Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

he doesn’t remember much, most of the time.

little blips in time, flashes of moments.
a gentle touch before someone presses his eyes closed, stealing memory after memory away from his greedy grasp. usually he remembers what he can see, text boxes and photos, instead of actual conversations, snapshots of moments pieced together, not unlike a fucked up puzzle.

thats really all he is, a fucked up puzzle piece. all jagged edges and indignant huffs, none of his detective prince mask falling through to his core. loki always hums in the back of his head, protective remarks fluttering behind his eyes as he watches through robin’s ever present facade. three beings struggling for one life, a rhythm only they know how to control.

it's like he isn’t himself, most days. not who he remembers being, at least, through photobook memories and grimaced smiles, his only true memories being through robins blue eyes and flashing smiles. robin does all of their work as a detective, social links and faked smiles, leaving goro to pick up the shattered glass of his emotions while loki croons lowly in his ear. reminders to eat, reminders to sleep, to drink water, to not have his 5th cup of coffee. sometimes it makes him want to gouge his own eyes out, the voice in his head ever calm and controlled as he screams into the emptiness of his apartment, always cleaning up the slits on his arms after he retreats into his head.

fuck. he needs therapy, doesn’t he? he’s read up on this, everpresent information from people who call themselves systems, people like him. he doesn’t want to face it, most days. the fact he’s so fucked in the head that he needs his own personal caregiver (though loki consistently insists that only others have wronged him enough to warrant its existence), willing to piece together shattered ribs and wounds that most definitely need stitches without cost. without ever asking for anything in return.
it haunts him, that he needs help. that he won’t accept it from anyone but himself, like some fucked up self-fufilling prophecy that only he’s privy too. it causes more outbursts than he wants to admit, angry rantings into thin air as loki listens intently, refuting every point like a well practiced scholar.

the start of the clear memories, at least as far as goro can recall, was the first time akira asked them out to jazz jin. maybe its pure shock, maybe its something else, maybe its because robin is exhausted of constantly keeping up a facade, but for the first time in years, goro fronts in public. he sits across from akira, all fogged glasses and curly hair, and truly feels something. a flaming burn behind his eyes, his hands both hot and cold around his sickly sweet drink that robin ordered, and when he meets akiras honeyed brown eyes, his world spins. not in dissociation, not in dizziness, but in awe. akira sends a saccharine smile across the table, like he knows somethings changed, and goro flushes, stumbling over words he doesn’t recall robin even starting to say.

and in a blip, he’s back looking through robins eyes, akira with a quirked brow and an analytical gaze, eyes sparkling.

Chapter Text

against his better judgement, goro akechi is alive.

its a strained glare when he walks into café leblanc during the perfect reality to see a human, who he can only assume is morgana, pressed up against akira’s back. seeing the victim of his selfish desires laughing and talking with her daughter is like a slap to the face. sakura looks ecstatic, talking animated and bright to the ghost of her mother, filling up the café with a presence that the older sakura seems to thrive in. goro had only ever caught a glimpse of her full happiness when she was talking about featherman, but this was, is, blinding. a sharp, clawing feeling scrapes at his stomach, and he pushes it down, just like everything else.

the look on akira’s face is a choking, ugly thing. it twines its hands up around his neck, the phantom touch of affection pressing against his larynx in a harsh, unforgiving type of love. it radiates such hope, such passion, that goro recoils internally from the sheer volume.

akira wished for him. it sickens him greatly.
he wants to tear akira’s tongue out for even uttering the words that brought him back (even if robin his rational mind knows that the little thief probably never said a thing), take his heart and tear it with his teeth for even having the gall to wish, and yet; akira morphs under his gaze, blinding hope replaced by confusion, then quickly by that calculating spark he memorized recalls from their time in sae-san’s palace. he catches a glimmer of gold in akira’s iris, but its gone too quick for it to be real (right?).

sakura-san pipes up, something about not being open yet. robin stutters out a pleasantry, quick to bite their tongue on wakba’s sheer existence, and locks eyes with akira (arsène, loki states, its voice echoing behind his eyes). he feels his head jerk towards the door, arsène akira almost jumping up from his seat and following goro outside. (akiraarsènejoker will always follow him, even in a perfect world.) loki leads the way to the laundromat near leblanc, reclining against the washers like it owns the place. 

“so.” loki’s voice echoes around the confined space, rough and gravely compared to robin’s imitation. 

“so.” arsène echos back. he looks two seconds away from collapsing, a worn sort of grief morphing his stance into something else, meek and dejected in the overwhelming challenge of loki’s glare.

“your cat is human,” loki prods, gaze locked onto arsène even as the boy across the room wilts. he doesn't reach up to twist his bangs, loki’s eyes widening just a fraction.

theres an uncomfortable, guilty sense of dread starting to seep from the washers, overtaking the stark smell of soap and bleach. loki stares, eyes cold and calculating, pushing down the worry. it always pushes down the worry.

“i just wanted a break,” arsène whispers like a prayer, eyes sliding up to meet loki’s. they’re dull with flecks of gold, worn and calculated and so, so pretty.

loki breaks.

“arsène-” it starts, moving forward to grab his coat between hands that should be clawed. arsène lets it happen, tensing slightly at the contact. loki bares its teeth internally.

“you’re the only one whos ever known,” arsène breathes, a pitiful smile on his face. 

“since the beginning, its always been you.” loki presses its hand into arsène’s, fingers twining together in what could mean nothing, yet proclaims so much. arsène leans into the touch like its his lifeline, and fuck, at the rate he’s acting they might as well be.

“i’d be a shitty rival if i didn't,” goro pipes up, squeezing arsène’s hand lightly. it earns a small chuckle from the man, rough and hoarse and purely him. goro wants to gut him alive. he thinks they would let him.

arsène sighs against them, pressing his face under their throat. he could easily rip their throat out with his teeth, if he so wanted, and yet he presses his nose into the dip of their throat and relaxes. loki doesn’t know if he’s doing it consciously, but it leans into the touch like it’s starved.
they’re all starved, robin muses, smiling internally. both him and goro know loki’s not one for touch, not one to lean into anything, but, he thinks with a hum, arsène has always been special to loki. joker as a whole have always been special to them.

from somewhere inside their head, someone chimes in that loki and arsène look like something out of a renaissance painting, loki curling their body over arsène’s in a protective sense of affection. it could be mistaken as a lovers embrace, the voice muses playfully. loki’s too focused on arsène’s breathing to even argue back.