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The bell to Leblanc rings out several times, with a chorus of ‘goodbye’s and ‘see you later’s, until Akira finds himself under the watchful gaze of the last to leave–Akechi. The detective leans against the wall, not too far off from the door, and stares daggers at his temporary teammate.
Akira is tired, he’d much rather walk his bruised body up the creaky cafe stairs and lay uncomfortably on his sorry excuse of a bed until he passes out than experiencing whatever berating Akechi is about to give him. They’d had enough trouble running through Maruki-fied Mementos today. Akira’s sore. Morgana, attuned to the odd tension that lingers in the air when it came to the two wildcards, huffed something about taking a walk before hopping up the stairs, presumably to slip out the open window. Neither boy gave the not-cat so much as a look, too intent on staring at the other.
If Akira looked hard enough, he could see eyebags on Akechi that mirrored his own. They barely looked out of place–Akira assumes they’d always been there. He can’t say it’s unpleasant to see Akechi without makeup, without his pretenses to keep up, it makes sense he’s doing without right now. Akira had discovered some time in August that the flawless complexion of the Detective Prince was actually due to absurdly expensive concealer (there was a second conversation in November inside the Monabus where Akechi and Ann talked about specific brands and their prices… the boys–and Futaba–were completely lost). Underneath the makeup he wasn’t sporting tonight, Akechi had a few acne scars that weren’t too noticeable, even without the makeup, and freckles littered around his nose and cheeks.
Akira didn’t find them endearing. He didn’t.
Despite the lack of whatever goop Akechi used to cake on his face, he seems just as guarded as ever, even if it is totally different to the front of the Detective Prince that he puts up. Akira thinks he’s definitely found some cracks in the enigma that is Goro Akechi, but he’s unsure if he’s done more than scratch the surface. On the contrary, he’s worried Akechi knows him inside out. Using his own deductive skills, he reasons about what this look from Akechi is for and what this conversation might entail. Akira doesn’t know if that makes him oddly receptive to Akechi’s mannerisms, or if he just knows how Akechi reacts to him specifically.
Akechi blinks.
“I win,” Akira breaks the silence, giving a smug smile that definitely looks half-assed and tired. Mercifully, Akechi doesn’t comment on it and instead scoffs, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly.
“What?” he narrows his eyes, snarling his lips ever so slightly.
“I assumed we were having a staring contest, I definitely won,”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Akechi pushes himself off the wall with his foot and walks over to where Akira is standing - in between a booth and Akechi’s usual barstool. He’s about half a step too close, just teetering on the edge of invading Akira’s personal space bubble. The leader of the Phantom Thieves is almost bothered by how much he doesn’t mind. He sighs to himself, knowingly. Akechi doesn’t comment on it, Akira hopes he doesn’t know. There’s a lot about him he wishes Akechi wasn’t privy to, a lot he hopes he never will be. He doesn’t need to know. No one does.
Most of the lights are turned off. All but the overhead ones at the bar, casting a shadow on Akechi’s left. Akira can’t help the way his gaze trickles downwards, catching a glimpse at Akechi’s–gloved–right hand. He clenches his fist in his pocket, around the fabric inside. It burns yet another hole in his heart. Akechi doesn’t comment on it. He keeps his eyes level with Akira’s, face twitching as if he’s resisting the urge to raise an eyebrow.
“What was that about today?” Akechi lowers his voice, tone drenched in malice. He’s annoyed… concerned? Akira isn’t sure. Again. He’s never sure.
Akira plays dumb. “What?”
The detective rolls his eyes. “Let me jog your memory,” he fixes his right glove, but Akira is certain there was nothing wrong with it to require the small attention. “When you were picking the lock on that chest and–”
“Joker! Seriously, it cannot be worth it!” Makoto yells at him from the driver’s seat of the Monabus. She had the windows rolled down. Akira didn’t like to roll the windows down. Moving the car window crank inside the vehicle that is actually his cat-who-is-not-a-cat had never sat right with him. Except for the time in Futaba’s palace. He didn’t care about the anatomy of Morgana at the time, he just wanted to cool down.
If the rest of his team weren’t hurrying him along over ‘danger’, (that he was sure he could 100% manage, even if he had been alone in here) then the lock would’ve been picked a hell of a lot faster.
Akira couldn’t hear Futaba too well. She was in the back and only the front windows opened. “–readings increased–” something, something “–constantly flashing at me–” something about temperature, maybe “–oker! Joker!” For the love of– he was fine. He just needed to move a little more to the left… and… the box clicked open. Some crafting materials. Okay, definitely disappointing and not worth the chorus of yelling from his fellow Phantom Thieves that he was currently tuning out. All of them were continuously chanting his codename. That seemed urgent. What had Futaba said about temperature anyway? He did feel hot. Was Mementos experiencing a heatwave? Surely not, not in the winter–
“JOKER!” Akechi’s distinct growl finally made him turn around, a little too late. Akira caught a glimpse of the thieves landing on the ground after Morgana transformed back before standing face to face with a strong shadow. There’s a flash of red and black before Akira’s knocked flat on his ass. Tin clasps thrown across the rails. To hell with them, anyway. Akira feels warm, so warm. Is the shadow radiating heat? No–that doesn’t seem right. But, he is burning up. He thinks. He tries to get up but finds he can’t. He just can’t. The world’s spinning–had he hit his head? He raises a hand to check his head. At least, he thinks he does because he doesn’t feel his muscles move the way he wants them to, and he never feels anything touch his head.
It’s loud, it’s very loud. His friends are fighting. He thinks he hears a cast of mabufudyne, then a kougaon. He definitely hears the “LOKI! MEGIDOLAON” tearing from Akechi’s throat. Akira thinks he might just lay here for a while. Whatever’s going on, his thieves and the temporary, partially-unwilling-and-only-here-because-of-unforeseen-circumstances pseudo members tagging along this time around. Akira didn’t get much sleep last night. Come to think of it, he’s been rather warm since he woke up at 3am. He rests his eyes.
“–and then Ryuji had to bridal carry you back into the vehicle,” Akechi crossed his arms, “once you’d recovered from the dizzy ailment, you told everyone you were fine, refused any amount of sustenance and you wouldn’t even let Oracle scan you…”
There’s a small pause whilst Akira debates on what to say. “You’re just jealous you didn’t get to carry me,” was clearly the wrong thing to say, because Akechi lunged forward, locking his fingers tightly around Akira’s wrist as he manoeuvres past him. Akechi then tugs Akira forward with a lot more force than necessary and begins dragging him up the stairs.
“Up,” Akechi commands.
“Perfect opportunity to carry me now if you’d–”
“I said up!” Akira sighs, too worn out to argue properly. He treads sluggishly up each rickety step, hearing his steps echo as Akechi follows behind him. They’re standing in the middle of Akira’s bedroom, and he decides he’s made enough stupid jokes for one night. Akechi breathes a sigh of relief, like he had been expecting to hear one.
Akechi leads him to the couch, and does not sit down with him. Instead, he strides across the room and leans on the shelves opposite. Akira is sure they’re about to have another staring contest again and he decides to stare at the floor instead. He leans his head in his hand, and his elbow on his knee. His head feels heavy. It’s felt heavy all day, but it’s even heavier now he’s been given a moment of respite from being on his feet.
He’s still warm, his head feels foggy, his throat feels scratchy. He’s exhausted.
“Do you think yourself above their help?” Akechi barks out. “The great leader of the Phantom Thieves accepts help from no one! They’re all beneath you,” he’s not looking, but he’s sure Akechi is baring his teeth, at least a little. Akira doesn’t like accepting help, he’s always preferred to keep quiet and to deal with whatever bullshit life throws at him by himself. He could handle it. He had to be able to handle it. Before Tokyo, it had always just been him, anyway. It’s not like his parents ever gave him a second look.
He barely raises his head, looking at the detective through unfocused eyes. With what little strength he could muster, Akira pulled his glasses off (discarding them to his side without care, and they don’t quite stick the landing on the couch, falling onto the floor with a brief clatter) and rubbed his eyes, taking refuge in the weird and wonderful patterns he could see. A brief respite from Akechi’s accusatory stare.
“Oh,” Akechi begins again, dripping venom as he speaks, “no, I’ve got it wrong, haven’t I?” The question is rhetorical, there’s footsteps as he makes his way to Akira. “My–Joker, do you really value yourself that little?” Again, Akechi’s fingers find their place on Akira’s wrist, stopping him from rubbing his eyes. Daring to look up at him, Akira’s heart almost stops at the sight above him. Hair falling in his face from the slightly downwards angle, chin buried in his tartan scarf. The look in Akechi’s eyes is far from kind, but it’s missing the harsh edge from earlier. What Akira believes to be concern is back, found swimming somewhere in that gaze. A sorrow unknown to either boy, left alone and untouched. Pandora’s box hidden in plain sight within those red-brown eyes. Once more, Akira is enamored with the enigma that is Goro Akechi.
Shaking his head, Akechi lets go and takes a seat on the couch, softly kicking the fake glasses out of his way. He sighs and copies Akira’s pose - elbow on his knee, holding his face with his hand. There’s more strength behind his posture than Akira could muster, but Akechi clearly looked tired as well. All he does is look at Akira, scanning his face for something, never quite finding what he’s looking for. Akira is sure he’s done the same thing many times, he’s laxly doing it now, subconsciously.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone you were sick?” Akechi’s tone of voice is on the fence of something all too familiar, and something entirely new. Akira is content to settle on the conclusion this most definitely is something akin to concern, he’s not sure he’s content to settle on how that makes him feel. It’s not as horrifying as the other thieves’ concern. Sumire’s is the worst to be on the other end of. Sometimes, Akira resents himself for how much he looks out for her. Even before, when both she and him thought she was Kasumi, he was so protective of her. Despite her proving time and time again she was capable, Akira can’t help but worry about her. Ryuji having to carry him back into the Monabus today didn’t feel too dissimilar. It’s not that he necessarily thought either were weak, but with everything Sumire has been through and Ryuji’s brief helplessness being what triggered him to awaken to Arsène in the first place… he finds it difficult to curb his–
“Lamenting over your ridiculous savior complex?” That. Akechi stares at the floor, or maybe Akira has mud on his shoes, “you’re just a child. Stop it,”
“Stop it?” Akira croaks, looking at Akechi through his unruly curls which were now starting to get in his face. He resists the urge to comb them out of his eyes, though.
“Leader of the Phantom Thieves,” Akechi begins, “wildcard, model student, multitalented, godkiller–is it enough for you yet? Are you good enough yet?”
“What are you–”
“You’re not worth other people’s time. No one should have to lift a finger to assist you, not without getting something tantalisingly superior in return. Helping people, befriending half of Tokyo - it makes you feel good. Worth something. Maybe, when you finally prove yourself to whatever divinity isn’t trying to kill you on Christmas Eve, you’ll be worth enough for your best friend to fuss over you and carry you into a fucking cat-turned-car!”
“Akechi, that’s ridiculous,”
“Absolutely, it is, Kurusu,” finally, Akechi averts his gaze. He turns to face the room and pushes himself off the couch. Akira watches as the foam material reverts back to its former state, “I’ll make sure we take tomorrow off any Metaverse-based activities. Do go see your doctor friend and tell her you need some medicine,” he heads for the stairs, Akira can’t look away from where he was sitting before. It barely hurts less than seeing that ray gun in the window of that shop. The missing piece to his heart– “just don’t let her stick any needles into you. Get some real medicine,” if Akira wasn’t so stuck in his own head, he might’ve blushed at how much Akechi seemed to care about him being sick - although, he’d probably rationalise against it. Akechi just wants him in tip-top shape for the infiltration proper.
“And Akira?” He finally looks towards the stairs. Akechi has one hand on the banister, “call if you need anything,” he doesn’t wait for a response. He probably knows Akira won’t dignify the situation with a response. Akira doesn’t even move.
A short while later, his phone buzzes.
Goro Akechi: Lock the door.