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Anne kind of hates Yusuke right now.

…okay, maybe “hate” is a bit of a strong word. She doesn’t hate him, she… just dislikes him a lot. No, that’s not any better…

She… resents him?

Well, that doesn’t sound right, either. Or, well, it sounds right, it just also sounds… mean. Too mean, she means.

She doesn’t hate Yusuke, or anything, he’s a great guy. He’s just…

“Paaanther,” a voice singsongs behind her, close to her ear, and she barely has time to process before a hand pats a spot on her lower back just once before darting away, and Ryuuji’s face pops into view with a crooked smile. “Yo, I know we’re not fighting or nothin’, but it’s still dangerous to zone out like that, y’know? Just in case.”

He keeps his voice light and playful, and he’s got that same bright smile he always does, but still, Anne hears a worry in his tone, thin and fragile.

She tries to give him a reassuring smile.

“My bad,” she says as comfortingly as she can. “I’ll do better.”

“Everythin’ okay? You’ll get wrinkles if you worry like that all day.”

She huffs and elbows him lightly.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Just… thinking.”

“‘Just thinking’ is a bit of an understatement,” Erina chimes in from a few paces on Anne’s other side, turning to look at them. “You were totally down for the count.”

“Hahah… was I really?” Anne asks, hearing embarrassment creep into her tone, and she puts a hand on her cheek like she could feasibly feel the heat rise on her face. “Sorry.”

There’s a brief silence, just long enough for Anne to figure that she was supposed to say something else.

Ryuuji folds his arms over one of her shoulders, leaning a bit of weight onto her as he peeks to look at her face. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks.

It’s hard to smile convincingly when she feels so self-conscious, but she gives it the old college try. “Totally fine,” she says, patting Ryuuji’s elbow. “I really just got a bit too lost in thought, promise.”

He hums a long tone, frown twisting to one side of his face as his eyes narrow at her.

“‘kay,” he says. “So what were you thinkin’ about, then?”

“Huh?”

He untangles one hand from his crossed arms and a finger taps at a spot at the back of her head, low on her skull. “If you’re thinkin’ big thoughts like that, what are they?” he asks simply. “Seems pretty important, so maybe three heads’re better than one?”

“Yeah!” Erina agrees, and grins at Anne when she turns to look back at her, making a motion with one fist in encouragement. “What’s on your mind, Panther?”

Anne opens her mouth, and comes up completely lacking. “Ah, um…”

There’s a long, long silence.

“…what?” Ryuuji prods. Then, gentler, “Can’t say?”

He could stand to sound a little less like a kicked puppy about it, Anne thinks.

She huffs, and shoves her face towards her shoulder, the one Ryuuji’s not leaning on so she gets to make sure she’s not looking at him.

“I’m trying to think of a word,” she mutters out. “That’s literally it. Can we drop it.”

“Hah?” Ryuuji says, audibly exasperated. “The heck?”

“I told you it was nothing,” Anne snaps, turning slightly to level a glare at him, and he stands up straight in less than a blink, holding his hands up.

“I’m not arguing with you,” he says quickly.

Anne rolls her eyes at him and goes back to hiding her face. Unfortunately, Erina’s standing on her other side, and tilts her head curiously when Anne makes accidental eye contact.

“What do you mean, trying to think of a word?” she asks.

Anne blinks at her. “Huh?” she asks back. “Uh… um, I mean, like… there’s a word I’m trying to use, but I don’t… know it? Like, everything I come up with isn’t quite right. So I’m starting to get pissed off about it.”

Erina’s silent for a beat.

“Is it a word you already know, and just forgot right now, or a word that you don’t know if it exists?” she asks next, tilting her head the other way and pressing a finger to her temple, hair falling away to show the white-cloth eyepatch that rests over her eye– or lack of one, and Anne turns head away slightly as covertly as she can, seeing in the corner of her vision Ryuuji’s eyes snap to the ground as if to do the same.

“H-Huh?” Anne asks, staring directly at some boxes just far enough away to let Anne not look at Erina’s missing eye. “What does that m–”

“Is it a word we’ll definitely be able to help you find again, or will we have to jury-rig it?” Erina clarifies.

Oh.

Anne’s eyes flit back to Erina, and sees her head upright again, bangs falling over her eyepatch and injury once more. “Oh, um…” She thinks on it, and thinks on it more, but even after a long meanwhile, all she can say is, “I… I don’t know.”

“So it might not actually have a word, you mean?” Ryuuji asks, and Anne hums, wobbling her hand in a so-so motion.

“It might,” she says, “or it might not in Japanese .”

“Oooooh.”

Ryuuji leans back, crossing his arms at his chest as he thinks on it.

“If it’s an English thing, we could ask Makoto about it once she’s done with, uh… this… thing ,” he says, waving his hand over at said thing Makoto is doing: trying to keep Yusuke from accidentally killing himself or something as he tries to act like he’s still being brainwashed by Marië for some reason. “Or maybe Futaba might know, too? She’s good with vocab like that, isn’t she?”

If Anne could get her to write it . Futaba’s pronunciation is next-level terrible.

“Or Akira’s good with English, too, we could maybe ask h–”

Ryuuji stops short just before finishing his sentence, and there’s an awkward pause before he laughs stiffly.

“On second thought, maybe not,” he says, voice quieter.

Anne nods, agreeing silently. It’s just a single word, but if she’s being completely honest, she feels guilty for even thinking about asking Akira for anything right now, however small.

Without thinking, unable to help it, as soon as Akira’s name is in her head, she does what’s only become natural as breathing to her at this point and looks over to him. Currently, he’s standing at some wooden structure, nodding along to whatever it is Yusuke’s ranting about, though they’re all too far away for Anne to hear even if she had wanted to– so far away, actually, that it’s hard to see any specifics, either, Akira himself a few swaths of black and brown that all blend together except for the pop of red of his hands half tucked in his pockets, and it’s impossible to see his face from here, just the white part of his mask, and barely even that. Even his eyes, which turn a violent red colour in the Metaverse, hard to even just look away from sometimes, have disappeared into this distance.

She never thought she’d say it– or think it, more accurately, but she would never have guessed the thought would ever even come to mind– but she’s sort of glad, in a way, to not have to look at his face for now.

Terrible, awful thing to think, and about Akira of all people, but Anne still can’t find herself disagreeing with the sentiment; even thinking about it, about meeting his eyes, not to mention asking a favour or making a request, it makes bile build in her stomach and press warningly against her throat.

It’s been like this for a while now, ever since she woke up after she and Futaba got saved, but it got a lot worse really quickly and has barely since died down. It’s hard not to want to not look at Akira, ever since his skin had gotten all pale and the bags under his eyes deepened to bruises, ever since his hands started shaking so bad he had trouble even holding things, ever since he would sway in place, eyes drooping dangerously low, if he was left without something to do for so long, but still refused to sit or lay down “until everyone was safe”.

(She remembers Shiho, back when– back in the before . The way her skin had lost its colour, too, until she was pale as a sheet. The only thing that ever had colour on her face were the dark purple-black of the bags under her eyes, or the occasional bruise. The way that her voice got quieter and quieter, more and more unsure, less and less willing to speak at all. The way she got tense, jumping at shadows, walking like she was hiding, or like she was running from something. How she looked like a ghost long before she–)

(She remembers the beginning of Shido’s Palace, too. Right after– after everything. After it . Akira was pale like this then, too, but at least he had the excuse of house arrest, then. It wasn’t enough to excuse his pallor even then, not on its own and definitely not with those bags under his eyes, or the skittish way he held himself, or the bruises that littered his body or the rasp in his voice, throat raw from screaming days after he got out. He still gets that faraway look in his eyes, sometimes. More than any of them would have guessed if it weren’t for Futaba and Morgana to report. Sometimes he gets so far into his own head no one can get him back out.)

(She remembers after Shiho– remembers before she woke up. She remembers sitting next to her in those crappy hospital chairs, waiting. Not always able to talk– though when she did, she didn’t really ever say anything that amounted to much more than, “I’m taking care of it,” anyways, so she supposes she never was all that good at it. She remembers how Shiho looked then, too; pale and white, still, but also red-pink where there was swelling and yellow-green where there were bruises. Eyes fluttered closed, hair fanned out on her pillow. A medically-induced coma is a bit too unconscious to be dreaming, even if it’s a nightmare, so Anne knows it was her own imagination, the way it seemed like she would wince and flinch, how the artificial way her chest rose and fell seemed shaky and afraid. And she remembers back before it was okay for her to go in the room. Back when she was only allowed to wait outside it, watching through the glass. Shiho did not look any more alive from a distance. It was hard to, considering her skin was almost indistinguishable from the white plaster and casts.)

(She remembers a lot. She does not remember anything good.)

Anne’s just glad Akira’s standing steady again now, at least.

“Sorry, uh,” Erina says, and pauses for just long enough to be noteworthy, “I think I’m missing something? What’s the problem…?”

“Oh,” Ryuuji says, and grins, and pats Anne’s shoulder. “Right, right, we might not’ve told you! Anne here’s bilingual!”

Erina blinks. “Um… bi…?”

“Bilingual means I speak a language other than Japanese,” Anne clarifies.

“Oh,” Erina says, and then pauses again. “What’s Japanese?”

There’s a long silence.

“…um?” Anne says. “The language we’re speaking now?”

Erina puts her hands on her hips, knuckles-first, humming and tilting her head to one side like she’s considering something. Then her head snaps upright as she laughs. “I see!” she says brightly. “I had no idea!”

“You had no idea what language you spoke?” Ryuuji says in a voice that sounds like he’s snarking to himself, except not nearly quiet enough for that to work.

“No!” Erina laughs. “I mean, I didn’t know it had a name!” She snickers to herself for a little longer before looking back at Ryuuji and Anne, expression playful and light. “It’s cool that you can speak multiple languages, Panther!” she says. “I didn’t realise there was more than one at all!”

“ Really ?” Ryuuji asks, almost scandalised.

Erina frowns slightly as she thinks, pressing her finger to the side of her head and tilting into it. “I mean, I’ve never heard anyone speak anything other than this one,” she says thoughtfully. “Everyone I’ve ever met always spoke the same words as me, so I figured that’s just how the world worked. And since it was the only one, the language didn’t need a name, either. I guess I never really thought about it past that.”

That… almost makes sense, Anne thinks. Growing up, she never really thought it was weird when her parents switched from language to language thoughtlessly, and would get confused when no one would understand her in preschool and kindergarten, before she realised she was parroting her father’s Swedish instead of his English. Until then, she didn’t have a concept of there being different languages; just the one she spoke, however mishmashed the portions of actual languages it was made from.

So she gets it, in a way, even if Erina is much older than she was when she learned, and even if Erina is older than she is now(? She thinks ? She looks like an adult, at least, around the age of Makoto’s sister or younger, but definitely older than Makoto, probably, maybe).

Ryuuji has no such experience, and is very visibly confused as he stretches out a long, “O…kay, then…” in a weary voice. Then he looks at Anne and asks, “So you have the word in English, though…?”

Oh, right.

“Not exactly,” Anne says, “but I think I know the word in English, even if it’s not coming to mind right now, if that makes sense? But I don’t think it’s a term I ever needed to learn in Japanese, so, like…”

She trails off, not quite sure where the end of that thought goes, but Ryuuji nods like he understands, even if it’s clear he doesn’t actually get it.

“Could you describe it?” he asks. “If it ain’t a word you’ve ever used before, it’s probably, like, a hard word, or something you only see in books, if there even is a word for it, so I might not be a ton of help, but I might still get it, yeah? Even if we don’t got a word for it, I might have the feeling itself in mind.”

Anne carefully does not let weird overly sappy emotion in her chest at the attempt at thoughtful-ness fester any more than it has already, because any more and she might start tearing up, and-or verbalise a little “Awwh,” because she can imagine neither would go over well with Ryuuji, who is physically allergic to anyone bringing up how stupidly sweet he can be.

“Uuum,” she says instead, focusing on this nameless feeling, and as if to remind herself what it felt like, she feels her eyes drift back to Yusuke, Makoto, and Akira.

Yusuke sweeps his arms out wide, and Akira’s put his hand to a support beam and begun to lean against it slightly, and the emotion sure does crash through her, violent and merciless.

“I’m… upset?” she starts, looking at Makoto with her mask pushed up to her forehead so she can put her face in her hands, because she’s the easiest to look at right now. “H– Um, like… I feel sort of… angry? And kind of sad, but not, like… actually? More frustrated.”

“…okay,” Ryuuji says, and pats her lower back once. “I might need more to go on, here, 'cos that’s sorta, like, half of every emotion ever.”

Anne glares at him, and he shrugs slightly.

“Do you know what’s making you feel that way?” Erina asks. When Anne looks back, she’s still got her finger on her chin, head tilted up towards the sky very slightly as she thinks. “With something as nebulous as that, the origin is probably how we’re going to have to differentiate what term we’re using.”

Anne… knows most of those words.

“Nebulous?” she repeats.

Erina looks back at her, confused, before wincing. “Uncertain…?” she clarifies. “Unclear? Not… specific.”

“Ooh, okay.”

Anne tilts her head to one side and tries to think.

…her eyes drift back to Yusuke, and…

“So for the sake of argument,” she says carefully, “let’s pretend there’s… this guy, okay? No one in particular.”

There’s a beat.

“Okay,” Erina says, and a sort of weird smile that Anne can’t figure out flits on her face before she presses her lips together in a funny way to keep it down. Anne gets the sudden feeling she’s being laughed at. “And what about… this hypothetical guy?”

Anne’s shoulders raise slightly. Erina’s a good person, so this is probably a harmless kind of being laughed at and not anything actually malicious, but that doesn’t mean Anne has to like it, especially if she’s not sure what Erina’s finding funny.

“There’s a guy,” she says slowly, “and a thing happened recently to make me realise that he’s actually really, really lucky. Just, like, generally. And I’m… frustrated, because he, um… like, he just has no idea how lucky he was very recently. And so he’s… sort of acting in a way that’s making me pissed off, because he’s making trouble for a bunch of people, I guess, even though he totally has no idea how good he has it. And I’m especially mad because he still kind of had to deal with some bullshit so he should totally know that he’s being an asshole right now. …and… kind of sad because I don’t like feeling upset at someone who did have to deal with what he had to… recently. Yep.”

Erina’s turned away, angling her head so Anne can’t see a bit of her expression, but she can see the slight shake to her shoulders, and does not appreciate it, or the slightly wavering cough Erina gives into her fist when the silence stretches a bit too long.

Ryuuji hums, sounding like he’s attempting at thoughtful, but not quite getting there, and when she turns back to him, he has a weird smile on his face– part amused, part concerned, mostly confused.

“Uh-huh. Yeah, uh, I hate to say it, dude,” he says, squeezing her shoulders just slightly, “but that sounds like plain old jealous to me.”

“Really?” Anne says, feeling herself frown. “That can’t be right.”

“It’s, uh. It’s at least kinda right.”

“Well, it can be kinda right without being actually right,” Anne argues. “This isn’t normal average jealousy.”

“You sure?”

“Yes?”

There’s a pause that sounds a lot like disbelief, and Anne huffs and brings her crossed arms closer to her chest.

“Okay,” Ryuuji says, patting her shoulder placatingly. “So if this can’t be normal, average, plain old Joe-schmoe jealousy, why not? ‘cos that’s what it’s sounding like from over here.”

Erina hums. “I don’t know,” she says, and when Anne turns to her, she’s tapping her chin thoughtfully, still grinning but having mostly swallowed the laughter down. “I think An– I mean Panther, is right, kind of.”

“Really?” Ryuuji asks.

“Really?” Anne asks at the same time, and Ryuuji leans forward to make a face at her in her peripheral vision. She elbows his stomach until he stops trying to beam a ‘are you serious’ in her head loudly.

“Jealousy is different from envy, isn’t it?” Erina asks, looking back at them. “Being jealous is about, like, being afraid you’ll lose what you have. Envy is when you want something someone else does without ever having had it yourself. So if this feeling is about someone ‘not knowing how good they have it’, it’s jealousy only if it’s a thing you’ve had and lost, or have had taken from you by the person. If it’s something you never got yourself, then you’re feeling envious.”

There’s a beat, and then Ryuuji asks, “You know that , but not what language you’re speaking?”

Anne elbows him harder.

“Ow,” Ryuuji says, and then adds, “Sorry.”

“Hm? No, it’s cool,” Erina says. “If it’s weird, then it’s weird. I’d rather you guys say so than tip-toe around it, or else it’d just make it all the harder to understand each other.”

“Uh, sure,” Ryuuji says, though his voice carries the cadence of ‘that’s also really weird’.

Erina laughs.

“I really don’t mind it,” she insists. “But anyway, the point is that it could probably be not normal, average plain old Joe-schmoe jealousy. It might just be normal, average plain old Joe-schmoe envy, instead!”

Anne hums, trying to see if that feels right, to call it envy.

It doesn’t feel wrong , but it does make something feel warm in her chest– in the bad, clammy way you get when you’re really sick.

“Is there really a difference?” Ryuuji asks. “Like, I thought envy and jealousy were, like, uh… were s-sin… syn-on-nyms,” he sounds out slowly, making a face as he tries to concentrate on getting each syllable right.

He glances at Anne, and his expression lights up when she nods.

“Synonyms doesn’t mean they mean the exact same thing, though?” Erina says like it’s a question. “They’re not interchangeable just because they’re used in a similar context? I mean, I guess maybe people don’t always tend to mind the minutiae of the definitions, but that doesn’t mean they’re right …”

Ryuuji looks at her for a beat, then turns back to Anne.

“So why’re we mad at Yusuke?” he asks, ignoring that. Anne’s shoulders jump.

“I’m not… not mad at him, or anything,” she says hesitantly.

“Okay,” Ryuuji says. “Why are we upset at Yusuke in a way that could be jealousy or envy.”

Anne makes a face at him. He copies it until she breaks eye contact herself.

Unfortunately, there’s only one other thing of interest to look at, if not Ryuuji, so she ends up turning back to Yusuke waving his arms around dramatically, loudly saying quite a few somethings, to Akira’s minute nods and Makoto’s increasingly defeated posture.

Stupid, stupid mission. Stupid, stupid Fox.

She sighs, taking care to get all the air out of her lungs before she can breathe any more in, and leans into Ryuuji slightly.

“How… much of being brainwashed by Marië do you remember?” she asks.

She feels Ryuuji freeze.

Anne sighs again.

“We can just forget it,” she mutters, picking at a stray hair on her suit, and pulls away.

His hand catches her on her shoulder, keeping her close still for half a second– not even, really– before he yanks his hand away and lets her stand up properly, like he’s thought better of doing it, and she seems him look at the ground, snaking his hand in his pocket as he kicks the dirt awkwardly.

“It’s… um, it’s… ‘s not much.” he says quietly, slow and careful and deliberately light. “Like, it’s all, uh… hazy, I mean, I guess. Just bits and pieces.”

“…bits and pieces like what?”

There’s a long silence.

“Uh,” Ryuuji says. “It’s… uh. Mm.”

“Sorry. Should I un-ask?”

There’s another pause, and Anne looks back at him just in time to see his mouth open, then close, face pinching further.

“Okay,” she says. “You don’t have to answer, then.”

“Huh? N-No, no, that’s, uh… um. Nah, it’s– it’s fine. Just… hard to…” He waves a hand in the air vaguely, “y’know?’

How is she supposed to know what that means.

“Yeah,” she says, nodding slightly, and Ryuuji nods back, relaxing a bit.

“Yeah,” he echoes. “I, uh… I remember more about, um… when we first got… hit,” he continues carefully. “In the plaza, at the start. And then it starts getting harder and harder to remember the longer it went on, I guess? Like, I remember…”

His face crumples.

“I… remember fightin’ Akira and Mona,” he says, lowering his voice to barely more than a whisper, sounding hurting and frail. “Right after Marië got me. Like, I remember right before , and everything was normal and we were fighting the Shadow-guard dudes, right? The, the… the Legionnaires? And then Marië did the thing she does and then I felt all… all weird and gross all over, and I couldn’t even think it felt so bad, so I just… gave up, ‘n stopped fighting.

“And then it stopped hurting, but it didn’t stop… feelin’ bad? And from there it’s like… like I couldn’t see so well. Like everything got really, really foggy, or like…”

“Like a haze,” Anne hears herself say softly, and he nods.

“Yeah. And it was so bad I couldn’t feel anything the same, neither. Like there were so many layers between me ‘n everything else that I wasn’t…”

He makes a vague, wordless noise of hurt, so Anne nods again.

“I get it,” she says.

He exhales, and nods back.

“Right,” he says. “But I just… I was so glad that it didn’t hurt anymore that I just… I dunno, I guess I just… rolled with it? …took it? Didn’t fight it? I’m not sure. I just… I guess I just let it happen. And then something snapped and I wanted to hurt somethin’ real bad, and… and then Akira was in front of me. And he looked…”

Anne knows this part. Akira looked afraid. Akira looked like his whole world was falling apart at the seams and like nothing would ever be okay again. He looked scared. Not of Ryuuji, but for him. He looked–

“He looked weak,” Ryuuji says. “Like– like if I hurt him…” He swallows hard. “I looked at him and knew that I could hurt him really, really bad, like, so bad he’d never be able to come back from it, and he wouldn’t do nothing to me. And then it was all I could think about. And next thing I knew, I was swinging at him, and I was right. Didn’t matter how I hit him. He never fought back.”

Anne fights down a shiver. She feels like she might throw up.

She knows that part, too. The way Ryuuji hit Akira in the stomach, using the pipe in his hands with all the grace and force of a baseball bat, and then Akira just… crumpled. And Ryuuji just kept swinging, and swinging, and swinging, until Morgana threw himself at him all teeth and claws, just heavy enough to make him take two heavy steps backwards and give Akira a chance to get to his feet and run, and then Ryuuji swung again, hard , and Morgana flew.

She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth with another shudder.

"And I remember I was sayin’ stuff, but it didn’t feel like me talking?” Ryuuji continues. “And I could hear you guys shouting, too, but it didn’t… mean anything.”

Finally, Anne gets a chance to breathe.

“Like, you couldn’t understand us?” she asks, and turns her head to look at Ryuuji, but he looks away quickly. She can barely see his face, between the angle and his mask, but she can see that he’s pale.

“Uh… no, not that,” he says awkwardly. “I knew what you were saying. It just… didn’t mean anything.”

Anne feels her eyebrows furrow. “Uh-huh.”

“Like– like…” he makes a frustrated noise. “Like, none of it mattered. I didn’t care what you guys were saying. I guess– I mean, you were all screamin’ and shit, but it was like you weren’t sayin’ my name or anything, y’know? Like you were talkin’ to someone else, and it… it didn’t… mean anything to me. And I looked at all of you and I didn’t… recognise anything. I wasn’t looking at my friends, I was just looking at… strangers. People I’d pass by on the subway and wouldn’t ever think about again. You didn’t mean nothing to me, so nothing you said did, either.”

“…oh,” Anne says. “…not even Akira?”

Ryuuji breathes out, slow and shaky, and shrugs with a purposeful lightness.

“No one,” he says. “It was like all my memories were gone, y’know? I didn’t remember nothing. When I looked at everyone, I couldn’t think of the Phantom Thieves or anything, and when I saw Akira, it was like none of the things we ever did together ever happened. It was all just white noise. All I could think about what hurtin’ someone, and other than that, it was just that… the haze. That fog. I think if I had looked at my mom, she’d have just been some lady. I probably wouldn’t have recognised myself if I had seen ‘im in a mirror.”

“Oh,” Anne says.

There’s a silence.

“Do you remember anything else?” she asks. “‘cos when you said ‘bits and pieces’, I was really imagining a lot less than that. Is everything else the same way?”

His face sets in a grimace under his mask, nose crinkling. “N-No…?” he says. “Yes?”

“…huh?”

“I– I’unno,” he says, voice raising a little defensively. “Like I said, things at the beginning’re easier to remember. Or, more like… make more sense? ‘s like… like… the longer it went on, the more… the stronger that haze got. At some point, I stopped bein’ able to tell what was what, I guess. Like… at the start, I wasn’t recognisin’ you, yeah, but I was still looking at you , y’know? But eventually, it was just like… I stopped… seeing people. Or things. Or anything. The fog was too thick, eh? And I couldn’t see nothing past it. I could tell I was fighting, but I didn’t even feel hurt even when now I think I should’a. Just the impacts, none of the pain. And… and I could tell I was hitting back, too, at least, but it didn’t… I dunno who. I’unno how. I can’t say how much I hurt anyone. All I can remember for most of it is that stupid fog.”

God.

Anne can’t fight down the shudder.

God , just– just imagining it , imagining that blanketing haze over everything being so bad she couldn’t tell anything apart–

She remembers fighting Ryuuji and Haru, of course, because fights like that aren’t something you tend to be able to forget a bit of, and it was obvious from the get-go that without anything else, there was no Ryuuji in control (she feels bad, for wishing for his limp back, of all things, during the battle. But at this point in their lives, it’s downright unnerving to see a Ryuuji who didn’t move with a stiff, weak right leg. She’s glad, he guesses, that it didn’t hurt him in a way that he remembers, any more than a likely ache in the aftermath), but there’s something kind of actually nauseating about hearing Ryuuji describe it from the inside.

It makes her feel awful, for him, and makes her feel lucky, for having a different experience than that , and miserably envious, of him, for getting to not–

And makes her angry and disgusted, at herself, for thinking something like that.

“I’m sorry,” she says, because there’s nothing else she can say anymore. “That sounds… awful.”

A silence.

“Yeah,” Ryuuji says, very audibly attempting at unaffected again, like he’s trying to bring the conversation back to a lighter tone. “It was. But we’re out now, so I guess I’ll be fine.”

Anne opens her mouth, but doesn’t quite figure out a response to that, so she closes it again, and stays quiet.

Ryuuji scratches the back of his neck, and hums thoughtfully, before glancing back at Anne nervously, and quickly snapping his whole head back away again.

“Um,” he says, “so, like… I had decided not to ask before, ‘cos I didn’t wanna… I’unno. Stir the pot, I guess? But if, uh… I guess if we’re already talkin’ about it…”

He’s silent again for a bet, doing that weird quick look-look away thing at Anne again once, then twice.

“I, um. Did I… did…” A breath. “Did I… hurt anyone? Back in the armoury…?”

There’s no good answer to that question.

The truth, of course, is that yes, yes he did. He hurt all of them quite a bit. The ‘Charge Commander’ thing is a joke, mostly, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Even if they only say it as a bit, that doesn’t actually make Ryuuji’s strength funny .

The truth is, as she thinks of it she can still smell the sulfur in the air and feel her hair raise from static as lightning strikes and strikes and strikes again. Still remember the blasts from a shotgun and the sounds of a pipe hitting wood, hitting metal, hitting skin and muscle and bone . The truth is, Skull made it his job to be tough, and so he is. He really, really is.

It’s not like she can tell him that, though. He’s a loyal kind of person, and just as sentimental as he is strong. If it felt wrong to see him turn his weapon on the team, she can’t imagine how nasty it’d feel to him, to hear how badly he beat his friends. He’s too compassionate to take that, and more than anything Anne’s not sure if she could handle it herself, being the one to break his heart like that. But it’s not like she can lie to him, either.

“That wasn’t you,” she settles on. “It’s not exactly the brainwash we’re used to, but status effects are status effects, yeah? You didn’t hurt anyone. It didn’t count.”

Ryuuji’s silent for a bit, rubbing harder at his neck, before he sighs heavily, shoulders slumping.

“I get that that’s supposed to make me feel better, but most of the time, it just kinda does the opposite, actually,” he says quietly, like he’s just saying it to himself, but with Anne less than an arm’s length away, she can’t imagine he can say anything she won’t hear anyway.

She laughs placatingly without any response to that, and privately agrees wholeheartedly.

The whole “status effects don’t count” rule, they made at some point in Kamoshida’s Palace. Not early into it, per se, but at the point it stopped being “falling asleep and not being able to be woken up normally” and started to be “Akira turns out to be very scary when he’s attacking them and not the Shadows ”. When it turned into incurable, violent rage, not just absent-mindedness or being frozen by static electricity.

It became a rule, more specifically, around the time Akira was the most distraught Anne had ever seen him at the time, by a wide margin, and still pretty up there even today, hunched over and murmuring so many half-formed apologies they all muddied together and became incoherent as he wasted supplies on Ryuuji’s long-since healed wounds. At that point, it worked: no one in the group then and no one who’s joined since is ever going to blame Akira for anything, much less that, and especially when he was the most upset about it. And it kept working, when it was Ryuuji they had to knock sense into, when it was Yusuke who accidentally destroyed one of those magic beads and almost ran himself through with his own sword from the guilt, when it was Morgana forgetting even how to speak with anger and attacking everything his sword could reach.

And then it was Anne waking up with her hands around Akira’s neck, and it didn’t matter anymore if they “didn’t count”. It didn’t matter that if she were the one on the floor, there wasn’t a soul she’d really blame for it if they were in her position. It didn’t matter, because it wasn’t her there. She was the one strangling, not the other way around, and nothing mattered except that.

But if she didn’t pretend like it was fine, she’d have to risk everyone else blaming themselves for what happened. She had to pretend she didn’t think it counted for her, since it didn’t count for everyone else to her.

…in a way she feels kind of stupid for now, she hadn’t really expected anyone else to feel like that. She thought it was her own stupid emotions getting in the way of actual reason. But of course it was just an unspoken truth that it only helped everyone saying it, not the one it was being told to– nothing ever makes it okay to hurt your friends.

…Anne tightens her hands to fists to make them stop shaking, and slowly lets them go slack again.

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Erina says, and Anne startles, going completely stiff again and realising for the first time in a few minutes that it’s not just her and Ryuuji in earshot. Ryuuji stiffens up, too, and she feels him move to look over at Erina at the same time she does, herself.

Erina’s head turns to meet them, and she gives a thin smile.

“Oh. Sorry for eavesdropping, by the way,” she says lightly. “By the time I realised it was turning into a personal conversation, it was already too late, so… uh… well. I guess I should actually say it’s just a hard habit to break at this point in my life. Listening in on people, I mean.”

“Uh… no, it’s our fault,” Anne says. “I got so focused on Ryuuji that you slipped my mind.”

Erina laughs.

“Yeah, I could tell,” she says. “No offense.”

“…none… taken…?” Ryuuji says. “And no offense likewise?”

“None taken!” Erina turns more so her whole body is facing them, and puffs her chest as she rests one hand knuckle-first on her hips, just in time for her carefree smile to fall. “But anyway, um… like I was saying, I’m not too familiar with you guys, yet. So I don’t know what your guys’ ‘rules’ would be with regard to Marië’s mind control. But… I’ve… lost a lot of comrades to Marië’s brainwashing, myself. And it’s always been…frustrating, and painful, and hard. But even if it hurts to see them fighting for a queen they’d pledged their lives against, and even if they harm me… I’ve never once harboured a grudge towards a single one. And hearing what it’s like on the other side of the fight certainly hasn’t endeared me to starting.”

Ryuuji flinches.

Erina pauses for a beat, watching that reaction, before her expression hardens slightly, brows furrowing and chin setting.

“I’ve always considered someone getting hit by Marië’s Kiss of Love as the same as them getting killed. It’s not as if those powers turn them on her side, or anything. Some of my most trusted comrades have been turned by her, and I have always and still do believe in them enough to know in my heart they wouldn’t have defected if they had any choice in the matter. What Marië does is turn the people she uses her power on into tools. Mindless, heartless, unthinking puppets she uses as toys. Under that spell, you have about as much free will as any given sword, or gun, or knife does. We can blame you for attacking us the same amount as we can call the pipe you used to do so a traitor for being turned on us.”

Ryuuji wilts slightly.

“‘s still kinda…” he says, trailing off there.

“I don’t know what a ‘status effect’ is supposed to be, but Marië’s Kiss of Love probably isn’t that,” Erina continues. “Anne’s right when she says it wasn’t you back in the armoury. You weren’t anything, Skull. Just a puppet Marië used to try and hurt us while your brain took its leave.”

He’s silent for a moment, and she watches his Adam’s apple bob with a hard swallow, expression pained.

“Still my hands, eh?” he manages eventually, trying for a playful tone and coming out strained and thin. “Brain or no brain, it was my body that hurt everyone. I’unno if I think anything else matters half as much after that.”

Something sad crosses Erina’s face, something Anne doesn’t think she can really properly understand to the point she can’t describe it; the only thing that comes to mind is tired . A feeling so old it’s probably older than Erina is, herself, weathered and worn.

“Yeah,” she says, voice distant and just as exhausted, “You wouldn’t, would you.”

She looks down, towards Ryuuji and Anne’s feet.

“Look,” she says, “and I’m sorry for the detour but I promise I have a point. But… but I’ve…” a great, heaving sigh. “I’ve watched a lot of people die, you know.”

There’s a heavy silence.

“It’s the nature of my life,” she says. “Good friends, enemies, comrades, strangers. Everyone’s mortal. No one is exempt from death. I’ve seen… a good bit of it, myself.” Her eye squeezes shut tightly, as her head tilts a bit towards the sky, inclined to her left-hand side slightly. “Obviously, right? Even without conflict or war, death has always been a constant in life. Whether they go in peace or by bloodshed.

“But Marië’s soldiers– before you guys, before Personae and… and me discovering that… power of mine… before all of this, her armies really were unkillable, you know. No matter how much you hurt them, even if you mortally wounded them 12 times over, and watched them bleed out, even if you cut off their limbs or beheaded them, they just… they’d stand back up, grab a weapon if they were able, and they’d get back into the fight. They could get hurt, sure, but they would never die.

“And isn’t that strange? Everything dies. And those soldiers, they’re just brainwashed people at the end of the day. So why don’t they die? Why can’t they be killed? Why can any of my comrades be murdered at any point, right up until the moment Marië sinks her hooks into them?”

“Uh,” Anne says. “Couldn’t that just be a Kiss of Love thing? That they’ll always survive?”

“ Always survive? Always survive getting their brains blown out?” Erina retorts. “Always survive being shot in the heart point blank multiple times? Survive losing all the blood in their body down to the last millimetre? Survive being beheaded?”

A pause.

She sighs. “I mean, despite how long it’s been, this is the first time I’ve learned anything about Marië’s powers. So maybe you’re right, Anne,” she says, “but maybe– maybe they do die. Maybe they can get killed, and maybe that just simply doesn’t stop Marië from using them as puppets. Maybe we’re fighting corpses on strings, and you can’t kill what’s already dead.”

Anne’s stomach churns painfully again, and she puts a hand over her mouth, movements feeling sluggish and shaky.

“I guess I’m forced to consider Marië’s Kiss of Love a death sentence,” Erina continues. “And maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but for my own sake of mind, I figure I have to consider my allies dead the moment they get hit with that… spell of hers. Because otherwise, I’d have to reconcile the fact that I might just be the one killing them with my own bare hands, and then beating their corpses until I break them so much Marië can’t puppeteer them well enough to be worthwhile in a fight.

“Ryuuji–” he flinches violently, looking like he’d gotten just as lost in the imagery as Anne did– “if I’m being honest, we’re lucky all of you survived , not even to mention in the condition you did, even disregarding that this is the first time I’ve seen anyone reverse Marië’s brainwashing. It’s a downright miracle she hadn’t killed or at least permanently injured any or all of you before we could stop her, whether on purpose or on accident. For all we know, you could have died during the battle, or maybe during whatever dirty work she could have had you do before you caught up to us, and we would have retrieved your corpse, not you . With that in mind, I don’t think anyone could blame you for what happened during the fight. We’re just glad you’re okay .”

Ryuuji looks almost guiltily relieved, before it evens out and only the guilt remains. “But if I hurt anyone,” he says, and doesn’t finish his sentence.

Erina raises an eyebrow at him. “And if we hurt you ?” she asks back. “You weren’t aware of what was going on, but we were. You weren’t able to express that you were being injured, so we had to gauge our own actions to make sure we didn’t hurt you too bad for you to ever come back from, except we also weren’t in the position to pull any punches. If we hurt you, do you think any of your friends would have ever forgiven themselves?”

Ryuuji’s shoulders hitch. “If they’re protectin’ themselves, it’s worth it,” he says. “I’d rather get killed than hurt any one of ‘em.”

“Ryuuji,” Anne says warningly, but Erina shakes her head before she can continue, heaving a sigh.

“So?” she asks blandly. “You’re not what matters here, Skull. Think of the fight with Makoto and Yusuke– if either of them came out of it seriously injured, wouldn’t you hate yourself for it? If either of them got free from the brainwashing but didn’t wake back up, wouldn’t it kill you, too?”

Ryuuji’s silent.

“Even if you– Marië using you, might I remind you, but you – were the aggressor… so what? You weren’t in any position to recognise you were hurting us. We were. If you got hurt, we would have been at fault in a way you couldn’t accept responsibility for the other way ‘round. We’d have hurt you on our own.”

“To protect yourselves,” Ryuuji argues, voice picking up volume just slightly, defensive and short. “And Makoto and Yusuke– that’s different. They– I was–”

He fumbles for an argument, but his shoulders raise again, head slumping downwards as if he’s ashamed as he grits out, “I got hit first. I hit first. If it weren’t for me–”

“We’d have all gotten brainwashed at once,” Anne cuts off, and realises only after how sharp her own voice comes out. “And maybe Akira and Morgana wouldn’t have even known to dodge it, and we’d all be doomed to be Marië’s stupid puppets for the rest of eternity. You getting brainwashed first doesn’t mean shit.”

“I don’t know what it was anyone said to me back in the square,” Ryuuji says, “but I’m not totally stupid, alright? Wasn’t– weren’t you all beggin’ me to stop?”

Anne takes a beat too long to answer.

“If Marië didn’t get to me first, maybe all of us would’ve gone under anyways, but– but–” His breathing is a bit too quick, in and out, and there’s a real fear on his face, “But wouldn’t have it helped Akira, at least? If he hadn’t had to–”

He cuts himself off with a swallow.

“I broke something,” he says softly. “I know I did, even if he got all healed up before any of us woke back up. You can– you can always tell when you break someone’s bones. That’s not a feeling you can mess up.”

She gets the sudden urge to start bawling, skin crawling almost painfully with a chill she can’t exactly shake. “…Ryuuji…” she says, but, really, there’s nothing to say to that.

Ryuuji’s hands are fists at his sides. “Maybe I’m lucky to have gotten out with just some scrapes and hurts,” he tells the floor, “and maybe I’d never forgive myself if anyone got hurt worse than they did. But that’s– it’s different . Makoto and Yusuke are different from me. My– it’s my job to protect everyone. ‘cept all I’m ever doin’ is fucking it up. No one else beat Akira purple and blue like that. No one but me. If I can’t keep everyone safe, then– then I can’t do nothing at all. More than that, I just keep hurting the people I promised I’d take care of. And none of ‘em’ll even tell me how bad.”

There’s a long, long silence. Anne can’t formulate enough words to tell him he’s wrong or comfort him, and so Ryuuji stands there, tense and shaking, not looking up from their feet.

Erina breathes out, and relaxes her shoulders, smiling amiably like Ryuuji’s not visibly hanging by a thread.

“Okay, then. Let’s put it a different way. None of us have any ground to stand on to blame you for being taken over by Marië,” she says lightly, and waves a hand in the air flippantly. “Toushirou didn’t fight or anything, and even if you guys were a fair bit stronger than Marië’s usual puppets, that didn’t stop you guys from being any old nondescript adversary to me. The both of us were and are outsiders, where saving you had always been just Phantom Thief business.

“And on that end, you were far from the only person to get brainwashed and hurt someone. All of you fought against us. Even Futaba, to a certain degree. If any of them were to hold a grudge against you for what happened while you were under Marië’s mind control, they’d be massive hypocrites. So they don’t have any right to resent you, either. No one does, except Akira and Morgana.”

Ryuuji flinches again. Anne feels herself twitch slightly at the words, too: Erina really isn’t familiar with them, if she doesn’t think just Akira holding a grudge would be worse than even the entire rest of the team holding one. If she doesn’t think that Akira’s opinion alone holds more weight than the entire rest of the world , to the people that know him, even just a little.

Anne would exile herself if Akira started resenting her at all, especially for something this severe. Even suggesting that could be a possibility makes her want to shrivel up and die.

She also really, really isn’t familiar with them, to say that to Ryuuji , of all people. There are some things you just don’t do.

Erina laughs at their reactions, sudden and surprised like whatever face Anne’s making– probably matching at least partially with the way Ryuuji looks like a kicked dog– is funny enough to have caught her genuinely off guard.

“Like I said, I don’t know you guys all that well just yet,” she says, and presses her finger against her forehead, just above the very edge of her eyebrow, leaning into it, “but it doesn’t take a detective to figure out that Akira can be a bit of a bleeding heart.”

Anne puffs a little laugh at that.

Erina chuckles again in response, hand dropping to her side, but her smile quickly drops, wrinkles forming between her eyebrows as she thinks about something.

“Of course, I don’t know how he feels,” she says carefully. “We can sit here and talk and theorise about it all we want, but at the end of the day, we’re only guessing what he’s thinking unless we ask him. But , as an outside observer, I… find it… very difficult to imagine a person could work as hard as he and Morgana did to save someone like they did for you guys, not unless they… really, really loved them. I try my best to help people wherever I can, but… there’s a difference between love and compassion. The latter has its limits. The former, evidently, does not.

“More than that… I mean… I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that getting everyone back in their right minds was a lot of work. You both experienced some of it, after all, even if neither of you had to deal with each and every step. For operations as big as getting rid of the mind control on you guys… well… the resistance has never had raw strength on its side. We’ve learned to compensate with patience. So if it had been up to me, we’d have taken things a lot slower, by both necessity and precaution. The way we ended up going about it was… reckless at best. Far faster than I’d personally advise. Faster than what was… safe.”

Anne nods, and looks back over at Yusuke, Akira and Makoto. Mostly Akira.

He’s inched over to rest more weight on the support beam, barely on his own two feet anymore, but he’s still nodding along to Yusuke’s ramblings like they’re the most important thing in the world, and like he hasn’t gotten probably three hours of sleep maximum in the last two and a half days despite everyone else’s best efforts. Anne wonders how long she’s going to have to feel sick for before her body actually lets her vomit.

“Both of them–” Anne’s attention snaps back to Erina– “Akira and Morgana, I mean– they both seemed so worried sick about all of you that I couldn’t very well tell them to be patient about the rescue mission, you know?” she says, a hint of an almost melancholic humour to her voice, the expression on her face distant as she watches Joker, too, her smile small and sad. “I couldn’t chastise them about being too risky or overhasty when they talked about getting you back like it was life or death. You guys really mean the world to them. Even an idiot could figure that much out without being told. And they did tell me. They said every time that they were getting you back. At all costs.

“But… just… well… Morgana, at least, could recognise his own limitations. It was impossible to actually get him to rest enough in between leads with how antsy he was to get to you all, but when it came down to it, I could trust him to know when he needed to rest. Whether he acted on that knowledge, not to mention actually communicate it, that’s another story, but there was an ability there. For Akira, it was like… like…”

She sighs, and shakes her head, lowering it to face the ground.

“I swear, I don’t think a single word I said to him actually got through,” she says, a mostly-playful exasperation leaking into her voice for just a moment. “In one ear and out the other with that one. Absolutely unbelievable, he is.” And then, the pale attempt at humour drains from her as she continues, voice quiet and gentle with a sort of grief, “I’d ask him to please take even just half an hour to recuperate and he’d stare at me like he wasn’t even seeing anything. And then he’d turn away without even responding, like I hadn’t said anything. It was like I wasn’t even there at all.”

Anne’s already so emotionally-overloaded by this whole conversation that she can’t really say her heart breaks , since it must have a dozen times already, but there is a unique sort of pain in her chest at the visual, a squeeze and a shatter and a snap-freeze all at once.

It was probably the exhaustion that made Akira act like that, so uncharacteristically inattentive and unaware, but it also sounds a lot like after the interrogation, before Akira had the chance to really begin recovering.

He had apparently been injected with something that meant for a long while, they couldn’t give him any painkillers (this fact makes Anne just as overwhelmingly, blisteringly angry now as it did the first time it was explained to her, that four months and three lifetimes ago), and so for a few days he had to recover on his own. They’d all check in on him, come to Leblanc in rounds to do their best to make sure he always had someone with him, but the whole time it was like he couldn’t seem to even stay awake, even when he was totally conscious. He’d barely look at them when they talked, whether to him or around him, didn’t speak unless specifically prompted to and even then only occasionally, and other times not even acknowledging that his name was being called at all, totally and completely unreactive. When he did speak, it was less talking than it was summarising his own point, sentences short even for him, and usually really simple and straightforward. Often it wouldn’t even be a sentence in any meaningful away, just a series of disconnected keywords, stated in a jumble with a disregard for basic grammar. He spoke with a slur, too, like his mouth wasn’t able to make the right shapes.

Once his system was clear, and he was put on painkillers, it was barely any better. They needed to be strong to help him. At least at that point, it was the drowsiness of the medication that made it so hard for him to talk, sleeping more than he was awake, and he assured them he wasn’t in (that much) pain anymore, just tired and floaty-feeling, but that didn’t exactly make it any less worrying that sometimes he just wouldn’t respond when his name was called.

He recovered fast– because he’s Akira, so of course he’ll get back on his feet no matter what– and he did it faster than anyone really could, which means he’s lying at least a little, because he’s Akira– but that doesn’t mean the memory of it hadn’t stuck around, in littler and bigger ways. Littler in that Anne has nightmares sometimes about that look of it, the haunted expression and slurred speech. She’s afraid of it, even today. In her dreams, they never get him back. In her dreams, he stares off at nothing, reliving that one worst day of his life over and over and over and over again until he wastes to nothing.

Bigger, in that that was when he started to get that look in his eyes. When his theatrics turned more violent, as Joker, when his words became steel and fighting became electric, pointed and almost mean in its efficiency. When talking to Shadows stopped being “Lend me your power” and started being “Join me”.

It’s when those spells started too. When he goes all quiet– not Akira quiet but totally quiet, like unresponsive quiet– and it’s almost like he falls asleep standing up, but his eyes stay wide and glossy. The spells that can be a lot of things, since Akira won’t tell them what, but that Futaba has declared pretty obviously at least partially flashbacks , and the spells that they have methods of getting him out of, but that they can’t always anyways, because he’ll get so far in his own head he can’t come back down again.

And so they have to sit and wait for something to get better or worse, because it’s only then that things will change enough for them to be able to reach him.

Anne hates those spells more than anything. Not only is it torture, waiting around for Akira to get worse, because he always gets worse, beginning to twitch and rock and yelp at blows that haven’t come, screaming in pain but dully and quietly like he’s merely going through the motions, but it means at the end of the day, Anne is always going to have that same nightmare about Akira never coming back home the right way.

“It was like pulling teeth, trying to get him to slow down,” Erina continues softly.

She pauses, and her head lowers again. Anne sees her gaze flick back towards her and Ryuuji before returning to the ground in front of her.

“I… did want to apologise,” she says, voice now sounding hesitant. For just how… bad Akira had gotten, by the time all of you reunited.

She bows her head at them, not exactly the kind of bow Anne’s learned to do in Japan, more of an old-timey Western bow– back straight, a hand on the chest, head lowered to be almost perpendicular with her spine.

“I wish I had done more for your friend,” she says solemnly. “I’m truly sorry that he had suffered so much under my watch.”

“…it’s not your fault Akira acted like he did,” Anne says, trying to sound as unemotional as she physically can with this topic. “He’s always been a self-sacrificial idiot.”

Ryuuji nods in the corner of her vision. “Not to sound like a prick,” he says, “but I don’t think there was any way you could’ve stopped him from doin’ that. And it’s our fault, too, for leavin’ him alone when we’re the ones who actually had a chance of keepin’ him from freaking out like that.”

Erina hums, sounding unconvinced, before she gives them a smile that manages to look only a little forced.

“I see!” she says brightly. “Well, it certainly felt like a hopeless endeavour at the time, so I suppose I’ll just have to trust your guys’ judgement on that!”

She looks back out towards Akira and the smile stutters, then drops, and Anne sees a pained expression cross Erina’s face.

“I still wish there was something I could’ve done, though,” she murmurs. Then, at a normal volume, “Ah… sorry, back on topic…”

She turns back to Anne and Ryuuji, and smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Eye, singular, she means.

“I mean… Akira’s a really good person, isn’t he? You don’t meet many truly kind people like him in the world. Kind in a way that I almost feel like… it might not even occur to him that there’s anything for you to feel guilty about. He was just helping people, the same way he always does, and to him, that’s the end of the story.”

It’s almost a ridiculous statement, just from the sheer scale of how much bullshit they’ve had to deal with here and everywhere, but, really, Erina’s clocked Akira well, hasn’t she? Because isn’t that how he’s always been? Stupidly helpful, and lacking a sense of scale about it?

From the minute he caught her arm in the subway when the situation with Kamoshida felt completely hopeless, with that gentle voice and patient worry as he asked her if she’d let him sit with her while she cried, at least, just so she had someone there, and when he and Ryuuji needed to help her walk after she awakened to her Persona, each with an arm around her as they assured her they’d take down Kamoshida, no matter what, to the moment he crouched down in front of the cell she was stuck in after they all died, speaking softly but leaving no room for argument as he coaxed her out to follow him to save a world that’s never given a single damn about him, and every moment in between, every lunch at the family restaurant on Central Street or at their desks at school, every homework session or hangout or shopping spree. It’s all been the same.

He saved the world the exact same way he picked up litter on the street and gave everyone an extra helping of rice when Boss pretended not to be looking– with that easy smile and quiet but intense self-assurance, because everything Akira does, he does because he knows he’s doing something good. Simple kindness from the good of his heart, no matter the scale or severity.

He does everything he’s ever done because it’s plainly the right thing to do, nothing more and nothing less, even if it’s more than anyone else could survive.

Even when he’s so exhausted he can’t stand up straight– or stand up at all anymore without the help of a pillar.

“Stupid,” Anne mutters aloud, with a cold shiver that she can’t quite get herself to shake out sticking to her skin like syrup.

Erina laughs.

“Really stupid, right? Akira’s just kind enough to be stupid like that, probably, is what I mean. And… even if he isn’t…”

She stops, that tired, weathered expression crossing her face again, and she huffs another laugh, this one a weary and joyless puff.

“Well, like I said, I don’t know how he feels. But I know that as a leader of a group myself, who’s lost her comrades to Marië’s Kiss of Love… that kind of thing can be forgiven in a heartbeat. I'd take every one of them that had once been mine back in open arms if I had gotten the opportunity. Beyond that, I know Akira loves you more than life itself. More… and in a different way… than I love my group. He probably doesn’t forgive you, in that it probably hasn’t even ever crossed his mind to hold a grudge.”

Ryuuji’s shoulders hitch, and his head lowers.

Erina looks away, seeming sort of embarrassed.

“Uh… sooooo…” she says, voice light with forced humour, “with all that said; if you really need to apologise to someone about what happened, I think Mona’s probably the bet!”

There’s a beat, and then the tension slowly unwinds from Ryuuji’s shoulders.

“Okay,” he says. “…thanks, Erina.”

Erina flushes high on her cheeks, and clears her throat.

“I never really learned how to take genuine gratitude like that,” she says half to herself, and coughs again, settling her other hand on her hip and smiling wide. “Just do your best in the next fight! When we win, that’ll have been thanks enough.”

The next fight comes quickly after that– mere seconds later, Futaba screams from her spot a few dozen feet away, and when Anne turns, Haru and Mona already have their weapons out, fanned out to protect Futaba, but it’s not her she’s screaming for.

She turns back to see Yusuke, Makoto, and Akira with their weapons drawn, totally outnumbered.

Anne pulls her whip and snaps it at the ground to refamiliarise herself with its weight, sees Ryuuji pull his pipe out his little pocket to nowhere on one side and sees Erina pull her spear from where it sits on her back on the other, but all of them stop with Navi’s shrill direction– don’t move unless she says, or they don’t have any other choice.

There’s a beat, and Futaba adds just one more instruction:

“Erina,” she says lowly, “be ready to take over for Akira if he needs it.”

Erina’s grip on her spear tightens, but she doesn’t give any verbal agreement– useless, anyways. Navi’s word is law when the enemy is out, and either way, that’s what she leaves them with, pulling away and out of their ears to focus on directing the others through the battle.

They wait the entire fight like that, stock-still, but they’re not needed. Not even Erina, because Akira has never been a liability.

(A danger to himself, sure, but never to others. Not like that.)

He fights, and fights well, with that ruthless efficiency, and at the end of it only the right people are left standing. They’re far enough away Anne can’t immediately tell if anyone’s hurt, but she quickly learns everything’s fine enough when Yusuke produces a little pocket book out of nowhere and begins taking notes, punctuated by an occasional over-the-top gesture with one arm, which means he’s monologuing again.

Or– not monologuing, exactly.  Anne sees Navi fold her arms and sees her mouth move, even if she doesn’t hear the assuredly caustic remarks Futaba’s making, not the ones that from the body language are jokes and not the ones that sit untouched as snide comments– though judging by Mona’s expression, all of them are a little more mean-spirited than even Futaba’s usual fare towards Yusuke.

And then she gets actually angry, and Anne can’t point to any specific reason why she can tell, but it’s something about the line of Futaba’s back, or the way she just stops talking. But when Anne looks back to Yusuke, Akira, and Makoto, Yusuke’s put his notebook away and they’re walking back to reconvene.

“What? Are we done?” Ryuuji asks, tilting his head up to look at the sky, and it does actually answer, in the form of the hiss of radio static and Navi’s voice, snappy and flat.

“Yep,” she says with an anger toeing the line between minor annoyance and biting rage lining her tone. “ Fox got bored .”

There’s a long silence as what she said and also what she didn’t both hang heavy in the air.

“What…” Ryuuji starts, but does not finish, cutting himself off sharply before starting over with a, “Is he serious?”

Futaba breathes out an audibly frustrated breath.

“Yyyyep,” she repeats, drawing out the sound this time.

Back on the ground, Akira’s feet catch, and he stumbles, taking a few quick steps forward to regain his footing just before he slips.

He stops in place even once it’s clear he’s not going to fall, taking a second before he stands up straight, adjusting his gloves awkwardly.

Anne slowly untenses, breathing out slowly so she doesn’t audibly sigh in relief, even with the churning in her stomach at the display of– well, of weakness , from Joker, because honestly, when is the last time he’s ever fallen ? When did that stop ever being a possibility in her mind that he could falter?

…at what point in the last day did it start being one again?

Akira begins walking again, catching up with Makoto and Yusuke quickly like nothing ever happened. Still, his strides are slightly uneven and awkward, like he’s having trouble putting weight on his bad leg again– he had gotten injured in that stupid interrogation room, apparently, but after he started wearing a brace for it, it had gotten better to the point he barely had problems with it anymore. For it to be acting up now, he’s probably put a lot of stress on it the same way he’s put stress on the rest of his damn self.

He has visible trouble keeping up with the pace Yusuke– who’s looking everywhere except where he should be, mumbling about something– a new muse to chase, probably, if Anne had to guess. Since he’s busy, he doesn’t notice Joker barely able to keep up with him, or Makoto’s attempts to slow him down discreetly, which means way too subtly for Yusuke to catch on to.

“You know what I said earlier?” Anne mumbles. “I changed my mind. I’m really, really pissed at Yusuke.”

Ryuuji breathes out, shaky and thin, and runs a hand through his own hair.

“Yeah, y’know what?” he says. “I think I am, too.”

Akira leads them back, the way he always does. Everyone pretends like he’s not half as fast as usual, and like he’s not limping every few steps. When they get back, Toushirou hesitantly welcoming them from his seat at a table, twiddling his thumbs, they also pretend not to watch him slide into a booth of his own a bit too quickly to be actually casual, slumping over a bit too much to just be regular relaxation.

They let him sit, starting casual conversations as they take their seats next, and for a while that’s how they stay, just lightly ignoring Akira as he sits stock-still like that. It’s the best attempt at privacy they can grant him, all crammed together in Leblanc, and specifically the downstairs, after Makoto says something about a headache about two minutes into being back home and asks to borrow the bed.

It’s difficult to even not look his way– Leblanc is a café, of course, so it’s not as if they’re bumping shoulders, but even with Makoto upstairs, with Erina and Toushirou added in, it makes it all the clearer it wasn’t ever meant to be a popular one. Nine people– well, eight and Morgana– is enough to fill it fine.

Eventually– maybe less than an hour, so barely eventually, but still an eventually– Erina steps out to get a report from one of her allies, and comes back equal parts overjoyed, furious, and apprehensive.

They located a possible entrance to the place apprehended Rebel Corps soldiers have been taken to, she tells them, once Haru goes to fetch Makoto, who’s groggy and half-asleep, blinking blearily and missing her headband.

“I’d like to go liberate them as quickly as possible,” she says, and the apology in her tone and in her posture and lowered head is certainly for asking this of them, but it sounds like it’s for something more when her eyes flick over to Akira, who looks about as put-together as Makoto is, eyes half-lidded where they peek out from his hands folded together and pressed to his forehead. “It’ll be–”

“Nope,” Futaba says, popping the ‘p’.

There’s a pause. Erina lifts her head up, confused.

Futaba is spinning back and forth where she’s sitting at the booth, with a blasé expression that barely twitches when everyone looks at her, though she turns herself to fully face everyone, putting her hands on the seat in between her legs.

“Can’t,” she says. “Maybe later, but I’m too tired right now. Yep.”

Akira’s head lifts, frowning. He’s confused like the rest of them, but Anne can read some kind of understanding as to why Futaba’s acting like this that– she glances around to see if she’s the only one– that no one else has. “Tired?” he asks.

“Yep,” Futaba repeats, completely blank-faced. “I’m exhausted. Couldn’t take another step.”

Akira’s face pinches further.

Oooh.

Anne laughs. “Well, oh well, then!” she says. “We need Futaba to be in tip-top shape out there, so if she can’t, I guess there’s no choice but to wait, huh?”

Akira looks back at her, looking even more constipated. She smiles winningly.

Akira grimaces.

“You’re really not feeling well?” he asks Futaba, who nods, kicking her feet idly. “Why didn’t you go upstairs to rest?”

“Didn’t want the couch, and Makoto had the bed. Duhsies,” Futaba says. “But I’m totally exhausted, y’know. Bet I couldn’t even make it upstairs, I’m falling asleep here.”

Anne tries not to laugh or smile, and feels a little less bad when Haru ducks her head, putting a hand over her mouth to hide her expression, but she can’t cover the way her shoulders shake slightly. Makoto sighs wearily, but a small smile pulls on her face, too.

It’s not like Futaba is a bad liar or anything. Not that Anne can say anything, but Futaba’s convincing, even if she’s not anything special. The fact that she’s so openly lying to him is just a product of everyone knowing Akira won’t ever say a word against her. It’s just a little funny to see her so openly taking advantage of that.

Akira’s not stupid, even when Futaba is actually trying to lie, and there’s an apprehensive look settled deep on his face. But it’s Futaba, and so he doesn’t call her on that obvious bullshit.

Yusuke, next to Anne, turns to look at her and ask in a voice not nearly low enough, “Why is–”

Anne elbows him in the stomach and he grunts with the impact.

“Enough out of you,” she tells him under her breath. “We are having a freaking talk later.”

She goes back to smiling at the group to see half of everyone looking at her, but she twirls a lock of hair in her finger and keeps her smile on to make sure she doesn’t grimace, and eventually everyone returns to the scene with Futaba, instead.

“I… see,” Erina says, expression a complicated mix of amusement and disappointment. Anne figures it’s probably a difficult position for her; she feels bad for letting Futaba make them hold off on saving Erina’s friends, herself, but she doesn’t regret taking Futaba’s side. Akira’s theirs and theirs to look after in a way the Rebel Corps isn’t. “Well, that’s a shame, then, but I won’t force you to accompany us to a fight if you’re not at your best.”

“Mhm,” Futaba says, and then pauses and deflates a little. “Uh,” she adds. “We will help, promise. Once, um, once I’m feeling better, we’ll save them all lickety-split. But as soon as possible is gonna be just a bit from now, is all. Mhm.”

Erina’s face softens. “I believe you,” she says. “Well, then I have to make one more request, I’m afraid.” She turns to look at Akira, not even facing Futaba as she supposedly addresses her, and says, “Get back to health as soon as you can. Don’t skimp on rest for my sake.”

Akira looks away.

“We won’t,” Futaba says. “Hey, Akira, can you snuggle with me? I can’t fall asleep unless I’m holding something, and your pillows are way too small.”

“…of course,” he says with a grimace. “Anything you want, Futaba.”

They go upstairs hand-in-hand, a slightly-subdued Futaba pulling along a visibly hesitant Akira.

To Haru’s credit, she waits a full minute before she starts giggling.

It’s what breaks the awkward silence sitting on everyone else’s shoulders, and Anne feels the tension in her body ease slightly, laughing too as she sees everyone relaxing in their own ways. 

Erina breathes out a little puff of laughter, putting her hands on her hips, knuckle-first, and, with a small chuckle says, “Well, that’s it, then, is it?”

“Like Futaba said, we will help your comrades,” Makoto says, rubbing a spot on her forehead with a small smile on her face. “We’ll just need a bit of time to recuperate, first, I suppose. I know it must be difficult to wait, so I’m sorry for the trouble.”

Erina laughs again. “I get it!” she says brightly. “I trust you all to follow through on your end of the bargain, so I can be patient.” Then, a pause, and with another chuckle, this time not exactly amused, she adds, “Besides, logically, a few hours won’t hurt anything. There’s nothing they could do to our people they haven’t likely done already, I’m sure.”

It’s a bit of a morbid assurance, even if it makes total sense, and the atmosphere of Leblanc seems to sober somewhat at the reminder, the room going silent again just like it was as they were waiting for Futaba to take Akira away.

“What was it that you needed to tell me?” Yusuke asks, cutting through the quiet.

Anne blinks at him.

He tilts his head. “When you hit me. You said we were having a talk. What are we talking about?”

Oh.

“Ooooh, uuuhm…”

…for some reason, all of a sudden, Anne feels sort of… apprehensive about telling him off, now. It’s not like she wasn’t ready for it, not like she didn’t think about this conversation once or twelve times on the way back, or about whacking him upside the head (not enough to actually hurt him, obviously, but maybe a light smack would knock some sense into him, she figures) or pulling his ear, but since she’s not actually going to do that, it’s hard to remember the other parts of her point.

Well. That’s not really it.

Yusuke seems so genuinely confused as to what she could possibly be mad at him about, that it’s kinda hard to stay angry with the guy.

She looks away, floundering a little and mumbling something half-hearted. There’s no way to feel good about yelling at him, like this, but she doesn’t know how to go about telling him off in a nicer, better way.

Haru laughs gently, folding her hands together and smiling brightly.

“Perhaps I could help?” she says. “I think what Anne-chan’s trying to say is that perhaps you ought t–”

“Haru, are you okay standing, or did you wanna sit down?” Anne blurts out without thinking.

Haru startles, and glances around like she’s expecting someone to tell her no, before her shoulders slump slightly, and she nods, and pulls herself into the stool on the other side of Yusuke from Anne, relaxing into it.

It’s another little quirk about Haru, the same way she waits until she’s invited to eat or drink sometimes, though she’s gotten better at deciding for herself when she’s ready to do things. Anne’s sure it’s a politeness thing Haru was trained to do in those etiquette classes she talked about having when she was younger, but that doesn’t make Anne any less worried about her when she knows Haru will stand until she physically can’t anymore if she’s not told she’s allowed to sit.

Haru exhales a little too deeply as she sits to be anything other than relieved, and Anne’s glad she asked. It’s harder to tell with Haru than Akira, but she has a habit of pushing hard and forgetting to pace herself when they fight, so she’s probably exhausted, too.

Haru clears her throat politely, and Anne remembers what they’re doing.

“Of course, we’re always willing to help you with your art when needed, and you can do as you like when you find inspiration,” Haru says gently, “but when you follow your passions, it’s still best to keep in mind that the rest of us are with you, yes?”

Yusuke frowns, blinking a few times with confusion clear on his face. “I… assure you, I forgot no one,” he says slowly. “If it appeared that way, I wholeheartedly apologise, however, I’m… not exactly sure how that could ha–”

Anne sighs loudly, and reaches over and flicks Yusuke’s shoulder.

“We're saying ,” she says, emphasising her words carefully, “that you know Akira can’t say no to you, right?”

Yusuke turns to blink at her now, confused and slightly affronted, before he realises after a few seconds that that’s all Anne can say kindly on the matter. His frown deepens, and his head tilts up just slightly as he thinks back on the past two hours, brows furrowing as he rubs his chin with his thumb and forefinger in thought.

Then, all at once, a miserable understanding seems to crash through him, and his expression first falls away to surprise before stiffening and contorting into a grimace.

“…ah,” he says. “I fear I’ve made a rather grave error in my chasing this muse, haven’t I? I… hadn’t realised I was being so cruel to my dear friend.”

“Not cruel,” Haru says carefully. “Just…”

“Just a bit stupid,” Anne says for her.

“A lot stupid,” another voice cuts in, and Anne turns at the same time as everyone else, to see Futaba standing at the base of the stairs, chin lifted to give Yusuke a truly impressive stinkeye. “Super-duper stupid.”

“I was… admittedly entranced with the concept of taking to canvas such a novel experience,” Yusuke says with a wince. “I must apologise for my discourtesy. To you all as well as Akira.”

Futaba glares at him a little harder, then turns away sharply, dropping into a booth seat across from Ryuuji.

“Just don’t do it again,” she mumbles, and grabs a pencil and a crossword book from the pile, opening it up to a random page and beginning to fill it out with strokes a little too quick and heavy to really be necessary.

Yusuke winces again.

“…yes,” he says, more to himself than anyone there with them. “I’ll… be more careful in the future.”

“Is Akira…” Ryuuji trails off before his question takes form, and Futaba’s writing pauses.

She looks at the wall, lips pursing.

“Already asleep,” she says angrily. “Basically as soon as he hit the pillow, the idiot. He should’ve told us he was tired.”

She looks back at her book, and her pencil presses against the paper, but it doesn’t move to make any line or character, just sits there, making a single heavy mark.

“Idiot,” she says again in a quieter voice. “Why can’t he just tell us–”

Her voice breaks. She swallows, and begins working on the crossword again.

Ryuuji calls her name, and she doesn’t even answer.

So they leave her like that, and since she’s being left alone, no one says anything about noticing her wiping her eyes with her sleeve after a few minutes.

Yusuke isn’t responsive, either, expression distant as he doodles in his sketchbook thoughtlessly, nothing more complex than cartoonish flowers and still-really-impressively shaded cubes.

“Is your headache any better, Mako-chan?” Haru asks after a long, terse silence, and Makoto jumps at being addressed, looking up from the booth she was sitting at.

She laughs awkwardly, and sets her hand down on the table, where it was previously at the side of her head, so her fingers could massage her temple.

“A bit, thank you,” she says, voice a bit gentler than usual. “Resting definitely helped, but… I wouldn’t want to risk disturbing Akira-kun, now.”

“He probably won’t wake up if you take the couch,” Anne suggests, but Makoto smiles at her with an expression that clearly says she doesn’t agree.

“You know how rickety that thing is,” she says with light humour.

…true. More than true. The couch creaks if you look at it funny. Futaba’s good enough and familiar enough with the attic to avoid the bad floorboards, but there’s no getting on or off that couch without waking the neighbourhood.

There’s an awkwardly long lull.

“Uh,” Morgana says, and then, “Oh! Akira keeps some pain meds in the bathroom! Maybe those got moved to this world, too…?”

“We can’t get there, remember?” Makoto says. “Only you and Akira-kun can open that door, and you’ve said you can’t even get to the bathroom even then.”

The bathroom door had been sealed shut since they showed up. It’s like it merged with the wall– there’s the knob, still, but it doesn’t even budge when they pull on it, and it’s totally flush with the door now, anyways. The crack on the bottom is pure black, less like the lights are off and more like there’s a wall directly behind the door now, sealing the bathroom away from the rest of the world for eternity.

Akira and Morgana can at least move the doorknob, but it opens to that same inky black– apparently to both of them, it’s a portal to that Velvet Room, except different, which Morgana says is sort of normal but it isn’t this time, whatever that means, so they see a blue glow. Either way, once they step inside it’s like they disappear entirely, and no one can reach them until they come back out again with new Personae in the shape of small gears that Akira can trade with them as he pleases.

They have to leave to go to the bathroom in a building across the street. Erina, who apparently has used this version of Leblanc as a hideout for as long as she can remember, said there hadn’t ever been a door there, no matter how far back she remembers.

“…oh,” Morgana says, ears and tail drooping. “Right. Sorry, Makoto.”

Makoto’s smile is still thin, but she’s definitely trying to be reassuring, giving a small shrug.

“I’ll survive a little headache,” she says. “Just… please try not to speak too loudly, everyone.”

“If you wanna lay down right here, we’ll give you space,” Ryuuji says. “Get some water or something, too, you’re probably dehydrated from workin’ too hard.”

Yusuke doesn’t really flinch , but his shoulders do twitch in a way that’s just minute enough Anne’s not sure if anyone not sitting next to him would notice. Haru doesn’t seem to from his other side, not looking away from the worried expression she’s giving Makoto.

Anne pats his thigh in a way she hopes is reassuring, standing up at the same time to not bring attention to it, and says, “I’ll get you a glass,” to give herself a reason to be moving.

“Oh, you don’t– um… rather, thank you, Anne,” Makoto says.

“Sugar helps too, right?” Anne asks as she takes a cup from the cupboards. “You think there’s any chocolate or anything we can steal?”

“We have apples!” Morgana says, and Anne turns to see him pattering up to the fridge, pointing at a basket on a counter too high for him, full of red apples. “Natural sugar, it’s better for you!”

“I’d feel terrible taking one,” Makoto says. “Just the water is more than enough, really…”

Anne’s not facing her as she walks to the back to get to the sink that’s not used for dishes, so she lets herself roll her eyes– forgetting until Morgana sputters a poorly-hidden laugh that he’s still at her feet there– and turns the tap on to fill the cup.

Once it’s full, she grabs an apple from the basket as she passes by it, and walks back to Makoto.

She’s slightly red in the face, and waves her hands with a quick, “I really don’t need any food, I–”

Anne sinks her teeth in and takes a bite.

Damn it. It’s really good, too, crisp and sweet. She chews and savours it for a little before she swallows.

“Aw, shucks,” she says, “Turns out I’m totally not hungry! I’d hate to throw it away… unless you’re willing to finish it for me, please, Makoto?”

Makoto huffs, rolling her eyes as a small smile flits on her face.

“If you insist,” she says, and takes the apple from Anne’s hand.

There’s the sound of laughter, quiet but harsh in the way that it’s sharp, and Anne turns to see Erina, who has both hands on the booth table nearest the door, leaning her weight on it with her prosthetic leg crossed behind her.

“Something funny?” Ryuuji asks from behind Anne, and Erina laughs harder.

“Nah, nah, nothing,” she says, lifting one hand up to wave it in the air. “I was just thinking, you guys are all really good friends, huh?”

Anne sets the cup down on the table in front of Makoto, which makes her jump slightly when it thunks , but she quickly relaxes and murmurs a thanks.

“We… are?” Haru says, sounding just as confused as Anne feels about… what exactly Erina means to say here, but Haru’s hesitance about it just makes Erina laugh again, though she quickly clears her throat.

“I’ve never had really good friends like that before, so seeing you guys like that is kinda strange, is why I’m laughing. Sorry if that sounds rude or anything.”

“Really?” Anne asks. “Not even as a kid?”

“Dunno,” Erina says, and pats her missing eye.

Anne winces. “Right. Sorry.”

Erina had told them before; most of her… lasting injuries had come from a single incident, where someone in the resistance apparently sold out information to Marië and Erina had gotten caught up in the raid. She can’t remember anything about it, or anything before waking up after it, because of the head injury she sustained.

“You’re alright,” Erina says. “But by the time I can remember, I was already the leader of the resistance, so it’s all business for me these days, and no one’s come forward as a good friend from my past, so if there was one, I wouldn’t know ‘em.”

She says it so nonchalantly, but the single bite of apple in Anne’s stomach seems to rot. She feels awful for forgetting something so terrible like that. If it were her, remembering that would make her feel awful for at least a little while.

“Really?” Ryuuji is asking, sounding slightly farther away now that the guilt is making water rush in Anne’s ears, making her focus on her quick heartbeat. “That sounds really sucky. Ain’t that lonely?”

“Mm? You think so?” Erina asks like they’re talking about the weather.

Haru laughs, and it’s not a very sweet sound. “If you don’t know anything else,” she says, “it doesn’t feel as bad. It’s only when you know how to miss it that it really starts to hurt.”

There’s an awkward silence. Anne looks up at the ceiling without moving her head and goes through as many multiples of seven as she can in her brain to make sure she doesn’t start bawling.

“W-What about you, Toushirou-san?” Makoto asks quickly, a nervous smile pasting on her face. “Do you have any close friends?”

Toushirou jumps. “Me?” he asks, so surprised it sounds like he didn’t even realise he could have been addressed. Then he frowns, head tilting to one side slightly as he thinks. “I… don’t know,” he answers slowly. “I can’t remember anyone in my life in particular.”

“…ah,” Makoto says, even more stiffly. “That would, um. Right. Yes. The amnesia. My apologies.”

There’s an even longer awkward silence. Anne feels her skin start to crawl as maybe three entire minutes go by in a thick, tense quiet.

“Are we allowed to ask you questions about your amnesia, bu the way?” Futaba asks, and Anne turns to her, realising only then that she had been paying attention to the conversation– she had figured Futaba was still ignoring them all to play her crossword.

“Um?” Toushirou says. “I– I suppose? I’m not sure… how much I can elaborate.”

“You remember your name and age and junk, and you could pretty clearly recall the Phantom Thieves thing,” Futaba says. “So it’s not a perfect wipe, right? And you’ve talked about getting feelings about things from your past, before, too.”

“…yes, that’s correct,” Toushirou says hesitantly. “I have vague ideas of things that have happened to me, but when I try to recall anything, it’s… all a blur. I can remember hearing about, for example, the Phantom Thieves stopping Medjed. But if I try to remember what I was doing when I heard, or who I had heard it from, nothing rises to mind. It’s like… trying to recall images from a dream, in that nothing is concrete enough to make sense. And in addition, if I attempt to recall anything in particular, it’s as if it gets farther away. It… blurs.”

Futaba puts her hand over her mouth, leaning into her arm propped up on the table, and her eyes narrow at nothing as she thinks.

“When I couldn’t remember who I was, I didn’t have anything like that,” Morgana says. “It was a complete blank past a certain point.”

“Right,” Erina adds, tapping her chin with her forefinger. “As far as I could tell you, my first ever experience with anything was waking up after I lost my eye. Everything before that, I only know from being told things.”

Futaba’s head dips slightly, and she hums a single note, then sits up again, pulling her hand away. “Do you remember anything from when you were a kid?” she asks. “An event, or some small detail?”

Toushirou is quiet for a long while.

“My fourth grade Literature teacher’s name was Yamada,” he produces, eventually. “And I have a vivid memory of eating a sandwich for a school lunch in second grade… for some reason.”

Futaba sits forward. “What kind of sandwich?”

“…it had ham…?”

“Did you like it? Was there anything you had with it?”

“It was okay? I remember there being things packed with it, but I don’t remember what. I don’t have a memory of eating them. It’s just a few bites of a sandwich, and then it stops.”

“Packed with it?” Futaba repeats. “Was it homemade, then?”

“I… suppose it had to be?”

Futaba leans even farther forward. “Who made it for you?” she asks.

Toushirou doesn’t answer.

After a long silence, Futaba leans back, the tension leaving her shoulders and back.

“Sorry,” she says. “But from the sounds of it and from just generally what we’re dealing with right now, this has to be some magic amnesia of some sort. But you can remember some details just fine, it seems. That sounds like a normal memory from something that happened a few decades ago. So why is it that things get blurrier when you grow up , right?”

“It doesn’t necessarily have to be…” Makoto pauses for just too long before she says, “ magic amnesia ,” with a resigned tone, and continues normally, “It could very well be the result of an injury, or some sort of traumatic event. Some people with amnesia can clearly remember their childhoods up to a certain point.”

“Sure,” Futaba says, “Or it’s some god-like Shadow messing with people’s heads again, and for some reason it’s picking on Peepaw here. And either it’s doing a sloppy job, which means we have a chance at kicking its ass, or it’s doing this because of some specific thing in particular that happens to involve Pops, and so it chose to specifically blur memories associated with said thing. In that case, that means that if we can get Toushirou to remember what it is, we have a chance at kicking its ass .”

No one has anything to say to that.

…Anne was kind of hoping no one would bring up the idea that it’s another Holy Grail situation again. If no one said anything, then it wasn’t a real possibility, and so she could lie to herself and pretend like it was just some silly stray thought that had no basis in reality, and that once they figured out a way to get out of this Kingdom, they could all forget about it and be on their merry way. But hearing it said aloud– hearing Futaba of all people say it aloud– makes it real, in some way.

“You really think that’s what’s going on?” Ryuuji asks hesitantly, after a long quiet.

Futaba takes a beat to think. “It’s not not a possibility,” she answers diplomatically.

“Whatever’s happening, it’s affecting the Velvet Room,” Morgana says, tails thrashing back and forth. “If it really ends up as an adversary…”

“Then it’ll be tough,” Futaba finishes. “And I’m sort of sick of Akira’s shit luck when it comes to pissing off deities, so if we’re killing it, I want any advantage we can get. Toushirou.”

He flinches slightly as he hears his name.

“I’ll do my best,” he says.

“Don’t push yourself,” Haru adds gently. “If it’s magic amnesia, it likely won’t go away just by willpower alone, here. We wouldn’t want you to get hurt somehow by straining yourself to remember if it’s a hopeless endeavour.”

There’s a slightly too long pause, and Ryuuji laughs lightly, trying to brighten the mood.

“Right!” he says. “Makoto’s already got a headache. Let her get better before you give yourself one, too, eh?”

Makoto groans, and throws an arm over her eyes. “Don’t get one at all,” she says. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

“Let’s leave the thinking until we’re all rested up,” Anne suggests. “One, we don’t need to stress Makoto out any more than she already is right now, and two, Akira’ll get pouty if we make a breakthrough without him and he won’t ever sleep again, just in case something happens while he’s out.”

“Yes, please,” Makoto murmurs. “I’d love to not think for an hour or so.”

She takes a bite of her apple with a crisp, loud crunch , and sighs.

“Damn it,” she says to herself. “This is really good.”

Anne snorts.

“Let’s lower the lights,” Haru says. “It’ll help you rest, Mako-chan.”

“Oh– that’s really not necessary. You’re all already agreeing to let me lay down downstairs, I wouldn’t want to be any more of a bother–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryuuji says, waving his hand in the air dismissively. “We ain’t asking you, Makoto. Finish your water and your apple so you can get some shut-eye.”

“Rest now so we can turn on the lights sooner. The window booth is mine in the meantime,” Yusuke adds, already packing up his stuff to leave.”

“I’m taking a seat,” Futaba adds, standing up. “I’m finishing this stupid crossword book if it kills me.”

“You will do nothing of the sort–”

“Inside voice, Yusuke,” Anne reminds him a little bit more sharply than she intends to.

A beat.

“My apologies, Makoto.”

Makoto sighs, and takes another bite of her apple.

Makoto insists on getting up about an hour and a half later, per the clock on the wall which isn’t in time with anyone’s watches, ticking faster than Ryuuji’s and Makoto’s but slower than Haru’s and Akira’s, but since none of them are in time with each other, either, that’s the one they’re using. Morgana insists on Makoto eating another apple and drinking another glass of water, in turn.

Haru takes a nap at the counter, folding her arms to use as a pillow, and Futaba falls asleep mid-crossword, but both of them are up within 30 minutes– though Haru tries again an hour later.

All in all, they spend about 5 hours killing time before there’s an audible thunk from upstairs indicating Akira’s up.

His hair is somehow messier than usual when he comes downstairs a good 45 minutes later– it’s not as if he ever brushes it, so Anne can’t really say it’s unbrushed now , but it sticks up and out oddly at the moment, tossed around like a bird’s nest, and it’s even more noticeable with the way his glasses are slightly askew, eyes narrowed with sleep as he blinks slowly, blazer unbuttoned and turtleneck frumpy.

“Morning,” Ryuuji says around a laugh.

Akira blinks blearily.

“Mnmhng,” he replies, and scans the room. When his eyes land on Futaba, he frowns meaningfully, and visibly fights to wake up properly, squeezing his eyes shut and screwing his face up. As he does, she sits up straight, grimacing slightly.

Akira opens his eyes, and… almost looks like he’s not still half-asleep.

“Futaba,” he says. “You’re up?”

There’s a pause that’s just a bit too long, and then Futaba stiffly goes, “Mhm.”

Akira is still blinking the sleep from his eyes, but he’s just awake enough to look slightly frustrated.

“…did you get some good rest?” he asks, with a meaningful dip in his already-gravelly morning voice.

“Yep,” Futaba answers, not looking at him in the slightest. “I got what I needed. Did you?”

Akira’s expression sours further.

“Mm,” he hums, which is notably not an answer. Then, “Coffee.”

With that, he turns away from her and, in a motion just smooth enough compared to his jerky, tired steps to indicate pure habit, he tears his apron from the hook on the wall as he passes it to get behind the counter.

Further confirming he did it without thinking, he sets his apron on the counter absent-mindedly as he starts to prepare the coffeemaker.

There’s an easy mostly-quiet as he makes his ‘morning’ coffee, most of them watching him as he wakes up slightly by going through the process, though Akira either doesn’t notice the eyes on him or doesn’t mind it. The rich smell of coffee begins to waft through the air, and it feels like only then does Akira open his eyes fully and properly for the first time since he came back downstairs.

Once it’s done, Akira doesn’t even wait to sit down before he downs half of his cup in one go, which, ow , that has to burn, and blinks quickly a bunch of times as he recalibrates. Then he turns sharply to Haru at the counter.

“Hello, Akira-kun,” she says lightly.

“Coffee?” he asks.

Haru laughs.

“That would be lovely, Akira-kun,” she says.

Akira doesn’t even acknowledge her, turning his head further to Yusuke at the window seat. “Coffee?” he asks him, next.

Yusuke considers this.

“I would love some,” he decides on, and goes back to drawing.

Akira moves onto Toushirou– “Ah, um– er– okay? Yes, please, that is?”– then Makoto– “…not for me, thanks. Though I’d love some black tea if you have any bags left.”– then Ryuuji, though he changes his prompt to “Drink?” for him, which makes Ryuuji snort as he says, “I’d rock a lemonade right now.”

Akira turns to Anne, and she laughs at his concentrated, sleepy frown before he can ask, and barely gets out a, “Yes, please,” through her giggles.

Akira’s eyes slide past her to Futaba, and she rolls her eyes and mumbles, “Coffee too. Mona wants milk again, but he should get water so he doesn’t get sick.”

“Hey!”

Akira ignores the fight that breaks out, looking around, and he asks, “Erina?” in a mumble.

“Out. Some status report thing again, I think,” Anne supplies.

Akira hums, and that’s all they get before he goes to work on their orders.

That is to say, he gets the water before stopping, and with a pronounced frown, walks over to the apron rack and grabs at air, then stops and begins looking around, confused.

“Counter,” Futaba and Morgana call in near unison, and go right back to arguing.

Akira walks back to the counter and looks around before he notices the apron obviously sitting on it, and grabs it to put it on.

Haru breaks, dropping her head into her arms and shaking with silent laughter. Anne coughs to hide hers.

She’d say he must have slept pretty heavily to be this disoriented getting up, but Akira’s just like this in the mornings. If it weren’t for Morgana, he probably wouldn’t have made it to school half the days, and it’s always a treat getting to talk to Akira before class if both of them make it with enough time to chat, for the simple fact that Akira stays half-asleep for, like, two hours after waking up, so he’s still barely stringing together sentences as they talk.

He yawns wide as he ties his apron, and the process for getting Makoto’s tea begins a little rocky, but as soon as he gets everything ready to start making coffee, he visibly kicks himself into gear, and it’s all business from there.

In a matter of a few minutes, he’s got everything on a tray, and steps out from behind the counter to deliver everything personally like they can’t just go fetch it themselves.

Anne has no idea how he tells the coffee cups apart, since most of them are the same colour, but he picks out each one for everyone as he hands them out with a carefulness that can only mean he’s had them picked out from the moment he poured them.

Ryuuji’s half-finished his lemonade by the time Akira’s done giving everyone their drinks, and he barely seems aware as he tops Ryuuji off, mind clearly elsewhere all the way until he pulls himself onto a stool with his own cup, and blinks quickly like he’s adjusting to being awake again.

Poor guy. He must be awfully out of it.

Anne sips her coffee. Despite everything about the way Akira’s presenting himself, it’s an absolutely perfect cup.

When she looks back over at him, Akira’s looking around almost nervously, eyes focusing in on every single sip being taken around the room, and he shifts his weight awkwardly in his seat, pressing his lips together into something that’s not exactly a grimace as he fidgets and watches and gauges the room for some sort of reaction to something.

Anne sighs, and his head snaps to her, expression falling.

“We’re all good, Akira,” she tells him as kindly as she can while keeping her voice firm enough, and Akira pauses for a second, before visibly relaxing.

His shoulders curl up towards his ears, and in a quiet voice, he asks, “…the coffee?”

“Is good,” Anne says patiently. “You did a good job taking care of us.”

His head dips to stare doggedly at his coffee, but the odd angle and his bangs and glasses don’t quite do enough to hide the cute little flush on his cheeks.

He thumbs at condensation forming on his cup, and hums a single tone as some attempt at a less emotional acknowledgement.

Haru giggles, and waves for his attention, waiting for him to bashfully pick his head up before she asks, “May I fix your hair, Akira-kun?”

He tilts his head. “My hair?” he echoes, and reaches up and tugs on a lock of his bangs, but after a beat, he smiles, in that crooked, playful way he only gets when he’s talking to the Phantom Thieves in private. “That bad, eh?”

“A little bit,” Haru says. “Mostly I just want an excuse to play with your hair.”

Akira laughs quietly. “Can’t say no to that,” he answers, and Haru stands up, bringing her coffee with her as she moves to a stool closer to Akira, and he turns to let his back face her so she can begin gently running her fingers through his hair to try and get it to look halfway presentable.

Anne’s almost positive they have a hairbrush upstairs, but she doesn’t know where it is, and, judging by the slight blush dusting Haru’s cheeks as she sings under her breath and the way Akira steadily begins drifting back to sleep, slumping more and more with each pass of Haru’s fingers, both of them prefer it this way.

By the time Akira's hair is as straightened out as it probably ever will be, he's leaning hard to one side to the point he's only really being held up by the counter, head dipping dangerously low, and Haru laughs as she pulls away.

Akira's head drops and lifts back up once, twice, three times before he shakes his head back and forth vigorously, and after a count of five of staring at the wall he turns back to Haru, eyes half-lidded.

"We're done?" he asks sleepily.

"Yes," Haru says. "You look as handsome as ever, Akira-kun."

She reaches up and threads her fingers through his bangs, petting his head the way she would Morgana– messing up his hair even though she just fixed it– before scratching at his scalp gently, and Akira literally immediately leans into it, then makes a weird, frustrated groan-y sound when Haru pulls away in response.

Haru laughs harder.

"Mean to me," Akira says quietly, and Haru covers her mouth with both hands.

"You might want another cup of coffee," Anne chimes in.

Akira turns to give her a tired, half-hearted glare.

"You guys suck," he says, and yawns wide before sliding out of his seat.

He stumbles slightly as he puts weight on his bad leg, barely noticeable but just enough that Anne sits up slightly, seeing Haru's smile wipe off her face on the other side of Akira, but he pays neither of them any mind as he goes back to the counter, grabbing his apron and tying it behind him.

"Did y'wanna refill, Anne?" he asks.

Anne frowns.

"Yes, please," she says.

"Haru?”

“I’m alright, thank you,” Haru says carefully. “I still have some of mine left, so I ought to finish it first.”

Akira nods, and grabs the kettle before wandering off to fill it.

He’s explained the process to her a half dozen times by this point, but Anne can’t remember any of it to save her life, so it feels new and fresh and comforting and familiar in equal measure to watch him methodically grind the beans, set up the coffeemaker, and pour the grinds in the filter just in time for the kettle to ding that the water’s been brought to a boil.

The pour over is when it starts feeling like magic. She could watch that part forever, the way the smell of coffee immediately hits her nose as soon as Akira begins pouring, the way he goes in a spiral with his eyes on what’s apparently a scale at the bottom of the coffeemaker.

Then there’s a pause– Akira has said before this is where he’s supposed to wait for the coffee to “bloom”, which is a really cute term for it even if it made him pouty when she said as much the first time he explained what he was doing. Then he starts pouring again.

"Akira!" Morgana calls. "7 letters, 'showy flower', starts with A!"

Akira frowns, staring straight down at the scale as he pours.

"A showy flower..." he repeats, and lifts his free hand to count as he mouths to himself. "Starts with A... does anemone work?"

Futaba scratches it in, looks at it for a second, and mutters, "Fuck," before beginning to write.

"You're welcome," Akira says.

Futaba makes a rude noise, and Akira grins, just a moment before he wipes it back down again, pulling the water away.

There’s about a half-minute of quiet before he begins pouring again, and a pause, and then he begins pouring a fourth time, and in a matter of seconds he’s pouring rich-coloured coffee into a cup for her.

He sets it down out of view and bends down and stands back up with a carton of oat milk, which he pours with a little flourish– Anne and Haru both clap appropriately, even if they’ve seen him do that a million times before– and a syrup bottle full of hazelnut flavouring he pours another splash into, this one without fanfare, and takes a spoon and mixes it in.

It’s her favourite, of course, and logically she knows that’s what she always gets, but she feels a little touched that he knew exactly what she wanted without her saying anything.

He picks the cup up and sets it back down in front of her with a simple, “There you are.”

"Thank you thank you!" Anne says brightly, clapping her hands in front of her.

Akira copies her jokingly, that playful grin pulling on his face again. "You're welcome you're welcome," he responds.

She laughs and takes her cup in her hands– it’s too warm to sip right now, but it feels nice and hot against her palms, and the smell is absolutely heavenly. She barely pays attention to Akira’s quiet laugh as he goes about making his own– but she notices when his hands stop short and his head lifts up like he’s remembering something important.

“Oh,” Akira says. “Are either of you hungry?”

Ooh. Opportunity strikes. Anne sits up and sets her cup down. “Can I get a pain au chocolat?” she asks.

Akira nods, and turns to Haru. “How about you, Haru?”

“Ah, it’s alright,” Haru says. “I wouldn’t want to bother.”

Akira’s eyes look over at nothing for a second, and he smiles when he looks back at Haru. “How about you, Haru?” he repeats. “Hungry?”

Haru’s cheeks dust red. “…one of your blueberry scones would be wonderful, thank you,” she says quietly.

Akira nods, satisfied, and goes to get the pastries from the back. His head bobs slightly like he’s singing something to himself as he sets them in the warmer and leaves them to start his own cup of coffee, but Anne can’t hear the song. In a matter of a minute or two, Akira’s set aside a cup for himself and their food is placed in front of them.

Anne’s done with hers before Haru even takes a bite.

She puts her fingers in front of her mouth and says a belated, “Thanks for the food,” with her cheeks still full like a chipmunk.

It’s a little embarrassing, but it’s more than worth it for the way Haru and Akira laugh.

He walks away and comes back with a second plate he sets on top of Anne’s first, this one with a mouth-wateringly good-looking lemon bar set on it, and it takes all of Anne’s self control not to slam her face into the plate to eat it without wasting time on using her hands.

She picks it up gingerly and, because she’s a master in restraint, takes a single delicate bite with a slow, exaggerated motion.

She can’t help but squeal at just how good it is, even better than it tastes, and even with all of the discipline in the world she’s finishing it by the time Akira’s taken off his apron and taken his seat next to Haru back. She feels a little less bad about it with the way Haru’s also tearing through her scone.

She finishes just a few seconds behind Anne, covering her mouth as she finishes chewing, and mumbles a polite second thanks to Akira– fuck , Anne forgot about that one– before she pushes herself up to stand.

"I'll help with the dishes," she explains.

"Oh, you don't have to do that," Akira says immediately. "I don't mind--"

"Nonsense, nonsense. You just made everyone drinks, you deserve to rest and enjoy your own," Haru says, waving one hand in the air dismissively. “I don’t mind cleaning up a bit.”

“It’s really oka–”

“Akira-kun,” Haru says.

“…that’d be nice,” Akira says carefully, a grimace set on his face, and he pushes his glasses up farther on his nose. “Thanks, Haru.”

“You’re very much welcome,” Haru says, and reaches over the counter to take a tray and then begins to pick up plates and cups.

As she’s turned around to collect stuff from everyone who’s done in the booths, Akira’s face scrunches further, and he scrubs a hand at the back of his neck with a frustrated sound.

“She likes feeling helpful, too,” Anne says quietly so Haru doesn’t overhear her from her conversation with Makoto.

Akira makes another noise. “I know,” he mumbles. “But it’s my job, not hers.”

“Doing the dishes, or taking care of people?”

Akira’s hand lingers hovering next to his neck for a long moment before he lets it drop, and looks away, dipping his head.

Anne takes a sip of her coffee, and ignores Akira reaching up again to this time thread his fingers in his bangs, before shaking his head and going back to drinking his coffee.

“Anne-chan,” Haru’s voice calls, and Anne sets her own cup down as turns to look at her, standing just behind her in the walkway and holding the tray in both hands with cups and saucers stacked on top of it, “Could you grab that plate for me?”

“Huh?” Anne says, turning back to the counter, before she realises Haru’s talking about the plate that pain au chocolat came on, and she reaches over and grabs it and turns back to set it on the tray, feeling something hit her elbow hard as she turns back.

Haru yelps, and there’s a clattering and something shattering and Anne has to take three, four, five seconds before she processes what just happened, gasping and putting her hands together over her mouth.

Her mostly-full cup of coffee she just knocked over and spilled rolls off the counter and shatters, too.

Haru stands frozen with one hand wrapped over the other, torso and legs splattered with hot coffee, and at her feet is the tray and all the dishware she dropped when Anne spilled her drink all over her– there are shards of porcelain from a cup and a plate as well as itty-bitty bits of glass from Ryuuji’s drink all over the floor surrounding Haru.

There’s another second of pause, then two.

“Oh my god,” Anne says, at the same time Akira hurriedly asks, “Are you okay, Haru?”

Haru blinks, and smiles, visibly strained. “I-It’s okay,” she says in a tight voice. “It mostly just surprised me…”

“Oh, my god, I’m so sorry,” Anne says, standing up, and multiple people immediately yell wordless objections.

“Just stay still, Anne-dono,” Morgana says. “You’ll get hurt walking over glass.”

Haru breathes out a long breath that shakes slightly in her lungs, and reaches up and blows lightly on the hand she had been holding to her chest, wincing a bit.

The back of her hand is noticeably pink, burned by the coffee still dripping off her skin.

"Oh, gosh, oh, fuck, oh, no," Anne hears herself say, ignoring everyone’s repeated attempts to stop her as she walks forward, rolling down her sleeve to pat the stain off of Haru's arm and hand as fast as she can. Through the layers of fabric, she can feel the burning heat. Fuck. If it's hot for her, Haru might've actually gotten burned or something, fuck– "Oh, Haru, I'm so sorry–"

"It's okay," Haru says, waving the hand Anne's not holding in the air quickly, but Anne can see the red skin as she wipes away the coffee, her jacket staining brown, but Haru's hand is still hot to the touch.

"I'm so sorry," Anne repeats, "I really didn't mean to, I'm sorry–”

"Anne-chan, it's really alright–”

"You're hurt," Anne insists, and Haru freezes. Anne tries to wipe away the rest of the coffee, swiping at the skin, but it's still burned red, do they need to run it under water? You're supposed to do that, right? Fuck, is that how it goes? "I'm really sorry–"

"Anne," someone says, but her vision is too blurry and there's water rushing in her ears so she can't really tell who.

She takes a step forward and hears the crunch of porcelain and only remembers then that she's also broken a bunch of shit, and the world gets that much smaller. Fuck, she's going to have to pay Boss and Akira back, do they have a broom here, even, did one come with them to the Kingdom? She's breaking everything and she hurt Haru and there's a stain on Haru's sweater and on her tights and her hand is burned and Anne feels suddenly like a container way too full.

She's shaking so bad she can't mop up the coffee on Haru's sleeve and her burned hurt hand and they're standing on shattered porcelain and Anne doesn't want to move but also Haru's hurt and she's got coffee stains all over her and it's totally Anne's fault and–

“ Anne-chan !”

Anne flinches, hands twitching, and she snaps her head at Haru before it settles in that when she was scared, her first instinct was to go for her whip . Even though she knows no one in the room would hurt her, even though she’s obviously safe here, she got spooked and she would’ve attacked if she had her whip on her. What’s wrong with her, actually? Is she some kind of psycho? She could have seriously hurt someone, just because her name was said a little too loud while she was worried, what is her problem? Is she that–

“Anne-chan,” Haru repeats, voice now soft and sweet, and she sets her unburned hand on top of Anne’s to still her. “I think you’re having a panic attack. Would you like to go upstairs?”

There’s a beat. Anne listens to her own ragged breathing.

“Okay,” she says.

She takes three and a half steps away from the stairs and her knees give that tell-tale wobble that means she’s going to fall.

“Oh, we’re sitting here?” Haru asks rhetorically as Anne pulls her down to the ground with her. She just takes Anne’s other hand to gently lead her down, and then when Anne’s sunk down to sit on her calves, she shifts her weight to sit with her legs crossed at the ankles beside her, never letting go of Anne.

Their knees are almost touching, so Anne scoots forwards a little so they can press together. Haru doesn’t seem to get her meaning, and also scoots forward, having to shift slightly to make room, and at the end of it Anne’s knee is against one of Haru’s, and Haru’s other knee is propped up just slightly on all three of the other ones. Haru intertwines their fingers next, setting them in the spot between their laps.

“Anne-chan,” she says gently, “you need to breathe.”

Anne takes a breath in for the first time in a while.

“There we go,” Haru says. “You have to keep breathing, okay?”

Anne nods mutely and focuses on that, trying to match the rhythm of Haru’s, the way her chest rises and falls. They sit like that for a few moments, and then Anne’s head gets clear enough that the waterworks begin.

“Man,” she says, voice cracking, and breaks down sobbing.

“Oh, love,” Haru says, and pulls her in so Anne’s head is bowed into the crook of her shoulder, petting down her back gently.

Anne’s hands curl into Haru’s sweater, and it’s getting a lot harder to breathe again.

Haru’s humming under her breath, some upbeat pop song of some sort but it sounds so soft and gentle in Haru’s voice, even if Anne can barely hear it over her own ragged breathing and choked sobs. She tries to focus on the melody, and on Haru’s hand rubbing down her back in even motions.

They sit like that until Anne can’t do anything more than gasp for air, and then sit like that for a few minutes longer.

Haru’s long since changed the song a few couple times, but her hand keeps brushing down Anne’s back the same way, every time, and she doesn’t stop or pull away until Anne does, reluctantly sitting up and pulling her hands away to set on her lap.

Haru delicately takes Anne’s hands in hers, and Anne really thinks it’s statistically improbable that her body can cry any more, but still, her eyes fill with tears again.

She sniffles, and takes a few deep breaths to steady herself.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I spilled hot coffee on you and I’m the one crying.”

“Well, you’ve always been a bit of a crier, Anne-chan,” Haru says plainly, and giggles back when Anne can’t help but laugh at that.

Haru untangles a hand from Anne’s and sets it on her head.

“Besides,” she says, letting her voice become a bit gentler again, “you seemed like you needed a good cry. Do you feel any better now?”

Anne sniffs, and feels tears well up in her eyes again.

“You’re a really nice person, Haru,” she says, and begins crying again.

Haru startles for a moment, but then goes to petting Anne’s head again when all Anne can muster are silent tears, dripping down her face quietly. She doesn't have the energy to actually sob, nor does she want to, so she just lowers her head for Haru and stares at the ground, sniffling occasionally.

“There you go,” Haru says comfortingly. “It’s been a hard week, hasn’t it? You’re okay, Anne-chan.”

“It’s been like three days ,” Anne hiccups.

“And those three days have been a long and arduous week or two,” Haru says back, and Anne skips the laughing straight into snorts.

She laughs until her chest aches, coughing and choking on it, letting go of Haru’s other hand to put both on her chest and then laughs for some time after. It’s not even that funny, but as soon as she starts laughing, she can’t stop.

She can’t breathe, and she keeps laughing and laughing and laughing, and she twitches weirdly as it wracks her body, and she can’t help but keep laughing and laughing long after it turns into full sobs.

Haru pets her hair as she cries, silent but gently comforting all the same.

She waits Anne out, letting her choke on her own sobbing laughter until it finally turns to a coughing fit, then raspy breathing, until she forces herself to swallow despite the rock in her throat, and focuses on breathing even and deep to let air back into her lungs.

There’s a beat, and Anne hesitantly makes herself look up to meet Haru’s eyes. She’s staring back, worried, but when Anne makes eye contact, her expression softens and she smiles, and Anne tries her best to return it.

Haru’s smile seems to get a bit easier.

“There you are,” she says, and uses the knuckle of her pointer finger to wipe a tear off of Anne’s cheek. “Of course, everyone needs a good cry now and again, but you’re a very beautiful girl, Anne-chan. You look far more lovely when you have something to smile about, too.”

Anne feels her lip wobble again, but she gives Haru the best smile she can under the circumstances. Haru laughs at something, light and pretty like windchimes.

“Absolutely adorable,” she says confidently, and pokes Anne’s nose. “Now, let’s find something to wipe your face with.”

“I’m so glad I already took my makeup off,” Anne says, putting her hands on her face. “Can you imagine if I still had mascara on?”

Haru putters a surprised little laugh, hands a little too late to cover her mouth.

“We wouldn’t have anything to properly clean your face with, too,” she giggles. “You’d be stuck with runny mascara until we beat Marië.”

Anne makes a face at the thought of it, and Haru’s kicked into another round of laughter.

There’s nothing good to clean Anne’s face with, but she’s just teary, not snotty, so they decide (meaning Haru insists) that she can just use a corner of one of Akira’s bedsheets. It’s kind of a rough quality considering her skin feels so raw, and she winces as she wipes her eyes, but she does come away feeling a little bit better, and Haru smiles at her and says something that’s probably a lie about her looking good as new.

“I totally messed up your uniform, too,” Anne says instead of playing along, and Haru looks down, looking surprised like she’s only just noticed the giant brown splotch over her pretty expensive sweater.

Then she just laughs.

“That’s not a big deal at all,” she says. “We’ll leave and come back and I’m sure it’ll be good as new. And if it’s not, I have other sweaters.”

“But you really like this one,” Anne says, feeling tears prick at her eyes again.

“And I’ve worn it half to the ground because of it,” Haru says lightly. “It’s probably time I shelved it, anyway. If the stain really keeps, we can just go shopping together and you can pick out an even cuter one for me.”

Anne sniffles. “That sounds nice,” she says.

Haru holds out a pinkie. Anne reaches out and locks her own with it.

“Let’s go downstairs, then, shall we?” Haru says as she squeezes Anne’s pinky lightly.

Their hands lower, then seperate.

“Anne-chan,” Haru insists. “We ought to go back down and let everyone know you’re alright.”

“Can you go first?” Anne asks quietly, and she sounds like a little kid but she can’t help it. She feels like one, small and embarrassed and tottering.

Haru laughs lightly.

“I can,” she says. “But you know that won’t change anything, right, Anne-chan?”

Anne grimaces.

For all Haru is sweet and kind, she can be pretty ruthless when she wants to be.

“I’ll go first,” Anne mumbles, and it’s almost worth it for Haru’s proud smile.

Almost.

“There’s a good girl, Anne-chan,” she says, patting Anne’s head. “You’re very brave.”

…unfortunately, that does feel nice to hear.

That doesn’t make her brave enough to let go of Haru’s hand the entire way down the stairs, though, fingers linked together even though it’s kind of awkward with Anne in front of Haru as they go down.

She hits the last step of the stairs, and the hushed conversations in the room stop all at once.

7 and a half pairs of eyes hit her at the same time, and Anne’s so frozen by all the attention, dripping with thick concern, she barely hears the stairs creak to signal Haru stopped behind her on the stairs or her hand pulling away, leaving Anne’s to drop to her side.

“Hey, Anne,” Erina says lightly, having apparently joined back up with everyone in the time it took for Anne to calm down.

Anne smiles back at her sort of stiffly, and Erina’s expression gets a bit more confused. She looks around, but everyone’s focused on Anne, watching her worriedly, so there’s no one to explain why everyone’s doing so, and Erina’s brows furrow before she settles into staring at Anne, too.

Silence.

Reprieve comes in the form of Akira, as it always has.

He clears his throat, small but carrying through the room in the same way a shout would, startling everyone out of the heavy silence.

Eyes turn from her to Akira. She tries not to relax too obviously, but when she follows everyone else to look at him, he’s looking at her back, a smile on his face, knowing and not quite teasing, but poking.

“Well, you kinda spilled your last one, so I should offer; you want another cup, Anne?”

Anne feels the back of her eyes burn, and she can tell she makes a little bit of a face trying not to start crying. Akira’s just so nice . She loves her friends so much.

“That’d be really great, Akira, thank you,” she says quietly, and wipes at her eyes as covertly as she can.

He nods at her and goes to fetch some beans to grind.

“Just don’t drop this one, ‘kay, Panther?” Ryuuji says.

“How dare you talk to Anne-dono in such a matter!” Morgana says back. “Of course she isn’t going to break every cup she sees. She’s not some bumbling brute like you!”

“I won’t. I’ll be careful,” Anne says, and the play-fight stops in its tracks.

There’s a long silence, and everyone’s overly-concerned looks are back in full swing.

Ryuuji looks around awkwardly, and gives her a strained half-smile.

“Um… yeah,” he says. “Roger that.”

…Anne realises she was probably supposed to play along. 

She sighs, walking past the spot where the broken cup was, though it’s evidently been swept up somehow already, and slides into a stool next to Yusuke, who apparently decided to move to the counter, and tries not to feel the weight of everyone’s stares.

For all they can be stealthy, subtlety is not really in the Phantom Thieves’ repertoire. 

There’s an uneasy silence as Akira makes her her coffee, like everyone’s waiting to ask her what’s wrong again but none of them are quite willing to speak up to do it– though Akira seems unbothered the entire time, not by the awkward quiet or at least Anne’s eyes on him the entire time, too scared to look anywhere else for fear of giving anyone the chance to ask her about how she’s doing– but after a while, Akira sets the cup down, the saucer clink ing slightly, and Haru asks him something about the blend or whatever, and just like that, the spell is broken, a few conversations all breaking out at once, all beginning too close together for Anne to pick up any one topic.

Makoto, however, also moves as she speaks, putting a hand over her mouth as she answers whatever question Erina asked her, like she’s politely hiding even the way she forms the words she’s saying the same way she lowers her voice not to be heard.

…it’s a quickly-learned skill of a foreigner in Japan, to somehow always be able to tell when people are talking about you, even if you can’t hear what they’re saying.

She tries and ultimately fails not to feel insulted. Makoto’s surely not doing it with any ill intent, but…

But, Erina’s cool, but she’s not… she and Toushirou are outsiders . It’s different. She trusts them by now– trusts Erina by now, and at the very least trusts Toushirou to be too much of a coward to be a threat– but it won’t ever not be different. Just because she trusts Erina with her life doesn’t mean Anne’s name is safe in her mouth in the same way it sits in Makoto’s.

…that’s not fair, probably.

Anne sighs and takes a sip of her coffee.

A hand tugs at her sleeve, and she turns to see Yusuke staring at her, wobbling his pencil in between two fingers.

“Anne,” he addresses, and tilts his head at her. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“…eh?”

His head tilts further. “Are you feeling okay?” he asks slower. “You don’t seem well.”

“Huh– uh, whaat, no, no, I’m fine! I– this is just all kinda stressful, and– and I guess I got really in my head,” Anne says quickly, wringing her hands in her skirt. She sort of curls away from him before she realises that probably makes her look guilty, so she straightens up, and turns and gives him the best smile she can, though she can’t help but keep white-knuckling her skirt. “T-Talking with Haru really helped, though. I– um, I feel… better, now. Yep. I feel great! Ready for anything.”

Yusuke blinks at her slowly.

Anne deflates, and her smile feels like it’s getting stretched out across her face as she fights to keep it on.

His head tilts all to one side.

“I think,” he says, with a careful weight to his words, “that you’re lying to me, Anne.”

Anne flinches.

Yusuke stares at her for a little while longer.

His hand retracts from her sleeve.

“If you’re ever ready to talk,” he says gently, “I’m here for you. All of us are. Please remember that.”

He adjusts his sketchbook that’s half in his lap and half rested against the counter, and goes back to drawing, leaving Anne feeling hollow and frozen.

After a long moment, drawn by the guilt gnawing away at her chest, Anne picks up her cup and takes a sip.

Everyone leaves her alone, after that.

It’s both a blessing and a curse– on one hand, she’s glad to not have to (unsuccessfully) lie to anyone else, but on the other, when you’re being talked about but not to , it’s hard not to feel a little lonely about it.

Even though she’s surrounded by some of her best friends in the world, even though she knows they’re just worried about her and not sure how to broach the subject while respecting her privacy… well.

Anne thinks there’s always going to be a part of her that’s the weird foreign girl in middle school forever.

Stuck, suspended in time and cropping up whenever she feels, there’s a piece of Anne that won’t ever grow up, just remains sitting all alone in a desk with classmates that all talk around her in a language that’s just different enough from what her mom taught her for her to understand all of. Sometimes, Anne thinks she’s moved past it, thinks she’s okay now, now that she has friends and a life and confidence and power, but then something happens, and all of a sudden she’s back to being 13 and eating lunch alone.

She can feel the stares on her back, setting her on edge and the hair on her arms straight up. Leblanc’s not the biggest place, but it’s never felt so suffocatingly small right now.

“I’m, er, I’m going to go use the restroom,” Toushirou says eventually, after a lifetime of those stares calcifying on her skin. “Would–”

“Oh, I’ll go with you!” Anne says quickly, standing up without thinking. She needs out, and she needs it now. She needs it 30 minutes ago.

Toushirou’s face screws up, and he doesn’t move. There’s a very telling silence that ensues, and Anne has to put forth real effort into not wilting at all.

Gosh. One little breakdown and suddenly you’re fragile.

Makoto looks around, like she’s making sure everyone else is thinking the same thing as her, before she tucks her hair behind her ear and hesitantly starts, “Sure, but maybe someone else should go wi–”

“Awh, come on, it’ll be fine, it’s fine!” Anne says to cut her off before she says the idea out loud, waving one hand in the air like she’s shooing away the thought. “Me and Carmen, we’re no slouches, hey? I’ll take care of anything that crops up, easy.”

“Well, it’s still dangerous,” Makoto insists. “It’d be better if there were two people guarding T–”

“That’s totally not necessary,” Anne says. “It’s just a quick trip to the bathroom, it’s not like we’re travelling cross-country. We haven’t actually seen any of Marië’s soldiers on that route, anyways, we’re probably already being over-cautious already by babysitting Toushirou. We can take care of ourselves the two of us just fine, I promise.”

Makoto frowns harder.

“Besides,” Anne adds, “I could use the fresh air, myself.”

There’s a long silence.

Anne tries not to look overly triumphant. It’s probably bad form to take advantage of them being worried about her, like that.

It’s not an automatic win, though– Ryuuji mumbles something to Mona, Makoto looks over at Akira for his input, and there’s a lull as everyone thinks on it.

Akira hums, and simply says, “Anne’s strong. I trust her.”

“I-It’s not a matter of trusting or not,” Makoto argues, but her voice is weak. Akira’s word is final, whether he seems to realise it or not. There’s barely any more hedging before Anne’s half-shoving Toushirou out the door.

The route to the bathroom is already a familiar one– the only usable one they know of is a few streets away, but it’s only a few minutes walk, even counting all the time spent peeking around corners for patrolling soldiers. The sun doesn’t really rise or set, here, not at any point since they showed up here and not at all if Erina’s real, genuine confusion at the concept is any indication, but there’s still sort of a day and night of a sort, in that there are hours in which the amount of soldiers out and about drops suddenly, so they can walk a bit more freely than they would be able to at a different time of “day”.

Toushirou keeps a half-pace behind her to her left, only ever falling behind by two steps occasionally before they go out in the open and never for more than a few seconds. She’s gone with him once before, but that was more of a shared necessity thing than it was a real escort-thing the way it is now, and they had had Joker with them, so Anne’s not quite used to always having Toushirou in the corner of her eye, but she remembers Toushirou all but clinging to Akira’s arm when the three of them went together, so she figures she should count her blessings.

The most annoying thing, though, is that she can see just enough of Toushirou to see him staring at her the entire time. Last time, he had the good sense to look around in open areas. Now he’s barely looking in front of him with how much he’s watching Anne.

It’s amazing, how easy it is to feel totally suffocated even outside without anyone else around.

“If you have something to say, then say it,” she says eventually, and Toushirou flinches so violently he almost seems like a cartoon character.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, looking down at his shoes.

Anne breathes in, and out.

“No, I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have snapped. But it’s really… distracting when you stare like that.”

“O-Oh, yes, yes, um. Right. I was just, um… I suppose I’m… worried, about you,” he says carefully. “It gave everyone quite a scare earlier, when you… ah… um, what I’m trying to say is, are you feeling alright, Takamaki-kun?”

He looks up to look over at her as he asks, and they make eye contact, and Anne freezes solid, stopping in the middle of the street.

Ah.

Anne remembers, suddenly, why she hasn’t really ever been the one to escort Toushirou.

Her eyes snap to her shoes, and absently, she goes to grab the hem of her skirt to play with the fabric, but grasps air instead, and remembers only then that she’s wearing a full body-tight latex suit.

She thinks it might say something about her, how easily she forgets what she wears as Panther. She is not sure what, exactly, it’s supposed to say, but surely it says something.

She flexes her hands, still curled around nothing, awkwardly, and goes to play with her fingers, twisting them and bending them just so she has something to fidget with.

“Um…” Toushirou says, stopped a few steps in front of her now, and Anne realises that she’s supposed to be answering a question.

She opens her mouth and starts to speak, but doesn’t figure out a way to word an outright dismissal, so she has to stop.

Then she tries a lie, and it doesn’t get past the first syllable.

She closes her mouth, and tries really hard one more time to see if she can manage either of those.

“Takamaki-kun?” Toushirou says, head tilting to the side, and Anne presses her lips together tightly and concedes to her third and final option, which is unfortunately telling him the truth.

“I remember what I did to you under Marië’s control,” she says in one big rush, and Toushirou freezes.

There’s a long pause.

“…ah,” he says stiffly.

More silence.

He fiddles with the hem of his glove, flexing his hand awkwardly.

“I. I see,” he says.

“I, um… I should… no. I… wanted to apologise,” Anne says. “I’m– I’m really sorry. Nothing– you didn’t deserve that. No one does. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

She bows deeply, clasping her hands in front of her. 

“O-oh, um… ah, that’s… please raise your head, Takamaki-kun.”

Anne does as asked like a puppet on strings, but Toushurou flinches away from eye contact, going to stare intently at his left shoe as soon as she looks at him.

“It’s… um… well, I mean…”

He makes an odd, aborted motion at the side of his head, next to his eyes– not for the first time, Anne wonders if he wears contacts, or something. It looks a lot like when he’s nervous, he tries to adjust a pair of glasses he’s not wearing.

“I…” Toushirou trails off, a thoughtful look crossing his face for a moment before he frowns. “I don’t remember much about myself or my past,” he begins slowly, a careful cadence to his words. “That much hasn’t changed. However, I… get the feeling that… this is not the first time… I’ve been hurt?”

Anne… takes a second.

“Huh?” she asks, when letting the words sit with her doesn’t make them register any more.

Toushirou grimaces. “As in…” he begins, and does not elaborate for a long, long time. “What I mean to say is, I’m not… bothered? By what you– rather, what happened to me? And I believe it to be because I was previously physically injured to a similar, perhaps greater, extent than I was in that cell, even at its worst moments. That’s… just the feeling I get, as if… as if, I suppose, I’ve seen much worse than… you , as it were.”

She swallows hard, and stares at her shoes, breathing out through her mouth shakily.

“If I really knew Marië before this whole… affair with this Kingdom and what-have-you, I suppose it makes sense,” Toushirou says, mumbled slightly like he’s just thinking out loud. “Even if this ‘Shadow’ thing you believe her to be is completely divorced from any semblance of reality or human logic, it is based off her personality in the real world to some extent, is it not? So it stands to reason she’d be…”

He pauses, and clears his throat awkwardly.

“What I mean to say is,” he says pointedly, “Please don’t concern yourself with that, Takamaki-kun. It’s water under the bridge, as they say. It was nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“That’s not comforting like you think it is,” Anne snaps, and the tears she’s been trying to hold back well up in her eyes, blurring her vision. Fuck shit damn it– “And it’s even worse that you think that could be comforting.”

“I– I mean–”

“ Why would that–” her voice cracks. She feels her chest shake with sobs, and a noise leaks from her throat, reedy and miserable. “In what world would that make me feel better? To know you’ve been hurt so bad that something I consider literal actual torture is something you can just sweep away, and I still hurt you? Or are you just lying to make me feel better?”

“I didn’t mean to–”

“Anne?” a voice calls, and Anne groans, wiping her eyes as she feels footsteps approach. Of course someone followed them. Five fucking minutes of privacy, that’s seriously all she wants.

…though, this apology definitely isn’t going in a way she likes, anyways. She’d really like to not have to look at Toushirou’s face for a little while.

It’s Ryuuji who peeks his head around the corner, looking at Anne for a half-second before his eyes go wide, then narrow down, and trail over to Toushirou.

Fuck. Anne closes her eyes and takes the last second she has left to prepare for the shitstorm this is probably about to end up as.

There’s a hand on her arm, pulling her backwards, and suddenly Ryuuji’s shoved himself between her and Toushirou, casting one arm in front of her protectively. She can see just enough of his face to be able to see the way he’s bared his teeth in a snarl.

“The fuck’re you doing, huh?” he snaps. “What’s your issue, you two-faced politician ass prick?”

“I-I–”

“Is that your aim, huh? If you have a fuckin’ problem, why don’t you square up, eh? I’ll beat you to fuckin’ bits, what’s your goddamn problem, the hell’s wrong with your head?”

He puts a hand on his sleeve and begins to push it up like he’s getting ready for a fist-fight.

“He didn’t do anything,” Anne interjects, catching his arm, voice all wobbly and round-sounding from crying. “Just– just leave him alone.”

Ryuuji turns back over to her, expression wrought with anger and confusion. “This ain’t ‘ nothing ’, Anne!” he snaps. “You don’t cry like this for ‘nothing’! What’d he say, huh? I’ll give him his, just tell me what–”

“He didn’t do anything ,” Anne says again, too close to a wail for comfort, so she takes a breath that isn’t as good at being steadying as she needs it to be, what with the shaky way it rocks in her lungs. “I– He just mentioned something kinda sad, and– and I made myself cry about it. I’m just stressed out and I didn’t need to hear a kick-the-dog story right now, and he had no way of knowing that, and it’s not his fault that I’m overly emotional. Okay?”

Ryuuji gives her a look, eyes flicking over her appraisingly.

Then, in a surprisingly gentle voice; “You sure?”

“I’m sure. Don’t yell at him.”

Ryuuji takes another minute to be suspicious before he decides to let it go, putting an arm around her and glancing back at Toushirou, who’s standing awkwardly on the other side of the encounter.

“Sorry, man. I mean, sir,” he says stiffly.

“Ah– um… no? I mean, it’s alright? I– I’m sorry, Takamaki-kun. I… didn’t mean to upset you.”

Anne’s shoulders hitch.

Why is he apologising? She’s the one that–

“It’s fine,” she snaps out, and grabs Ryuuji by his sleeve again and pulls him back towards the general direction of Leblanc. “Come on, I want a nap.”

“Woah, woah, hey, Panther– hey, oi, chill for a second–”

They turn a corner, then a second, weaving through the backstreets for a good two minutes before Ryuuji finds his footing enough to grab her by her side and tug her still, changing the way their hands sit so he’s holding her wrist instead of the other way around.

“Anne,” he says, and she snaps her head away, looking down at the ground. In the corner of her vision, she sees him frown, and he lets go of her hip, putting his hand instead on her upper arm and physically turning her so she has to look at him, staring at her with a confused and concerned expression. After a long moment, he lets go of her wrist and retracts his other arm, leaning back to give her space.

“Are you sure he didn’t do nothing to you?” he asks quietly.

“Positive.”

“‘cos, like, y’know… I’m always willing to fuck up a creepy old dude, y’know? If he said anything, just say the word, and I’ll totally beat the snot outt–”

Anything but that.

Anne sobs, and Ryuuji flinches.

“Don’t beat him up, please ,” she cries, and puts her hands over her eyes.

“Woah, okay, okay, off the table, okay! I mean, whaaat, just a joke! Haha! Funny, right? ‘cos I’d never do that? Uh, uh, um…”

A pause.

A hand pats her shoulder carefully. Just two pats, light and hesitant; pat-pat.

Anne’s head spins, and she hears herself start laughing hysterically.

“Aaaalright, okay,” Ryuuji says as she chokes on her own laughter, and side-steps closer to her as the hand on her shoulder moves to rest on her upper back, to rub uncertain circles at a spot between her shoulder blades as his side presses against hers, always so gentle and kind. “Okay, do you, like… want me to getcha someone to talk to…? Like Makoto, or Akira, or somethin’?”

“I’m fine, you don’t need to do that,” Anne says quickly, coughing a little. 

“…okay. So am I fetching Akira or Makoto?”

Anne starts crying again, and somehow resists the urge to smash her face into the nearest hard surface. “Makoto, please,” she says with a hiccup.

“Alright. You want me to hang out with you for a bit first, or should I go get her now?”

“…stay for a bit.”

“Whatever you need.” He slings his arm over her shoulder, and begins talking. Meaningless safe topics that don’t really matter much one way or the other: the dinner he made with his mom whenever ‘yesterday’ is for them now, how pissed off he got at his math homework, a cute dog he saw on the street the other day, an anime he’s watching. Haru got him into some live-action romantic drama show, and he’s starting to get obsessed, but he’s a little too embarrassed to go out and look for more stuff like it. Yusuke said the weirdest thing the last time they went out for ramen, and oh, yeah, did Akira tell you about the thing that happened the other day?

It’s white noise, but Ryuuji’s good at chattering, and eventually, Anne feels herself begin to slowly unwind, curling out so she’s not hugging herself so tightly, and she leans on his shoulder, letting her head droop and closing her eyes.

Ryuuji shifts his shoulder a little so Anne can lay on it better, even if it’s a little uncomfortable with the metal pads on his shoulders, and shifts his volume down a bit, allowing for longer and longer pauses until he’s gone quiet, and he waits for Anne to be ready to continue on with life.

He’s so nice. She sniffles loudly.

“Oh, god, please don’t start cryin’ again,” Ryuuji says in a stage whisper. “I’m so outta things to talk about.”

Anne bursts out laughing, and grabs the first piece of fabric in range to wipe her face on.

“I won’t, I won’t,” she assures him, drying her eyes, and lays her head back down on Ryuuji’s shoulder. “You’re a really good guy, Ryuuji. Thanks.”

He pulls her a little closer, wrapping his other arm around her, too. It’s a bit of an awkward hug, even when Anne hooks her arms around his waist back, crossing them at her wrists, but it’s still just what she needs.

“Uh… ain’t too sure about all that, but… you’re welcome?” he says hesitantly. “Whenever you need, okay? You’ve been really stressed out recently.”

“Hard not to be.”

“Well– well, yeah, but… that ain’t what I meant. I mean there’s us-stressed out and you-stressed out right now. You’re freaking yourself out somethin’ fierce.”

Anne squeezes Ryuuji’s stomach. He squeezes her arms right back.

“Oh, don’t gimme that,” he chides. “You’ve cried, like, five times today, I really thought Toushirou did something to you, man. You don’t– I don’t see you look that upset all that much, these days.”

Anne keeps squeezing harder. Not on purpose, or anything, she just– she doesn’t want to hear it.

She was the one who hurt Toushirou, and he tried to comfort her , and then she got mad at him for it . She feels like the worst person alive right now, even if it's probably just that it’s a fresh wound.

And the whole… freak-out with Haru, bad enough to make Yusuke reach out, and now she’s made Ryuuji do the same, talking to her all gentle and slow.

He exhales.

“Listen, Anne…” he starts, but pauses awkwardly, and clears his throat. “You don’t– I know I’m not the guy to go to for this kinda stuff,” he says carefully, “so it doesn’t have to be with me, or nothin’, but… but if something’s bothering you, you should talk about it with someone.”

“…I know,” Anne says quietly.

“Do you? ‘cos this looks like it’s been doin’ a whole lot of botherin’, and like you haven’t been doin’ all that much talking, so…”

“Shut up,” Anne whines. “I know, alright? It’s just– it’s hard. Sometimes there’s stuff you feel like you can’t talk about, not with anyone.”

“We’re here for you, you know. Thick or thin.”

“I know. Me too.”

“Okay. ‘slong as you know it. That’s number one for all of us.” He squeezes her gently. “If you’re feelin’ okay enough, then I’m gonna go fetch Makoto for you, and then the two of you can talk as much or as little as you want about how you’re feeling. But– but you gotta promise you’ll try, okay? For me.”

Anne sniffles, and blinks quickly. “Okay,” she murmurs, not trusting her voice to go any higher. “I will, I promise.”

“Attagirl.”

He slowly unwinds himself from her, patting her shoulder once and rolling his arms once they’re separated.

Then, he gives her a worried once-over.

“I’m not gonna fall apart just ‘cos you left me alone for a few minutes,” Anne says. “Honestly, I’m sick of crying at this point.”

“Sure,” Ryuuji says. “Whatever you say.”

Before Anne can begin to think of a response, or even have the chance to figure out what the hell that’s supposed to mean, he clears his throat again awkwardly and kicks at the ground.

“I couldn’t do nothing for Akira when he was saving us,” he says hesitantly. “I’on’t want to see you get that bad, too. That’s all I gotta say.”

With that, he turns and walks away, steps just barely a bit quicker than strictly necessary, leaving Anne alone with that.

She puts her hands on her cheeks, leaning slightly into it and dipping her head into the process, staring at the ground and doing her best at not thinking too hard anymore. She counts the minutes, until she finally hears some noise other than the low whooshes of wind and idle white noise: footsteps on pavement, quick but purposefully light.

She lifts her head up, turning to it, and sees–

“Panther,” Makoto calls, and then changes to a gentler, “Anne,” as her feet pick up the pace to a light jog to close the distance. She catches up with Anne, and a hand settles on Anne’s hip. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Anne sniffles, caught off guard with how immediately ready to cry she is yet again just by being asked that with such careful concern in Makoto’s tone. “How much did Ryuuji tell you?” she asks, sounding hollow.

Makoto looks instantly a little uncomfortable, looking away without turning her head past leaning back a little. “Uuuum,” she says, drawing the sound out. “He… wasn’t very specific.”

Which means Ryuuji either said “Hey Anne’s a wreck over that-a-way, can you fix her for me,” word-for-word, or he laid out everything that happened in gross detail down to each pebble on the ground, but definitely one or the other. Anne thinks about screaming.

“Something about a fight?” Makoto hedges, sending Anne’s guess firmly into the latter category. She makes a mental note to kill Ryuuji dead later.

“Can we sit?” she asks. “My legs kinda hurt from standing still.”

“Right,” Makoto says, glancing around. “We oughtn’t stay too out in the open, either. We don’t know the patrol routes of Marië’s soldiers well enough to risk it. Um…”

They end up settling for a table outside a cafe that isn’t Leblanc, and in fact isn’t anything based on the blank sign and boarded-up windows. But the tables and chairs are still out, and Makoto and Anne sit at one that has an umbrella out over it, even if the fabric of it is torn over Makoto’s head.

“Okay,” Makoto says after they sit down, giving Anne no more of a grace period than that, so… can you tell me what happened with Toushirou-san?”

Anne hums. She does not want to.

…she did tell Ryuuji she’d try, though. Unfortunately, she wants to not have lied to him.

Well. He asked her to talk about what’s wrong with her, actually, so she doesn’t have to talk about what she was talking to Toushirou about, specifically, does she? She just needs to talk about how to feel better.

Carefully, she looks Makoto over again.

“…how much of being brainwashed by Marië do you remember?” Anne asks.

Makoto’s eyebrows raise in surprise, before she frowns, and sets her elbow on the table, setting her hand on her chin in a way that a few of her fingers lay over her mouth. “As in?” she asks.

“Huh? Um… like, while you were under. So, like, Yusuke said he didn’t remember anything, but do you?”

A pause.

“No,” she says. “I believe Yusuke-kun and I are in the same boat, as it were. I remember nothing, also.”

“But, like, really? Nothing-nothing? Or like barely anything, nothing?”

“Nothing-n– um… Anne… are you sure you’re okay to talk about this?” Makoto asks, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she anxiously drums her pointer finger against her jaw.

“ You’re the one talking,” Anne reminds her.

Makoto presses her lips together, looks up, then back at Anne, up again, then down, and uncrosses her legs to cross them again in the opposite way. “Yes,” she says eventually, drawing the sound out carefully, “but you’re also… emotionally distressed right now. I wouldn’t want to…”

“To set me off again?” Anne finishes for her, and Makoto grimaces.

“Well,” she says, and pauses. “Yes. A bit.”

She looks sort of embarrassed that that’s the phrasing they’ve settled on using, and maybe embarrassed that it’s an accurate phrasing. If Anne didn’t feel like a raw bundle of nerves right now, she’d probably be laughing in Makoto’s face. Even as it stands, she feels a small smile on her face.

“I’ll be okay,” she promises. “I’ll let you know if I need to stop talking about it, but– but I wanna know.”

There’s a pause, where Makoto takes a moment to look her over carefully, but when Anne doesn’t budge, she sighs, and looks away.

“Okay,” she says, and wets her lips, before frowning. “I don’t know how much I can really elaborate on ‘remember nothing’. It wasn’t even… there wasn’t any sort of ‘blank period’, or anything, I wasn’t even processing the passage of time. To me, Ryuuji-kun had gotten… affected by Marië’s… eugh, ‘ Kiss of Love ’... and was fighting Akira-kun and Morgana, and then Marië turned her sights on us, and… and then I had my gun to Haru-chan’s head, and my finger was on the trigger.”

Anne shudders.

Makoto’s eyes snap back to glance over her quickly, before she looks away back at the spot to nowhere-in-particular that she’s been staring daggers into for a full minute now.

“Even if I know logically it took… I believe 50-some hours, right? to retrieve me and Yusuke-kun, it’s just… I have trouble even rationalising that in my head. There wasn’t a period of unawareness or a between state, it was… just as simple as a blink.”

“Okay,” Anne says. “Thanks for telling me. I… figure it must’ve been scary, coming out of it, at least.”

Makoto looks at her again, with a complex expression Anne’s not sure she can parse.

Then it clears, and Makoto smiles at her, a dry, cheerless humour in it.

“Yes, scary’s certainly a word for it,” she says plainly. “From my perspective, emotionally it felt like it took no time at all for me to turn against my dearest friends in the world. Scary’s really the only word for something like that, isn’t it?”

Anne feels a little cold and clammy, and all she has in her is a quick nod.

Makoto huffs a short, tired laugh. “Luckily for me, I really only had a few moments to be scared of myself before I passed out from exhaustion, and woke back up in Leblanc, healed and forgiven.”

Anne shivers again, for an entirely different reason.

“Yeah,” she says, and isn’t sure exactly what emotion she hears in her own voice, taut and bitter, but she hates it all the same. “Lucky you.”

Makoto stares at her, eyes narrowing again. Her pointer finger tap-tap-taps against her jaw, lips pursing.

“What about you, Anne?” she asks, a careful weight to her words. “Do you remember anything from when you were brainwashed by Marië?”

“H– me? Um… nope! It was the same for me! Ryuuji had told me before it was different for him, so I was curious, but looks like he’s the odd one out, is all! Haha!”

Makoto stares at her.

“Okay,” she says. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Anne’s face gets warm, and she ducks her head to hide the flush and to have a reason not to look Makoto in the eyes, intertwining her fingers together awkwardly with them rested on the table to have something to do with her hands.

“…sorry,” she says quietly.

Even looking down, she can still see Makoto watching her, and sees the way her frown gets a bit more pronounced, eyebrows furrowing and lips pressing together tighter.

She reaches out, and her hands gently clasp around Anne’s. Even through both of their gloves, Anne can feel the residual body heat from Makoto’s hands, always one to run warm, just like Anne is. The warmth and the slight pressure of something against her together is almost too much to bear, paired with this terrible shame, and Anne has to bite her lip to keep from bawling, and lowers her head even more.

“If something’s troubling you,” Makoto says, careful and kind, but for just that phrase with too-heavy a cadence to have not come to a few of her own conclusions, “you know that I am always, always willing to lend an ear. We’re best friends, and you can tell me anything, Anne. But I’m not going to ask you to. I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk, and every moment before or after, just as well, but I will wait for as long as you need to get to that point.”

Anne breathes in, out, in, out, and in-and-out again, and turns her hands over so she can intertwine her fingers with Makoto’s.

“Thank you,” she says. “But I don’t–” it gets caught in her throat and she chokes slightly as she spits out, “have anything I need to talk about.”

Her head bows further. She can’t see any of Makoto’s expression anymore.

Her gaze still prickles on Anne’s skin.

“Okay,” Makoto says. “Then we don’t have to talk.”

She squeezes Anne’s hands lightly, and Anne squeezes back, way too hard and way too long. Makoto doesn’t say anything about it, just lets her use her hands as her own personal stress ball, and they sit in silence.

Experimentally, Anne lessens her grip, and tightens it again, over and over in a slow rhythm. Makoto doesn’t move, and Anne’s still too scared to look up and see if she’s making a face about it. So she continues, waiting for Makoto to speak up.

And she never does.

Tighten, loose, tighten, loose, tighten in little waves, just a few seconds in between. She feels her heartbeat slow as she watches her hands tense and relax, Makoto’s fingers never moving more than the barest twitch. The world dulls slightly to a more pleasant, less overwhelming hue as she watches it, trying to squeeze as tight as she can, to see if she can get any reaction, but Makoto doesn’t move any more than that, and than her chest barely, barely rising and falling past where Anne’s focusing on their hands on the table.

Anne lifts her head up, and Makoto’s smiling as she watches her, gentle and small.

“Hi,” she says when Anne meets her eyes. “Do you feel any better?”

Anne breathes out shakily through her mouth, and looks down again without moving her head any more than tilting it a bit one way.

“Mhm,” she manages, throat dry. She swallows, and clears it, repeats in a stronger voice, “Mhm. I, um. I do. Thanks. …and, hi.”

Makoto breathes out a little puff of laughter. “Hi,” she repeats.

“Hi,” Anne repeats too, and it makes her smile. She lifts her head up properly to look at her head-on. “Hello.”

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

“Pfft– hello,” Makoto says, and breaks into little peals of laughter.

She squeezes Anne’s hands again, and waits for a squeeze back before she pulls away, one hand resting on her chest and the other going up to hide her mouth behind her knuckles.

“Hello,” Anne says, giggling.

“Okay, okay,” Makoto says, waving the hand in front of her mouth in the air a few times. “Geeze, enough of that.” She snickers a little bit more, and breathes out through her mouth, and lets her hands settle in her lap. “Okay. If you’re feeling better, do you want to head back home, or should we sit here for a little while longer?”

Anne very intentionally does not freeze or flinch. She folds her hands one over the other and idly picks at her fingers, pinching them and twisting them in her gloves or pulling them back, then pushing them forwards, and considers her options as carefully as she’s ever considered anything before.

She would really like to go back to Leblanc. She’d like to lay down upstairs– if she’s the only one sleeping she could probably take Akira’s bed, or if not she’d maybe get the sofa, instead, equally as rackety but smaller (she worries for his back on the daily), or she might pass up the attic entirely to instead take up a booth seat for herself, fall asleep or get close enough to it to count surrounded by everyone… she doesn’t really have to lay down, honestly, for as exhausted as she is emotionally, she’s not exactly sleepy. She’d be more than happy with a hot cup of coffee and, if she’s lucky and/or shameless enough, some curry as well, or maybe instead of troubling Akira she could make a sandwich or something. She could just sit, have something warm, and let the noise and life of everyone existing in Leblanc wash over her and comfort her the way it always has.

But, on the other hand, being around everyone also means being around their worry, as well. The next time she sees Ryuuji, at least, he’s gonna be all fretful and check up on her completely inconspicuously a thousand times before he’s satisfied she’s feeling at least a little bit better, and a thousand more after that to be convinced she can be left alone. And that’s not counting Makoto, who’s also definitely going to check in with her once every five minutes or more, and Anne has no idea how many people were there when Ryuuji went and fetched Makoto, but with her luck, it was literally everyone she’s ever known in her life, even the ones that didn’t end up getting sent to this stupid Kingdom.

And if she goes back, she might have to see Toushirou.

That seals the deal a lot quicker and more concretely than she’d like to admit. Her hands tighten into fists on the table.

“Can– can you go ahead without me?” she asks quietly.

Makoto’s gaze sharpens on her slightly, and she feels herself shrink away.

“I’ll just be a few minutes, I promise,” she says. “I just… I need to clear my head, a little? I wanna be alone for, like, three minutes, and then I’ll be okay.”

“Anne,” Makoto says, voice suddenly Queen’s in the way that it’s disapproving and serious.

“I promise I’m okay,” Anne stresses. “I’m not going to fall apart again just because I’m on my own for five minutes.”

Makoto pauses for half a breath, chin lowering slightly as she breathes out. “Anne,” she repeats, with clear effort to lose the authoritative edge, but instead now coming off as just judgemental since it hasn’t gotten rid of the actual definitive, assertive tone. “You really shouldn’t be out by yourself.”

Okay, rude?

Anne opens her mouth to argue that she’s not that close to a breakdown to need a babysitter, but Makoto stresses, “We don’t know the schedules or routes of the patrols, and we’re enemy number one to Marië right now. If you get caught on your lonesome, it could be incredibly dangerous for you.”

A pause.

Anne closes her mouth. That was… not the route she expected Makoto to take, here, which means she has exactly no counter-argument prepared.

Makoto breathes a sigh through her nose, and softens just a bit more. “I trust you when you say you’re feeling better now,” she says gently, “so as much as I’m worried about your emotional state, I’m going to believe you when you tell me you can handle it. But I’m worried you won’t be safe on your own this far from Leblanc, is all. There’s no good, straight shot back to the base, and Marië has apparently quite literally endless soldiers and… is evidently very willing to use some underhanded tricks to assure her own victory.”

Anne flinches, and winces again at that stupidly open reaction to the barest reminder of Marië’s stupid brainwashing. She can see Makoto slot that away, eyes a little bit too knowing for Anne not to feel sick.

She doesn’t want Makoto to know what happened. She doesn’t want anyone to know, doesn’t want to know herself. She wishes she could have just forgot it all, wishes it was just a blur or a missing period of time or a mind-numbing haze or… or anything except a real, tangible memory.

It’s not a fair thing to want, though, and she hates herself all the more for it. Still, even if she knows Makoto would understand, because Makoto always does, she’s scared that maybe this time, it can’t be understood. She doesn’t want to know what Makoto would think, if she knew. Her imagination is vicious enough, as is.

“I– I know,” Anne says quietly. “I just– but– but I really just need a minute. I– I need a second alone to get my thoughts in order, I’ve just been so overwhelmed, and… and I want to be by myself.”

Makoto frowns minutely. Total veto.

“Anne,” she says–

“I know it’s dangerous,” Anne says quickly. “I know it’s stupid, but– but… please? Just go ahead, a-and five minutes, and if I’m not back by then you can come back and totally kill me for getting in trouble or something. I’ll be home in five minutes. O-Okay? Please?”

A pause.

Makoto breathes out, closing her eyes, and thinks for a short moment.

Her eyes open again, finding Anne quickly.

“Five minutes,” she repeats. “But I’m making sure you get into an alley or somewhere with low visibility first. We’re already risking it by being out here for as long as we have.”

Anne almost cries with relief. She forces herself not to, because she can tell Makoto is already regretting letting her do this, and being visibly emotionally unstable is probably the single best way Anne can think of to make Makoto change her mind and frog-march her to the door of Leblanc without mercy.

She gives her most darling smile, and nods. “Five minutes,” she agrees.

Makoto purses her lips, and nods her head back.

She puts her hands on the table as she pushes herself to stand, looking around before she seems to narrow in on a place just over Anne’s shoulder, and points there. When Anne follows, there’s a little alley next to the building, just behind them.

“Let’s go,” Makoto says.

“You don’t need to walk me,” Anne says. “It’s just a couple of metres away, so–”

“Mhm. Let’s go.”

“Okay.”

It’s just a few seconds– though Makoto lengthens the time it takes by pushing in her chair like she’s at a real café, then walking over and pushing Anne’s in when she realises Anne’s not going to do that when the walls of the building are literally rotting– before Anne ducks into the alley, and turns to see Makoto standing at the very edge before she’d do the same. 

“I’ll see you soon,” she says, carefully enunciating each syllable, and Anne’s smile gets a bit more forced.

“Mhm,” she affirms. “See you in a few minutes!”

Makoto frowns a little more, and nods slightly, before turning and walking away– not without casting a long glance back once she’s a few paces away, not far enough to hide the abject concern on her face when she looks Anne over one last time.

Anne tries not to feel too suffocated by all of the worry she’s been on the wrong side of today and keeps smiling and waving goodbye until Makoto turns the corner and disappears.

Only then does she slump over, expression falling as she sighs and puts her face in her hands.

God . God ! What is wrong with her?

She used to be able to handle herself . She could take days and days of nothing but Kamoshida’s advances and rumours about her sex life or whatever the topic du jour about her was at that point and she wouldn’t crack. Nowadays she feels anything and she feels like she’s falling apart.

She looks up, wondering if she knows any gods or anything to curse the name of for her emotional state, and bites her tongue to keep from screaming when there’s someone there, less than 10 metres away.

With that strange purple-ombre hair over one half of her face, the visible eye a sharp and equally unnatural red with specks of purple, Erina’s sat over a… Anne guesses it’s something like a concrete fence? in between buildings, legs– leg and prosthetic– dangling over the edge and swinging to a tune no one can hear, looking ahead of her with a sort of absent expression like she’s thinking about something.

So Anne takes a few breaths to calm herself, and clears her throat.

“Erina,” she calls, and Erina glances down to meet her eyes impassively.

“Hey,” she says back. “I told you before I have a habit of eavesdropping, right?”

Anne flinches all over again.

She swallows hard.

“Uh,” she says. “You, um. You… might have mentioned that before, yeah.”

Erina watches her, and doesn’t continue.

“Did–” Anne fumbles her words, and has to clear her throat before she can finish, “Did you… hear… that?”

Erina raises an eyebrow impassively, and does not bother answering.

“One thing about eavesdropping,” she says instead, “you obviously don’t get all the information necessary to contextualise what you hear. So to get good at it, you also have to get good at connecting the dots yourself. Makes sense, right?”

Anne wets her lips. “Uh-huh.”

“You know, Anne,” Erina says, “Marië said something kinda funny through you back at the dungeon. It’s been a while, so I don’t remember the exact wording, but I think it was something like… ‘did you not get the whining whipped out of you last time’?”

Anne opens her mouth, and nothing comes out.

“Toushirou was terrified of you when we first met, too,” Erina continues. “And I saw wounds on his arms and torso that looked a lot like whip-marks when I was bandaging him up. It must have been some awful punishment.”

10 awful punishments, actually.

Anne’s shaking hard.

10 times she–

“You know my feelings on Marië’s mind control,” Erina says. “But it looks like that’s not doing anything for you, huh? It’s probably hard to reconcile hurting people if you remember yourself doing it.”

Anne flinches, and stares doggedly at her shoes.

Erina stares at her for a long while.

“I’ve been doing some thinking,” she says conversationally. “Makoto and Yusuke both remember nothing, right? We woke them up last. Ryuuji we woke up before them. He doesn’t remember much, but he does have something. You remember the most by far. We got to you first.”

“So?”

“So, maybe it’s the time period you were under Marië’s Kiss of Love that determines it,” she says. “In that case… we woke you and Futaba up at the same time, didn’t we?”

There’s a pause. Anne’s skin prickles, and her eyes snap back up to Erina.

She smiles at Anne.

“Futaba definitely wasn’t the heavy hitter in that fight, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t do anything,” she says. “If anyone was going to be able to relate, it’d be her.”

She hops off the little half-wall, landing heavy on her feet– her metal prosthetic clangs in a way that has to hurt, not to mention landing in heels on the other leg, but she doesn’t even flinch, stretching and cracking her back lackadaisically.

“Sorry again for listening in,” she says, waving her hand in a lazy goodbye. “See you back at the hideout. I’d say take your time, but you only have less than three minutes left before Makoto comes back for you.”

With that, she disappears.

“Can we talk?”

Futaba looks up at Anne, stopping mid-stroke, and pulls her pencil off the paper as she looks back down at the counter, shifting her weight awkwardly.

“Is it about you being weird?” she asks quietly.

“Um,” Anne says. “…y-yeah.”

“Then I guess I can spare some time,” she says, like she’s doing anything else right now. “What’s up?”

“ Privately ?” Anne presses.

Futaba finally looks up at her, eyes shining and gaze sharp enough to make Anne’s shoulders jump when they make eye contact.

“Okay,” Futaba says carefully.

She sets her pencil down on the counter, and slides out of her seat, and after a moment of pause, she scrunches her nose and points up at the ceiling with a slow, enunciated bounce of her hand.

Oh, they’re going upstairs. Okay.

Anne nods and turns and heads towards the stairs, ignoring the stares of everyone in the room, including Futaba’s at her back.

She knows there were a few less conspicuous ways to go about this, but she’s so sick of feeling like this, she didn’t wait to even sit down after getting back home, marching up to Futaba immediately. She can deal with the consequences later. She just needs to feel better now.

As they past by the last booth to the stairs, Akira scoots to the edge and turns so his legs are out in the walkway– not enough to stop them from going anywhere, but making a tight enough squeeze that Anne stops, and Futaba bumps into her back.

“You guys going upstairs?” Akira asks, looking between them with a weird expression on his face. “…everything okay? Is it naptime?”

“Girl talk,” Futaba says flatly.

Akira blinks.

“…uh-huh,” he says. Then, “What?”

“We’re girl talk-ing,” Futaba elaborates in that same voice. “And we’re gonna paint our nails and do our hair or whatever. Horoscopes and everything.”

Akira stares for a while longer. Anne stares at her too.

Futaba doesn’t budge an inch, staring directly at Akira’s chest.

Akira looks at Anne briefly, and Anne snaps her head away.

“…okay,” Akira says. “Have fun?”

“Yep.”

Futaba pushes to the front, grabbing Anne’s wrist and leading her upstairs with a single-minded focus only utter embarrassment can create.

Still.

“Girl talk?” Anne repeats to her in a whisper as they go upstairs.

“Shut up,” Futaba snaps back immediately without turning to her. “I panicked.”

“Yeah, I could tell.”

“ You shut your hypocrite mouth, Takamaki .”

“Yes, ma’am,” Anne says. Then, “do you even know your horoscope?”

Futaba hits the top of the stairs and turns back to glare at her, taking her hand off of Anne’s wrist.

“Can we just skip to the part while you tell me what’s wrong with you so I can tell you to stop?” she says hotly. “Or do we actually need to braid each other’s hair first?”

“I’m sorry,” Anne says.

Futaba stops, and deflates slightly, and turns away.

“No, I– I’m sorry,” she says quietly, shoulders curling towards her ears. “That– I’m on edge right now, with everything, and I’m embarrassed about the girl talk bit too but I’m not actually mad. I shouldn’t have been so snappy. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I was poking and I knew it.”

There’s an awkward silence, and then Futaba turns around and walks further into the attic. Anne follows as Futaba walks to the folded-out table and drops into the chair already turned to face the stairs, which creaks loudly as she puts her weight on it.

Anne realises only then Futaba brought up her crossword magazine with her, now that she can see it rolled up into a tight burrito in her palms.

Futaba peeks up through her bangs.

“Are you gonna sit down, or what?” she says. “We’re talking about your feelings or whatever, right? Are you gonna stand for the whole conversation?”

“Oh,” Anne says. “Sorry.”

She grabs one of the other chairs and sits down.

Another long quiet.

Futaba squeezes the magazine-burrito in her hands, then lets it loose, though it’s visibly curled from how tight she had rolled it.

Then she makes a frustrated noise.

“You’re the one freaking talking here!” she says, and it’s almost heated enough to not sound desperate. “What’s wrong with you, already?”

“Wh– I’m getting to it!” Anne says. “Give me a second!”

Futaba groans and slaps her face with the magazine, then lets her hands drop into her lap. She looks away, though, and waits quietly– though certainly not patiently from the pout of her lower lip and the tapping of her finger against the pages of the magazine– for Anne to figure out how to start.

“How… much do you remember about being under Marië’s mind control?” she tries.

There’s a long silence as Futaba stiffens up, sparking tens of seconds, before she says, “Nope,” with no emotion in her voice.

“…‘nope’…?”

She nods. “Nope,” she repeats, and only after elaborates. “Don’t remember anything. No. Nuh-uh.”

“…right.”

A pause.

Futaba flounders, curling in on herself.

“Not a thing,” she insists. “No sirree, nope. Not me.”

Anne can’t exactly say anything on that without being a massive hypocrite, she guesses.

Well. It’s not as if it’s anything nice to talk about. She really wishes she didn’t have to push on this, herself.

“I see,” she says. “That’s unfortunate. I… was hoping maybe you would be in the same boat as me, and I… I guess I wanted someone to talk to. Sorry for bothering, then. We can go back downstairs.”

Futaba’s grip visibly tightens on the magazine, the paper creasing against her fingers.

Her throat bobs as she swallows.

“You… wanted to talk about it?” she asks, voice all distant and eyes foggy.

“Want’s a strong word, but… yeah, I guess so.”

Futaba bites her lip.

She tilts her head one way, squeezing her eyes shut, then throws it back, then leans back forward again and cocks it the other way, face screwed up in thought the entire time.

Then she lifts the magazine up to cover her face, and quietly, she says, “Will– will it make you feel better? To… talk about what happened? While we were… y’know…”

“Um… that was… the thought process, yeah. But if you don’t remember anything, it’s fi–”

“Well, maybe–” she stops, and her shoulders rise towards her ears as she pulls her legs closer to her chest so her thighs are basically flush against her torso. In a mutter so low and monotone the words are almost completely indistinguishable, she gives a hesitant, “Well I definitely don’t remember anything about it at all but if you needed to talk to someone maybe my um my memory could be uh jogged I guess. Yep. Uh-huh.”

Anne has to take a second to parse the sentence, and then another three to grapple with her meaning.

“Really?” she asks. “You’d… be okay with that?”

A pause.

“Well, okay’s a strong word,” Futaba says, and the magazine lowers to show her completely red face. “But if it’s you, anything’s fine.”

Anne starts crying.

Futaba makes a grossed out noise and hides her face with the magazine again. “Nevermind,” she says.

“Sorry,” Anne sobs. “I won’t cry, I promise. Sorry.”

“…little late…”

Anne wipes her face and breathes slowly until her eyes stop burning, but she has to keep blinking fast and fanning her face for a little while after that until she’s confident she’s not going to burst into tears again. 

“Okay, okay,” she says. “So, I talked to Ryuuji and he said he, like, kinda remembered some stuff, but not really? Like, he said he remembers moving, but he didn’t pick up on what we were saying, and eventually he, like, stopped really knowing where he was or what was going on around him.”

Her voice is apparently strong enough to convince Futaba she’s not going to start crying again, because the magazine lowers, though Futaba still looks sort of suspicious of whether Anne is going to surprise attack her with another sob-fest again.

“And, like, I guess Makoto and Yusuke don’t remember literally anything–” Futaba’s expression twists into genuine anger for a millisecond before it’s gone– “and I haven’t asked Haru, but since she woke up at the same time as Ryuuji, maybe it’s the same for her as it is for him? ‘cos I–”

Her voice catches again, and she has to pause to collect herself.

“Um, back when we first woke up,” she starts, “my memory was, like, really foggy, the way Ryuuji said his memory is now. But I’ve been, like, thinking about it, a lot, and it’s gotten a lot clearer? And I can remember a lot, now, it’s all super clear. And I guess… I dunno. It was weird. Ryuuji said he didn’t recognise anybody, from what he remembers. But I… sorta did? I dunno.”

She laughs, hearing how self-deprecating it sounds herself.

“I guess it’s not super clear, really,” she says with as much humour as she can. “My thoughts are super jumbled about it. I feel like I can’t get anything straight.”

Futaba watches her for a moment, the time stretching out far too long.

Then she looks away, turning her eyes down and to the right.

“Like, you can remember what happened super clearly, but it’s hard to get a handle on what you were thinking?” she asks dully. “Your memory is fine, but your thoughts and feelings were all messed up by Marië.”

Anne nods. “Yeah,” she says. “That’s totally it, I think.”

Futaba nods very slightly.

“If you think about it a little more,” she says very hesitantly. “You might– I think maybe it’s just something you need to work out a little in your head, and you’ll… you probably will maybe remember a bit more.” A beat. “Just a guess.”

“Uh-huh,” Anne says. “Okay.”

Futaba clears her throat. “Like, um… like, did you remember your family, and stuff? Or things that have happened, before? And that’s why you could sorta recognise people?”

She has to think for a while.

“I guess,” she says. “I think I could remember my family then, I just wasn’t really thinking about them. But I… when I… like, when I looked at Akira–” Futaba’s shoulders jump, so Anne stops, but Futaba doesn’t say or do anything, just keeps staring at the ground with a kind of concerning intensity, so Anne eventually continues, “When I looked at him, I could remember stuff I did with him, things like that. But it was, like, weird, and all foggy, and… it was like it didn’t actually happen to me, more like a story I was told that I just happened to be in. I didn’t feel any sort of way about any of my memories, I guess.”

Futaba visibly swallows again.

“Uh-huh,” she says. “I think ‘cos– ‘cos Marië was steering, there. She was piloting your body, and she didn’t care about what had happened, before, ‘cos she wasn’t there. She was just piloting, and– and it didn’t mean anything to her.”

“I guess,” Anne says. “But since I didn’t care one way or the other about any of it, it all felt so… blurry. Like, I could remember everything, but nothing in specifics? Does that make sense?”

“Mm. …like, it all blended together?”

“Yeah, I guess. Like… right now, I can remember a time before I was friends with Ryuuji and after, and how I felt about him differently before, right? But if I tried to remember anything about Ryuuji then, it probably just would have been… facts about him, and other than the time frame, there wasn’t any difference between before we got our Personae or after. Like that.”

Futaba opens her mouth, then grimaces, shying away from herself. She pulls the magazine over her head like a hat and wilts, pressing her lips together tightly in an anxious-seeming frown, and tilts her head way, way down, until gravity almost makes her glasses almost slip off her nose and off her face.

“I remembered everything,” she says quietly. “Everyone, and all my memories, and everything, I could still remember them. I knew all of your names and remembered what we did together. I just… didn’t care.”

She’s basically just agreeing with Anne, Anne thinks, but something about the way she says it, so haunted and serious… Anne feels the hair on her arms raise, and the pit in her stomach gnaws at her with a vengence.

“Didn’t care?” she repeats, and Futaba flinches at hearing her own words.

“I didn’t care that I loved you, or that I could remember how much everyone’s done for me,” she elaborates shakily. “I– I remembered everything, and none of mattered , nothing mattered, nothing–”

She inhales, and exhales, too quick and strained to be any sort of comfort, with the way she still sounds so distressed as she continues, “In the little square… plaza… thing… when– when we all got put under, I mean, I was looking at Akira and Mona and I could remember that they were– that they’re family to me, that Akira saved me and keeps saving me and that they love me and I– I love them, but I didn’t. I remembered that I did, I remembered everything , but it didn’t matter, it didn’t change anything. Marië hated them, so I did too. Nothing else mattered but her and how she felt, even if it was against the most important thing I’ve ever known.”

She sniffs, and Anne sees tears dripping from her face, catching on her glasses and glinting in the low light.

“I couldn’t even understand something as complicated as that,” she continues, voice breaking. “I just knew I hated him. I looked at Akira and even after everything all I could think was how much I wanted him dead.”

Anne shivers.

“I’ve never hated someone like that before,” Futaba says, curling in on herself ever more. “Not even– not even Akechi or Shido or anyone. I hated him more than I hate the people who took my mom away. Akira. Akira .”

“But that wasn’t you,” Anne says, knowing it’s cold comfort, but it’s all she can give.

“It was, though!” Futaba says, and it sounds almost like she’s choking on it. “It was. It– it is. I can– fuck. I can still feel it. It was the first time I ever felt like that, so… so I remember it really well. Every time I look at Akira, I remember it. I can still feel it in my chest. I still… he’s my favourite person in the world, he’s my best friend, he’s my brother , and every time I look at him I remember what it felt like to hate him. Isn’t that–”

She doesn’t finish her question, because she audibly sobs, cutting herself off, and folds in on herself even more, somehow, the smallest she can possibly make herself without disappearing completely.

It doesn’t matter. Anne thinks she knows how that sentence would have ended, anyways.

Isn’t that still hating him, in a way?

Poor Futaba and her poor perfect memory. Trapped in a moment forever.

It wasn’t her, when she first felt it, but now she’s free from Marië, so if she feels it, can’t it only be her feelings, now? Anne can argue it’s borrowed from Marië, that it’s not Futaba actually hating Akira, but even if it’s the truth, does it matter? Does that make it not Futaba hating him, just because she learned how from someone else? If she instinctively hates him still, would it change anything to point out that she loves him again now?

“Maybe you should talk to Akira about this?” Anne suggests, because that’s the only thing she can think to suggest, and Futaba’s head snaps up, eyes shining with grief and anger.

“About what ?” she hisses. “Tell him I despised him? Tell him I wished he’d suffer when we killed him? What the fuck would I say, Anne? What could I– I mean– why–”

“Tell him that– I dunno, that you’re having a hard time recovering from the brainwashing thing and there’s some things making you upset right now and–”

“And why don’t you go and blame yourself for that, too, Akira?” Futaba cuts in, voice sharp, sarcastic, and furious. “Because obviously you haven’t run yourself into the ground for me enough!”

“He’s not gonna–”

“ Listen to yourself , Panther.”

Anne stops and rethinks her argument.

Akira would blame himself for it. Would run himself sick trying to make up for Futaba feeling bad about this, would make it into him not doing enough, and not doing it fast enough. He’s kind– and conceited– like that, enough to make that his takeaway.

“He wouldn’t hold it against you,” she corrects. “Maybe it’d be a good conversation for both of you. I’m– I’m sure… he’d know what to say to make you feel better.”

“I don’t want to feel better!” Futaba snaps. “Not after–” She sobs audibly, and pulls the magazine on her head so taut something tears. “If I go and tell him, he’ll find a way to blame himself, and he’ll forgive me , Anne, he’ll tell me it’s all okay and I don’t have to feel bad and I don’t want that, I don’t want that , Anne! I don’t want it to be okay! I don’t want to be forgiven!”

“But it’s not your fault–”

“I still did it!” Futaba half-wails. “Who cares that it’s not my fault? Who cares if I couldn’t help it? I felt like that, I feel it now, and I want to hate that, even if it means hating myself! It’s not okay and it never will be okay and I don’t want it to be! I don’t want it to be okay that I hated him. Not even for a second.”

“Futaba–”

“We’re done talking about this,” Futaba says. Then, softer, “Please.”

Anne opens her mouth, and closes it again.

“Are you sure? ‘cos…”

“I– I don’t want to think about it anymore,” she says. “If I don’t think about it, then it doesn’t hurt for a little while. So let’s talk about something else, and leave this at that I don’t have any memories worth remembering.”

She’s still crying, though, and she sniffles as she finally looks back at Anne, eyes sharp even though they’re filled with tears.

“Do you?” she asks.

Anne flinches.

She looks away and down, curling back, and Futaba’s eyes dig into her the whole time, making it impossible to regain any bit of composure.

“I… I know you were there for some of it,” she says, trying to keep her voice neutral. “Do you remember Toushirou’s punishments?”

Futaba looks confused for a second, and then she freezes, eyes going wide again.

“Oh,” she says, and then winces. “Ooooooh…”

Anne nods. “Yeah. Oh,” she agrees.

Another silence, and then Futaba laughs, sounding miserable.

“Man,” she says, “I’d throttle me if I were you. Just listening to me go on and on about feeling a little bad when you actually…

Futaba hurt Erina, too, Anne’s pretty sure. She wasn’t focusing on that part of the room at the time because she was busy fighting Akira and Morgana, but she remembers feeling Futaba’s buffing magic, and then remembers less than a minute later Akira actually dropping his knife and ignoring Anne completely to instead scream at Erina, telling her to stop, and glancing over curiously to see Erina having already finished knocking Futaba out, standing over her and bleeding from the nose, surrounded by bits of her own hair that Futaba must have ripped out her scalp during the tussle.

She doesn’t know how that fight went, even if she can guess: Erina’s tough, broad and built like a soldier and just as proficient in combat, and Futaba has always been almost comically weak. But she knows people can get stronger when panicking, and she also knows Marië was the one in control, and she knows Erina didn’t leave that “fight” uninjured.

She’s sure Futaba remembers that part, if she remembers everything else, but Anne also knows Futaba as a person, and moreover sees it in her eyes. She doesn’t care about that, not in the way she cares about Akira, not anywhere close.

“You still had a bad experience,” Anne says. “If anything, I’m glad you got to let it out. It’s not good to bottle up your feelings.”

“You’re one to talk,” Futaba says back, and drops the magazine into her lap, running her thumb against the tear at the bottom of a page as an excuse to not to look at her. “Though I guess you’re not really good at bottling it up, so I can’t say much.

“So? What do you wanna talk about about the torture thing?”

Anne flinches.

“Please don’t call it that,” she says quietly.

Futaba looks startled, and glances away again. “Uh… right. Yeah, sorry. That’s– I shouldn’t have said it like that. …but… but why are we bringing it up?”

“I… I don’t know how to apologise,” Anne says.

Futaba hums, and rolls the magazine up in her hands as tight as it goes, then lets go and watches it unfurl. “You can’t just go for it? You never really seemed like a person who can’t say sorry when they mean it.”

“I tried that,” Anne says. “It… didn’t go well.”

“Ol’ peepaw didn’t accept it?”

“He did,” she mumbles. “He told me it was all okay and that I was totally forgiven.”

“…yeesh. Just like that, huh?”

Anne nods.

“And I’m guessing that didn’t fly for you?”

“I got mad at him for forgiving me ,” Anne whines, and puts her hands over her face. “I’m the worst .”

“I’d get mad if someone forgave me for something like that so quick, too,” Futaba says. “I mean, obviously. Plus I’m not exactly a forgive-and-forget kinda person, myself. But, uh… if I had to guess… does this apology attempt have anything at all to do with the way Ryuuji came up to Makoto earlier and said you and Pops got into a fight and you needed comforting?”

Anne feels her face get all red-hot. Stupid Ryuuji and his big dumb mouth. Is that really how he called Makoto over?

“…it… might,” she mumbles.

Futaba hums a bare acknowledgement, tilting her head to one side as she thinks about something.

“Why do you wanna apologise?”

Anne picks her head up to stare at Futaba. She shies away, lifting the magazine up to hide her face.

“Like, why try again, I mean?” she amends hurriedly. “You already know how it goes now. If you don’t want him to forgive you and he already did, what more is there to say?”

Anne frowns. It takes a moment for her to get her thoughts in order enough to explain, “He deserves a real apology,” she settles on. “One where my own feelings don’t get in the way. I don’t want to leave it at where it is, I don’t think that’s right for either of us. I… don’t want to be the kind of person who gives that kind of half-assed apology.”

Futaba’s eyes peek out from over the magazine, and she stares at Anne for an uncomfortably long time.

“Huh,” she says.

“What?” Anne asks, shifting her weight. “What’s the issue?”

Futaba snaps the magazine back in front of her face. “Nothing,” she says quickly.

She lifts it up and presses it to the top of her head as a har again, shoulders curling up to her ears.

“Just–” she says, and stops again, before lowering her head even more, seeming shy. “Just, I forget that people can be actually good, sometimes. It’s weird to me.”

What does that mean.

Futaba thinks for a second, and pulls the magazine from her head to let it sit in her lap.

“Maybe it won’t ever be okay, what happened,” she says slowly. “But Toushirou doesn’t seem scared of you anymore, at least.”

Anne feels her shoulders hitch.

Futaba looks her over, expression grim. “That probably doesn’t necessarily mean forgiveness,” she says. “But it does count for something, at least.”

When Anne doesn’t answer, Futaba shrugs to herself.

“If you wanna apologise again, then do it. If you don’t want to, then don’t,” she says. “But don’t freak yourself out over it. Better or worse, you’ve already gotten your answer.”

“I don’t know if that helps,” Anne says. “Like, at all.”

Futaba shrugs again. “Well,” she says, “Tough luck, buttercup. I call ‘em like I see ‘em. Ask Akira or Makoto if you want actual good advice or comforting or something. All I can say is that you’re gonna have to put on your big girl pants one way or another if you wanna put this behind you. Even if it’s just to let it go.”

Anne has to take a moment to grapple with the totally overwhelmed feeling that crashes through her, and groans performatively, though her voice shakes slightly as she fumbles to put up the act, tossing her head back like a child.

“I don’t wanna put on my big girl pants,” she whines. “I hate putting on my big girl pants.”

Futaba nods sagely. “It sucks, doesn’t it?”

“It so sucks!”

She keeps nodding, stroking her chin wisely. “It does indeed so sucks,” she agrees. “Unfortunately, they would not be big girl pants if they did not for real so sucks to put on.”

There’s a long silence, and then, “You know,” Futaba says, “no one would blame you if you decided to leave good enough alone, here.”

The overwhelmed feeling is back. Anne has no way to push it away this time.

“I know,” she says, staring at the ceiling.

She doesn’t know how she knows, but she does, somewhere deep in her chest. She can just… tell. If she threw in the towel now, the worst she’d get is a little bit of pity after it’s over. Akira would smile at her sadly, and no one would say a thing, and it would all be forgotten in time. Life would continue on, and eventually no one would even remember this botched apology, or what she was even saying sorry for.

Water under the bridge, Toushirou said.

…she just knows she’d never forgive herself for it, too.

“Okay,” Futaba says. “As long as you know it.”

They phase back into silence.

Anne’s not sure if she feels better or not. On one hand, she’s so emotionally overloaded she feels faraway from herself, somehow, physically numb. Plus this new knowledge about what Futaba’s feeling right now– she feels terrible about it, just, like, conceptually, but at the same time is weirdly relieved that she knows it now, and that Futaba was able to say it out loud? But it’s a quiet feeling, against the other emotions that all-together Anne can really only call grief about the situation.

On the other, even if nothing’s changed, Futaba’s right in that she works with facts, in that she calls them how she sees them. Anne’s options are laid out in front of her, and she only has two.

Pony up and try again, or pony up and let it go.

It doesn’t make anything easier, but there’s something soothing about having her choices narrowed down to two, even if nothing’s changed.

Really, now, it’s just the fact that both her options suck .

She sighs and rubs her eyes, not to get rid of tears but to wave off this bone-deep exhaustion that comes with so many near-breakdowns in such a short time frame, plus a few actual breakdowns thrown in between.

“I’m gonna go back downstairs,” she announces, because if she doesn’t move now she might never be able to make herself ever again. “You ready?”

Futaba rolls up the magazine again, and lets it go slack.

“You go ahead,” she says. “I… think I wanna be alone for a while.”

“Are you sure?” Anne asks.

Futaba shrugs.

“I don’t know if I can handle… Akira right now,” she says hesitantly. “I’d rather be alone than try and pretend like everything’s fine right now, is all.”

Anne can’t say she’s not worried– extremely worried, even, and sort of downright concerned– but she was also just on the other side of this, with Makoto, so she’d be a huge hypocrite if she pushed any, she figures.

“Okay,” she says. “I’m going ahead, then. …yell if you need anything.”

There’s a pause, long enough for Anne to regret her decision, but then Futaba quietly says, “…mhm. I will,” and Anne realises more than anything, she trusts her.

So she picks herself up, adjusts to now being on her feet, and turns away, walking to the stairs and leaving.

Akira’s leaning against the wall at the base of the stairs, hands folded behind him as a cushion for the small of his back, staring straight ahead with a blank look. As Anne stops on the third step to the bottom, his head lifts, and he glances over to her.

He flinches when he sees Anne staring back at him, snapping his head down to look at his feet with a grimace.

For how unreadable he can be most of the time, he’s an open book when it comes to Futaba. The distress is written in every bit of his posture, carved into the wince on his face, showing in the way his hands shake even though he’s trying to press them still between the wall and his back.

Anne wonders if he’s even the least bit embarrassed about being caught eavesdropping like this, but she also figures he’s got more important things on his mind right now.

“Hi, Akira,” she says, just quiet enough to keep Futaba from hearing it upstairs. “Can I ask for a cup of coffee? I’m really craving something warm.”

He takes a shaky breath.

“Okay,” he says. “Y-Yeah. Yeah. Making something sounds really good right about now.”

She walks to a seat at the counter, mercifully clear of everything except Futaba’s pencil now that Ryuuji’s ended up taking every magazine and book once stacked next to the payphone to the booths and clear of everyone except her and Akira because there’s nothing to do, and sinks into it, breathing a sigh at the easy familiarity she can bathe in as she props her elbows on the counter and rests her head in her palms. Akira walks behind to the other side, picking up the his apron off the hook and pulling it over his head before working on tying it behind his back, almost absentmindedly like he’s just working on habit, even though he doesn’t really need to wear one for a single cup of coffee.

He has his back partially facing her, so she can see, for maybe the first time in the history of the universe– and definitely the first time she’s ever been witness to– his shaking fingers stumble on the simple knot, and he has to pull it free and try again.

She feels her expression sour at the simple, silent display of just how badly he’s dealing with this, but she shakes her head to clear it out as he does the knot again and walks to the back to grab the right beans for her.

He comes back out with a level scoop he can set on the counter as he sets up the coffeemaker, lips pressed together in a poor imitation of his usual calm expression.

She knows him better than to ask him to tell the truth about how he’s feeling, so she skips that part.

“Probably not immediately,” she starts instead, and Akira’s shoulders jump, “but at some point, you should probably talk to her.”

He bows his head a bit, and she watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“…right,” he says in a quiet voice. “I’ll… yeah. We’ll do that.”

Anne watches him go through the motions, putting the beans through the grinder, setting up the filter, pouring the water in the right way. It’s a process she’s seen a hundred times already, but it’s one Akira’s done a thousand times, and she can see the easy familiarity of it in every practiced movement. It’s calming, in a way, to see things she recognises, but moreso to see tension leak from Akira’s shoulders as he goes through the process.

In just two minutes and maybe some change, he’s pouring coffee into a cup for her, and she can’t help but keep sniffing the air, already in love with it before she even gets a taste. He looks a lot more relaxed, now, and with the rich scent of coffee in the air, it’s hard not to feel herself relaxing just a bit, too.

“Also, Anne?” Akira says, and sets the coffee down in front of her with a little clunk.

“Yeah?”

He looks straight at her and smiles slightly, sort of sad and pitying, but mostly kind.

“You ought to talk to him, too,” he says. “You won’t know how he feels unless you do.”

Anne can’t hold eye contact, and she lets her gaze droop to the coffee cup, taking it in her hands and breathing out a sigh at the warmth against her palms, familiar and grounding.

“I don’t know,” she hedges. “What if– what if it goes wrong?”

He hums thoughtfully.

“Goes wrong in that he won’t actually forgive you, or goes wrong in that he really does?” he asks.

Anne runs her thumb against the rim of the cup.

“Either. Both. Yes,” she answers in a mutter.

He huffs a fond little breath like a short puff of laughter.

Then clears his throat.

“I can only say my own thoughts,” he says, “but even if Futaba doesn’t want to be forgiven, I want to forgive her. I’m selfish like that. I can’t let her hate herself, no matter what. So, because it’s her, even if it shouldn’t ever be okay, it is.”

He taps a finger against the table and waits for her to look at him.

“I forgive all of you for hurting me,” he says with a small smile. “If you remember doing it, it’s still okay, the same way it’s okay for the others who don’t. Because it’s you.”

Anne sighs.

“Akira…” she says, not having the proper words to chide him.

“Give Toushirou a chance to forgive you,” he says. “I– well, I know he’s a coward, but I don’t know if that means he’s selfish like I am. Just in case, you should give him the option.”

She doesn’t have anything to say to that, so she sighs again, instead, breathing out every last bit of air she can until her lungs feel completely empty, and pulling the cup up towards her face so her next breath is filled with the smell of coffee. His smile grows just a bit, eyes crinkling at the outer corners with a fond look on his face, and he sets a hand on the counter as he pushes away, then takes two steps away from her as he goes to untie his apron.

“Hey, Akira?” she calls, just before the knot comes undone.

Akira pauses, and looks back at Anne, cocking his head like a little dog, which remains one of his cutest habits no matter how many times Anne sees it. “Yeah?” he asks.

“We forgive you too, you know.”

He freezes, the smile wiping off his face.

He looks at the ground, and grins again, this one humourless and pained.

“Taste of my own medicine, huh?” he says. “What, exactly, am I being forgiven for here, Anne?”

“For being slow to save us,” Anne answers. “I’ve talked with a few people about it, not just Futaba, and it looks like everyone kind of agrees that it’s okay if we had some of the worst days of our lives before you saved us. ‘cos you tried your best.”

His expression shakes, and his head lowers a bit, glasses catching on the light. She watches his hands flex awkwardly around the strings of his apron.

“But my best wasn’t good enough,” he says tightly. “I couldn’t keep anyone safe with it.”

“It wasn’t, and it couldn’t. But it did save us, eventually. So we all forgive you in the end.” Anne takes a sip, and doesn’t melt at the homey taste of Akira’s always-perfect coffee, though it’s a very near thing. “And I forgive you for hurting yourself to save us and running yourself into the ground, too. Though from the sounds of things, on that front I might be the only one.”

He laughs, sounding sort of tired and choked.

“Man,” he says, "I give some crappy advice sometimes, don’t I? This… feels like shit, too.”

Anne shrugs, and takes a proper drink of her coffee.

“…thanks, Anne,” he says quietly, sounding like he doesn’t mean it even for a second, and tugs at the strings of his apron, untying it in a single fluid motion, and pulling it off his neck to hang it up as he walks out from behind the booth.

She lets him disappear from the corner of her vision, the closest thing to privacy she can really give him in this shop.

Makoto’s talking to Ryuuji at a booth, and by the way she raises her voice just a little bit whenever his head swivels back to Anne, she’s keeping him busy and away from her on purpose, which she makes a note in her head to thank her for whenever she gets the chance to speak with her alone– especially because she keeps catching Makoto herself looking at her a bit too often to be natural. Haru’s with them, but she’s leaned on her elbow on the table a bit too much to be anything but mighty close to a nap, and she’s not interjecting Makoto’s explanation of whatever it is she’s explaining, so Anne’s not sure she can count her as ‘part of the conversation’.

At another booth, Yusuke is drawing on his sketchbook as usual, mumbling to himself as usual. Akira goes to sit across from him, bringing with him a mostly-empty cup of water and a deck of cards, and they give each other nods and return to entertaining themselves silently.

Futaba’s still upstairs, and Erina is apparently still out– there aren’t any of those… guys, either, the little cartoon-y guys with hats that Anne still has not gotten a good explanation for and is beginning to think she never will– the rebels in Erina’s group.

In the booth between Yusuke and Akira and Makoto, Haru, and Ryuuji is Toushirou, wringing his hands awkwardly with nothing to do, and she can feel his eyes flick to her every once and a while, and it makes her feel tense and uneasy, like the air is slightly too cold on her skin. She grips her cup of coffee a little tighter and doesn’t think about it, doesn’t think about that stupid disgusting apology or that stupid disgusting holding cell or her own stupid disgusting hands holding her whip and–

The stool next to her creaks, and she turns to see Morgana awkwardly wriggling his way up to the seat, just a bit too short to do it comfortably.

She breathes out to get rid of the tension in her shoulders and sets down her cup and picks him up by his armpits, which elicits a strange yelp of surprise, and brings him up to in the chair properly.

He lands on all four feet, fur bristling slightly, and he turns to look at her with his eyes wider than normal, before relaxing.

Then he frowns, eyes narrowing next, and wiggles slightly, and that’s all the warning she gets before he leaps at her and she gets a sudden lapful of Mona.

“Wh– hi?” Anne says, hands instinctively going out to shift him to get the both of them steady, the impact sending her reeling to the point of almost tipping back.

Morgana’s ears flick, and he melts into her touch, leaning into her.

“Okay,” Anne says. “Just in a clingy mood?” She scratches at his head, at a spot between his ears, and feels his sigh of contentment as he pushes against it.

But his ears flick again, and he opens his eyes back up, giving her an uneasy look.

“You’re a good person, Anne-dono,” he states matter-of-factly. “I hope you know that.”

“Uh-huh? What?” Anne says back.

“You’re really kind, and you’re always so nice to everyone, and you’re very pretty, and you’re brave and really strong and you always look out for people. You’re a really, really good person, Anne-dono.”

“Um… o-okay? I mean, thank you?”

Morgana looks immensely frustrated, ears flattening, and…

Ears.

Cat hearing.

Anne feels herself stiffen.

“How… much did you hear?” she asks hesitantly.

Morgana freezes himself, and slumps with a guilty expression. “I didn’t mean to,” he defends half-heartedly. “I wasn’t gonna, and I told Akira not to, too! But Futaba started yelling and I got worried and…”

“I’m not mad,” Anne assures him. A little embarrassed, sure, and a lot mortified, but not angry. She should know better than to expect actual privacy in Leblanc right now, and especially not from her friends.

Morgana’s silent for a beat, but perks up slightly when he realises Anne’s telling the truth. “Okay,” he says, audibly relieved, though his ears still flatten slightly with a muttered, “I’m still sorry.”

Anne scratches his cheek, and he leans into it, and sighs.

“But– but–” he says, sitting back up straight again suddenly and patting her arms with his paws, “But I mean it, okay, Anne-dono? You’re– you’re a really good person, and– and you wouldn’t have hurt anyone if you could help it. I know that about you for a fact.”

Anne opens her mouth, and can’t manage a sound, so she closes it again, and keeps petting Morgana.

Morgana hums a single, frustrated note as he rams his head into her chest. “Dumb old Ryuuji apologised to me a little while ago, for getting brainwashed,” he says petulantly, and sniffs. “As if! It’s not like any of you could help it! It’s called being brainwashed for a reason!”

“I don’t know if that’s exactly what he was apologising for,” Anne says, feeling herself smile slightly.

“It wasn’t,” Morgana says, and looks back up at her. “He apologised for hurting us, I guess. But it’s the same thing, right? He wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t for that stupid stinking Marië, so he’s just apologising for her spell working. It’s dumb.” A pause. With a softer voice, he adds, “None of you would have done any of that without Marië making you. It’s her fault, through and through.”

“It being someone else’s fault doesn’t change the fact that we… that I did what I did,” Anne says. “I hurt him, and… I remember doing it. I remember liking it . I don’t think I can blame that away.”

A silence.

Morgana sighs, and sets his head on her chest again, curling in closer. “You’re lucky you’re such a strong person, Anne-dono,” he says gently. “Or else I’d have to say your kindness would be your undoing.”

“…I don’t really feel all that strong, right now.”

“I can’t imagine you would,” he says. “But you are. And even if you can’t see it, we do. We always do.”

She doesn’t exactly know what to say to that, so she lets it sit, scratching Morgana’s head until he shifts and she can run her hand down his back, instead.

He exhales slowly, and stretches out slightly to give her better access, and begins to purr softly as she pets him. She can still tell, though, that he’s giving her a worried look just out of her line of sight.

“You’re really sweet, you know, Morgana,” she says, and weirdly her voice comes out all clunky and quiet, breaking in her throat with how she has to whisper it. “Thank you.”

His arms around her torso squeeze as best they can, and he nuzzles his face harder against her, and says nothing, but his purring gets just a bit louder.

Erina comes back with two of her soldiers in tow, a sour look on her face, a drawn map in her hand, and information. The escaped prisoner they had found laid out what he… it? could remember, both the physical layout of the inside, and the conditions of the prisoners. None of the three of them go into more detail after that, but even with their cartoony proportions, it’s not hard to read the melancholy on their faces. More than that, it’s definitely not hard to see and understand the expression on Erina ’s face.

To Anne, at least, there is absolutely no human emotion more easily understood than anger. Even vicious and terrible and overwhelming, even animalistic and ferocious and burning, even indescribable and unfathomable, rage is rage, no matter how great.

Still, it’s dangerous, and the human brain knows it, in that instinctual level that gets buried deep in your psyche, in a way you can’t help or stop. No one misses the way Futaba flinches when Erina’s teeth bare– not even Erina herself, who forces down her snarl and apologises in a soft murmur with her gaze still locked on her hastily drawn map on the counter.

The next half a day goes by in a blur. Futaba and Toushirou take up the booth closest to the attic and talk and talk and talk, hashing out a plan down to every last minute detail, and the rest of them sleep and eat in shifts. Erina keeps busy, always stepping out to talk with her soldiers once an hour minimum, but even so preoccupied with everything else, every time she slows down, if she thinks she’s not being looked at, that expression comes back.

Anne is looking, though. Every time, seeing it makes something burn in her gut.

Toushirou stays in the corner of the room, facing away from her, and it makes it a little bit easier not to feel so overwhelmingly guilty– no one ever said out loud what’s happening to the people captured in Marië’s prison right now, but it’s still easy to guess in the broad strokes. For anyone, and for Anne.

Erina saw scars that looked like whip-marks on him, she had said.

Anne knows exactly what’s happening in those cells.

She doesn’t look at her shaking hands as she eats the sandwiches Makoto makes everyone when Morgana somehow manages to wrangle Futaba away from the pretty-much-done-anyways plan and to bed while also snagging Akira to take another nap, too, a one-two combo that probably no one expected him to manage but visibly made him swell with pride when it happened, even though it meant him having to go with them as per whatever agreement he had gotten them to accept. If she doesn’t look at her hands and think too hard, she can force down her food and not want to throw up from the guilt.

It lets the anger fester, when she’s not focused on that. She does not look at her own hands, but she does watch Erina, watches the way her expression slips back into that violent rage for just a moment before she catches it, and every time, she agrees just a little bit more.

She knows exactly what’s happening in those cells, and she can’t stand it.

When Futaba and Akira wake up, after he’s done brushing out her hair and everyone who wants one gets a cup of coffee, they set out, and Anne stops thinking. She doesn’t think as Erina breaks off from them as a diversion, and she doesn’t think when they get inside, and she doesn’t think when she sees the rows and rows of cells and all the prisoners inside, and doesn’t think when she sees the cruel punishments inflicted on them. She certainly doesn’t think when she sees the Legionnaires holding whips (“Technically, these are called scourges,” Makoto tells them in that voice that means she’s explaining things so she feels less overwhelmed by them, which unfortunately means Anne can’t tell her to please god shut up don’t make her think about them any more–) and she doesn’t think when she sees them using them, either.

She does set a lot of things on fire. Luckily, most things in the room are made of wood or explosives.

On their way back, Haru tells her she was “in top form today, it seems! Good work, Anne-chan!” brightly, before lowering her voice to gently ask if she was feeling alright.

Anne smiles at her, and tells her she’s fine.

Haru smiles back, and tells her that she’s always there if Anne needs someone to talk to, and then picks up speed to go catch up to Akira, starting a conversation that Anne’s just a bit too far away from to hear the specifics of.

Anne does not grimace.

That makes four. Yusuke, Ryuuji, Makoto, and now Haru, too, have all said something to that effect. And since Akira, Futaba, Morgana, and Erina all know what’s bothering Anne…

She can’t help but sigh, even though she manages not to either bury her head in her hands or scream at the sky.

So that means literally everyone knows there’s something wrong with her right now. Isn’t that just a fantastic feeling.

Though she’s never been that good of a liar, and she’s surrounded by some of her best friends, so it’s not surprising they can tell this is killing her.

She sighs again.

Fuck it. Just get it over with, girl.

She turns, opening her mouth and calling, “T–”

But he’s in the middle of a conversation with Makoto when she looks, and Anne is a bit too tired to be that brave.

She breathes out, and looks back away.

“Anne?”

She jumps out of her skin, and spins to her other side.

“You good?” Erina asks, walking an arm’s length away and teo steps behind.

“H– oh! Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine!”

“Uh-huh,” Erina says. “What’s up?”

Anne opens her mouth, but doesn’t find the words in time, so she closes it again, lips pursing, and looks away to watch where she’s walking.

“Hey, Erina?” she asks. Erina hums. “You ever get scared, fighting Marië’s soldiers all the time?”

There’s a long pause.

“Of course I do,” Erina answers. “I’m fighting for my life, not to mention how many other people’s lives I’m responsible for in my position. How could I not be terrified?”

Anne’s hands curl into fists as they sway at her sides.

She goes to thread her fingers through her hair, and realises she’s shaking.

“How do you do it?” she asks. “How can you keep going, when you’re scared?”

Another silence.

“Sorry, Anne,” Erina says. “I probably don’t have the answer you’re looking for. I do it because if I don’t, it doesn’t get done. That’s all.”

Anne breathes out shakily.

She’s right. That’s not at all what Anne wanted to hear.

She doesn’t know what she was hoping for, but it wasn’t that.

“If I’m honest, I’m in a position where it doesn’t matter how I feel about this or that,” Erina continues. “People rely on me, and so whether or not I’m terrified, it’s my responsibility to keep fighting. Whether as a leader, or a symbol, or a soldier. I don’t have the luxury of getting paralysed by fear or indecision. I’m the one fighting for everyone, so no one can fight for me.”

Anne swallows.

“I don’t think I could ever do that,” she says quietly. “You’re tough as nails, Erina. Seriously.”

“Thanks, I guess. I don’t have a choice but to be, but I’ll take a compliment if I can get it.”

A pause, and Erina widens her gait, taking a few large steps until she’s in front of Anne enough to spin on her heel to face her and beginning to walk backwards.

She lifts her chin, and stares Anne in the eye. “If you want advice, all I can tell you is to go for it,” she says. “You’re not going to get any less scared if you wait, so do it before it gets any worse.”

Anne’s shoulders hitch. She trains her eyes towards the ground.

“It’s not that easy,” she mumbles.

“It gets easier,” Erina answers. “Making yourself do things while you’re scared, I mean. Once you make yourself strike once, you can do it again, and if you can attack, you can win. And if you’re not able to fight, then what you do is take one step, and from there you can take as many as you want, so you’re free to run. But if you don’t do either, you’ll never move at all.”

Anne breathes out through her nose.

“But,” she says, and swallows the rest of it, settling for a simple, “But I can’t.”

Erina hums.

“You know,” she says, “I pride myself on helping people. That means that whether it be civilian or my fellow rebel, I believe it’s my duty to take care of them to the best of my ability. If they’re injured, I’ll heal them. If they need shelter, I’ll provide it. If they need protection, I’ll guard them. If they fight, I’ll fight with them, and if they can’t, I’ll fight for them. But if someone freezes, there’s nothing I can do for them.”

“…I don’t get it.”

Erina’s head tilts slightly.

“I’m saying you need to move , Panther,” she says. “If you can’t fight, then run, but you have to do something. No one can move for you, so you have to do it yourself.”

Anne’s lip wobbles. She breathes deep, long breaths through her nose and stares at Erina’s feet and does not cry, no matter how much she needs to.

“If something’s worth getting scared over like this, it’s worth doing scared,” Erina tells her plainly, and turns around to walk normally.

Anne does two more of those long breaths, and lets herself stare at Erina’s back. As they move, the world feels dull around her, and she focuses on the easy rhythm of walking, step by step by step, swaying with each movement and watching it reflected in Erina’s stride.

Then Erina turns around, so sudden Anne jumps, and she doesn’t look away in time to avoid eye contact, and once Erina makes it, there’s no looking away. Erina’s magnetic, like that. There’s a simple clarity and determination in her expression, intense enough to make Anne feel very, very small when she faces it.

“Either way,” she says, “Toushirou’s a big fat coward, isn’t he? He still managed to pick up that flag.”

Anne flinches.

She looks down, but doesn’t get to miss the wry smile that pulls on Erina’s face before she turns back around to face ahead.

“He’s scared enough for the both of you, I figure,” she says, waving one hand in the air. “Since he’s got that covered, why don’t you do the rest?”

Anne feels her steps slow. Erina does not turn back around, even as Anne falls out of step and far behind.

People pass her, and Erina’s back gets smaller and farther away, and Anne’s brain buzzes with white noise and she feels, suddenly, fragile in a way she hasn’t in a long, long time.

A hand just above the small of her back snaps her out of the spell, and she turns to see Yusuke looking back.

“Keep moving, Panther,” he says gently, and there’s a quiet question on his face, concern etched into his expression. “We’re almost home.”

Anne moves her gaze to his chin, swallowing.

“…sorry,” she says, voice sounding sort of hoarse. “I’ll be okay.”

Yusuke’s hand pulls away, and whether or not he notices Anne push up her mask to wipe her eyes, he doesn’t say a word.

They get back, and things happen, and through it all Anne can almost forget about it.

It ebbs and it fades, and Anne almost relaxes until the moment the conversation wraps back around to Toushirou, about his new position, about his planning, about anything, and then all of a sudden the only thing on Anne’s mind again is the rock in her stomach and the sweat on her palms.

Do it or don’t, do it scared. Of course, neither of those statements make the gap any easier to bridge. No one can do it for her, but how is she supposed to do it, herself? How is she supposed to start?

She’s so worried about it she feels nauseous. The curry Akira makes in celebration curls in her stomach, tasteless and churning, and she can only manage a few bites.

He smiles sadly at her when she sets her spoon down and pushes the plate away.

“No good?” he asks, dipping his voice lower at some attempt at privacy.

Anne shakes her head in the negative, and mumbles, “No, it’s good. Always good. I just– I can’t eat right now.”

He hums, and picks up the plate and pulls it towards himself, taking her spoon and beginning to eat her leftovers

“Maybe you should go get some rest,” he says after he chews and swallows his first bite. “You worked hard today, so you must be pretty tired.”

“Not really,” Anne says.

Akira hums another single note, and leans in closer, propping his elbow on the table, and his voice is little more than a whisper when he says, “I think I said it wrong. Go lay down, Panther. You need some time down.”

It’s not a suggestion.

Anne sighs, but doesn’t bother fighting. Joker’s got the final say with this kind of stuff, and her brain is too fried to even try to argue.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “…thanks, Akira. For the food, too.”

“Don’t thank me for this one,” he says, sitting up straight again. “You didn’t really eat any.”

“Sorry.”

“Hm… you’re good. Mona’s always nagging on me to eat more, anyways.”

Akira looks back at her, and smiles very slightly.

“Besides, I’ll make something even better when you wake up, so we’ll save the praise for then, ‘kay?”

Anne goes upstairs and lays down, but no matter what she does, she can’t help but keep thinking, and her stomach churns and she stares sleeplessly at the ceiling for what must be forever.

The plus side of all of this is that she’s gotten really good at zoning out, so she just stays there miserable until she’s pretty sure she’s been up for long enough Akira won’t be upset at her for not getting any rest. (The hypocrite.) Then she pulls herself up to sit, tries her best to put her hair in even pigtails by muscle memory alone, fixes her uniform, and goes back downstairs.

Ryuuji laughs when he sees her, snorting loudly and turning away as he puts the back of his hand over his mouth, sputtering a cough.

“What,” Anne says.

“Nothing,” Ryuuji says quickly, a dumb grin on his face despite him visibly trying not to have any expression at all.

“ What ,” Anne repeats, and turns for help.

Makoto coughs, hiding her mouth behind her fist politely despite also smiling. “I guess there aren’t any mirrors around to help,” she says.

Anne has to take a second to figure out what that means, before she brings her hands up to the bumps of her pigtails to hide them. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

“Oh, it’s terrible, love,” Haru says from behind Makoto, a hand on her cheek. “It’s actually dreadful.”

Makoto makes a choking sound as she tries to swallow a laugh– Ryuuji has no such inclination, and cackles like a hyena, and Anne thinks really hard about hitting him– but poorly covers it by clearing her throat.

“Sit down, Panther,” she says, waving an arm at the counter. “I’ll help you.”

Anne makes a frustrated noise, and tugs at the elastics until her hair falls out of her own attempt.

“Thanks for the help,” she mumbles, and walks over to drop into a stool, and only moments later, Makoto makes a motion in the corner of Anne’s vision to let her know she’s behind her, and hands begin to card through her hair.

“You want some coffee, Anne?” Akira asks from somewhere, and Anne turns slightly to look at him before Makoto puts a hand on either side of her head and turns her back.

Anne makes a noise and puts her hands on her cheeks. “Thanks but no thanks,” she calls back. “I think if I have any more I’m going to go over the daily limit, honestly.”

“I mean, this counts as, like, exenticating circumstances or something, right?” Ryuuji pipes in.

“Extenuating,” Makoto corrects.

“Yeah, what I said. Like, you’re using a lot more energy right now than most people do in, like, a week, so a little more caffeine in a technically 24-hour period isn’t gonna stop your heart or anything, you’re using it. Especially if you’re gonna pull an Akira and only lay down for an hour and a half when you go up for a nap.”

“I resent that,” Akira says.

Was it really only an hour and a half? Anne could have sworn she was up there for seven years and five minutes extra. “Too much caffeine and stuff can really mess with your body,” she says. “I’m already supposed to have, like, max two cups a day ‘cos it can mess with your skin, so I’m already over my limit, anyways. Besides, you’re only saying that because it’s a good excuse to have all the pop you want in a day even though you said you were gonna start a diet plan.”

“I’m listening to my body and having what’s right for me. My body wants a pop.”

Anne rolls her eyes, and goes to shake her head, before Makoto puts a hand on the side of her head again and she stills. Ryuuji laughs.

“Besides,” he says, “it’s just for performance when I’m running and working out and stuff. I don’t need to cut sugar or nothing. Cutting down on carbonated shit just helps with getting muscle.”

“It’s still not healthy,” Makoto says. “The sugar in cola–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryuuji says. “It’s a special occasion, alright? I’ll go back to eating right once we’ve kicked Marië’s ass and gotten out of here. Talk to Miss Model over here about reducing sugar, not me.”

“Anne-dono does just fine!” Morgana says from somewhere behind Anne. “If anyone needs to eat healthier, it’s Akira and Futaba!”

“I eat just fine, too,” Futaba says plainly like she’s not a big fat liar. “My brand of yakisoba has carrots and green onions, so I get veggies and everything.”

There’s a brief silence as everyone seems to tackle Futaba’s open bullshittery on their own.

“Is sugar bad for you?” Erina asks after a while. “I thought it gave you energy.”

Anne tunes out just in time to avoid catching a single word of Makoto’s ensuing lecture. It lasts long enough, though, that Makoto finishes Anne’s hair and pulls away, letting Anne turn to see visibly only Erina listening, nodding along with a look on her eye that Anne has learned means she’s not actually getting it, but she’s still letting Makoto rant about– Anne risks actually listening– cardiovascular diseases.

Erina’s sitting on top of a table, eating what looks like shredded chicken from a Tupperware container with her hands? She is so weird – and actually sitting at the table is Yusuke, having arranged his sketchbook and pencils around her and probably hasn’t looked up from his drawing since Anne came down. At the table next to them, Haru’s sitting across from Akira and Ryuuji who has his legs sprawled across Akira’s lap, and there’s a card game happening that Anne doesn’t immediately recognise– Haru occasionally looks up at Makoto politely, but Akira and Ryuuji have pointedly put their full attention into the game, and she barely gets time to nod before it’s her turn again. Morgana is sitting in Haru’s lap, paws over his ears. Futaba is at the counter next to the payphone, still working on that crossword magazine.

Where…?

“Ooh,” Erina says lightly. “That’s cool. I just thought it tasted good.”

She eats another handful of shredded chicken, and turns her head away to watch Yusuke draw.

Makoto exhales through her nose.

“I think it’s fine to have sort of unhealthy things sometimes,” Anne chimes in, feeling a little bad about apparently no one caring about Makoto’s lecture, even though she hadn’t paid attention to it herself. “I mean, fun’s good for you, too, right?”

Makoto’s silent for a beat, before she sighs, through her mouth this time, and her shoulders slump in defeat before she remembers to stand with good posture.

“I suppose,” she says. “Pop is too sweet for me, though, personally. I don’t understand how people like it so much.”

“I hate the carbonation, so I really don’t get it either,” Anne says.

“That’s also an issue,” Makoto says. “Onee-chan really likes sparkling water, but I just can’t stand it. It’s just so overwhelming, and it makes my stomach hurt.”

“Right, exactly! It tastes like I’m eating TV static, I can’t stand it!”

Makoto nods, and starts to say something else, but stops and shakes her head to dismiss it before she does anything more than open her mouth.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything, though?” she asks. “Akira or I can make you tea… well, I guess that would have caffeine, but we can ask for something herbal? Or a lemonade or even just some water…?”

“I’m okay,” Anne says. “Thanks for helping with my hair, by the way.”

“Any time,” Makoto says. “I’m glad you got some rest, Anne. You… ah, well, pardon the way it sounds, but you seemed like you really needed it.”

Anne laughs sort of awkwardly.

“Well, we all do,” she says. The curiosity wins, and she adds a hesitant “Uh… where’s Toushirou, by the way?”

She sees Futaba’s head swivel towards her in the corner of her eye. She also sees Makoto’s eyes track the movement, and, confused, her gaze seems sharper all of a sudden when she looks back to Anne.

“He stepped out for some air,” she answers. “He promised not to go very far, so we’ll be able to hear him if he needs help, but since he’s just taking a break, we decided we’d give him some alone time.”

God knows they all need some at this point. Anne loves her friends to death, but there’s not a lot of room to breathe with all of them packed inside Leblanc when they’re not actively fighting Marië’s army.

Case in point, Futaba’s eyes digging holes into Anne’s face in her peripheral vision. Anne wishes she were close enough to kick her.

“I see,” she says as lightly as she can.

Futaba keep staring at her, and Makoto’s looking more confused about it, so Anne blurts out an, “You know, actually, I think I might get a drink. Do you know what’s in the fri–”

“I can make something for you!” Akira says in a rush, apparently having heard her. “I can get you lemonade, we have strawberry syrup I can put in it for you if you want. Uh, there’s some, like, herbal or fruit tea? I know you like the peach-passion fruit, or we have raspberry, or maybe peppermint or lemon ginger will help you wake up?”

He pushes Ryuuji’s legs off him and stands up as he speaks, and by the time he’s done prattling off options he’s already putting his apron on.

Anne swears she heard a coworker talking about drinking lemon ginger tea a lot, once. That means it’s probably good for her, right?

“The lemon ginger sounds good, I think,” she decides, and Akira goes back to practically tripping over himself to do something for her.

After a few minutes, he’s made a cup of tea that smells good, at least, and he stirs a generous glob of honey in before putting it on a saucer and setting it in front of her.

“Thanks,” Anne says, pulling it closer, and Akira nods, not smiling but still managing to look excited about being able to help, and he takes off his apron and goes back to his game with Haru and Ryuuji– who immediately throws his legs over Akira’s lap again as soon as he’s sitting again.

She takes a sip.

It’s kind of ass.

She presses her lips together and resigns herself to drinking the rest of it so Akira doesn’t feel bad. It’s good tea, and the lemon is helping her wake up, and she’s not going to waste his hard work.

Still, as she takes another sip, it’s hard not to make a little bit of a face. It must be healthy, considering how not good it tastes.

A few more dainty sips in, she looks over to see Futaba staring at her. Either again or still .

“Don’t you hate ginger?” she asks in a quiet voice.

“I forgot,” Anne murmurs back.

“You forgot ?” Futaba repeats, incredulous even though she doesn’t stop whispering, and her eyebrows raise to give Anne a Look .

“Shut up,” Anne says, and takes a sip, and her nose scrunches.

Futaba shakes her head, but when she returns to her crossword, pushing up her glasses when they slip down her nose a little, she doesn’t quite manage to hide her little smile.

They sit in silence for a while. Anne tries to pay attention to the commentary of Haru, Akira, and Ryuuji’s game, but she keeps slipping, losing the plot, zoning out, whatever, and she drinks mechanically even though the tea gets somehow less good as it stops being hot and warming up her hands.

Eventually, the cup is empty and her brain feels fuzzy and she hasn’t caught a single word of Ryuuji’s complaints as he gets totally steamrolled in the game for a few minutes now, at least.

…it’s hard not to think about the missing head in the count.

Anne watches her hands tighten around her empty cup without really noticing she’s doing it.

Does it make her an awful person, that she’s glad he’s gone? That it means she doesn’t have to look at him, see his face, remember what he looks like terrified and beaten and abused?

Is it horrible to be grateful for that, when she was the one that made him look like that in the first place?

“Psst. Anne.”

She snaps back to attention, and turns to see Futaba having not turned her head away from her crossword book, but even with the pencil to the page, her eyes have slid over to Anne.

She watches her for a beat, then looks back at the magazine.

“You know,” she says, obviously attempting at conversational without picking her voice up enough for anyone but Anne to hear her, “Toushirou’s been gone for a while, hasn’t he?”

Anne really tries not to flinch. She’s not sure she quite makes it.

“…I guess so,” she says.

Futaba scribbles something down.

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but maybe someone should check in on him. Make sure he’s alright,” she says dispassionately.

Anne opens her mouth, and no sounds come out.

Futaba glances over at her again, hand stilling for a second, and then her eyes snap back down at the crossword, writing the rest of the entry with harder, quicker, more purposeful strokes than before.

“The air’ll probably be good for you, too,” she adds in that same detached voice. “You’re still totally half-asleep.”

Anne looks away.

“…maybe,” she says quietly. “If he’s not back in a few minutes, I guess.”

Futaba hums.

She knows better than to call Anne out on being a coward.

The next few minutes pass in a blur, a lot faster than the lull before it. She doesn’t try to listen to the card game, this time, barely even hears the words over the rushing water in her ears.

She can’t stop thinking.

Maybe someone should check in on him, she repeats in her brain, over and over, even though she doesn’t want to. Make sure he’s alright. Maybe someone should check in on him.

…do it or don’t, her memory whispers at her. It’s worth doing scared.

Her heart is beating so loud it drowns out even Ryuuji’s voice.

She stands up a little bit too quickly, and can’t even tell if she gets weird looks for it.

“Y-You know what, maybe I will go check on him,” she says, partly to Futaba and mostly to herself. “I’ll– I’ll be back in a minute, ‘kay?”

Futaba stares at her for a few seconds before looking away.

“Okay,” she says. Then, so quiet it barely even counts as a mumble, “Good luck.”

Anne tries not to break out into a run as she leaves.

She finds him less than a block away, sitting on a weird boulder in the ground with his arms crossed in front of him loosely and leaned forward so his forearms are resting on his knees as he stares out at nothing.

“Toushirou,” Anne calls, and winces as her brain catches up.

Toushirou turns to her, and winces back.

Still, he stands to meet her as she walks up.

“You, um. You were gone for a while, so I came to make sure you were, like, okay,” she explains quickly, waving a hand in the air vaguely.

“Oh,” Toushirou says. “Right. I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised I had kept everyone waiting. Am I expected back at the hideout?”

“Huh? No, no. No.  I just– um, I was worried? No rush.”

“Oh. Okay.”

There’s a long, skin-crawlingly awkward lull in the conversation.

“Uh,” Anne says, and her hands flex awkwardly in the air in front of her, wringing nervously as she stares at the ground so doggedly her head dips a bit. “Um, congratulations. On your. Promotion. I don’t know if I said that, yet.”

“Oh,” Toushirou says. “Um. Thank you. I, um, hope to live up to expectation?”

They phase back into awkward silence.

Anne can’t help but groan, burying her head in her hands. Fucking shit damn it rats.

“Damn it,” she says out loud into her palms.

“Um?” Toushirou says, and audibly yelps when Anne rears her head back up to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” she snaps out. “I’m really sorry for what happened to you while I was brainwashed, and I’m sorry for getting angry with you last time we talked. I just– you shouldn’t forgive people so easily like that, you have to stand up for your– I mean, no, I mean I wish you wouldn’t … treat this like… like it doesn’t matter. It matters that you got hurt. It– it matters that I hurt you. I don’t want you to pretend like it doesn’t.”

Despite her best efforts, she barely looks in his eyes before her head starts to lower again, and at the end of it, she’s glaring at his stupid shiny shoes. She just… can’t seem to look up, anymore, not if it means looking at him.

It’s silent for a long, long while.

“…Takamaki-kun,” Toushirou begins, and then pauses, frowning slightly. After a few more false starts, he eventually clears his throat, straightening his back out properly again and calling her name once more, waiting for the confusion to let her make eye contact. “Do you… well… rather, if I were to use the term ‘duress’, would it hold any meaning to you?”

Anne blinks at him.

“Uhh…” she says.

“Duress,” Toushirou explains patiently, “is a legal defence term. It’s used to describe situations in which a party was in some form threatened into performing a criminal action. The defence is that because they were being threatened with, in the legal definition, bodily harm, they had no choice but to commit the crime they’re being accused of, and would otherwise have not acted in such a manner. Does that make sense?”

Anne tastes something sour and rotted on her tongue, and she returns her gaze to his shoes. “…yes, sir,” she says. “It… it does.”

Toushirou nods back at her. “While one of the crimes that duress cannot be applied to is, er… well, assault causing bodily harm, and while the legal definition again only defines it as under threat of physical harm and does not at current accept… um… mind powers , as it were, as a permissible excuse… well. In spite of either and both of these things, Takamaki-kun, I can say I truly and sincerely doubt there is a single person in this world or our own who could seriously argue that you had done any of what you had done of your own volition.”

Her shoulders hitch.

“I still did it, though, didn’t I?” she says to the ground, voice sounding dull. “Every single time, it was me holding the whip.”

“Yes, you were,” Toushirou says. “And yes, you did.”

There’s a long silence.

“…I want to clarify,” he says carefully, “that duress is an excuse-based defence. A person pleading as such automatically accepts partial culpability.”

Anne blinks tears out of her eyes. “Which means…?” she asks.

A smile twitches up on Toushirou’s face like she said something funny, breathing out something close to a laugh through his nose.

“Which means,” he says with a wry humour in his voice, “it merely lessens the sentence of the accused. It does not dismiss it entirely. It was by Marië’s will, but your hands were what carried out the deed. That in and of itself is punishable in a court of law. That much, at least, we can agree on. Correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Anne says quietly.

Toushirou nods, and there’s another lull in the conversation.

“I…” he trails off, and Anne risks peeking back up at him to see him frowning to himself, sorting something out in his head. In a bit of a mumble, he says, “This court, of course, is hypothetical. Even if we were in a world in which a lawsuit of some sort would be something I were able to pursue, I don’t think I would… that is to say…”

A pause. He closes his eyes and sighs, hand twitching like he’s pushing up invisible glasses again.

“Rather,” he settles on, “I believe I should say that I’ve been… thinking on it, I suppose, since our last, um… conversation about it.”

Anne twitches, shame flooding through her at even the barest mention on that memory.

“I suppose,” he says, voice gentle and all the kinder for it, “I don’t forgive you. In that I believe forgiveness can only come with blame, and that I don’t believe that you hold any, here. In a court of law, you’d be culpable, if only partially. To me, personally, however, you share no responsibility for what happened to me in that cell, Takamaki-kun. That’s the simple truth of the matter.”

It must be that same shame still burning in her chest, but for just that one moment, it somehow feels an awful lot like anger. “But I still–”

“Yes, you did,” he says, cutting her off. “That doesn’t change how I feel. It may have been your hands that hurt me, and you may remember doing so, but in my eyes, there is no doubt in my mind that it was an entirely different person on the other side of the whip. You are not her. You are not the person who hurt me, in any way that matters.”

Anne opens her mouth, but all her half-formed arguments bleed together into a meaningless mess, and she can’t bring herself to make a single sound.

“I do not blame you for what happened to me, before,” Toushirou says. His voice stays even and calm, which is as comforting as it is totally infuriating. It’s not– it’s not fair . “Despite whatever evidence you have to the contrary, I know you well enough by now to say definitively that it was only Marië with me at those points in time. You weren’t in the room. As such, in my opinion, you hold no blame.”

That’s not fair .

It’s not fair that he can just say that and–

“Whether or not you are able to forgive yourself,” he continues in that same calm and caring tone, and Anne feels the breath leave her all at once, “that’s a different story. However, Takamaki-kun, that is a burden only you may bear. I can say nothing on the matter, other than that I now know you to be a… very kind, and considerate person. As far as I’m aware, all you’ve ever done is try your best to make other people as comfortable, safe, and happy as you’re physically able. That has to at least count for something.”

Anne can’t hold back the sob that rips from her throat, and Toushirou flinches.

“Ah– I’m sorry!” he blubbers immediately. “I didn’t mean to– ah– um– my sincerest apologies, truly, I really–”

“Shut up,” Anne snaps, and then winces when Toushirou actually does. “I mean– no, I’m just– it’s okay.”

She wipes her eyes with her wrist, even if she feels more tears replace them immediately after, and tries and fails and tries and fails again to take a single breath that doesn’t sound all flighty and frail.

“It’s just– I’ve been hating myself this entire time, and that’s it? It’s that easy for you?” she hiccups.

Toushirou’s quiet for a beat.

“Yes. It is,” he says, and she can hear the hesitant smile on his face.

She sobs again, and puts the backs of her hands over her eyes and digs her knuckles in hard enough to sting.

“Goddamnit,” she whines. “Just like that, really?”

“Just like that, yes.”

Anne groans. The tears keep coming. She bows her head so she can wipe at them, wrist and hand and arm and all, but no matter what she does, she keeps crying, and crying, and crying.

“This would be so much easier if you hated me,” she sobs. “Can’t you just tell me you’ll never forgive me? Why do you have to be so nice?”

He lets her cry.

Then, a hand reaches out, and, very slowly, gentle in the way only hesitance can be, like he’s expecting to have to pull away, sets on her head. Anne freezes mid-motion, and the world is completely still for that single moment.

Seemingly convinced she’s not going to snap at him, Toushirou very carefully pats her head.

Anne lets her arms lower, and her head bows slightly, though Toushirou’s palm still sits at the top of her head as her vision blurs with tears.

“I’m not a little kid,” she argues softly, barely even able to bring her voice up to that whisper.

“I have to disagree with you there,” Toushirou says plainly. “You’re only 17, Takamaki-kun. All of you are kids to me.”

Anne sniffles.

“Old man,” she says, voice breaking. “Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“Again, I don’t blame you for anything,” Toushirou says. “I don’t need an apology.”

“I’m still sorry,” Anne says, and puts her forearm over her eyes, pressing in to try and stop the tears from overflowing. “Even if you don’t think it’s my fault, I’m sorry for everything.”

“…I see. We’re at quite the impasse, then, aren’t we?”

He pulls away, and when she sniffles and risks peeking up at him, he’s put his hand on his chin, now, thinking about something.

Then he looks back down at her.

“Words, on their own, are only tools we use to communicate,” he says. “They have no substance for themselves aside from the meaning we assign to them. That is to say, an apology means nothing on its own. It’s only bolstered by action do they begin to develop meaning. Similarly, a person’s character can only be meaningfully defined by what they do, not what they say. Does this make sense?”

Anne sniffles. “Yes, sir,” she says.

Toushirou nods. “In other words,” he says, “if you think you’ve done something unforgivable, do something else. If you’re sorry about something you did, do something good, and continue doing good things, and eventually, your character will be defined around whatever you’re sorry for, not by it. Understand?”

She swallows.

“I get the logic,” she says quietly. “But it’s just…”

Toushirou huffs a short breath of a laugh, and there’s a hand on her head again. Pat-pat.

She looks back up to see him smiling.

“What I mean to say is,” he says, “be a good person from today onwards. That will be enough.”

Anne starts crying again.

He waits her out silently, looking away at an attempt at privacy without turning his head much, and doesn’t push at all as she sobs, and not even as she calms down, waiting patiently as she fans her face and takes deep breaths.

She sniffs, and wipes her face– her skin is raw and she winces slightly at the sting– and breathes a bit more until she’s confident she’s okay again.

“Thank you,” she says, and Toushirou looks back at her. “I know we rag on you a lot, but you’re a really nice guy, Toushirou. Honest.”

He looks away again, clearing his throat and adjusting his tie, and she notices the tips of his ears going pink. “Well,” he says, and clears his throat again. “I, um… I am a politician, Takamaki-kun. If anything, words are all I’m good at.”

Anne has to take a moment to think, before she shakes her head. “No,” she says. “You’re a good person, too. If you meant even half of that, you’re a good guy at heart. And…” she pauses, and looks away, herself, tilting her head to the side and closing her eyes. “And, I dunno. Well, y’know… I– I mean… I guess it’s true that you’re a big scaredy-cat, but… but, um… we’re all just… used to this, by now. I don’t think you’re actually a coward for just not wanting to get hurt.”

She feels a little awkward and embarrassed saying it, and even when she levels her head back out, she can’t help but nervously shift her weight from foot to foot, looking down at the ground.

“It’s probably, like, totally not fair to make fun of you for it the way we do,” she forces out in a mumble. The first times I really, like, fought, after, y’know, the first one , when I first got my Persona, it was… really scary. Getting used to it. So I get it, and there’s nothing wrong with being scared, and… and you have your moments. The time with Erina’s flag, it was… um… really cool of you. I mean it.”

When there’s no response, she risks looking up, and cringes when she sees tears in Toushirou’s eyes. So maybe she’s a hypocrite for it, but in her defense, it really sucks to say something lame like that and being met with Toushirou’s expression, not even embarrassed or confused but so overwhelmingly touched he’s crying, just a little.

“Thank you, Takamaki-kun,” he says, voice cracking, and wipes his eyes with his sleeve.

“Uh-huh. Yeah,” Anne says, and clears her throat. “And, uh, um… you can… just call me Anne, y’know. I don’t mind.”

Toushirou sniffs. “I ought to stick with Takamaki,” he says. “It’s unbecoming to speak so familiarly with a young woman who’s not family.”

“I already call you Toushirou, though.”

“That’s your decision, not mine.”

Anne blinks. That… feels like a sentence that has a subtextual meaning.

She tilts her head. “Do you… Would you want us to start calling you by your family name, instead?”

He’s quiet for a few seconds.

“No,” he decides. “I don’t… mind it.” Another pause, and he adds, “For some reason, the thought of being called Kasukabe these days makes me feel… strangely uncomfortable. I’m not sure how to describe it.”

“Okay,” Anne says, because if he can’t, there’s not really any point in asking him to. Besides, she thinks she almost gets it. “Getting called Takamaki all the time was super weird for me too, when I first moved. And, um… well, it’s, like, not my place to get into it, I guess, but, uh… Akira, like… really hates his family name.”

“He… does?”

Anne nods. “Again, it’s neither of our businesses, but he and his family, um… don’t exactly get along well , I guess. He likes saying his name is Akira and Akira alone.”

“…they must really not get along, if he’s to that point,” Toushirou says, and there’s that weird look in his eyes again.

She shrugs, because Akira trusted her with the specifics, and also said specifics made her so viciously angry she broke a cup and cried, in that order, so she doesn’t know if she’s the best person to relay that information, even if she were allowed.

“The point is,” she says, before she can get too emotional about how little Akira’s hometown deserves him again, “that if you don’t wanna use your family name, you don’t have to. We’re working together, so you should at least feel comfortable with us.”

“…yes,” Toushirou says, a small smile forming again on his face. “Thank you, Takamaki-kun.”

Anne nods, and wipes her eyes with her fingers one last time.

Not sure what else to do, she laughs.

“Man, I probably look like hell, don’t I?” she asks, and dips her head to pat at the spots under her eyes like that’ll help the puffiness any. She’s already given up on ways to make her face less red, but she knows she probably looks like a tomato right now.

“It’s definitely not the best you’ve ever looked, no,” Toushirou answers hesitantly.

Anne busts out laughing, so hard a few more tears slip out, even though she was so sure she was all cried out.

She wipes her eyes, and takes a steadying breath, and looks him in the eyes.

“Let’s go home?” she suggests. “Everyone else is probably getting nervous we’ve been out too long.”

“Oh, yes,” Toushirou says. “We ought to get back, then.”

Anne nods and turns around, walking back towards Leblanc, and hears Toushirou’s footsteps quickly fall in time with hers.

They walk back in silence. It’s only a minute or so, but Anne feels herself smiling the entire time, having to force herself not to skip even a little.

She stops in front of the door, and spins back to Toushirou. His shoulders jump, but it’s not exactly a flinch.

“When we get out of here,” she says, “out of Marië’s Kingdom, I mean. Come by Leblanc sometime in the real world. I’ll buy you a meal.”

Toushirou stares for a few seconds, before he smiles and he laughs.

“Yes,” he says. “That sounds nice.”

Anne nods, and goes back and opens the door.

As soon as she steps through the threshold, she feels Panther’s clothes melt away into her uniform, as well as a bunch of stares hit her all at once.

Her smile gets a bit awkward.

“We’re baaack,” she says, unable to help the way her voice gets a bit strained.

“Anne-chan!” Haru says, pushing herself out of her seat, having apparently moved to the counter at some point, but once she’s standing, she just hovers awkwardly in the walkway. “Are you okay?”

“Mhm.” Anne nods quickly. “I just stepped out to check in on Toushirou.”

“…that was more than a check-in,” Makoto says carefully, eyes flitting over Anne with a confused and distressed expression. “You two were gone for a while.”

“Sorry,” Anne says, wiping the inner corner of her eye. “We just got caught up talking.”

Ryuuji sits up so suddenly he moves the entire booth seat back.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snaps.

Anne flinches at the actual genuine venom in his tone, but as he walks out of the booth seat and into the walkway, bumping shoulders with Haru hard enough to make her stumble back and not even turning back to apologise to her, Anne realises the glare he’s giving isn’t directed at her. He’s looking over her shoulder.

She follows his line of sight to see Toushirou taking a wary step back, having already turned an impressive pale-green colour.

…uh-oh.

“Ryuuji,” she warns, taking a side-step to put herself between Ryuuji and Toushirou, but Ryuuji just puts a hand on her forearm and shoves her aside to puff his chest up at Toushirou, snarling like a feral dog, and grab at the lapels of his suit. “Ryuuji!”

“The fuck is your goddamn problem?” he shouts, and Toushirou makes a high-pitched whining sound as he’s jostled.

He’s got a good few inches on Ryuuji, but he’s also made of paper, willowy and thin, compared to Ryuuji who’s built like a soldier, not to mention the way Toushirou always stands like he’s a millisecond away from folding in on himself, and so even though he’s the tallest person in the room barring maybe Yusuke, and then only barely, he looks a lot smaller than Ryuuji right now, eyes wide and body shaking. Ryuuji also looks like he should have blood in his teeth right now, eyes wide in an anger Anne doesn’t see a lot, not even on Skull.

“I– I don’t– I–” Toushirou stutters, and Ryuuji forces him back a step.

“Do you have a fucking issue?” Ryuuji screams. “Why can’t you just leave her the hell alone, man? Is there something wrong with your fucking head?”

“Ryuuji!” Makoto says, and goes unheard.

Anne is two steps away from a panic attack, and Toushirou looks so afraid right now he might pass out.

“Ryuuji, stop!” she says herself, and grabs Ryuuji’s arm, and is knocked away by the elbow like she’s just a fly, Ryuuji’s eyes never leaving Toushirou for even a millisecond. That almost pisses her off more than it scares her, but she tries again, grabbing Ryuuji’s arm with both hands this time and pulling. “I said stop!”

She successfully tears Ryuuji’s hand from Toushirou’s jacket, but he just snaps his head at her, just as angry.

“Why the fuck are you protecting him?” he snaps at her, and turns back to glare at Toushirou (earning a shrill yelp) as he continues, “This piece of shit keeps–”

“He hasn’t done anything!”

“Bull-fucking-horseshit he hasn’t done anything!” Ryuuji screams, turning back to her, and he holds his head high despite the way his voice audibly cracks. “Look at you!”

Ok, rude ? Does he not realise how much of an asshole that makes him sound like?

Despite knowing he doesn’t mean it that way, her chin lifts and chest puffs out in anger– but as she goes to fold her arms in front of her, he catches her by either wrist and takes a half-step towards her so he’s so close she has to angle her head up to look at him.

Anne stops as she realises just how scared Ryuuji looks, past all the anger, a tight concern in his eyes and in the line of his jaw.

Guilt festers in her stomach again.

“Anne, listen,” he says, and all of a sudden she can’t help but think it sounds like he’s begging, “You gotta trust us, alright? Whatever he’s doin’, if he’s saying anything, you gotta let us know– it don’t matter what it is, you don’t hafta say what, but whatever’s goin’ on, we’ll help, okay? Just please–”

“It’s nothing ,” Anne says slowly, unable to decide between anger or comfort and just over-enunciating in place of either. “There’s still nothing happening. It’s fine , Ry–”

“If it were really all alright and nothin’’s going on,” Ryuuji says tightly, “then why the hell do you keep comin’ back home crying?”

Anne winces.

“That’s…” she says, and changes her argument to a, “Well, you know how I am.”

Ryuuji’s hands tighten their grip on her wrists, expression pinching slightly more.

“I know you’re a crybaby,” he says, “but you still don’t cry for no reason at all. So what’s your reason, huh? If everything’s fine?” And then, before Anne can do much more than open her mouth, he snaps, “And don’t give me any of that ‘sad story’ bullshit again, it was a total lie the first time and it’ll be a fuckin’ lie n–”

“Ryuuji.”

Akira doesn’t raise his voice, because he never does, not when he’s not Joker, but like always, even when he’s speaking in his usual calm-and-gentle, it somehow cuts through everything else, just by virtue of being Akira who spoke, and the whole world pauses, waiting with bated breath for him to say his piece.

Anne glances over, and Akira’s not even fully turned to them, body still facing forwards towards the counter with a pot of hot water in hand. He has a soft smile on his face, and into the silence, he tilts his head slightly.

“I think,” he says, voice trailing and slow like the air isn’t thick with the entire room hanging on his every word, “this might be a ‘happy tears’ situation?”

Ryuuji blinks at him, eyes wide for the way his face is screwed up in confusion, and mumbles, “‘Happy tears’...?” before turning to Anne, like he’s looking for a confirmation.

So she gives him her best smile and nods quickly.

He looks at her appraisingly for a little while longer, before pulling away slightly, squeezing her wrists before his hands go to hover in the air awkwardly for a few seconds before he finally lets them drop to his sides.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” he asks one more time as he fixes his posture back to his usual slouch.

Anne nods again. “I feel a lot better now,” she answers. “I’ll be okay, Ryuuji.”

He frowns, but looks at the ground, and then sighs, shoulders slumping.

“Okay,” he says. “I guess that’s all that matters in the end.”

Then, he grimaces, and looks back at Toushirou.

“Fuckin’… sorry, Pops,” he says through his teeth. “For yellin’ at you. Again. And…” A pause as he looks back down, before he groans, scrubbing the back of his head as his face goes a blotchy pink. “Thanks, I guess. F’r helping Anne out.”

“Ah?” Toushirou says. “Um? It’s okay? Rather, it’s not a problem? I… didn’t do… much of anything, I think…?”

Ryuuji’s lips twist in a frown. “Well, if she’s feelin’ better now, then you did somethin’,” he says, petulant and low. “So I’m sayin’ thanks for it, Grandpa.”

“If you’re that thankful, you can stop calling me that,” Toushirou says in a strained voice. “I’m 38.”

Ryuuji stares at him.

“You’re older than my mom is,” he says blankly, and doesn’t even seem to register Toushirou’s pained groan in response. Instead, he goes for the killing blow with a, “Hey, you’re supposed to have at least started settling down by now, right? I don’t see a ring or nothin’, but you at least got a girlfriend, right, Pops?”

Toushirou puts his head in his hands, and does not answer. 

Ryuuji watches that, confused, for a few seconds before it finally seems to register he’s killed the man, and he winces.

“Ooh,” he says, and reaches out and carefully pats Toushirou’s shoulder. “You’ll– I bet you’ll find someone, eventually, Gr– um. Toushirou,” he placates stiffly. “I’m, uh. I’m sure there’s someone out there for ya somewhere. Good– wait, do I say good luck with this sorta stuff? Um… break a leg? Godspeed?”

“Ryuuji,” Makoto cuts in chidingly. “You definitely oughtn’t say it like that .”

“Wh– the hell’m I supposed to say, then? ‘Sucks to be you, too bad so sad’?”

“There’s someone out there for everyone, should they so choose,” Haru says gently, easing back into her seat at the counter and smiling at Toushirou though visibly a bit pitying. “Best of luck in future endeavours, Toushirou-san.”

Toushirou groans.

Anne tunes out the conversation that continues on past that point, slipping past Ryuuji as stealthily as she can– mostly unsuccessfully, based on the way he reaches out so his hand can catch her hip as she passes, though he doesn’t keep her, and doesn’t look at her as he speaks to Toushirou– to commandeer a seat at the bar, two stools away from Haru, who lets her gaze linger on Anne, even after Anne spots her, and looks back.

After a long moment, she giggles, before visibly turning her attention away, more as a show of giving Anne her space than it is actually tuning into whatever everyone else is talking about.

Anne feels her face heat a little more, and she puts her hands on her cheeks to hide the blush that’s surely rising to them, half-expecting her face to be warmer to the touch than usual.

She looks around to see another pair– no. Just the one eye on her. Erina’s propped up on the counter, sitting next to the defunct landline and leaning her weight back on her palms set behind her– Anne’s sure Boss would have literally killed her at least three times already for her habit of doing that if he were here, but also, she doesn’t know if she’s ever seen Erina sit like a normal person in the right place. She’s seen Erina in the sink more times than she’s seen her in the booth, at least, which is… definitely a fact about her.

She grins when Anne makes eye contact, and tilts her head with a heavy, exaggerated blink that’s so deliberate and drawn out that Anne figures it could only be meant to be a wink, even if the whole eyepatch situation makes it hard to completely sell it.

That’s all Anne gets before Erina pulls away again, pushing herself up to sit forwards as her easy grin turns teasing and she begins to lay into Toushirou.

Anne sighs, feeling the tension drain from her as she sets her elbows on the counter, head still in her palms, and exhausted and comfortable, she melts into her seat.

A plate clinks , and she opens her eyes to see a cup of coffee steaming fresh and made just for her, already ready.

Akira smiles when she looks up at him.

“Just in time,” he says lightly. “It’s your favourite.”

Anne feels a laugh bubble out of her.

“Thanks, Akira,” she says, sitting up so she can take the cup in her hands. She probably really shouldn’t have anymore, but it already smells so damn good she doesn’t really care. “You’re the actual best, y’know that?”

His smile widens, just for a moment, pleased but bashful, then evens out to something softer and gentler.

“So you’re feeling better?”

“…yeah,” Anne says, and it surprises her just how honest the word feels as it leaves her mouth. Her shoulders slump slightly. “A– a bit, I think. We’re getting there.”

“Good,” Akira says. “Proud of you.”

She snorts, and gives off a dismissive, “Sure,” like that doesn’t mean the world, coming from him. “How about your end? I don’t see Futaba anymore.”

He stiffens slightly. “Ah…” he says, and pushes up his glasses with his knuckles. “Well. Uh, she’s, um, she’s upstairs, still. Lotta emotions, got tuckered. Y’know how it is.”

“Uh-huh,” Anne says. “You guys talked it out, then?”

A shrug. His hand goes now to scratch awkwardly at the wood of the counter, which coincidentally gives him a handy excuse to not have to look Anne in the eyes.

She hums, putting her chin in a palm again, propping her elbow on the counter as she leans onto her arm. “Went just as bad as you thought it would?”

That earns her a sudden, surprised puff of laughter and a small grin. “Mm, just about, yeah.”

“You feel any better, at least?”

He hums, eyes flicking to her for just a moment before settling back down on the little chip in the lacquer he’s apparently now dedicated his life to trying to widen. “No,” he settles on. “Not in the slightest. But I’m glad we talked, anyways.”

Anne laughs back.

“Yeah, figures,” she says. “Took me a few tries with Toushirou, too.”

She takes a sip of her coffee.

…man.

“You okay?” Akira asks.

“Fine,” Anne says. “This might be your best yet. Thank you, Akira.”

He flushes slightly and looks away.

“Whenever you need,” he says. “Just say the word.”

She hides her smile with the rim of the cup, but with Akira’s handiwork so close, she can’t help but get another sip while she has the chance. She really doesn’t know how he always seems to outdo himself when it comes to food and coffee.

“And thanks for bailing me out, there,” she adds. “With Ryuuji.”

Akira’s eyes return to her without turning his head, for just a moment before he looks away again.

“He’s just trying to keep you safe,” he says.

“He’s being a worrywart.”

Akira snorts, and finally turns his head back to her.

“You’ve been someone to worry about,” he counters with a crooked grin. “Don’t think the rest of us haven’t been beside ourselves trying to figure out how to help.”

Anne’s face feels hot again. She blames it on the having too much coffee, and pretends to believe herself as she turns her eyes to the counter. “Don’t think you’re off scot-free just because I’m also doing crappy. We’re all worried sick.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Akira…”

“You’re all back to me,” Akira says. “So I’ll be okay.”

Anne frowns at him, trying to beam it into his head that he’s not as good of a liar as he thinks he is, but he just smiles back, and there’s only so long she can fight him. Stubborn as a mule, he is.

She looks away first. His smile grows a bit bigger with his victory, before he clears his throat to get rid of it.

“Did you want something to eat?” he asks. “All that stressing you did probably burned a lot of energy, so you oughta get some calories in you.”

Anne carefully does not laugh.

“You’re so country sometimes.”

“Huh? What’s that mean?”

“Nothing. A sandwich would actually hit the spot right now, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“One sandwich, coming up, then.”

Akira turns away from her to go and fetch things for a sandwich, and Anne breathes out a sigh, and nurses her cup of coffee.

Without anything else to do, now, she turns her head to peer over at the conversation everyone else is having– well, actually, it’s devolved to the point that Erina’s now standing up and has put Toushirou in a headlock, ruffling his hair by her knuckles with a laugh and a grin on her face despite his shrill complaints. Erina’s back is to Anne, but Toushirou sees her, and stops still when they make eye contact.

…Anne hadn’t really considered what she’d do now that she’s not avoiding Toushirou like the plague. She doesn’t really know how to talk to him, even without the obvious guilt in the way.

Awkwardly, she raises a hand and waves at him.

He stares for a second longer, and raises his hand and waves back.

Ryuuji follows his line of sight, visibly confused, and only looks more lost when he sees Anne with her hand still up. His mouth opens to ask something that would probably be embarrassing or otherwise socially damaging, and Anne braces herself for violent urges, but then Ryuuji’s head snaps farther up, eyes focusing past her, and his expression turns quickly into indignant anger.

“A-Ay!” he shouts, way too loud, and points an accusatory finger at… not Anne, but Akira. “Are you making her food ?”

Anne turns around to see Akira halfway through putting bread in the heater. He looks to his left, then right, and then seems to realise there’s one person Ryuuji could logically be talking to, and smiles, confused. “Uh, yeah?” he says. “She wanted a sandwich.”

“ What ?” Yusuke shouts with a booming voice, so loud Anne sees a few people flinch, as his head snaps up from his sketchbook. “ I want a sandwich!”

“I want one, too!” Ryuuji adds without missing a beat. “Why don’t I get one?”

“You– okay, I can make you guys something?”

“Can I get one?” Erina asks, tilting her head slightly.

“Sure?” Akira says, and blinks a few times, and looks around, forgetting to look confused as an amused smile pulls on his face while he asks, “Makoto, you in on this? Haru?”

Makoto laughs, covering her mouth. “Sure,” she says. “As long as it’s not too much trouble.”

“Oh,” Haru says at the same time, and looks around, “U-Uhm…”

“You want one!” Morgana declares. “And you’ll share some with me!”

“Oh, okay,” Haru says, and turns back to Akira, “I suppose I would love one, then!”

Akira turns away to laugh. “Roger that.”

Anne lets herself hesitate only a little before turning back around.

“D-Do you want something to eat, Toushirou?” she asks.

There’s a slight pause.

“That would be very much appreciated,” he says carefully.

Anne nods at him, and looks back to Akira to see him watching her.

He grins when they make eye contact, and looks away.

“Got it,” he says. “One for everyone, then.”

There’s a loud thump from upstairs, and everyone’s heads snap up to the ceiling.

“There better be one for me when I get down there!” Futaba’s voice, gravelly with sleep and slurred slightly, calls from the attic, and there’s another banging sound to emphasise her point.

There’s a pause.

Anne snorts, and claps her hands over her mouth when everyone looks at her, but she can’t stop laughing.

“Pfft-haha! S-Sor– sorry Akira,” she forces out between bouts of laughter, and Akira sighs, unable to fight his own smile.

“That’s what I get for trying to do something special,” he says, and then adds in a quieter voice, like he’s thinking out loud, “I guess I’ll get more bread, then,” as he turns to watch back to the kitchen.

Anne leans down, pressing her face to the counter as she shakes with laughter.

“Dunno if it’s that funny,” Ryuuji says, and Anne turns her head just enough to see him rolling his shoulder.

She laughs harder.

“It’s so not!” she giggles. “I’m just– pffhaha– I didn’t think everyone would– even Futaba, she must’ve heard you and Yusuke– hahaha!”

She closes her eyes as she laughs, leaning her head into her arms, and she feels Ryuuji’s knuckles lightly knock against her scalp.

“You sure you’re feelin’ alright?” he asks, and she laughs harder before she realises this is a genuine question, so she draws herself back up and gives him a grin.

“Yeah,” she says. “Just feeling good right now, so everything’s funny.”

His worried frown only deepens.

“Feelin’ good, eh,” he repeats, before the expression clears away to a grin, and he leans forward to sling an arm around Anne’s shoulders and settle what has to be most of his weight on her, calling, “Hey, ‘kira, can I get less of the lettuce and junk on mine, too?”

“Less ham, got it.”

“Wait, no, no, no–”

Anne cackles.

She puts a hand over her mouth, feeling her face get red, but she can’t help but keep laughing, leaning into Ryuuji back.

He squeezes her shoulders, and she peaks up to see him looking at her, another grin, this one smaller and more hesitant, on his face, but he spins away to play-argue with Akira about whether or not he’s grown enough to need to eat his greens.

She leans into him, setting her head on his shoulders, and lets the words wash over her, taking in everything she can.

For the first time in a while, she feels like she can enjoy this without guilt, even with Toushirou behind her.

Another squeeze.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Ryuuji asks her lowly. Anne looks up at him. Makoto is talking about the importance of a balanced diet even in adulthood, and Ryuuji’s looking nowhere but Anne.

“Fine,” she says. “I promise I’m better now. Just thinking.”

“Mm… about?”

“How much I love you guys.”

He pauses, and adjusts his grip to pull her closer.

He doesn’t say it back, because Makoto calls his name to make sure he’s listening, but as he turns to tell her he didn’t get a word of it and won’t even if she repeats it, the shells of his ears are red, and he holds her to his side like he doesn’t ever intend on letting go.

She laughs, and sets her head on his shoulder again, and closes her eyes.