Work Text:
The charming Detective Prince was nothing if not kind and courteous. He was Tokyo’s golden boy, the picture of politeness sure to win the heart of any who looked at him. He was a doll, a mask, whatever he needed to be to win the public’s approval.
The Detective Prince wouldn’t hold an ounce of ill will towards a red headed girl who curled against Akira Kurusu’s body on a bench in Inokashira like a love sick schoolgirl. He wouldn’t take pleasure in the thought of her begging for mercy before the ugly creature that lurked inside his heart.
The Detective Prince would never consider taking the gun from his briefcase and shooting the blonde idiot carelessly playing darts with Akira after school. He wouldn’t fantasize about burning off the boy’s hand for daring to touch Akira so casually.
The Detective Prince wouldn’t look at magazines with a burning jealousy. He wouldn’t wish that a certain model was the one who jumped instead every time Akira looked at her.
The Detective Prince would not look at Wakaba Ishiiki's daughter with disgust and dismay as she hid behind Akira. He wouldn't wish for her to be just as shattered and broken as he was over the death of a mother.
The Detective Prince would not feel a sense of dread deep in the pit of his stomach when he spotted a blue haired boy sipping on a mocktail in the place that had once been known only to him and Akira. The thought that he should have known his place and stayed under Madarame's thumb would never cross his mind.
The Detective Prince would never aim a gun at the back of Okumura’s head. He wouldn’t take a sick pleasure in knowing that the daughter who clung so fiercely to Akira would be devastated by the death. He wouldn’t vindictively wish for the marriage to go through as planned, leaving her unable to see Akira ever again.
The Detective Prince would not poke and prod at Makoto Niijima’s insecurities in an attempt to break her down. He wouldn’t have to stamp out his anger when Akira still looked at her just the same as before.
The Detective Prince would never feel a sick sense of vindication as Joker’s dagger clashed against Crow’s serrated blade. The rush when he felt Joker’s eyes on him and him alone.
The Detective Prince would not be staring at the ceiling of an engine room, bleeding out from the bullet hole in his body. He wouldn’t feel so cold and alone, lost without a place in the world left to go. He wouldn’t wince at the sound of Akira’s voice, shattered by grief for a connection he only saw once it was too late.
The Detective Prince would happily give up everything if it meant allowing suffering to end. He’d become a puppet once again to save the world and those inside it. He’d do anything if it meant people would adore him. If it meant Akira, someone, would take notice of him.
More than anything else, the Detective Prince would never be Goro Akechi.
Goro Akechi, the boy who took Akira’s hand the night before he faced his certain demise. The boy who beyond all logic and reason, was somehow cherished enough to be worth risking the entire world for.