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"Today is his birthday." Akira stared at the red circle on the calendar, a complicated emotion stirring in his chest.
It had been over a year since Goro’s sudden "resurrection" and subsequent disappearance, yet Akira still hadn’t given up searching for him—no matter how faint the trail. Riding trains after school to scour the city had become a new habit. Fortunately, his family rarely questioned his whereabouts, and the money he’d earned ramming Shadows with the Morgana-mobile in Mementos had all been funneled into funding his Shinkansen expeditions.
He considered his search thorough. Armed with his silver tongue and the devilishly handsome face of the former Trickster, he slipped in and out of elite university dorms, picked locks to sneak into rundown apartments near public bathhouses, and combed every corner for even the faintest trace. But no matter how thoroughly he turned Japan upside down, Goro remained missing.
The only thing keeping him going was that fleeting glimpse on the Shinkansen back to his hometown—a figure outside the window, there and gone in an instant. But he was certain it had been Goro. Seeing was believing, and he had a Third Eye. A cat’s sharp intuition, combined with his experience as the ex-leader of a phantom thief group bold enough to declare "We'll take this country for ourselves," led him to one unshakable conclusion: Akechi was alive, somewhere in this world.
So far, he’d only scoured university-adjacent areas on weekends. Juvenile detention centers, shelters, even prisons—those were still unchecked. What if that cop at the station hadn’t been inviting Goro to consult on a case, but arresting him? Or worse, what if some mysterious force had flung Goro into another timeline—
Akira, if you don’t leave now, you’ll be late! Morgana’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Ah, crap—" Akira jolted back to reality, snatching his bag and keys as he bolted out the door.
***
After returning to the countryside, his life had become much simpler and more routine. No more infiltrating Mementos or Palaces, no need to max out the Rank anymore—just school, meals, and searching for Goro. He could even guarantee a strict 10 PM bedtime every night, maintaining a healthier sleep schedule than ever before. But this newfound peace only made his thoughts fixate more intensely on the one who had vanished.
And today was a special day.
Akira’s fingers unconsciously traced the gloves Goro had thrown at him, still tucked in his pocket, as if the motion could soothe the restless emotions churning inside him. When he thought about it, they’d only known each other for nine months. Even the birthday information had been something he stumbled upon on Wikipedia.
"Would someone like Akechi even care about birthdays?"
The realization struck him—he didn’t actually know Goro’s real preferences. Not even his birthday had come from the man himself. That unfamiliarity left a bitter taste in his mouth, so he decided to give himself the day off.
He went to the jazz bar they used to frequent together, ordered two non-alcoholic drinks—one for himself, one placed beside him. On the empty seat next to him, he set down the gloves. These days, he had enough nerve to ignore the stares.
Akira deliberately chose a spot where he could see the entrance clearly. But even after finishing the drink meant for the gloves, the person he wanted to see never appeared.
Of course not.
Miracles had long since disappeared along with Maruki’s fabricated reality. Being able to reunite with Goro in the third semester had already been a gift from fate—maybe he shouldn’t ask for more.
At this point, should he just erect a grave for Goro? "Beloved Husband, Akechi Goro"? But what would he even bury? He couldn’t bring himself to inter those Rank 20 gloves, and mourning a pair of gloves was already strange—stranger than carrying them everywhere, eating with them, going to school with them. As compensation, though, he’d bring plenty of pancakes as offerings.
Distracted, Akira wandered home, his mind a mess of tangled thoughts. It wasn’t until he was lying in bed, ready to sleep, that he remembered he’d forgotten to buy what he needed for tomorrow.
"Thought I’d already imagined the rest of my life on the way back, but I forgot the most important thing." He sighed in resignation.
The teacher here was terrifying—especially in a small town like this, where her ferocity put even Tokyo’s Ushimaru to shame. While Akira had mastered the art of dodging chalk erasers, it was better to avoid trouble. Arguing with her would only cut into his time searching for Goro.
Luckily, there was a 24-hour convenience store right by his house. A round trip wouldn’t take more than five minutes. If he left now, he might still make it back in time to keep his streak of 500 consecutive nights of sleeping before 10 PM intact.
***
The moment Akira stepped inside, his gaze locked onto a brown-haired man with his back turned, picking onigiri from the shelf. The world seemed to freeze the instant his brain processed the sight. No mistake—he’d recognize that silhouette anywhere, in any lifetime.
Why was he here? In a convenience store right by his house? Akechi Goro, Akechi Goro, Akechi Goro— Every memory tied to him erupted like a floodgate bursting.
Overwhelming emotion short-circuited rational thought. Akira glared at that back with enough fury to scorch the air, his fists clenched. Before the mask could snap over his face or a million words could spill out, he lunged forward in three strides and—
—swung.
The ex-leader held back. After finally finding Goro, he couldn’t risk damaging that precious face or sending him to the hospital. This punch was just a small expression of displeasure.
Yet even a detective of super high school level couldn’t have anticipated a convenience store ambush. Goro staggered, nearly crashing into the shelves. He caught himself, his mind racing through possibilities: remnants of Shido’s faction tracking him to the countryside? A disgruntled male fan? Or an obsessive admirer turned violent? The lack of sound before the attack ruled out the last one; the single punch with no follow-up meant the assailant wasn’t here to kill him—at least, not in this store. He took a sharp breath and turned—
—and, for the first time in ages, his composure shattered.
“Kurusu Akira?” Goro’s pupils dilated slightly, shock written across his face.
Why was Akira here? Wasn’t this his designated bedtime? Wait—he’d punched him? Kurusu Akira had punched Akechi Goro? Goro, never one to take a hit lying down (especially from some backwater cat), raised his fist to retaliate—only to freeze at the sight of Akira’s tear-streaked face.
Ten parts longing—one packed into that fist, the other nine dissolved into tears. Akira's eyes became floodgates, unleashing a torrent.
As the former Detective Prince, Goro should have been accustomed to sudden confrontations and public scrutiny. But even he couldn’t hold a conversation under the cashier’s blatantly nosy stare. He decided to drag this leaky attic trash somewhere quieter. Thankfully, the countryside was deserted at night.
And so, Akira let himself be pulled away—still silently crying, still under the cashier’s rapt gaze—until they reached a secluded corner. Then again, every corner here was secluded.
"Still crying?" Goro pinched the bridge of his nose, his tone laced with reluctant concession. "Ask whatever you want."
He swore—absolutely swore—he wasn’t saying this out of pity for the other’s tears. He just didn’t want passersby to think they were up to something shady. Even if this place was deserted. Obviously.
Akira sniffled hard, then—with maxed-out Agility—launched himself into a full-body tackle.
Time slows before a fall. Even as the brain screams "This will end badly," the body lags. Akechi Goro, veteran of countless battles, was no exception. (He lacked a time-stopping Stand, after all.) So he could only watch, motionless, as Akira crashed into him.
The real horror? His arms started to rise—instinctively—to catch him. (He aborted the motion the moment his biceps lifted a mere 1 cm, of course. But still! Unforgivable!)
...Damn that Detective Prince persona. Years of conditioning—see someone weeping, arms outstretched, and reflexively offer comfort—had clearly rotted his instincts. Case in point: He could have sidestepped. Yet he’d stood there, rooted.
Akira, ever the opportunist, retreated a step, resisting the urge to smear snot on the fastidious prince’s coat. As if nothing had happened, he asked:
"Why?"
A question with no context.
Why vanish? Why leave without a word? Or—why live next door, watching him scour the town at dawn and return at dusk for over a year?
The unspoken ultimatum was clear: Answer, or I’ll cry until the sky collapses.
...Damn this scheming thief-cat.
Goro’s lips parted, then stalled. "I’m back" was too intimate. A clinical explanation? Over his dead body. The silver-tongued Detective Prince, for once, had no words. (Living near an idiot had clearly infected him.) Countless replies flickered through his mind. He settled on three:
"Stop crying."
Miraculously, the nuisance obeyed.
"Come home with me," Akira said.
***
The layout of the countryside dorm wasn’t too different from the attic—except the bed, desk, and sofa had been split into three separate rooms.
Akira, you’re back—what took you so…? Morgana, hearing the door open, leapt down from the sofa mid-sentence—only to spring straight back up with a startled "Myaaah?!" at the brown-haired figure behind Akira. For all his insistence on being human, he still had a cat’s instincts when it mattered.
"Ake… Akechi?! Is that really you?"
When Goro remained silent, Akira sighed. "Yeah. Sorry, Mona. I’ll explain later, but right now…"
Morgana understood. With one last worried glance, he padded toward the window. "Fine. But… you sure you’re okay alone with him? I’ll stay close—just shout if you need me." Then, with a flick of his tail, he vanished outside.
Alone now, Goro finally spoke. "Your cat’s as chatty as ever." A throwaway line to diffuse the tension—the mark of a former TV darling. He couldn’t muster his saccharine smile, but he did summon a thread of patience, bracing for Akira’s questions as he waited for the next move.
Instead, Akira just stared at him—a gaze so full of quiet accusation it pierced through his glasses like a laser. The air between them thickened, suffocating.
"That’s all you have to say?" Akira’s voice was low, strained.
Before Goro could reply—
—Akira kissed him.
They say third time’s the charm, but this was the fourth time today Goro had been caught off-guard by Akira. His body stiffened, his mind short-circuiting for a split second before snapping back to cold clarity. He didn’t push him away—just stood there, letting the kiss linger for those few, endless seconds.
When Akira finally pulled back, breath uneven, his lips curled into something smug.
"Caught you," he whispered.