionasal stared the boy down. There were tears in his eyes, and his jaw quivered, and Ionasal thought: It must be his real name. He must have remembered.

How lucky he was, that he could insist and be listened to.

“Okay,” Ionasal said. “Goro. Casty. I need to find the others. Do you know where Delta and Shirotaka might be?”

As Casty’s face lit up, he focused on Nero—Goro, Goro, this was the least Ionasal could give him—as his disbelief gave way to a shy joy, then wariness. “You’re not mad? I ran off on you.”

“You found Casty. And… I guess I can’t blame you. It’s an amusement park. You’re supposed to have fun.”

Just… not like this, with Sharl working behind the scenes to keep the criminals happy and content. Not like this, where every smile and laugh and cheer felt as if the speaker actually wanted to cry and wail and scream.

But as Casty took his hand and led him off to where she’d last left the boys, Goro took his other and admitted, “I’ve never been to one before. They were too expensive. Are they always this much fun?”

Probably. But— “I don’t really know,” Ionasal confided. “I’ve never been to one, either.”

Goro gave him a wide-eyed stare of disbelief. “Really?”

“Back home, I’m allergic. I can’t get on the rides unless I cover up, so my parents just never took me.” It had never felt fair, either. His allergy practically ruled his life. Just once, he wanted to have a chocolate cake for his birthday, or soba noodles at New Year’s, or—anything. Anything everyone else took for granted.

“Oh,” Goro said, squeezing his hand once more. “That’s… that means we’re the same.”

He supposed so. It really wasn’t fair.)

“Tengu,” mused Haru. “It does fit, but at the same time…”

“Is all this debate really necessary?” Goro asked, a touch too sharp. “We’ll only be working together for a short time, after all. Surely I don’t need something like a code name.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Morgana admonished. “If we run around yelling your name all the time, Niijima’s Shadow will catch wind of it. That will make Niijima herself suspicious of you, and the last thing we need is any one of us being detained for questioning. Is that what you want?”

For a moment it seemed like Goro would argue, but then he sighed.

“Tengu…” Makoto muttered. “They’re often depicted as birds of prey, aren’t they? So… something avian, maybe?”

“Avi—huh?” Ryuji muttered.

“Birds, Ryuji,” Ann said.

“Oh—oh, yeah, I, uh, I knew that.”

Haru hummed, then suggested, “Dove?”

“He looks like a clown,” Ryuji muttered.

“Doves are not birds of prey,” Makoto said. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter. How about… Kestrel?”

“Kite,” suggested Yusuke.

“Um,” Ann said, “I dunno, I kinda like Dove.”

“Pigeon,” snickered Ryuji.

“Uh… Crane,” said Futaba.

Morgana hummed, annoyed. “The only birds I know about are sparrows and stuff.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” Goro said. “Why don’t we just let Joker decide?”

They locked eyes again. Goro dared him to suggest Nero, but now that the group was on about birds, all Akira could think of was… “Crow, then.”

Underneath that gaudy, pretentious outfit was a misunderstood soul. Past that long-nosed mask was a mind that was as sharp as a knife—when he wasn’t fumbling, so focused on his grudges that he forgot everything else. Crows were smart birds, terribly so. He’d heard they even investigated when members of the flock died—just like detectives.

Before anyone could protest—though much of it was praise at his naming skills and only Ryuji seemed the most likely to complain—Akira picked out a team and stalked up the nearby staircase.

Goro was right—it didn’t matter what they called him. In a month, the Phantom Thieves would disband, leaving Tokyo in the hands of the corrupt and unjust.

As if.

Akira had no idea what they would do; all he knew was that wasn’t an option. There were people out there who still needed help, and as nobody teenagers the Thieves couldn’t do anything about them in real life. But in the Metaverse, where they had power that rivaled even the most corrupt…

Well. He hoped Goro would see that by then.

The moment Shirotaka brought out the figurine, Ionasal’s smile froze on his face.

He hadn’t thought much about it—back home on Earth plenty of people collected figurines of characters and actors and idols they liked. Some even went so far as to learn to make them, relishing in the freedom the craft gave them. Ionasal had never faulted them for having a hobby; the joy of finding someone to talk about it with was worth the inevitable rambling, he thought, because he’d been lonely, and what else was a friendless teenager supposed to do?

But, this…

“Shirotaka,” he said, not surprised at how calm he sounded. Stop screaming. Stop crying. Do what we tell you. Making a fuss won’t get you anywhere, understand?

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Shirotaka said, already gushing. He looked it over; Ionasal’s heart nearly stopped when the towel began to slip. It shouldn’t do that. It wasn’t right. It shouldn’t do that. “It took ages to think up a pose that would suit you, y’know. Something that really grabs people! Something that makes them want to help you out! And before I knew it, voila!”

He brandished the figurine. The towel fluttered.

Ionasal froze.

It was nothing. It should be nothing. No one ever said a word about his scars, and he’d gotten used to them over the weeks.

But no one needed to know how far across his thighs they extended. No one needed to see them, in painstaking detail, on a figurine Ionasal didn’t even agree to have made. No one needed to see anything.

“Shirotaka,” he choked out, but froze once more at Shirotaka’s expectant gaze.

He tried to take the figurine in again.

Ionasal, flat on his ass and as naked as the day he was born, one hand propping him up while the other cradled his head. A wooden bath bucket hung at an angle over his face, and his surprise at the bar of soap wedged between his toes was obvious. Shirotaka had painstakingly—lovingly, almost—painted on every last scar, nick, and scrape Ionasal was forced to bear. He’d even gotten the curls in his hair right.

But.

Did it have to move? He wanted to ask. He wanted to know.

But he didn’t. Not really.

A croak made its way out of his throat. “I, um,” he said, voice strangled. Renaflask had moved to the back of the shop pretending to browse; he looked Ionasal in the eye and snickered, holding up a figurine of his in his stage costume, Wondrous Lotus. It wasn’t nearly as obscene. “I-it’s very… good. The d-detail is, um—”

“I know!” Shirotaka cut in. Then he sighed. “It’s not really my thing, you know”—he pointed out shelves upon shelves of cute girls in various outfits and hairstyles and poses—“but the fans eat it up, okay? And, well, after I saw a Wondrous Lotus concert, I started to see why! A guy as cute as he is can certainly be moe, and then, after seeing your debut in Manjusara—”

The hands, the jeers, the sound of fabric tearing. Ionasal, fleeing for his life, certain that once they ran out of cloth to grab they would rip him limb from limb. He tried to speak but couldn’t.

“—I thought it’d be a shame for you to lose the Trials so quickly! So when Ren here asked me to help come up with a way to heighten your standing, I thought—”

Ionasal locked eyes with Ren, who suddenly found a much more intense interest in the shelves of Wondrous Lotus merchandise than before. “Is that so, Ren?” Ionasal asked, lacing every word with venom. If only looks could kill… “Maybe you’d like to tell me what you contributed to the design? I’d like to thank you personally. You did such a wonderful job.”

“Oh, no,” Ren said, ducking between two shelves in an attempt to dodge Ionasal’s gaze. “I didn’t do that much, really. Just a few suggestions, that’s all!”

He laughed. It was almost convincing.

“Oh, no, I insist,” Ionasal said, stalking him through the store.

Shirotaka looked between the two of them, confused. “But, Ren, weren’t you the one who said the towel had to come off?”

“Ren,” Ionasal sang, voice sickly-sweet. Anger coursed through him, as hot as an inferno. “Just let me thank you! Honest!”

But Ren was faster in the end—between the shelves of merchandise Ionasal couldn’t bring himself to topple in favor of creating barricades and his own two clumsy feet threatening to trip him, he couldn’t do much to catch the boy. He and Shirotaka watched him dart through the shop’s entrance, lime-green hair flying, and barrel into the crowded street outside.

Ionasal sighed once his breath came back. “Is it… really that popular, Shirotaka?”

“Oh, definitely!” He placed the figurine neatly on a shelf, readjusting that accursed towel. “I’m so swamped with orders I had to shut the store down in order to keep up! I’ve never been so busy in my life!”

He seemed pleased. Ecstatic, even, but there was an undercurrent of grief in his eyes.

“Shirotaka—”

“I want you to do well, too,” he cut in. “I want you to win. Kanoyeel just doesn’t have the same type of moe you do, Ionasal. It would be a shame if you lost. Imagine having a cute emperor! It’d be perfect!”

“Right,” Ionasal agreed. Never mind the fact that if he lost, he’d never be able to find a way home. There was no way Kanoyeel would help him. She wouldn’t even believe what he was, much less where he had come from, and there was no way she would ever withstand the knowledge that her rival faction had cheated to gain the upper hand.

Then what Shirotaka said registered. Ionasal placed a hand on his stomach, where the scars were thickest, and felt the ridges criss-crossing like a thick fabric. “You… you think I’m…”

He couldn’t finish it, didn’t want to even consider it. This was another world. He’d spent the first few months—had it been months?—being tortured until his mind threatened to break. His only salvation had been the discarded trons left behind in his cell: burned out, useless hunks of metal and glass, their insides spilling guts that made sense, after enough time. One tron was the same as any other. That stability had seen him through too many sleepless nights.

“Well, sure!” Shirotaka replied, with another ear-to-ear grin. “Cute, handsome—it’s all the same when it comes to moe! The way I see it—”

He didn’t remember the rest. That was the thing with losing your memory, he found: some things stuck better than others once they came back. The humiliation of that figurine, the mixture of giddiness and relief at being called cute for the first time in his life…

It must have been more than he could handle.

Futaba hummed down the aisle, browsing while she waited for the line to skim down. Akira followed along, wary of the more scandalous selections hidden away in a back room closed off with a curtain. Only a handful of people—all of them men, he’d noted—had wandered back there, and now one of them stood in line with a ticket in his clammy palm, sweating bullets despite the air-conditioning.

Akira almost felt for him. Almost.

He tried to focus on the price tags instead. Some of these figurines were massive or delicate and their prices reflected it; they were on par with some of Iwai’s airsoft rifles, and Akira winced at each one. While their spoils of battle were getting larger with every conquered Palace and deeper venture into Mementos, it wasn’t enough to cover one of those without a serious investment of time. Akira didn’t even want to consider how many days at a part-time job he’d have to take to cover an expense like this.

“Boss must have some serious cash,” he muttered.

“Nah, what I wanted was pretty cheap,” Futaba said, holding up her acquisition: a simple standee, barely ten inches tall. It was not a character Akira recognized. “It’s not like I have the room for some of these. Though they do look pretty cool, huh?”

Akira eyed a demonic woman, bat wings sprouting from her back, horns curling around her ears. Her hair fell in waves past her feet; tendrils of black fire propped her up as she floated in the air. She looked like Succubus, if Succubus were older and more voluptuous and even more scantily clad. “I suppose,” he said.

“Aw, not doing it for you?”

“Just some bad memories, that’s all.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Futaba’s eyes lit up, but a split second later, her face fell. “More secrets?”

“Yeah,” he said. The line moved; the guy with his ticket handed it over, and the clerk disappeared into the back.

“Does Akechi know that, too?”

“No, he doesn’t.” Goro would never let him live it down, and Akira wasn’t ready to give him that kind of ammunition—although from what he’d heard, Goro’s fans were just as bad as Shirotaka and Ren had been. That they’d been able to avoid coming across anything as out there as that figurine so far was practically a miracle.

Although it wasn’t like Akira had been looking all that hard. He didn’t like thinking about it.

Futaba thought it over for a minute or two, long enough for the clerk to return with a plain cardboard box; her eyes lit up once more as he struggled to force it into a bag. “So I know something he doesn’t, then?”

Akira hummed. “You just might, yeah.”

She snickered to herself, no doubt wondering how she would hold it over his head if they ever met—though if Akira knew her well enough she’d be too shy to manage more than a hello. Maybe if they talked tech…

But that was a matter for another day. For now, it was nearing dinnertime, and they’d yet to even make a purchase.

And if he mentioned, offhand, that Goro had experience with code over dinner…

Well. The boy needed more friends.

They wound up going to the diner in Shibuya.

Futaba, as much as she liked Sojiro’s curry, was in the mood for something else, and Akira figured a treat was in order: she’d managed to buy her figurine with little trouble, only using him as a shield once they were paying. And she didn’t even have to ask!

Her mouth watered as she looked over the menu: hamburger steak and giant parfaits and funky fish paste sandwiches. Mona would like those, but he was busy being coddled by that regular of Sojiro’s, leaving Futaba and Akira to themselves for the night. Good riddance; she liked Mona, but it was hard to talk to him while fighting the urge to tug at his fuzzy cheeks, much less listen to the same argument he always made whenever they took him anywhere… only to turn around and bask in his kittyness whenever his favorite regulars stopped by.

Futaba would never understand him.

But just as they were set to order, Akira glanced up. His face softened, though the glare off his glasses hid most of it, and Futaba dared a glance around: waiters and waitresses and patrons and—somebody walking right toward them. Generic face, plain haircut, average style…

“Whoa,” she breathed. “You’re like a real-life NPC.”

“Uh,” said the NPC, “thanks. I guess.”

“Don’t be silly,” Akira said. “Yuuki has his charms.”

Futaba glanced between the two of them. Completely generic NPC and… Akira, who managed to make bedraggled a style. Futaba supposed he’d be plain next to super pretty-boys like Akechi, but it was his glasses doing all the work. Plus five to camo, at least. Take them off and he’d be the stupidly handsome guy with a cutting stare.

Take hers off and she couldn’t see past her nose. Go figure.

“Uh-huh,” she said.

Without asking, Akira made room for his NPC friend and offered him a menu. Futaba stared at hers, wondering why he’d bother—but Akira was nice like that. Akira talked to the homeless guy in the station and bought sketchy, amateur jewelry he couldn’t wear from a guy off the street and knew the guy running the fishing ponds up in Ichigaya by name. Making friends was just what he did.

Like now, when he was asking, “Out for dinner, Yuuki?”

“Yeah,” NPC sighed. “My parents are both working late again. I’m almost relieved; Dad’s been making so much food we can’t eat it all in one sitting. I wasn’t sure what I was gonna do with another huge dinner like that. My lunches are big enough as it is.”

“I dunno,” Futaba said, “the bigger the better, right?”

Lots of tasty, tasty food, all in one place? How could she ever resist?

NPC just shook his head. “It’s hard to explain. I was getting by with just, you know, instant noodles—”

“Noodles,” muttered Akira, scandalized. As if he could talk. He emptied most of a giant box of the stuff in the first few months living here.

“—and stuff. A homecooked meal was a treat, and now there’s one on the table three or four nights a week, and if I don’t eat at least a full plate, he gets… weird about it. Like I’m going to starve or something.” He stares at the table. “It’s not like I’m still doing volleyball, either. I don’t need all that food.”

They took a moment to order. Akira frowned at the NPC’s tiny order—just the weird fish sandwiches and a glass of fruitea—but made no comment on it. Futaba, though, wanted the Nostalgic Steak. Wakaba had always burned the meat when she cooked it. She wondered if she would still taste it.

“Uh, anyway,” NPC said, “what brings you guys out here? I guess this is another friend of yours, Amamiya?”

Akira introduced them with only the slightest of winces. So it was true, then, that he didn’t like his name all that much, and Futaba didn’t blame him. A new start in a new city to feel like a new person—she got that. When Medjed had started getting bad, hadn’t she jumped ship and started over as Alibaba? It was practically the same thing.

“Futaba… Sakura,” said the NPC, as if it nagged at him. “Would you happen to know a Ryuji Sakamoto, Miss Sakura?”

She shivered. Ever since she started coming out of her room, no one had dared to call her that. Being surrounded by a bunch of retirees who looked at her like their own grandchildren was suddenly coming back to bite her—and it was Sojiro’s name. It was like the last bit of her mom had been forgotten. “Just call me Futaba; everybody else does. And of course I know him; he’s one of Akira’s friends.”

She’d helped him bleach his roots a few weeks ago. It was weird, working on someone else’s hair and having hers worked on, too. She’d thought she would hate the feeling of his hands, find the tugging and pulling alien, but it hadn’t been that bad. They even talked about Featherman the whole time; Ryuji had gotten just as excited about the upcoming movie as she was.

It was nice. Sitting around and chatting and not being completely self-conscious the entire time, like she was normal, and nothing like the Futaba she used to be.

NPC dug around in his bag for a moment. “I kept meaning to give it back to him, but it never worked out.” He placed her GamePortable on the table and pushed it over. Futaba snatched it up, intent on cataloging every new scratch, but there weren’t any. And there was the other game she’d lent him, Last Fantasy Tactics, bought from the secondhand shop just because Futaba loved it. Who didn’t want two copies of their favorite games lying around?

And now that she was thinking about it, she had to know. “Didja play ‘em? They’re pretty good, huh?”

“Oh, um, a bit,” NPC admitted. “It’s been a while since I played a game. It kind of felt like I was a kid again.”

Futaba wondered if that was normal even as the conversation drifted into what kinds of games he played, and what kinds did Akira play, and then drifted further into the ones they only knew through massive amounts of screenshots online or memes. NPC knew his memes, which was a far cry even from Ryuji, who only got the ones with pictures in them.

Before she knew it, she was having an actual conversation with the guy. Akira barely needed to intervene—not that he seemed likely to, as busy as he was focusing on his friend—but it was nice, having him there, just in case. She didn’t feel so alone when her key item was nearby, and she definitely didn’t feel conspicuous talking about games and memes and their favorite streamers over dinner. She was more of a MikoMiko kind of gal, but she’d been finding good American streamers on YouCube lately, and there was nothing she loved more than watching grown men and women struggle to beat her speedrun time in Featherman: Osprey Odyssey.

They just didn’t understand the appeal of it. That was all.

Futaba restrained herself from ordering seconds when her plate was done. The steak really had been nothing like Wakaba’s, delightfully tender in a way that meant she crammed far more of it in her mouth than she thought she could manage and nearly choked on it, and she was already wishing for more. NPC stared at her plate in shock and awe and muttered something about eating contests, as if Futaba could ever travel and sit around letting hundreds of people watch her eat.

Gross. No way.

She was more content to watch others do it. Even when she streamed games she never talked, never engaged the chat, never so much as acknowledged they were there. It was one thing to hear what everyone thought about her; it was another to read it, the text like a brand burning itself on her mind. They wouldn’t be nice like Akira and her friends; girls on the Internet were targets, not people. Boys had it only marginally better. Case in point: pretty-boy Akechi, garnering just as much hate as he did adoration.

It was weird, honestly, now that she knew the ins and outs of a change of heart. Even Akira admitted he had a point, but what other choice did any of them have? Sit back and keep letting it happen? As if.

But it turned out she and NPC liked some of the same streamers, and he determined to look her up—as if he could ever find her channel—but then asked, “Wait. You don’t run one of those racy channels, do you?”

Futaba gave him a wide-eyed stare, then turned, at last, to her key item.

“The only thing racy about it would be her speedrun records,” Akira said, cheek propped up on a fist. The better to watch them both, she figured, except his gaze found its way back to NPC more often than not.

Huh.

“Oh, you’re a speedrunner, Futaba?”

She shrugged. “It’s pretty easy, once you figure out the tricks.”

“I’ve never really seen the appeal myself,” he plowed on, “but I guess it is pretty interesting to watch, isn’t it? Not to mention remembering all those exploits. I don’t know how they do it.”

“Lots and lots of practice,” Akira said. “Like sports, but with games.”

“Oh, uh. Right.”

And just like that, conversation petered out. Akira really was content to simply sit and watch, and now that they’d covered nearly every topic Futaba could think of, she floundered for something else to add—but NPC’s phone buzzed in his bag. He tugged it out and winced. “Geez, when did it get so late,” he said, then started digging for his wallet.

Akira stopped him. “Don’t worry. It’s on me today.”

“Uh, but—”

“It’s the least I can do. A meal or two is nothing, Yuuki. Really.”

“Oh. Well, um.” NPC stared into the depths of his bag as if wondering whether disappearing into its confines would mean Akira and Futaba would forget the blush that overtook his face. “T-thanks, I guess. Um. Yeah. Thanks.”

Huh, Futaba thought.

He said his farewells, staring at the table the whole time, then left in a careful hurry. Akira watched him go, and as soon as he turned back to Futaba, she said, “The NPC, Akira? Really?”

“Is it obvious?” He called for the check.

“I’ve read enough doujins and shoujo manga to recognize this much,” she said, proud that she was right, “and if you aren’t head-over-heels, then Mona’s a dog.”

Akira hummed, eyed her, and said, “And this has nothing to do with, say, a preconceived notion you might have gotten from eavesdropping on Leblanc?”

“I don’t listen in all the time!”

“But you do listen.”

It made her feel better, knowing who came in the store and what they talked about—especially what they heckled Sojiro about, whether it was his single status or the prices of the really fancy coffee beans he stocked. No one ever asked about her, not until the Niijima woman came by, and that was how Futaba liked it.

But this wasn’t about Futaba. This was about Akira, and how she’d invaded his privacy—not to mention that private little party he had with Akechi, of all people, or the maid he kept inviting over to help him clean. Five-thousand yen was a lot of money to be throwing at a maid. “I’m sorry,” Futaba said. “I didn’t mean to. I really, really didn’t. But it… helps a little, you know. I know all of Sojiro’s regulars. I know what they sound like, what they complain about, what they do for a living. It’s easier when I do.”

Easier to look at them like they weren’t strangers. Easier to talk to them, now that she was making regular ventures from the house. Even Akira had been a threat at first—Ren Amamiya had very little social media presence, and Futaba had wondered why Sojiro would bother taking in a criminal—and listening to him sneak around Leblanc like Futaba sneaked around Sojiro’s house had been soothing. They weren’t so different after all.

Akira only raised a brow at her. He paid the bill, asking her to count out the change, and it was only when they were back on the street that he said, “You know you took it from me, Futaba.”

His chance to tell her on his own. Futaba had consumed just about everything she could get her hands on about it after, that awful guilty feeling in her gut growing heavier by the hour. And maybe it wasn’t fair that she took it, just like it wasn’t fair that he would never understand how good it felt for her to be reminded that there were other strange people in the world, born just as alien as she was. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

Akira sighed. Then he reached over and ruffled her hair, just the way that Sojiro used to. “I can’t really blame you, can I? That’s what helped us help you. That’s what matters.”

That didn’t make her feel better, but she shoved that guilty feeling down. He hadn’t had to tell her, and she hadn’t avoided him for it, either. “But still,” she groaned, “that NPC? You can do better, y’know.”

“Dare I ask what filthy corner of the Internet you’ve been holed up in, Futaba?”

“Only the same one as everyone else,” she said, “which is the one where you and Akechi—”

He groaned. Futaba heard his eyes roll. She snickered as he muttered, “Don’t be gross. Goro’s like a brother to me.”

“You know who else says stuff like that—”

“Futaba,” he groaned again, sounding as if the very idea made him question the world’s sanity.

Futaba snickered again but dropped it. So Akira had a crush on his Phan-site admin, who cared?

Except… Akira was Joker, infamous leader of the Phantom Thieves, and the Phan-site admin was practically their manager. It sounded like a bad idol rom-com, now that she thought about it: the clueless, average manager being chased after by her prettier, far more charismatic and talented idols. Maybe if she asked some of the guys who took commissions and gave vague descriptions… But she would need money for that, and Futaba wasn’t sure how well Sojiro would take paying for explicit (or not, who knew) doujins of his own ward. Probably not well, and she bet the police wouldn’t like it either.

She chewed at her lip, mind racing. Akira might not like it. Maybe it was a bad idea. She needed to think more before jumping into this kind of thing headfirst, and it would be weird, wouldn’t it. Akira was her friend and key item; the NPC was her friend, too. Normal people didn’t think about stuff like this.

Futaba wondered what was wrong with her. On the train, keeping close to Akira in the press of the crowd, she gripped his sleeve. “Sorry,” she said, softly.

“Don’t be,” he said, but it was too late. She’d taken something else from him, too, and he didn’t even realize it.

She would just have to be better. Yeah, better.

… If only she knew what that looked like.

“Takuto!” Akira greeted, cheery as ever, the events of the past few days forgotten. He’d cried and cried and then slowly picked himself back up; it was just one of his many talents.

If one could call resilience a talent.

Takuto had gone back to see Rumi but hadn’t brought Akira along. She had that furrow to her brow that said she still wasn’t done, and Takuto had put his foot down: she wasn’t going to see him until she could apologize, however necessary she thought her interrogations were. “You wouldn’t want to remember something traumatic, would you, Rumi?” he’d sniped at her when she insisted, so she’d given him the silent treatment. Hopefully she was realizing that not even she could handle being dragged kicking and screaming through her parents’ deaths over and over again, and not fuming that she wasn’t getting her way.

Takuto thought her silence was a bit less frosty today, however. Christmas was closing in. If she was good, the nurses told Takuto he could get something delivered for a Christmas date—nothing too fancy or too rich, of course, and Takuto struggled with the decision.

But, for now: Hello, Ionasal.

“Yes, hello!” Takuto settled a bit further into bed. Ionasal wrung his hands and tugged at the hems of his pajamas, the very picture of nervous teenager.

What is it?

“Oh, I just.” He blushed, ducked his head. “I was wondering what your plans were. For Christmas. It’s soon, isn’t it? Um, sooner than before, anyway.”

It is. His plans, huh? Takuto had no other plans than spending time with Rumi, and later with Ionasal. The boy didn’t have anyone else, and his guardian never seemed keen on spending any time with him, and, well.

It struck a chord with Takuto. That was all.

“It is, huh? It is…” Ionasal murmured. If not for the still silence of his apartment, Takuto wouldn’t be able to hear him. “Um, does that mean—does that mean you’ll be going on a date, Takuto? With Miss Rumi?”

Takuto thought of having Christmas dinner in the hospital cafeteria, where a plastic Christmas tree sat in the corner covered in shatterproof ornaments too large for the occasional patient to swallow, but it would be better than staying up in her room. She lived in that room. She rarely left it. Maybe the sight of other visitors would help her; maybe she would take heart from the new scenery; maybe she would simply like the view out the window of the hospital’s drab, gray parking lot. It would be new, and it would be good for her. He was sure of it. Nothing too fancy.

“ Aw, no fried chicken?”

Not at the hospital.

“That’s a shame,” Ionasal said. “I always liked the fried chicken. It was the best part.”

It took Takuto a moment to process that, and then: So you do remember, then.

“Just a bit,” he said, and shut his eyes, remembering. “Mom made hers special, because I couldn’t have any from the store. She’d pull out this big cast-iron griddle and fry it right on the stove, and I… I thought she was amazing, lifting it all by herself. It was so heavy. I could never manage it.” He sniffed. “And she did it for me, all the time. I don’t remember why, but she did, and I hated that she had to because I was built all wrong. The only thing I ever wished for was to be normal. But I wasn’t.”

You’re fine just the way you are, Takuto picked.

“You don’t understand,” Ionasal said. “I wasn’t normal. I couldn’t go to my classmates’ birthday parties. I couldn’t eat out at the restaurants they liked. If I was there, it was a hassle. They drifted farther and farther away from me and I let them because I wasn’t normal and I knew it. Even being here, right now—this isn’t normal either. I remember that much.”

That sounded like an allergy, but Takuto wasn’t well-versed in them. There had been that girl in their study groups who was, though. He’d have to find out her number. It would be worth it to have a chat about it. It wasn’t your fault. You can’t help any of that.

Ionasal disagreed. It was wrong, Takuto thought, for anyone to be so victimized.

You helped Rumi, he picked. You don’t have to be normal. I like you just the way you are.

Pink stained his cheeks. He tugged at his hair. Takuto wondered if anyone had ever told him that and meant it—likely not, even if he didn’t remember. It was sad.

“Thank you, Takuto,” he said, and—

A fierce banging woke him. Takuto jolted, bolting upright, head swimming with the dregs of memory and dream. He’d fallen asleep on his couch and his back ached and as he stared at his apartment wondering what the noise could be about, the knocking came again: not at his door but his neighbor’s, and a loud argument sprung up as soon as the door was answered.

Takuto sighed back into the cushions. The table at his side was covered in his thesis; Shibusawa’s network of graduates really was something else, and the man had found not one, not two, but three people to peer-review it. All of them were skeptical of cognitive psience as an actual discipline but still gave his paper a shot, and the gratitude Takuto felt couldn’t be put into words.

Just like Ionasal’s gratitude couldn’t be put into words.

It was a dream he’d had before. Takuto had fallen asleep in his laboratory, too exhausted after a hard day’s work at Shujin but too excited about the Amamiyas’ and Mishima’s memories of a different reality to put the work off any longer—he’d nap for a bit, then work when he woke. That was the way he got through college, after all, and if it worked then it would work now.

How far had he gotten in that dream at the lab? Ionasal had told him thank you, expressed a desire to forgive Rumi (but not by interrupting their Christmas date), and told him—told him—

“ tau-yan, Takuto. It’s a promise!”

Yes, that was right. Tau-yan. Takuto mouthed it.

It was the most vivid of his dreams by far. The others felt… distant and blurry upon waking, as dreams properly should, but most of those had been while he was awake. Perhaps sleep had been the only difference. Perhaps that was why Takuto sat back and sighed and felt that, should he take his phone out right that moment, Ionasal would be waiting for him. The boy needed him, after all.

SNIP SNIP, growled Azathoth.

“Yes, yes,” sighed Takuto, pressing a hand to his head. What was so important about this dream that he had to have it twice? What was so important—

“—that you felt the need to make home-fried chicken, Takuto?” Rumi asked, poking at her plate.

Takuto stared down at his own. Not his best attempt, but after talking with Ionasal he wanted to try it, at least once. The result was a pathetic mess of fried chicken where the breading was too thick or too thin or poorly fried or outright burnt, and maybe it was his imagination but even the panko crumbs looked off. “Well, you know. It’s the thought that counts?”

Rumi hummed, eyes narrowed. “You mean Ionasal put you up to this.”

Takuto shook his head. “I did this on my own, Rumi. He might have mentioned home-fried chicken, but he didn’t ask me to make it. I only thought a home-cooked meal might be better for you than, um, delivery.”

“You’re so impressionable, I swear,” was her response. “In the first place, Takuto: you should have used smaller pieces, maybe off the bone. I can see how you fried it, and it sounds like he was describing chicken cutlet.”

“Really?” But he’d even pulled a griddle out and showed him. Takuto was not fond of using that much oil in anything that could splatter all over his counters, so it was his fault entirely. He said as much, then added, “So chicken cutlet would have been better?”

“Well,” Rumi huffed, “at least you’re the same as ever.”

And then she dug in, heedless of the fact that the food might not have been cooked all the way through and likely to give her food poisoning. It might not have mattered—she was living in a hospital room, after all—but the last thing Takuto wanted was to make her sick. Sicker. God, if his chicken caused her to relapse—

“Relax, Takuto,” she said. “It’s good. And I… appreciate it, even if your cooking skills need some work.” Her face pinched. “Home-fried chicken, huh. My mother never made it on the bone like this. You’d need a fryer, at the very least.”

Ah, he thought so. A fryer. But Ionasal and his mystery mother had never used one… “Do they make those in cast-iron?”

“God, no, imagine how heavy it would be! Why would you ask that?”

“Oh, well,” he said, and explained as they worked their way through his experiment, and finished with, “He did say he wanted to talk to you. Later, though. Not today.”

She hummed, pressing a napkin to her lips, her fingers, and staring out the window to the parking lot, where a series of cars wheeled by. “I want to, too. But I’ll run it by you, first: there was a news special the other day about a couple of missing boys. One of them has a bad allergy; he can’t have anything that’s been in a can or cooked on steel pans. I looked into it; the boy can’t even have chocolate.”

I couldn’t go to my classmates’ birthday parties. I couldn’t eat out at the restaurants they liked. If I was there, it was a hassle.

Yes, Takuto supposed that was a hassle.

“Guess who he looks like,” Rumi said.

He didn’t need to. “You can’t be serious, Rumi.”

“I am! They look exactly alike. So alike that it’s almost uncanny.” She leaned over the table. “He did gymnastics, Takuto. He would have had a jogging route. He would know Christmas. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

It did. It did, damn it all, but: “Rumi, I saw that broadcast at home. Ionasal’s been… wherever he is a lot longer than that boy has been missing.”

“And how do you know that for sure?”

He didn’t. The app was strange on its own; who knew what other reality-bending properties it held? Just the thought made him shiver.

“You could just ask. If he remembers that much, maybe his name will help him remember more. Think about how his parents must feel! We could at least—at least tell them—that he’s okay.”

“For the most part,” Takuto tacked on, dread heavier than any grease in his stomach—and from her blanching face, heavy in Rumi’s, too. She wheeled herself over to the restroom, plate abandoned. Takuto tossed it all, then bought a pair of cake slices from the cafeteria.

It was the thought that counted, he told himself.

But would that matter to Ren Amamiya’s parents, bereft of their only son and grieving his loss even as they searched and searched for him? Would it matter, to have him placed just so far out of their reach that they could never hope to grasp him? Would it matter, if the boy on the other side of the screen couldn’t hear them?

It would matter to Takuto. If it were Rumi in there, it would matter, and it would break his heart.

By the time she came back, he was determined to move onto lighter topics. Rumi, ever shrewd, must have seen through his terrible attempts at steering the conversation but allowed it with a second slice of cake. As visiting hours drew to a close, he wished her a merry Christmas and returned to his empty apartment, where he curled up under the covers to stave off the chill and felt tears pricking at his eyes.

If it was Rumi, he truly wouldn’t be able to stand it. No doubt the Amamiyas wouldn’t either.

But this wasn’t about Takuto or the Amamiyas; this was about Ionasal. What would it matter to meet his parents again if he couldn’t remember them? Who in the world would ever want a meeting like that? Takuto could never do that to him. It was too cruel. The boy had enough to deal with already.

He turned over, wishing for sleep, but found his mind racing. Too much sugar in the cake, too many of Rumi’s looks across the table, almost like her old self again but different somehow in a way he couldn’t put into words, as if grief had sucked some vital piece of her out—

And that was why she was so insistent on it, wasn’t she? Grief was the same, no matter where one looked.

Takuto sighed, scrubbed his face with his hands, and grabbed for his phone.

Ionasal sat at his desk, scribbling away on some loose paper. He hummed as he worked, and Takuto watched for several long minutes trying to work up the courage to interrupt when the boy looked up at last. “Takuto!” he said, ever cheery, ever grinning.

Hello, Ionasal.

“ Hello, Takuto. It’s pretty late; what brings you here?”

As he stared into that happy face—so happy just to see him, expecting nothing but his company, wanting nothing but his time—Takuto found he couldn’t say it. If the broadcasts were true, Ren Amamiya had not had a happy last few months on Earth. Already ostracized, he had been outcast, the allegation of assault the final nail his social coffin. Not even his own parents had wanted him around.

Takuto couldn’t do that to the boy. He couldn’t.

It’s Christmas, he picked after a glance at the clock. Merry Christmas, Ionasal.

“Oh, it is? Merry Christmas, Takuto!” Under the desk, his feet kicked. He was so happy.

Over in the corner, his Christmas tree glittered. In addition to the decorations there were even cloth- and paper-wrapped boxes, tied up with messy ribbons and bows, ones Takuto suspected to be empty. It was the thought that counted. It was the image that mattered.

Something in Takuto’s chest ached.

Parents gave gifts to their children. Friends gave gifts to each other. Even Takuto, with his hospital-bound girlfriend, had managed to give her something. But what could he give Ionasal, save more of his time and attention? What could he give to a boy who’d endured too much, and while so young? What could he give to a boy whose only wish was to be just like everyone else?

Ionasal cut off his thoughts. “How did your date go? Was it nice?”

Just like everyone else, Takuto thought. Of course he wanted to talk about love. Of course he looked a bit sheepish asking. Takuto’s friends in high school asked each other about their dates all the time; who did Ren Amamiya have? No one.

So Takuto pressed a finger to the screen and thought of fried chicken and cake, of the way Rumi looked staring out the window, of the way she looked at Takuto. A simple dinner date on Christmas in a hospital cafeteria, tinny music playing from a speaker by the tree. It was a far, far cry from expensive restaurants with themed menus and dimmed mood lighting, but Takuto wouldn’t trade it for the world.

It was Rumi, after all. If it was for Rumi, Takuto would dine anywhere.

And then he blinked, Ionasal’s content face trading itself for his table, covered in papers, and the soft sound of his sighs for the screaming match going on in the hall. His head ached, and something in his chest was tight—Takuto stretched his arms until he felt a satisfying pop, which solved only one problem, then stumbled to the bathroom for painkillers. He stared at himself in the mirror, just another man in his twenties trying to break out into the world, baby-faced and idealistic. A tentacle crawled across his cheek, the ghostly point of a claw tugging at the bags under his eyes.

“Azathoth,” he murmured, and felt the answering rumble of laughter.

Because it had stuck this time, Ionasal’s wish. Ren Amamiya’s wish. Akira’s wish.

But was that true? He had to wonder. If it wasn’t still what Akira wanted, Takuto could be making a grave mistake—and he couldn’t picture the boy being normal, just like everyone else. Takuto couldn’t make his allergy disappear; actualization didn’t work that way. Pain and grief and worry were all products of the mind, but an allergy…

He thought of Akira and his gloves and the whispers that followed him throughout school. How he’d leafed through Takuto’s snack pile, reading the ingredient lists of everything he offered, the pleasant but embarrassed surprise at finding everything suited for him. How sick he’d gotten over garlic in his curry. How he’d cradled Shibusawa’s engagement ring like it was something precious, something divine—and something he would never, ever have for himself.

He was smart, Takuto thought. He knew he had options, and he knew those better than anyone else. But.

“I’ll have to get stronger,” Takuto mused. If he could change cognition, maybe someday it wouldn’t be so far-fetched to change the brain’s chemistry, too. It was just the container for the mind, after all, but it would be delicate work.

But if he could help Akira overcome that, Takuto could give him his one and only wish.

And wouldn’t that be worth it?

Chapter Text

It was the twenty-first, and Sae Niijima had a criminal in the back of her car.

It was insanity. The boy was insane, she was insane, the strange texts Sae received just a trap to lure her into a Phantom Thief ambush. She was risking her career over a boy who couldn’t even tell her his own name and insisted his best friend of ten years was trying to kill him. She should have left him at the station; she should have taken him to a hospital, one with a good psychiatric ward.

Instead, she took him to his guardian’s place, who then tasked her with hauling the boy’s half-conscious body through the dark alleys of Yongen-jaya. He was heavier than Makoto by a few dozen pounds and made himself heavier whenever he slipped unconscious and dragged his feet.

The boy’s phone, still in her pocket, buzzed.

By the time they made it to the little clinic Mr. Sakura directed her to, Sae’s nerves were more than frazzled and her arms were sore from the strain and Akira had puked no less than three times in a thin stream of bile. His skin felt feverish. At two in the morning, Sae doubted any doctor would be in.

But she was, taking charge with a speed Sae admired. Within minutes Akira was up on the exam table, paper crinkling as he switched between curling in against the pain and trying to get away from the doctor’s prying, prodding fingers. His pupils weren’t even and his bruises were turning a terrible black and blue and his hands were swollen to comical levels, like rubber gloves blown up with air. Mr. Sakura and the doctor kept up a careful rapport, but even when it was clear Sae wasn’t needed anymore, she lingered. She kept hearing him beg in that weak, scared voice.

Just a child. He was six—no, seventeen, now. Just a child.

So when he flinched away from the doctor’s gloved hands and made an awful, fearful sound Sae couldn’t sit back anymore. She rounded the table, took off what little jewelry she was wearing, and held his face still. His lips worked and his throat bobbed and she thought of Makoto, the one time a sparring match had gone bad and nearly broken her hand, all those shuddering breaths to keep from crying outright. She was a martial artist; she had to be strong, even when she hurt.

The hell with that.

“benu-i, Akira;” Sae said. “We’re here to help you. You can cry if you want, if it hurts. How would you say that?”

“la-cru,” Akira murmured, a bubble of noise.

“la-cru…-i?”

He made a noise. Assuming she was right, she repeated it until the tears started to fall. The doctor poked and prodded and coaxed him out of his clothes and asked Sae, “You don’t know what they gave him, do you?”

She didn’t and said so, then remembered Akira’s mystery helper and checked his phone. Unlike earlier, all she got for her troubles was a series of error messages. She clicked her tongue.

But Akira laboriously spelled out something long and complicated, interspersed with more crying fits. He wanted to go home and everything hurt and he didn’t like doctors; one second he would know exactly where he was and who was with him and then he would cry at Sae’s face and call her Casty.

“Can’t be that bad for him, can it?” Mr. Sakura asked; Takemi, who had introduced herself at last during Akira’s confusion, took the chance to prod at Akira’s abdomen.

“I suppose not, but it’s better to be sure,” she said. “I’ll take a blood sample, but by the time I get the results back it’ll likely be cleared out of his system. Until then, I can’t give him anything else. I’m not risking it.”

And if Sae called and asked what the hell kind of drug they’d given him, someone was surely going to get suspicious. She should have asked earlier, but she hadn’t been thinking straight.

“He’s a tough kid,” Mr. Sakura said, “I’m sure he can handle it.”

“That doesn’t mean he should have to,” both Sae and Takemi snapped. Just looking at him made Sae wince in sympathy; Takemi went on, “I can’t give him antihistamines. I can’t give him painkillers. Hell, I can’t give him sleep aids. Do you seriously think I’m going to let him out of my sight until I can?”

“Don’t want it to watch,” Akira mumbled, staring at the exit sign by the door.

“I didn’t say you wouldn’t, doctor, but—”

“But nothing,” Takemi said, sharp as a knife. “He’s my patient. Helping him feel like he isn’t one step from death’s door is my job. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take x-rays.”

She hauled Akira off to a separate room, leaving Sae and Mr. Sakura to themselves. Akira whimpered as he was wheeled through the door, the noise gurgling in his throat before being cut off.

“I don’t suppose you know what he’s talking about when he gets like this?” Sae dared to ask.

“Hardly,” Mr. Sakura said. “I’d say it’s this thief business, all that cognitive world mumbo-jumbo, but part of me knows that isn’t quite right.”

“Is that so?” From the x-ray room came a terrified, muffled cry. Then it hit her: “You knew about all of this?”

“Only from about a month ago. By then it was too late.” He shrugged, sighed, the bags under his eyes deep and the resolve in his eyes even deeper. “And, well, they helped my daughter. Who’s to say they didn’t help your sister, too?”

“Makoto? What does she have to—” Except she was a Phantom Thief. Akira had said so, in so many words. Sae just couldn’t believe that her baby sister was on the wrong side of the law; they’d always been a rule-abiding family. Why would Makoto abandon their ideals like that?

No. It was useless to think about. Turning that over now would mean addressing the issue with Akechi, too, and it was far too late to be doing such heavy thinking. The truth was that Sae hadn’t cared enough to pick up clues dropped right in front of her and was being pulled along into some scheme she could never understand, just another sacrificial pawn in a long, long game.

And of course Mr. Sakura knew. Makoto was friends with Akira. He had to have seen her around.

She sighed, the events of the day finally catching up to her. She sagged into the swivel chair, and Mr. Sakura onto the stool. He said, “He didn’t sign anything, did he.”

“It’s not binding if it’s not his legal name,” Sae told him, aware that she shouldn’t but not caring. “From what I was told it was just gibberish. Even a prosecutor fresh out of law school can rip that confession to pieces. You don’t need to worry.”

“And I don’t suppose I can sue for the clear mistreatment of my charge, can I.”

“He has a record,” Sae reminded him. “Police can drag him in for anything, anytime they like, and treat him just the same as they would any other criminal they drag in off the streets. There’s nothing either of us can do about that.”

Mr. Sakura snorted, disgusted. It turned into a gasp; Sae stared at a poster on the wall and tried not to hear a grown man break down over a boy half his age. She knew where he was coming from: if those detectives had given him anything he was allergic to and he’d died from it, all they had to do was throw his record out to the public. No one cared if a criminal died, teenager or not. Adding in his reaction to the drugs would just paint him as a lunatic who thought he was a Phantom Thief—the police were clearly just doing their jobs, then. No one would ever have to be the wiser.

Disgusting.

She wished she could do something about it—but up until a few hours ago, she was ready to benefit from that exploitation, just the same as her peers did. A confession signed under duress was still a confession, and that was all that mattered. It was a good thing that Akira had been so out of his mind that not even pain could completely bring him back to reality. It was a good thing, she told herself, even as her skin began to crawl.

When Akira was wheeled out of the x-ray room near to hysterics, Sae stood with him some more. By then it was going on five in the morning; her head spun with a mixture of sleep deprivation and pure adrenaline, questions piled on questions, the lens of hindsight going over every interaction she’d had over the last few months. What a fool she’d been; it was glaringly obvious that something had been going on behind the scenes and Akechi had been privy to every detail. He’d tried so hard to be kind to her the crueler she became; maybe, once everything was worked out, she would take him out for sushi. The extravagant kind. The boy would deserve it after the grilling she was going to put him through.

“la-cru-i, Akira,” she murmured as Takemi and Mr. Sakura talked out things like payments, office space, clinic hours, treatments. Akira had several cracked bones that were going to take weeks to heal, may or may not have scars on his wrists, and was suffering from a concussion Takemi couldn’t gauge the severity of. He needed a hospital. None of them dared to take him to one.

All Sae could do was let him cry and dab at his tears, hands stroking his face the same way she’d once stroked Makoto’s. Sae should go home and have a long talk with her.

Instead—after giving Mr. Sakura Akira’s phone and her business card and assuring him he could call her about anything, up to and including any developments in Akira’s condition, and then letting in a cat on her way out the door and watching it curl up at the boy’s side, a soft chitter of meows sounding from its throat and a purr working up from its chest at the way Akira reached for it—Sae went back to work.

The place was the same as ever, save for the whispers in every corner: Akechi this, the leader of the Phantom Thieves that, something about a guard and a gun. Sae couldn’t make heads or tails of it and didn’t want to; she set straight out for Akechi’s desk, shoved into a lonely corner. The Detective Prince was just as pale and drawn as if he’d endured Akira’s torture himself, and so out of it he didn’t hear her call his name the first five times.

It was strange. He didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer. He looked like a boy, just like Akira did, just another teenager being piled with too many responsibilities, but it was going on eight in the morning, now, and Akechi had been here all night mopping up his little operation and Sae could recognize the crash coming from a mile away.

And yet, here he was, doggedly going at his usual duties, fingers tapping away at his keyboard, eyes staring blankly.

“Akechi,” she tried once more; unlike the first five times she placed a hand on his and thought she felt the ghosts of tears there. His gloves were mismatched colors, obvious under the bright fluorescent lights. “Come on, now. It’s far too late for a student to be up. You need to go home.”

“What point would there be in that?” he asked. He stopped, kept staring at his screen. “He’s dead, Miss Sae.”

“Dead?” she asked.

“As I said, yes,” Akechi said. He blinked, a long, slow, torturous affair. “And now I can’t help but wonder who will be next. It seems love truly is something I can never attain.”

“…Love?”

“Mama. Akira. Who will be next, Miss Sae?”

“I… don’t know.” Where in the world was this conversation going? “But for now, I think you should get some rest, Akechi.”

“But there’s no point in going,” Akechi said. “You know, that’s what Mama and Akira would tell me: go home, get some rest, come back when I’m feeling better. If I listen to you too, what will that make you? Someone I love? Will I have to look at your corpse one day, too?”

“My… you mean you’ve seen his corpse? That Phantom Thief boy’s?”

How? Sae had taken him from that interrogation room. Sae had his blood on a spare jacket crumpled in her backseat. Sae had seen him, battered and bruised, cry in an exam room for four solid hours. She had held his swollen hands. How could he be dead already?

And how could Akechi have seen his body so quickly?

But by now they’d been spotted by one of the roaming detectives; he made his way over, tugged her none-too-gently to the side and said, “Don’t agitate him any further, Miss Niijima. He has enough to deal with as it is.”

Her head spun. She wanted nothing more than to sink into a chair; instead she planted her feet a bit more firmly and asked, “What happened?”

The detective—and not one of the ones from earlier—dared a glance over at Akechi, who had gone back to his work with that same dead-eyed stare. “After you left, there was an… incident with the suspect we had in custody. Akechi went to interview him. He asked for the guard’s assistance. Apparently everything was going as fine as it could, but Akechi made an error in judgment. I guess the culprit wasn’t as off his rocker as everyone was saying; he took Akechi hostage, coerced the guard into giving him his gun, then shot the guy dead. I don’t know what happened after that, but he killed himself. Akechi saw the whole thing.”

“There was a camera in there,” Sae reminded him. “Surely we have footage?”

He shook his head. “Camera’s have been fritzy all day. The footage we do get is barely usable, and the last thing we need is for our resident pretty-boy to lose it because one too many people ask him to relive it.” His voice dropped. “Is it true they were friends, Miss Niijima?”

“As far as I could tell.” Though Sae was beginning to wonder if that was very far at all. The only time she’d realized it was when Akira told her outright. Looking at Akechi now, however… he was the very picture of distraught, only holding himself together through sheer force of will.

Like Akira on that examining table, clinging onto Sae for dear life.

“He asked me to be there,” Sae said, head suddenly spinning. Either Akechi was in on the escape plan or he really had shot his best friend dead—neither would be good for his career, much less his mental health. He was under enough stress as it was; the detective was right about that. And Akechi’s words just now bothered her. “Do you think… I would have been shot, too?”

“I, uh… assume so, Miss Niijima,” said the detective, giving her a look. “Are… you alright?”

She’d talked to Akira just moments before Akechi. She knew she had a better grasp of the situation than anyone in the station, including the Detective Prince himself. Akira might have been half-out of his mind, but he was no liar, and even the best actor couldn’t fake that kind of mortal fear.

(Not to mention how swollen his hands had been. How could he have gotten a finger on the trigger? How could he have held anything like a squirming body? Didn’t these people care about the details?

No. Of course they didn’t. All that mattered was that the infamous leader of the Phantom Thieves was dead.)

Someone else came over then: that squat detective who’d told her there was no point to be there. He looked her up and down and asked, “What’s going on, Niijima?”

Sae stared him in his old, wrinkled face, taking in the nicotine stains on his fingers and the smoke yellowing his shirt and thought of a gray cell deep in the bowels of the station. She shivered.

And once she started she couldn’t stop.

She could have died. Had she not stopped to question Akechi… had she not listened to the stranger on Akira’s phone… had her resolve to solve the case not wavered in the face of his begging, pleading words…

But it wasn’t a bullet that could have done her in. She could have died like Okumura, suddenly and painfully and messily. And when would that happen? In front of a court? Out on the street, in the middle of traffic? In front of Makoto?

Makoto, who would be implicated. Makoto, who still depended on her. Makoto, her insufferable baby sister who worked so hard to make her proud. Makoto, who would know far better than Sae who the real culprit was.

What will that make you? Someone I love?

She looked over at him from her spot on the floor. A detective had given her his suit jacket and was asking questions a mile a minute, and yet Akechi still worked, nonplussed by the noise. She thought his shoulders shook.

Will I have to look at your corpse one day, too?

He should have gone home. No one would fault him: he was young and inexperienced and had just watched his best friend kill himself. It was madness to think he could still work under those conditions.

And yet he was still here, as if he was waiting.

It seems love isn’t something I’m destined to attain.

She thought she knew who for.

Sae stumbled to her feet, ignored the cries of the gawking detectives around her, and pushed her way over to Akechi’s desk. He still worked, fingers tapping out a steady rhythm, breathing carefully even—until there was a hitch, a distinct shudder. He hid it well, but not well enough.

la-cru-i, she thought. Even a boy like Akechi should be allowed to cry; she threw her arms around him. Comfort had never been her strong suit—her father’s death had rendered her cold and distant and snappish, and Makoto had borne the brunt of it—but she thought she could handle this. Just a hug, as simple as holding Akira’s swollen hands and telling him he could cry.

“You shouldn’t, Miss Sae,” Akechi said, softly, his tone so even it could have been just another day. “People are watching.”

“I don’t care,” she said, feeling the first wave of hot tears burst through her. The past twenty-four hours had really been too much. “God, Akechi. I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

For the absolutely tangled web he’d found himself ensnared in. For the friend he’d had to kill. For the love he thought he couldn’t ask for. For the love she thought she wouldn’t feel again. She’d been kind to Akechi, sure, the way any decent senpai would their junior, but it had been more than that. He reminded her of Makoto, always striving to be perfect and good and never causing trouble and Sae had seen it as maturity instead of a cry for praise and attention.

How blind she was.

How selfish she was.

Never again, she promised herself, even as she knew it wouldn’t always be the case. But she could strive to be better than the ugly self she’d been showing, couldn’t she?

No, she would. She would.

It was the twenty-first, and Kasumi Yoshizawa sat in the lobby of her gymnastics club, the last several hours a blur. She’d gone to school like normal, barely paid attention to the new rumors circulating about Senpai (he always did like to hear what strange new crimes he was supposedly committing, and this time it was an international heist set up on the school trip to Hawaii; speculations abounded about what, exactly, he was trying to steal, from a gift shop’s stock of plastic starfish to the King Kamehameha statue to the hotel’s supply of tiny scented soaps), and went to practice, just like normal.

And just like normal, as she waited for her father to pick her up, she browsed websites on her phone. She still enjoyed the gymnastics forums and her YouCube playlist of famous routines, but on occasion she’d look for cute cat videos (to share with Senpai, of course) or wind up reading the news (which lately was about Senpai, of course) which would circle around to the Phan-site.

Kasumi had never liked it at first. It was too bright and too garish and too obsessed with the Phantom Thieves for her liking, full of too many people begging for help when they didn’t dare to help themselves, but ever since last month she found herself staring at its neon-crimson threads more and more often. Senpai really was amazing for doing all of this. She only wished she could help.

But gymnastics came first and he understood that. There would always be time to be a metaphysical thief later; there wasn’t much time until the next Olympics, and Kasumi had to earn a gold medal. For Sumire’s sake.

She thought of Kasumi’s dead-eyed gaze and her whispered pleas and shivered.

… That was Senpai now.

It couldn’t be true. Senpai wasn’t the type to do something like that. Even when he’d been cornered in that casino Palace, he’d been willing to fight. He wouldn’t back down just because he was arrested—and it certainly looked like him, from the various news articles and the grainy cell-phone video of a boy in a Shujin uniform being shoved into a cop car, a jacket covering his face but the glint of glasses underneath a dead give-away—and he certainly wouldn’t—

Wouldn’t—

Her head throbbed. The screen on her phone fizzed and crackled with static. In the big picture windows overlooking the street, she saw it over and over again—Sumire, running out into traffic, her long red hair streaming behind her like a ribbon, the slice of a car’s headlights cutting through the gray morning and glinting off her glasses as she turned, surprised—

—and looked right at Kasumi, right at herself, pure terror etched on her face and oozing from every pore, and brakes were squealing but in the wet left over from the night’s brief shower the tires simply slid across the pavement, the awful smell of burning rubber filling the air, and—

She’d been too late. Her hand, outstretched, reaching for her dear sister, but she’d been too late, too late, too late—

—and in those big picture windows she saw herself. Kasumi. Sumire. A twin without her other half, lost forever to a fit of pique.

A kohai without her senpai, lost forever to a fit of pride.

Before she knew it, she was dialing. The voice that answered made something coiled tight in her chest ease. Talking with him always made everything feel right again. “Yoshizawa,” he said.

“I’m sorry for calling so late, doctor,” she said, eyeing her reflection with distaste. Senpai could be dead and she couldn’t shed a single tear. “It’s just, um… have you seen the news?”

“The news? No, I’m afraid I haven’t. I’ve been at home all day, working on some things.”

Noise on the other end; Kasumi waited, staring down her reflection, as Doctor Maruki skimmed the day’s news. He gasped, audible even over her bad connection, when he finally reached it.

“Yoshizawa,” he said, pained, because Senpai was someone to him, too, and if there was anyone who understood that he wouldn’t—that he would never—it would be him. “Yoshizawa, I’m sure it’s not him.”

“How can you say that?” It came out too aggressive, too scathing; she was the one who’d seen those officers, ringed around the casino like a noose and thought everything would be alright, that Senpai and his friends could escape with the same ease they showed in battle. They had to have gotten the upper hand on him somehow. It was the only way that made sense.

“Akira would never resort to such measures,” Doctor Maruki said, earlier emotion shaken off at her own. He was calm, now, and he led her through a breathing exercise. “You and I both know that. He was troubled, sure, but he would never do such a thing. He values life too much.”

“How can you… say that?” Didn’t Sumire value life, too? The dead couldn’t dance or perform gymnastics, after all, and Sumire loved both.

Outside, cars whizzed by, their headlights cutting swaths through the night.

“There are too many people he cares about to hurt that way,” Doctor Maruki said. “I’d bet the police are only saying so to avoid agitating his fans. They’d call for a release for him, violation of his probation or no. Although…” He hummed in thought. The back lights of the lobby clicked off, throwing Kasumi into sudden gloom. She shivered. “Although… this is Akira we’re talking about. If there’s anyone who can escape a hairy situation like this, it’s him. I’d say he managed to make his escape and the police are scrambling to save face. Doesn’t that sound much better?”

“Yeah, it does.” She could practically see him, smirking at the cops as he ran through the streets, disappearing into one crowd or another, just another average teenager. He’d lie low in some safe house with one of his many friends and come out of hiding when the coast was clear.

And then he’d turn right back to phantom thieving. It was just how he was.

“Do you think he’d respond if I sent him a text?” she asked. Disappearing so suddenly like this… if she never saw him again, what would she do?

“… That’s probably not the best idea,” the doctor said. “If the police has his phone or it isn’t silenced, that might put him in unnecessary danger. It might be better to wait a few days. Perhaps he’ll have returned home by then, too.”

Home, she thought. Senpai had mentioned living above a curry cafe once. That was the only reason he hadn’t liked her bento: he ate curry nearly every single day.

And if he was in hiding, maybe he would like something to eat… something tastier than curry.

“That sounds like a great idea!” Doctor Maruki said when she mentioned the idea. “You know, I’ve heard he’s been developing a taste for French cuisine. What was it? Mille-feuille? Not that you’d have to make it from scratch, but something similar might work as well.”

“If it’s just reheating, maybe I can manage it,” she said, making a note of it. He had mentioned that once or twice; apparently getting the puff pastry just right was tremendously difficult. There was no way she would manage it on her own.

Sumire, though…

She shook that thought away, concentrating on the conversation. Akira couldn’t have certain fruits and nothing from a can, and that was okay. She could do this. In a few days’ time she would visit and he would be alright and he’d thank her for thinking about him and apologize for making her worry so much, and she’d be able to apologize for not trusting in him and his friends and tailing them inside the casino. It had been the most nerve-wracking moment of her life—but in an odd, exhilarating way. If being a Thief was always like that, Kasumi could understand why they kept doing it.

Mille-feuille, though. She’d have to practice. Maybe her parents would help…

Well. It was a start.

Takuto sighed. His cell phone fell to the floor. He didn’t bother to pick it up.

“Your strength is commendable, doctor,” said a nearby assistant. He picked the phone up reverently, and, with a great and infinite care, set it on the table.

Commendable he said, as if that one conversation hadn’t wrung Takuto dry. His head ached and throbbed with every pulse of his heart; the lights burned straight through his eyelids.

It was only his second day out of Shujin. How could he be this tired?

SLEEP, suggested Azathoth.

“No sleep,” Takuto muttered. “Water. Is there—is there water?”

If he was adequately hydrated, he wouldn’t be feeling so awful. It was his lab and the nature of it; so long as he was here, he felt neither hungry nor thirsty. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be so tired if not for the use of his power, too, and the easiest way to trick his body into thinking all was well was to put something in it. He sipped at an offered glass—lukewarm, just like the air—and sighed again.

He hadn’t realized his actualizations were so weak. Or perhaps it was just that Akira was too strong—every time Yoshizawa had an episode, Akira was the common cause. He brought out emotions thought dormant, made what was once sensical spin on its head, dragged the ugly past along behind him wherever he went—

“Takuto,” he heard, and shivered.

—because he lived in it, even while dreaming of the future. Takuto wasn’t wrong: food was happiness. Food was life itself. Food was thinking of the next meal while one ate the first.

Akira didn’t do that.

He took what was offered and broke it into pieces. He turned what was meant to be one meal into several, turned up his nose at special occasions, watched with pity and jealousy as the rest of the world stuffed itself. Akira was living like a prisoner, as if his next meal wasn’t guaranteed, as if he couldn’t count on anyone else to feed him.

And maybe that was true, Takuto thought, reminded once more of allergies. How severely limiting they were, how distinct they made one from everyone else, how needy one became in turn. But Akira, even when given the chance to do as he pleased and eat as he liked, didn’t.

He was trapped, and he dragged everyone else down with him. Yoshizawa didn’t need that kind of negativity in her life, not with so many other stressors at work. Takuto was doing his best but it was becoming obvious that wasn’t enough; he needed a strength that would surpass even the worst of traumas. If simple news articles were all it took to undo all of his work, he really would be a laughingstock.

Not to mention that he would never be able to grant Akira’s wish.

He shifted; now that he was thinking on it, he’d never gotten around to speaking with Akechi. Asking for an informal meeting just hadn’t cut it with that social worker in the way—never mind Takuto’s contract with Shujin—and now that he and Akira had gone their separate ways, Takuto was afraid he would never get the chance to. Tokyo was a very big place, and Takuto considered himself lucky he’d been able to gather the wishes of so many people Akira held dear.

Oh, but… Didn’t Yoshizawa’s father run a television studio? Surely he could help?

But would that false television persona tell Takuto his honest feelings, his heart’s deepest wish, or would he simply smile and laugh and mouth off platitudes, sure that what was meant to be honest and heart-felt was nothing more than a publicity stunt? And perhaps Akira was the only one he trusted with his feelings in the first place; what then? What could Takuto possibly do for the boy?

He didn’t know and it rankled, catching upon the edges of his mind like it was brushing a wound. If Akira’s reaction was any indication, Takuto couldn’t go about meeting him the same way; quite possibly he’d been warned already and would be wary, and—

“Sir,” said an assistant, materializing in the doorway with a clack of her heels. “I am sorry to disturb your rest, but you wished to be informed of another incident, sir.”

“Another,” he muttered, trying to think—but it had been just last month. Intruders in his lab, agitating his assistants. They hid it well but not well enough; Takuto knew of it as well as he knew the back of his own hand, their unrest giving him the jitters, their drive to prove themselves worthy agitating.

“Yes, sir,” said the assistant. “Another.”

“Can it not wait, doctor?” suggested the other. “You have only just finished with another task. Please, let your assistants handle this.”

Takuto considered it. He was still tired, and he wanted more time to consider the threads spooled in the Place of Possibility, and quite possibly another glass of water. He asked, “What sort of incident is it?”

He was given the clipboard; text and images flowed onto its surface. Chiharu Kohara, who spent an awful lot of time playing games on her phone, to the point she didn’t eat or sleep until the battery died. A high school girl with failing grades whose parents fought constantly. When she did manage to sleep, she always had the strangest dream: of gaining friends in one of her phone games, friends who wanted to talk to her, friends united in pursuit of the method to—

“How did you find this?” he asked.

“Miss Kohara told us so herself, sir,” said the assistant. “Since the incident, we have been patrolling the entrance; we offered her a place to rest when she wandered in, and she seems very eager for help, sir.”

Takuto considered it. On the one hand, he was still tired. On the other, however, his interest had been piqued. He wouldn’t get any rest like this.

He sighed, stood, stretched out his back. Only twenty-four and he felt old, his head aching, his back a mess of knots that only came of hunching over his desk, his laptop, his paper. But Chiharu Kohara wouldn’t wait forever; sooner or later her nerves would get the better of her and she would want to leave, and Takuto couldn’t have that. Not quite yet, not until he was finished helping her.

As he rounded the table, his assistant asked, “Are you sure, doctor? It wouldn’t do to overexert yourself.”

“I’m sure,” said Takuto. “I think this is something only I can help her with, and it may lead me to some of the answers I’m seeking. I can rest after.”

“Of course, doctor,” said the assistant, something like annoyance in its tone. Emotion, from his masked assistants? How odd. They had never voiced it before. Perhaps they were growing more human. “As you desire.”

Takuto hummed, pleased with the answer. He strode through the doorway, determined to make the most of Miss Kohara’s visit. He wondered what she would wish for.

He hoped it was to forget. His strength wasn’t nearly enough to send her to another world, not yet, if ever. Would abandoning her home truly help her be happy? Perhaps there was something else he could give her, some other route to happiness he could place her on, one where he could watch over her to be sure of her happiness…

It was the twenty-first, and Takuto Maruki knew that other worlds were not always kind.

It was the twenty-first, and Sae’s head ached.

“What a day,” she muttered, toeing off her shoes and stepping into the house, purse falling to the floor. She felt… not drained, not wired, but an odd in-between, a third or fourth wind kicking in to alleviate her exhaustion, not that it did much good.

“I’m just glad he’s okay.” Makoto straightened their shoes and picked up Sae’s purse as she rooted through the fridge, not satisfied with Leblanc’s curry. It was good, delicious even, but right now she wanted something else, something a bit more satisfying.

“Okay is subjective,” Sae told her, finally finding the tub of ice cream in the back of the freezer. She’d bought it on a whim months ago, determined to take a day for herself and never following through with it. She set it on the counter. “It’s his mental health I’m worried about.”

A testimony from a madman. No decent court would ever accept it, but Japan did not have decent courts.

“Was it really that bad?” Makoto asked.

Sae fished for a pair of bowls and spoons. There was a crust of ice across the top of her ice cream and she stared at it as if daggers could undo months of freezer-burn. “’Bad’ is one way to put it,” she said, and sighed. “Sit down, Makoto. I think we have a lot to talk about.”

“But you’ve been up for ages!”

“Not true, I took a nap at Takemi’s,” Sae said. After bawling her eyes out into Akechi’s pretty-boy hair, she’d been sent home. Instead she’d gone back to the clinic, where the doctor had given her a dose of some home-brew sleep aid and let her crash in her waiting room. Sae had vague recollections of Akira crying out in his sleep, terrible screams and pleading cries and heart-wrenching whimpers. Takemi had no explanation for it. Neither did Sae.

And neither did Akira, battered and confused as he stood in Leblanc’s cafe surrounded by his friends hours later, memory of the past week fuzzy and the last twenty-four hours even moreso. Sae was sure there was more damage they’d yet to uncover, but for now he was standing and cognizant and he’d at least kept down a meager portion of rice porridge. Sae was sure his first round of vomit was never coming out of her shoes.

“Sis—” Makoto started to argue, but thought better of it; she sat, exactly the chastised child she’d always been. She stared at the table, hands clenched in her lap—then stared Sae in the eye, daring her to ask her questions.

When had she grown up? Why had Sae missed it?

“I’m sorry,” Sae said, to Makoto’s surprise. “It isn’t right of me, but… ever since Dad died, I hated you. It felt like taking care of you became my only purpose, that it didn’t matter what goals I had set for myself or my talents. All I was good for was being a surrogate mother.” She scoffed. “Turns out I would have had a hard time anyway, working with bastards like that.”

“No, it’s my fault—”

“Don’t,” Sae said, a touch too sharp. Makoto flinched. “No, I meant—don’t say that. You were only trying to connect with your family. We’re all we have left. I knew that, and it—it hurt. It still hurts. I miss them both every day, Makoto, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Nothing you did was wrong.”

“Aside from becoming a Phantom Thief, you mean.”

“Yes, aside from that.” And likely not even that if Akira’s testimony was true, but she could hash all that out later with Makoto and her friends.

Her friends. Sae felt like a complete fool.

“You did so much and I couldn’t see it for what it was,” she went on. “Dinner and laundry and housework, all on top of your studies and activities on Student Council. Nothing I say now will erase how I treated you. You don’t even have to forgive me for it. I pushed you away when you needed me most, treated you like a burden and a convenient tool at the same time. It was wrong of me, even if I wasn’t your sister.”

“But you realize it now,” Makoto said.

Sae prodded at the ice cream; it was starting to thaw, the edges going soft. “I do,” she said.

How awful she’d been. A distant sister. An angry mentor. An irate interrogator. Akira had stared at her in quizzical fascination in Leblanc’s cafe, squished between the redheaded Sakura girl and bleached-blond Sakamoto, as if he couldn’t reconcile this gentle Sae with the one he’d met in a drugged stupor. Every so often he would slip up and call her Casty, then blink at himself.

But he’d been there, nearly himself again. Takemi really did work wonders.

Makoto, eager to drop the subject, asked, “How… bad was it, exactly?”

Sae gave her a rundown of Takemi’s diagnosis: cracked shoulder and ribs, a mild concussion, heavy bruising. Absolutely nothing that could exacerbate his allergy for the next week at least, even the foods he’d deemed safe to eat, though she had a strong feeling he wasn’t going to listen to that advice. Mr. Sakura had mentioned something about banana paste in his fridge. Sae hoped it wouldn’t make everything worse.

When she was done, Makoto waited, expectant. Sae dished up the ice cream, threw the tub in the trash, and took a bite. Heavenly chocolate exploded on her tongue.

It was against policy. She shouldn’t even mention it to Makoto, but the events of the past day had left her drained and she was likely to forget while Makoto was only weary with worry and relief, so Sae laid that out, too: Akira’s odd behavior, the confident young man and the whimpering wallflower switching in the blink of an eye, dazed determination giving way to terror. She didn’t mention Akechi. Makoto wouldn’t want to talk about the boy who’d shot her dear friend and leader and Sae didn’t want to question why Akira had looked about Leblanc’s cafe with thinly-veiled disappointment.

At the end of it, Sae fully expected her to agree it was insanity. Instead, Makoto leaned back, thoughtful, and said, “I don’t think he was crazy, Sis.”

“You don’t?”

“No. It fits too well with some of the behavior I’ve witnessed, actually. If—if it was some kind of regression drug, made to make him think he’d never been locked up in a station before… the police thought he’d become a scared teenage boy, but instead…”

“Instead?” Sae pushed.

“He got lost in a dream,” Makoto said. As if that made sense. “A… horrible, awful, wonderful dream, he called it. And—”

(“You’re going to be alright, Makoto,” Akira told her. New power flooded her veins but it was nothing to the fire that his gaze burned into her as they stood among the rain of yen bills of Kaneshiro’s bank. “I won’t let anything happen to you, even if we fail. Understand?”

“We won’t fail,” Makoto had told him, misinterpreting that passion, because he hadn’t been speaking for her sake at all. He’d been speaking for his, for the weak boy locked up in a room with no way out but to obey, for the rescue he’d craved like a man dying of thirst.

Akira wouldn’t let it happen to anyone else, ever again.)

“—that’s who you talked to,” Makoto said. “Not—not Ren Amamiya, not Akira, but…”

(What had she overheard Akechi call him once? He’d been hit with an Eigaon, his screams splitting the air, Ryuji very obviously fighting between laughing at his pain and wincing in sympathy, and Akira had rushed over to help him up. Akechi had slapped his hand away and growled—)

“Ionasal,” Makoto said.

“Ionasal,” Sae said, tasting the name on her tongue. It was bitter. She ate more ice cream and wondered if that was the name on the confession, if the strange characters had actual meaning. If she could see it… make a copy, perhaps, and ask him… if he even deigned to tell her the truth of the matter…

But he had to eventually. His friends weren’t going to sit around waiting forever for an explanation that would never come, and Akira needed more than a motley group of teenagers could provide. So did Akechi, she suspected.

God, what a day.

For a while they were quiet save for the clang and scrape of spoons in bowls; when Sae finished Makoto was still only halfway through hers, melted chocolate pooling in the bottom of her bowl.

Makoto said, “I don’t think he trusts you, Sis.”

“I don’t either.” The words of a madman. A—what had he called it? A metaphysical reality? The world of the unconscious? She didn’t understand it. But that wasn’t what Makoto was saying. “But he’s trusted me enough this far, hasn’t he? Remind me to throw those shoes out, by the way.”

“I’ll see if I can’t get them cleaned,” Makoto promised, “and that’s not quite what I meant. He doesn’t trust any of us. Not with the whole truth, anyway. And what if it really is something we’ll have to take his word for? What if there isn’t any proof?”

“There always is, Makoto.” Clever, subtle signs. Violent, loud clues. Akira and Akechi weren’t quite as adept at cleaning up after themselves as they thought; they made little mistakes, and those mistakes added up over the years. This was just a tipping point.

At that moment, exhaustion flooded through her anew. She sighed, rested her head for a moment, and when she looked up once more Makoto had cleaned up her bowl. Puddles of ice water dotted the table; her baby sister dabbed at them with a dishcloth.

How could Sae have ever thought she was a burden?

From the sudden pink on her cheeks, Makoto heard. She ducked her head and ordered Sae to bed in a tone she wasn’t familiar with. Sae, exhausted and overwhelmed, mind whirling at hundreds of miles an hour but beginning to fail now that sleep was at hand, went.

In the space between one dream and the next, she saw her father’s face and couldn’t help but wonder how much her life would have been different were he still alive. If he could see the proud young woman Makoto was growing into… If he could take some of the burden off Sae’s shoulders…

What would he think of all this? What would he think of the Phantom Thieves?

Sae wished she knew.

Chapter Text

Shinya Oda paused just over the doorway, backpack dangling from one hand, shoes half-off. There was a smell coming from the kitchen—one he hadn’t smelled in ages, it felt like—and Shinya swallowed down hope. It could be anything.

But he shuffled into the apartment, silent in his socks, and turned the corner—yes! It was!

He fought down excitement. “Mom?” he asked. “What are you making?”

“You’ll see,” she sang, though her eyes were red and puffy. Her whole face seemed swollen. Shinya thought it best to leave her be for the moment—whether it was true or not, he’d find out soon enough—and wandered into his room to put his bag away. He did his homework at his desk, afraid to ruin her good mood. If it wasn’t what he thought it was, it would be easy to.

But he hoped it was. Akira had promised he would change her heart.

The bruises he’d sported when they met up still worried Shinya. He always thought the police were good guys meant to protect everyone, but he supposed that wasn’t true. Even the good guys could have a couple bad eggs thrown in the mix.

He just wished those bad eggs hadn’t found Akira. It wasn’t fair.

He liked Akira.

Shinya paused over his essay. He liked Akira. He liked hanging out with him and teaching him Gun About; he liked how Akira bought him snacks and listened to him. It was like having a big brother. Shinya almost felt bad for hating him so much when they first met. He was a good person, and if anyone deserved to win, it was Akira.

There you go again, Shinya sighed to himself. Winning and losing—hadn’t Akira taught him things like that didn’t matter as long as everyone had fun? That it was nice to win—exhilarating, even, and Shinya had to look up the definition of that later—and that it was awful to lose, to pour your whole heart into it and still come up short? Shinya used to laugh at the crybabies he beat; now he tried to help them get better, so they’d have more fun competing.

And it was fun, having friends at school he could talk to, not sitting alone at his desk for hours thinking about the arcade and his mom. He showed them that Gun About wasn’t all he was good for (a particularly persistent nightmare where he was alone and angry all the time), and they showed him that Gun About wasn’t the only thing they were bad at. Atsushi was good in gym; Kosuke was great with science; Kaoru knew how to cook and do laundry—

Shinya paused. He didn’t know a Kaoru.

But it was amazing, that he could cook. Shinya wondered if it would help his mom, if he learned how to cook. If he learned how to make hamburger steak himself, he could have it whenever he wanted. Or omelet rice. Or fried rice. Or… anything.

But it would be lonely, eating all by himself.

He shifted in his seat; the old wooden chair creaked beneath him. He wouldn’t have to eat by himself. He could make his own lunches. He could cook for his mom. Kaoru would eat it, too.

He shook his head. He didn’t know a Kaoru. It was just a name that kept… popping up, and tonight it was worse than usual. If he asked anyone, they’d give him a puberty speech even though Shinya was only twelve. He blamed his height; only girls were this tall at twelve. It was stupid.

Shinya threw down his pencil, motivation lost. The only person who wouldn’t call it puberty was Akira, and Shinya didn’t want to bother him anymore, and maybe it really was just a weird dream thing even if it felt completely natural—thinking about Kaoru, worrying about Kaoru, getting mad at Kaoru—and at the same time that… wasn’t quite right. The name made him uneasy.

… Yeah, it was definitely weird puberty stuff. Maybe he was an early bloomer. That would explain it.

He couldn’t go back to his homework, though. He’d breezed through his math workbook the first week he got it and was wishing he hadn’t; numbers and Gun About were the only things that helped him feel steady, aside from talking to Akira, and right now he couldn’t rely on either. Picking his way through essays and identifying rock formations wasn’t his idea of a relaxing time.

… But he felt like it could be, with Kaoru at his side.

Shinya groaned, scrubbing his hands through his hair. Weird early puberty stuff was stupid. Life was stupid. Why did he have to go through this, again? Because it was inevitable?

So stupid.

That was how his mom found him: flipping through his health textbook, desperate for an explanation that wasn’t there.

“Are you that old already, Shinya?” his mom asked.

“I just turned twelve last month,” he reminded her. He still remembered that trip to Dome Town—the cheater, the rides, Akira and his weird friend—and the box of cupcakes sitting in the fridge when he got home. She’d wanted to be there. She just couldn’t. That, and not the business with Kaoru, was the reason he said, “Growing up sucks.”

“It’ll get worse before it gets better,” was her only response. She squeezed his shoulders; her hair tickled his cheeks. “And I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

Just fine. Before he met Akira, Shinya would have agreed without a second thought. Of course he would have been fine; he was a winner. But now…

“I can’t be a kid forever, huh,” he muttered. He was in fifth grade. Next year he would be in sixth, and there would be new fifth graders taking his and his classmates’ spots, and on and on and on until they were old like Akira, like Shinya’s mom, like the newscasters on TV, like the little old lady living next door. He hated thinking about it. He’d rather think about Kaoru.

So he asked, “Hey, Mom. What’s it mean when you know somebody you’ve never met before? Is it just… weird growing up stuff?”

His mom hummed, entertaining the question. She smelled like hamburger steak, and her hands were a touch too warm where they wrapped around his middle. “No, I don’t think so,” she determined. “Could you point them out to me on the street?”

“I dunno,” Shinya said, thinking hard, trying to put a face to Kaoru and only coming up with glasses and polo shirts. Like Akira, he thought, but shorter and nerdier.

“Then maybe they’re just a friend you used to have in another life.” She hummed again. “Or a soulmate. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“I don’t need a soulmate. I’m twelve.”

She laughed, low and breathy, and for a while they sat there staring at Shinya’s embarrassing health textbook, the smell of hamburger steak drifting in from the kitchen. Eventually she said, “There’s nothing wrong with having a soulmate, Shinya. I never said they had to be your lover, did I?”

Lover? “Gross.”

“Whoever it is, I just know that you must have cared about them very much. The way I care about you very much. Too much, sometimes.” She sniffed. Shinya hoped she wasn’t about to cry on him. “That’s why I’m sorry. For the way I’ve been. I’ll do my best to get better.”

Shinya thought about that. The only reason she’d gotten better was a change of heart. The only person who’d fixed her was Akira, who couldn’t be expected to do so all the time. “Then get help.”

She jerked away, startled. “Shinya—”

“I mean it!” He turned to kneel on his chair, gripping the old wooden back of it with both hands. It creaked. “If you want to stay better, get help! Promise me!”

She stared at him, hair framing her face, eyes too wide, apron covered in spots of flour and sauce. She stared at him like he was just a child and she didn’t understand where this was coming from, not one bit, and Shinya thought of her telling Akira she’d get him arrested just for talking to Shinya, like it was a bad thing her son wasn’t parroting her blindly anymore, like it was a bad thing he suddenly had friends, like it was a bad thing he found her completely and utterly embarrassing when she got like that. Shinya was the one growing up with a mother like that, and he couldn’t figure out what was so bad about it, before, but he knew better now.

“I don’t want you to be like that ever again, okay?” he said, aware he was yelling, tears burning hot behind his eyes. “I want my mom back. That’s all. That’s all!”

If her heart really was changed, then she would understand. She had to. Akira wouldn’t lie to him.

But his mom just stood there and stared at him, mouth agape. After a while Shinya couldn’t take it—he shut his eyes to her and her increasingly blurry form and let the tears flow. He was twelve; he could cry if he wanted to. Akira would never laugh at him for that.

Eventually she shuffled over, wrapping him in a hug, his face mashed into her chest. Awkward, but Shinya didn’t care; he reached for her, not caring that he was twelve and a boy and shouldn’t be hugging anybody. She was his mom, and she was back to the way she used to be, and that was all that mattered.

Her promises to get help were worth the cold dinner they ate that night.

Heists to save the future of Japan or no, Yusuke still had homework to finish.

All of his bookwork was done without trouble. Hunching over a textbook and hunching over a canvas were nearly the same thing, and in the months since Madarame’s arrest he’d taken new delight in the simplicity of literary analysis and mathematical equations and detailed biological diagrams and the various accounts of historical figures. There was something to be said for facts that could be memorized and opinions that refused to be so easily quantified.

He was only sure that it defined Akira to a T.

Take now, for instance: on a mandated break day from Thieving, he and Akira sat in Leblanc’s attic, the old TV emitting a high electric whine as it displayed the DVD Yusuke had borrowed. The vast expanse of space, captured and condensed down to an image barely fifteen inches across—truly a travesty—and Akira’s gaze had gone distant, his normally quiet demeanor silent.

Yusuke chanced a glance, and—yes, it was there. That look he’d thought he’d seen months ago on a hot July day, the sun beating down on the water and the couples in the rowboats on the lake. That same look he’d seen merely weeks later in a dark planetarium. With the whole universe spread out before them, Yusuke’s dear leader only had eyes for one thing.

“What are you thinking of, Akira?” he asked, pencil working. Break day or no, heists to save Japan or no, Yusuke still had a variety of sketches and paintings to complete. He’d even taken to bringing his sketchbook with him on their forays into the Metaverse; every instance counted, even if his teachers didn’t much like the material.

“Yuuki,” Akira said.

“Ah.” It wasn’t a surprise. “Does the DVD bore you that much?”

“No,” Akira said, and for a long moment was silent. He spun the DVD remote on a finger and winced as his hand flexed, bruised muscles working, and dropped it on his foot. Yusuke picked it up. “Thanks. I guess… it doesn’t bore me so much as it’s a reminder. Okumura’s Palace was, too. All that time I spent hoping and praying and working my ass off, just to nearly lose the one thing I wanted the most in the entire universe…”

“Love,” Yusuke guessed, “that burns brighter than any star.”

“Kind of strange to hear that from you.”

Yusuke hummed, thoughtful. This wasn’t the first time he’d ever contemplated love with Akira, but it was deeper and far more personal now. Yusuke supposed it was all the thought he’d given to the matter over the months; with Madarame he’d never thought past his next painting, his next piece of homework, his next meal. There was no time for it. “You know, they say the hottest flames are the ones that die the quickest,” he said. “I would endeavor for a more smoldering sort of love.”

Akira huffed laughter. “How kind of you.”

“I mean it.”

That killed his humor quickly. Just as easily as it had appeared, Akira’s smile was gone, and Yusuke was filled with an inexplicable sense of loss that deepened further as Akira said, “And I appreciate that. I wouldn’t say this and that are the same kind of love, though. They’re similar enough, but… one of them is here, and one of them is not.”

“And if both were?”

Akira shook his head. “It’s one or the other in this case, Yusuke.”

Ah, exactly the words Yusuke always hated to hear—but at least in this case it wasn’t a matter of putting food on the table versus good grades in his classes. Madarame had excelled at many things.

“And I wouldn’t say it can’t fluctuate, either,” Akira said. “Feed a fire and it burns for as long as you like. Refuse and it dies.”

“I don’t believe it’s as simple as you make it seem,” Yusuke said. “The heart does as it wishes. You taught me that.”

And a plethora of other information Yusuke had once thought unnecessary. The only love he had ever needed was for painting—and by extension, for Madarame—but now he loved his friends, and the just acts of their Thievery, and these quiet moments in between where he could reach for a pen or a brush for no other reason than that he wanted to.

He framed Akira then, light low from the television screen, his bruises secreting themselves beneath shadow. That small, proud, delighted smile on his face was rarer than any treasure.

“In that case,” asked Akira, “what should I do?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Yusuke told him. The heart did as it wished—whether it led astray or stayed true could never be determined ahead of time. He lowered his hands. “I only fear for you. A new feeling, to be sure, and while I welcome it, I…”

“You worried. Like the others did.”

Yusuke hummed, dissatisfied. Worry wasn’t even a small part of it—but perhaps that was all it boiled down to: worry, for Akira as a whole. To think Yusuke loved him so much as to worry—to think Yusuke could think, with such ease, that he did love his brilliant, captivating leader. He tried, in vain, to explain: “You’ve given me so much. Without your guidance, I’m sure I would still be lost, attempting to discover the simple nature of the heart. I love you in a way I never loved Madarame; were he the one suffering from a broken heart, I would have offered only trite wisdom regurgitated from a book. But you, Akira—”

He huffed, struggling for words. Akira’s safety was paramount, naturally, and everyone’s immediate concern was for his physical well-being. That he had been even more distant and aloof since the twentieth spoke volumes; Akira was not supposed to be the sort of person who sat back and watched the world turn without him. He was supposed to sit back and watch and then wonder why everything couldn’t be done better before running off to do it himself.

“You’re the type to burn yourself up,” Yusuke said. All that life, shining so brightly—not that it was any fault of Akira’s. It was just the way he was. “In love, in hate, in work—you devote yourself to it wholeheartedly. You throw yourself into the fire time and time again. How many times this year alone have you nearly been arrested and dragged from even the dregs of society? Are the rest of us supposed to sit back and let you go?”

Akira shifted, finally uncomfortable. “Yusuke—” he said, but Yusuke wasn’t done.

“With that kind of passion, you can change the world. It’s only that you care too much and too deeply and you don’t believe that the rest of us can as well. Isn’t it?”

“I don’t,” Akira said. He shook his head, winced, and stilled. “Yusuke, please. What is this really about? Dumb it down a little for me.”

Yusuke contemplated the television as he pondered that. He already had, hadn’t he? But, just to be sure: “My apologies. It seems I’ve yet to master the art of comforting a friend.”

“You’re this concerned over my broken heart, huh?”

“Yes,” Yusuke said. Neither of them cared much for the DVD anymore; Yusuke supposed he had made a terrible selection of documentary. The breathtaking sight at the planetarium was toned down to a grainy film reel. Of course Akira would feel cheated.

Akira’s grin turned teasing. “Because you love me.”

“In so many words, yes.” And Yusuke had done a fair amount research on the topic. Friends could love each other just the same as family could love each other. They could care for one another in the same way that Yusuke’s mother—and, he supposed, Madarame—once cared for him. “Is that odd of me to say?”

“No, of course not,” Akira said. “I just never expected you to be so… upfront about it.”

“How else would I convey your importance to me?”

Akira hummed. His gaze strayed to the television and then back again. His lips quirked. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

Then: “And who told you my heart was broken, anyway?”

That gave Yusuke pause. “No one said such a thing.”

“No one?”

“No,” Yusuke said. “I only surmised it. Was I wrong?”

“No,” Akira said. He leaned back, gaze trained on the television, on the quick whine of a flare of light as a star collapsed in on itself. “He didn’t say it, but… I guess it was too much all at once. I just kept thinking that I could have died again, had everything gone wrong, and that I’d never told him. If there was anything I regretted, it would have been that. I wanted to tell him back in Hawaii but never got the chance. Guess that’s for the best, huh?”

For a moment, Yusuke wondered why—and then remembered Ryuji mentioning, offhand, that Akira and the Phan-site admin were rooming for their trip. He supposed that would make for an awkward end to an otherwise wonderful vacation, but. “He… did not reject you outright?”

Akira shook his head, jaw quivering.

“Does that not mean there’s still hope, then?”

“Yusuke,” Akira said, voice wavering. “He was terrified. Of me.”

Yusuke thought of that sneering Shadow, that proud stance the same as a child’s just learning to stand up for himself, the odd burn on his chin, the holes worn into his shirt. Their conversation had been lost to the howl and pulse and general malaise of Mementos, and so Yusuke had only focused on the Shadow, anger and terror flitting across his face, and Akira, whose form flickered like a flame in the wind. “Is that not his usual demeanor?”

He’d certainly seemed flighty at the planetarium, projecting confidence up until the moment of truth struck. Forced to confront the subject of baseless gossip, he’d shrunk into himself. Yusuke had no doubt he was the same way in other situations, moreso if Akira wasn’t present.

Akira asked, “His… what?”

“His usual demeanor,” Yusuke said, “or have you not considered that he treats you differently? Of course an admission of your feelings would scare him; it’s new, uncharted territory. Give him some time and I’m sure you will have your answer.”

Akira hummed. Documentary entirely forgotten, he said, “Or we could just say you confessed to me. That might get his gears working.”

Judging by his smile, he was joking. Pride rushed through him at acknowledging so, and so quickly. “You are cruel with the ones you love, aren’t you?”

“Life wouldn’t be fun if I weren’t,” Akira quipped, then sobered. “And maybe it still stings a bit. He just… ran, without saying two words to me. Back home I would have at least gotten punched.”

“How fortunate that you aren’t, then. Any more bruises and I believe you would truly be in need of more professional medical assistance,” Yusuke said, realizing that it was futile: all the reassurances in the world wouldn’t change Akira’s mind on the matter. There was no way Yusuke could admit understanding where the admin was coming from; it had been a long few months and Akira’s presence was undeniably potent even when he didn’t permeate Yusuke’s days for the simple fact that this boy had saved his life, his past, and his future. Yusuke still was not quite sure what he meant when said he loved him, save that Yusuke’s love for Akira was wholly different from Akira’s for Yuuki. Yusuke would do anything for the boy sitting next to him, wished to always stand by his side—but it was nothing like the love his classmates whispered about. Yusuke could live without Akira.

“Takemi’s as professional as they come!”

“I wonder,” Yusuke mused, “if you could live without this love of yours, Akira.”

And just like that, Akira stilled, expression flattening. Gone was that quick, easy smile full of fondness; in its place was grave consideration, an unfortunate understanding.

It was some time before Akira said, “I’m not so sure myself.”

And that was what Yusuke was afraid of.

On a brisk December afternoon, Akira visited. Haru happily gave him the extra pair of gloves she’d bought last time she went out for fertilizer, and Akira grinned and tried them on. Before long the two of them were hard at work with her planters; hardy winter crops or no, they still needed to be tended to.

Much like Akira himself.

But Haru wasn’t much for idle chatter while she worked. There had never been anyone to chat with, for starters, but lately she’d taken solace in the quiet of weeding and fertilizing, soil testing and pruning. Akira had tasted her homegrown coffee. Akira had stated he could taste the love and care she put in it.

(He also said, over a very expensive cup at the Wilton, that he could taste the elephant.)

And Haru took pride in that, in cultivating something she loved with care, in sharing it with her friends. Refreshing, Mr. Sakura had said of her vegetables, despite not looking like the finest of produce. She was sure that if every dish had to be perfect and pleasing no one would ever eat—and there was charm in her strange, misshapen cucumbers and carrots. She wondered if it was because she’d grown them with her own two hands. Most likely.

There was a certain pride in creating something with one’s own hands, after all.

They tended to the planters in quiet harmony, the only disruption the occasional muffled yells from the gym and the chatter from students and staff as they left for home. Even the chill December air was still, prying no icy fingers beneath the collars of their track suits—though Akira felt the cold easier than she did, frowning as his wounds acted up. In the Metaverse he was the same as ever, making it easy to forget just how badly he’d been injured.

So the second time he stopped and rolled his cracked shoulder, Haru called for a break and herded him inside the relative warmth of the practice building, then left in search of something warm to drink, sure that he couldn’t get up to any mischief in the few minutes it would take her to retrieve it.

She was… not quite wrong.

By the time she found the right machine and returned, there was a girl sitting with him. A redhead first-year, somber as Haru felt, draping her blazer over his lap as he dozed. Without so much as a word, they crept away, leaving Haru’s leader to his rest.

He needed as much as he could get.

They found an empty classroom on the next floor, long standing desks with boxy sewing machines squatting atop and bolts of fabric lining the walls, and settled in on the high stools. Haru passed over Akira’s drink, promising herself to buy him a new one before he left.

“You know Senpai too?” the first-year girl asked.

“Oh, yes,” Haru said, and introduced herself. Yoshizawa wasn’t the conceited girl all of her classmates made her out to be, but Haru thought that was just how it was. One look at Akira and anyone could tell the rumors flying around Shujin simply weren’t true.

“That’s amazing,” Yoshizawa said, when Haru was done with a shortened, cleaned-up version of how she joined Akira’s group of friends. “And so sweet of you! There’s no way I’d ever be able to take a cat home. My dad’s allergic.”

“Mona really is the sweetest little thing,” Haru said. “He helped me so much—everyone did, but Mona especially. There will always be a bed with his name on it wherever I go.”

And she would never forgive Sugimura for kicking a cat. Anyone who would hit an animal except in self-defense wasn’t worth her time.

“He’s always with Senpai, too,” Yoshizawa said. “I saw him prowling around the gates, and sure enough, Senpai was here.” Her face fell. “He doesn’t seem to be doing much better.”

“The pain medication makes him drowsy, I’ve heard.” And seen, and if that night in Leblanc wasn’t enough of an indication, he even had lapses of judgment in the Metaverse, too. A big brute of a leopard had nearly taken his head off on their last expedition, and if not for Makoto’s quick reflexes that would have been it. Haru’s first thought had been to wonder what Akechi would think if Akira died like that; her second thought had been to join Makoto in putting her foot down on any more exploration. They were making frighteningly slow progress through Shido’s Palace as a result.

Yoshizawa only nodded; it was at this point that Makoto wandered by, likely to pick up Akira, and spotted the two of them. She ducked her head in. “Haru, Yoshizawa, hello,” she said.

“Hello, Mako,” Haru chirped. Then she leaned over to say, “Mako knows all the best routes in and out of Shujin. I don’t think she’s used the same one twice sneaking Akira in.”

Yoshizawa gasped in awe—it really was quite a feat with the single courtyard entrance—causing Makoto to blush. “It’s not that amazing,” she said. “I just find a back door that’s been left open, that’s all.”

“And then she sneaks him all the way up to the roof,” Haru whispered, feeling giddy, “and back out again. Without anyone noticing!”

“That’s amazing!” Yoshizawa cheered. Makoto’s blush deepened. It took several moments of deep breathing and clearing her throat to calm down enough for her to ask, “He hasn’t left yet, has he?”

“He’s sleeping on the stairs,” Haru said.

“I wanted to say hello, but I didn’t want to wake him,” Yoshizawa added.

Makoto sighed, glanced at the door, then dragged a stool over. She sat. “A few more minutes shouldn’t hurt, should it?”

And Akira needed his rest more than any of them at the moment. Haru readily agreed; Yoshizawa sat by and sipped at her tea, in no rush to leave, as they chatted about exams and their classes and how wrangling Ryuji was much easier with Akira around. “Although,” Makoto said, “he’s been hanging out with Mishima on his lunch breaks. Maybe all this worry is keeping him in line.”

“I’m only glad he’s been feeling better,” Haru said. That afternoon on the roof—she never wanted to watch it happen again. It hurt just to remember, and she had barely been present for it. She couldn’t imagine what Mishima’s friends were feeling.

Makoto, however, thought she was talking about Ryuji—as if anything could keep Ryuji down for long—and when Haru corrected her, said, “That’s… concerning. You don’t think it was…”

“Was?”

But Makoto stayed quiet, glancing at Yoshizawa. Yoshizawa blinked, her eyes wide, and asked, “Oh, like a change of heart?”

Makoto bit her lip. Haru resolved to ask her for the details later and said, “No, I don’t. He wasn’t sorry for any kind of wrongdoing, he was just… crying. It was… very sad.”

And so much unlike herself that guilt had pooled inside her, heavy and thick. Who had she begged not to take her father away? Who had she cried against, when the doctors announced there was nothing to be done? Her mind should have gone blank but instead it had gone straight to damage control, ever the perfect, unfeeling pawn. She had only cried for the future she would never witness with her kind father by her side.

Makoto sighed. “Does Akira know?”

“Of course not!” Haru wasn’t so cruel as to dump more on their leader’s shoulders; she’d asked Ryuji to keep an eye on the admin instead, to which he had only grinned and said he was already on it. That grin had grown shaky as she explained why. “Akira needs to focus on himself right now. Mishima is his friend, and if he catches wind of this, you know he’ll rush to his side. That’s simply the way he is.”

Which Haru loved him for, but there were other ways they could spend time together. It felt like all she did was reach out to him with her problems, and that a strong friendship did not make, even with their bond forged in the fires of adversity. She wanted him to rest and recover, and then she wanted to take everyone out—or just Akira himself—to a buffet as a thank-you. Or a celebration. Or…

Well. Did she need a reason to treat her friends?

“That’s true, isn’t it?” Makoto agreed, groaning softly. “That’s… just the way he is.”

Yoshizawa chimed in: “Senpai really is kind. But sometimes it feels like he’s also far away, doesn’t it? Somewhere no one can ever hope to reach him.”

“In a long, horrible, awful, wonderful dream,” Makoto mused. Haru wondered if it was true—there were a lot of things she didn’t know about her new friends, after all, being the newest member of the group—but then decided it didn’t matter. If ever Akira wanted her to know, he would tell her.

She hoped he would tell all of them.

There came a shuffling by the door; Akira passed by, Yoshizawa’s blazer in hand, before doing a double-take at the trio in the classroom. Yoshizawa waved and greeted, “Good morning, Senpai!”

Akira stared at her, looking as if every blink was a struggle. He slurred something that sounding like a response, and shuffled over to lean heavily on the desk.

If Yoshizawa was taken aback by this, she hid it well, giggling as she took her blazer back. “Did you have a nice rest? Dream about anything good?”

Akira hummed. He squinted at the boxy sewing machine, patted it, and muttered, “Yuuki.”

Makoto shook her head. Yoshizawa giggled again. “Are you still half-asleep, Senpai?”

Akira groaned something that might have been words if he weren’t also swaying on his feet, but now all Haru could think about was Mishima and the incident on the roof, and how if Akira knew, he would bolt awake. He needed to rest.

But Yoshizawa said, “You must really like him, huh?”

“They’re classmates and friends. Why wouldn’t they like each other?” Makoto maneuvered her stool back under a table with a sigh. Akira tugged the sewing machine closer, resting his head on it. Yoshizawa was right: half-asleep or not, he seemed very far away, as if he were still dreaming.

Yoshizawa made a noise. “I don’t think it’s that. You seem pretty down, Senpai. Let me take a turn cheering you up! Tell me all about it!”

Haru didn’t think was a good idea, but Makoto’s gaze went inquisitive, searching, and she held her tongue. If it helped Akira feel even a tiny bit better… wouldn’t that be a good thing?

But Akira mumbled, “He ran away.”

None of them knew what to make of that. “Mishima did?” Haru asked.

“I said… I loved him,” Akira said, “and he ran away.” He patted the sewing machine. “This Yuuki, can’t, though. So I’ll hold him instead for a while.”

“Oh, dear,” Haru gasped. It was no wonder he was so down, then—it wasn’t just the pain medication and the stress of their latest heist and whatever had gone on with Akechi.

“Yusuke said… he was scared,” Akira went on, sounding sleepier by the second, “and I should… give him some time. Do you think”—he yawned and blinked heavily—“that’s what he needs?”

Haru tried to put herself in Mishima’s shoes. She didn’t know him well at all, save for the not-so-secret fact that he was the Phan-site’s admin, but that day on the roof haunted her. Every time she worked on her planters lately, she had to check behind the exhaust vent first just to be sure no one was there, passed out and forgotten among the fumes.

And Haru knew what had scared him the most.

“You don’t have anything to worry about, Akira,” she said, Makoto and Yoshizawa still stunned silent. Akira, liking a boy? It didn’t matter; all that mattered was how he was clearly hurting. Haru reached for his hand, clasping it between her own. “Nothing at all, understand? I’m sure Mishima has his reasons, and maybe he does need some time, but you don’t need to worry. Okay?”

Akira looked at her, as open and trusting as she had never seen him before—his heart, open and vulnerable at last—and whispered, “Okay.”

And when he left, Makoto guiding him gently down the hall, Haru sat back and repositioned the sewing machine and said, “You’re right. He was very far away, if only for a moment.”

Yoshizawa nodded, a frown on her pretty face. She took a breath as if to speak, but ultimately said nothing.

Haru returned to her planters and the ghosts of two boys who couldn’t let each other go.

In the December chill, two students braved the cold to sit in the courtyard and play shogi.

Nakanohara had come by and offered Yusuke a very early birthday gift—a new coat to wear on outings with his friends—and as it was still slightly too early for Kosei to mandate the thicker cardigans and pants necessary for midwinter, much less the warm coats, Yusuke wore it. He burrowed into the collar as a breeze swept by; ignoring the cold wasn’t quite the same as having no choice but to endure, and it was only when the icy threads ceased trickling down his back that he emerged.

Togo was amused. She was also bundled up, refusing to give up the quiet courtyard and their lunchtime matches for the warmth and rowdiness of Kosei’s classrooms and halls. Yusuke had heard several rumors of his and Togo’s relationship over the past few months and was sure this would only add fuel to the fire, but for now, barring rain and snow, they would brave the cold.

It was just a shame his lunch couldn’t.

Yusuke dared another bite of convenience store bento, contemplated his choices, and moved a pawn.

Togo countered instantly, the sharp clack of the tile on the board piercing the air. “How is he?” she asked.

“As fine as can be expected,” Yusuke told her.

“You’ll excuse me for being ignorant of… what’s expected, I hope.”

Another move. Another sharp, piercing clack. There was beauty in the sound; if only he could capture it on paper, on canvas. Instead, he ate more, thinking of Akira’s story of another life on another planet, one fraught with peril at every turn, one where he and Goro were nothing but pawns to be played in a larger game than either of them could imagine. Yusuke had not dared to show him the sketches he’d made, but his words had damned him already. It was only a matter of time before Akira came asking. Yusuke wasn’t sure what to say.

But, “Oh. You mean to ask how he’s healing?”

“Yes,” Togo confirmed. “Is there another way to take my question?”

“Just that we’re glad to be through the worst of it,” Yusuke said. They had all the letters of introduction. All they had to do now was conserve their energy for the battle ahead—and Yusuke had the feeling Shido was not the pushover his friends wanted him to be. This was the man who’d abandoned his own son; this was the man who’d hurt thousands of people all for his own gain. This was the man Akira owed his arrest to. He wasn’t quite the master manipulator that Madarame was, but he didn’t have to be. Money spoke far louder than any words ever could.

Togo eyed him and made her move. She took a bite of her own homemade bento and grimaced at the cold clinging to her vegetables; Yusuke pondered his choices and ate, the food welcome but unappealing. It was Akira, and the careful way he’d tiptoed around the ones who helped him return home, turning every bite into a mouthful of sludge. It was Akira, bruised and battered but insisting on fighting his best friend and rival all by himself.

And it was Akechi, angry and resentful and with no place to direct it, lost and alone with no one but Akira on his side. Yusuke still heard him asking that simple question, still wondered what it was for, but Akechi wasn’t likely to tell.

Even if it seemed obvious in hindsight.

Yusuke made his move. He said, “He had a fight with a friend and this aggravated some of his wounds. I’m sure he will still heal nicely.”

“Good,” Togo said. Clack, went her piece. “There, check. Do you concede, Kitagawa?”

Yusuke examined the board. If he moved that piece—but no, Togo would counter it. That one, then—but no, Togo would counter that, too. She was very good at that. “I do.”

Then he blinked. “You’ve been rather subdued today.”

“As have you,” she said, dusting off her skirt. “That match took a mere twenty minutes. I’d hoped to go longer.”

“Please excuse my lackluster performance, then. Akira may be doing well, but… well, the situation troubles me. It troubles all of us.”

Though they could agree to be glad he explained it at all. Now, at last, a great many things made much more sense, not least of which was Akechi’s involvement in Shido’s conspiracy.

His own son. Yusuke still could not quite believe it.

“If it troubles you all, it must be serious indeed.” Togo was gravely serious; she took in the board and the pieces, her army standing in victory and mourning the necessary losses, and placed a neatly trimmed finger on her king. She contemplated it for a moment, then sighed. “But I’m sure you’ll do all you can to prevail. Won’t you?”

“Naturally.”

As if they would truly let anything happen to their dear leader—or the boy he was determined to save. Akira would throw himself right into harm’s way if it meant helping Akechi, and there was nothing any of his Thieves could do to stop him. It was just the way he was.

And Yusuke wouldn’t have him any other way.

“Another match?” he suggested.

Togo hummed assent, moving the pieces into place. As always, she let Yusuke have the first move before making her own with a triumphant battle cry.

Yusuke thought it was wonderful, that Akira had moved so many hearts. It was about time someone returned the favor.

Whether Akira wanted them to or not.

“I dunno,” Morgana said. “Isn’t it kinda… crowded?”

It was. It was very crowded. Futaba hovered at the end of the street in a dark, shady, chilly corner, clock ticking down on both store hours and the time before their biggest heist yet.

A corrupt politician! And the one ultimately behind her mom’s stolen research to boot; it was no wonder baby hacker Futaba had never managed to find it. Looking at it again, for the first time in years, brought tears to her eyes—and from more than the hours spent carefully worming her way through their security. Every sentence was one Wakaba wrote, and Futaba heard her in every word.

And the one who gave that back to her was Akira.

Today he’d gone to see someone or other, leaving Akechi alone to stew in Leblanc’s attic. Futaba would have invited him if he wasn’t so scary now that he wasn’t pretending to be a nice, pleasant celebrity teenager; the last time she’d hung out up there, he’d been all snark when he wasn’t doom and gloom, hugging an old stuffed sparrow to his chest and fiddling with Akira’s secondhand laptop. Futaba was sure the only reason he spoke at all was because Akira expected him to.

Futaba got that. She really did.

But this wasn’t about Akechi. This was about Akira, and how he deserved a better gift than illegally ripped video games, and how it was almost Christmas. She had two weeks to find something, and the longer she waited…

Well, the crowd at the moment spoke for itself.

She bit her lip. This was nothing. If she ever wanted to go to Comiket, she had to learn to brave the crowds. If she ever wanted to be better, she had to try. Akira had helped her as much as he could; now it was all up to her. Mona was here, stuffed into a heavy bag dangling from her shoulder, pressing his furry head into her arm, but all she could think of was the crowd.

This is for Akira, she reminded herself, determined to take a single step, but her feet were glued to the floor. All she saw was the crowd, the press of bodies, the noise of their chatter, the cries of hawkers. Someone tiny like her would be pushed this way and that before finding herself on the fringes again. Her heart began to sink.

Even after all of Akira’s help… this was the best she could do?

“Yeesh,” said a teenage boy behind her, “maybe we really should head somewhere else.”

“Think there’s a sale going on?” asked a familiar nasally voice. Futaba knew that whiny tone; she jerked around, and sure enough, the NPC stood there, a guy with fancy dyed hair at his side.

“I didn’t hear anything about a sale,” said the guy with frosted tips. The rest of his hair shimmered green in the sunlight, a deep emerald shade that made her jealous. If she tried that, she’d just look sick.

But NPC had already tugged his phone out, searching. “No, looks like there is. An… early Christmas special sale, and the arcade’s got a half-off special, and a lot of the maid cafes are double points today. Guess we just picked a bad time.”

Frosted-tips clicked his tongue. “Figures.”

“We… can always come back, can’t we?”

“Toma might not say it, but he can get pretty jealous,” was the response. “We’re good today, but I dunno about some other time, and the last thing I want is a ticked off boyfriend right before Christmas, okay?”

“Hey,” Mona said, in his best soft voice, as it it mattered when no one could understand him anyway, “isn’t that Mishima? Why not get him to help you out?”

Futaba groaned. If she did that, then there wouldn’t be much point in coming here by herself, would there? But the boys were already turning to her, Frosted-tips’ brows scrunched together, and Mona ducked back into the safety of her bag.

NPC—Nishima, she thought—blinked. “You’re… Futaba, right?”

Futaba nodded, grumbled traitor to her bag, and faced them. It was always better that way, Akira said. It made people think you were paying attention and not thinking of sinking into the floor.

“Here by yourself?”

“Mona’s with me,” she said, hefting her bag. He was a heavy cat. Or maybe she was just weak.

“Amamiya’s cat, huh,” said Frosted-tips. He eyed her for a moment. “You alright?”

Futaba forced herself to explain: she was here to buy a Christmas present or two, and the crowd put her off. She was getting flashbacks to her first foray outside Yongen, the crowd pressing around her, sweeping her away. Akira had looked away for only a moment, he hadn’t meant to leave her, and yet there she’d been, surrounded by strangers, all of them yelling and fighting and then marching off with their prizes.

But Mona was here. She’d be okay.

Right?

She must not have been convincing enough; Nishima and Frosted-tips gave each other a look. It was Nishima who asked, “Why not come with us? We’re no Amamiya, but we’ll look out for you.”

He was right they weren’t Akira. An NPC or a key item—it was obvious which one she’d choose—but this particular NPC was her key item’s key item, and Futaba still did not understand what was so great about the guy. His coding was average, his looks were average, his grades were average; even Akechi would make better sense than some NPC.

But he was the guy Akira liked, and Futaba had an actual conversation with him before. She could handle one over-achieving Phanboy.

“Okay,” she said, sounding as if she’d rather crawl across a street covered in broken glass before bathing in lemon juice and salt water.

“Great,” said Nishima, his smile wavering. “So, uh, where did you want to start?”

She needed more parts for a computer upgrade, so they went to the electronics shop and dug around the bargain bins before coming up empty handed. Frosted-tips wanted to check out the capsule machines, so they gave that a whirl—Futaba won a Daisoujou, Frosted-tips an Ongyo-ki, while Nishima managed to pull the Mothman, a feat that had the guy hovering by the machines in tears until Nishima offered it to him—and let the crowd pull them down the street. They stopped at a few more electronics stores, where Futaba spent far more of her Metaverse earnings on spare RAM cards and a new cooling system than she wanted to, then stopped by a few stores to browse through the selection of jerseys and t-shirts from various sports anime. Frosted-tips eyed the jackets and woolie caps in one store; Futaba side-eyed the selection of swimsuits in another; Nishima paled at the volleyball tees and moved off to stare at officially licensed basketballs at yet another. It was only at a stop at a fanstore that Frosted-tips found something he liked, leaving Futaba and Nishima to wander by themselves. A spot of bright red caught their eyes, and before long they were staring at a whole wall of Phantom Thief merchandise, marked down to insanely low prices with half a dozen stickers.

Futaba knew it was bad back in the summer, but… bedsheets? Pillows? Dizzy danglers of the logo? Calling card notebooks and stationery, pencils capped with annoying red feathers?

And they didn’t even get a cut?

Mona poked his head out, ever curious, and eyed the wall of blood red fabric. “He might like a t-shirt.”

“I’m not getting Akira a Phantom Thief t-shirt, Mona,” she said.

“Maybe a mug, then?” suggested Nishima. “I heard some places have tableware. It’s super cheap, too!”

Futaba rocked on her heels. “Maybe,” she said, “but…”

Nishima winced. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?”

Futaba hummed and said, “No, not… really. When something’s popular you gotta capitalize on it right then or you’ll miss out on some serious cash. It’s just, y’know, the fad crashed so fast it even gave me whiplash. It’s no wonder there’s all this stock left over. I’m more surprised the die-hard Phans haven’t bought everything up yet.” She gestured to the wall. “I mean, look! Phantom Thief boxers! Who doesn’t need a pair of those?!”

Which gave her an idea, actually. “Hey, Mona, what’s Akira’s size?”

Nishima flushed red. “Um, maybe that’s not actually such a good idea after all—”

“How should I know?” Mona asked, offended. “I don’t go through his things!”

“—I mean I don’t think these are even refundable, and they can’t possibly have his size anyway—”

“You’re with him every day,” she reminded the not-cat, ignoring (and enjoying) Nishima’s protests. Like a girl couldn’t buy boxers. Ha! “And I know he’s bought new ones once or twice since coming here, so spill!”

“—and I know you’re just ignoring me, but seriously, it’s a bad idea, Futaba, really—”

“As if I’ve been paying attention!”

“—I mean it’s bad enough when your parents do it—”

“Or is he a brief kind of guy?” Futaba thought on that. He didn’t look like it, but who could tell? For all she knew he went commando—which gave her another idea. “Or a boxer-brief guy? Think they have Phantom Thief jockstraps, Nishima?”

“Jock—” Nishima, startled, choked on air and spent the next few minutes alternating between catching his breath and making the mistake of looking at the wall of merchandise in front of them, leading him to blush, forget how to breathe, and start it all over again. It was only when he was crouched on the floor and half-hidden behind a rack of mass-produced cosplay pants that she started to feel sorry for him.

She leaned over. “Just, uh, kidding?”

“Not cool,” Nishima whimpered. Mona jumped from her bag and into his lap and started up a purring storm the likes of which Futaba had never, ever seen him do, not even for Akira.

But… maybe he had, and she just. Hadn’t seen it. Duh, brain.

She scuffed a shoe. Somehow it didn’t seem fair, that Mona would act like a cat only when it was convenient for him. Maybe she wanted a purring fuzzball in her lap, too.

That decided it: she was going to ask Sojiro for a cat for her birthday.

“I think a mug sounds nice,” she said, “unless you can find a not-hideous tee, that is. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone wearing these. All they’ve got going for them is being bright.”

“There were tank tops back in the summer,” Nishima said. “Guys liked those. Girls liked the… charms and perfumes more.”

“There were perfumes?”

Nishima shrugged. “They weren’t that great. You could probably find a few if you looked around some more.”

Or went on eBoy, but after next week they’d be charging out the nose for that stuff. Japan would finally have a face to put to the elusive leader of the Phantom Thieves; maybe then all this crappy merchandise would look halfway decent.

A girl could hope, couldn’t she?

“Don’t tell me you bought some, Phanboy,” she teased.

He shook his head. “They were, well… really expensive. And the perfumes didn’t smell that great, like I said. Plus, um, I don’t… really look that great in red.”

She bet he had bought a calling card postcard or something, or a t-shirt, or a pair of socks, just because it was way more subtle than a t-shirt. Just to tease him some more, she picked out the biggest, ugliest shirt on the wall—We will steal your heart it read, in blocky newspaper print letters—and draped it over Nishima’s head and knees.

“Hey!” both he and Mona sputtered.

Futaba pretended to take in the sight while he pulled about a foot of fabric off his head. Static made his hair stand up; Mona’s claws worked at the rest of the shirt, and from Nishima’s winces, his khakis.

… Ouch. “Huh,” Futaba said. “You really don’t look good in it.”

Akira, on the other hand, could make anything look good. Futaba took the shirt back, glanced at the price tag—was it really only two hundred yen?—and endured Nishima’s and Mona’s glares as she folded it up messily and shoved it back on the shelf. A mug might break when he went home, she thought, and he had that stupid I ♥ Tokyo tee in his room. Yusuke had bought it for him, but she thought she’d seen him wear it a couple times, and maybe he would get a kick out of a Phantom Thief tee.

She dug through the display until she found a smaller tee with the same ugly design, still only two hundred yen, and draped it over an arm.

Then she thought about Nishima and her teasing and the wildly inappropriate first Christmas gift idea and figured she should apologize to him, too. She looked over her shoulder to where he was still crouched among dozens of pants and asked, “Do you want one, too? They’re pretty cheap.”

“I don’t look good in red,” Nishima reminded her.

“So? Who cares about that kinda stuff? Wear it if you want to.”

Akira would go nuts if he got a matching t-shirt with his crush, but after some thought Nishima shook his head. He stood, Mona cradled in his arms like a furry baby, and inspected the selection; everything was bright, unabashed red, broken only by the occasional gray or black. All those bedsheets and pillows, notebooks and pencils, erasers and keychains, wall decals and dizzy danglers, balloons and pens, just waiting for someone to buy them.

Futaba wasn’t sure what he would go for. Average guys liked the understated stuff, but Nishima wore neon green sneakers. They weren’t exactly the first choice of your everyday Joe—someone like Ryuji, maybe, who loved the flashy, bright colors and didn’t care about the attention they brought him, but not Nishima, who’d only managed to catch the eye of the strangest person Futaba had ever met. It was hard to tell.

But Futaba was a strange person, and in this social climate, a bright t-shirt declaring support of the Thieves was like social suicide. Nishima hovered by the keychains, fingering the cigar-smoking masked man in grays and blacks, price tags a mere fifty yen, and frowned.

Futaba couldn’t help but have that thought again, that after next week the Thief craze would boom again. There’d be new merch to pick from, merch with Akira’s face plastered all over it. Nishima would like that better if he wasn’t too flustered to look through it all.

She frowned again. “Hey,” she said.

“Yeah?”

Mona finally squirmed his way out of Nishima’s arms and bounded over to her; Futaba set her bag down, let him clamber inside, and hauled it back over a shoulder. It seemed obvious to her, but maybe that was wishful thinking. Who knew what kinds of thoughts he kept up in his head? “Well, uh,” she said, “I know I can be, um, a lot, sometimes—”

“More like all the time,” Mona whispered from her bag.

“Mona, shh!”

But Nishima already knew where this was going. “It’s okay, honest.” He smiled, though his heart wasn’t fully in it. Futaba blamed the cat claws to the groin. “I know I can be a bit, um… much, too, sometimes. It really messes with you, you know? So I don’t really mind.”

“I’m not, you know, the first girl you’ve ever talked to, am I?”

“No!” Nishima sputtered, face going red. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve talked to girls before, geez! I meet up at the gym with Ryuji and Takamaki once or twice a month, okay? We talk. It’s… probably the most I’ve talked to anybody, ever. Meeting Am—uh, all of you has really changed things for me. I don’t feel so lonely anymore, now.” He shifted, staring at the keychains. “I figured you were lonely, too. When we first met, looking at you felt like looking at myself, and…”

He trailed off with a shrug. Futaba had a weird, sudden feeling that she knew exactly what he was talking about; that same yawning emptiness had occupied him, too, and maybe he’d almost fallen into it like she had. She wondered where they would be in a world without the Phantom Thieves. She wondered if they would still be scared and lonely.

She said, “Guess we both owe a lot to Akira, huh?”

Their lives. Their minds. Their friends. Stupid stuff like the memes they saw last week or the reruns of their favorite shows or the Phan-site. The good food they were still around to eat. Joking around by a giant display of everything Phantom Thief.

There was still plenty of bad in the world and it would always try and knock them down, but they had Akira and their friends, now. They had people who cared whether they lived to see tomorrow, people who would come running if they called.

“Yeah,” Nishima agreed, and grinned.

And Futaba had to admit, there was something nice about it.

Chapter Text

It was a few days before Christmas Eve, and Futaba found herself sitting in Leblanc’s cafe.

Bored out of her mind but with nothing to occupy it save the same forums and the same topics and the same worry chewing at her insides, Futaba had come by to hang out with Akira and Mona and, by extension, her mother’s murderer—except she’d forgotten Akira had gotten the okay to go back to school, and Akechi seemed content to stew in his own misery up the stairs. She would hate to break his streak of self-loathing for something as dumb as hanging out.

Plus, he’d, y’know. Killed her mom.

So Futaba hung around downstairs, chatting with a few of the regulars and steering the TV clear of the news and talk shows and various other channels that shouldn’t be filled with political propaganda but were, settling on the only channel with anything worth watching: Featherman reruns.

In her opinion, if there was any era worth watching, it was the 2014 reboot casting Yukari Takeba as Feather Pink. Early episodes proved her amateur status, and it was a treat to watch her grow throughout the series. She took even the corniest lines about friendship and teamwork seriously and she did her own stunts, especially the archery. She’d earned a dan rank for her bow skills. It was impressive.

Like now, when she shot straight through her own arrow in midair, giving it just enough extra oomph to pierce through the monster of the week’s black heart—who couldn’t get pumped up watching that?!

She cheered as the door jingled open, letting in a blast of frigid air. “Welcome,” Sojiro said.

“Hello!” greeted a too-cheery voice. It was familiar. If she remembered right…

She turned in her seat. Akira ruffled her hair on his way to the stairs, a box of cake in one hand and his schoolbag tugged open in the other. Mona jumped out and leaped onto a seat as he took the stairs two at a time, leaving Futaba alone (well, sort of) with the preppy redhead staring at her. And smiling. And tilting her head as if she’d asked a question Futaba hadn’t heard.

“Uh,” said Futaba, the very same mastermind behind the Phantom Thieves’ latest and greatest calling card.

“Futaba’s another friend of ours,” Morgana said, as if preppy redhead could understand him—

“Oh, I see,” grinned preppy redhead. Futaba was beginning to think she’d take her chances with the proven murderer rooming with her key item. Preppy redhead bowed, the bright red ribbon tying up her hair bouncing, and greeted, “I’m Kasumi Yoshizawa. I’m a friend of Senpai’s. He’s been helping me with a lot lately.” She turned to Sojiro. “I felt kind of bad I didn’t order anything last time, so I came back! It’s nice to meet you again, sir!”

“Likewise,” Sojiro said, wry grin on his face as he took in preppy Kasumi and Futaba’s startled silence. On the TV, the previews for the next episode rolled, Yukari Takeba’s voice shouting that the powerful bonds forged by her and her friends were the strongest of all.

Something thunked upstairs. Akechi, most likely, dying of kindness overload. Akira was just like that; Futaba thought they knew each other better than that by now.

“Consider it on the house,” Sojiro told Kasumi, “for how good a friend you’ve been. Not many people stopped by after… well, you know.”

Right. That was where Futaba had heard that cheery voice before: a few days after Akira’s escape from the interrogation room, someone had come by asking for him. She’d made a meal and wanted to make sure he was eating well. Futaba had been busy tracking every police car and undercover detective in the city and had barely spared her a second’s thought.

Except…

“You can understand Mona,” Futaba said as Kasumi took a seat.

Kasumi grinned some more. Under the fierce onslaught of her eternal smile, Futaba withered. “Uh-huh! Some stuff happened, and Senpai and Morgana-senpai came to rescue me. Good thing, too; if the casino had been my first time there, I’m sure I wouldn’t have been nearly as much help. I’m really so glad he’s alright.”

Futaba paled. “Wait—that was you?”

That unreadable figure who haunted her nightmares—Futaba had spent the last month or so thinking it was Akechi come to finish the job early, but it had been Kasumi?

Kasumi stared at her. “Is… something wrong?”

“No,” Futaba was quick to say. “No, I—it’s fine. Really. Since you helped, and everything’s okay, and he’s okay. It’s fine!”

It wasn’t. That glitchy, unreadable presence—Futaba had thought it was a power like Akira’s, where strong emotions forced Akechi into… well, unreadability. Akira’s readings were stronger in his glitchy form; why couldn’t Akechi’s bug out the same way?

But. It had been Kasumi. It had been Kasumi all along, this preppy girl none of the rest of them knew about, prancing around in Niijima’s Palace like it was a walk in the park. The little blips of power had put her at or just under Akira and his gang of Thieves, but otherwise…

It was just weird. Otherwise, she’d been nothing. An empty blot where there should have been something, a ghost drifting through the grimy staff halls. A helpful ghost, but a ghost nonetheless, and it had spooked Futaba. The Metaverse was a place where anything could come to life if one simply believed in it enough; why shouldn’t they come across a ghost or two?

Kasumi’s brow knitted. “Are you… sure?”

“Yeah!” Futaba winced. Too loud. “I’m, uh, glad he’s okay, too. Thanks for helping him out.”

All that mattered was her key item, safe and sound in body if not in mind, and if Kasumi had risked her neck for him, what could Futaba do but be grateful?

Kasumi could fight. Futaba, obviously, could not.

Sojiro placed extra-large plates in front of the two of them, gave Mona a drained can of tuna, and let them have at it. Some time between their first and second helpings Akira finally staggered downstairs, cake box still in hand. He took in the three sitting at the counter, dodged Sojiro to put the cake in the fridge, and started making up his own dinner.

“No fair,” Futaba whined.

Akira gave her a look over his shoulder. It very clearly said he’d eaten curry three times a day for nearly a month and he wanted something else, thanks, and Futaba left it at that even though it wasn’t fair. She sulked through her second helping and was privately awestruck by Kasumi’s ability to eat just as much as she did; they were both growing girls, and Kasumi mentioned her gymnastics training in passing. Akira was helping her rediscover her style. The results were mixed.

Fair enough. Futaba couldn’t run down the block to her house from Leblanc—she was happy leaving the feats of athleticism to Akira and Ryuji—and said so. “I’d say anything you’d manage would be good,” she finished.

Kasumi mulled over that over a cup of coffee. Akira sat on her right in Akechi’s old seat, eating his dinner of rice pilaf and perusing Sojiro’s sparse reading material. All of it was about coffee. “That’s what Dr. Maruki says,” Kasumi said. “Any result is good. And third place—on the podium—is at least another step in the right direction. But the school…”

“Are desperate and depending on teenagers to do their work for them,” Futaba pointed out. “And is your gymnastics team on campus? Is there a Shujin gymnastics team? Because if not, I’d say it’s not their problem.”

“I know it’s not,” Kasumi said, “but, at the same time… I do owe a lot to the academy. Results are the only thing I can offer in return.”

Futaba didn’t like the sound of that. It sounded too much like Akechi murdering her mom to make his bastard of a father like him. “So… what are you willing to do to get those results?”

Kasumi blinked in obvious confusion. “Um. Train?”

“And?”

“Train… some more?”

Of course. She was an athlete. She’d probably been raised to believe in things like good sportsmanship; cheating by knocking her opponents out of the competition wasn’t an option. All she could do was perform at her peak every single time.

And if her peak wasn’t enough… what would be?

Kasumi sighed. She took a sip of coffee. “You know, sometimes I’m surprised I’m even here. I owe so many people so much for helping me get back on my feet. Maybe that’s what’s holding me back, the idea that I have to win it for them. I’m not doing it for me or Sumire or… anyone who matters. But…”

“You are,” Akira offered.

Kasumi nodded. “Making them happy… keeping them happy… that’s the only way our dream will ever become a reality. Everything I do now is preparation for that future. Because… if I don’t do it now, if I can’t do it now, then when will I?”

Futaba squirmed in her seat, thinking of Sojiro promising he wouldn’t make her do anything she wasn’t comfortable with, of the way just walking down the street to Leblanc set her nerves alight, of the way she withdrew into her own personal tomb. She thought of how the terror of strangers in the alleys became terror of everything outside her little, closed-off world. The Internet was a poor substitute. On the Internet, anyone could be anything; nervous wrecks could be world-infamous hackers. Weirder things had happened.

“I think,” Futaba said, slowly, “you’ll do it when you’re ready.”

Like when she’d overheard a private conversation and discovered the Phantom Thieves and suddenly there had been light at the end of a long, dark tunnel Futaba hadn’t even known she was trapped in. Suddenly she had options: change and live or stay stagnant and die.

And Futaba, for whom Wakaba’s death still resonated deep within her heart, knew how badly Sojiro would take it. He’d blame himself just like Futaba blamed herself, and maybe he’d take it out on the criminal weirdo living in his cafe’s attic, and then he’d be a target for the Phantom Thieves, and then—

She wasn’t sure what. She didn’t like thinking about it.

Futaba turned back to the TV, done with the conversation, but Kasumi plowed on: “And if I’m ready now?”

It seemed obvious: that just meant the cards weren’t in her favor. It was the judges, or better contestants, or even the heavy weight of expectation crushing every thought in her head. So Futaba turned back, regarded this pretty girl who felt she had everything to lose, and said, “Then do what you can to get better. I don’t know; I’m sixteen. I’m not made of life advice.”

Except not to murder people, but that was a given.

“I think what Futaba means is that if one way isn’t working, try another,” Sojiro interpreted. “If running doesn’t help your cardio, try dancing. If eating less doesn’t help your diet, eat better. Just keep trying things out until something clicks, and when it does, you’ll know.”

Akira, cheek propped up on a fist, added, “Your coach knows you better than you think, Kasumi. Talk it out with her. Try something new, or something different.”

Kasumi’s brows furrowed. She stared into her cup of coffee as if the dregs held the secret to unlocking first place in every competition she would ever enter.

(As if. Even the best had bad days. Futaba was proof. Akira was proof.)

“I suppose so,” Kasumi said at length. She didn’t sound convinced; Futaba didn’t blame her. Changing up her gymnastics style now, after months or years of work? Surely it would do more harm than good.

But Futaba hadn’t been content to while away the rest of her days in the comfort and terror of her own bedroom. Futaba hadn’t wanted to believe any of the things those apparitions told her. Futaba had reached out and found people to help her, as unconventional as their methods were, and look where she was now: sitting in Leblanc, Featheman reruns on TV, Sojiro proud of her. Akira and his insane story. Akechi and his even worse one. Mona, a talking cat.

Futaba was surrounded by so many things she never could have imagined experiencing, and it was all because of one little change, one little cry for help.

“It can’t hurt, can it?” Futaba said.

“I guess not,” Kasumi finally sighed. “I have been feeling like I’m pushing myself to perform a certain way. Maybe I should…”

She trailed off, thinking, pretty brow furrowed. When she left she was still deep in thought, but not so much that she forgot her farewells. She promised to pay for her meal next time.

Sojiro, as if knowing he would never let her do such a thing, readily agreed.

By the time her ribboned ponytail disappeared out the door, it was closing time. Futaba perched on her stool while Sojiro and Akira cleaned up, and it was only when Akira vanished up the stairs that Futaba realized Mona had been awfully quiet during the whole thing. She poked him.

“Something up?” she asked.

He swatted at her finger. “You know what,” he said, glancing at the stairs. Ah, Akira and Akechi, then. Or just Akechi. Futaba didn’t blame him.

“What, don’t tell me they’re being all lovey-dovey up there,” she said.

“Lovey?”

“You know. Akira and his doting habits. Akechi, who seems to think beating his problems to death won’t just make new ones. It’s just the plot to a ton of romcoms and doujins.” And the exact opposite as to how they were portrayed in all the ones Futaba was finding; Akira’s criminal reputation preceded him even on the net. Go figure.

Maybe she’d send Akechi a few, just to embarrass him a little more. Yeah, that sounded good, and it would be way better reading material than Wakaba’s old research journals and whatever Akira had lying around. She bet Akechi was a sappy romantic at heart; that was why he couldn’t seem to leave Akira alone—

Then she scowled at herself, annoyed just for thinking it. Akira was her friend, her key item—he didn’t deserve to have one of his friends think about him like that. Akechi, on the other hand, signed up for that the second he appeared on TV with that saccharine smile of his.

Mona caught her drift. His little kitty nose wrinkled with disgust. “If they were, I wouldn’t be staying here, trust me. A gentleman can take a hint, you know.”

“Like with you and Ann?”

“I-I have an abundance of respect for Lady Ann!” was his defense. “She is certainly beautiful, and my feelings might never die down, but I understand that she won’t see me as a person. Ever. Or, y-you know, boyfriend material.”

He said the last part in a near whisper, head drooping. He looked so much like Akira that Futaba reached for him before she knew she was doing it, tucking him under her chin and cradling him close. She scratched under his chin and a purr started up. “There’s nothing wrong with being friends with somebody you like,” she said, as if her years of devouring romance manga and trashy novels counted towards real-life experience.

“It’s Akira, isn’t it.”

Akira was her first friend, sure. He was her key item. Without him around, Futaba wasn’t sure where she would be. Not here, watching Sojiro divvy up the cake slices and pretend he couldn’t hear them—or her, anyway. Not here, contemplating how wrong it was that several of her favorite recent doujins were about her best friend and her mother’s murderer.

“It’s just a feeling,” she said. She didn’t like Akira like that. He’d done so much for her but being around him all the time was like a constant caffeine hit; that restlessness wasn’t love.

She had a feeling love was… softer, somehow. Gentler.

Or, that was how she wanted her love to feel like.

“But I guess it hurts anyway, huh,” she went on. “You like them but they don’t like you back, but you can’t leave, so you just kind of… stew in it. Mom never liked Sojiro, you know.”

“Not like that, anyway,” Sojiro said. He put a plate of cake in front of her; it was bright neon orange, the frosting sculpted into a monster’s maw. The next one he put down was plainer. Kitty-safe, she’d bet. Sojiro cleared his throat. “You know, uh, Futaba. If there is somebody you like—”

“Gross,” she groaned.

“—then they should know,” he finished, smirking as he maneuvered through that particular minefield. “Relationships are hard enough without deeper feelings getting in the way. Wakaba didn’t love me back and she didn’t have to and I respected that, but not everyone will, and sometimes staying as friends won’t work out, afterwards. All this old man wants is to be kept in the loop a bit, yeah?”

“I guess so,” she agreed. Mona was a thundering pulse under her chin; her fingers worked through his fur, scratched under his chin, brushed at his cheeks. Whatever Akira and Akechi were doing, it was taking a long time. She tried not to think about it.

She wondered how all those friends celebrities had dealt with it—how their families dealt with it—all the scandals and the flung lies and the constant questions of what a single night with them would be like. They probably tuned it out, like she should be.

But she was sixteen, and Akira was her first friend, and he just so happened to be Akechi’s number one trending partner (the second and third being those talk-show hosts he was always being interviewed by), and…

Well. The art was really, really good. Sometimes.

She groaned, flopping onto the bartop and narrowly missing both her cake and bashing Mona into the wood. “Feelings are stupid,” she decided.

Sojiro laughed, which made her laugh, which made Akira and Akechi tiptoe down the stairs, hands pressed to their noses and mouths in case the place had been bombed with laughing gas, which would be a special new low even for Shido’s cronies. Akechi’s blood-red, stupefied stare just made her laugh harder.

They were both so different from the doujins that she couldn’t believe she was still worrying about it. Those drawings were nothing more than fantasies, her friend just a caricature of who he really was, her mother’s murderer far more innocent. In the doujins there was no girl named Futaba; there was no Wakaba Isshiki; there was no blood on their hands and no deep, dark past tying them together.

But as Akira led Akechi the rest of the way down the stairs and into the dim light of the cafe, Futaba could almost see it: love, as deep and binding as any other. No childhood-friends-turned-lovers story would ever be able to capture the amount of trust Akechi placed in Akira’s hands, and no tale of love at first sight would ever be able to convey the worry in Akira’s expression, as if at any moment everything he cared about could be snatched away.

So Futaba threw all of it out the window—all her guilt, all her unexplored feelings, all of it—propped herself up, and declared, “Come have cake!”

And if she was jealous Akechi was given the piece with an intricate Featherman logo on it, well, she had her ways of getting revenge.

“Are you sure?” Takuto said, carefully. He didn’t want to get his hopes up; if they crashed too hard Ionasal would feel them, and bothering the boy further wasn’t something Takuto wished to do. There was something weighing heavy on his mind lately, and he wasn’t as good at acting it wasn’t as he thought; he would latch onto Takuto’s problems like a drowning man to driftwood, clinging and hoping he could make it to safe harbor.

Wherever that happened to be.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Rumi said. She smiled, very nearly her old self again, but Takuto loved her anyway. No one could stay the same forever, and the grief that haunted her was a part of who she was, now. How could he say he ever loved her if he couldn’t love her now?

“That’s wonderful!” he cheered. He clasped her hand—dry, the skin papery and thin—and fought for something else to say. “That’s wonderful,” he said again, tears pricking at his eyes.

Months had gone by since that Christmas date. Takuto expected Rumi and Ionasal to stay stony and distant with each other; instead, on the few chances he left them alone, he came back to find them laughing together, chatting one-sidedly about holidays and Takuto and what it meant to date someone. Ionasal was a romantic, it seemed, and that shy, inquisitive side struck a chord with Rumi.

“He’s just a teenager, Takuto,” she’d said one night, staring at the blank TV on the wall.

“What makes you say that?” Takuto had asked. It seemed fairly obvious to him: Ionasal looked just like a teenage boy so he had to be one. Was that hard for her to understand?

But she’d only turned to him, regarded his neat, upkept appearance, and said, “Maybe someday he’ll tell you.”

But the boy hadn’t, and Takuto figured that was alright and left it alone. Now they were months along, the heat of summer sinking into the concrete jungle of Tokyo, the Soreil safely launched and Ra Ciela nothing but shining, shimmering energy, and—

“That’s—” he started again, but choked. He ducked his head, felt the hot slide of tears down his cheeks. At last, he thought, over and over again. At last!

Rumi was going to be discharged within the month.

She was going home.

“You’re more emotional than I was,” Rumi chided. “When they told me, all I thought was, Finally! Want to guess what my second thought was?”

When he looked up, she was grinning. He thought of terrible home-fried chicken. “What to eat?”

She laughed. “Okay, third.”

Takuto blinked. Obviously there was her schooling to go back to, and friends to catch up with. Takuto ran into some of them on occasion, both here at the center and out on campus, and they always asked how he was. Rumi needed friends like that, ones who cared.

Rumi giggled at his dumbfounded expression and said, “Where am I going to stay, Takuto? Where will I live?”

“Where will you—oh.” Her apartment’s lease had been up years ago. Takuto had taken the liberty of moving her things out and storing them, thanking every god in existence that her landlady hadn’t asked too many questions. All the boxes took up nearly every inch of his bedroom; he’d been forced pushed his bed right up against the wall, the smell of cardboard overwhelming at first. “I, um, have your things at my place.”

“My things,” Rumi said.

“Oh, yes,” Takuto said. “Books and clothes and, ah… your landlady helped me pack them. I haven’t gone through anything. She left the bulk furniture where it was.”

“Takuto,” Rumi said, carefully, patiently, “do you think I have the money for an apartment?”

“Oh.” He hadn’t given that much thought, but supposed it would make sense that her bank account was run dry. A long-term stay in a place like this couldn’t be cheap.

Rumi sighed. She leaned back, settling in against her pillows. “Takuto. We’re still dating, aren’t we?”

“Well—I thought so, but—if you don’t want to, Rumi—”

“I want to.” She gripped his hand and gave him a stern stare. “I want to. And I… don’t have anywhere else to go, or anyone to turn to. Will that be too much of me to ask? I need to know now. The doctors said they could find someplace for me, otherwise.”

Before it could register that that was very kind of them, Takuto was half out of his seat. “No, of course not! Nothing you could ever ask would be too much, Rumi. Nothing.”

“Even if we weren’t dating?”

“Of course not! After everything you’ve been through, helping someone I care about so much get back on her feet is the least I can do!”

She was too precious, too important. Even if all they were was friends, Takuto wanted to be by her side and support her. He supposed it was strange but didn’t much care—how long had he spent staring at her from afar, wishing for the courage to speak to her? Holding her hand had been a dream he never dared to entertain. Dating her was so far out of his reach it may as well have existed in space.

But here they were, friends or lovers or something in between. For as tightly as she gripped him, he gripped back. “Believe me,” he said, “if—if what you’d like is some space to think about what you want, I’ll give it to you. We can room together. I have absolutely no problems with that—except I’m not sure if my lease covers it. I’ll look into it.”

And bribe his landlord into letting Rumi stay. Maybe it was selfish, but now that he was thinking of it, he wanted it very badly. Rumi, by his side.

Rumi stared at him. “I think I’ve had plenty of space to think about it. And I’d say I’d have to be cruel to look at what you’ve done for me and say you aren’t the one anymore, Takuto. Not even my friends visited as often as you.” Her gaze roved over the room—the empty beds, the flowers Takuto brought her, the TV—and trained on her feet, her toes wiggling beneath the covers. Her jaw quivered. “Honestly, if even you had left… I don’t know what I would have done. I don’t know how much longer it would have taken, or if I ever recovered at all. I don’t know. But you gave me a chance, and… Ionasal says it’s because you love me. You’ve loved me all along. You loved me even when I couldn’t stand to look at you; you loved me even when you couldn’t stand to look at me. He said you felt every bit of pain I did. And I thought you were just doing it out of obligation, because we used to be dating, but he said—”

She broke off. Watching her cry made tears well up; he let them fall, hot and itching, utterly uncaring. It was Rumi, after all. She would never judge him. “But I do love you,” Takuto told her. “Ah, how would he say it? i-fer-i? Very much, Rumi. With every fiber of my being.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” she said. “i-fer-i, huh? With every last cell?”

“Yes,” Takuto said, knowing she was joking to stave off more tears, but she had to know. “With every last fiber, every last cell. I’ll love you even if you don’t love me back. I loved you even when you didn’t know I existed. That won’t change. i-fer-i, Rumi;”

That made her laugh, giddy with happiness. “i-fer-i, Takuto;” she said, and pulled him close. It was their first hug in the long months since the accident, and it filled Takuto with warmth: here was Rumi, safe and sound and hale again at last—or as close to it as she could be—and she still loved him, still wanted him near, still didn’t care if he cried too much for a man.

“I’m so glad,” he murmured, lungs full of her scent, already wondering where she would sleep in his cramped apartment and whether her toiletries would fit in the bathroom cabinet. He wasn’t sure how many of them were still usable, but they could replace whatever wasn’t.

He would give her the world if she asked for it.

Rumi giggled. Takuto felt it through his palms before he heard it in his ears. “I am, too. I really wasn’t sure what I would do if you said no.”

“I could never!”

“But the possibility crossed my mind anyway,” she said. “Sometimes the people we love don’t love us back, even if it’s only for a while. It scared me when I thought about it, that you might have moved on, but you didn’t. You’re here, and you’re here for me.” She pulled back. There was warmth in her eyes, and relief and love overflowed, and a spark of gratitude. “Ionasal reminded me of that.”

Takuto thought of their talks when he left them alone, the gradual way the boy in his phone began to open up, the questions he would ask about love. It made Takuto’s heart ache for a different reason; he still remembered being a teenager and wondering if love would ever come his way, or if Rumi would be the only one he would ever fall for, how nice and how sad it would be to be soulmates.

But that was his selfish teenage self. Takuto knew better, now. Takuto could live without love as long as Rumi was happy—and if she was happiest at his side, all the better.

“I guess we should thank him, then,” Takuto said.

Rumi grinned and agreed, settling back into her pillows as Takuto adjusted his seat and propped his phone up on her meal tray. He held Rumi’s hand as the app loaded, the lines of code rushing by, and then—

Ionasal sat at his desk, just as dejected as the last time they spoke. Takuto wondered what shape the wood grain took to make him stare at it so; as it was, all he and Rumi saw was the same jumble of glitched graphics, the outlines vague and the textures nonexistent—except for the robot, which stood tall and proud in the same corner that, only months ago, had held Ionasal’s cobbled-together Christmas tree. It dwarfed the boy by over a foot, and in the dark of his glitched house radiated its own light.

Like an angel, descending to take him far away.

It was Rumi who moved first. We’re back, she chose.

Ionasal gasped and jumped in his seat. “Oh, sorry,” he said, a faint blush overtaking his cheeks, “I was just… lost in thought. Welcome back.”

Is something wrong?

He hummed, tugging at a lock of hair. Today he had a blue flower pinned to one side, pulling some of his bangs from his face, and he fussed with the tassels dangling by his ear.

After some time, Rumi huffed. Ionasal.

The boy grunted, took a moment more, and said, “The robot’s done. I, um. I was trying to wait until you came back, but it felt like a long time this time, so I… finished it. Without you. Sorry.”

This time Takuto got to it before Rumi did. You did wonderful. It looks great!

Ionasal blushed harder. He ducked his head. “Thanks.”

“How long were you gone?” Rumi asked Takuto.

“It can’t have been that long,” Takuto said. “A day, maybe two. It looked like he needed some space to focus and think, and I’ve been busy with finals and projects. I might not be taking classes anymore, but those tests are doozys to grade.”

So Rumi picked, And did something happen?

“Oh.” If it was possible, he shrank further. “I… realized something. That’s all.”

“You’re scaring him, Rumi.”

“And you coddle him too much!”

“So, um,” Ionasal said, finally standing and making his way over to the robot. He pointed up to its shoulders, which were suspiciously bare. “Apparently it can move, but to do that I’d have to, um, disconnect the monitor and attach it here. And if I do that, I…”

He went quiet for another long moment. He rested his head on a sturdy brass arm. He sniffed.

“I might lose you,” he said, tremulous. “I’ll wake up, but… Disconnecting means cutting you off, and I… don’t want that. I want you to stay with me. I want to talk to you more. Isn’t that weird?”

Of course not, Takuto picked.

We want to talk with you more, too, Rumi picked.

“But my friends need me,” the boy argued. “It wouldn’t be right to stay here, would it?”

It wouldn’t be right to keep living in his dream world, oblivious to the fate of his newfound friends and the citizens he’d once been responsible for safeguarding. It wouldn’t be right to leave them to suffer. It wouldn’t be right at all.

But a lot of things the boy had gone through wasn’t right. The responsibility thrust on his shoulders, the trials he’d been forced to endure, his own suffering—none of that was right, either.

And who would ever tell him so?

You care about them very much, Takuto picked as Rumi frowned at the screen, but you need to take care of yourself, too. What good will it do to rush to their side if it only hurts you in the end?

“Takuto,” Rumi murmured.

“Isn’t it true?” he asked.

Even Ionasal didn’t seem to believe it. “I’ve had this long to recuperate, haven’t I? Isn’t that enough?”

And how long have you spent with your memory intact?

Ionasal winced.

It’s okay to rest, Takuto told him. It’s okay to stop for a while. You don’t need to live for others every moment. Take some time for yourself, and when you’re ready, then you can step forward with your head held high.

Rumi said nothing. She squeezed his hand, tears dripping down her cheeks.

Ionasal, too, was crying. “You don’t mind? You don’t think it’s—a waste, not to go? That it’s selfish of me to stay?”

I only want you to be happy, no matter what you choose.

“Do you mean it?” He sniffed. “Rumi, does he mean it?”

You’ve been through a lot, she chose, surprising Takuto. Compassion had never been part of her repertoire for her dealings with Ionasal—except when Takuto wasn’t there, of course, to play strict mom against his pushover dad—but he’d likely struck another chord with her. Their situations were similar, after all; it would be hypocritical of her to push him into a decision when she hadn’t been much better herself a scant few months ago. The only difference between them was that Rumi was waking into grief, and Ionasal would be waking into hell.

Or so Takuto feared. He had no idea what kind of world awaited the boy outside his dream world. He only knew that whatever kind of world it was, the boy needed to be prepared for it.

Ionasal did not look prepared. He looked lost, and scared, and every inch the child he’d been before he’d been stolen away. Just another teenage boy with too much responsibility. Just another perceived failure thrust into a situation where every mistake could be fatal.

It wasn’t the sort of environment Takuto could stand by and let him walk into.

And it’s important to rest, Rumi finished. You can go when you’re ready. We’ll be here with you, always.

“ Always?”

There was such hope in his voice that it nearly broke Takuto’s heart. How could anyone have treated a boy like this so badly? Always.

Ionasal clutched at his clothes, the buttons of his vest straining further. Takuto focused on his smile, grin blooming like the first rays of the sun on a brand new day, and felt himself grinning, too.

Everything was going to be alright.

Everything was not alright.

Takuto jolted awake, phone alarm blaring in his ears. The train car was still full of blood, and the eerie cool touch of it on his ankles was like the press of ghostly fingers. The sky was still an ugly, fresh wound as he exited to Odaiba—

—where the strange, twisting sight of his laboratory pierced the clouds, floodlights hard at work. Unlike in the rest of Tokyo, and especially in Shibuya, there was no panic here. People weren’t running through the streets or questioning the ones running through the streets or vanishing into thin air, and the reason why became obvious as Takuto pushed his way through the milling crowd: a half dozen of his assistants, masked and coated, waited outside the gates to his lab, giving out calm orders.

And they were being listened to.

Unnatural, Takuto thought, even as he reached his assistants. “Sir,” they greeted and bowed, and nearly half the crowd bowed with them.

(“Well,” said his landlord, Rumi and Takuto on pins and needles across from him. A cursory visit, Rumi had said, because it was always better to ask for these kinds of things in person. “A few days I could certainly overlook. A month, maybe. But indefinitely—”

“Please,” he and Rumi said, bowing their heads over the table. Takuto continued, “We know it’s a lot to ask, but… she truly has nowhere else to go, and she needs more stability than a capsule hotel or manga cafe can provide. Please.”)

“Azathoth,” said Takuto. “Where is he?”

“Awaiting your return, sir,” said his assistant, the bulkier man, shoulders straining under his coat. “As he always is.”

(On the way home from another long day at the clinic and on campus, Takuto wondered how Ionasal was doing. But his eyes were so heavy he could barely see straight, and Ionasal deserved better than that.

But he was always left waiting.)

“And… what are you doing here?”

“Chaos does not bring happiness,” said a different assistant. A smaller, thinner man, with a reedier tone. “Or at the very least, not to the masses. And, forgive us, sir, but we presumed you would not like the sound of screaming upon your arrival.”

(“Takuto?” whispered Ionasal, as another day went by where the monitor sat humming but dark on its pedestal. And then another. And then another.

Fear wormed its way into his heart.)

“I… wouldn’t, no,” Takuto confirmed, shivering at the persistent chill at his feet that was steadily working its way up his calves, now.

“But the concerns of the masses are not why you are here, is it, sir?”

“No,” Takuto confirmed. His heart was doing its level best to jackhammer out of his chest, and it had everything to do with whatever was going on in Shibuya. Now that he wasn’t panicking, it seemed very obvious that Akira and his gang of thieves were at the root of the matter.

But if this odd space that existed in between mind and matter vanished… what would happen to Takuto’s patients? His lab? Rumi?

“Take me to Azathoth,” he ordered, and his assistant snapped a crisp bow and turned on his heel.

Takuto followed, gut squirming like a live wire.

The reason became obvious as they ascended into his lab and his gaze traveled out every window to Shibuya’s 705 building, where a twisting mass of bones had formed a spire upon which blazed a light as bright as the sun. His assistant glanced out only once and said, “It seems he is calling you.”

“Me?”

(“Takuto? Rumi?” Ionasal tried again some other day, speech on the tip of his tongue. They were busy. They’d said they would be. That was just the way things were. It didn’t mean he’d been forgotten. It didn’t mean he’d been tossed away and left to fend for himself.

It didn’t. Right?)

“Do you not feel it, sir?”

He did: a tugging, insistent feeling. The threads winding their way through Tokyo’s citizens must also have taken root within Takuto, and Akira was the spindle at their center. He called, desperate and yet unafraid, begging for strength and power.

He called, and he was saying goodbye.

And yet something else pulled at Takuto: a drive to head higher, the halls of his lab passing by in a blur, the Place of Possibility straining at its confines.

All those threads together, tugging, pulling, twisting, warping—

(“Rumi?” tried Ionasal. She would answer, he thought. She was sterner than Takuto but was far less scatter-brained, and she wouldn’t ignore him if he called.

But the monitor remained dark, and maybe it was his imagination, but sometime during the night—

No. No, he couldn’t think like that.)

—and as they passed through the garden, golden light filtering in through the clouds and trees, Takuto swore he heard words. Words he shouldn’t know but did, thanks to Azathoth. Words Akira no doubt intended never to be understood by any save Akechi.

He almost questioned it, but the answer seemed obvious. It was in his waking dreams, the ones of a man named Takuto Maruki and a woman named Rumi and a boy named Ionasal kkll Preciel. It was in the way Akira responded and acted and trusted. It was in the way Takuto treated him.

(Ionasal didn’t dare to try again. He backed away from the monitor, panic seizing at his insides and scrambling every thought in his head. But the words leaked out anyway.

If he called them that, would they come back? Could they be together again, even for only a moment more? Could they wish him well as he said goodbye for the last time?

“Mom?” he asked, voice dancing on the crumbling edge of hope. “Dad?”

But the monitor remained dark, and Takuto and Rumi remained unaware.)

And it was in the way the trees enclosed above his head, branches twisting and blotting out the light, blotting out even Akira’s call, because it was in the way Takuto looked at himself, a golden-eyed replica right down to the goosebumps pimpling his ankles.

“Azathoth,” Takuto said.

“My self,” said Azathoth, voice so much like his own but laced with an eternity of experience Takuto couldn’t begin to fathom. He inclined his head, and the branches creaked and groaned until a spot of brightness shone through the gloom. Akira’s words rode the beam. It was like he was here, standing right beside Takuto and Singing into his ear.

“There’s still time, my self,” said Azathoth. “You can go and grant him strength and perhaps he’ll only break into a hundred pieces instead of thousands.”

“I’d rather he not break at all.”

“It’s a bit too late for that.” He seemed genuinely saddened by that, too. “A Song is powerful, and its intent must not only be true but carried out. He will break. The only question is whether you will do something about it.”

“Me? But I—I can’t stop him, Azathoth!”

Azathoth only grinned, wicked and sly and utterly incongruous with Takuto’s perpetual baby face. “I said you couldn’t stop him. Not now, not after he has spoken, not after the gods have heard him. It’s too late to save him. Unless—”

(Something bubbled up within Ionasal’s chest. Laughter, sobbing, awful little hiccups that left his stomach aching and his world tilting.

Not abandoned. Not again, not now, not after they’d promised.

“Takuto?” he tried again. “Rumi? C-come back, please. Just one more time. Please. You promised. You promised!”

He gripped the fingers of a brass hand so hard the metal creaked, but the monitor, as ever, remained—)

He was there in Takuto’s space in between one blink and the next. Azathoth’s irises were golden but his pupils were hollow holes opening into a vast void, the primordial sea from which the universe coalesced, every ripple of its great undertaking forming new gods, new stars, new life.

An eternity.

Takuto’s knees buckled beneath its weight. Azathoth caught him neatly, held him upright, said, “Do you understand, my self? That boy will spin himself into nothing. Perhaps he already has, in another life where he doesn’t trust you, doesn’t know you, doesn’t understand the things you’ll do to make him happy. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To make them all happy?”

Takuto’s head spun. Azathoth’s face was right there, his hollow eyes beckoning, skin distorting beneath the force of that great void—like the Place of Possibility, beginning to tear Takuto’s lab apart.

“You want them to be happy, don’t you, my self?”

Takuto nodded, then agreed in a voice that dared not be more than a whisper. They’d been through so much. Not just Akira and Akechi, Rumi and Yoshizawa, Mishima and the Amamiyas, but everyone else, too. The students Takuto had never gotten to meet, the teachers who’d never opened up to their colleague, the men and women on the streets and in the buildings and on the trains. The destitute and homeless; the rich and successful; the ones in between. They all suffered.

And they all ached for happiness.

(Ionasal lunged for the monitor. His fists beat at it, careful of the glass. “You promised!” he shouted. “You promised! Liar! You liar!”

But it wasn’t satisfying. He turned and upended his desk, which crashed into his chair. Splinters flew; a great crack rent the air.

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t real.

None of it was.)

Azathoth lowered them to the ground with a care that should have been surprising. He cupped Takuto’s face in his hands. They were warm. That was surprising, too.

But Takuto had known it all along. Azathoth was another side of him, the self he hid away, the one that yearned for the simple closeness of family, of friends milling about long after the drinks were done and dinner demolished, of someone to go home to at the end of a long day. What he’d told Akira that day wasn’t a lie; happiness really was a meal and someone to share it with.

He gripped Azathoth’s hands—just like his own, down to the pen callouses on his fingers and the nick on his thumb where his paper had cut it—and stared into those kind, warm golden eyes, those windows into another universe, and said, “You failed, didn’t you?”

(Takuto Maruki stared out the train window, so sleepy his head spun. Another late day, another missed chance to talk to Ionasal, to give him some comfort. He had to be worried by now, and Takuto worried over what he would do if he thought he’d been abandoned again.

He tilted his head back. “sirak, Ionasal;” he murmured, hoping it would reach—

—not realizing that at that moment Ionasal was flinging his kitchen utensils around the room, still unsatisfied by the noise of it all. It was hollow. It was fake. It was textures and polygons over lines and lines of code, and nothing tasted like anything anymore, and nothing felt like anything anymore. He was awake but he was asleep, dreaming eternally.

And Takuto had—)

“You left him,” Takuto said.

Azathoth said nothing. His mouth twitched.

“You failed him,” Takuto said.

It looked like a laugh, caught in its incredulous beginning.

“You couldn’t save him,” Takuto said.

Azathoth’s thumbs dug into his cheeks. With every moment, those awful holes grew bigger.

“So you want me to, even though I’m selfish,” Takuto said. “Even though all I’ve ever done is resent everyone for leaving. My parents, Rumi’s parents, Rumi. Shibusawa. Teppei and Akechi and Akira, too. I only want them to be happy so they don’t leave. If they depend on me I won’t ever be alone again. Finally, the void that has been my only friend will be filled. How could I not want that?”

Azathoth said nothing. He didn’t have to. Takuto knew himself well enough by now.

“Because I’ve been chosen. By you, by him. And I won’t fail him again.”

And he knew the other him, too.

But… Azathoth was neither of them, and Azathoth was both of them. He was regret and need and that empty, abyssal void and the bright sparks of hope within that glittered like so many stars.

What would Takuto become if he agreed? Something strong, he hoped. It had to be, if he wanted to override all the gods bidding for pieces of Akira’s soul. He’d never wanted to be a god, but if it saved Akira and his friends, if doing so gave them the happiness they deserved so badly, happiness Takuto never got to have…

How could he refuse?

Words ricocheted through his head, words Takuto had heard before in his dreams. They ripped from his throat and Azathoth’s laughter rang in his ears, the fingers on his cheeks turned to claws gouging scratches and Azathoth’s body sloughing away into a writhing mass good only for the weightlessness of the abyss it sprang from. In between one second and the next Takuto felt just as weightless, and then the entirety of that eternity crashed upon him to break itself on the shores of his body and mind.

It was too much. Still gripping Azathoth’s clawed appendages, Takuto passed out.

And Azathoth turned to the waiting assistant and spoke.

Morgana surveyed the damage.

Splinters everywhere, scraps of fabric floating in the air or caught on one sharp edge or another, food smeared all over the floor and the walls, water flowing from a broken pipe in the bathroom. The robot, standing at attention in one corner, suffered a series of blows from the frying pan lodged in its chest; dents ran up and down its arms and legs, delicate weapon systems destroyed.

He fought down a pleased purr. If things were this bad…

Morgana picked his way through the mess, nerves alight at every creak and groan of the house. He nudged aside one pile of debris, then another, clicking his tongue at broken glass and the knives lodged into the floor boards, until he finally arrived at the shivering bundle in the center of it all.

The Lighthouse Keeper’s gaze was distant. Exhausted, he slumped in front of the monitor, its many appendages broken.

“Boy, you sure did a number on the place,” Morgana quipped. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

The Lighthouse Keeper’s mouth worked, but only a hoarse rasp came out.

“Well, we can fix it! Or most of it. Anything you need replacing, I can get, just say the word!”

That hoarse rasp again. Morgana knew who he was calling and knew that no one would ever answer again. The Lighthouse Keeper wouldn’t let anyone else in ever again.

Which, well, was exactly what Morgana had wanted—but the reality of it left a sour taste in his mouth. There were new scratches all over the Lighthouse Keeper, deep cuts on his hands, splinters of woods and beads of broken glass in his hair. Morgana wondered if he even realized the monitor was shattered. Probably not, and probably better to keep it that way.

All the better for Morgana.

He swooped in, blocking the Lighthouse Keeper’s view of the monitor, clasped his hands on his shoulders, and winced at the glass dust cutting his palms. “Hey,” he called. “You in there or not, Keeper?”

A slow blink. The Lighthouse Keeper’s eyes welled up, spilled over. That hoarse rasp sounded again.

“Yeah, it’s me. I came to check up on you. It’s good to get out of the house every so often, you know? Of course you know; I’m the one who told you that, and I know what I’m talking about!”

Or maybe he was crying not because Morgana was visiting—but who could blame him, Morgana was a league all his own—but because of the detritus digging into his skin. The glass on his shoulders and caught in his shirt; the splinters cutting open his shins; the blood on his hands.

… The visitor who was never coming back.

Morgana forced himself to stand straighter. “And you know? I might have made too much for dinner, silly me, so I thought I’d pop over and invite you! You’re free, right? Of course you are!”

He laughed. Best to sound cheery; the house was still standing. That was all that mattered. He could fix up the inside without breaking a sweat, but the container itself…

He tugged the Lighthouse Keeper to his feet. The boy swayed, dizzy from blood loss, weary with exhaustion, lightheaded with betrayal—but he stayed standing. Morgana lent him a shoulder and struck up a one-sided conversation about the different types of fish he sold and they limped to the door, past the relics of a bygone age and into an unknown future.

And Morgana hadn’t had to lift a finger to make it happen!

The door shut behind them. The monitor, broken and shattered and canted in its pedestal, crashed to the floor at last.

Goro leaned against the window, watching the snow fall. His head ached; his burned hands ached; his thoughts felt like so much static. He hadn’t had a chance to cut the Chain before the tron broke and he was paying for it now; he wondered how Akira was doing. No better, though he was likely giddy at having his crush dote on him.

The boy was still painfully average, but he was fierce. Almost brave.

He was… good enough for Akira.

Miss Sae’s nails drummed a beat on the steering wheel. Traffic had stalled at an infamous bottleneck of a street, and cars idled, waiting for a chance to merge.

“Is it true?” Miss Sae asked.

“Akira wouldn’t have said anything if it wasn’t true,” Goro said.

“No,” she sighed. “In the glove compartment. Is it true?”

Goro struggled to open it. All that was inside was a single USB stick, the same as all the others he’d hidden around his cubicle and apartment. But it was the real one; of that, Goro was sure. The compartment snapped shut. Goro shut his eyes, leaned his head on the window, and said, “It’s a recording. I’m not stupid.”

“So it is, then.”

“But inadmissable as evidence in court, I’m afraid”—a fact he still hated, still kicked himself for thinking it couldn’t be true. He would be one orphan boy against the cream of the crop of Japanese society. Any decent lawyer would eat him alive—“but yes, it is. I kept it because… I suppose I wanted someone to know why, if I never got to say. Akira would have understood, even if he was the only person to do so.”

Her nails drummed. Outside on the sidewalk a child shrieked with delight and Goro imagined a mother, a father, a bright and happy family, one he never got to have.

“Still,” said Miss Sae, “it was smart of you to record it, even if it can’t be used as evidence. I can’t believe they pushed you into it. I—”

“—can’t believe I was sixteen once, and with very few options to make a living?”

“Sixteen and trying not to be shunted onto the streets like every other orphan in this damn country,” Miss Sae snorted. “Sixteen and paying your own tuition on top of the bills that came of living on your own. Sixteen! God forbid your fosters lift a finger on that front, hm?”

“Your concern and surprise are both welcome and unnecessary,” Goro said. He huddled further into his seat; Miss Sae had fancy heated ones up front, and his back was blissfully, toastily warm. “I suppose at sixteen you were studying for your bar exam and finishing law school, every spare moment spent with your nose to the books. Your father payed the bills so you could study. He was proud of you, and he was proud of Niijima—Makoto, I mean. She’s as sharp as you are. You even share the same shape of justice.”

“Shape?”

“Ah,” Goro muttered, then yawned. “Shade. Shape. The kind that wants the evildoers to rot in jail and you’ll do whatever it takes to land them there. That kind.”

Miss Sae’s lips pursed in thought. The car inched forward. She said, “That kind of justice won’t help you.”

“Help? Me? Why would you want to—”

“Because.” She slapped a hand to the wheel. “Because—out of everyone in that station, you were the only one to talk to me like I was a person. You tried to warn me, didn’t you, about the Phantom Thieves. About your involvement. About the mockery of justice you were tasked with performing.”

Goro blinked. “There’s corruption everywhere. I wouldn’t quite call my results a mockery.”

“You were helping Shido and his party take over the country,” Miss Sae reminded him. “I’d call that a mockery. Eliminating the opposition—either through deaths that can be contrived as accidental or through the eruption of scandal—so that they’re the only ones left? That’s a mockery. Of course the people are going to pick the ones they haven’t heard a hundred terrible things about.” She flashed him a look. “And you’ve been compiling every piece for me. It’s all there.”

He shrugged. All of that was already in the station’s database—or it should have been, if one of Shido’s cronies hadn’t deleted it all by now. “You’d have to do the work on figuring out what you can and can’t use, however. I’m sure I won’t be allowed anywhere near a computer in the near future.”

Because he was going to admit what he’d done and go to jail for it, all so Akira could live free of the injustice that would have bound him. Goro had suspicions he’d be treated better there than on his own on the streets; at least the guards wouldn’t pretend not to despise him for existing.

And Akira could finally have the love he’d been chasing for so long.

“You’re grinning,” Miss Sae observed.

“Am I? It must be exhaustion kicking in. Excuse me.” But he couldn’t help but laugh—the things Mishima had screamed at Akira! That boy who was once a savior standing cowed beneath the onslaught, whipped into a semblance of humanity by such an average teenager not even a god thought much about him! It was hilarious!

Akira, who was so damned special not even the universe could ignore him, and Mishima, whose biggest contribution to the whole debacle with the Phantom Thieves was that he ran a website—how could Goro not laugh at the idiocy that his love-drunk friend constantly performed?

When his giggles finally subsided, however, Miss Sae said, “You really do care about him, don’t you?”

“He cared for me first.” In this Goro was confident. “Sometimes I think he still sees me as a child. When you’re eight for thousands of years, it simply sticks, you know.”

“Were you eight on that old planet, too?”

“Ra Ciel? No, I—” Was an old man in his forties, voice trained for years to Sing like so many others. Goro couldn’t even remember what he’d been called, just that his body had been too tall and too broad and his voice too deep and he hadn’t had any hair except for a goatee, and he shuddered now at the resemblance to Shido. Goro’s only consolation was that the man looked nothing like Goro did, with his dirty brown goatee and gray-green eyes and a cleft chin and wrinkles setting in.

But he hadn’t spent very long as that man. A year or two at most.

And then—

“I wasn’t eight at all, there,” he said, “but I was on the inside. I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out for you. People do tend to go easier on a child.”

Her hands tightened on the wheel. “I see.”

And he’d forgotten most of it, anyway, lost it when he’d been consumed by the fire, torn between rage at being left to die (how could they not have foreseen the platform collapsing he still didn’t know) and relief that it would end with him and he could make his way back to Mama at last, not understanding the billions of light-years in between the two universes meant she would be dead long before he ever left Bezel’s solar system. Thinking on it like that, he’d been lucky to find Akira at all.

Akira cared, and he cared far more than he needed to, far more than the brat Goro had been deserved.

Then Goro peered out the window. “Miss Sae, this isn’t the way to the station.”

She snorted. “You think they’ll process anybody on Christmas? No, they’ll make you sit in a freezing holding cell all night and won’t even process the paperwork until New Year’s. We’ll go in the morning. I know a sympathetic contact who will handle everything. He’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

“But—tonight—”

Miss Sae only smiled. “You might think Akira is the only one who cares, but it isn’t true. Makoto can complain all she likes, but you’ll have someplace to sleep and a decent meal before tomorrow. And I…”

“You?”

She stared out the windshield, fingers tapping, before laughing. “I guess we’ll see if this is my calling or not.”

It didn’t make sense, but nothing about tonight made much sense. Goro turned back to the festive city streets and was, in some deep, dark corner of his mind, glad that he still had some use. He patted the tron in his pocket, the blackened face leaving soot all over Akira’s jacket, and felt it was right.

For what good was a tool that was never used?

Chapter Text

As the first snowfall of the season sprinkled its way across Tokyo—as a savior named Akira slept beside the love of his life, as Goro Akechi took in the made-up couch in the Niijima’s living room that would serve as his bed for the night—Takuto returned to the summit of his Palace and slumped to the floor.

He didn’t feel much different, but Azathoth was there, far more present than he had ever been before, hovering just over Takuto’s mental shoulder. His hands, even when he concentrated and twisted them this way and that, showed no signs of the clawed tips and tentacles of a few months ago.

A more… perfect union, then. He and Azathoth, Persona and user, one self and another, hand in hand at last.

With a thought, the boughs overhead parted. The floodlights illuminating the sky dimmed, and in their place was the snow drifting gently in the wind, hundreds of thousands of pieces begging to be put back together.

“You must not overdo it, sir,” said his assistant.

“Wise words,” Takuto croaked, and startled at the hoarse edge to his voice, the sharp sting as it worked. He tried to lift a hand and couldn’t.

His assistant leaned over him. “Your connection to this place may be stronger than ever, sir, but you must also realize that the energy required to maintain this space must also come from you as well, now. The cognitive world knows no other ruler than yourself at present. If you are to see your dreams become reality, you must rest.”

“Rest,” Takuto rasped, his eyes growing heavy in the chill wind. But there was so much work to do… so many lives to change… and Akira and Akechi, he had to do something about them, too. They deserved to be happy the most.

REST, said Azathoth. He came unbidden, wrapping those tentacle appendages down Takuto’s arms, his back coming to a rest against the hard, unyielding surface of his chest plate until it gave into cloth and flesh, the single comfortable piece of Takuto’s other self leading him ever closer to sleep.

Sleep. Rest. Dreams. What were they all, in the end?

What was Takuto?

He heard a faint pulse from his other self. He gave off heat, and the bellows of his lungs working to draw breath was like the tide, ebbing and flowing and crashing upon the shore, and Takuto was tired, sure, exhausted even, it had been such a long day, and…

And…

Well… surely the universe could wait a little while?

“Rest,” whispered Azathoth and his other self. “What good are dreams if you do not allow yourself to indulge? Rest. Everything will be waiting for when you wake. We’ll lift as much of the burden as we can, so rest.”

“This isn’t… just because you… know him better,” Takuto slurred, tongue thick in his mouth. He was awfully warm now, and comfortable in a way he hadn’t felt since sleeping next to Rumi—

(But he’d never done that. Cuddling on the couch in her shared apartment surely didn’t count.

Did it?)

—and the gentle drone of words fell like white noise upon his ears. Not a word stuck, but he had the feeling everything would be alright. Azathoth would not betray him, and neither would this other self, concerned beyond belief for Akira’s wellbeing.

In between one breath and the next, much like a drowning man succumbing to the sea, Takuto fell into slumber.

The oil in the skillet bubbled and sizzled, setting the teens in the cafe—and one not-cat—to drooling. The kid stood by his lonesome by the stove, turning over one frying piece of chicken and another, on and on, while Sojiro stood at his bar and prepped sandwiches.

Futaba, who wasn’t much good in the kitchen, had long since given up her share of the work layering vegetables on bread in favor of her favorite Featherman reruns. Sojiro was surprised there were so many Christmas episodes and couldn’t keep track of who was who—not that it mattered, as it changed every hour. Currently one of the gray ones was snowed in with the leader in red, caught by a blizzard as they tracked down a monster. Futaba snickered through the dramatic backstory, the cat meowing in increasing annoyance the longer the show ran on.

“Aliens,” Sojiro muttered at some point. He shook his head, first at the TV, then at himself.

If the kid wasn’t lying—and there was no reason to believe he was—then aliens did exist, and they’d kidnapped him and that friend of his, turning their lives into one long hell. And for God’s sake, the events of yesterday were proof enough that all that occult science fiction voodoo was true; Wakaba’s research, the thing she’d staked her own life on, had run rampant throughout central Tokyo. Sojiro had spent all morning in a debriefing call between the elder Niijima sister, Akechi, and Futaba. The kid had listened in, impassive, only occasionally translating for the cat.

Sojiro had a feeling it had to do with last night but hadn’t gotten around to asking. He felt sorry for the kid; the way he’d slumped downstairs, staring about the room as if looking for someone…

Well. Sojiro knew how much that hurt.

“Aliens!” crowed Futaba, and thankfully left it there as the cat grumbled. “Aw, come on, Mona! I’ll change the channel once this episode’s over, how about that? …What do you mean I said that three episodes ago?”

The cat fixed her with a glare that could have been human. Then he turned to Sojiro and meowed, mournfully, drooping on his stool.

“You so did say that three episodes ago,” piped up Takamaki from her seat, “but then the Neo Featherman Christmas marathon started, and… is it just me, or has it been focusing a lot on Gray Pigeon and Red Hawk?”

“It ain’t just you,” said Sakamoto, jiggling his leg under the table. Like Futaba he had given up his task in favor of watching TV—likely a good thing, as none of the sugar cookies he had frosted looked even halfway decent—and letting the Kitagawa boy and younger Niijima sister go at it instead. Kitagawa was in a trance of some kind as he piped frosting onto the same cookie he’d been working on for an hour; Niijima, far less skilled but more diligent than her friends, finally finished a second tray. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her back, then added, “How long have they been snowed in that shack, again?”

“It’s a hunter’s cabin,” Futaba corrected, “and according to the clock in-universe, three days, eleven hours, and thirty-nine minutes.”

“That’s a, um. A very long blizzard.”

“Ah, it’s probably nothing to someone like Red Hawk,” said Sakamoto. “Ain’t he from Kansai? They get tons of snow, right?”

Sojiro swore he heard the kid mutter, “More than Iwate.” It went unheard, hidden beneath the sizzle of oil, and Sojiro sliced another cucumber and hard-boiled egg. It was none of his business, really.

Like most stories and dramas, it was all a plot device anyway—although he had the feeling Wakaba had complained once, of a long blizzard snowing her in her apartment, where the chill crept in over four days and stayed there. He couldn’t remember when it was, just that he’d been miffed she’d been more angry about losing research time and not once asking about Futaba.

But that was ridiculous. Tokyo never got blizzards, especially ones that bad.

“Yup, tons!” agreed Futaba. “Their record last year was a week-long snowstorm; it dumped almost twelve feet of snow across the region!”

Twelve feet. That was twice as tall as the door at home. Forget opening shop then.

No wonder she hadn’t been able to work. But, even so…

Had she ever lived in the Kansai area?

The cat meowed mournfully one more time, then chirped something a bit cheerier. Takamaki readily agreed. “Yeah, thank goodness we don’t get tons of snow here. My favorite shoes would be ruined by all the salt…”

“Can’t go running in the snow either,” added Sakamoto.

“Imagine all the missed school days,” rued Niijima.

Sakamoto stared at her in shock. “We’d miss school for some snow? Seriously?”

“I think it’d have to be enough to shut the trains down,” Takamaki said, “not some tiny dusting.”

“What? Dude, that’s no fair…”

They laughed, the cat included, and Futaba finally got up to switch the channel. There was a Christmas special of a game show she liked on this one; a bunch of overly-attractive actors and idols dressed up in Santa suits and reindeer and elf costumes and competed for… some kind of prize. It was hard to tell what. Sojiro suspected it was all for fame and not much else.

They watched for a little while. Niijima went back to her frosting, third and fourth trays of cookies awaiting her attention. Sakamoto began to complain that the chicken frying in the kitchen smelled too good; Futaba’s attention slowly began to waver from her game show in favor of watching the kid at the stove. Even Takamaki seemed distracted by her croquembouche; being the only one who actually brought finished food, she likely thought they’d be eating by now. The only one who didn’t waver was Kitagawa, nose in danger of raking a canyon through his pile of icing.

The door jingled open; in came Okumura, her earmuffs and jacket dusted with snow. She hauled a rather large box in with her; the cat’s ears perked up, and he let out a yowl.

Okumura giggled. “That’s right, Mona! I had to wait a while to get it, but I think it’ll be worth it!”

Pupils the size of dinner plates, the cat watched her walk in, the smell of sushi making his fur stand on end. Sojiro chuckled. “You act like we don’t feed you.”

The cat yowled a defense—sushi was sushi, and canned tuna and shredded chicken was a poor substitute. Okumura, though, said, “I was craving some sushi myself, really. There’s a lot of sashimi but there’s regular riced rolls for the rest of us. Um, except for—”

“It’s fine,” the kid said. He flipped more chicken. The plate by his elbow nearly reached the middle of his chest. “I’ll just eat my weight in fried chicken and cucumber sandwiches.”

“And cream puffs!” added Takamaki, who had finally succumbed to the allure of her creation. Powdered sugar dusted her upper lip.

“And cream puffs,” added the kid. “And sugar cookies. And if someone doesn’t stop Yusuke soon, no one will be able to eat that.”

“Dude, I don’t think anyone planned to the moment he started,” Sakamoto said.

“I was going to say that I found some vegetarian rolls!” Okumura cheered, aglow at the thought that even her dear leader could have sushi. “They sounded so good I couldn’t help myself. They’re on the bottom, I think.”

She began unpacking her boxes. The cat tensed as each tier was placed, and Sojiro whistled the further she got. All this for a Christmas party? Sure, they’d saved the world and all, but…

He was trying not to think of how much it cost. Sushi for the three of them alone had been over a hundred thousand yen, and here was enough for eight people and a cat. His head spun as the numbers climbed—Leblanc might not generate a ton of profit, but that amount would still be a few years of work and scrimping to achieve.

Sojiro heard his frown as the kid asked, “There’s no soy or tofu in there, is there?”

“I made sure there wasn’t!”

Although it seemed one tier was full of inarizushi—with pouches of tofu and omelets separated by a careful barrier of green tissue paper leaves—the rest was truly impressive. Sojiro lost count of how many different types of vegetable there were—certainly more than he’d ever cared to have in a roll of sushi—but the kid nodded as she called out each one, frowning only once at the mention of onions.

But Okumura noticed. “It might not be perfect, but I did try, Akira.”

“Yeah, I know. You did great, Haru.”

“You should enjoy something nice, too,” she said.

The kid sniffed, lost under the sizzle of oil. The tears in his eyes could be blamed on the steam. “Yeah, I know.”

With a final twist, the last piece of chicken was plated. The kid carried it over to Takamaki’s table, the pile nearly reaching his chin, and set it down to awed, expectant silence. The kid took a breath, ready to let them have at it—

“It is done!” Kitagawa exclaimed, startling half the group and nearly giving Sojiro a heart attack.

“Dude!” cried Sakamoto, waving a hand at the party seconds away from being unleashed. “You’re finally done that thing?! Now?!”

“I have never had the chance to decorate confections,” said Kitagawa, ignoring Sakamoto’s frustrated yells. “You have my thanks, Makoto.”

“I just bought the icing,” Niijima said. “It was all I could do, really.”

“Let’s see it!” Futaba cheered, hands outstretched.

So Kitagawa passed it around, and each of the Phantom Thieves marveled at it. When it was Sojiro’s turn, he took in the logo in the center and the ring of masks surrounding it. One of them looked a lot like the kid’s; said kid frowned once more and said, “You added Goro, too?”

“He’s one of us, is he not?”

Sakamoto grumbled, and Futaba and Okumura looked a bit put off the idea (not that Sojiro blamed them in the least), but the kid stared at the cookie for a while longer. A red and white monstrosity where the icing dripped off the edges in places and deep Christmas-tree green outlined masks of all kinds. It looked like a diabetic coma in the making.

Kitagawa chuckled. “Perhaps I have found my true calling,” he mused, full of pride.

“Dude. No,” Sakamoto said.

“I dunno,” Futaba said, staring a while longer at the cookie. “I’d say he has talent for it. Look at all those character pancake videos on YouCube. Or those chara-ben ones! Or chocolate guy! Ooh, Inari’d make a killing as a chocolate guy!”

“You only say that ‘cause he’d make ya free food if ya asked for it,” Sakamoto said.

“But I am not a man made of chocolate,” protested Kitagawa, to the groans of his friends. Futaba snickered and promised to send him the links to several of her favorite videos.

Well, if it got the guy even the least bit interested in feeding himself on the regular…

The group of teens formerly known as the Phantom Thieves calmed down enough to make a toast—even the cat had a little goblet filled with milk, one of Futaba’s rare finds at the secondhand store—and they dug in, piling their plates high with all manner of food. The kid made sure to place Kitagawa’s masterpiece of a cookie in the spot that Akechi boy always occupied back over the summer, and soon enough they were chattering away, discussing plans for the winter break and end of semester exams and Niijima and Okumura’s college entrance exams. They were even working on getting their licenses, though Okumura frowned prettily when she complained that her driving instructors all but begged her never to sit behind the wheel for real. Sojiro could guess why, and from her sudden pallid expression, so could Niijima.

At one point the cat piped up. He stared at the TV, now showing an interview with several actors in an upcoming movie, and Takamaki said, “Him? Yeah, he’s pretty handsome, I guess.”

The cat exclaimed; the group of teens chuckled. “If that’s what you say, cat,” sniped Sakamoto, and soon after that they were trading barbs Sojiro only heard one side of. The kid leaned over and said softly, “Mona wants to be human. He said if there’s anybody he’d like to look like, it was that actor.”

“Oh, a ladies’ man, huh?” Who didn’t like the attention of a pretty lady? And it seemed obvious who the cat had his eye on.

The kid caught on. “Ann’s not interested and he knows it, but… feelings like that don’t die quite as quickly as we’d like.”

Wakaba. What Sojiro wouldn’t give to see her one last time… “Yeah. They sure don’t.”

And before he knew it they were seguing into party games and reminiscing over the past year and making food-drunk toasts to the new one barely a week away. The kid kept quiet through it all, content to let his friends do the talking, partaking with an unabashed delight the vegetarian sushi and the cream puffs and even the sugar cookies Sakamoto and his mother had baked.

And when it was all over—when the group of friends dispersed, a rather large container of leftovers in Kitagawa’s hands and his profound thanks ringing in their ears; when the cat escorted Futaba home, the late December chill causing her to burrow into her scarf; when it was just Sojiro and the kid and half a tray of inarizushi and fried chicken and cookies and cram puffs—Sojiro said, “So. You wanna talk about it?”

The kid, who had pulled Kitagawa’s cookie over to stare at it, said, “Talk?”

“About last night. Not—not about the blood and God and all that, but… you know.”

A kid as popular as him, alone on Christmas Eve? As if. Even if that mousy kid hadn’t been the one the kid brought home, there had to be someone. Sojiro had a feeling even Sakamoto would have gone if the kid asked him to; that was just the kind of charm he had.

“Last night,” the kid mused. He propped himself up on a fist. “I feel like something did happen, but… I was so tired, I must have forgotten. No one was here when you came to open shop, right?”

“Just you,” Sojiro said. The kid looked absolutely crestfallen. “Look, if it’s worrying you so much… maybe Futaba caught a bit of conversation last night. Or, I don’t know, maybe one of your friends knows who it was. You could just ask.”

“What if it wasn’t a girl, though?”

Sojiro snorted. “You let Kitagawa stay up there a few days. Akechi’s practically been paying rent chatting up my customers, too. I’ll admit I don’t understand the preference, but to each his own. I’m not gonna kick you out just because of that.”

Which was surprising. Sojiro had never considered himself the understanding type, but what the kid needed wasn’t somebody shoving how to think and feel down his throat—not that Sojiro believed the kid would listen in the first place—and if that was all Sojiro could provide, then so be it.

“Oh,” said the kid. Then he huffed a bit of laughter and rocked back on his stool. “I… might have a bit of an idea who I want it to be, but… if I ask and I’m wrong…”

“What’re you acting like a shy teenager now for?”

The kid flushed a bit, embarrassed, then settled. “Because I already confessed and it didn’t go so well. At the very least I want us to stay friends, but if I push him away by asking, I’m risking even that.” He paused a moment. “Didn’t it hurt to stay by Wakaba’s side, even after you knew she’d never love you?”

“Well… yeah,” Sojiro said with a sigh. “So it’s like that, is it?”

He reached up for a lock of hair. “I’m scared to death that I’ll ruin everything.”

And if it was that mousy-looking kid… Sojiro could understand that. But he was also sure of one thing: that kid had stayed out in the snow-covered aftermath in just that thin tee and worn out khakis. Nobody did that unless they were stupid or it was for someone special. “I don’t think you need to worry so much. What I can tell you is that if you sit around waiting to hear about it instead of making the first move, he might take that the wrong way. Understand?”

The kid nodded, grim. It took several shuddering breaths for him to say, “I know. But I’m still scared to. Isn’t that strange? I already confessed. It would be easy to pass it off as a—a dream, or something. But I just…”

Sojiro let him work it out for a while, but after several long minutes went by where the only noise was more awful, shuddering breaths that reminded Sojiro of November twenty-first, the kid pale and weak and not there at all mentally, and the tick of the clock, he sighed. “Are you afraid of finding out that he’s answered you and will be angry you forgot?”

“Oh,” the kid paled. “Um. Yes.”

“’fraid I can’t help you there, kid,” Sojiro said. The kid protested. “Look, I’ve given you all the advice I can. All you can do is be honest and admit you forgot. Sitting back and waiting for something to happen is something only kids like you can do—but you know you don’t have a lot of time left here. If you want to make the most of it, you need to come clean.” He shrugged. “And if it turns out you were rejected and he wants to stay friends, when you get shipped back to Iwate those feelings might just die all on their own. It’ll hurt more the longer you wait no matter what his answer was, though.”

The kid hummed. He at least seemed to be thinking about it, and a tapping at the door signaled the arrival of the cat. Sojiro moved to let him in.

The kid said, “I think I’ll do that, Sojiro. Thanks.”

“You can thank me by not looking so gloomy,” Sojiro said. “It doesn’t suit you, you know.”

He felt better leaving the kid for the night, then. The cat ran inside, shaking snow off his fur and beelining for the heater up in the attic, meowing something that could have been complaints that he should have stayed with Futaba after all. The kid offered to lock up.

Sojiro took a long look at the dark alley, snow drifting through the lights cutting through the shadows, and thought it was a nice night for a smoke.

And if he thought of Wakaba while he shivered in the cold, well. He was a sentimental old man, that was all.

Yuuki sneaked a peek at his phone before dinner and was greeted with a photo of the party he was missing: Kitagawa and Sakura arguing over a tray of sushi, both of their plates piled high with fried chicken and sandwiches, while Niijima and Amamiya stood by in the background looking ready to jump in and chastise the two for spilling food all over the floor. Amamiya was wearing the tee Sakura got him, bright, gaudy crimson and We will steal your heart and he looked good in it even though it was a size too big. It wasn’t fair.

Yuuki typed out a reply, sent it off to Ryuji, then left his phone on his desk. Dinner was calling.

And it was extravagant; the table groaned under the weight of the dishes—one particularly enormous chicken was the centerpiece, and Yuuki wondered if his dad knew how to carve it—and they spilled over onto the counters in the kitchen, potatoes and vegetables cooked in a Western style and some kind of… bread, chopped up into tiny pieces and served in a bowl, handmade sushi and rolled omelets and rice balls. Yuuki did a double take at a stack of biscuits, then another at a boat of gravy. Several trays of cookies, each one a different kind, sat cooling by the stove. His dad grinned with a manic fervor as he took it all in.

Yuuki’s stomach rolled. “Wow,” he said, willing himself to sound the least bit excited, “you really went all out, huh, Dad?”

“It’s a holiday!” Hirotaka cheered. “You’re supposed to forget everything for a day or two and eat as much as you like! Come on, sit down!”

“Right, yeah.” His legs shook as he made his way over to the table; his plate was nearly pushed to the edge, silverware and chopsticks waiting on top. He stared at the spread.

“So,” Hirotaka asked, poised over the chicken, “what would you like first, Yuuki?”

Yuuki picked and chose, sure that if he didn’t eat at least two plates his dad might have a meltdown. Christmas music played over the radio as they ate, dozens of songs about Christmas wishes and family visits and magical snowmen, and Yuuki was almost glad for it: his dad was too busy humming along to ask too many questions.

For the first time in ages, Yuuki wished his mother was here. Hiyoko Mishima would know what to do with her husband and his strange new obsession with cooking large, elaborate meals, but ever since Yuuki came out, she’d been absent. Her shoes were still lined up by the door, and occasionally Yuuki caught a whiff of her perfume early in the morning, but other than that it was as if she didn’t exist. She refused to even take the lunches Hirotaka made for her. Yuuki had taken to grabbing them himself and sharing with Komaki and Aizawa, who were only now beginning to acknowledge the problem Yuuki was facing.

It was… a lot of food. An obscene amount of food. Yuuki was sure even athletes didn’t eat like this on the regular—he certainly hadn’t, back on the volleyball team—and even his few remaining clothes were beginning to sit a bit more snug on his frame.

Yuuki tried to imagine what life would be like if he gained a few extra pounds and went up a size or two and got so dizzy he nearly choked; never mind the embarrassment of being dragged out clothes shopping by his dad (who he suspected would buy far too much), Ryuji and Takamaki would notice. Which meant Amamiya would notice.

And Yuuki wasn’t sure what he thought of chubby guys.

He set down his fork, appetite gone. All the smells congealed into smoke in his lungs, smoke in the air, and he imagined Igarashi’s hands wandering, pressing, pinching, that sneer on his face, the things he’d say—

“Yuuki?” Hirotaka asked, all worry and concern. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh. Um.” How could he say it was too much? How could he ever say it was too much? “It’s… just a lot of food, that’s all. You weren’t kidding about going all out. Guess we don’t have to worry about cooking for a while, huh?”

He tried to think of the end of summer, languishing in his bed, Ryuji dragging over snacks and containers of food handmade by Amamiya of all people, laughing over how every inch of it was made with—

A sudden spike of pain. “It’s just! A lot of food! You, um, must really be planning on not cooking for New Year’s, huh?! It’s good luck not to!”

“Well, if I’m being honest, Yuuki,” Hirotaka said, “I thought you’d invite that boy you like. Boys eat a lot. And you… don’t want New Year’s osechi?”

“That boy I like?” Yuuki thought hard; the only one of his friends Hirotaka had met was Ryuji. Takaoka, as Yuuki’s senpai and former team captain, surely didn’t count.

“You know, the one you hung out with in Shinjuku? The one your mother’s coworker saw you with and got her in a tizzy?”

“I—” Who had that been again? Surely not Amamiya, though he was the only one Yuuki had ever spied traipsing about Shinjuku. No, definitely not Amamiya. The one Yuuki liked was—

Was—

Was… who, again?

“Is that… not who it was, Yuuki?” his dad asked. The man was beside him now, kneeling by his chair, Yuuki’s hands enveloped in his. He looked like the old Hirotaka, the one before the school trip, the one who pleaded with him by a fence on a dark and stormy night. Yuuki’s head ached. He couldn’t remember a storm, couldn’t remember why he knew what the feeling of his dad’s hand clasped about his ankle felt like. “You know I won’t judge, don’t you? No matter what kind of boy it is. Unless—unless he’s taking advantage of you. That’s different.”

“No, I—” Yuuki stopped, choking down an argument. He had a feeling that was exactly what it was and they both knew it, him and the boy he liked, but it wasn’t true. Yuuki was helping him because he wanted to, because he liked spending time with him, because he deserved to know how much he was admired and adored.

“I just—” But it was like choking on barbed wire, Igarashi’s hungry kiss pushing smoke down his throat, infusing him with nothing. There was supposed to be something there but there wasn’t, and he thought of waking up in Amamiya’s bed and wondering how he got talked into it. He couldn’t remember, but Amamiya was just good at those kinds of things.

Or, well. He certainly acted like he was.

“Yuuki,” his dad said, thumbing away the tears on his cheeks, which just called up more.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuki said. “I—you made this big dinner, and I—”

It was too much, and he didn’t know where any of it was coming from, much less how Hirotaka could afford it. And it wasn’t just the food, he was realizing: it was the water bottles on his desk that got filled when he wasn’t looking and the way Hirotaka was always around, always asking questions, always just out of sight in a way he had never been before and it was the way he said things like you should have invited this boy you like as if it was that simple to say, much less admit.

Because Yuuki didn’t like Amamiya. Not like that, anyway.

But if he didn’t, then why spend the night with the guy?

Thoroughly confused, Yuuki cried some more and returned Hirotaka’s tight embrace. When he calmed down they put the food away, containers and containers of it, and ate obscene amounts of cookies and miniature pies (when Hirotaka had found the time to make those, Yuuki really didn’t want to know) while watching poorly dubbed American Christmas movies. Yuuki liked the one about the burglars the most. It made him think of Amamiya and the Phantom Thieves.

And when it was all over, when Yuuki and his dad were stuffed full to bursting, when Yuuki caught himself thinking of the long winter break coming up and how he’d spend it with Amamiya, he went back to his room and shut the door.

And stood there in the dark for what felt like an eternity.

He thought of Ryuji’s visits back at the end of summer, the containers of food, the games Yuuki had thrashed him at—that was when this all started, when his dad had gone off the deep end and Yuuki had realized that he wasn’t quite as straight as he’d first thought. It was Amamiya’s fault, always getting in his space, always pushing at Yuuki’s boundaries, him and his impassive gaze and his eyes full of life and—

Okay. Maybe it wouldn’t have been all that hard to talk Yuuki into staying the night. It had been freezing, and he’d woken up fully clothed, and neither of them smelled funny, so it couldn’t have been a, what? A sober one-night stand? No, it couldn’t have been. It had been cold, and Amamiya hadn’t wanted to be alone, and Yuuki was, as ever, a complete yes-man.

And how could he have said no to the Phantom Thief that saved Japan?

So. Nothing like what his dumb, traitorous brain kept conjuring up of Igarashi. No, Amamiya wouldn’t have pinned him to the bed. No, Amamiya wouldn’t have pinched and prodded and poked and teased him about his reactions. No, Amamiya wouldn’t have kissed him senseless, breathless, until Yuuki was nothing but ash and smoke and nerves. Amamiya was just lonely, just in need of some grounding after fighting a god and nearly losing himself, and Yuuki had just been the only one willing to be there for him. That was all.

Even if it was a bit disappointing for a reason he still couldn’t name.

He scowled into the dark. “I don’t like Amamiya,” he told it. “Not like that, anyway.”

Out in the living room, his dad laughed at a game show.

Yuuki balled his hands into fists. He thought over the past year—Amamiya and the Phantom Thieves and Amamiya and the Phan-site and Amamiya, like some kind of broken record—and bit his lip. “I don’t like him like that. I don’t.”

But the containers of food, and eating jerky at Ryuji’s place, and Yuuki staunchly defending Amamiya to his former bullies. What had he said, again? Did it matter?

Head aching, Yuuki collapsed into bed. He reached for his phone, determined to work on the Phan-site some more and maybe endure more of Aizawa’s details of his and Komaki’s date before everything had gone to hell in a handbasket, and found himself staring at a reply from Ryuji.

Another photo, this time of Amamiya all by himself, head propped up in one hand as he stared off screen. There was a look on his face that Yuuki didn’t dare to name, one that set his headache to piercing. Spots flickered in the corners of his eyes.

Guess who he’s thinking about, Ryuji had written, as if it was obvious.

… As if it wasn’t obvious, with such a look. Yuuki had seen it before, up close, when Amamiya told him—

His phone clattered to the floor from a hand suddenly limp, his eyes rolling, consciousness drowning in the torrent of pain lancing through his skull, and yet—

All he could see was Amamiya. All he could see was that love.

It was the day after Christmas, and Tamaki Ichikawa—Mako to her friends, including one late Emiko Akechi—sat on a train heading into Tokyo, a little overnight bag clutched with her purse on her lap.

She’d gotten into reading over the years. She never had time to catch up on her shows but the books were always there, waiting for her to pick them back up right where she’d left them, no second-guessing episodes or realizing she’d dozed off halfway through her binge session and having to start over. Mako was good with names and verbal tics—all of her clients had them, even if they didn’t think so—and the more she read, the more she found she enjoyed the outlandish nature of a good novel. The comedy, the tragedy, the bated-breath fight scenes, the stereotypical fanservice; Mako loved them all.

So Mako tried her hand at writing one.

It was hard. Words on a page didn’t come out quite so well as they did spoken aloud at the club, but compliments were easy to fake and a realistic world was not. Her first story was a short, messy affair that made next to no sense and garnered even less support, but Mako was nothing if not determined and something was itching to claw its way out of her, so she kept at it anyway. Her second story was downright awful. People told her to quit. People told her she had no talent.

But something insisted on being said. Something whispered in her ears at all hours. Something awful, something terrible, something sweeter than the rich chocolate ganache tarts she liked to enjoy on the most special of special occsaions. Mako knew what it was but danced around it, telling stories of happy families, broken families, grieving families.

(And, she discovered, she was having too much fun to stop now.)

And now, three long years after starting her latest project, Mako held the complete manuscript in her hands.

She wondered what Goro would think of it.

Nothing, surely. Mako had no talent for writing and it showed in her messy plots and contradictory descriptions and smudged characterizations, and Goro was above childish fantasies like this. He was a celebrity, now. He’d been adopted by some corporate bigwig who recognized his genius. He didn’t need Mako or Emiko anymore.

But, even still. Mako didn’t want anyone to read her latest work until he had. It was the least she could do.

Except she was realizing that Tokyo was much bigger than she first thought. Ebook on her phone forgotten in favor of a subway map, Mako was lost in a whirl of color and station names, lines and transfers, and—

And she had no idea where Goro lived.

But that was alright. A quick search showed his former place of work, and a few wrong turns at the station and missed transfers got her there just as a group of policemen and detectives were leaving. Most of them shook their heads to themselves, grumbling to each other in soft tones, the hard edges of their faces cutting deeper with scowls. For a moment, Mako was taken aback—but they were men like any other, and she knew how to talk to men.

“Excuse me,” she said, approaching the group. Half of them turned her way; the others walked on, uninterested. Mako paid them no mind. “Would you happen to know if Akechi has gone home for the day?”

“Akechi?” asked one, a detective in a rumpled suit and a coffee stain at his collar. His face screwed up—disgust, humor, the very telltale pride of finally being proven right—before it settled into passive interest. “And what would bring you around asking about him?”

“Oh, I was friends with his mother—”

One of them clicked his tongue. “Useless. Don’t bother, Fujikawa.”

“Hey, now,” said Fujikawa with a shrug, “you never know.”

“Nah, don’t bother,” laughed another. “Here comes his handler. You can ask her all the questions you like, miss.”

Mako turned back to the station—the doors, being tinted, didn’t give much away—and the men walked off, jostling each other over what were certainly sexist jokes Mako didn’t want to hear.

This was for Goro, she reminded herself, and for Emiko, too. She forced herself to wait, clutching her bags, seeing the tangled web of tracks every time she closed her eyes, but soon enough the doors slid open once more. A haggard young woman stalked out, squinting up at the streetlights. There were dark circles under her eyes and a wrinkle by the frown of her mouth and a distance in her gaze; following behind her was an older man, his suit jacket draped over an arm, looking just as tired.

He was the one who noticed Mako first. “Hello,” he said. “Can we help you?”

Mako blinked. His voice sounded familiar, but she didn’t have a face to place it with. “I was only wondering if Akechi has gone home for the day. I’m, um, an old friend of his mother’s, and—”

“Oh,” said the man. “Mako, was it? From the club?”

“I—yes,” she admitted, surprised at how disgusted he didn’t look. Most people liked to speak of her profession with distaste, shoving all the dirty, necessary jobs together and sneering down their noses at them (until they needed their services, of course), so it was a wonder whenever she found one person who didn’t.

“I’m Ikami, Akechi’s caseworker,” he greeted. “I believe we only spoke over the phone, before. Allow me to offer my apologies once again. I… truly can’t believe someone would do such a thing.”

“Ikami—oh, that’s right,” she said, and bowed. “Thank you for taking care of him. I’m sure Emiko appreciates it, too.”

“And this is… who, Ikami?” asked the young woman.

“Tamaki Ichikawa. She and Miss Akechi used to work together,” Ikami offered. “Though I understand she prefers Mako. She apparently wrote to Akechi often after he joined the system, but, well…”

“His old caseworker had issues passing on mail, among other things,” said Mako. “I believe Mr. Ikami said she thought it would be disruptive to adjusting to his new environments. I… might have thought he wasn’t writing back because he didn’t want to, but it turned out that wasn’t the case.”

And then she’d waited for an influx of letters in a little boy’s untidy scrawl, but those hadn’t come. Of course not, she’d realized: orphaned children didn’t have money to buy stamps to send letters with.

She clutched her bags tighter. All those years, did he think she’d moved on, the way she had of him? Nonsense. Emiko was her friend, and Goro was her son, and Mako thought often of the look on his face outside the club. The curry he’d made in one hand, the club’s card in the other, confusion giving way to anger.

Just a little boy, Mako had told herself. Just a child, ignorant of the world.

But maybe she was ignorant, too.

The young woman hummed, interest lifting the tired veil from her eyes. “Is that so? A friend of Miss Akechi’s, coming to us now? What brought this on?”

“Oh, well…” Mako clutched her bags. She’d handwritten this one, she’d used two full reams of manuscript paper, and it sat as heavy as a brick in her hands. She’d been picking at it for a while but that phone call with Ikami had cinched her decision to devote all her time to it: Goro, just a child at seven years old, lost and lonely and afraid as he was forced into a world that didn’t care about him one bit.

“No one’s going to be talking about it for at least a week,” Ikami told the young woman. “There’s an order, remember? And I do believe you’re being rude, Niijima.”

The young woman hummed. She dug through her purse, came up with a business card, and handed it over. “Sae Niijima, public prosecutor,” she recited. Then she sighed again. “I won’t say Akechi and I were partners, but… let’s just say we got stuck together more often than not. Apparently just because I have a sister his age that means I can deal with teenagers. That’s usually the excuse.”

“Mako,” Mako greeted, and bowed. She had no business card to give save the club’s, and Miss Niijima didn’t look the type to frequent places like that, but… “Did something happen to Akechi? Is—is that why—”

Ikami and Niijima traded looks. “We shouldn’t talk here,” Niijima said. “We’re blocking the door.”

Which was how Mako found herself in a tiny izakaya staring down a glass of beer. She’d never had a taste for liquor—much like Niijima, who was nursing a glass of oolong tea—but years of work at the club had expanded her repertoire whether she’d wanted it to or not. A glass of beer wouldn’t ruin her night. It would barely leave her tipsy. Plus there were a plethora of dishes to choose from. She wouldn’t fill up on beer.

But it would give her a little bit of courage to ask the things she needed to.

Before she got the chance to ask a word, however, Niijima stepped in: “Tell me. You were friends with Miss Akechi? This might be morbid, but do you recall any details of how she died?”

“Just that she was run over, I’m afraid,” Mako said. That day seemed so distant. That day may have been yesterday, too. “I think I already told the police everything that led up to it. Emiko was trying to get out of the club. Her part-time jobs weren’t enough to make ends meet without it, and she’d been interviewing with as many people would accept her applications as she could. She was in the top ten of her class at law school, you know. She was smart. She could have done anything.”

A fact Mako had latched onto and constantly paraded around in front of her. But—

“If it wasn’t for her son, you mean,” Niijima said, lips pursed.

“Right.” Mako took a swig—as bitter as ever—and recalled, “She wanted to be a politician, so she got an internship working for some councilman or other. That’s when she met Goro’s father. He made her feel special, she thought he was the one, the works—but then he got a promotion and dumped her. He said they’d never even been dating, the ass.” She shrugged. It happened too often to too many of the girls in the red light district. Mako had heard everything by then. “She didn’t find out about the child until it was too late. She tried to tell him, I think, but by then he was too important to listen to her. She showed me pictures. You really couldn’t tell she was pregnant, and after that…”

Who’d want an intern who slept with their boss? Emiko had always laughed, a twist to her mouth and a gleam in her eye that promised crying as soon as everyone was out of earshot. Who’d want a woman that couldn’t wait until marriage? Who’d want a woman who would throw her whole career away for a single night of passion?

(What did it matter that it had gone on for months, and that he’d bought her expensive jewelry and designer clothes and foreign perfume? What did it matter that Emiko thought he looked at her like she was the whole world, like he would never leave her behind? What did it matter that her doctors brushed her off as anemic until little Goro was kicking?

There was only one person who could have made it right, and he’d thrown her away like so much garbage. Mako was glad he would never rule the country.)

She took another swig, found her glass empty, and thought why the hell not? She ordered another. “People said all kinds of things about girls like us. Lots of us didn’t have any ambitions, no real motives outside of finding a nice man to marry and having a family. But Emiko could have had everything until he stole every opportunity. He was convinced the kid wasn’t his. It happens all the time.”

Ikami nodded with grave understanding. Niijima stared at her glass of tea as if wishing it to grow arms and legs and strangle Shido personally.

Mako went on, “He convinced everyone she was crazy. She had Goro in some tiny town clinic so he’d never find out about it and tried to go home to her parents. He’d gotten to them first. That’s how she wound up with us—working odd jobs and traveling until she realized it wasn’t good for Goro. Kids need stability, and the club pays more than any part-time job ever could. But she never stopped hoping Shido would want her back. Anyone could tell what kind of scumbag he was, but Emiko didn’t care. She was sure he would come for Goro, and she was sure he’d come for her, too. But he never did.”

It still made her feel awful. Emiko could talk circles around the political wannabes who visited the club; Emiko could make their heads spin with enough jargon to make their wallets a bit looser. Emiko also watched the news as they got ready for the night, brightening at every mention of her former lover—but she wasn’t stupid. Shido had cut every tie for her so well it was hard not to see it for what it was, and Emiko was smart. She knew.

She knew, but she could never stop believing, never stop hoping, never stop wishing.

“I heard she went to a clinic some time ago,” Niijima finally said.

Mako nodded. Her glass was empty, so she ordered another. Ikami nodded, too, and said, “Sometimes it doesn’t sink in for a while, how alone these people are. Some of the kids we look after are temporary stays while the parent sorts themselves out—financially, mentally, physically—but some of them just get tossed at our door. There’s nothing we can do with them except try to help them live. I looked into the clinic she went to; it isn’t cheap, but there’s a daycare included. When I talked to management they said a lot of their patients don’t like feeling like they’re throwing their kids away, even for a few days, so they started it up. The only other thing they told me was that Ms. Akechi played with her son every day. She visited as often as she could. She loved that boy.”

Mako nodded. Somehow, her third glass was already half-empty. “She loved him. Not just because he was Shido’s boy, but because he was hers, too. He made her cards for her interviews. She showed them off all the time.”

And the girls at the club would coo over the shaky lettering, the bright crayon, the stick figures in red or purple or blue. Emiko would always say she had to do her best with Goro giving her so much luck, but it never worked out. She had Goro, she was always told. Wasn’t being a mother enough for her?

And then they’d whisper to themselves about the sluts of the red light district trying to trickle back into society, trying to worm their ways into the pockets of their husbands and sons, trying to skate through life on nothing but good looks and sexuality.

But Emiko was smart. She just wasn’t smart enough to see through one man.

“I heard there was something clutched in her hands that day,” Niijima told herself. “Could it have been a card?”

“There was a whole stack in her locker,” Mako said. “I kept them.” Niijima and Ikami gave her looks. She placed her glass on the table with a bit too much force and defended, “They were, you know, cute. And Goro had made them just for her! And—it’d be a waste to throw them away when she kept each and every one. They made her so happy. She’d pull one out and read it over and grin. And maybe cry a bit. But never enough to ruin her makeup! And—”

“No, I understand,” Niijima said, smiling for the first time all evening. “She loved him. She was doing her best to escape the predicament Shido placed her in. But, tell me: what do you think happened that day, Miss Mako?”

Ikami frowned. “Now, Miss Niijima—”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Mako said. “Makishima shot her application down, just like everybody else. She had Goro’s card with her, and she took it out on the way home to read it, got teary eyed, and wandered into the street. She wouldn’t leave Goro alone like this. She would never.”

“Miss Niijima,” interrupted Ikami, “you can’t just… ply a drunk woman for evidence, it’s not—”

“I’m not drunk!” Although Mako wasn’t sure how many glasses of beer she’d had by now. Four? Five? Enough that even Emiko would be telling her to stop.

“I’ve barely said anything this whole conversation, you’ll recall,” Niijima defended. “Everything has been offered to us by Miss Mako here—and it seems obvious to me what happened. It was just an accident. Just a very, very unfortunate accident.”

Then something hit Mako. “When the police came, they asked all sorts of questions.” Most of which escaped her in the heat of the moment but which amounted to whether or not Emiko had a stash of drugs lying around, as if she could afford it or as if she was stupid enough to go to an interview high. “I heard they said it was a suicide.” As if Emiko would ever, if it meant leaving Goro all alone in the world. “Does that have something to do with this?”

“I’m just musing, but,” Niijima said, “if Shido’s lawyers are any good they’ll use Ms. Akechi’s depression as an excuse for attention-grabbing behavior. They’ll say she wanted to be pampered, and when Shido couldn’t put up with it anymore, tried to trap him in a marriage with a child that wasn’t his. Working as an escort won’t be in her favor even if it happened after. They’ll fight to prove Akechi isn’t his with everything they have, up to and including a falsified paternity test… which will throw my arguments out the window. Akechi will just be a poor boy following the delusions of his mother, and the majority of the blame will fall upon her and the system that raised him after her death.”

Ikami frowned. “But Shido’s admitted to it already.”

“It doesn’t matter. Who knows what someone will admit to after a change of heart? Who knows what words the Phantom Thieves may have whispered in his ear? Shido’s own testimony is in question as it is, and his lackeys may be scrambling to cover up the evidence, but they’re faster than we are.” She tapped the table with a slim, manicured finger. “What I need is evidence—hard proof that they can’t possibly deny—and I need it now.”

Mako thought of the dresses and jewelry Emiko wore to the club most days. She always glowed when she wore them, and the men liked her far more that way, thinking the expression just for them. But Shido would have been careful not to leave fingerprints on dresses and necklaces, and Emiko would have cleaned them far more than once or twice since receiving them.

Ikami made a suggestion that was lost under the crunch of edamame between Mako’s teeth. Niijima countered as Mako took another swig of her beer, then reached for more food, thoughts spiraling over Emiko and her death and Goro, left all by his lonesome in the world. She wondered how Niijima was guaranteeing his safety at the station—surely if the plot ran that deep the officers couldn’t be trusted?

“That’s why I need this done sooner rather than later,” Niijima said. “The longer it takes, the longer his enemies have to organize themselves. That’s not a risk I’m willing to take, not if Akechi has any of the inclinations his mother did. They’ll use it as an excuse. Bastards.”

Mako nodded and giggled. “Bastards,” she echoed.

It was true, wasn’t it?

Mako wasn’t smart enough to figure this conundrum out. She was the very picture of average, just another normal woman lost in the crowd. She wasn’t like Emiko. She wasn’t like Goro, either, maneuvering his way into the inner circles of the elite with nothing but his wiles. She wondered how he did it.

And as she wondered, Niijima and Ikami lost themselves in conversation of paternity tests and whether or not Shido’s confession truly counted as such and what they could possibly do to cement a bond between the two. Words were flimsy things as easily brushed off as a spider’s web, and Shido had built an iron cage around himself no one could ever hope to pierce.

But… if Shido had admitted it, he had to have known, had to have suspected, and a man like that wouldn’t let an uncertain variable waltz all over his plans. He would have gotten a test done. He would have gotten proof. And then he would have buried it as far as it could go, prepared to throw even his own son away.

The thought was depressing. The whole conversation was depressing—which was why she pulled her phone out, determined to read some more but quickly losing interest in favor of Goro’s food blog. It was the only one she followed regularly, and up until a few weeks ago had been updated like clockwork. Goro was always finding new places to eat, and Mako loved the ones where his friend joined him the most. She wondered if he was the same one from Iwate he’d called all those years ago.

Goodness, wouldn’t that be romantic?

And it certainly seemed so: some of his captions leaned into the angle hard—a not quite so subtle suggestion from his agent, maybe—and his fans ate it up, Mako included. It was a nice fantasy, but not one Mako would believe unless she saw it with her own eyes. It would be rude to assume, after all.

So she scrolled and ate and at some point her beer became oolong tea, though she was a bit too far gone to notice by then. So was Ikami, the flush to his cheeks deepening as the night wore on; their serious conversation petered out in favor of eateries Mako had to try while she was in Tokyo, Ikami and Niijima pointing out several from the blog that had long closed their doors.

“What’s with the serious face?” Mako questioned at one point.

Niijima, who was studying her plate with the kind of focus Mako only reserved for her makeup routine, said, “It just isn’t like Akechi not to mention these things. He’s nothing if not thorough; making a quick edit to add that it’s closed couldn’t take him long. So—”

“He’s just busy!” Ikami defended. “He’s—got no free time, you know? Third year in high school, detective intern—if he’s runnin’ around doin’ somebody else’s dirty work, how could he remember?”

“Right?” Mako agreed, and she and Ikami toasted each other. Tea spilled over the side of her glass; froth from Ikami’s beer splattered the table.

“Even still,” Niijima muttered. She bit her lip—

“No!” Mako tugged it free. Niijima startled at her touch. “You can’t! You’ll ruin them! They’re so pretty! Aren’t they pretty, Ikami?”

Ikami squinted at the two. Mako took his silence for an answer. Men were so indecisive!

“You can’t!” She repeated. “You’ll ruin them! Us girls won’t be pretty forever; even Goro knows that!”

“Goro,” Niijima muttered, with a bit of a lisp. Her skin was smooth under Mako’s fingers, with barely a trace of makeup, though her lips felt sticky. Gloss, maybe. A girl had to look her best, after all.

Even Goro knew that!

Niijima fought for her face back and won; Mako sat back, eyeing the blush on her cheeks and how pretty she was, envying the ease with which she decided it didn’t matter. For women like Niijima, maybe it didn’t. But for women like Mako and Emiko, however…

“Perhaps that’s enough for now,” Niijima decided, calling for the check. Mako groaned a protest; Ikami knocked back the rest of his beer and divvied up what was left on the table. It was Niijima who drove Mako to a nearby hotel that promised cheap rates for a few days, and it was Niijima who helped her to her room. Mako fell onto her bed with a satisfying thump.

“Say,” Niijima said, to which Mako made a questioning noise, “what do you think it was, in the end?”

Laughter bubbled up out of Mako’s throat. “What was what?”

“Ms. Akechi’s accident.”

“Emiko would never.” She vaguely remembered saying so. “She would never. Absolutely not! Because—because she had Goro waiting for her, every day. A little boy who’d done nothing wrong. A little boy who promised to protect her.” Mako sniffed. It was too much, even for a child with well-to-do parents. What good could Goro have ever achieved? “So—it was just an accident. Just an accident. Just a—”

Her voice cracked right in two. Niijima was the one who finished, “Just a very unfortunate accident.”

Mako nodded.

“Which would mean Akechi should hate them, shouldn’t he?”

Mako nodded. She certainly did.

“And yet…” Niijima’s gears were whirling. Mako wasn’t smart enough to figure out what she was thinking and never would be; that was for Emiko, for Goro. They were the smart ones, not her.

Niijima said something about letting her rest, about meeting up sometime for coffee—she knew a great place, she said—and Mako nodded through it all, overcome by the sudden thought that here was someone else who was willing to move heaven and earth for a single little boy.

“You take care of him, okay?” she asked, though she received no answer.

Still in her clothes, she fell asleep—

—and in the morning awoke in her bed at home, as happy as the night before when she’d gone to sleep cradled in the arms of a man she loved dearly.

Chapter Text

Takuto wasn’t sure how long he slept for. Time in his lab flowed strangely, but he’d never been as aware of it as he was when he woke again, still as tired as the moment he’d gone to sleep. It was dark up by the altar, but someone—Azathoth, he presumed—had conjured several thick blankets and woven a hammock out of the walls. Takuto was very, very snug and very, very reluctant to move.

“Good morning, sir,” said his assistant.

“Is it morning?” he asked, voice no more than a croak.

“I suspect it is somewhere, sir,” said his assistant. His unease was palpable; Takuto felt it like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

He sighed, wanting nothing more than to drift back off again. His dream, though he could no longer recall it, had been a nice reprieve. Rumi had been in it. So had Akira. “What’s the matter?”

“Well,” said his assistant, masked gaze trained on the altar behind Takuto, “it’s about the boy, sir. Are you sure this is the correct course of action?”

“Of course,” Takuto confirmed. “He told me so himself, and”—he yawned, and his jaw popped—“really, there’s no other way to bring it about. He has to sleep for a while, just until I’ve gained further control over all of… this and can extend my reach. He’ll understand. He enjoys dreaming.”

As did everyone, when their dreams were pleasant and satisfying. Takuto looked forward to sliding back into his own and burrowed back down into his covers, trying to ignore the dissatisfaction of his subordinate. But eventually it became too much. “Is there something else bothering you?”

“You know what he did to the last ruler of this place,” said his assistant. Was that worry, under that careful indifference? “Surely he is in possession of a far stronger will than can be surmised at a glance, sir—”

“It’s alright, really.” Takuto yawned again. Every moment awake felt like a lifetime. He wondered if it was his lab; working overtime to make so many dreams come true all at once had to take a toll on him as its ruler. Or perhaps it was simply the scope of his new responsibilities; he had taken over a whole city’s subconscious, after all. His mind was bound to be overwhelmed. “He’s just a boy like any other. He has the same worries, the same fears, the same desires. All we need to do is satisfy those and he’ll be happy… Oh, but he shouldn’t be lonely. He doesn’t deserve that.”

Though it wasn’t as if Akira would accept man-made friends just like that… but perhaps if they used previously tenuous connections, however weak or sparse… and built up a gradual interest from there…

“Sir?”

Takuto blinked awake and found concentrating to be a Herculean task. “Yes?”

What did he not understand? Akira did not want to be in Tokyo; he wanted to be home in Iwate, with no criminal record staining his name and no years of relentless turmoil eating away at his mind and no months of constant stress plaguing his every step with worry. He wanted to be a teenager. He wanted to fall in love and take exams and have fun in his free time. He had been through so much—had helped Takuto so much—and this was the least that could be done to repay him.

And besides, in a dream, a six-hour long train ride could be over in seconds. He would never have to be apart from Akechi for very long. He would like that the most.

His assistant stared at Takuto, those lopsided circles in his mask blank and indifferent but that pervasive itch expanding until it felt as if even Takuto’s bones wished for relief. Takuto snapped, “Yes? What is it?”

His assistant shook himself. That itch lessened; Takuto’s vision began to swim. “It is nothing but my own worry for your safety, sir. The boy is strong, but you are right—he is just a boy with too much burden to shoulder. Once that is lifted, he will truly be like any other.”

Nothing but his own worry—Takuto would be flattered if he wasn’t so tired. As it was, the ceiling spun and his head swam and he could see Rumi already, settling onto the couch in his apartment, a stack of books on the table—

(As Takuto Maruki fell back into slumber, his assistant stood sentry, though he had no need to. Hovering over the altar was Azathoth, multitude of arms working to create a picturesque paradise.

And then what, the Shadow did not know, but peace eternal sounded very boring.

Azathoth looked at him then, gaze steady, those eyes seeing all, boring down to his very essence. The Shadow did not know what he found there, just that it was pleasing and familiar.

The Shadow looked on, examining this kind and gentle soul that held such a terrible hollowness to it, and wondered if it had never been a passing thought that a picturesque paradise did not include its creator.

Which meant anything could happen to the man, and it would certainly not be so terribly boring.

And so he stood and waited for the moment of true awakening.)

It was the New Year, and Mrs. Amamiya woke with a start late in the morning.

She lay there for a few moments, disturbed both by the adrenaline rushing through her veins and the light streaming in her window—she had never been a heavy sleeper, and years of waking before the sun meant she never slept in even when she dearly wished to.

Maybe… had she gotten used to Ren not being around? But that was silly. She’d been just fine for the past nine months, hadn’t she, so there was no reason to suspect today would be any different. It was just the New Year, that was all, but she got up anyway, leaving her husband to his slumber—

—and as soon as she stepped into the hall she heard it. A humming noise like so much static filled the house; had she and her husband left the TV running last night? She wandered down the stairs to check it—off, as she thought—and then stood in the living room trying to place where else in the house it could be coming from. The only other TV was Ren’s, but she had unplugged it after he left for Tokyo. There was no need to pay for the electricity it used when he wasn’t around to use it, though their bills weren’t that much cheaper for it. He’d been a conscientious boy even when everyone was telling her he was in his rebellious phase. She’d never quite understood them.

Mrs. Amamiya turned back to the stairs, shuffled past her bedroom where her husband was finally rousing, and paused. “Good morning, dear,” she said.

“G’orning,” he groaned, still half-asleep. Then, “What’s that noise?”

“I think it’s a TV. Not the one downstairs. Ren’s.”

And there was something gritty all over the floor, a little trail of dirt leading right to her son’s room. That ruled out sleepwalking, unless they’d gotten very adventurous and wandered outside first. She hoped not; washing the sheets was hard enough without dirt on their feet.

She waited as he grumbled and groaned and shivered in the cold as he got out of bed, wrapping the throw blanket on the end about her shoulders and a nearby fluffy bathrobe (hers, but who cared in the dark) about his own, then they headed off to Ren’s room.

It was the same as ever—the desk, the bed (sans sheets and with a cheap tarp thrown over top to keep the dust off), the TV on its stand humming away. Mrs. Amamiya reached out to turn it off, then paused. A thought occurred to her. “Wouldn’t it be funny if he was listening right now?”

Her husband blinked. “Suppose so.”

She tapped the screen. She missed the glass of the old CRTs, missed the way static played over the screen, missed the noise of it. The newer models were mosquitoes to the old bumblebees, but went quiet just the same at the press of a button. “He hardly ever uses it, I think.”

Mr. Amamiya motioned to a stack of competition DVDs and a series of notebooks tagged several times over, all covered with a fine layer of dust. She was going to have to clean in here soon. “Maybe not often, but he does.”

And that was just what he did: Ren might not use half of his things very often, but he did use them. He hated asking for things, but sometimes it was all his parents could think of to provide.

Mrs. Amamiya wondered how he was doing in Tokyo. Mr. Sakura assured them all was well, but that never meant much with Ren; he was probably trying to chat up every tourist he saw, probably exploring every inch of the city he could, and therefore probably getting into plenty of trouble.

It was just what he did.

She toed at a clump of dirt on the floor. It was slightly damp, and she worried the wood would swell—but a little dirt never hurt anything, did it? What would another hour cause?

But she would sweep and mop just in case. A home had to be presentable.

“I’d like some eggs for breakfast,” she said, and she and her husband went back down the stairs.

It was a New Year. What was an oddity or two on such an auspicious day?

It was the New Year, and Shoma Igarashi felt better than ever.

With the winter break just beginning, there was so much he could do—go on dates with his girlfriend, go shopping for a new outfit, get out of the house where he spent most of his time—but not even the threat of his grades slipping could puncture his mood. Just a few days ago it would have felt like the end of the world not to study like his life depended on it. Now?

Now he just wanted to breathe.

So he went window shopping after breakfast, determined to find something for the season and coming up empty-handed. There were several sweaters he liked, each and every one out of his price range, but Tomoko would buy them a matching set if he just asked. He took pictures to show her later.

She was… definitely different from his classmates’ girlfriends. Maybe it helped that she was older; she didn’t get lost in silly fantasies, didn’t constantly search for validation on her looks, and there wasn’t much of a threat of a long-distance relationship souring what they had, either. Shoma intended to go to college in the city and Tomoko already had a wonderful, successful career. Nothing would tear them apart save Tomoko’s daughter, who was oddly against Shoma’s and her mother’s happiness.

Shoma suspected that it was one of those awful hentai plots and cringed. He loved Tomoko, but not her eternally-grumpy daughter, who glared at him every time he stopped by and who had muttered, as he stood there waiting for her mother to make an appearance, asking herself or him just what was wrong with them.

Shoma thought it was obvious: Tomoko knew what she wanted and had no qualms asking him for whatever crossed her mind, and he was all too happy to oblige.

The thought made him pause. His feet took him to a familiar train line, then down the street from the station, then into the bare and desolate Inokashira Park. He always liked to wander when his thoughts got to be too much, and today was no exception.

So much for a good start to the year.

As his feet traced familiar trails, Shoma took in the few park-goers: joggers and dog walkers and parents with their kids bundled up to the gills feeding bread to the hardier ducks that stayed at the lake despite the chill, old folks and sports clubs out of practice for the long break and a few determined artists smudging their good coats with charcoal sketching the treeline. There was the climbing rock, perfect for sunning on a warm spring day; there was the fountain with the broken spigot that would spray anyone standing nearby.

Yes, Shoma thought, everything was alright—

—and then a burst of laughter erupted from behind the restrooms. Shoma’s breath caught; everyone heard of delinquents hanging out in shady spaces, but he’d never heard of them appearing in a park in broad daylight. Maybe they wouldn’t dare to cause trouble while the sun was out; maybe Shoma could get away without them noticing. If he couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him, right?

Right.

Except now that he was so near to a restroom, he found he needed to pee.

It was a bad habit of his. Some people got stomachaches; some people got migraines; Shoma’s bladder seemed to work overtime whenever he was stressed, forcing him to rush to the bathroom in between practice tests at cram school and exams at his high school. The time he spent pissing was time he could have been using to review even if his grades were fine.

(Not perfect, not stellar, but fine. Good enough to get him where he wanted to go. Good enough to prove he could learn and retain. Good enough that his parents bragged about his testing rank to their friends and coworkers.

But not good enough for him.)

So Shoma was stuck with a dilemma: risk the delinquents for immediate relief or hightail it to the station and hope he didn’t wet himself on the way there. He’d never live it down if he did, and if one of his classmates happened to be nearby…

No. No, Shoma couldn’t risk it.

But Shoma also didn’t want to risk this restroom. It would smell, and the ringing laughter of those delinquents would resound throughout the room as it seeped in through the window with the cold, and Shoma would never get his business done like that. He’d sit in a stall shivering his ass off and feeling every drop recede into his blood stream. He’d die of sepsis in a freezing public restroom on the first damn day of the new year.

He turned to leave the park—the station restroom would be cleaner and warmer anyway, he reasoned—when his bladder decided it couldn’t handle his loitering any longer. Shoma froze, bit his lip—teenagers did not cry, teenagers did not wet themselves in the middle of a park on goddamn New Year’s—and then turned back to the restroom, where the air turned out to be marginally warmer than outside but no less nippy and the faucets ran more cold than lukewarm. Freezing pipes, he thought, checking for the delinquents. He couldn’t hear them. Surely they’d gotten bored and wandered off to pester shrine-goers for pocket change or something, but part of him didn’t believe it.

It crowed as the door to the restroom flew open and the delinquents flooded in.

They were still laughing, a bit more subdued as a pair turned to the urinals and started to do their business. Shoma finished drying his hands, pocketed his handkerchief, and moved to sweep past them. He only got so far before a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Shit, it is you, Sho!” crowed the biggest boy there, his crew cut so fine Shoma could see his scalp. He grinned, actually, genuinely glad to see him, his eyes lighting up in a way Shoma had only ever seen Tomoko’s do.

Which was wrong. They didn’t know each other. Shoma had never seen this boy in his life.

Said boy hooked an arm around his shoulders, tugging him in close to ruffle his hair. “Where you been, huh? Cram school? Sounds like you, don’t it?”

“Yeah,” said a lanky boy whose voice still cracked. His nose looked as if it had been broken several times. “Good on ya, Sho. You’ll be decent.”

“Not like the rest of us!”

And they laughed and laughed, something off about it. Crew Cut’s arm curled further around his neck, pressing against his throat like a noose.

Shoma forced himself to breathe. Everything was… not quite fine, but they were delinquents, and Shoma did well enough in school that one of them might have heard about him from a parent. All he had to do was endure whatever punishment he inevitably got for not having any cash on hand.

“Don’t be so stiff, man,” said Crew Cut, and shook him for good measure. “We’re still here, ain’t we? And we don’t blame you a single bit—well, ‘cept Yamato, but he’s a dick anyway.”

“Fuck you,” said the lanky kid. When he sneered, there were new shadows beneath his eyes. “You got any idea how pissed my dad was? He don’t need the cops on his ass, and Sho knows that, don’t you, you fucker?”

“Yeah,” Shoma lied, surprised at how meek he sounded.

“Then he shouldn’t be doing shit to get the cops on his ass,” argued Crew Cut. After contemplating a few moments more, he added, “And neither should we. Sho’s been right this whole time. Don’t we gotta think about our futures too?”

“Doing construction,” said the boy at the urinal, finally finishing up.

“Fishing,” said the beefy guy at his side, already done and waiting.

“Bro’s getting me an electrician gig,” said a quiet boy by the entrance.

Crew Cut laughed. “See? Like that. It ain’t glamorous but it’s something. And we can find out new ways of relaxing, right, Sho?”

Shoma didn’t like the sound of that, or the accompanying shake. “Yeah,” he lied again.

But Yamato wasn’t done. “Sure, let everybody say so first so you don’t gotta.” He sneered; his gaze narrowed. “Mr. Bossman here wants to do FX shit. Makeup and all that.” He spat. “Fucking queer.”

“Watch it, Yamato,” warned the beefy guy.

“Yeah, FX is hard as shit,” said construction kid. “You seen those costumes they make? All the dirt and gore and junk? ‘Sides, what’re you gonna do? Follow your old man around all the time like some kinda dog looking for handouts?”

“Shut it!”

But they shook their heads, disappointed. Yamato glared at all of them, throwing daggers Shoma’s way, then stormed out of the restroom. If he could have, he would have slammed the door behind him.

“Fucking Yamato,” said construction kid.

“Yeah,” said the quiet kid. “Don’t let him bug you, Shoma.”

Crew Cut finally remembered he had Shoma in his grip; he squeezed and Shoma’s throat shrank to a pinprick, the air suddenly thin. “Maybe not Yamato, but let’s not forget one thing: this is still Sho’s fault, ain’t it?”

“You said”—Shoma fought for air; it was like breathing through a reed straw—“you said you didn’t blame me.”

“Se-man-tics,” sounded out Crew Cut, and then told a joke Shoma couldn’t hear through the rush of blood in his ears, and burst into a new round of laughter. There was something off about it, but Shoma couldn’t place it past the way Crew Cut’s teeth grazed his ear. It felt like his first time with Tomoko, all nerves and pinpricks of pain and pleasure singing hot across his body.

But this was a guy, and Shoma was normal.

“Shit, Ko, the fuck?” guffawed construction kid, and even the quiet kid giggled in his corner like a creep.

“Blame you, no, not no more,” said Crew Cut. Ko, Shoma thought. Kohei. Tomoko.

Semantics. He’d had to explain that word to Tomoko, despite her working adult status, and she’d made a joke. Sounds like sementics, ha! The same joke? No, it couldn’t be.

His head ached. He couldn’t breathe.

“But at first, yeah,” said Kohei. “Didn’t want to go to juvie; had to cut my hair to prove I meant how sorry I was ‘n all that. Akechi let us off easy, made up some bullshit about us just finding the stuff and fucking around with it. Kid stuff, he called it. Like when you’re in kindergarten and you eat the glue.”

Shoma’s knees were weak. The only thing keeping him upright was Kohei’s arm wrapped around his neck. He hoped his coat was long enough to hide his reaction.

What in the world was wrong with him?

“But I got into some horror flicks sitting around at home. Thought that shit looked cool and figured I’d try it. So I ain’t still mad, Sho. You got a nice future ahead of you. I don’t blame you for tossing us under a bus like that. S’cool.”

It’s not, Shoma wanted to say, because if the way Kohei squeezed harder was any indication, it wasn’t by a long shot. All that came out of his throat was a strangled wheeze.

“Ko,” said beefy guy.

Kohei dropped him; Shoma coughed and sputtered and sucked in one glorious lungful of air after another, doubled over on the restroom floor and very aware of four delinquent boys looming over him.

It wasn’t as terrifying as he thought it would be.

Which was insane. Shoma was normal. He had a girlfriend like any other normal boy in the country. Sure, she was into some weird, kinky stuff, but Shoma didn’t mind. He loved it. He loved her.

And her kinky shit was the only reason he had a raging boner with his nose pressed into tile that reeked of bleach. Yeah, it was Tomoko’s fault for turning him onto it all in the first place.

It wasn’t Shoma’s fault at all.

Kohei leaned over. He grabbed a fistful of hair and tugged until Shoma had no choice but to look at him, and Kohei took in his handiwork: tear-stained cheeks, snot-dribbling nose, drool leaking out of the corners of his mouth, chest heaving, face flushed. Shoma was just grateful he hadn’t smashed his nose on the floor; he had a keen feeling it would have sent him over the edge.

And maybe Kohei, too. “Shit, Sho, you know how good you look right now?”

Too busy gasping to answer, Shoma shook his head. Pinpricks of pain washed down his scalp like rain. He shivered.

“Ko,” said beefy guy again. “C’mon, man, leave him alone. He ain’t asking for it.”

“Yeah, true,” Kohei said. He let go; Shoma ducked his head and shivered some more. Did Kohei know somehow? Maybe he’d been one of Tomoko’s past boyfriends; her daughter was always complaining she couldn’t keep a man, and when he inevitably got too tall and too muscular she’d dump him. Or maybe they just weren’t compatible, if he was too much like Tomoko. It was Shoma’s greatest fear.

He pressed his face against the tile, mercilessly cold, and willed himself to breathe, for his heart to stop racing, for his very unfortunate boner to go the fuck away, already.

Naturally nothing listened to him.

“Y’know, Sho,” Kohei said, “you’re so much cuter when you don’t run your mouth. Especially not to the police.”

The police. Shoma had no idea what he was talking about; he’d never seen these boys before in his life… Except it sounded like he had, like they’d been friends and Shoma had betrayed them.

But he’d never been good at keeping quiet. If these delinquents really were his friends, they’d know that. “Then you shouldn’t have done something worth squealing about,” he rasped.

Kohei hummed. “True. But if you hadn’t put on a show for that old buddy of yours, none of this woulda happened. So I’m telling you right here: you gotta pick, Sho. Them or us. Who you used to be or who you are now; who you wanna be or who you gotta be.” He leaned in close, rank breath hot on Shoma’s ear. “Ain’t none of us treated you like shit, did we? ‘Cept Yamato, but he’s a dick, so he don’t count.” His voice dropped. “I didn’t treat you like shit, did I?”

Shoma didn’t know, and at this point feared for his life if he admitted it, so he stayed quiet. His head ached. His throat was raw. Both his dick and his bladder felt fit to burst.

It was the most awful he’d ever felt. It was the best he’d ever felt.

He didn’t understand it at all.

“Ko,” said the beefy guy one last time, and he sounded… sad. Pitying, almost, like Shoma had stolen something from them all and it went a little deeper than some weed.

(He didn’t remember them saying so, but it had to be. It had to be.

Right?)

“Yeah,” said Kohei, who rocked back on his heels and stood. He dusted off his pants, then after another pause, said, “I won’t be an ass and tell you to choose now, Sho. But I ain’t gonna wait forever. How about… Valentine’s Day. You know where I’ll be.”

Shoma didn’t, but he nodded. All the better; they filed out the door, Kohei lingering for a split second. When it shut, Shoma collapsed some more, rolling over onto his side and biting at his fingers to keep from palming his erection.

God, how embarrassing—letting himself get so worked up over a guy, letting Tomoko’s kinks bleed over into what had to be a very elaborate mugging, letting himself believe for a second he had things like friends, now. He’d had friends once—Akiyama, boisterous and commanding; Mishima, a meek little doormat that was all too happy to get stepped on—but not anymore. Akiyama had joined a gang and Mishima was some volleyball team dropout and Shoma was not going to let them drag him down anymore. Shoma was going places. Shoma was going to rise to the top and he didn’t need anyone else to get there.

Like now: despite the fact that his legs were too weak to hold his weight, Shoma squirmed and shuffled and crawled across the floor like a worm. He didn’t need Kohei to come back and help him to the stall; Shoma did it all on his own. He crawled inside and latched the door and hauled himself up, all too aware of the way his vision swam and his head spun and ached. When he was finally sitting once more, he leaned on the stall wall. It had to be covered in all kinds of germs and bacteria but Shoma no longer cared.

All that mattered was getting his head straight. All that mattered was pretending a boy like Kohei didn’t exist and hadn’t poured his heart out in a public restroom.

… All that mattered was pretending like his ultimatum didn’t break Shoma’s heart.

It was the New Year, and Kasumi Yoshizawa stood by the torii gates shivering in her kimono.

She checked her phone again—almost eleven in the morning and still no word from Senpai—and frowned. This wasn’t like him. Even if he was sick, he’d still find the time to text her, right? Or Morgana could do it. They lived together, didn’t they?

The screen flickered on, then off; Kasumi huffed and tucked it away, determined to wait a few more minutes. Maybe he was in the subway and didn’t have service. Maybe an emergency had come up and he’d forgotten his phone. Anything was better than him just forgetting like this.

Anything was better than being forgotten like this.

“Hey, it’s Yoshizawa!” a somewhat familiar voice shouted. Kasumi struggled to place it as feet slapped the sidewalk; a blond head came into view before long, then a grin as sunny as the cloudless sky. Sakamoto, Senpai’s friend. He’d been impressed with her stamina, had said even Senpai had a hard time keeping up with him on a run. “Didn’t expect to see ya here! Happy New Year!”

“Oh, yes!” She bowed. “Happy New Year!”

She glanced behind him—maybe this was what kept Senpai—but all she found was the track team, grinning and joking and teasing Sakamoto on his newfound popularity.

“Aw, shaddup,” he grumbled. “Go on ahead, jerks. I hope those stairs’ll kill ya.”

Several boys gave him arm-punches on their way to stair-sprinting. Kasumi admired their dedication, then mourned she couldn’t join in. Her geta were barely fit for regular walking.

“So, uh,” Sakamoto said, “what’s up? Waiting for somebody?”

“Senpai and I made plans for a shrine visit today, but I can’t seem to get a hold of him. He hasn’t said anything to you, has he?”

“Me? Nah.” But Sakamoto checked his phone anyway. His leg bounced, itching to work up a sweat despite the cold. That was a good idea; maybe when she was done her outing she’d go practice or jog. She always felt better when she was moving, and she’d need the boost as Sakamoto shook his head. “Don’t look like I got anything from him. You want me to call?”

“Oh, no, that’s alright. I’d hate to seem like a bother.”

He grinned. “Akira’d never think of anybody that way. Maybe he’s sleepin’ in, y’know?”

Did she? Kasumi had only ever felt the urge to after Sumire passed away. Said urge had vanished after beginning her sessions with Doctor Maruki. Kasumi liked to think it was because she was finally healing.

But there were still times where she felt very, very tired and yet as if no amount of sleep would ever slake her body’s sudden thirst for rest. Those were the days she opted for long baths and yoga sessions, raw tuna and crisp salads. No one ever said so, but she felt lazy taking those days off.

“Maybe,” she said, worry creeping into her voice despite her best efforts. Sakamoto’s expression began to cloud over; she quickly added, “It just, you know, it doesn’t seem like him.”

“Nah, he likes his sleep.” Sakamoto laughed and shifted on his feet. “He’ll get up early an’ all that an’ not look too bothered, but if Ann or I don’t swing by at lunch he’ll sleep right through it. Dude could sleep through the end of the world, too. I’m sure when he wakes up he’ll call and rush right over.”

He grinned. Kasumi found herself returning his optimism—it was nicer to think of the good and not the bad, after all—and his grin, but then he blanched.

“Speaking of,” he muttered, staring over Kasumi’s shoulder.

She turned, sure it was Senpai—but it was Takamaki and Morgana, Sakura and Kitagawa, Okumura and Niijima. Sakura and Kitagawa heckled each other as they strode down the sidewalk; Niijima berated them for making a scene, then at the others for laughing at their antics. Kasumi searched all around for that familiar mop of hair, but found no slouching Senpai among the shrine-goers.

Kasumi bit her lip. Senpai and Morgana lived together; surely he would be here if Morgana was, but the blue-eyed young man only returned her searching gaze with a sad one. Her heart all but stopped in her chest.

“Hey! Happy New Year!” Takamaki cheered, throwing her arms in the air. Sakamoto cheered and did the same, followed by Sakura and Okumura, who giggled the entire time. Kitagawa and Niijima were the last to follow suit; Morgana stood back, careful of the crowds flowing around him and drinking in the murmurs as one woman, then another, commented on how handsome he was.

He was certainly more handsome than Senpai, but Kasumi had seen enough handsome young men at the TV station—Akechi being one of them—to know that there was very little going on underneath, or how devious and cunning they could be, every compliment barbed, every insult carefully constructed to sound like praise.

“Happy New Year!” she forced herself to cheer, throwing her arms up just the same. Sakamoto started up a round of high-fives that went all across the group and ended when Sakura threw herself at Kitagawa, determined to climb his frame and give his hands the slaps they deserved.

“Must you?” complained Kitagawa, thwarting her efforts even as she dangled from his elbow.

“When you see something tall, you just gotta climb it!” Sakura defended.

Kasumi didn’t quite understand, but from Sakamoto and Takamaki’s knowing nods, it must have been a gaming thing.

Then Sakamoto said, “So, any of ya seen Akira? Mona, how about you?”

(“In here, call me Mona,” said the thing shaped vaguely like a cat, its head far too bulbous for its body. He gestured to the young man in black, gaze stern but concerned, lips a thin, bloodless line. “And him, call him—”)

“He’d just gotten up when we left,” Morgana said. “I tried waking him up like usual, and when that didn’t work, tried using Futaba’s alarms. You know she can sleep like the dead.”

“It’s true, I do,” Sakura said, “and if my super-special-ultra-deluxe alarm couldn’t wake him, nothing will.”

“Oh, dear,” said Okumura. “Is he alright?”

Morgana shrugged, then smiled. “I’m sure he’s just tired after last night. He and Akechi went out for the midnight visits, and they didn’t get back until real late. I heard the crowds were insane.”

Sakamoto groaned something like effin’ Akechi under his breath; it went ignored as Morgana turned to her more fully and added, “I’m sure he’ll be here sooner or later. Akechi even swung by to pick him up, though he looked kind of pale.”

“Ooh, in the meantime, you can go with us! The more the merrier!” Takamaki cheered again.

They weren’t Senpai. They weren’t quiet and accepting and gentle; they didn’t feel like the first touch of a hot bath on her skin, like the warmth of her bed after a long winter’s day, like the crisp cold of a swim in the summer. But they wanted her there in a way Kasumi hadn’t been wanted in a while by anyone but Senpai.

It eased the ache just a bit.

So they went up to the shrine, waited in a long line flanked by food and drink stalls like a festival, and paid their respects. They drew fortunes and tied them to the branches of a worn old maple and said hello to the track team and Takamaki’s friend visiting with her parents and Sakura’s friend visiting with hers and a few of Kitagawa’s former fellow students. There were men from Niijima’s father’s precinct wandering over to offer greetings and associates of Okumura’s father congratulating her on the new location.

(Kasumi tried not to notice, but no one came to speak to Morgana, and no one came to speak to her, either. She tried not to let it get to her.)

And the whole time Kasumi kept her purse clutched close, sure that any second now, Senpai would call, but one hour turned into two, then three. Clumping together by the fortune stand turned into trawling the stalls for food and drinks as an early lunch, then into talk of what their dreams for the new year were. They were all grand, except Morgana, who didn’t seem to have one.

“I’m sure I’ll figure something out,” he laughed off, unbothered by his lack of ambition but failing to conceal his continuous looks Takamaki’s way. It was almost cute, Kasumi thought, if not for the fact that Takamaki clearly wasn’t interested.

But love was a strange thing. Look at what Senpai and Akechi had going—that was exactly the kind of love that made it onto prime time television and their friends tended to simply roll their eyes at the couple’s antics. Kasumi, too: she was happy for them, and only a little disappointed. Who didn’t want a handsome, kind, attentive young man for a boyfriend?

The thought made her blush. Then she remembered they were still waiting for Senpai.

Surely he and Akechi were on their way by now…?

She excused herself, walked a few feet away, and tugged her phone out. It took a few tries to turn it on, then to dial Senpai’s number, but once it was ringing it was blessedly static-free. The last thing she wanted was for the call to be dropped.

It rang once. She wondered what he was doing: curled up in bed, comforter pulled around him, nothing peeking out from underneath except his mop of hair?

It rang twice. Or maybe he was at Leblanc’s counter eating brunch, blearily taking in the news and the chatter of Mr. Sakura’s regulars, cup of coffee paused halfway to his lips, Akechi at his side hurrying him to finish so they could go.

It rang thrice—

He picked up.

Nothing could contain her excitement, but she shoved it down regardless. It quickly turned bitter in her mouth—he hadn’t forgotten, but there was something important he had to take care of, something urgent that simply couldn’t wait. He was sorry he couldn’t make it. He promised to make it up to her.

And just like that, he was gone again.

Kasumi tried to school herself—this was no reason to cry, and she had his friends here, didn’t she? They were kind people. They’d invited her to join them—not many of her classmates would do the same—and she’d had fun, hadn’t she? Wasn’t that all that mattered?

No, it didn’t. Looking at it that way, the day hadn’t been wasted. She’d still enjoyed herself. It was his broken promise that bothered her more, the unanswered calls, the silence ringing as loud in her ears as the laughter. They had each other, but Kasumi only really had Senpai.

She bit her lip, trying harder not to cry. If she started up Senpai’s friends would want to know why, and it was such a silly thing to be upset over that it just upset her more. She stared at her phone instead, the cracks in the screen and that one section that never responded to her touch anymore and her messages with Sumire, with Dr. Maruki, with Senpai. Texts from her parents and Yuriko; texts from her coach.

They believed in her, and Senpai really was terribly sorry he couldn’t make it, and she’d been asking Sumire what she wanted to have after their next competition. It was always ice cream, but Kasumi didn’t mind, even if she hadn’t had any all year. Ice cream was for winners, and Kasumi wasn’t performing like one—

(“I dunno,” Senpai said, breathing in his tea. “Third place—that’s still pretty good, isn’t it? Better than I’ve ever managed.”

“But—the school said—”

“The school’s spinning its wheels,” he told her. On a particularly chilly day in November they sat on the rooftop, the wind tugging at their clothes and hair, Morgana sprawled out on a desk beside them. “The guys in charge have no idea what they’re doing. I’m sure Makoto can find a copy of your scholarship somehow; that might help clear up some things.”

“Oh, well,” Kasumi murmured, taking a bite of her lunch. It tasted like sludge and had the consistency to match. “It might, but—”

“Or Futaba can look into it,” Senpai suggested.

“I’ll ask if she will,” said Morgana, accepting another piece of chicken.

His optimism was nice to hear. He was just like Dr. Maruki that way, ever optimistic, ever striding forward. If there was a loophole in her scholarship contract, Senpai and his friends would find it. They wouldn’t let her flounder. “That’s very kind of you to offer,” she said.

“Anything to help,” Senpai said, and for a time they were quiet, munching away at their lunches. His always looked so impressive—five stars to her own sad attempt—and today was no different. The ones her mother packed were impressive too, if only in size.

“You’re thinking too much again.” Senpai fixed her with a look. “Really, they’ll make sure nothing happens. I’m sure the vice principal’s just blowing hot air, anyway. So what’s really on your mind?”

That she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to keep going here at Shujin. She didn’t know any of her classmates and they all seemed to have her pegged as some kind of snob even when she insisted on being treated exactly the same. Maybe that was the problem with her scholarship: she was being given all the time in the world to train and better her routines and all she wanted was to be just another student, albeit one with lofty dreams.

[Kasumi did not like to think that the reason for the space Shujin was giving her was for grief. Kasumi did not want to sit idly by and mourn; she wanted to work. The best way to honor Sumire’s memory would be to make their dream come true, and she couldn’t do that lying around in bed all day feeling sorry for herself.]

“I suppose I just thought high school would be… different,” she said. “Instead it just feels the same as ever. None of my old classmates came here too, so it’s been really… lonely, I guess.”

Especially without Sumire at her side. Who cared if she was quiet? At least she was there.

Senpai hummed. He took a bite of onigiri and then said, “I’m sure the others will sit with you if you ask. Ann’s stellar with English; she can give you pointers for the world stage. You know Ryuji’s up for a run or talking about strength training any day. I’m pretty sure Makoto’s kept all her notes up till now; if you miss classes she’ll help you catch up no problem. And Haru—”

“What about you?”

Morgana, who had begun creeping up to sneak bites of rice and Kasumi’s proffered octopus hotdog, flinched. His face went glum. “Well…”

But Senpai faced her, unflinching. “Being a Phantom Thief isn’t always stealthy heists and flashy fights, you know. Sometimes you have to be willing to risk a lot more to get what you want.”

Even though she already knew the answer, Kasumi asked, “And what are you risking?”

Senpai’s answer was an odd azu; his eyes spoke louder than any word. It made Kasumi shiver.

The bell rang, and they hurried to gulp down the rest of their lunches, and it was only later in the middle of her classes that Kasumi wondered what on Earth was worth Senpai risking everything for. It wasn’t fair for him to take up that kind of burden alone, though—although she knew he had his friends by his side—and she did have a bit of free time over the weekend…

It was for Senpai, she decided. A little bit of sleuthing never hurt anyone, did it?)

—and her phone clattered to the ground. Kasumi, a bit dizzy with sudden revelation, took a moment to pick it up, then clattered her way back over to the group.

All these smiling faces, all these happy looks—and Senpai was off again, risking azu, risking everything, she was sure of it.

“You okay there?” Takamaki asked, concern knitting her brows.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Kasumi assured her. “I’ve just never been good with technology. My phone’s always slipping out of my hands.”

As if to demonstrate the point, Sakura snatched it up. She inspected the worn casing, the cracked screen, that odd corner that never stayed shut no matter how hard Kasumi pressed it back down again. “Ooh, yeah, you’ve done a number on this thing,” she commented. “You ever try a FerretBox?”

“Those are a bit expensive, aren’t they?”

“Some things are worth the expense,” Kitagawa said.

“Yusuke, dude,” said Sakamoto, with the air of one long in suffering, “you think weird scarves and live lobsters are worth every yen you paid for ‘em.”

“There is no price for inspiration,” Kitagawa sniffed.

“Dude! We couldn’t even bring them back! You didn’t think about how you were gonna keep ‘em!”

“And he’s lucky we got a refund,” interjected Niijima as Morgana began to drool, likely thinking of freshly cooked lobster. “But I do agree; some things are worth the price. A decent case and a screen protector go a long way.”

Sakura handed Kasumi her phone back. “If you get a new one, just let me know. I’ll zap all that bloatware right off it for you!”

Bloatware? Did Kasumi want to know? “Um, thank you, Miss Sakura,” she said.

A new phone. She’d never thought of that. But getting a new one felt… wrong, somehow, as if throwing it away meant throwing away the last pieces of Sumire. She would never be gone so long as Kasumi remembered her, but…

Someday. Someday she would be able to.

She felt much better when they finally parted ways—resolve coursed through her as she boarded a familiar train to a familiar station then headed down a street she knew like the back of her hand.

And overhead, the haze of floodlights flared through the noon sky, the tower in their midst shimmering like a mirage.

It was the New Year, and Yuuki stumbled through the shrine’s crowds, clinging to his dad’s sleeve for dear life.

He’d gotten too used to winter break already—staying up until the wee hours of the morning and sleeping in until noon, struggling through his homework as Phan-site traffic took a nosedive for reasons he couldn’t figure out, struggling not to message Amamiya or Ryuji every other hour when boredom began to get the better of him—and the crowd was far thicker than Yuuki remembered it ever being. There were people everywhere—in suits and ties, in kimonos and geta, in tracksuits and winter coats, and, inexplicably, a group of friends in their pajamas—and…

It was too much. There were too many of them. It was worse than the trains at rush hour, and everyone was smiling, laughing, cheering. He had not gotten enough sleep for this.

Hirotaka finally managed to squeeze through a particularly congested spot into a thinner crowd of milling people. He checked to make sure Yuuki was still there—Yuuki marveled at the ground he could see between everyone’s feet—and then said, “I’m sorry, Yuuki. I didn’t realize it would be like this.”

“It’s not your fault,” Yuuki told him.

Yuuki definitely remembered it being far less crowded last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. Everyone either went at midnight to celebrate the date-change, or they went over the next week or so, whenever their schedules allowed. It was weird that so many people were out and about today of all days; Yuuki chalked it up to the mess of the last year, the never-ending tide of scandals, the cascade of bad news, the vicious whirlpool of anxiety and fear.

It was a new year. Why wouldn’t everyone be out, wishing fervently for good things to come their way?

“Even still,” Hirotaka said, frowning at the crowd, “maybe we should go somewhere else. Or tomorrow.”

“Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

Hirotaka paused, then paled.

“I don’t mind staying,” Yuuki told him. He had nothing better to do aside from plug away at his math homework, anyway. He hated those worksheets with a passion. And… “You’ve been looking forward to this all week. I can handle a few hours with my dad, you know.”

Hirotaka took a moment to take that in, then brightened, and it was like the last week had never happened; the careful distance he’d displayed was gone, replaced with the dad who chattered too much and had far too many snacks packed away in his bag. Yuuki took each one, tucking the trash away in a bag he refused to let Hirotaka hold—“Let me do something, too, geez!”—and most of the morning passed to the endless chatter, the unceasing laughter, the constant jingling of the shrine bells. Yuuki even found himself talking, laughing, having fun in a way he never thought he would with the man who used to be so distant Yuuki could go weeks at a time never seeing hide nor hair of. It was strange.

It was strange, but he didn’t mind.

It was as they were finally nearing the shrine that Yuuki caught a glimpse of blond in the crowd—Ryuji and Takamaki and Sakura, all of Amamiya’s friends and a dark-haired, blue-eyed stranger that reminded Yuuki of the cat… but not Amamiya himself. No Akechi, either, if the non-existent swarm of fangirls was anything to go by.

That was… weird. He had a vague recollection of Akechi turning himself into the police but no news articles to back it up. But the whole mess of Christmas Eve seemed to be largely forgotten. Why wouldn’t this be blown over, too?

Because, screamed a little part of him, the part that didn’t care that he’d woken up in Amamiya’s bed on Christmas morning, if Akechi and Amamiya aren’t here, it means they’re—

“Oh, your friends, Yuuki?” Hirotaka asked.

“Yeah. But, um, let’s not bother them. I bet they’ve been waiting around for a while, too. They’ve gotta be tired.”

He had a vague feeling Ryuji’s leg should be bothering him, and the girls and Kitagawa had to be cold in their kimonos. The blue-eyed stranger was wearing a jacket that looked a size too small and a touch too thin. Yuuki wondered if he really was the cat.

Impossible.

But… Christmas Eve…

A spike of pain lanced through his head. Hirotaka caught him wincing. “Are you sure you’re alright, Yuuki?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Except it still felt like something was wrong. Maybe it was not seeing Amamiya out and about like he usually was; maybe it was simple jealousy that he and Akechi might be spending time together on the first day of the new year.

(Why would he be jealous? Amamiya had tons of friends. Akechi shouldn’t be any different.)

He forced a shaky smile. “Just, you know, remembering all that math homework waiting for me.”

Hirotaka studied him for a moment. Understanding flashed through him. “It never gets any easier, does it?”

Yuuki, head swimming with more than just sleep deprivation, agreed.

Being reminded so much of his few faults… it really didn’t get any easier.

It was the New Year, and Takuto stirred in his bed of branches.

The lethargy that had been eating away at him over the past week was gone. In its place was energy, like a hundred-thousand volts running through his veins. It was better than any coffee could do, and even more than that—

With a wave of a hand, the branches overhead parted. The sun streamed right in with a faint trace of chill. Takuto shivered.

“Sir,” said his assistant, “good morning.”

“Good morning!” Takuto replied. He breathed in that chill and felt deep in his very bones that this, at last, would be a brand-new year for everyone. No one would have to be alone, or in despair, or hurting in a myriad of ways ever again. No one would have to suffer anymore.

Finally, no one—

“Sir, a moment, please.”

Takuto frowned. “Yes?”

“It’s about the boy. He fought the dream. We believe he’ll be here at any moment.”

“He’s awake? But, that can’t be…” right, he almost said. But that wasn’t true, was it? Akira was a strong young man—too strong for Takuto to fool with a pretty little lie, as it turned out.

But he wasn’t supposed to be that way. If everything had gone right—and it should have!—Akira should have been Ren again, that teenager too focused on his gymnastics routines and figuring out his sexuality to question the world around him. Ren was decidedly not the mature Akira, even if only a handful of months separated them.

Months or years, Takuto reminded himself. Why did it have to be Ren? Why did it have to be Akira? If it were anyone else leading the Phantom Thieves…

But maybe that was why; anyone who could stand up to injustice so many times and inspire others to follow in his footsteps would have to be strong, wouldn’t he, and he would have to have an unwavering sense of justice, too. It just so happened that Akira had both.

Not that Takuto liked it.

He stood, shaky on his feet, the boughs overhead tangling back together as his thoughts jumbled. Akira was a mature young man… but he was still just a teenager, far from home and the support of his parents and the only life he’d ever known. He was also the boy from the stars, the one beyond the screen. He’d saved an entire planet’s worth of people. Was that something just a teenager could do? Was that something a simple teenager could handle?

(“You promised,” Ionasal said, voice raspy from screaming, hair glittering with broken glass.)

Takuto shivered. No. No, it wasn’t.

And if he was awake… there was one mystery he had never solved. Takuto’s assistants hid it well, but Takuto still knew of the intruders on that October day. They had yet to return.

But one would. Today, in fact, now that he was awake.

And Takuto intended to find out why.

He rushed through preparations, nearly tripping over thin air several times in his haste, always wondering whether that moment would be the one Akira chose to burst in to spy Takuto like a swooning maiden in the arms of his own Persona. Takuto had always wanted a grand stage upon which any skeptic could view the ways his cognitive adjustments made the world a better place, and who better to test out one such place than Takuto’s favorite—and only—protege?

He would understand. He would surely understand—

—or so Takuto thought.

Brushing hair out of Yoshizawa’s face, Takuto fought back a sigh. Nestled in his former bed and swaddled with blankets, Yoshizawa slept an easy sleep filled with every wonderful dream Takuto could think to give her, and yet her brow remained creased, her expression uneasy.

As if she knew, deep down, that every dream was a lie.

His assistant watched on, impassive as ever, the only sign of their earlier near-brawl a spot of dirt on his sleeve.

“If being yourself could make you happy, I’d give her back to you, Yoshizawa,” Takuto said, knowing that it was pointless. The agony on her face as she relived that accident, over and over again—Takuto couldn’t bear it. “But does being someone else make you unhappy, too? Why wish to be your sister, then? Why—”

(“Oh, here’s something,” Rumi said with a laugh. She sat sideways on the couch, using Takuto as a backrest, her legs dangling over the edge. “’Would you love me if I was an earthworm?’”

“An… earthworm?”

“That’s what it says!” She shoved her phone in his face; despite years of studying English it still took him a moment to parse the words. “So? Would you?”

“Well… I can’t say I’m attracted to invertebrates, much less insects,” Takuto said. He abandoned the pile of notes he was rewriting, sure that Rumi would hit him, if only because he knew what the question really meant. “Not to mention that an earthworm’s intelligence is far, far below our own—but if this is, say, an earthworm who was smart, and found a way to communicate with people, then… No, I would not.”

Rumi gaped at him. “Huh?”

“Because you wouldn’t be you anymore,” Takuto said, hand searching for hers. “Everything that makes up the Rumi I fell in love with wouldn’t exist anymore. I’m sure an earthworm would have plenty to offer, but I don’t think it would be the same kind of attraction.”

“Okay,” Rumi said, slowly. “But, say I was to turn into an earthworm right here, right now?”

“Oh,” Takuto said. “Of course I would.”

He endured the subsequent pillow beating.)

Was that why, then?

It wasn’t that being Kasumi would make her happy—it was that everyone loved Kasumi already, and Sumire wouldn’t have to work for their affection. Kasumi worked hard but she made it look effortless and basked in the praise and envy of her peers, and meanwhile Sumire sat on the sidelines, forever trying to reach her same lofty heights and falling further and further behind. Sumire the earthworm, forever in search of a way to become Kasumi the girl—and then she’d found one, even if it was only by chance and even if she would never know.

Well, until now.

Now… he had to give her a choice. Like Akira and Akechi—and Takuto still did not understand how he was wrong about those two—Yoshizawa had to decide: give Takuto the chance to help her be happy, or…

Or… what?

What was he thinking of doing if they didn’t agree to stay? They would fight. Akechi had been prepared to tear Takuto limb from limb with his bare hands, and Akira less so but still angry enough he’d been likely to sit back and watch for the first few minutes. Yoshizawa wasn’t the fighting sort but he could see her getting pulled into their rhythm.

And did he dare forget what Akira had done to the last god?

No, no. Takuto was good. He was better than… whatever that thing had been, all cages and terror and blind obedience. Takuto didn’t need the people’s will in order to rule, but he wanted it. It would be better that way, too; no one could say he was just another puppeteer pulling everyone’s strings. Changing their cognitions and helping people be happy was good. Akira would see that when he visited his friends.

All Takuto needed was a few more weeks to cement his role in this grand new reality. All he needed was acceptance from the people who mattered the most. All he needed was for them to trust him.

He could do great things, if given the chance. He hoped they understood that.

He hoped he was wrong on what it would come down to.

Chapter Text

There were a lot of things that one Yuuki Mishima could have been doing. He was supposed to be picking out ties and finalizing the bouttenaires for his and Ryuji’s suits, but at some point had crawled into bed feeling sorry for himself. Calling Ryuji or Futaba could have easily distracted him long enough to get back into the groove of wedding planning, but instead he was thinking about a cold spring day in a dusty attic, the light from his phone near-blinding in the gloom.

Akira would have loved this.

Akira would have had more to say about Ann’s choice of wedding dress. Akira would have had discussions about the catering companies and the bakeries and the guests. Akira could have helped find a better reception venue, or cheaper hotels, or found discounts for all the family flying in for Ann’s big day.

He… really would have loved this.

It was the only thing on Yuuki’s mind. Ann and Shiho spearheaded the planning with a relentless and enthusiastic drive (even if Shiho was starting to wear down now that the majority of it was done) that Yuuki simply couldn’t match. He didn’t understand the importance of dining arrangements or color themes or DJs; he definitely didn’t understand why Aunt so-and-so couldn’t sit within a five-foot radius of Uncle something-or-other; he really didn’t understand the importance of a best man’s speech. What was there to say, other than what he already knew?

Akira would know. Akira had been dreaming of weddings ever since he was small—Eastern and Western and nontraditional and the hundreds of variations every culture on Earth had ever thought of and then some. He had it all written down in snatches in his sketchbooks; Yuuki had read them over and over and thought it wasn’t fair that all he got was a ceremony by a temple overlooking the sea in a dream. Akira could match the girls’ enthusiasm while Yuuki ran Ryuji ragged to keep him from thinking about the bill.

(It didn’t matter that Yuuki was paying for the suits and half the buffet; everything else was exorbitantly expensive, if only because Ann’s family was incredibly large. She’d sent out invites thinking only a handful would accept; the opposite turned out true. Yuuki was sure they were using her wedding as an excuse to take a vacation. That, or more of them were richer than he first thought.)

And after all that planning, Yuuki and Akira would return home to their shared apartment (crummy as it was) and…

Well, Yuuki wasn’t sure.

It was one thing to think every day would be domestic bliss; it was another to watch the bride- and groom-to-be argue over what to eat after their workouts at the gym. It was one thing to think of cuddling in close on cold days; it was another to listen to Ann complain of how hot Ryuji ran in the summer, and to listen to Ryuji complain of how cold Ann’s feet became in the winter. It was the shared closet space (or lack thereof) and the kitchen space (what was more important to keep in the fridge, anyway?) and what to watch on TV in the evenings (Yuuki didn’t think he and Akira would have a problem there, but wasn’t about to discount it).

It was one thing to think of coming home to the one he loved. It was another to think he could never get away.

And maybe that was the problem: Yuuki could escape his friends if he needed to. If he needed space, all he had to do was go home. His tiny apartment was a haven all his own and Yuuki couldn’t imagine anyone else filling the space, not even Akira.

But maybe it would be different if he was here.

Yuuki sighed and rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling, fingers hooked into the rings on his necklace. That was the real problem: if Akira was here, if Akira weren’t still gone, if Yuuki wasn’t still waiting…

But Yuuki was trying. He was doing all he could to hold onto hope, even if that hope dwindled month after month, year after year—and just like every other time, he sighed once more and shuffled over to his closet. Spare suits and pairs of loafers filled it, now; a guest futon sat in a bag, waiting for the next time one of his friends needed to crash at his place; boxes of casual clothes and gym clothes and his favorite worn-out sneakers filled the rest. Underneath it all was a box Yuuki only touched when the world felt like too much anymore; he tugged it out.

There were the paintings Yusuke gave him, wrapped in a cloth. There was his old laptop, the battery long dead but the hard drive too precious to give up. There were the boxes for his rings (the receipt was taped to a notebook on his desk cataloging every deduction and interest payment, and Yuuki had stared in disbelief that he would finally, finally pay it off and then some with this wedding) and an old shirt of Akira’s, the scent long lost to time. And there was his old phone; even if Futaba insisted he keep it, Yuuki never would have thrown it away when he upgraded. There was something nostalgic to holding it on days like these, and Yuuki took it over to his bed, plugged it into the charger, and curled up as it powered on for the first time in months.

Like the last time, he worried it wouldn’t work—and like the last time, it did. It vibrated and did its little light show; it took Yuuki’s passcode with no trouble.

His heart hammered.

The videos were still there. He watched them one by one, unease growing the longer he went—yes, there was still that pinprick of joy that bloomed in his gut at seeing Akira’s face, but it faded quicker than usual. His laugh no longer seemed so buoyant; his eyes no longer seemed so lively; even that smile and that greeting that had once meant so much to him felt ordinary. It was like Yuuki was watching a child playacting; it was like he was watching himself, desperate and lonely and willing to do anything to earn a friend or two at only thirteen.

He waited for that feeling to fade—surely it would, this was Akira, this was the one person in the whole universe he loved—as he tried to remember being sixteen and beaten down and seventeen and lonely and eighteen and hopeful and came up emptier than before. He tried very hard not to think of the videos Futaba liked to send him about nostalgia and aging and how it was inevitable that he would sit there and ask himself how he could ever love a child.

At twenty-five, Yuuki didn’t feel like much of an adult—but the Akira he knew was and always would be seventeen. There was no changing that.

But it wasn’t fair.

Not to Yuuki and not to Akira.

To give up after only a few years—what would Akira say when he returned and found Yuuki had moved on? What would Yuuki do if he saw Akira in front of him now, seventeen and ready to make good on all the promises they’d made each other? He wanted to keep going; he had to keep going, had to keep loving, had to keep Akira alive, somehow, in a world where he didn’t exist anymore.

Yuuki had to—but something in him was cracking under the pressure. These feelings that had once been so strong as to move him to tears now felt as faded as the scent of Akira’s shirt. That was just the way things went, he was warned time and again, that was just the way the world worked.

But it wasn’t fair.

“Damn it,” he muttered, heat building as tears pricked his eyes. Akira was his everything. Akira had saved his life. Akira had done so much for Yuuki that there would never be a way to pay him back.

And Yuuki was beginning to fear he didn’t love him anymore.

But he couldn’t just let go. Akira would need him when he came back; the boy had no one else to turn to. He didn’t understand how much the world could change in seven years, didn’t understand that the old, familiar streets of his hometown and the people who lived there and the buildings that sat like so many ghosts would hurt. Like that old fairy tale of a man escaping the world for a hundred years, Akira could only ever be haunted.

And Yuuki wasn’t sure how long he could love a boy like that.

God, he was pathetic.

He turned over once more. It could be worse. He could be one of those weirdos who only liked teenagers; the fact that his old videos didn’t do much anymore was good, right? And he could take new ones once Akira was back—they could be proper friends this time. Akira would understand; seven years was a big age gap even for someone who said he didn’t care. Maybe they’d get lucky and Akira wouldn’t be seventeen but twenty-something. He would still need to adjust but it wouldn’t be quite so odd.

That thought gave him a bit of hope. Akira, at twenty-five… would his hair be long enough to tie back, or would he cut it short? Would he wear the drab suits of a regular salaryman or would he wear bright colors and bold patterns and not care one whit about what anyone thought? Would he drink on his days off? Would he get up early every day to go running?

Yuuki liked to imagine he would.

But it was useless. In the end, Akira still wasn’t here. Yuuki could imagine the man he would become all he liked (tall and slender and with that undying passion burning in his eyes) but it didn’t matter because he wasn’t here.

And like every other time when the realization became too much, Yuuki found himself staring at the app.

Magic phone apps from space or not, it couldn’t tell him a thing. He clicked it anyway. He shut his eyes as it loaded, preparing for the familiar disappointing Thanks for Playing message—

—when something clicked on his phone. He peered through one eye, barely believing the static fuzzing across his screen, barely believing the timer counting up the seconds.

“Oh,” he muttered. “Guess it worked this time.”

Or something close to it.

He was dreaming, surely. This was the beginning of some wonderful dream involving Akira’s opinions on suit ties and how good Yuuki looked in a forest-green waistcoat, hopefully not involving Ryuji’s comments that it all felt very stuffy—or maybe involving them. Yuuki could be sure Akira would love it regardless.

Or he was until Akira said, “Yuuki?”

The world seemed to stop. Now, of all times? But maybe that was why. Yuuki thanked whatever god was listening even as he doubted this was actually happening. “Akira?” he asked.

The rest was history; by the time he hung up Yuuki was crying anew, feeling as if a hole had been punched in his chest. All that love and heartache and waiting and guilt drained right out of him; he stifled his sobs as best he could.

Always, he thought. Always and forever, and it would always feel like this: like being saved over and over again, like being held close only to be let go. Yuuki wanted to chase after the feeling even as it escaped him but knew it was long gone, and that all that remained were its ghosts.

And then he thought of a wedding just a handful of weeks away, of a guest he hadn’t seen in person in months, of a boy who once loved him so deeply it drove him to despair.

Maybe it was greedy to hope nothing had changed. Maybe it was wrong of him to want someone else so quickly—but Yuuki had spent so long squashing his feelings down, and he had weeks to figure out if he maybe felt the same back…

If he did… if there was even a small flicker of that old fire burning in his heart…

Maybe he wouldn’t have to be alone anymore after all.

“’Sup, Sumi,” Ryuji greeted, mentally cursing the New Year’s crowd—both at Protein Lover’s and here at the park, where every jogging trail was full of the newly-resolute who didn’t understand the first thing about gym equipment or proper running form. Sumire glanced up from her stretch, nose coming away wet with melted frost where it rested among the grass. The smile on her face made coming here at ass-o’-clock worth it.

“Ryuji-senpai,” she greeted, and—

Well, Ryuji was a boy like any other, and he’d never been called senpai before. So he was happy. So what?

“You don’t gotta call me senpai, y’know? Feels weird.”

She frowned, propriety at war with her friendship. “Are you sure? You’ve been on the team the longest, and you’re my senpai at school, too…”

“Seriously, it’s cool. Don’t worry about it.”

He made his way over and plopped down next to her, shivering as the cold seeped right through his pants. This was just a run with a teammate, he told himself. Akira was busy doing… something-or-other, and Ryuji had woken up early itching for a run in a way he hadn’t for months, and then he’d remembered Sumire. Sumire, who had a smile just for him, and who was polite and cute to boot. It was such a contrast to Futaba that Ryuji was almost glad she could kick ass in the Metaverse; a pretty, younger girl who needed his protection was exactly the kind of thing his dumb brain wanted.

(Or, as Ann had put it yesterday after a tangle with some of the new Shadows in Mementos: “You just want to show off, don’t you, Skull?”

And… yeah, maybe he did.)

But Ryuji was going to be better than his dumb brain today. He was doing pretty good in the Metaverse, he thought; Sumire’s Thief suit was just a leotard and a coat and he wasn’t staring there. He was not going to make this weird, nope.

“Do you usually come here to run, Ryuji?” Sumire asked.

“Sometimes,” he said, “y’know, when it’s not cold as hell out. I’d go to the gym, but it’s packed there, too. S’a pain.”

“Oh, I know what you mean! When you just get that itch to move and then everything else gets in the way, right?”

“Yeah!” Finally, someone else got it. Not even his ma understood, but she was nearing forty. Ryuji was convinced it was an age thing. But— “I didn’t know you went to gyms and stuff, though. Don’t you gotta stay nimble for gymnastics?”

“Being nimble also means being able to hold my own weight upright,” she said, seguing into a handstand, her toes pointed straight into the air. Several people passing by slowed to stare at her. “If all I did was routines and running, I’d never be able to hold this. Senpai never mentioned it?”

“Akira? No, he don’t talk much about working out.”

Or about much at all, really.

Ryuji gave it a try: a handstand seemed easy enough when Akira and Sumire were doing them, but Ryuji kept falling, either on his head or his ass. At some point Sumire sat back to watch him, and it was after his latest arm-buckle that she finally intervened, giggling. “Here, you want to kick your legs back—like this,” she demonstrated another handstand, legs bent like a grasshopper’s. Ryuji tried to follow; his arms wobbled. “You’re thinking too hard about pushing your legs up, which makes you fall over. This should help distribute your weight better so you can keep your balance.”

She was half-right: to Ryuji’s dismay and several more passer-by’s amusement, he fell over after a whole second. He stared at the sky—cloudy with the promise of snow, and bright enough that it hurt his eyes—and then groaned. “You guys make it look so easy!”

She giggled some more. It was a nice sound. Ryuji could get used to hearing it. “That’s because we’ve done it so long!”

Then, after a long, quiet moment where the only sound was Ryuji’s heart hammering in his ears and the beat of shoes on the pavement, Sumire asked, “He really doesn’t talk about it?”

It was probably weird to her. Akira was supposed to be some gymnastics buff back home, but after all that space junk (Ryuji still could not believe the space junk, but it explained too much with Akechi to be fake) and only having a few months of house arrest when he went back… Ryuji understood better than anyone how that would feel.

He said, “Probably just a sore spot. He can’t exactly practice here, and when he goes home, I bet it’ll be right to studying. I don’t know much about competitions in the sticks, so…”

“Oh,” Sumire said, crestfallen. “Right.”

“Yeah.”

He wondered where all that excitement had gone—here was Sumire, a cute underclassman who could cook and work out and called somebody like him senpai without batting an eye—and all he could think about was that it was amazing, all the different people Akira picked up just by being himself. So different from Ryuji, who still did not understand what had gone wrong on that beach in Hawaii. Was he too young for them or what?

He bet he was. His ma always liked to say he exuded the aura of a teenage boy; Ryuji didn’t get it but maybe it was one of those weird mom powers. Maybe every girl past the age of twenty got them. Yeah, that had to be it.

Which just meant that most of the ladies he’d tried to pick up in Hawaii were older. Yeah, that was it.

Finally, Sumire leaned over, her cheeks dusted a pretty pink. Ryuji tried not to think it was because of him. “Say, can I ask you something? About Senpai, I mean.”

Akira. Of course. “Yeah, shoot.”

“He’s said before there’s someone he likes.” Ryuji sat up, a sinking feeling worming through his gut. “And, um. I guess I was just wondering… he’s so nice to me, and to Akechi, too. Is that… just the way he is?”

“Yeah.”

Akira was the sort of guy who could befriend anybody even before weird metaphysical powers came into the equation. He really was just different. Had to be his genes or something.

“Oh,” she said.

“I wouldn’t read too much into anything he does,” Ryuji told her. “Dude’s been crushing hard for a while, and I think coming here’s been like… eye-openin’. Like he can be himself. Kinda pissed he’s so set on palling around with Akechi, but, like. I don’t gotta like everybody Akira knows, right?”

Even if Akechi did piss him off more than the cat did.

Sumire settled on the grass, fingers weaving through her hair. “I guess not. I’m just surprised, I guess. Senpai doesn’t really let his feelings show unless they’re… strong, so—oh, but I guess boys are just like that, huh?”

“Uh, I guess? Ma says I’m an open book, though. Everybody’s different.”

Sumire made a quiet noise. Ryuji had never heard of the Yoshizawa twins up until the accident last year—and even then it had been in passing, a whisper drowned out by the news of the transfer student, and then later as disgusted whispers. Sumire had just wanted her normal life back; Ryuji knew what that was like.

So he asked, “How about Kasumi? What was she like?”

“Kasumi?” Shocker, she still looked pretty when surprised. “Um, she was always outgoing, and hardworking, and she never had any trouble speaking her mind. Everyone liked her.” She stared at her lap, where her hands sat clasped together. “I always thought it was nice, being, um, wanted like that. People wanting to talk to you because they liked to. Kasumi could get along with anybody, but I was never that good with people. I wasn’t even that good with her. And it, you know.”

Rankled, the same way Kamoshida’s taunts had. The same way being ostracized by the team had. The same way listening to Akechi did.

“I used to think so, too,” Ryuji said. There was an older guy coming down the path, and if he squinted it kind of looked like Fukuoka from Protein Lover’s. Maybe it was his day off. “And I like meeting people and chatting and all that, but it’s… I dunno, I guess I just realized it’s not as important as I thought. Back on the track team I wanted to be popular. Now, I just…”

Even if it was a nice idea, having a legion of fangirls follow him around. There’d have to be a girl or two who’d want to date him then, right?

But would they like him, or would they like his fame more?

Sumire nodded, filling in the blank herself. “You want to be yourself.”

“Yeah,” Ryuji said. “And if nobody likes me except my friends? Well, yeah, it’s gonna sting like hell, but that’s just how it is. It sucks but I’ll get through it.”

Yeah, even if it really did suck, not getting to be popular like in all his wildest fantasies—but that was Akira, pulled in a dozen different directions at once and managing to please just as many people on a daily basis. Ryuji had no idea how he did it; if it was him, his head would explode. Better to keep it simple.

But Sumire pursed her pretty lips in thought and said, “But I thought Morgana-senpai said you wanted to use being a Phantom Thief to pick up girls?”

“Says the cat always hitting on Ann,” Ryuji grumbled. Sumire stared at him, expectant, and—

He didn’t really have a good excuse for that. All the rotten adults they’d taken down, the city they’d very literally saved half a dozen times, and what did Ryuji have to show for it as thanks?

Nothing. Zip. Nada.

All he wanted was a little recognition. A little thank you. Was that too much to ask for?

But now he was sounding like Yuuki, back over summer break, and—

He couldn’t help it; he yelled, shooting straight to his feet and startling Sumire, Fukuoka, and a woman with a baby stroller. “I’m!” he shouted, annoyed with himself for the nth time in however many weeks, Sumire’s pretty, big eyes staring and staring and staring, “I’m gonna! Go for a run now!”

Sumire’s protests were lost as he dashed off, voice lost under his feet slapping the pavement. Ryuji ran and ran and then ran some more, until his breath came ragged and uneven and it felt as if his stomach was getting ready to spew its contents all over the grass.

He wanted to be popular. He wanted girls to notice him. He wasn’t much different from any other guy in the whole world—except for Akira, who was so different they were practically a different species.

But Akira was friends with a guy like him, which meant there was something only Ryuji could offer, even if it was something dumb and useless like loyalty, even if all he could do was run and run and run—

—and even if all that running never got him anywhere. Even if all he did was run his mouth more than his feet, even if he did have a hair-trigger temper, even if his grades weren’t the best…

But Ryuji had never been smart. He could chase after answers, but that didn’t mean he could catch them.

One Shinya Oda was knocked from a chemistry fugue (it was almost like math, almost) when the phone rang down the stairs. Ordinarily this would not have bothered him—the phone rang all the time in the first few years he lived here, calls from his new school or his new neighbors or telemarketers interrupting dinner—but it wasn’t often that his uncle picked up the phone and nearly screamed a name Shinya hadn’t heard in years.

Interest piqued, Shinya crept from his room with its drafty window and out into the hall, where the floorboards creaked by the stairs, preventing him from sitting at the top and listening in. As if he could hear anything from way up here anyway, especially now that Uncle Jiro had gotten over his shock. The man could be quiet when he wanted to be.

Like now, having gone as silent as the grave.

So Shinya made for the bathroom, trudging over the creaking floorboards, then darted into his uncle’s office, where the other landline sat. No one back home in Tokyo had landlines anymore, and the neat little trick his cousin had showed him had very nearly blown his mind: he picked up and listened in. No one could tell.

“—and I just wanted to say I’m sorry, Jiro,” said a voice that made his skin crawl. “For the way I’ve acted, and—for everything, though it must be too little too late.”

“Ya threw out Tomoko’s doll,” Uncle Jiro said, softly. “She loved that thing, and ya threw it out, Hanae.”

“I know,” said Shinya’s mother. “I’m sorry. I’ll call her and tell her, too.”

“And Hiro’s GamerBoy?”

“I’ll call him, too.”

Uncle Jiro sighed. “Sorry ain’t gonna cut it now. Ya know that. Hanae, if ya knew what ya did was wrong, why do it?”

She was crying, little sobbing tears that Shinya could hear drip over the phone. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think I wanted to be precious the way all that stuff was precious, but it just made people hate me. I thought having it would make everyone want to spend time with me. It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

Like being a winner, Shinya thought. No one wanted to hang out with the losers; it was only the people who had everything you wanted that got any friends. Even his own friendships could be boiled down to mild interest at first—but that was just the way people were. Buying friends didn’t mean you could keep them, after all.

“So ya was just lonely, then,” Uncle Jiro said.

“I suppose so. Yes, I was.”

Shinya bit down the urge to blurt out questions—why was she calling, what about the restraining order, why was Uncle Jiro letting her talk at all?—and tried to keep calm. They were just talking. There was every chance they talked all the time and Shinya just didn’t know about it, though the thought made him shiver. Uncle Jiro wouldn’t talk about him when he wasn’t there, would he?

Hanae Oda sniffed. “Though life hasn’t been much different here. I didn’t even realize it until a few weeks ago, how conceited and arrogant I was being. You know Keisuke and I had a son, Jiro? His name is Shinya. And I just made his life awful recently.”

“Uh… huh,” Uncle Jiro said, likely thinking of a nephew named Shinya just up the stairs who was supposed to be doing his chemistry assignment right that minute. Online college classes sure were something.

Shinya, though, was livid; recently? He hadn’t seen his mother in years, and she wanted to call, acting like she hadn’t thrown a tantrum at the train station, acting like she hadn’t done a thing at all?

But she said, “I suppose I forgot how hard it is for boys his age, Jiro. He’s only twelve; I never wanted to admit it, but he needs more role models in his life than just me. Did you know—”

Shinya sat in Uncle Jiro’s office chair. Surrounded by the smell of old paper and ink and oil, Shinya shut his eyes and tried to breathe; his temper was his one of his many faults, and it wasn’t getting any better as he aged, not that his mother’s ramblings about a teenager hanging out with her son were helping. Did the past seven years mean nothing to her? Was she finally going insane?

More important: did Shinya care?

No, he didn’t.

When it felt as if he wouldn’t immediately explode, he tuned back into the conversation: “—and he’s just obsessed with them, the whole city is, but he had them send me a calling card, too, Jiro—”

Shinya tried to interrupt. All that came out of his mouth was a strained noise. It could have been static.

“—and after I got it, it was like the whole world changed! Can you believe that?”

“Sounds pretty out there, yah,” Uncle Jiro said.

“But I feel… not quite better,” she said, “but not worse, too. I made his favorite for dinner the other night and he cried when he ate it. Boys are so strange!”

His favorite: hamburger steak. Shinya’s aunt knew the secret Oda recipe, but Hanae must have added something else to it. Nothing ever came close to replicating it. Shinya missed it. He had a feeling he would cry, too, if someone made him that hamburger steak one last time.

But not her. Never her, not ever again.

“Hanae,” said Uncle Jiro, “are ya sure y’alright, there?”

“Oh,” she said, flustered, “I suppose not. The last few weeks have felt like a dream, really. I’m… happy, Jiro. I’m so happy. But I couldn’t begin to tell you why.”

“That… change o’ heart junk, maybe?”

Shinya fought the urge to snort; it was exactly the sort of fantasy plot Kaoru would like. Vigilantes running rampant across the country, inciting panic in the rich and greedy and corrupt as one by one they were forced to confess the dozens of crimes they’d perpetrated against the lowly common people. He would light up as he spoke. Shinya lived for that look.

“I don’t know,” said his mother. “But I thought, if there was ever a time to start making amends, it’s now. Our kids don’t deserve the animosity we’re breeding in them. And I… want Shinya to know the rest of his family. He doesn’t have anyone else but me.”

Bullshit, Shinya thought. He had Kaoru. He had Mr. Iwai. He had Prim. Wasn’t that enough?

She barreled on: “So I was wondering if maybe next summer you’d like us to visit. Just for a day or two. He’s used to the city so I’m sure he’ll get bored sooner rather than later but I think it’ll do him some good to meet you all. To know he’s not so alone.”

Bullshit, Shinya thought.

“Hanae,” Uncle Jiro said, “uh, well, I don’t know—”

“I don’t want to see you,” Shinya said. They gasped, his mother in surprise and his uncle in relief, and he went on, “And I can’t believe you’re calling us now when you aren’t supposed to. Guess you don’t care about the fines, huh?”

“Shinya,” said Uncle Jiro.

“Shinya?” asked his mother.

(Hanae Oda glanced towards her son’s bedroom, where his door stood cracked open. It wasn’t his voice she’d heard, muffled and whiny as puberty sunk its hooks into her little boy, but an older Shinya. He’d sounded like Keisuke, the first time they met.

Something cold gripped her heart and refused to let go.)

“But I guess it’s a good thing I won’t be here next summer,” Shinya went on, even as Uncle Jiro said his name again in warning, “so you can come by and say all the apologies you like. I won’t have to sit here and listen to them, thank god.”

“Shinya,” said his mother. “What do you mean—”

“You’ve been happy,” he snarled. “Meaning you don’t remember being the world’s shittiest mother. You don’t remember what you did to me. You don’t remember what you said to Kaoru, or his dad, or to Mr. Mori—you just remember that life wasn’t fair, so none of it happened. Well, it happened, and it happened to me. And I don’t ever want to see you again.”

“Shinya,” his mother tried one more time, but he hung up, then let his hand dangle over the arm rest. Anger bubbled and burned in his chest, anger that was never going to disappear for as long as he lived, and his breath caught on the jagged edges it created. It hurt.

Hearing her sound so happy, so carefree. Hearing her chatter on about him like nothing had happened. Conjuring up some fantasy world where heroes could solve all her problems for her.

Her problems, but not Shinya’s. For Shinya it was seven years too late.

But as the stairs creaked and groaned under his uncle’s weight, he had to wonder what life would have been like if it wasn’t.

(“You done?” Shinya asked, not looking up from his homework. Scattered about his desk were notes—history, Japanese, English, science—and he was making painstaking, steady progress on his worksheets. Shinya had changed ever since meeting that boy all those months ago. He was happier, now. He felt like her little boy again.

But all Hanae could hear was the hate in his voice, years older and mired in anger. It was her fault, somehow. Shinya had only ever had her, after all.

Not that she hadn’t wanted a proper family—a husband to stay by her side, a father for Shinya, maybe some younger brothers and sisters he could play with and learn responsibility for—but things just hadn’t worked out that way. Life rarely did, she found.

Shinya turned in his seat. With his hair brushing his shoulders and his big eyes, Hanae could almost see a sister in him: a pretty little girl who would wear cute dresses and play dolls and cry at her brother’s mean pranks—but in a few years even that vision would be gone, leaving only a young man who looked like Keisuke behind.

“Mom?” Shinya asked. “You okay?”

“I,” she said, fishing for an answer. He was worried, but he shouldn’t be. He was only twelve. So she forced a laugh. “I, well. Can you believe it, Shinya, I dialed the wrong number! I rambled on and on; the poor man couldn’t bring himself to stop me! I feel just awful, now!”

The longer she laughed, the easier it came, and soon enough even Shinya’s lips were twitching, his eyes glittering with mirth. What a silly mother he had, not checking the phone number! What a silly old man who’d answered and been too afraid to stop her!

When the last breathless huff had escaped them, Shinya threw his arms around her middle. “You’ll just have to try again some other time, then,” he said, “so don’t cry, okay?”

How silly it was, that her own son had to reassure and console her; how silly she was, for relying on someone so young. But they were a family, and Shinya wouldn’t be twelve forever. He would grow up, go to college, fall in love…

She didn’t want him to become a man like Keisuke. She didn’t want him to become that angry young man from the phone, either.

But she had no idea how to stop it from happening.

Hanae hugged him back—for all she knew, this would be one of the last hugs her son ever gave her, and she was determined to enjoy it—and wondered what she could possibly do to give Shinya that bright, beautiful future she’d always envisioned for him…