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That day, Goro brings home a record. In itself, it isn’t much of an unusual occurence—sometimes, Goro stops by the music shop in between his office and their shared little apartment and buys a jazzy little something that they can play on their secondhand record player. Today, though, Goro brings home a record in a sleeve that doesn’t have any of the jazz musicians Akira is familiar with.
“Welcome home,” Akira says over his shoulder. “Find something new?”
Instead of answering, Goro makes for the record player. They keep it by the lamp in the living room, near the shelves of collected trinkets and philosophy books, where the sound reaches the kitchen and the countertop-slash-dining table and the home office when the door is open. The music always makes this place feel more like home than it already does. Goro extricates the record from its sleeve with careful hands, places it on the turntable, and sets the needle down.
Music rings through the room—first the woodwinds, then a woman’s gentle voice. It’s an old record, that’s for sure; it’s got the grainy quality of something that’s been sitting out for years and years, and it stutters on occasion over old scratches. Akira doesn’t recognize it. Goro sits on the arm of the couch, listening to the singer’s performance in silence, so Akira turns his attention back to the stove, letting the music wash over him as he lets the pasta sauce simmer.
A moment later, after the song comes to a stop and another starts up, Akira feels a tap on his shoulder. As expected, Goro is there behind him, and offers him a hand.
Akira has learned over the years that Goro is very good at dancing on his own. He’s got the grace and skill of a professionally-trained dancer, and Akira never tires of watching him waltz around the room and contort his body in ways that seem like they shouldn’t be physically possible. Akira could only do those things in the Metaverse, and here in the real world, he’s only an observer caught in Goro’s orbit. But Goro isn’t quite as good at dancing with others. Akira’s foot aches with the phantom pains of Goro stepping on it through half-executed spins—though maybe that’s just Goro being Goro.
Despite this, Akira doesn’t have any misgivings. He turns the stove off and takes Goro’s hand, allowing himself to be swept off his feet—literally, Akira might add, as he nearly stumbles when Goro tugs at him just a little too hard. “Careful,” Akira murmurs as Goro leads them to the center of the living room, “or I just might fall for you.”
Goro makes a sound that’s somewhere betweeen a laugh and a sneer. Goro’s condescension is always a little bit endearing, though Akira knows that he’s probably the only person in the world who thinks so.
Akira lets Goro take the lead, though he doesn’t do any of his fancy twirls today. Instead, Goro only holds him close, swaying in time to the beat: 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3-4. There’s a faraway gaze in Goro’s eyes as the two of them traverse the perimeter of their small living room. Akira follows each of Goro’s steps, one after another in circles. Even when the song ends and a new one begins, Goro doesn’t stop, only adjusts the timing with no warning and no transition period.
Akira keeps up, of course. He always does, whether it’s dancing or fighting or questionable philosophical debates—it’s one of the reasons, he knows, that Goro has always been so interested in him. It’s one of the things that draws Akira to him in return. But the strange sense of distance is beginning to weigh on him, paradoxically so evident that it’s almost tangible, like a silence so pervasive you can hear it ringing in your ears. “Goro,” Akira says, quieter this time so he doesn’t overpower the sound of the record player, “what’s wrong?”
Goro remains silent. For another four measures, he continues leading them in circles around the living room, spins Akira until he begins to feel dizzy. Then, after a several beats too long of silence, he speaks, like the words pain him to say—“This was her favorite record.”
“Oh,” Akira says, “is that so?”
“She would put it on after a long day,” Goro murmurs with a cold disaffection that Akira recognizes as being intentional. His voice is so uncharacteristically soft that Akira has to strain to hear it over the sound of the record. There are few things that would put Goro Akechi on the defensive, but this topic is one that never fails to. “Or if she was in a good mood, I suppose. We’d dance around— well. She’d dance around. She’d take my hands and spin me around, and sometimes, if it was a really good day, she would laugh.”
The record is old. It would have already been old when Goro was a child, four, six, eight years old dancing around a shitty 1K apartment with his mother. There probably wouldn’t have been much space to do much of it, but then again, they probably didn’t have much things either. There would have been little to fill the room but music and laughter. He wonders, not for the first time, what kind of laugh baby Goro might have had.
“Don’t start feeling sorry for me now,” Goro says, like he can hear what Akira is thinking.
“When have I ever?” Akira rolls his eyes but gives Goro a smirk. “You always think so much.”
“Unlike you?”
“I think a lot, thank you very much!”
Akira sticks his tongue out, relishing in the little half-smile that Goro does his best to hide behind another scowl. A plan begins to take shape in the back of his mind, and he immediately decides to push through with it without much of a second thought. He leans in close enough that he can whisper in Goro’s ear, “Hey, keep up.”
Goro’s confused expression lasts for only a half-second before Akira readjusts the position of his hands and takes the lead. It’s admittedly a little endearing to watch his ever-perfect Goro stumble into a twirl before the scowl comes back in full force as Akira tugs him into his chest.
“Asshole,” Goro huffs.
“What, too good for a little spinning?”
“Yes, actually.”
Akira laughs, and it’s a little bit of himself and a little bit of the Phantom Thief who he’s long since laid to rest. “Too bad. It’s my turn.”
Akira leads them around the room, keeping the pace up as fast as he can without completely ruining the rhythm of the music. For his part, Goro follows in a way that only he can. Goro tries to stomp on Akira hard enough to draw blood; Akira avoids each annoyed step because he’d really like to keep his toes. It’s a bit more like a game of cat and mouse than a dance this way, but Akira doesn’t mind. He prefers this, even.
Their game of tag takes them past the living room and toward all the adjacent areas. They nearly knock over the coat rack, then the pasta sauce that Akira was cooking earlier, then the record player itself. Neither of them speak, but there’s a glimmer in Goro’s eyes as he tries to close the distance between their feet, and a laugh bubbling out of Akira’s lips every time Goro tries and fails to destroy him.
He almost thinks he’s gotten away with it when a sharp pain shoots up his shin. Akira yelps and stumbles back, crashing into the sofa. His fingers instinctively tighten around Goro’s hand, and he at least has the satisfaction of watching Goro’s eyes widen before he comes crashing down on top of Akira. The whole sofa scoots a few inches under their body weight.
“Ow, fuck, Goro. You seriously don’t let up,” Akira complains, arms coming around Goro’s waist so that his lovely rival can’t get away. “But not bad for an improvised attack.”
Goro raises an eyebrow. “Are you mocking me?” He says it in his usual sardonic tone, but there’s something visibly more relaxed about Goro’s demeanor now, even as the record continues spinning in the background. Goro isn’t so tense under Akira’s touch, both of them half-melted into the sofa.
With a grin, Akira replies, “I’m not not mocking you— Ow!” He pouts, rubbing his cheek where Goro pinched it. “My husband is evil and hates me,” he declares.
“Correct.”
“Damn.” Akira holds a hand to his chest in mock offense. Goro takes the opportunity to slip out of his grasp and pat invisible dust off his clothes, the bastard. Akira lets his head fall back onto the sofa in defeat. “I guess this means you won’t get any pasta out of me today.”
“As if I want your pasta.”
Akira holds back a laugh. “Wow, tough crowd. I’ll just eat it alone. Or I’ll call a friend. You think Ryuji’s free tonight?” At that, Goro makes a face that immediately forces the laugh out of Akira in a short breath. “Okay, okay, sorry, I won’t mention dates with other men in our home.”
“You’d better not.” Goro rolls his eyes and extends a hand out to Akira to help him up. He sighs as he pulls Akira to his feet. “I suppose pasta is fine.”
“Nuh-uh. You don’t get any.”
Goro raises his foot in warning.
“Wait, no, I’m joking— One plate coming right up!”