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Akechi is so tired, down to his bones, down to his blood, down to his weak, unworthy heart.
The mood in the safe room is sombre. It's been a long, hard run—the enemies are relentless in Maruki's palace, and something about their attacks keeps sapping the party's energy. Every member with healing capabilities has entirely exhausted their supply, and there are still people with untreated bumps and scratches deemed not severe enough to waste a spell on.
Leaning against the wall, Akechi digs his fingers into the meat of his forearm to stay alert, and looks over his erstwhile companions. Skull is sitting collapsed on a couch, limbs sprawled messily over a slightly more alert but still visibly fatigued Fox. Queen is wrapping Noir's wounds, speaking hushed words Akechi can't quite discern. Panther is on the floor beside the door, hands hanging limply between her knees and blonde hair covering her face.
And there, standing sentinel over them all, is Joker. Unlike the rest of their group, his posture is straight and unaffected, dark eyes flickering over his party with the intensity Akechi is now accustomed to while in the metaverse, as if he can observe their status simply by looking. The mask obscures his expression enough that it's impossible to tell if he's been affected by the gruelling work at all.
Akechi hates him. He hates that Joker is all that he was promised to be and more, he hates that he can remain upright even when Akechi himself is so fatigued he feels he might crumble, he hates that he aches for the force of his regard so badly it feels it might crush him. He misses him more than he can stand, more than makes any sense when the boy is standing right there. He hates that there's no other time he feels more real than when Joker's speaking to him.
Finally, Joker's gaze rests upon his, and Akechi feels something tightly wound within him loosen. He's so tired that he can't bother to even pretend he wasn't watching—what point is there, now? He has no ulterior motives. He is here to be of use and nothing more. His pathetic yearning will pose no obstacle.
Akechi watches Joker's stiff shoulders relax slightly as they make eye contact, and feels sick. It's worse when he knows now that Joker feels the same, worse when he knows the love is there, but it won't change anything. Akechi's been dying since the day he was born, and try as he might, Joker can't save him in a way that matters.
"I think that's enough for today," Joker says quietly, without looking away from Akechi. The announcement is met with scattered sounds of relief from the rest of the room, punctuated by Ryuji's heartfelt "Thank fuck," that Akechi is chagrined to find he can't really argue with. He's accustomed to hardship, but it's harder when there's someone who actually cares for him dogging his step.
With little fanfare, the Phantom Thieves begin their departure from the metaverse. Akechi lingers as he usually does, the paranoia of his first stint in their merry band difficult to shake—he remembers feeling certain that if he were the first to leave, they'd use his absence to set a trap for him upon his return. It feels silly, now. Ultimately, his failure required far less effort than he could have anticipated.
Once he and Joker are the only members left in the room, Akechi meets his gaze once again. Joker gives him a nod, and Akechi steps sideways and through the gaps in the distortion, vision blurring until he finds himself back in the freezing air of downtown Tokyo. He shivers, suddenly missing the relentlessly temperate climate of Maruki's palace. Even with his warm trenchcoat and scarf, Akechi finds that the chill burrows right down to his bones, and he hasn't yet managed to shake it.
Looking up, he finds Ren standing where he'd last seen Joker, nose pink with cold. He's not looking back anymore—Ryuji's speaking to him, one hand jostling his shoulder. Akechi looks at the hand, so exhausted his thoughts feel fuzzy and opaque even to him. Something goes strange with his eyes, spots dancing across his vision as his head throbs.
He realises abruptly that he's no longer leaning against something as he begins to sway. Akechi has the briefest moment to feel viciously angry with himself for becoming frail enough that a single Palace run could drain him so thoroughly, before his legs give out. Someone curses sharply, and Akechi has just about accepted the possibility of a concussion before he finds himself braced against a warm body.
"Whoa," Ren says, voice very close. "You okay?" Akechi bares his teeth—fuck, this was humiliating. What was he, some kind of fainting Victorian maiden? He opens his mouth to fire off a sharp rejoinder, something about how perhaps he wouldn't be so drained if anyone else in the party would pull their fucking weight, when his vision flips again and his stomach with it. He shuts his mouth with a snap, sucking in a breath through gritted teeth as he sags completely onto Ren's deceptively strong frame.
"Hey, what happened?" Ryuji actually sounds concerned, which is more than Akechi expected. He feels Ren wind an arm around him, holding him up, and Akechi is so far gone that he finds himself incapable of pushing him away even though this was such a humiliating display of weakness that he really ought to just walk out into traffic.
"Looks like he overexerted himself," Ren replies, voice low and so audibly worried that Akechi feels it in his chest. "I'll take him home. You head back, it's getting late." You don't even know where I live. Fucking liar.
"You sure?" Now Ryuji sounds suspicious. It's almost funny—what does he think Akechi's going to do? Perhaps he thinks he's faking it, just to get Ren alone and- And what? Kill him again? He isn't so spiteful and shortsighted.
"I've got him." Ren's using his leader voice again, the one so steeped in confidence and assurance that even Akechi struggles to argue with him while he's using it. God, he fucking hates him. Insufferable, idealistic fucking idiot.
He wishes he could say any of this, but he feels so faint that he's worried he might say something embarrassing instead, like I wish you stayed dead, or I love you.
Ryuji has always been far too weak-minded to withstand Ren's lacklustre authority, so when Akechi blinks his eyes open, they're alone. Ren is watching him, and Akechi almost has to avert his gaze again when he sees him. Ren has been more expressive since Akechi died, and as a result, sometimes he looks at him with such naked longing it feels like staring into the sun.
"I can find my own way home," Akechi grits out, attempting to stand up straight once more, only for Ren to tighten his grip on him.
"Akechi, don't be stupid," Ren murmurs, and Akechi bristles. "Let me take you home."
The wind picks up, and Akechi shivers again.
"I don't-" I don't need you, he wants to say, but he can't get it out. He's gotten worse at lying.
"Akechi." Ren's voice so soft he almost can't hear it over the nighttime bustle of Tokyo. "You almost keeled over from exhaustion. Let me look after you. Please." Akechi opens his mouth to protest, but Ren shakes his head before he can. "Come on. You've got nothing to lose."
It's true. He doesn't, because he is weak and hollow and it doesn't matter anymore. But Ren does have something to lose. Akechi just can't keep from twisting the knife.
"Fine," Akechi mutters, and Ren gives him that tiny smile that still crinkles the corners of his eyes, makes his face look bright and open and incandescent. Akechi feels sick. He doesn't know that you're just making it worse for him. He doesn't know that you never stopped using him, you wretched desperate hungry creature.
The train rattles when it makes its way onto the station, and Ren leads him onto the train with one arm still holding him up. Akechi isn't sure if he needs it, or he's just latching on to his warmth like some kind of parasite and is now unable to let go. Ren graciously allows Akechi to collapse into the only open seat, and stands over him watchfully as the train rumbles into motion once more.
Akechi leans back, looking up at Ren's profile while he surveys the train carriage as if checking for possible threats. Here, the fluorescent light glances off his round glasses, shielding his eyes and making it impossible to gauge his expression. Sometimes, Akechi wonders if he's just seeing what he wants to see in those moments he thinks Ren feels for him, just as everyone else does. He's like Schrodinger's lover—the only man more chameleonic than Akechi himself. Perhaps they're both just reflecting off each other, like two mirrors in an empty room. Pathetic, how they both can still find themselves here regardless. Just making each other worse.
Leblanc smells so comforting and familiar when they enter the door that for a horrifying moment Akechi thinks he might cry. The warm, spiced air wraps around them like a blanket, and Akechi breathes it in, working through the lump in his throat as he slumps against the counter-top. Sentimental fool, he thinks bitterly, this place means nothing to you. Just good coffee and the boy you planned to kill. Next to him, Ren locks the door, the jingle of his keys breaking the quiet inside the store.
Once the door has been safely locked, and they are secure within Leblanc's walls, Ren turns back to him. Akechi can see his dark eyes once more, can see the way his mouth pinches at the corner, the slant of his eyebrows as they furrow together. Ren worries for him—it's written plain over his face. Akechi can't help but be a hollow recreation of the boy Ren wished for in December.
He doesn't resist as Ren reaches for him, winding a hand into his jacket and pulling him forward into a tight embrace. Now it's Ren that leans on him, sagging almost his full weight against Akechi so he has to prop himself against the counter to keep them both upright. Akechi can smell the store on Ren's collar as he buries his face in it, and hear the click of his throat as he swallows, and feel the hitch in his breath where he presses both hands against the back of his dark coat and attempts to drag him closer.
"Sorry," Ren says roughly, pressing his words into Akechi's hair. "Sorry, I don't know why I-" He stops, clears his throat. Akechi wants to sink his teeth into him, wants to crawl into his chest and curl up in his ribcage. "It's been a long day," Ren finishes. Akechi couldn't agree more.
"Come on." Akechi straightens enough to look him in the eye. Ren looks miserable and exhausted, and something wretched within Akechi thrills to think that he would never allow anyone else to see him like this. "To bed. You're no use to anyone in this state."
This amuses Ren—he can see the edge of his mouth quirk up, and a little of the despair drains from his expression. "You're right, as always." He disentangles himself from Akechi, and wraps his fingers around Akechi's wrist. Turning away, Ren leads him up the stairs. Akechi is fading, and the stairs seem to take longer than they should, so he focuses on that spot of warmth where Ren's fingers press into his pulse point and follows it blindly.
Ren's attic is as messy as he remembers it, boxes piled in the corners and work desk scattered with seemingly useless junk. His bed is rumpled, sheet pulled off the corners and singular pillow crushed into the corner like a used tissue. It is immeasurably better than the soulless uptown apartment Akechi calls his own, and it smells like Ren.
Both of them undress silently. Akechi makes it out of his coat and sweater without issue, but once he bends to undo his laces, his head begins to throb. He straightens, blinks hard to clear the spots from his vision. Ren has stripped in record time and stands in only a t-shirt and his boxers, skinny legs bare in the low light of the attic. Akechi blinks again, feeling a little faint.
"Let me help," Ren murmurs, gesturing for him to sit on the bed. Almost mechanically, Akechi does what he says. He's not sure he could do anything else, right now. It should terrify him to be so entirely at his rival's mercy, but as Ren kneels to carefully undo the laces of his boots, instead Akechi feels…
He swallows hard, looks away. Focuses hard on the bare wall of the attic as he feels Ren's clever fingers circle his ankle, gently pulling off one shoe, and then the other. He should thank him, but he can't get the words out of his mouth. Ren stands, and Akechi watches his back as he approaches the shelves, rummaging through a messily organised box of clothes. He digs around before withdrawing a pair of sweatpants, tossing them in Akechi's direction. Akechi blankly watches them fall to the floor.
"Put those on. You'll get cold."
Akechi obediently slips out of his pants, letting them crumple on the floor. They'll surely get wrinkled, but he can't bring himself to care. He tugs the thick fabric of the sweatpants over his legs, and looks up to find Ren watching him.
Once again, his expression looks desolate. Akechi wonders if he should say something, but he knows the Detective Prince's meaningless platitudes won't fool Ren anymore. Instead, he holds out a hand. Ren takes it, stepping closer so Akechi has to tilt his head up to look at him.
Ren's lips are warm and dry when he kisses him, and Akechi thinks about dying; he thinks of having something to lose. He wonders if Ren is thinking the same, but he doesn't have the breath to ask—they're tipping back, onto Ren's unmade bed, pressed together like petals between pages of a book.
Akechi's burning out, he knows. He was not made to sustain this existence for long. But when Ren curls up beside him, head tucked under his jaw like he hadn't listened to Akechi plan to shoot him no more than three months earlier, he wonders what could have been different. Ren's so warm that he can almost remember what being alive felt like; his beating heart could almost be Akechi's own, if he shut his eyes and pretended.
Sleep takes him quickly, and for once, Akechi does not dream.