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The way Kurusu Akira threw darts was insufferable.
He never looked down at his feet when stepping up to throw, always moving with a relaxed, understated confidence. He slouched, a slight angle to his shoulders by the way he leaned more of his weight on his front foot. He shoved his left hand deep into his pocket. (The kid always had his hands in his pockets; it was frankly a miracle he could even free his right hand to throw darts in the first place.)
But, from a darts standpoint, his posture was good. Not perfect, but… irritatingly close. He held the dart with just the right amount of firmness that no tension would disrupt his throw, but not so loosely that it would wobble or slip in his fingers. He kept it neatly in line with his eye, and just before he threw—every time, without fail—for just a moment, he went perfectly still. It was almost uncanny—like he possessed the ability to freeze time for a brief second, just before the dart sailed and hit its mark.
It was not the kind of thing that a sane, normal, well-adjusted teenager would notice about his friend.
But Akechi Goro was none of those things, and he noticed.
“A triple twenty,” he commented with a saccharine smile. “How impressive, Kurusu-kun.”
The most insufferable thing about the way Kurusu threw darts was that he was good. He didn’t have Akechi’s finely-honed knack for bullseyes, but—as loathe as Akechi was to admit it—his overall aim was better. Marginally, but better. He’d been keeping track of the total number of triples they’d each hit in all the games they’d played together, and Kurusu currently had an eight-triple lead on him. Infuriating.
…Actually, maybe that was the least insufferable thing about it. Akechi had never played darts against someone who could truly keep up with him before, someone he didn’t really have to hold back against, and he had to admit that it was exhilarating.
They were playing cricket this time. It had been Akechi’s suggestion, more a way to mix things up than anything. It required more strategy than ‘01, anyway, and Kurusu, who had never played before, was picking it up quickly. Akechi had known he would.
Kurusu shrugged as he retrieved his darts. He was effortlessly good at acting humble without seeming like he was trying to act humble. “I couldn’t afford to leave the twenties open. You’d catch up with me immediately.”
No, maybe humble wasn’t the right word. It was more like he acted like things were no big deal. Like he didn’t care.
But he’s a liar and a fake. Just like me. Akechi recognized the spark in his eyes, the same competitive fire that had been lit in himself, compelling him to expose his skill more than he knew he should. Kurusu may have been good at pretending, but pretending was still what he was doing. He did care. He cared a lot.
“Aha, you say it so calmly. Are you trying to make me nervous?” Akechi asked lightly, stepping up to throw himself.
Kurusu made a little sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. Akechi cast him a glance, eyebrows raised. “What’s so funny?”
“I can’t imagine you being nervous,” Kurusu replied.
Akechi was actually taken aback by the blunt statement. He met Akira’s gaze and instantly regretted it, pinned down by the perceptive force of those stormcloud-gray eyes. “…Oh?” he said eloquently. “And why is that?”
Kurusu just studied him for a moment, lips pulled up into a half-smile that infuriated Akechi, made him feel like he wasn’t in on the joke. It seemed like he was going to say something else, then reconsidered. “You just don’t seem like the type. Go ahead, it's your turn.”
Feeling miffed and slightly rattled, Akechi turned back towards the board. He paused to scan the points, strategizing. He doesn’t have anything open that I don’t, but he has an eighteen-point lead on me, so I need to open a new number and ideally score points on it this turn. Fifteens or sixteens would be easier, but slower than bulls. Obviously I have to close them all eventually, but if I’m going to win I need a head start.
He decided to take the gamble. Taking a deep, steady breath, he took aim and threw.
A one. A twenty. Another one.
Akechi let out the breath sharply, tamping down his frustration. They weren’t bad shots, two of them nearly touching the bullseye ring, but they were misses nonetheless. I have to do better than that.
He retrieved his darts, and as he turned back around, he found Kurusu watching him closely, his face neutral. “Distracted?” he asked.
Something like hate bubbled deep in the pit of Akechi’s stomach, hot and sickening. He’s too damn perceptive. “Maybe just a little,” he conceded with a smile that he hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt. “I still don’t plan on losing to you, though.”
Akira smiled back, mischievous but genuine in a way that only made Akechi hate him more. “Don’t worry, I never doubted that. Knowing you, I’m probably safe to assume you missed on purpose to throw me off.”
…What was with him today? That was the second time in as many minutes that he’d managed to catch Akechi off-guard. It was obviously a joke, but his comment still indicated an understanding of the way Akechi thought that was deeper than anything Akechi had intentionally let him see. “I’m flattered, but I think you give me too much credit, Kurusu-kun,” he demurred.
Kurusu just shrugged again, easily, as he stepped up to take his next shots. “Something wrong, then? It’s not like you for your mind to be somewhere else.”
Akechi hesitated. He knew that the best approach would be to lie, to invent something silly and small he could claim was on his mind in order to explain himself and make himself seem more ordinary and relatable to Kurusu. But, for whatever reason, he couldn’t think of anything in time. Maybe it was because he wasn’t completely sure of the actual reason, and that disturbed him a little. “Oh, nothing in particular,” he said vaguely. “I didn’t sleep terribly well last night, so I suppose I’m just a bit tired.”
Kurusu hummed noncommittally, casting him a brief glance before returning his attention to the dartboard. He doesn’t believe me, Akechi thought. That feeling in his gut simmered. He’d known from the beginning that the leader of the Phantom Thieves was not someone to be underestimated, but the more time he spent with him, the more he understood how true that really was. Kurusu wasn’t just a capable fighter and strategist—even outside of the Metaverse, he was charismatic, intelligent, and unnervingly perceptive. He was the kind of person who only came around once in a lifetime—the kind of rival Akechi sometimes thought he’d been waiting his whole life for without even knowing it.
And hardly anyone else could see it. They looked at him and couldn’t see past the protective sheen of those (fake) glasses, the curly mop of hair, the casual clothes, the slouch, everything that made him fade into the background, unremarkable and plain. It wasn’t like Akechi of all people could judge Kurusu for wearing a mask—but for some reason it continued to surprise him how everyone fell for it. How they could look at him and look at him and never see how incredible he really was.
…”Incredible”? Akechi stared blankly down at the darts he was holding, confused by the train of his own thoughts. What the hell is wrong with you today?
He set down his darts and picked up his cup of water, drinking deeply, not sure if he was trying to distract himself or give himself a moment to compose himself. He heard Kurusu make a small sound behind him and glanced back to see he’d come away with a single fifteen and nothing else. Catching Akechi’s gaze, he commented wryly, “I guess you’re not the only one.”
“Anything in particular on your mind?”
Akechi supposed he shouldn’t expect honesty from Kurusu, not after he’d just finished deflecting the same question, but asking was the polite thing to do. Besides, he had to admit he was curious what would have the power to rattle the ever-composed leader of the Phantom Thieves. (Not that he’d tell Akechi anything relating to that, but still.)
But Kurusu’s response was far more mundane and far more honest than Akechi had been expecting. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve just been thinking about relationships lately.”
Akechi cocked his head, curious. Was it possible there was discord within the ranks of the Phantom Thieves? That would be useful information. “Relationships?”
“I don’t know how to say it exactly.” Kurusu stepped aside to let Akechi take his next shots. “It just sort of hits me sometimes that every single person around me is living their own lives and have their own inner worlds that are just as complicated as mine, and that I’ll never see most of it—even for the people I’m closest to.”
Akechi made a gesture to show he was still listening as he threw his darts. He wasn’t sure where Kurusu was going with this, but he was intrigued. It felt like a glimpse into the mind of this fascinating, confusing person, the very same rich inner life Kurusu had just been talking about.
“I’ve kind of become the person my friends go to when they have something on their minds, something that’s bothering them, making them sad or angry or worried.” Kurusu’s eyes traced the paths of Akechi’s darts, less focused than Akechi was used to seeing them. “I’m glad they trust me, and I’m happy if I can help them, don’t get me wrong. But… it’s still hard, you know?”
Akechi marked his points on the board and then sat down next to him, putting their game on hold. Kurusu cast him a quick, searching glance. “Sorry. I don’t have to keep talking. We can play.”
“No, by all means. I don’t mind.” It was the kind of platitude Akechi had given a million times, but this time he found he meant it. This might be the most I’ve ever heard him say at one time. “You’ve just said you spend a lot of time listening to other people’s problems—don’t you think you ought to get the chance to be on the other end of things every now and then?”
Kurusu glanced at him again. The look in his eyes was complicated, too complicated for even Akechi to fully decipher. “I feel like…”
He paused to think, gaze ranging around the place, taking in the other customers playing their other games all around them. Wondering about their inner worlds, maybe. “I feel like I have to be someone a little different with each person I talk to. Wear a different mask, I guess.”
His lips quirked wryly at that, a joke he didn’t know Akechi understood. A mask is right.
“Some of them want to be comforted, some want advice, some want to be distracted. Some of them need me to be a big brother, or a son, or a senpai, or just a friend. Sometimes I’m not sure if any of them have ever seen the real me.” Kurusu looked down at his hands, curled loosely in his lap. “Sometimes I’m not even sure I know what the real me looks like.”
Akechi felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He opened his mouth and no words came out.
Did Kurusu know? Could he grasp even the tiniest measure of how what he’d just said had laid bare a deeply buried part of Akechi’s soul? He couldn’t, there was no way he could, but in that moment Akechi was convinced that he did anyway. “ Sometimes I’m not even sure I know what the real me looks like.”
He closed his mouth and swallowed, suddenly aware that for the first time in years he had lost his grip over his mask, and if he tried to say anything just then he wasn’t sure what was going to come out.
“Maybe that’s part of why I like spending time with you,” Kurusu added. “I can’t really explain it, but I feel like the only person you want me to be is myself. Or at least, closer to it. Something that doesn’t require me to think so much, or try so hard.”
“I know what you mean.”
The words fell from Akechi’s lips, foolish, impulsive, raw, real. He shouldn’t have said it. It shouldn’t even be true. Kurusu had never once seen the “real him”—every moment they’d spent together had, from Akechi’s point of view, been an elaborate dance. Keeping him at arm’s length while making him think he was much closer.
But, paradoxically, what he’d just said proved it, didn’t it? By this point, playing the part of the Detective Prince had become as easy for Akechi as breathing—
—except when he was around Kurusu. Around Kurusu, he struggled to keep the mask up, to keep whatever ugly, messy, human thing lurked behind it safely contained.
There was a long beat of silence, and then Kurusu yawned and stood up, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “Well. We should probably get back to our game—if we sit here too long, they’ll kick us out.”
“Ah. Right.” Akechi followed suit, jarred by the sudden return to normalcy. He felt unsteady, like something in him had been knocked slightly askew. You can’t think like that, Akechi. You know how all of this is going to end. You have to focus on the mission.
Kurusu threw his darts: Sixteen. Sixteen. Triple sixteen. He had fifty points on the board now, his lead firmly solidified.
He glanced over his shoulder as he marked the points; cracked a smile. “Thanks for listening to me, by the way.”
Just then, Akechi hated him so furiously that he was aware, for a single, transcendent moment, that what he was feeling wasn’t hate at all.
“You’re welcome, Kurusu-kun,” he replied. “Anytime.”
* * *
More than a year later, and Akechi Goro still threw darts exactly the way he used to.
Everything about his throw was precise, from the way he stepped up to the oche to the alignment of his body to the positioning of his fingers on the barrel. He always rolled the dart one time in his hand before taking aim and tipped his head slightly to the left to get his hair out of his eyes. It was a ritual that seemed at once practiced and natural, but also carefully calculated—one that he had clearly done hundreds of times, but one that he never allowed himself to do thoughtlessly or on autopilot.
“You know,” Akira commented offhandedly. “I always hated the way you threw darts.”
He wasn’t sure why he’d even said it. If anything, it was only an idle thought that had dropped out of his mouth, loosened by the nostalgically familiar atmosphere and, maybe, an attempt to rekindle the conversation. Akechi Before had been easy to talk to, despite everything. Akechi Now didn’t give him much to work with a lot of the time.
But the other turned on him suddenly, nearly dropping his darts, face tightening in a sudden scowl. “ What? ”
Akira blinked at him. “Wow, what’s with that reaction?”
“How did you expect me to react?” Akechi squinted back.
Akira thought. “I don’t know, maybe something like…” He lifted his chin, narrowed his eyes a little, smoothed out his voice. “ Excuse me? ”
“It’s almost funny, the way that expression of yours seems to imply you actually think I sound anything like that.”
Akira just looked at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to realize that the hint of indignant haughtiness that had crept into his voice only made him sound infinitely more like that . Akechi scoffed and looked away, but Akira did not miss the tiniest hint of a smile that tugged at his lips for a fraction of a second. I win.
Akechi lifted his dart again, but he stood still, not continuing with his routine—so Akira wasn’t surprised when after a brief moment, he lowered his arm and turned back towards him. “I hated the way you threw darts, too.”
Akira grinned. “I knew you were going to say that. What did you hate about it?”
Akechi made a dismissive, impatient gesture. “It was annoying. It’s still annoying. It looks like you’re trying too hard to be cool.”
“I appreciate the honesty,” Akira replied, amused. It wasn’t a lie. Akechi Before would never have said something that bluntly rude, and Akechi After would have, but probably largely as part of his attempt to ensure Akira hated him. When Akechi Now said things like that, Akira took them as a sign of a kind of roundabout trust—that this was a version of Akechi that, just maybe, finally felt like he could be honest with him. Even about something as stupid as this. “Next time, I’ll try to throw more like you.”
“Tch.” There was that almost-smile again. “Alright, I’ll bite. What exactly is so bad about the way I throw?”
“Pretentious,” Akira answered immediately. “It also looks like you’re trying too hard, but not trying to be cool, just… taking it way too seriously for a game of darts.”
“We both know you’ve always taken it just as seriously,” Akechi retorted. “You just pretend not to.”
Akira’s smirk grew. “Oh, you’re going to lecture me about pretending?”
“Shut up.”
There was no bite to his words, and Akira could tell. Turning back to the board, Akechi did his little dart twirl, shook his hair out of his eyes, and fired off his two remaining darts. Bullseye, and bullseye.
“Nice shots,” Akira said as Akechi collected them. As he stepped up to the oche, his own darts in hand, something else lingered on his tongue, and he decided to say it before he could think better of it. After everything that had happened between them, what was there to lose?
“I never thought I’d be so glad to see that stupid little routine of yours again.”
Akechi lifted his head, crimson eyes meeting Akira’s, momentarily startled. The expression made him look younger, briefly erased the harshness wrought on his soft features by years of surviving on dregs of bitter fury and nothing more.
“And you’re glad to see mine again, too, aren’t you?” Akira added. He thought back to a conversation they’d had many months ago in this very same room, one that had felt uniquely, transparently real in the midst of a complicated farce of a relationship. “I feel like the only person you want me to be is myself.”
Everything was so different now, but in some ways wasn’t it still exactly the same? Just like how, for all their differences, the two of them had always been the same? “Because if I feel that way,” he added, “I’m willing to bet you do too.”
Akechi stared at him for a moment longer, darts loose in his hand—
—and then he shook his head, dropping it and looking to the side so his bangs fell over his eyes. Akira heard it before he saw it, the quiet laugh, the grin on his lips, quite possibly the first real smile Akira had ever seen him make.
And he didn’t try to disguise the reluctant fondness in his voice, either, as he said,
“…Just throw your damn darts, Akira.”