Archive of Our Own

It’s 9:25am when Kurusu finally comes down the stairs, in a black polo shirt and old, distressed jeans. His glasses rest somewhere within his bedhead as he rubs at his eyes, sleep pouring off of him in waves. A long stretch when he steps off the stairs, he stumbles into the bathroom and locks the door behind him.

The boss sighs, rubs at his nose.

“Shop’s open, you know,” he calls, a hand on his hip. “We’ve got customers.”

Some full sound raises from the bathroom, and Kurusu pokes his head out with a toothbrush in his mouth, foam bubbling around the edges. Scans the room. The boss shoos him away.

“Get back in there! Finish up first,” he says, “then you can come help with the dishes.”

Kurusu throws him a thumbs-up, ducks back in through the door. A fond smile picks at Boss’ lips. 

Zenkichi’s got the right place.

“Part-timer?”

“Hm?” Seems he’s caught Sakura off guard. It takes a moment, but he makes a sound of agreement. “Eh, something like that. Anything else I can get you?”

“Nothing yet, Boss, thanks.”

Sitting in a little coffee shop in the heart of Yongen-Jaya, Zenkichi ruminates. It’s been a while since he was undercover. Time’s picked at his edges, for sure. Spending years at a desk, needling information from afar has had it’s fair toll on his skills, but he’s by no means an amateur. Muscle memory will return to him. Call him old-fashioned, but he much prefers being on the field anyways. It feels more concrete, more based in something. His goal - to interface with the Phantom Thieves and grow them dependent on him, or at least rope them into some form of situation where they have to be. It’d be cleaner without any of that involved, though. Doesn’t matter what happens to them afterwards, he tells himself, as long as this Change of Heart epidemic is closed. Likely is their leader’ll end up in cuffs. It wouldn’t be the first time, that’s for sure.

The leader of the Phantom Thieves, huh… Hard to imagine it’s just some teen. Hard to imagine, even, that he’s not even a full two meters from him right now, brushing his teeth in a cafe bathroom. It’s so peculiar that a kid with no real resources, no funding, no status led such an effective revolution. The sort of corruption he’d targeted would never fall to any sort of blackmail or extortion, and especially not, he thinks bitterly, to the legal system. The Phantom Thieves have to be operating in a third space, outside of the duality of legality. How could this be? What could this 17 year old be capable of, that he managed to change the world in his spare time?

His thoughts are halted as Kurusu steps out of the bathroom. He crouches down to reach into a cupboard by the stairs, pulls out a dark green apron. Hooks it over his head, ties it around his waist. Behind him, archived within shafts of light, are specks of dust sailing through the air. Its refraction off of the stairs paints the space in a dim, auburn hue, and Kurusu all but glows. 

His glasses really soften his face, Zenkichi notes. Of course, all he has for reference is his mugshot, so it’s no surprise that he’s less jagged in real life, but there’s a gentleness, a serenity to him that the picture didn’t read. He seems quiet. Reserved.

Kurusu makes his way far behind the counter, turns his back to him as he starts unloading the dishwasher.

What an interesting kid.

Shoveling a couple bites of the curry into his mouth, God, it’s so good, Zenkichi says - swallows, then says, “Boss, could I get a house blend as well? I’m parched.”

The bait is set. Now to see if the Boss bites.

“Course,” Sakura replies. Motions over to Kurusu, “Hey part-timer. You think you remember how to make one?” Kurusu grins, a coy glint in his eye.

“Like I’d ever forget.”

His voice is a bit deeper than Zenkichi thought it would be. A light, almost nasal tint to his baritone, it’s oddly easy on the ears.

He picks some can off the shelf, twists open the lid. Breathes in a deep wave of the aroma. Offers it out to Sakura. 

“I know what my coffee smells like, thank you.”

“Up to you,” he shrugs, and waffles over to the miscellaneous equipment on the counter. Zenkichi watches him tinker with various machinery as the rich scent of coffee wafts through the air. 

Kurusu moves like clockwork. Every motion is made with purpose, with perfect efficiency. HIs hands move in swing rhythm, like he’s hitting some beat that only he can hear. It’s mesmerizing to watch. He seems so familiar with the mobility of it all that he’s not even taking a second to consider what comes next. It looks nothing short of instinct.

A couple minutes later, a steaming cup of coffee sits on a thin white plate, held between Kurusu’s fingers. He sets it down in front of him.

“One house blend, freshly ground,” he says, and he’s much less comfortable now, Zenkichi can see. A little more reticent, a little more stiff. His face is lowered so that he can hide behind those thick rims of his. 

“Thank you,” Zenkichi says, and Kurusu nods. 

As he slinks away, Zenkichi thinks, idly, of Masayoshi Shido’s calling card. Of “before that happens, we will take this country” and the confidence, the absolution in his tone. The resolve in those eyes, beneath the domino mask that Kurusu had on. What a feat, to be able to conjure that kind of persona. Pressure suits him well.

Pressure… He thinks of what’ll happen to Kurusu once the case is solved. He’s old enough now that they’ll find some excuse to put him in real prison, not juvie. The way some of the higher-ups are so desperate to sink their teeth into the Phantom Thieves, he wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up going missing. It makes him sick. They’re all just kids. If this is their leader, what are the rest like? Are they as soft-spoken? Do they lower their guards, the way Kurusu does with the boss?

He glances back at the kid. Kurusu’s wears a sly smile on his face openly, snickering at Sakura from behind his curled hand, as Sakura simply shakes his head. His smile is a more exasperated one. He mutters something Zenkichi doesn’t care to understand, and Kurusu’s grin grows ever so slightly. Boss sighs, deep. “What am I going to do with you?”

They look so… comfortable, with each other. Something vicious takes hold of his stomach.

He doesn’t want to arrest Akira Kurusu.

As soon as it comes, he banishes the thought. That’s not his prerogative. His job is to gain their trust and use it to his advantage. Anything more, anything less than that doesn’t concern him. What happens afterwards doesn’t concern him. If jail is what the Commissioner sees fit for him, then that’s what will happen. What needs to happen. Easy as that.

But there’s still a part of him, so quiet, that says you don’t have to. Don’t have to what, do his job? He doesn’t get the luxury of sparing the Phantom Thieves, especially with everything they’ve done, especially when so many people want them to themselves. It’s Kurusu’s burden to deal with, at the end of the day. 

You can’t even prove anything. Sure, but there’s enough circumstantial that the prosecutors’ll have a field day building their case. He pities the defense that has to take Kurusu. In a system rigged against him, Zenkichi wonders how he’ll manage to survive.

Please.

God. He takes off his glasses, rubs at his eyes, the bridge of his nose, rests his hand over his chin, thumb digging into his cheek. He sighs. Takes a sip of his drink.

He does have to hand it to the Phantom Thieves. Their leader makes a good coffee.

It’s been a minute since he drove for more than two, Zenkichi thinks, scratching his beard. All the kids are asleep in the back of the RV, with Kurusu being the brave one to sit up front with him. Frankly, he would’ve thought it’d be Nijima, considering her sanguinity regarding the force, but she’s taken to sitting between them, right on the other side of the divider. He’d readied himself for a barrage of questions, but seeing her head down, arms crossed, Zenkichi doesn’t think he’s being interviewed any time soon. 

It’s a peaceful scene, other than the roiling guilt in his gut over missing Aoi’s anniversary. It’s making him restless. He can’t even tap his foot in case he accidentally floors it, so he has to make do with fervently tapping his index finger against the wheel. Come on, could this stretch of road get any longer? It feels like he’s been here for days now.

The night stains the road a deep, rich indigo, only cut by the light gold of the headlights of passing cars. Light stretches across the road, soaks a wash of ivory over the concrete. The white lines meld into one long, cohesive snake across the ground as the car speeds by. He makes a sharp left, and Kurusu slides over to him, barely held in place by that tired old seatbelt. His hands are folded in his lap, head tilted to the side, away from him. His chest’s rise and fall is a little bit fast, but Zenkichi’s just nitpicking. Kid’s fine.

It’s straight for a couple kilometers, now. The concrete jersey barriers to his right follow him for a while, slant farther and farther away from him until they disappear into the low metal guardrails, peppered throughout the next couple roads. He taps his finger against the wheel. It can’t be that much longer to Kyoto now.

Something shifts to his left. Kurusu turns his whole body away from him, wraps his arms around himself. With a deep breath, Zenkichi pays him no mind. Plate number Sa 43-92 merges into the fast lane, going maybe 73 tops. That’s annoying. The road is empty anyways, if you’re planning on going slow, get out of the fast lane, damn it. He clicks his tongue, groans.

Kurusu hisses next to him. Pulls his shoulders up tight, tries to draw one leg to his chest. Makes a narrow, desperate sound.

Is he hurt?

“Hey,” he says, low, trying not to wake the others. Keeps his eyes on the road. He hears nothing but quickened breath from next ot him.

“Hey, Kurusu,” and a gargle of air, a hitch. There’s silence for a moment.

“Kurusu?”

A beat. He passes three separate cars before Kurusu speaks.

“Did you say something?”

He’s still left-facing, fingers tight around his arm, like he’ll slip through if he lets go. Zenkichi can’t see his face, but he doubts he’d be able to read him anyways. Kid’s not a bad liar.

“What was that?”

Kurusu takes a moment. In the silence of the car, the road speaks even louder. Despite the noise, Zenkichi rolls down his window, lets some of the night wind blow through. If he’s not feeling well, maybe some fresh air will help.

“What was… what?” Kurusu asks, slow, and Zenkichi sighs.

“Don’t play dumb with me. You were panting like a dog,” he says. “Are you sick? Should I pull over?”

“No, no. There’s no need,” he says. He still hasn’t turned around, and now he’s dodging questions too.

“Let me check, at least,” he raises the back of his hand to Kurusu’s forehead, who shies away from his touch.

“I’m okay, really.”

Fine. None of his business to push. He slings his arm out the window, the wind bristles up against it, tugs at his fingers. The thin of the glass is poking at his inner elbow, though, and it’s kind of annoying. He pulls it back in.

“...So?” he asks.

The night air suddenly whistles past, cold through the open glass. Zenkichi rolls the window back up. No need to risk anyone catching more of a cold than they already have.

“So what?”

So what, he says.

“So what, if you’re not sick? What was that?”

The oncoming road seeks asylum within Kurusu’s lenses. Moments of yellow strike across his jaw, the ridges of his nose, as they pass headlight after headlight. The way it fades out, slow, then flashes back one last time reminds Zenkichi almost of roadkill. The final twitches of a dying animal. When Kurusu breathes in, his voice hitches, gets stuck on something vile before it settles back down.

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s fine.”

Zenkichi sighs. “The way you lie is so fascinating to me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kurusu smile. “I aim to please.”

He groans, sets his sights back on the road. They pass roads upon roads, the white noise of tires on concrete fill the space. Metal guardrails swim by them, merging into one another. Kurusu doesn’t volunteer up any information, and Zenkichi doesn’t push, so they end up sitting, quiet, listening to the mechanics of the highway.

“How much do you know,” Kurusu asks, abruptly, softly, “about the interrogation?”

He’s still thinking of that? An offhanded comment, hours ago, about putting him through hell. Zenkichi wonders what really happened.

“Only what was above board - that is, not much at all. I don’t doubt they stooped to off-book practices, but they can’t really archive any of that. The report’s all we had,” he admits. “I know they cut the cameras, for one.”

Kurusu hums.

“You probably took a couple punches, huh?” Zenkichi asks, glancing over to his left. Kurusu is facing forward, unreadable, hiding behind those glasses of his again. Those are quite convenient for him, aren’t they? He wonders whether he actually needs them or not.

He exhales, sharp, from his nose. “Something along those lines, yeah.”

“I’m impressed you held up, y’know. Not many people do.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Thanks.”

Zenkichi laughs, an ugly, bitter thing. Thanks. “Shouldn’t be thanking me, I work for the bastards that put you in there. Sorry bunch of them. All we do is take orders.”

“Kant.”

“Excuse me?” No way he heard that right.

“It’s- uh, similar to Kant’s deontology - at least in terms of autonomy. If ethical rules are imposed from an outside force, is compliance moral? That is, if you’re only following orders, can you blamed for what you’ve done?” it might be the most he’s heard Kurusu speak. “I don’t agree with him, but it’s interesting to think about.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in philosophy.”

The RV grows a little quieter. “I wasn’t until last year.”

“Who’s your favorite?”

“... Hegel.”

“Hegel, huh?” Zenkichi can’t claim to know much about the subject, but he’s heard that name around a couple of times. “Why him?”

Kurusu shrugs, small. “I like his dialectics.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Oh,” Kurusu says, suddenly stunted, “Um, it’s… It’s hard to explain.”

Easy way out. He’s a real secretive one, isn’t he? The second someone pushes him on his interests, he clams up. Just as Zenkichi’s about to pry him open, he speaks again.

“Your question, earlier,” he says, “to Makoto.”

Change of topic. This kid might just be allergic to a standard social interaction. Well, Zenkichi’s in no position to complain. This it the longest conversation they’ve had since he tracked him down, so he’ll take any kind of exchange. This is all good information, even though it’s just small talk.

Right, the question. How did Nijima feel about the weeks, months her father missed of her youth? What a thinly-veiled, selfish attempt to relieve himself of guilt. Especially with Akane calling, he wouldn’t be surprised if Kurusu connected the dots. He’s a smart kid.

Eh, whatever. He needs to rip the band-aid off at some point.

“Yeah?”

“It’s not the same thing, but…” he swallows, Zenkichi hears a breath seep out of his open mouth. He glances over.

Kurusu’s got his hands in his lap, reminiscent of how he did when he was sleeping, except for the fact that now he seems to be fidgeting with his phone. It’s kind of hypnotic to watch, the device slipping through his fingers and reappearing between others. He doesn’t drop it once.

It spins on the tip of his finger, and Kurusu swipes it into his palm. Stares at it for a moment.

“My parents didn’t call me when I was on parole,” he says, quiet. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”

The road curls to the right, and Zenkichi turns. They come off the highway into a greener, more forested area. The trees creep in from either side, their branches reaching towards the center of the road. Driving straight through, it feels like they’re barely escaping the oppression of the canopy, but when they do, the sky is clear. If he stuck his head out the window, he could even see the stars.

Before he can open his mouth, Kurusu continues.

“If you have the opportunity, I think you should take it. To be home, I mean. Even if it’s just a call or a text.”

Guilt grips him like a learning child. He flutters, shudders in its grasp. He thinks of an empty home, of Akane using a stool to reach the stove. Thinks of what abscesses of love linger in the doorways. Thinks, bitterly, of himself and Owada, and his failure to justice.

The child crushes the bird in its palm. Zenkichi still breathes.

“... Yeah?”

“It’s hard to lose someone who’s still there.”

They don’t speak much after that.

He’s parched. It’s early morning, the sun’s still down, and everyone but him in the house is fast asleep. Groaning, he reaches over and flicks on his lamp. A dim light fills the room, brushes up across his cabinets, his closet. Zenkichi blinks away the sleep from his eyes. Rolls, heavy, over to see if he’s got any water left on his bedside table - to no avail. All that rests there is the empty cup, his alarm clock, and his various joint supplements.

He heaves a sigh, and rolls out of bed.

Careful not to wake any one of the slew of kids sprawled across his couches, he makes his way to the kitchen. As he walks past Akane’s door, he stalls for a moment. Listens. She’s breathing lightly inside. That’s good, he sighs. That’s good.

As quiet as possible, he walks down the hallway and into the living room. The Thieves are sleeping soundly. Most of them, at least. Sakura is up, laptop open on the coffee table, blue light scattered across her face. She pays him no mind as he slips behind the counter to fill up his glass.

Throwing one last glance around the room, just to make sure none of the kids have somehow gone missing, Zenkichi notices something.

“Where…?”

It takes a bit before Sakura speaks, flat. “He went out for a walk.”

He sighs. Of course he did. Kurusu’s turning out to be quite the problem child. 

“A walk? At…” he checks his watch. Embarrassingly, it takes him a moment to read, “at 5 in the morning?”

Sakura keeps her silence. Zenkichi watches the bright of the computer screen graze off of her lenses, shut away her eyes. These kids and their glasses are going to be the death of him. He starts again.

“Did he tell you where he was going?”

“Even if he did, Gramps,” she says, “why should I tell you?”

And there it is. A fragile alarm, distrust. At least he has a read now. 

“Sun’s not even out yet! What if he gets lost?”

“He has his-” she starts, then cuts herself off. The darting of her eyes to Kurusu’s phone on the table tells him all he needs to know.

They stand, two to duel, across from each other in his open concept living room. Sakura’s lips remain sealed as she stares straight ahead at her computer, elbows propped on either side. She is a shut gate, stiff, adamant. Zenkichi sees a familiar resolve stored in her lips. He takes a sip of the water in his hand, sets it down on the counter. He’s not so thirsty anymore. In fact, he’s a little nauseous.

He takes off his glasses, wipes them off with his shirt, slides them back on. 

“I’m worried about him.”

And he doesn’t mean to say it. The words escape the gritted teeth of his heart, pry them open and spill out. He doesn’t realize that’s what he’s said until he hears himself speak it.

He thinks of his job. Thinks of Commissioner Kaburagi. Thinks of the logical endpoint for one Akira Kurusu, 17. 

Damn it. God damn it.

Sakura doesn’t look up. Hunched over her laptop, she continues typing away at some vicious dream. A slight downturn to her lips, her brows are taut. She rests her head in the crevice between her knees, both pulled straight up to her chest. Her alien-print pyjamas stare at Zenkichi. After many grueling seconds, she mumbles.

“Something ‘bout a graveyard.”

“Thank you,” he breathes out. Shoes on, jacket swung over his shoulder, he’s almost out the door. He doesn’t give a damn that his sweatpants might have a hole in them.

He catches Sakura’s eyes when she looks up. A little bloodshot, but they’re unsure, tentative. He sees within them an alacrity, a risk of trust.

“Thank you,” he says, again.

“Take-” she stutters, “take care of him, okay?”

“I’ll try.” She blinks, lips pursed, nods quickly and turns back to her screen. And before he can stop himself -

“Sakura.” Her gaze shoots back up.

“Try to get some rest, will you?”

And he’s off.

He does find Kurusu at the graveyard. Sitting on the ground, he’s three spaces across from Aoi’s grave. Zenkichi can’t tell if that’s on purpose. He’s got his back up against the small ridge at the head of the grave, hands folded up in his lap again, legs pushed straight out. He looks carved from marble, with the early light hitting him from behind. Like he was crafted to sit there forever. Zenkichi observes his portrait, his straight nose, sees him recognize his approach. Watches him turn, slow, catlike, eyes sharp behind thick rims as Zenkichi stands next to him. 

He takes his blazer off as he comes to a stop, hangs it over his forearm.

Kurusu takes a long look at his clothes.

“I like your… glasses.”

“Shut it, I don’t need outfit advice from you.” He can’t believe the kid’s giving him shit over pink sweatpants and a band tee. “And how long have you been wearing that shirt now?”

Kurusu laughs, a small thing. Unrestrained. “I forgot to bring extras for when I’m doing laundry.”

“Y’know, I’ve got a couple of shirts you can borrow,” he says. “You won’t have to go to a laundromat, either. I have a machine.”

His gaze sweeps over Zenkichi again. Raises an eyebrow.

“Alright now. Don’t push your luck.”

Barely hiding a smile, Kurusu turns away again. The sun’s started to come up now, and the world is dipped in a beautiful rosy hue. Light breaks from across the sky, drapes over the graves like the soft surface of the sea. They’re still, together, beneath the waves.

“So she told you, huh?”

“Not easily. I had to fight for it,” Zenkichi replies. “What were you thinking, leaving your phone behind? What if you’d gotten lost?”

“I’m good with directions.”

“Seems you’re good with most things, aren’t you?”

A laugh. “Is that what they told you?”

Zenkichi folds up his blazer on the ground, settles down on it. It’s not as cold as he thought it’d be. The summer heat must have steeped into the stone. “You’re leader for a reason, no?”

“Sure,” he states. Picks at his hair. “I guess it’s flattering.”

“You don’t agree?”

Kurusu shrugs. How humble.

There’s rustling overhead. A light breeze shakes the trees, picking leaves and guiding them, leisurely, to the ground. A small pile’s started forming in front of one of the graves, a little further down. Another wind blows, scatters them into the distance. How temporary, Zenkichi thinks. How temporary everything is. He pulls up one of his legs, slots the other under it. Takes a look at Kurusu. Is he not cold in that short-sleeve? It’s still chilly in the mornings, even though it’s a little bit through August now. He could’ve at least grabbed a jacket or something when he was leaving.

“What are you doing at a graveyard, anyways?”

Kurusu smiles, something coy. “Thought I’d see if I fit in.”

He breathes out of his nose, heavy. Christ. He’s got nothing to say to that.

Kurusu must notice his discomfort, because he glances off, faces the side. Looks away at the expanse of the cemetery. His expression is quiet. Complacent. Zenkichi watches his adam’s apple bob with a swallow, his lips part to take a breath.

“Was just thinking,” he says, splitting the quiet like a geode, like a thin blade slipped between the cracks of a rock, twisted to one side, “of how many people weren’t buried.”

A grey silence settles over them. Another gust - it blows Zenkichi’s hair into his face, his mouth. He spits it out, tucks it behind his ear.

“Why’s that?”

“Does that kind of inquisition serve you well, detective?”

Zenkichi huffs. “Not a detective, Kurusu. I’m PubSec.”

The wind blows ashen through the trees. A thin sound echoes between the graves, bounces until it grows in volume and, like a sort of tinnitus, ingrains itself into his audio. He sees Kurusu bite down on his tongue, mouth a thin line. Sees something fire in his jaw.

Zenkichi can only watch as Kurusu approaches the circuit breaker inside his mind and throws every switch, one at a time. Watches him set them back to null. Sees him reboot in front of his eyes. He fixes his glasses, pushes them up his nose, and coughs out a sullen laugh.

“My bad.”

It doesn’t take a genius.

“Were you close?”

“Hm?” he sounds, something small.

“With Goro Akechi.”

Kurusu seizes up. The air grows a little bit colder, a little more steely.

He’s illegible again, taking refuge behind his glasses. His lips flit, once, twice. His hands, fingers twitch, looking for something to hold. No phone. Zenkichi watches one of them slip into his left pocket, grasp around something there. Remain.

“... Kurusu?”

“You could say that, yeah.” He speaks, and his voice is thick with something unnameable, cracked like porcelain. He swallows, and Zenkichi watches his chest rise. Fall. Slowly, controlled.

“... I won’t pry,” he says. Gets up, dusts off his blazer. “You coming?”

Kurusu smiles, shakes his head.

As he stands there, his blazer nestled in the crook of his arm, Zenkichi can’t help but brew with a certain kind of familiarity. He supposes it’s not quite the same, though. The knowledge that you’ll never have someone back lays next to the hope that maybe, someday, you will; hooks its fingers through its hair, looks at it with fondness. Looking at Kurusu, he thought he’d see a version of himself, fresh with heartbreak, waiting and waiting to wake up and see her again. Instead, he sees Kurusu for himself. Someone who never had the time to miss someone, and doesn’t know what to do with it now that he does.

Or maybe he’s reading too much into a stranger’s affairs. Regardless, Zenkichi speaks before he can change his mind.

“There’s this thing I used to do with Akane, in the first few months. Whenever we, uh… visited her.”

He’s never admitted this out loud. Never even acknowledged it was happening outside of the context of its motion. Kurusu doesn’t perk up, but he can tell he’s listening.

River water up to his calves, Zenkichi wades through grief.

“There’s a bakery Aoi used to love, a few streets down. We’d drop by, grab a bite to eat, then sit in the park for an hour or so,” he says, brave. “It’s actually where we went for our second date.”

Kurusu glances up at him from between his curls.

“She likes their croissants. Liked. I think they’ve changed the recipe recently, though.”

He bites the inside of his lip. Slips one hand into the pocket of his sweatpants, offers out the other.

“Come vet it with me.”

Kurusu looks at him for a moment, lips parted in surprise, his big eyes carrying familiar weight. There’s a beat.

And he laughs. Something slight, just a little breath of escaped air.

Reaching up, Kurusu takes his hand.

The sun’s grown higher in the sky now. It hangs upon the clouds, like a charm off a bracelet, silver metal glinting with the shake of a wrist. The graveyard is doused, like the rainbow of a petrol spill, with a thin layer of yellow. Zenkichi wraps his blazer around Kurusu’s shoulders. Kurusu rewards him with a small look, with half a face. He shrugs in response.

They make their way out of the graveyard, slowly, steps slightly out of sync. It’s silent for long enough. At the gate of the cemetery, Kurusu swipes the jacket off his back, slips his arms into it proper. He looks so… old, suddenly. Grown. A certain reservation in his face, his jaw, that for a moment, Zenkichi sees him turn into an adult. Something within him swells, a facsimile of pride. He reaches out, fixes Kurusu’s cuffs. A moment of silence stretches between them as they stand under the wide arch of the entrance. Kurusu’s lowered his face now, eyes looking down at the ground. A kind of concern, a disquiet in his face, his eyebrows are wound up, lips almost a pout. He looks distracted. Thoughtful.

“Good to go?” Zenkichi asks. Kurusu stands a little space behind him, still in the locked grasp of the cemetery. It’s a brief spell of time before he speaks.

“He didn’t like sweets,” he says.

“Pardon?”

His hands slide back in his pockets. The left tightens.

“He didn’t like sweets.”

When they go Akai Hasu Coffee and Pastries, Zenkichi orders two chocolate croissants. Kurusu orders two coffees.

And when they get up at 8:00am, one of each remains untouched.

It’s late when they all get back to the hideout. Zenkichi doesn’t think he’s ever been so exhausted in his life. Skin red and biting, it feels like a trail of ants are crawling across his cheeks, which haven’t stopped burning since. His lungs may well have collapsed in on themselves, since no breath he takes ever seems to last. Something within his chest must be frozen. He keeps getting these bursts of shuddering he’s never experienced before. His hands shake as he brings a cup of water to his lips, throat burns as he drinks it down.

Rest now, inspector, Valjean’s voice echoes in his mind. One day more. With it’s dawning will come your call to act. You are no use as you are now.

Zenkichi sighs, resigns. Valjean’s right, he knows that. Staying in the Jail for any longer would’ve wiped him out completely, and he needs to be there for Akane for when she comes back to her senses. He made a promise. Now, more than any, is the time to keep his word.

Absently, he wonders if she’ll remember anything he told her, about Owada and the letter. That’s how those things work, right? Cognition? Maybe some part of her will know now. Still, that’s not enough. When she’s back to herself, Zenkichi’s going to tell her everything. No matter how difficult.

Regardless, there’s nothing he can do about it until tomorrow. Right now, the Thieves are scattered across the hideout, each working on something separate. Sakura, as usual, is on her laptop across from him, feet planted on the chair under her as she crouches on top of it. Sakamoto is reading some sort of action-hero comic, filled with bright colors and impact lines. Sitting at the bar next to him are Nijima and Okumura, sharing a quiet conversation while Okumura sips at the coffee Kurusu brewed her not too long ago. Kurusu…

Stand up and fight!

He never thought he’d hear that shade of emotion in his voice. Thick with injustice, with concern and resolve, it’s the first time he’s heard Kurusu speak in anything above a quiet lull, let alone a shout. At that moment, the complete despair he’d fallen into was shot clean through, light seeping out of an open wound, Kurusu a smoking gun. And it wasn’t just him, of course, the Thieves were all present for him, but for some reason, Zenkichi can’t stop replaying the way he said those words. The steel, the raw desperation in his voice… He sighs. Wipes his hand across his face, settles into his palm. 

A light ring of pressure forms around his other hand, barely there. Must be the exhaustion from that sword he was swinging. How surreal, that such a heavy and inarguably physical thing manifested from himself. He’s got to ask the kids about how all that works, as soon as he’s rested up a bit. He doesn’t know if he can handle any sort of cognitive mumbo-jumbo right now.

Shaking off the strain, he immediately notices there’s a heavy weight to it, and when he looks down, finds yet another hand attached to him. Kurusu’s sat next to him, fingers wrapped around his wrist. He looks at him with an unease in his eyes.

“What are you…” he starts, trails off. Lightly pries his arm free from his grip, but Kurusu shakes his head, takes his hands in his own again. Gentle. Persistent.

They’re facing each other now, sitting sideways on the bench. Kurusu’s face is painted with some dim shade of uncertainty, of hesitation. His brows pull together like clothing on a rope, lips hold a tremor so deep in them. He looks at Zenkichi with a wet sort of emotion he can’t place. Seeing it on his face makes his gut churn.

Zenkichi humors him.

Kurusu takes a moment to study his wrists, run his thumb along the inside of them. Rotates his hand delicately. Checks all around for something. A moment too long, and he seems to decide he doesn’t find it. 

He lets go of a staggered breath. “Okay. Alright. Can, uh,” and he’s stumbling over his words like never before. “Can I see your, um. Your neck?”

“What? Why?”

Kurusu doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw’s set, he won’t make eye contact.

“... Please,” and his voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

There’s something happening here that Zenkichi doesn’t understand. It seems to mean a lot to the kid, however, so tentatively, he nods. Kurusu reaches up, brushes his hair out of the way with trembling fingers and barely, barely, grazes the side of his neck. His hands are warm against his skin, but Zenkichi can’t help but wince when he mouses over an artery.

Kurusu shrinks back like he’s been burned. Looks at him with wide eyes.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, like soothing a stray cat, “it’s alright. You’re fine.”

“Are you hurt?” It’s immediate. No pause, no room for breath. Kurusu’s grey eyes bore into him from behind his glasses, lenses so clear Zenkichi almost mistakes them for blue.

“What? No, I’m fine. Just a bit tired, is all.”

“Is- I thought, when- Did they-” and he stops. Takes a moment to collect himself. “You’re alright? Can you breathe?”

Oh, is he worried about Valjean? He supposes the chains were a bit off-putting. “That thing back there, what’d you call it - my Awakening? That did take a lot out of me, I have to admit. I’ll be fine though. Nothing a little R&R won’t fix.”

Kurusu’s eyes dart to Morgana, curled up on the table. They share a look. Morgana sits up, paws on the wood.

“What about before Sae came in?” he asks. “How’d the interrogation go?”

“Fine?” Kind of a weird question. Interrogation went fine, as far as interrogations go. “I can take a few punches, guys. I’m not that old.”

Kurusu laughs, a dry, vapid sound. “Right,” he says, “of course.”

Morgana flicks his tail to either side.

“Hey, Joker,” he calls, “Why don’t we start planning our route for tomorrow?”

Kurusu nods. Swallows. Breathes out. Zenkichi watches him shapeshift into Joker, watches his shoulders go back, his back straighten. Charisma bleeds out of him, and suddenly the space has changed.

“If I could have everybody’s attention...”

The Thieves flock like bugs to a meal. Kitagawa slips into the booth, next to Sakura. When everyone crowds around the table to talk planning, Zenkichi decides to watch. 

He watches Kurusu as he speaks, calm, quiet, collected. Almost robotic. There’s a line of action to his movements, as he points to locations on the map Sakura’s created on her computer. Takamaki, on her feet, leans against his side with a little more force than necessary, as Sakura steps over ‘Inari’ to go settle next to him. Guides his hand into her hair, watches him get to braiding like it’s second nature. He hears tone enter his voice again as his hands grow busy. Sees the glances Nijima and Okumura, Nijima and Kurusu share. He shoots her a daft smile.

“I’ve ended up a bit occupied, if you want to take over,” he says to her, as Sakura lets out a sinister giggle. 

“Make it nice, okay?” she says, “Not like how you did it last time.”

“It was nice…” Kurusu mumbles, a little bit hurt. Nijima chuckles.

“I’ll be your hands,” she assures him. “But either way - after we pass this fox statue…”

They keep talking. Zenkichi falls into thought. 

He’s missing something crucial.

Everyone in this room knows something about Kurusu that he doesn’t. Of course, that’s not surprising, but what is is the fact that nobody will admit to knowing, or even in fact admit that there’s something to know. He hadn’t thought this would be the situation he’d be in when he got assigned to the Phantom Thieves, looking for info on their leader not for any greater cause, but out of pure, selfish curiosity. But that’s just the thing - something’s wrong with Kurusu, and he needs to know what.

He thinks of warm fingers around his wrist, at his neck. What was that all about? Was he worried Zenkichi’d strained something? The kids give him a lot of shit about being in his 40s, maybe there’s actually a chance he thought Zenkichi was that fragile. Eh, he dismisses the thought. Kurusu’s smarter than that. A little too smart, in fact, that he does quite the job of hiding what’s on his mind most of the time. He doesn’t have that issue with, say, Kitagawa or Okumura. They’re blunt, clear. He’s thankful for that. Kurusu, despite his willingness to open up to him, is always guarded unless he decides otherwise. It’d be intriguing, if it wasn’t frustrating at times. Zenkichi understands what the Detective Prince saw in him.

A moment - he thinks of Morgana’s interjection, about the interrogation. Was that what this was about? He thinks back to his conversation with Kurusu in the car. Thinks of shifting hands, of lowered eyes. Thinks of everything omitted from the report.

There’s so much that he doesn’t know. 

He tunes back into the conversation. Takamaki is pointing out a blank area of the map, extrapolating off of what she already knows. Kitagawa takes pen to paper, creates a replica of the map with her input. It’s honestly impressive, the way he indicates landmarks and detail with such simplistic shapes. Now finished, Sakura runs her hands over Kurusu’s busywork. Satisfied, she shakes her head around. Zenkichi can only assume it’s to feel the weight of the braid.

Christ, he thinks. They’re all just kids.

He doesn’t know what happened to Kurusu in that room. He doubts he ever will. The only thing within his power now is to make sure it never happens again.

He crosses his arms, bumps Kurusu with his shoulder. When he looks up at him with surprise, confusion, he gives him a small nod.

“You’re alright, kid,” Zenkichi says.

And Akira beams.