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In a way, it was easier when he thought that Goro was dead.
There was closure in that, a finality that was irrevocable. Now, his mind is plagued by doubts, fears, and unanswered questions. He spends more time than he’d care to admit wondering where Goro is, what he’s doing, and who he’s doing it with. Does Goro ever wonder about me? Akira knows that ruminating like this isn’t healthy. Whatever feelings he has are almost certainly unreciprocated, and dwelling on them will only make things worse. Nevertheless, the thoughts persist, scratching at his subconscious like an itch that’s just out of reach. To be honest, Akira isn’t sure who he should be angrier at; Goro for not getting in touch, or himself for naïvely expecting anything different from him.
He tries to soldier on through the fatigue, but finds himself snapping at colleagues and even friends with alarming regularity. Over-the-counter sleeping pills aren’t much help, and neither is chamomile tea when he has the patience to brew it. Morgana is starting to worry about him, if the uptick in queries about his well-being is anything to go by. Akira hasn’t told him about Goro’s return yet. He keeps meaning to, but whenever he considers broaching the subject, he finds himself choking on the words like they might suffocate him.
Before this happened, Akira didn’t understand why people always said that the fear of the unknown was the greatest fear of them all. He’d scoffed at the notion. They hadn’t seen the things that he had. To them, the horrors of the Metaverse were beyond their imagination, let alone their comprehension. Tonight, though, the unknown keeps him awake; its looming spectre haunts him more than any abomination of the cognitive world.
Tonight, as per usual, Morgana is sound asleep at the foot of his bed. Although his soft snoring is barely audible over the buzz of non-stop traffic outside, it brings Akira some comfort. At least he can take solace in the fact that he’s not alone. Nonetheless, sleep evades him. He glances at the alarm clock on the bedside cabinet, and it takes an immense amount of willpower to suppress a groan when he sees that it’s past midnight. He can’t go on like this. Some of his colleagues have already threatened to tattle on him to HR.
With an exasperated sigh, he climbs out of bed. Perhaps stripping it down and remaking it will remedy the situation. He tiptoes over to the corner of the room, careful not to wake Morgana, and slides his slippers onto his feet. As he swivels around to get to work, an unexpected noise all but makes him jump out of his skin—a relentless pounding on the front door of his apartment.
Morgana jumps to his feet, back arched and hackles raised. “What the hell?” he cries out in alarm, as though he were merely feigning sleep moments prior.
“I don’t know,” Akira hisses as the sound continues, growing louder by the second. He squares his shoulders and grits his teeth. “Probably some drunk idiot who can’t remember their apartment number. Wait here. I’ll go and check.”
Irritated, he jogs to the front door, then pauses. Trepidation sinks its claws into him. What if it’s someone looking for trouble? Right, because burglars always make sure to knock before they break in, he chides himself. Still, a cautious approach seems sensible. He hesitantly peers through the door’s tiny peephole, and can’t help but gasp at what he sees.
Silhouetted in the darkened hallway is Goro, his face framed in shadow.
“Kurusu, I know you’re in there,” he grunts impatiently. “Let me in.”
Without thinking, Akira unlocks the door and swings it open. As he surveys Goro’s appearance, a lump forms in his throat. A deep purple bruise has blossomed over Goro’s good eye, and there’s a bloody gash on his cheek. Glancing at his hands, Goro’s knuckles are in similarly bad condition, swollen and bleeding.
“What happened?” Akira hears himself ask. He feels dazed, like this might be a dream.
Goro shoulders past him, slamming the door closed. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
“Yeah,” Akira answers flatly. “It’s in the living room.”
The patter of small paws alerts him to Morgana’s approach. Before he has a chance to try to explain himself, Morgana skids to a halt and yells, “Akechi? You’re alive?”
Goro sneers as he shuffles into the living room. “I could say the same thing to you.”
“Asshole,” Morgana retorts. He turns his piercing blue eyes on Akira, his expression morphing into a feline approximation of a frown. “Did you know about this?”
Too ashamed to speak, Akira nods faintly and flicks on the living room light switch. The cold, pale fluorescence of the naked bulb flickers intermittently—I really should talk to the landlord about the wiring, he thinks—but it’s enough to work with as he forages through his cluttered cabinet in search of the first aid kit. Once he finds what he’s looking for, he sets it down on top of the metal side table that stands adjacent to the sofa.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Akira can hear the hurt in Morgana’s voice, and it makes him feel like a colossal piece of shit.
“I was going to,” he protests weakly, unable to meet Morgana’s gaze. “It’s complicated.”
“I bet,” Morgana mutters.
Goro shoots a contemptuous glare at the Morgana, his lip curling in disdain. “You’re not the centre of the universe, Morgana. Get over yourself.”
“Don’t talk to him like that,” Akira snaps, surprised at how angry he sounds. “My apartment, my rules. Drop the attitude if you want my help.”
“Is that how it is?” Goro’s mouth twitches with the semblance of a smirk. He slumps onto the sofa, wincing as he does so, then gazes up at Akira. The bruising around his good eye makes the wine-red of his iris even more striking. His voice lowers to a purr as he adds, “Fine. Whatever you say, Joker.”
Akira bristles at the use of his code name, but refuses to give Goro the satisfaction of reacting to it. Instead, he grabs a packet of antiseptic wipes from the first aid kit, and sits down next to Goro. After he makes himself somewhat comfortable, it takes him longer than it should to recognise the displeasing smell wafting off him—alcohol. Akira’s heart sinks to the pit of his stomach. That explains everything, he thinks bitterly.
“Bar fight?” he asks, doing everything in his power to keep his tone even.
“Well-deduced,” Goro snorts, then holds his hand out to Akira. “A little help?”
Pursing his lips, Akira presses an antiseptic wipe against Goro’s bleeding knuckles. It elicits a pained grimace from Goro, but he quickly rearranges his expression into something more neutral. Despite the odour that clings to his clothes, he seems no less alert than usual. Given his slim build, Akira would’ve thought he’d be a lightweight. Then again, defying expectations is one of Goro’s pre-eminent talents.
“I thought you’d taken an anger management course,” Akira comments mildly, trying to distract himself from the unpleasant task at hand.
Goro scoffs, “I didn’t start the fight. I just finished it.”
“What, did you kill them?” Morgana grumbles, circling around the sofa until he’s sat at Goro’s feet. He regards him with a level of supreme scorn that would make even the most judgemental of cats green with envy.
“Regrettably, no,” Goro replies coolly. “Though the man in question may think twice before running his mouth in the future.”
In spite of himself, Akira’s curiosity is piqued. “What did he say to you?”
Goro pauses, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Nothing. He was being inappropriately handsy with a young woman at the bar. When she told him to back off, he called her a bitch. I merely interceded on her behalf.”
“Interceded?” Morgana repeats, sceptical.
“I might have threatened to strangle him with his own intestines.” Goro shrugs. “But there’s no way of proving that.”
A chuckle escapes Akira’s lips of its own volition.
“I’m glad to have amused you,” Goro says, sarcasm dripping off every syllable. “I forget how level-headed you are, Kurusu. You would never—oh, I don’t know—assault someone in the middle of Central Street. During rush hour, no less.”
Morgana faces Akira, aghast. “You didn’t.”
“He did,” Goro affirms in a conspiratorial whisper.
“We’re not talking about that,” Akira says firmly, scowling at Goro.
Goro flashes a savage, taunting grin, reminiscent of a wild animal baring its teeth before launching into an attack. “You know me. I’ve never been good at following rules.”
Is he flirting with me or making fun of me? It’s difficult to tell with Goro. Akira studies his expression for a few moments, all teeth and gleaming eyes, and isn’t sure what to make of it. At a loss, he grabs some gauze from the first aid kit, and carefully begins to bandage Goro’s bloodstained knuckles. He wonders absent-mindedly what kind of shape the other guy is in, but quickly shakes the thought from his head. It doesn’t matter. If Goro is telling the truth about what happened, he had it coming.
“How’s work?” Goro asks abruptly.
Akira shrugs, not wanting to break his concentration. “Boring.”
A minute or so passes before Goro speaks again, this time sounding rather disgruntled, “Aren’t you going to ask me how my work is?”
“You’re distracting me,” Akira explains, growing irritated.
Morgana prances over, slinking between Goro’s legs as he chimes in, “Were you making small talk, Akechi?”
“I was attempting to,” Goro huffs. “There’s a first time for everything.”
“I’m flattered that you’re making an effort for me,” Akira remarks. He means for it to come across as light-hearted banter, but even he can hear how caustic it sounds, resentment bleeding into his tone whether he wants it to or not.
He takes a deep breath to steady himself, then turns to Morgana with a sigh. “Can you give us a minute alone, please?”
Morgana eyes the pair of them with visible uncertainty, but reluctantly complies all the same. He saunters out of the room, swishing his tail as he goes, and Akira watches until his small silhouette disappears beyond the threshold of the room. With Morgana gone, he looks at Goro, whose expression has hardened. His jaw is rigid, his lips are pressed into a harsh line, and his good eye has lost its mischievous glimmer.
“If you’re so angry with me…” Goro hesitates, then exhales sharply through his nose and presses on, “Why did you even let me in?”
“You know why,” Akira replies fiercely, his voice hoarse from pure frustration. Tears sting his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. He can’t let Goro see him like that—not again. “You can’t feign ignorance just because you don’t know what to do with the truth.”
Goro stares at him, apparently astonished. “I didn’t know you still felt that way.”
“Bullshit,” Akira snaps. “Do you expect me to believe that? I can’t just turn it off, Goro. No matter how obtuse you insist on being.”
After a few moments of awkward silence, Goro murmurs, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t know what to do with it. I’m not used to people caring.”
“What about me?” Akira demands, voice quivering. Despite his best efforts, the tears in his eyes seem determined to break free.
A shudder runs through Akira’s body as he tries to fight back a sob, a strangled whimper slipping from his lips. Dammit, he thinks. Not now. He can’t break down.
His mind carries him back to that cold February evening in Leblanc, when he clutched the lapels of Goro’s overcoat and pleaded with him to stay. Was that even the real Goro? He doesn’t know anymore. Does the Goro sitting with him now remember that day? The idea that he shared that private moment of despair with a mere imposter—a hollow simulacrum conjured by the deepest recesses of his own yearning—is enough to make him dizzy with nausea.
The sound of Goro’s voice brings him back to the present. “Are you… crying?”
Blinking back tears, Akira shakes his head with as much vigour as he can manage. He struggles to maintain his composure as Goro narrows his eyes, scrutinising his face intently. Stop it, Akira wants to say, but he holds his tongue. Why does Goro have to be so perceptive? Most people would just take him at his word, and leave him alone. Not Goro, though. He’s like a dog with a bone.
“You’re the one who was just in a fight,” Akira points out, voice trembling in spite of himself. “Now’s not the time to worry about me.”
“You’ve always been a dreadful liar, Kurusu,” Goro sighs. “If you need to cry, you might as well get it over with. I’m not here to judge you.”
“Morgana will hear,” Akira chokes out. “He’ll worry.”
“So what? He can mind his own business,” Goro counters.
A few errant tears trickle from Akira’s eyes, and his body trembles from the strain of holding the floodgates closed. When he tries to speak, all that comes out is a pathetic, broken whimper. He squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that he feels like his head might explode. Not like this, he thinks frantically. His self-control is all he has, but he can feel it slipping through his fingers like water with every passing second.
Goro places a tentative hand on Akira’s arm, an attempt at a comforting gesture. “I’m not very good at it, but… I do care about you, Akira. I want you to know that.”
No amount of self-control can compete with that. Tears stream down Akira’s cheeks, and he has to clamp a hand over his mouth to muffle his sobs. Goro gives his arm a gentle squeeze. Though his vision is blurred by tears, Akira can see that his expression is uncharacteristically soft, verging on tender. It’s a strange sight, but not a disagreeable one. Before Akira can think better of it, he pitches forward and captures Goro’s lips in a rough, desperate kiss.
It lasts for less than a second before Goro recoils, cheeks flushed as he gapes at Akira in unmasked shock.
Regret hits Akira like a freight train. “Oh, God. Goro, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Stop babbling,” Goro hisses, his gaze frosting over. “You sound like an idiot.”
That’s because I am an idiot, Akira thinks miserably. Typical of him to find a way to ruin the moment. It’s nothing short of a miracle that Goro didn’t slap him. If he’s being honest with himself, he definitely deserves it.
“You should’ve asked first,” Goro continues to reprimand him. “For the record, I wouldn’t have objected. Keep that in mind next time.”
It takes Akira’s brain a few mystified moments to process what Goro is saying. “Next time?”
“Next time you want to kiss me,” Goro clarifies matter-of-factly.
Unsure of how to respond, Akira nods and wipes his eyes. As he tries to get his ragged breathing under control, his gaze falls upon the gash on Goro’s cheek, a stark contrast to the smooth, pale skin around it. Thankfully, the bleeding has stopped on its own, but guilt nonetheless slithers into Akira’s gut. Am I really that self-absorbed? Goro came here for his help, and all Akira has done is make everything about himself.
“I’ll get some more antiseptic wipes,” he mutters, reaching for the first aid kit.
Goro takes a hold of his wrist. “I can do it myself.”
“But—” Akira starts to protest, only to cut himself off. With a confused frown, he asks, “Wait, why did you come here, then?”
“Convenience,” Goro replies sharply. He snatches the antiseptic wipes from Akira, and dabs at his injury. Though his expression is inscrutable, he’s reluctant to meet Akira’s gaze, and his hand is trembling ever so slightly.
A realisation dawns on Akira, and he can’t help but smile. “You wanted to see me.”
“So what if I did?” Goro snaps. “Do you think this is fun for me? I swore to myself a long time ago that I would never yield to another person’s whims again, but you—I don’t understand what it is about you that makes me so… amenable. Perhaps you do have some preternatural powers of persuasion, after all. It drives me mad.”
Under normal circumstances, the venom in Goro’s voice might make Akira flinch. Right now, though, he finds himself grinning like a buffoon.
“It’s okay,” he says softly. “I like having you around.”
Goro squirms, and Akira can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he contemplates his next move. His brow furrows in concentration as his eyes narrow. Akira is certain that Goro doesn’t know how endearing the expression is, though he has no intention of making Goro aware of this fact. Knowing Goro, he wouldn’t be pleased to hear it. The sensible decision is to admire him in silence, as he often did when they were teenagers.
Eventually, Goro sighs. “You’re something else, Kurusu.”
“Is that a compliment?” Akira teases.
“As if your ego needs inflating any further,” Goro scoffs, though his good eye twinkles with unmistakable amusement.
Once Goro’s wound is clean, Akira rummages around in the first aid kit until he finds a strip of band aids. Goro reaches for them, no doubt intending to apply one himself, but Akira swats his hand away.
“I’ll do it,” Akira assures. “It’s easier than getting you a mirror.”
Before Goro can argue with him, Akira leans in closer to place the band aid over the cut on his left cheek, using his free hand to cradle Goro’s jaw. Although Goro tenses at the contact, he doesn’t shrink back. Applying the band aid takes no more than a few seconds, but Akira lingers. His hand travels from Goro’s jaw to brush the hair out of his glassy right eye, mapping out the scars on his temple as he does so.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Goro hisses, seizing Akira’s wrist in a forceful grip.
“Relax, I’m not going to kiss you again.” Akira delicately pries his wrist from Goro’s grasp. “You’re nice to look at. We’ve discussed this before.”
“That’s very forward,” Goro comments icily. “Anyone would think that you were the one who’d been drinking. Does this normally work for you? I assume that you’ve accrued plenty of experience over the years. It didn’t take much sleuthing to realise that half of your friends back in the day were trying to get into your pants.”
Akira smirks. “You sound jealous.”
“I’m just stating a simple fact.” Goro’s tone is measured, but his nostrils flare with indignation. “I expect you still have your fair share of admirers.”
“If that’s the case, I haven’t noticed.” Akira shrugs.
“None of them interest you, then?” Goro asks with an arched eyebrow.
“What can I say? I have a type,” he chuckles, playfully nudging Goro’s arm. “A pretty specific type, at that. I’m sure that I don’t need to go into descriptive detail.”
To his delight, Goro’s cheeks take on a rosy hue. “Definitely not.”
Akira slouches back on the sofa, chin propped up by his hand. Although he’s seen Goro blush before—in fact, he’s been the cause of it more often than not—the novelty has yet to wear off. He hopes that it never will.
“So, are you staying the night?” he asks, as casually as he can manage.
“I see no reason not to,” Goro answers. “I recall you saying that you have a spare room.”
Standing up, Akira gestures for Goro to follow. “Yeah, I’ll show you.”
On their way, they pass the doorway that leads into Akira’s room. As expected, Morgana is curled up at the foot of the bed, awake and very much alert. He lifts his head to peer at the two of them as they enter his field of vision. Without hesitation, Morgana climbs to his feet and pads to the door before sitting down to gaze up at Akira as the latter pauses in the hallway.
“I presume that you two have talked about…” Morgana grimaces in discomfort. “Whatever it was that you needed to talk about.”
“We’re all good,” Akira reassures him.
Unprompted, Goro pipes up, “Not that it’s any of your concern.”
Morgana turns his attention to Goro, his glacial blue eyes flashing dangerously in the unlit hallway. “Akira’s well-being is my concern.”
“Okay, okay,” Akira cuts in, his patience waning. He positions himself between the two of them and raises his hands in an effort to mediate the brewing argument. “Can the two of you not turn every conversation into a pissing contest, please? It’s really annoying.”
In response, Goro offers a saccharine smile. “I can play nice.”
“I’ll try my best. No promises,” Morgana grumbles with a haughty flick of his tail.
“Thanks, guys,” Akira snorts sarcastically. “Very reassuring. Great job.”
Goro scoffs and rolls his eyes, then leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “And you say that Morgana and I have an attitude problem.”
Not taking the bait, Akira sidesteps around Goro as he heads further down the hallway. With a smirk, Goro follows until they arrive at the guest bedroom. It’s not what anyone would call glamorous—a cramped, undecorated room with dull brown upholstery and furniture. Its disuse is made all the more apparent by the cobwebs clinging to the peripheries of the ceiling and the light coating of dust on the windowsill, but in Akira’s defence, he rarely receives overnight visitors. Akira flicks on the light, and Goro surveys the interior with a pensive frown.
“I suppose it’ll have to suffice,” he mutters, rather melodramatically in Akira’s opinion.
Akira sighs in exasperation. “It’s this or the couch. Take your pick.”
“The principles of hospitality seem to be lost on you,” Goro remarks, a sly smile playing on his lips and an impish gleam in his eyes. “Or is this just because I got under your skin?”
“You wish,” Akira fires back, though he can’t help but reciprocate Goro’s smile.
Goro takes a step closer, and to Akira’s astonishment, places a cautious hand on his shoulder. Stunned, Akira finds himself staring at Goro, who is hesitant to make eye contact. Instead, he appears to be lost in thought, and Akira’s heart skips a beat when Goro’s hand moves from his shoulder to the nape of his neck.
“Can I…?” Goro begins shakily. He sets his jaw and shakes his head, meeting Akira’s gaze as his eye burns with a quiet yet focused determination. “Can I kiss you?”
Although Akira’s tongue feels like lead in his mouth, he manages to reply, “Yeah.”
And Goro does just that, pressing his chapped lips to Akira’s in a surprisingly gentle caress. On the rare occasion that he allowed himself to think about it, Akira expected that Goro would kiss the same way he does everything else, with unyielding conviction and fervour. To know that Goro has this capacity for tenderness, and that only he gets to see this side of him is better than anything Akira imagined. He kisses him back just as softly, not wanting to overstep or spook him, and he feels Goro smile against his mouth.
When they break apart, Akira slowly trails his fingertips along Goro’s jawline and murmurs, “That was nice.”
“It was,” Goro agrees, hand still clasped around the back of Akira’s neck, fingers threading through the unkempt curls there. With a deep breath, he releases his grip and enters the guest bedroom. “Goodnight, Akira.”
A troubling thought occurs to him. “I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and find you gone, am I?”
“Your cooking is too good for me to skip breakfast,” Goro assures with a chuckle. “I’ll be here when you get up. Don’t fret.”
Akira breathes a sigh of relief, and gives Goro a nod. “That’s good to know. I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
Reeling from the kiss, Akira hastens to his room in a near-dreamlike trance. I wouldn’t be surprised if this were a dream, he thinks. It seems too good to be true, and with that epiphany, a familiar sense of foreboding takes root in his mind. He stops dead in his tracks, and casts a worried glance over his shoulder. There’s still something he doesn’t know—something he needs to know before he goes any further with this. Unable to quell the anxiety, he speed-walks back to the guest bedroom, the door to which is still hanging ajar.
“What are you doing?” Goro asks, caught off-guard. From his position on the bed, he eyes Akira with uncertainty.
The words tumble from Akira’s lips, “I need to know the truth. Was it really you who fought Maruki with us? I know that he lied about a lot of things, but… it was you, right? Not some cognitive manifestation of my desires, or—”
“Akira,” Goro interjects harshly. “Why the hell are you asking me this?”
“Because I don’t know,” Akira admits, his voice quivering with desperation. “I thought that I knew, but now that you’re back, everything’s been turned on its head.”
“Of course it was me,” Goro says wearily. “I may have called you an idiot earlier, but I don’t think you would’ve been tricked by a cognition. Besides, what good would it serve Maruki to send one of his puppets to the one person who could throw a wrench in his self-aggrandizing plans? That’s strategically moronic.”
All that Akira can muster in response is a weak nod. Logic tells him that Goro is right, and he tries his utmost to focus on that rather than the irrational doubts gnawing incessantly at his subconscious.
“I understand,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry for doubting you. Like you said, it wouldn’t make sense. I should’ve realised.”
“I’d rather that you ask now than in a year’s time.” Goro attempts a wry smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The expression wavers, then disappears in a heartbeat, replaced by a hauntingly desolate stare.
Treading carefully, Akira says, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Who says that I’m upset?” Goro’s challenges. Without waiting for an answer, he goes on, “You seriously believed that a cognition could masquerade as me for a month without slipping up? Am I that predictable in your eyes? I thought that you were the last person who would belittle me like that, but I guess I was wrong.”
“No, Goro, listen—” Akira scrambles to explain himself. “I couldn’t stand the idea that Maruki got the last laugh, that he screwed us over again. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Goro doesn’t reply; he merely redirects his gaze to his hands folded in his lap. From this angle, Akira can’t make out his expression. The room feels even smaller than it is, bordering on claustrophobic as the moon struggles to peek through the shuttered window. Steeling himself, Akira sinks down next to Goro, the bedframe groaning in protest as he does so.
“I think you’re extraordinary, Goro,” he says softly.
A shiver rattles Goro’s slender frame, and his hands clench into fists. His breaths come out shallow and rapid, but he still doesn’t look at Akira.
“Do you pity me?” he rasps, his voice a hair’s breadth away from a whisper.
Akira doesn’t need to ponder his answer. “No.”
“Good,” Goro mutters stiffly.
A tense silence envelopes the room, only broken by the sound of Goro’s efforts to regain control over his breathing. Akira monitors him out of his peripheral vision, knowing that Goro won’t take kindly to a more obvious display of concern. Soon enough, Goro straightens up and brushes his hair out of his eyes, which are notably bloodshot.
As though anticipating what Akira plans to say, he declares, “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Akira asks, unable to mask his scepticism.
“I will be fine,” Goro amends pointedly. “Once I’ve had some sleep, I’ll be fine. You should head to bed, too. It’s getting late.”
Akira isn’t convinced. “Now it sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me.”
“If that were the case, I wouldn’t mince words,” Goro claims, fixing Akira with a frustrated scowl. “You don’t need to hover around me like a mother hen. Maybe your friends appreciate it, but I don’t. I prefer to decompress alone.”
“Alright,” Akira laughs dryly. “Give me a shout if you change your mind.”
Despite his reservations, he gets to his feet. Goro offers a fragile smile as a form of reassurance, which Akira returns in kind. Pushing him won’t do any good, Akira reminds himself as he reluctantly exits the guest bedroom once again. If Goro needs some space, then so be it. Akira has no right to intrude.
By the time he steps into his room, Morgana has reclaimed his usual spot at the foot of the bed. He raises his head as Akira approaches, yawning and stretching his front legs out in a languid, fluid motion.
“Hey, buddy,” Akira smiles, crouching down to stroke the top of Morgana’s head. “Sorry for taking so long.”
“No worries,” Morgana mumbles sleepily.
“I shouldn’t have kept Akechi’s return a secret,” Akira admits. “Not from you, anyway. I guess that I didn’t really know what to do with myself. It was a shock.”
Morgana chuckles. “You don’t say.”
“Do you hate him?” Akira asks nervously.
“He’s not an easy person to like,” Morgana answers with a shrug. “But ‘hate’ is too strong a word. He’s just… who he is, for better or worse.”
“Right,” Akira says, mulling it over. “I meant what I said earlier; I don’t want you two to be at each other’s throats all the time. It’s important to me.”
The not-cat heaves a sigh. “I don’t understand what you see in him.”
“You don’t have to,” Akira retorts, defensiveness sharpening his voice to a razor’s edge. “Just don’t be a dick, please. That’s all I’m asking.”
Taken aback, Morgana’s eyes grow wide. “Oh my God. You love him, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do,” Akira replies, steadfast. It may not be what Morgana wants to hear, but obfuscating the truth isn’t going to help at this point. He has nothing to be ashamed of. “I probably always have, if I’m being honest with myself.”
Morgana stares at him in stunned silence. That’s a rare sight, Akira thinks wryly. Who knew it could be so easy to render Morgana speechless? Morgana’s expression is caught between amazement and incredulity, his mouth opening and closing several times as he visibly flounders to come up with a suitable response. If only Akira had his phone to hand so that he could immortalise this moment in a photograph.
Akira stands up. “Goodnight, Morgana.”
“You have terrible taste,” Morgana mutters under his breath.
Too tired to argue, Akira crawls under the covers, drawing them up to his chin. He can get his revenge on Morgana for that comment in the morning. A devious smile spreads across his face at the prospect. After all, he has all night to concoct a plan.
The pillow is cool when he lays his head down, just the way he likes it. As he adjusts his position to get comfortable, a deep sense of contentment settles in his bones. For once, the uncertainty of the road ahead doesn’t faze him—if tonight is any indication, he’s confident that no obstacle will be insurmountable. Whether he and Goro end up as friends or something more, he’s glad to have him back in his life, and that’s what matters the most.