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Something about the hand resting at the back of his chair feels especially weighted with purpose during this particular attic meeting, so it doesn’t exactly surprise Akira when his phone lights up with a new message just as the rest of the Phantom Thieves are filing out of Leblanc. As he waves goodbye to the others, he presses the notification and reads the missive; it informs him that he’ll have the pleasure of Goro Akechi’s company this afternoon. It does not give him the option to decline, but Akira thinks that assuming he would if he could is giving himself entirely too much credit.
Futaba’s requested Morgana’s presence today; she’s decrypting or encoding something, Akira forgets which and what the difference is, but it’s apparently a long process and she wants the company. Seeing her cheerfully scoop up the cat and carry him away is probably what prompted Akechi to send the text. They don’t often get the opportunity to be alone.
He sits at the top of the stairs to the attic and waits, imagining Akechi pausing before doubling back, waiting until no one can see him, turning and walking his bike back to the café with a purposeful stride. All because he wants to see Akira.
It isn’t long before Akira hears the door open and Akechi’s voice greet Sojiro, the pleasant tone of his voice unmistakable even if Akira can’t make out the words. He stands and makes his way down the stairs. Akechi doesn't greet him when he catches his eye; only smiles a quick half-smile, they've just seen each other, after all. It’s strange how well he seems to fit in Leblanc. If he really is unwelcome wherever he goes, as he claims, it certainly doesn’t seem that way. He’s carved out a space for himself here. Second chair from the door, his spot. A cup of the house blend, his usual. Akira Kurusu, his… well. His whatever.
Sojiro sees Akira and raises an eyebrow, a silent inquiry as to why Akechi’s here again. “Forgot something,” Akira says, gesturing vaguely at Akechi, and Sojiro nods, losing interest and returning to polishing cups and frowning at the news playing out grimly on the television.
Looking at Akechi, Akira jerks his head in the direction of the stairs and turns. The sound of Akechi’s footsteps following without hesitation bring him a certain guilty satisfaction.
“It’s been a while since we’ve had a little time to ourselves,” Akechi says when they’ve reached the attic, the thumping of their feet suddenly louder against the wooden floorboards.
Both of them have an investment in maintaining discretion, which began with a conversation which went a little something like this: Akechi saying “Perhaps it’s better if you refrain from telling the others about… this,” Akira replying "Yeah, I mean, they do think you're a blackmailing bastard," and Akechi only laughing and responding with "I do so enjoy that refreshing bluntness of yours, Akira," to which Akira said something intelligent like haha yeah sure before pushing him up against the wall and shutting his mouth.
It’s necessary, but it certainly makes finding time for this a lot harder, which is all very well and good for Akira’s hormones and the guilt gnawing at his insides.
“Next time you should use my window,” Akira says, stretching. ”Didn’t I tell you to start thinking like a thief? Consider all points of entry.”
Eyebrows rise in amusement. “It’s two stories up. What, were you planning to let down your hair for me?”
“I’d need a few weeks to grow it out.” That gets a laugh, but Akira doesn’t see because he’s turned to push the chairs spread out for the meeting back in their place.
Akechi is not a fan of the attic, Akira knows. It’s usually pretty hot in here and there’s something about Akechi that seems to wilt a little in high temperatures, to say nothing of the clothes he usually wears, those prim suit jackets and sweater vests. Before he got the chance to actually take Akechi’s clothes off Akira felt personally tortured by every folded lapel or smoothed-out collar, because of a juvenile belief that in their absence some kind of truth would be revealed. Like if he saw Akechi with the layers stripped away, somehow he’d start to make sense. But that was a largely incorrect hypothesis, as it turned out.
As Akira cleans up, Akechi makes himself comfortable, sitting back on Akira’s bed with legs crossed. Sure enough, he’s unbuttoned his suit jacket, left it on the edge of the bed. When Akira turns to him he looks up at him attentively, as if awaiting orders, which is cute because Akira doesn’t know who the hell Akechi actually takes orders from yet but it’s not him.
Akira walks over and throws himself onto the bed, facing Akechi and making no effort to be courteous, folding his hands behind his head and grinning when Akechi rolls his eyes and shifts to accommodate him.
“So,” Akechi begins. Here comes the excruciating preamble. “How fares our fair leader?” A little grin at his own wordplay, and that actually is cute. Akira wants so badly to touch him already but it’s Akechi and everything is needlessly complicated so he just swings his legs up and throws them across Akechi’s lap. Akechi actually flinches a little before giving in to the contact, leaning backwards, back hitting the wall with a quiet thump.
“Oh, you know,” Akira replies, “same old, same old. Stealing hearts, taking names, et cetera.”
Akechi looks at him. Eyes more probing than sympathetic. “I hope you’re not overworking yourself. If I may be frank, you seem more… run down than usual.”
Akechi’s concern for the health of the person he plans to murder is truly touching, but Akira’s fine. Probably. Lately he’s been working extra hard at Phan-Site requests. So that’s a lot of time in Mementos, plus a lot of time trudging through the casino palace, plus a lot of time tirelessly repeating the details of Operation Evade Akechi’s Death Trap, mostly with Futaba and Makoto, and oh yeah he still has homework and several actual wage-earning jobs. The Mementos requests might be pushing it, but they need to get stronger anyway. Practice begets perfection. It’s been tiring, but a lot of things have been tiring lately, and all that’s coming will necessitate it. And how ironic it is, to have Akechi fighting right besides them, learning new skills and gaining strength himself, when sooner than not he’ll reveal himself as their enemy.
“I can handle it,” says Akira. Really, it’s all leading up to his grand failure, anyway. There’s no elegant way to purposefully get caught in a deception, is there?
“That’s good to hear,” Akechi says. “But please be sure to look after yourself.” He really does have such a pretty voice. Not even feigned sympathy can mar the pleasing cadence of it. “You have so many responsibilities, after all, and all on top of having to deal with the others.”
This is such a ridiculous statement that Akira can only raise his eyebrows. Akechi sees it and catches himself– though that's probably choreographed too– and says "Forgive me for how that sounded. I only mean that fostering cooperation amongst such a diverse group is surely a challenge," and is he really trying what Akira thinks he’s trying?
Because if he does want to manipulate Akira’s loyalties he kind of fucking sucks at it. It's probably because he doesn't have a single human relationship that isn't laid out like a television script, all prettily aligned and typed neatly and falsely, dialogue easy to memorize, internalize, repeat. Is there anyone, anyone at all he talks to who gets the real thing, however that may sound?
He can't let up now and deny everything; he wants to see what Akechi's playing at. He says, "I guess. I mean, it can be frustrating when we aren't all on the same wavelength." Even though that's literally an inevitable consequence of working in a team. Akechi, you dumbass. The mechanics of this are something Akira’s had to study since the moment he and Ryuji ceased to exist in the normal human realm and found themselves in Kamoshida's shithole palace. Reality chose a path for him, not the other way around. So now he’s here, installed by chance, somehow defying fate, and trying to keep a fixed moral compass the whole time, but at least he has people on his side. See? Akira wants to say. I did it, the hopeless delinquent learned the power of friendship, and you can too, for the low, low price of gaining some self-awareness!
"Hmm," Akechi says thoughtfully. “And is there a method you use to bring it all back into alignment?”
“Well, I’m the leader,” Akira says, “So I just lead.”
Akechi snorts. “If it’s that easy, you really are extraordinary.”
"I mean, it is, if I think about it like...” Fuck, he’s bad at explaining himself like this. "Like it’s a... story… or something. And instead of living it I’m just… making the choices I have to make. To advance the plot.”
“Instead of living it,” Akechi repeats, and Akira suddenly feels like he’s staring down the wrong end of Ushimaru’s chalk in class. “This is how you think?”
“I mean, that’s– how it feels. Sometimes.”
So maybe he finds himself dissociating his way through life a little bit, but so what, if he knows he’s always on the right path? If you get sent away for something you didn’t do you accept the hand you’re dealt and try to make it right. If you mysteriously get granted magical thief powers you figure out how to use them and make it right. You try not to think about how angry you are, how bitterly hopelessly miserably angry, and you fight Shadows and you steal hearts and you do things right. Because if you know what good is and you know about evil, you don’t have to pay attention to anything else.
But there’s always Akechi to jolt Akira out of autopilot mode.
"I must say, I’m surprised to hear that from you.” Akechi doesn’t really sound judgmental, just strangely intrigued. “I can’t say that’s a typical point of view.”
"Everyone thinks like that," Akira says. He hears the edge in his tone, the defensiveness, and dials it back a little, makes himself sound neutral. "Everyone finds ways to… get through it.”
"Not everyone," Akechi says. "People who…”
He leaves the sentence unfinished, uncharacteristically; Akechi isn’t one to trail off. Akira absently goes to tug at his glove before he remembers this is the real world, not the Metaverse, and his hands are bare. Not so for Akechi. The leather that stops just short of covering his wrist, leaving a strip of skin that always draws Akira's eye, is meant to make him seem impenetrable, Akira's sure. It kind of works, but it also makes him seem even more alien. Like he’s destined to always be apart. If Akira ever asked him why he feels the need to keep them on all the time he might get a television joke about handling evidence or a philosophical quip that's only vaguely related to what they're talking about, after which Akechi might duck his head, laugh his little laugh and say something like "I apologize, I got carried away" which will be so obviously bullshit and which Akira will so obviously find mesmerizingly endearing anyway because he is so obviously and utterly fucked.
Akira sits up suddenly with a rustle of sheets, back straight, until the distance between himself and Akechi is only a few inches. As if closer proximity will somehow bring the puzzle pieces into sudden harmonious alignment. It doesn't, obviously. Akechi’s hard to read no matter how near Akira is to him. He regards Akira, no smile, just scrutiny. That's fine. That's tolerable. That's something he might even enjoy, Akechi looking at him like that, if he had assurance that Akechi wasn’t thinking about putting a bullet in Akira’s skull while doing so.
Something else he would enjoy seeing from Akechi would be a signed sheet of paper stating "I solemnly swear that I am not thinking about murdering you when we make out."
“Do you know,” Akechi says softly, “that the more I learn about you, the less I understand?”
How ironic; Akira feels the same. “Trying to figure me out? Thought you got enough intrigue at work.” A sudden, unwelcome thought hailing from the back of his mind suggests that maybe this is work for Akechi and that makes him taste bile in his throat.
“Mm, but I can never resist a mystery. I could write my own personal case file about you.”
Akira thinks, that’s romantic. Akira says, “I’m sure I’d be the cutest one in your dossier.”
“And then some,” Akechi agrees, with a grin that’s almost mischievous. He really is excruciatingly good-looking, with his pretty eyes, pretty lashes. Akira wonders why they’re not kissing yet and resolves to correct this.
He moves to close the distance between them, swinging his legs back onto the floor. Akechi smiles and Akira can feel the impression of it when he presses their lips together. Akira wants another reality, another time, another place. His palms are flat against the sheets, Akechi’s mouth warm against his. It’s chaste, really, a kiss that feels like a gentle reassurance, which once again is so goddamn ironic that Akira could just die laughing. Seriously, he needs to cut down on the amount of irony in his life.
When they pull away Akira says, “The other day in the convenience store, I saw you. In a magazine, I mean.”
“Ah.” Akechi looks amused. “Did you learn anything new from this publication? Which I’m sure was just oozing with journalistic integrity.”
“No, but when I picked it up the lady next to me in line saw and started waxing poetic about you. She said…” Akira frowns and tries to remember. “Oh, yeah. She said the way you looked when you were arguing with people on TV was sexy.”
"My God,” Akechi says, laughing, and Akira smiles despite himself. “Is that what you think, too?"
"You know what I think."
"I do, but I like to hear you say it.”
“I could just show you instead.”
“You are very good at demonstrating,” Akechi agrees. The smirk on his lips makes him seem older.
Akira raises a hand, brings it to Akechi’s face, traces the line of his cheekbone with his thumb. Akechi keeps his eyes fixed on Akira’s own, but Akira lets his wander. When Akechi’s just been kissed, his lips are a little redder than usual, his cheeks flushed just enough to be noticeable. And the way he looks at Akira– when they do this he never bothers, maybe doesn’t remember, to hide the intensity of his gaze. There’s something nakedly revealing in it, something almost like hunger. God, Akira thinks, I really am turning into a masochist.
"Then again,” Akira says, breaking the spell, “I could just be showing you what I want you to see.”
Akechi laughs, but it's short and dry, almost dismissive. He says, "Well, I certainly hope you didn’t expect that to surprise me. Considering our circumstances. I’m aware that no one reveals their hand so easily.”
"Not everyone," Akira says. “Not everyone hides their intentions that.”
“And you do?”
We do. “Might be for the best if I kept as much of myself hidden as possible.”
For a moment Akechi is silent. Then he says, slowly, “Sometimes, you speak as if you don’t like yourself very much.”
Akira almost laughs. “I could say the same about you.”
The corner of Akechi’s mouth quirks upwards. There’s another pause. Then: “Kiss me.”
In answer Akira moves closer, so their knees are pressed together, and something in him unwinds, something from within says finally, finally.
A different kiss this time, when he wraps a hand around Akechi’s neck and threads his fingers in his hair, openmouthed and demanding, enough to make Akira’s pulse race. Akechi pulls Akira closer until his own back hits the end of the wall that faces the work-desk, his thumb under Akira’s chin as he holds Akira’s face in place, making a little shaky noise even as Akira’s tongue is sliding against Akechi’s in his mouth.
How does Akechi do it? How does he always manage to reflect all of Akira back at him, like a cracked mirror scattering light in all directions– all of his wants, desires so muddled and contradictory you could even call them distorted? Why does it feel like nothing is enough until Akira can pacify whatever beast it is inside of him, something that feels like the manifestation of rage and envy and pity but isn’t any of those, really? Why does Akira keep getting the feeling that the two of them are the same, even though they couldn’t be more different?
“About that lady at the store,” Akira says, when they have to break apart for air, own voice sounding rough to his ears. Speaking more to make himself stop thinking than anything else.
He takes a little pleasure in the way Akechi’s eyebrows shoot upwards; that’s surprise, unrehearsed. Akechi says, voice a little strained, “You’re remarkably adept at killing the mood.”
“I kinda wish–” Akira pulls at the knot of Akechi’s tie, loosening it enough to remove, and then begins the process of undoing the buttons on Akechi’s collared shirt. Forcing his fingers steady. “Whenever I see people like that, I kind of want them to know. Everyone who looks down on me in this neighborhood, everyone who fawns over you at school. I don’t want to tell them, but I want them to know. That–” Collar successfully undone, Akira moves his lips to Akechi’s neck, kisses the soft skin there, and hears Akechi’s sharp intake of breath in response. “That I’m the only person who gets to see you like this. Awful, right?” He scrapes his teeth against Akechi’s skin and bites, and Akechi gasps and suddenly his hand is on Akira’s chin, forcing his face up, so they’re looking right at each other.
"...Why?” Akechi says, voice lower, breaths coming heavier. “Why must you pay them any mind? Those people, they don’t–”
He closes his eyes, breathing deeply. Slowly Akira sits up, faces him again.
Akechi’s eyes open. He says, “This is yours, Akira.” He takes Akira’s hand in his own, fingers around fingers, brings it to his chest so Akira can feel the thump of Akechi’s heartbeat. “All this, yours.”
He says it so precisely, so logically, like it’s an obvious truth, just like how he sounded on that phone call Futaba recorded, voice calm and methodical as he recounted his plan to fake Akira’s suicide, an unavoidable necessity.
He almost sounds like he wants it to be true, but he won’t fool Akira so easily. Akira can tell there’s something in Akechi that violently rejects the idea of belonging to anybody. He knows because he’s the same way, and he feels that parallel between them almost physically, like a thread tying them hopelessly and inevitably together.
A moment later, Akechi squeezes his hand again and moves it from his own chest, but he doesn’t let go, their fingers still intertwined on the bedspread. Akechi leans back against the window, his eyes fluttering closed. Akira leans his head against Akechi’s bony shoulder. Suddenly, he feels exhausted.
When everything is this opaque, when Akechi is this inscrutable, Akira can’t keep the rules straight in his head, which shouldn’t even be a problem he’s having because isn’t it supposed to be simple? Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt definitely not steal, thou shalt not hook up with the traitorous detective, thou shalt not indulge thy baser impulses by inviting him into thy shitty attic bedroom and letting him into thy head.
But this is simple, too: listening to Akechi breathe, feeling his hand against Akira’s, touching him, pretending like they understand each other. Too often, it feels like the simplest thing in the world.
Soon enough, Akechi will take his leave. Sojiro will close up shop, and the afternoon will give way to evening before a new day begins.
Then, a little farther down the line, Akira will finally make it right. He will find a way to strike at the depraved and lift up the wretched, because this is the path that has been chosen for him.
And when it comes to Goro Akechi, he will hope he is not making a mistake.