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Freedom for an Okumura is something that must be relentlessly fought for. It is how her father clawed his way into money, into high society glamour and limitless expansion. It is how he freed himself of the shackles of their family's poverty, and it is the first of many lessons he has stacked upon Haru's shoulders.
The corruption of her father has always been apparent to her, as she bloodies her hands for him. Haru did not need to delude herself about his nature. It wouldn't have helped. There is no point in raising a hand to a cruel king. When there is the risk of the guillotine to your neck, you do, simply, as you are told. Haru has spent her life embracing being the tool, to allow herself to be swung down on all who may defy her father. Her father, who in turn, peels back the flaking varnish so that she may catch glimpses of it. Of him. The man she knew when she was young.
But Haru has seen her father's wretched satellite. She's known for some time now that her father is not the man he was. One who tends to her garden with her and pins her drawings to the fridge. The reward for her work is bittersweet and pretense, pride shone down on her like she is not a daughter, but a particularly well-crafted hammer. A lovely marionette.
Haru's heel turn is stark and quick, in fear her father will catch her. Sumire reaches a hand to her, and Haru meets it, chasing it with all the strength she can muster. A rabbit mid-leap, going and gone. This, too, is a fight for her freedom. To wedge her foot into her one hope of becoming anything more than the empty chamber of a leveled gun.
It's not too late is the rampant sentiment of Sumire's-of her teammates, but that doesn't make her integration into the group any easier. When she cleaves through Shadows, merciless and graceful and refined in all the ways she's had to become, she feels the eyes on her. Suspicion. Fear. The idea that she did it so easily, too, to the bodies of Shadow-Selves, of people who had no way to know what was to come.
But Haru is an Okumura, no matter how much she's revolted by her blood. If there was no challenge, there would be no reward.
Most of the thieves are near triffling to endear herself to. Sumire's guidance is instrumental, as a leader often is, but Haru's soft-spoken tone and ability to find anything interesting serves her well. Kitagawa will accept near anyone willing to buy them dinner and talk about art for a spell. Haru's athleticism makes connecting with Sakamoto trivial, and aids her well in swaying Niijima's favor. Takamaki's is won with a single evening in the kitchen baking, and she slips a foot in the door with Kurusu with a hand-made cat sweater for Morgana, much to the latters chagrin.
Which leaves one last trial to overcome. Unfortunately, Goro Akechi has made her opinion of Haru really quite clear.
Masayoshi Shido had been one of the last of her victims. Spite is the least of the emotions she'd expect from his daughter, even if their relationship hadn't been stated or public. Of course she'd anticipate becoming beloathed.
Which is why it's to her shock that Akechi extends the invitation first.
The café Akechi selects is cozy. Warm woods and gray-cream walls welcome Haru as she arrives, before she spots her target already seated out on the shaded porch.
She's dressed in that starched detective's coat she's so fond of, back straight and shoulders back as if to command more presence. Her hair's been taunting the idea of being properly long lately, but the way she's pulled it back lands her still firmly into pretty boy territory rather than truly feminine. Seeing her now, with that smug smile and her ugly dress pants, Haru can almost imagine how she's tricked the world into thinking "handsome" is the word for her.
"Haru-chan!" She calls as Haru approaches, as if digging specifically for the way she instinctively stiffens. Like she hopes to watch her flail. The greeting is too fond for Akechi, who still uses last names with many of her teammates, and the area is too sickeningly, definitively in public. Too many people around for her to dare make a fuss.
What is she playing at? Is this to humiliate her? Or because she doesn't trust being alone with Haru?
Haru doesn't stall on the beat. She beams and returns the gesture, "ah, there you are, Go-chan!"
The answer clearly startles Goro enough that it forces a laugh out her throat. It's not nearly as practiced or refined as her princely display on TV. It's quick and a little raspy and accompanied by a barely concealed break in character.
Haru seats herself across from her, folding her hands in her lap, and keeps smiling. This… This part is okay. This is a challenge she can take. Haru has long since mastered the practice of being sweet and soft and delicate.
Ah. She gets it now. Goro was selecting an even battlefield. For every gaze on her, it is a blessing and a curse at once, just as it is for Goro. She feels them now, the eyes, undeniably on her, but Goro has also selected a spot that's high-end enough to intimidate all but the most nosey of passerby. Polite society remains as their thin-veiled illusion of privacy. A defense and a vulnerability, played with the same card.
"I got us both coffee," Goro smiles, legs crossed and hands folded in her lap, "Yoshizawa-san told me you're fond of it, so I hope you don't mind."
Jealousy clamps around her heart. Haru's seen her relationship to the other thieves. The ease with which Takamaki pulls her into midnight gossip in the middle of the group chat, Sakamoto slugging an arm around her shoulder in victory, the way Niijima fiercely proclaims her a rival. Little beats of friendships that Haru's spent her entire life yearning for, and yet Goro has the gall to reject even the most basic of proximities of. She grips the edge of the table, the only tell of her sudden bitterness.
"Not at all," Haru laughs, idly tapping her fingers against the table to try unstiffen them. She decides offering honesty is for the best, in a situation like this. She's good at omissions but not constructing lies, and she'll quickly forget any tale she weaves now to maintain the casual atmosphere.
Goro, presumably, is expecting lies from her anyway. That's okay. She deserves that.
"I used to dream of opening my own café, actually."
It earns her a raised eyebrow, though that smile doesn't change at all. Goro hums, "really now? That sounds awfully cozy. But what'd be the point when you'd already be inheriting such a lavish company from your father?"
"Well," Haru begins, and then pauses. Hesitancy is unbecoming of an Okumura though, even if it is distaste for the name itself filling her mouth, and so she presses out, "there's no soul in what my father does. I'd have to throw it all out anyway. There's really nothing useable in it but the money, is there?"
"That's true enough. Shame," Goro offers an off-hand thanks to the waiter as their drinks are set on the pearly white table, before she looks back to Haru, "you've given up on that dream though, with how you talk of it?"
"I haven't considered my own dreams in a long time," she admits in full, before taking the delicate mug in her hand and drinking to scald her weak-willed tongue.
Goro laughs at that, and it makes Haru's face burn hot. This time, it's practiced and intentional. It wedges under Haru's skin and makes her shiver.
"And what about you, Go-Chan?" She spots out the opprotunity and digs, wedges her fingers into what she knows to be a thin crack, and prays to find a gaping wound beneath it.
"Hm?" Goro hums, tilting her head in a manner not unlike a dog. Haru doesn't like other dogs much anymore. Father always kept her on a leash, always kept her from playing with the mutts.
"Your dreams? Is a detective something you always wanted to be?"
Surprise flits across her face, but Goro doesn't fold so easily. She hums, closing her eyes as she meanders through a sip of coffee. It leaves things drawn out, leaves Haru waiting, and with the way her eyes fall to the table, Haru knows it to be on purpose. When she places her mug down and speaks again, her answer is light and breezey. It only serves to anger Haru more.
"I actually wanted to be a superhero, but I suppose this'll have to do, right?"
The two are only there for half an hour or so, but the time stretches long and cruel regardless. Conversation fills the air, but it's all so milquetoast and unimportant. Haru is good at filling space with meaninglessness. All she has ever had to do is sound impressive. Substance has always been optional at best, discourage outright at worst.
When their cups are empty, Haru takes that as a sign of the end. In all of her observation, Haru's never actually seen Goro eat more than a piece of fruit or a few spoonfuls of rice with company, and the conversation has spoiled Haru's own appetite. Neither of them have any use for any additions to their orders or second fills.
She plucks the payment from her wallet and places it on the table before Goro has a chance to mimic the gesture. It isn't meant to be a challenge. She just has no idea what to… To do with it. All of this money that's still technically his.
"Well, that was lovely, Go-chan, but…"
Goro's smile tenses. She expects her to make a fuss about who treats who, but the question she's asked instead causes her to be the one to flinch.
"Heading out so soon?"
It would be truly a shame for an Okumura to falter though.
"Ah, no, I just figured you were finished!" Haru waves a hand, discarding her initial intent, "I'd only wanted to show my appreciation, picking up the tab! It's only coffee, after all."
Goro laughs at her, "how kind of you. I thought for a moment you were just trying to run off on me!"
"I wouldn't dream of it."
There's a chill in the air as they walk down the short steps of the café's porch together. The outdoor seating behind them had thin heaters imbedded in its overhang, leaving the space largely bearable; on the street itself, though, the cold nips at Haru's nose and attempts to writhe its way beneath her coat.
Suddenly, without warning, Goro links arms with her before slotting her gloved hand back into her own pocket.
What?
Thin creases at the corner of Goro's eyes tell on her as she studies Haru's expression, gives away just how much she enjoys the way she compromises her. Goro is a smart girl. Surely, then, she knows exactly what she's done.
They're too obvious out here. Too evident. This is the stuff of rumors, really. The Detective Prince and the heir to Okumura Foods? The engaged heir? What if her father hears? It's damning if a tabloid gets their grimy little hands on this moment between them. Haru knows exactly what this looks like.
The fear must cross Haru's expression. She must fail, in some way, to iron it from her face, because Goro laughs at her again. God, she really does hate it. The way Goro laughs at her. Breathy and genuine and real.
"Is this really wise, Go-chan? Are you looking to cause a fuss?" She asks. She suspects she might hate Goro's real laugh more than her fake one. That tone that indicates she's already lost, that Goro has wretched something from her throat which she'd been meaning to swallow.
"I'm cold, and it's just to the station anyway. What's the harm?"
"You'd be less cold if you ate a little more, maybe."
"Oh, boo," Goro pouts, leveling her unamused expression at her without a care for the world around them, "there'll be less of a chance for us to be seen if you start walking now."
It's a fight that Haru will neither win nor escape from. She slips her hand into her own pocket, completing the link as she mirrors Goro's inciting act. It's one that she cannot, for the life of her, decipher. She gains nothing from rumors spun about them. Does she do this only to risk Haru's position? To incite her to act? Is it a test of loyalty, or an attempt to push her to the edge?
Or is it, earnest and true, only what it is? Two teenage girls walking to the station with their arms linked, as friends so often do?
Haru was too lonely a child to know. She still, now, is too lonely to know. She had presumed Goro to be the same, but she wields this against her now like the most natural blade in the world.
Walk all the same they do.
It's a dull, dark alley that they dip into a block or so down from the station. When Goro unearths her hand from her pocket, she pulls out a pack of cigarettes with it.
"Care to share?" She asks, smiling, testing.
Haru wrinkles her nose. She's never quite understood the appeal of smoking. The buzz of nicotine, sure, and maybe the social element-but Haru's never been inclined towards those sorts of vices, and a lady reeking of smoke would only ever hurt her standing. Again, now, Goro compromises her. A photo like that would boil the water she's already barely treading. She isn't convinced she could find enough excuses to satiate her father's questioning if his suspicion turned to her. Being here already counts as an ommission against him. Something so brand-degrading would only…
Well. She supposes she's found the appeal. For some reason, a warmth sits in her chest at the idea of the little denial of his influence. Wordlessly, she holds a hand out.
Goro plops a cigarette in her palm, before balancing her own between her lips. The lighter she pulls out is utilitarian and plain, a uniform, scratched silver all the way around. Haru fumbles to replicate the men she's seen at her father's parties do it so many times. Two fingers near the end, the orange end towards the mouth…?
Instead of simply lighting the end for her as Haru figures out the mechanics of holding it, Goro leans in. She continues to precariously balance hers by the filter, the butt lingering just close enough to Haru's that she can light the both of them at once. When she's done so, she clicks her lighter shut and pulls away. Haru feels her eyes on her even as she takes a drag from her own.
It sucks. Horrifically, in fact. The smoke is harsh and grating on her lungs, and there's an abundance of mint that hits her mouth in an utterly unforgiving manner, and nothing comes as she expects it at all. Indeed, embarrassingly and possibly predictably, she chokes on her first cigarette.
She knows it's coming before it hits her ears. That laugh again.
"Menthols?" Haru asks, thanking all those older men she's always hated just this once for this piece of knowledge, "Really?"
"Were you hoping for mocha vanilla?"
Haru… Can't even really imagine what that would taste like. Her nose scrunches up in frustration and disgust alike. With her dignity already shattered, she crouches down and scrapes her largely untouched cigarette along the ground.
"What a waste," Goro hums in that smug tone of hers.
"Considering what it is, I don't mind wasting it."
Goro finishes her own largely in silence. Really, if she were smarter, Haru probably would've taken this excuse to leave. To claim she doesn't want to rush her, but that she really needs to be getting home. Preserve what grace she has left, and spare herself anymore of that mockery digging under her skin. She doesn't though.
She's a bit mad at herself, really, how much she would like it if she could get Goro to like her. It isn't how she should be approaching the manner. Not really.
They're coworkers, more than anything. Hell, with the money Sumire makes in the Metaverse, they could both even be paid for it-not that either particularly hurt for cash. Shido was a controlling man, but Goro had apparently been secured one of his numerous banking accounts in the fallout. Presumably one of the many used for laundering, or something to that effect, if she were to wager any guesses at all. Haru's pockets themselves remain lined as long as she is still, technically, an Okumura.
But she wants it. She wants it so badly, beyond logic or reason. Perhaps she's being something of a perfectionist. Haru really meant it, when she committed herself to the Thieves' cause, so now she's vying for there to be no doubt about it. Now, she can't leave any stone unturned. She needs it with immediacy and desperation alike, for her to be a piece of this thing that has done so much without her, so much in defiance of her - and Goro remains the largest complicating factor in it all.
That's it, she decides then and there. The feelings she has, witnessing the girl that is Goro Akechi, is that of a nagging last piece of a collection. Nothing more than a pesky final task on a to-do list. Uncomplicated. Easy to resolve.
Goro drops her cigarette and snubs it out decisively under the toe of her nice dress shoes.
"Come on then, let's get going."
Instinctively, Haru reaches out and plucks the discarded filter from the ground.
"I have one place I would like to go before I see you off."
Haru steels herself as to not shiver, as to not dread those words. The two are staring down the slope of the city's subway. She suspects she knows what's to come next.
Goro unpockets her phone. The world warps. Silently, the pair descend.
The hat which sits upon Haru's head accompanies a thick, heavy veil; its presence is both comfort and suffocating at once. Her winter jacket is replaced by one much longer and thinner, pitch dark and smothering the ruffles of the stark white shirt which rests beneath it. Her dress pants flare out at the bottom, silouetting her thick-soled boots as she trudges along into the expanse of the collective unconcious.
An oversized, brutal axe sits in the palm of her hand. She drags the weight of it behind her as she follows after her teammate-after Swan.
Swan's hair is loose and braided now, just barely long enough to sit over her shoulder. The shag of her bangs frames the shiny, black, Venetian mask which rests over her face and guards her features. Thin lines of white and gold eat into the obsidian tone, carving delicate curls of color beneath her eyes and against the side of her temples. Her jacket is unmistakably princely, stark white with deep, dark shoulders and traced with more gold detail along the edges, but the dark skirt and tights which accompanies it makes her look more ready for marching band orders than royalty. She steps ahead of Haru-of Lament-and turns on the toes of her black wing-tip boots.
"I have one request to make of you. Just one, and perhaps then I can forgive you," Swan states simply, her voice hardening now. Lament can see the ways her eyes narrow beneath the thin slits in her mask.
A single request? Here? Lament inhales slow and deep, and prepares for whatever it is that is about to come.
"Whatever you wish."
"I challenge you to a duel," Swan unsheaths her blade, a long, thin rapier with an intricate handle designed to cup her knuckles. The tip of it sits just barely against Lament's neck.
…
"A duel?" Lament's voice lilts high.
"No bars held," Swan nods, the fire in her expression unmistakable even with half her face covered. Something uncomfortable sits in Lament's chest, and her grip on her axe migrates so that she's prepared to take it up into her hands, "a true, earnest fight. I want to feel it. I want to know what it's like to be on the receiving end of the hands that snuffed the life out of Masayoshi Shido!"
So it's for revenge then?
"Very well," Lament nods, "give your worst, then."
Lament's strategy is simple. Struggle for a while, gain some ground, and then let Swan take it from her.
There's no skin in this fight for her. She's by no means desperate for the win. But Swan, surely, needs this. Lament isn't privy to the details of Swan's relationship to Shido, but to be the one to have killed her father regardless… Lament supposes she can't doubt why the girl would hate her. For all the grief and pain and blood that has befallen her because of the actions of her cruel father, would she not also feel the same? Would hatred also not bloom in her chest for the person who might strike him down?
That was still her family, wasn't it?
The rapier retreats from her throat instead of pushing the advantage.
"Dymphna!"
Swan's Persona is a tall, regal thing. It's wrapped in a thick, gorgeous cloak to mask the childish proportions of its body. No head sits upon her shoulders, and instead, she plunges her long, thin fingers inside the stump of her neck. From it, she produces an oversized blade, her own blood flowing freely as she swings it hard and recklessly to the ground.
Lament takes up her axe, bracing herself through the brunt of the aftershock before charging forward. She goes to cry out for her Persona…
Wh-!? She finds the name on the tip of her tongue, her mind a dizzying whirl of empty space. What a dirty trick!
Instead, her axe sails through the air to land into Swan's shoulder. There's a thick, wet thunk as it sinks in through her skin; Lament's grip on her axe fails her as Swan lurches back, taking her weapon with her. She's not used to the things she's slicing through to be so… Whole. With flesh and viscera that doesn't cut so cleanly.
Swan's breathing quickens, but she keeps her tongue clamped down tight as she takes a hand to the handle and unlodges the blade. The action is quick, agonizing, and over with little fanfare. She throws it to the ground with contempt.
"Is that the best you can do!?" She snaps, but the weakness in her arm is apparent. She's left-handed… Yes, no, of course Lament knew that, but it hadn't quite been calculated, wasn't intentional to make her drawing hand stagger.
Nevermind that. It's no place for guilt here. Lament shakes the lint out of her head, and the familiarity of her second-self rushes back to her.
"Eris!" She calls, and a thin shield cuts through the air in front of her, just barely in time to deflect Swan's blinding beams of light.
The other girl fills in behind her failed assault, lunging for Lament with reckless fervor. Her rapier wedges itself deep beneath Lament's ribcage, before it's freed again as Swan shoulders her backwards. She considers allowing herself to fall entirely, but decides against it; that hardly seems like enough of a fight to satisfy her.
"Are you unable to heal yourself?" Lament questions aloud as she keeps her footing, pressing fingers to her wound. The inquiry is genuine, but she's hoping Swan won't realize it.
"SHUT UP!" is the response she earns, which answers her question anyway.
"You best be careful then," Lament hums. The spindly limb of Eris comes down to cradle against the back of her knuckles as her wound stitches itself closed. A little laugh gurgles in the throat of her soul, "because I can go all night, if you let me."
It isn't fair to taunt her, not really, but how else is Lament going to give her a victory she deserves? Those who posit themselves as higher are much more satisyfing to watch fall. Swan is desperate for her Goliath, so who is Lament to deny her?
Lament has never looked at Eris head-on, never in the eye. When she calls her forward, it's with a steeled body and shut eyes. Eris's laughter grows louder in her ear as the impression of its body over her shoulder lurches forward. Swan's breath comes in a thin gasp of surprise, and although the air around her is wet and warm, Lament never actually sees the blood.
Swan makes good on her moment of distraction. Lament doesn't actually have the time to open her eyes again before a burst of life smacks her aside the head. It seers against her temple and dances across all of her usable vision, staggering her again so that Swan may take the butt of her handle down against her forehead.
On instinct alone, Lament refuses to take that laying down. Blindly, she flails for something to grab at. Her fingers purchase against one of Swan's arms, and based on the warmth against her fingers, she suspects it's the bad one; she yanks on it as she falls, bringing Swan with her, and twists it until she pries another pained noise from her.
Her vision returns swimming and spotted, but enough to have a sense of Swan next to her now on the ground. She flips herself atop the girl, having her outmatched in weight despite not besting her in height. Pinning her to the ground is easy.
From here, numerous options present themselves. The problem with them all, though, is that any of them would handedly give Lament the victory. There's no point to this all if she wins. She's put herself in a tight spot-too advantageous that she's to be careful about how obviously she throws. Just barely enough slack on the arm holding down Swan's good shoulder…
As she anticipates, the moment she's given an inch, Swan goes for the mile. Lament is shucked off of her and slammed against the rails beneath them, the momentum knocking the wind out of her lungs. She looks up at Swan and waits for it, waits for whatever verifiable proof of winning that she's looking to take.
But Swan doesn't act. Gloves hands remain clamped on her shoulders, but Lament receives no further lashing, no finishing act of violence. Swan's expression is unreadable beneath her mask, her eyes wide and searching but too manic to draw any further, tangible emotion from them.
Lament wonders if Swan's thinking about actually killing her. No. No, actually, Lament wonders if Swan has the guts to kill her at all.
The other girl's shoulders are trembling. Lament lets go of her axe so that she can draw a hand to Swan's face. A curious thumb threatens to tilt the mask back on her face-
"HOW DARE YOU!?"
It's a harsh and ragged scream, tearing up Swan's vocal chords as it demands to be let out of her. She swallows thickly, her breath caught too deep in her lungs to exhale again, trying to find her tongue-
"Why aren't you fighting back!? You should be fighting back! Don't tell me you just-You'll just fucking GIVE UP! I pin you once and you just-You just FOLD!?"
Swan's fist beats against Lament's shoulder. Her left hand. The dominant one. The weak one.
Her blood drips from that still aching shoulder wound, splatters against Lament's face. She hadn't even realized yet that she lost her hat in the fighting.
The thudding grows repetitive. It's not making Swan feel better, and it's not making Lament feel any worse. Deciding to nip the problem in the bud, a hand tightens around Swan's wrist. She bucks against it like a wild horse, but fails to free herself.
Tears edge her voice as she continues to yell, "how DARE you! How dare you try and be selfless NOW of all times! How could you!? How could you!? Are you just going to let me win!? Are you really trying to let me win!?"
A sob breaks in her throat, "I hate you! I hate you! You're a monster! A murderer! The scum of the Earth! So don't you dare try and be kind to me now! It'll do me no fucking good! How can somebody like you still be so much better than somebody like me!?"
Lament's grip finally fails her too. Swan reels back suddenly, unable to anticipate her own success. She falls backwards, off from atop Lament, and stays there. Instead of moving to get up, she simply lays herself backwards-curls up on the ground, cradling her wounded arm.
Ah. It hurts. An Okumura isn't supposed to falter. An Okumura must not relent. An Okumura fights for freedom until blood and dirt cakes beneath one's fingernails.
Something in Swan's words have stung her. Assaulted something she has kept secret and safe and hidden, a card held close to her chest without ever the intention of being played. She has been obedient. She has been invisible. She has been submissive.
But beneath that is that wanting. A desire. A wish.
All this time, she has always known she has never been good. Her hands are stained a crimson that will never leave her. An emptiness sits inside her that, even if she were to spend the rest of her life in penance, she does not know if she will ever fill.
Or rather, she suspects she does not know how one is even supposed to fill it.
Haru sits up.
The fun's over. It is time to clean up then.
She kneels beside Goro and waits. Blood has stained the pretty white of her thief attire, made invisible in turn by the black of her tights. Haru inhales, and then reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder.
Despite anticipating it, something pangs inside of Haru's stomach still as the other girl flinches. The axe wound stitches itself whole again.
"I'm sorry for disappointing you."
Goro glares up at her, and does not move from the ground.
"It's not fair," she starts, nearly choking on her own spit and tears, "it's not fair at all. That you've done the worst things a person can do, and yet you still get to be delicate and pretty and considerate. It makes me sick. It's not fair."
There's nothing in the world that Haru can say to that. She does not feel delicate, or pretty, or considerate. She feels like a poorly trained dog. Cute and innocent in appearance, perhaps, but dangerous and violent; not through any calculus or intention, but simply by nature, by design. Simply because she was born with teeth and claws, or maybe because her father filed them that way when she was too young to remember. The difference does her no good now. It does her no good at all.
But she cannot be silent, because even though it is impossible, she still wants Goro to like her.
"I think you're pretty," is all Haru is able to say as she pulls her hand back into her lap.
Goro's eyes widen. She blinks once, twice, and then turns over onto her other side so she doesn't have to look at Haru anymore.
Silence elapses like that, time passing sleepily. It stretches long and unforgiving, and yet Haru is certain that no more than a handful of minutes could've passed before Goro speaks again.
"You took it from me."
Haru bites her tongue.
"My retribution. You took it from me," Goro's voice is thick still, but stronger now, "I'll never get it back. I'll never get him to look me in the eye and know he understands what he's done to me. He's never going to say her name now," she curls in on herself further.
Haru draws her tongue over her teeth, desperately grasping for something to say. A word of comfort, or something to distract, or anything that might endear her still somehow. Only she can't think of any trick. There is no omission or practiced laugh or invisibility that will save her here.
She's not good at lies. Maybe truth can be a bit of closure, at least.
"Shido died afraid."
The way Goro's body stiffens confirms she has her attention.
"He died afraid, and when he's afraid he gets angry. The shadow did, at least, I-I've never been there when it happens in person. His shadow got very mad though. He said I was a bitch and a slut, and that he had half a mind to throw me out. I guess it's not really in his nature to admit it to anyone, not even himself, when he's not the one in control of a situation."
…
"It's better than the bastard deserved," Goro hisses between her teeth.
…
"It probably was," Haru steels her own voice, as to keep it from breaking.
Another few beats of silence passes. It becomes unbearable quicker this time.
"Can I wipe your tears?" Her voice goes small as she asks it. Goro stiffens again.
She laughs, like it's a joke, or she didn't hear her right, "what?"
"You got mad at me for being selfless earlier," Haru's voice wavers, and an Okumura doesn't falter, but Haru doesn't want to be an Okumura anymore, please, don't make her be an Okumura anymore, "so I'm asking to do what I want, even though I know you won't like it. So please, please let me be selfish, Go-chan, and let me wipe your tears?"
Goro wheezes as she turns onto her back, staring up with disbelief glimmering and stern in her eyes, "you're too much. You're far too much."
Haru peels her blood-stained glove from her hand and reaches down. Her fingers brush against Goro's flushed cheek beneath the mask, trailing well-kept nails with just enough pressure to be tangible against her skin.
"I know I am. I know."