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Occasionally, Akira has found, the air gets so cold that the world appears to simply stop. On those days, his whispered breath accumulates in front of his lips like a shared secret with the falling snow. He supposes the only support he has is the air, the chill it provides - collapsing from his mental exhaustion would only aid in plastering himself in sticky, sodden snow - since each of his confidants have decided, within their due confidence, that their warmth was no longer for him.
He stands outside in the shadow-shrouded back alley, now; shivering but avoiding the suffocating presence of walking lies awaiting him in the cafe. As he had awoken this morning, confusion setting into his mind with each of his friends he encountered, the fog had only grown thicker when his questions were only answered with smiles that showed much too many teeth and eyes glazed over from the truth. There were worse circumstances than being unneeded, ignored, he supposes, and maybe he should put that insecurity aside to better focus on figuring out what was happening.
A snowflake falls down into his line of sight, landing on his extended hand - wrapped around the doorknob in a hidden sort of hesitation. Spikes of laughter can still be heard from inside, a little too light to be correctly placed. Those may be his friends, sitting around the usual booth, joking and scheming, but they were not his phantom thieves.
It takes him another half hour to open the door.
-------
On the 2nd of January, Akechi walks into LeBlanc with an uncertain expression on his face, bitter and irritated. Akira determines quickly that he has to put aside his surprise - he’s supposed to be dead they were there when it happened how is he alive - for the moment, to work together and fight through the fog.
The others ignore him as he walks in, as if this is another ordinary occurrence in this altered, permutated reality. The detective explains away his discomfort, contorting to the side of the rocking washing machine, watching with a heavily displeased look on his face.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this; I’ll be sure to stay in contact.” He is completely apart from the persona he played last year, from the beginning of the summer to the engine room. Akira is almost relieved at the comfort of Akechi remaining the same angered, disillusioned boy from December.
He nods, fidgeting with a loose thread in his pants pocket. When he enters LeBlanc that night, Sojiro doesn’t ask why they’d been standing out in the cold, or why he lingers by the seat at the end of the bar. Akechi has a plan, he reminds himself; he’ll discover the hidden truths and make the sinners repent, and he requires Akira’s trust - the least he could give him.
In his attic room there’s already a body moving in the dusk. Breathing is already disturbing the clouds of dust surrounding the rafters. Awaking to a second person in his bed this morning had been a shock, but he wonders if this was a better alternative to leaving Morgana to a subject life as a four-legged animal. Maybe he shouldn’t have a say in that, in all honesty.
“You’ve been acting...off lately.” Despite all other behaviors and appearances, it truly seems as if this was still the same voice speaking to him, from a place of concern. There’s a speck of dirt floating through the open air between them that distracts him.
Akira tells his friend not to worry about him, like he always says - at least this dialogue is familiar, and the room is just dark enough that if he squints he can pretend that his form hasn’t changed. A provoking thought passes through his mind, but it’s weary with overuse and tiredness that it slips just as easily as he does to sleep.
He’s always been much too honest with himself within his dreams. He finds out all of the things he doesn’t let himself want while he’s awake - a rematch with Akechi, a call from his parents, someone to listen to him - and his subconscious exploits this blind point, a moment of weakness, so heavily that he wakes up bitter and cold; feelings he’s taught himself to forget.
Tonight, he listens and learns that he wants his friends to ignore the false happiness waiting for them in this nightmare they woke up in and come back to rely on him to provide them that happiness. does that make him selfish, wanting to be the one that people are forced to come back to for comfort- or does it make him broken? Wishes that when he mentioned to Futaba and Morgana that everything felt wrong, changed, that he had gotten more of a reaction from them. Couldn’t they see his discomfort?
A voice, his own, asks what he wants for himself.
“What I want?”
His eyes seem wider without the frames to obscure them. “Yes, Kurusu-kun; have you ever given it a thought? I’m going to admit, when creating this reality with your friends wishes, the most challenging part was deciding what sort of life that you desire.” It’s Maruki’s fault - all of this was his doing but it was equally Akira’s since he helped the doctor come to the realisation that cognitions were something that could be changed, that needed to be changed.
“I’m not going to live like this.” It’s a lie, this reality, even worse than the one Yaldabaoth attempted to concoct. Akira knows Akechi wouldn’t want to, trading one master for another wouldn’t sound too appealing to someone who’d lost all control over his life long ago. He knows - hopes - that his adamant refusal isn’t a lie on his own part.
Maruki doesn’t like that. The doctor had been kind enough when he was still slightly unsure of where he wanted his research to lead him, sure, but he had to stay strong in his stance.
Akechi hasn’t talked enough, as much as Akira wants him to - to jump into the middle of this ambush about freedom and run into the same monologue he gave them in Shido’s palace, about puppets and masters and fulfilling revenge. He muses over whether or not Maruki would consider that his wish.
They leave with Sumire in the end, along with a concerning parting word from the palace ruler. They rush through the blank, bright halls with the rest of the Phantom Theives - that must’ve been his want, then, for the others to break free of the lies and come to his side. It only aids in explaining what Maruki said as he turned his back, a heartfelt, “Give this world more time.”
Ann blinks. “More time?” She’s seated besides Makoto in the booth, her head propped up with her hand. “No, of course, take all the time you need. You - actually, I can go make that coffee for you, if you’d like. Would you want that?”
He’d only told her it’d take a second for him to make her a cup; her response would’ve been considered snappy and sarcastic had she not said it in that sweet, chipper voice she’d used in the underground mall with Shiho a few days before. Akira shakes his head, dazed. The others meet his eye simultaneously, just for a flash, and then they’re back with whatever discussion or task they were having before he’d opened his mouth.
He hurries to make the coffee, listening to Futaba swirl the ice in her glass around. They’ve remembered everything, returning to the snow and sorrow of the reality they had attempted to leave behind. There was still the changed, charged atmosphere that didn’t allow him to forget the territory around them.
He longs for his home.
Next time he’s out of his attic room, he calls Akechi from a hidden alley behind the moving people of Shibuya, where Akira is sure that no one can hear the tiny shakes in his voice. Akechi agrees to traversing Maruki’s palace on their own, as he had expected him to, and they meet swiftly in Odaiba.
Akira tells the detective that there’s something wrong with him. “There’s something wrong with me.” A barking laugh is given as a response, to tell him he’s succumbing to the pathetic pressure that’s being placed upon him by his weak teammates and their inability to make decisions for themselves.
Ever the skeptic, he asks, “How so?” As if there’s so much wrong with the trickster that he needs exact clarification. Akechi’s breath spills out in front of his face, which is twisted as usual.
As he explains a few circumstances - the time with Ann and her coffee, another time where Morgana, back to normal, gave up a piece of his fatty tuna, another time where Sojiro had let Akira keep working after he had insisted on helping - Akechi’s expression contorts ever so slightly more.
“What do you think it means?” He asks, puzzled by the importance of it all. Akira doesn’t want to seem like he’s making a big deal out of nothing at all, so he shrugs.
Placing the package on the desk, Morgana stares it down. A sticker had been placed on the plastic over the tuna - a symbol that had never been there before. It wasn’t important, not in the slightest; there was no more room for unwarranted changes, however, and he shivered at the strange tap into unfamiliarity.
The cat digs in, almost too undignified for Akira to believe that he used to continuously insist on being human like the rest of them. He chuckles away the bubble in his throat; this was ordinary, normal, comfortable. Teasing, he jokes that someone should teach Morgana the human lessons of sharing food.
To his surprise, the other looks up. The cat’s eyes are wide, glazed slightly - a whisker twitches as he speaks in a calm, pleasant tone. “Oh! That was actually really rude of me; would you like some tuna? You can have the rest if you’d like! Do you want that?”
Akira swallows. “Do I want what?”
Akechi’s eyes follow the motion down to his chest. His helmet is shaded, and blocks much of the details of his face, but Akira is certain he can make out the press of a soft pink tongue against the corner of Akechi’s mouth, jutting and piercing into Akira’s lower gut. “To go back to LeBlanc.” His voice is soft.
What does he want?
-----
Akira exits LeBlanc. While he’s glad all of his friends are completely cognizant of their surroundings and, for the most part, in control of their lives, there are little things that they do - snippets of Maruki taking back their minds - that unsettle him, causing his bones to chill.
He’d told Akechi about it, to a reply that called him a sentimental fool; for his friends to ask what he wanted wasn’t odd, and bringing it up most likely only served to make the detective jealous of his social links. Akira hadn’t meant to sound like that.
Sumire was back, and he entertains the thought of texting her to ask what she thought of the situation - it wasn't too long until they ran into each other at the station, though, and she’d dragged the truth about what was bothering him out of his mouth before he could even tell her that he was bothered.
Fortunately, she’s taken his words more to heart than Akechi had, digesting his worries and spitting out questions and comments that made his mind spin. “Have you tried this, or that, or…” It was helpful, for sure, to stand by the tracks with the gymnast for as long as they did and for her to make him realise that sometimes he was allowed to talk about himself.
Then, with a gust of wind that flew down the station stairs and into Sumire’s ribboned hair, Akira had seen just how much he had fallen apart in front of her in that hour and begun to pick himself back up despite her sweet attempt to convince him to continue relying on her.
“Honestly, senpai, I’m glad we had the chance to talk. I hope you find solace over your issue soon! Please let me know if there is anything else that I can do for you,” she says, with a honey-sweet smile and a click of her heel.
He’d only responded normally: “Don’t worry - thanks for listening. Say hello to your dad for…” trailing off when he noticed her pulling out her phone with record speed and putting it to her ear.
“Hey! Everything’s fine, I just called because Kurusu-senpai wanted to say hello!”
Wanted?
-----
Akechi sits on the edge of Akira’s bed, dizzying and making a mess of his heart. He narrows his eyesight onto a crack in the dark wood beneath him, to distract himself, and begins a train of thought about how this crack could potentially get bigger and bigger if he keeps digging the toe of his shoe into it and drag him down below -
“Kurusu, perhaps you would want to test that now?” For a second, Akira worries if he’d said those stupid thoughts outloud - flowing into the still blitzing air of January - until he recalls what Akechi is really getting at. Oh, right.
He shrugs, since it seems to be the perfect way to voice his opinions as of late. He can’t make anyone do anything with a simple movement of his shoulder, can he?
The detective lifts himself off his perch, hands braced on his thighs, stalking over to where Akira leans his back against the television table. They’d been discussing the increasingly odd occurrences between him and his teammates as of late - again - when Akechi had expressed interest in watching one such situation. However, since there was no one else who could make it to Yongen-Jaya on such short notice, he had placed the burden upon himself - attesting to become the victim of what Akira is beginning to dub his ‘hypnotic abilities.’
“Now, tell me to do something - something simple, such as sitting back down or lifting my hand. Although, perhaps -”
Akira can hardly stop himself, not when the perfect opportunity is staring him right in the face, wearing the ill-fitting disguise of some unnecessary experiment. “Kneel.” He’s not sure if the command had even been audible to anyone except himself, until he sees Akechi’s eyes lose focus up close.
In a blink, he’s on his knees. Akira grimaces, staring up at the ceiling. Like this, it was much too easy to tell just how close the two had been standing together, and with Akechi’s pretty, blank expression and hands neatly tucked behind his back, he began to wonder if this really was just to tease the detective.
A minute later and Akechi is scrambling to his feet on his own, eyes shifting but explicitly avoiding Akira’s shy gaze. “All right, then.” Akechi blinks, smoothing his sweater vest down anxiously. “I must - I’m going to take my leave, to continue my investigation on - researching Maruki.” There’s a slight flash of an uneasy smile across his face before he’s practically sprinting down the attic steps.
The bell sounds with a slam of a door only moments later.
Contacting Akechi after that is much harder. Maruki had given them a month, to try to convince them again - that time was slowly dwindling down with many more like incidents affecting Akira’s stability.
He gives up, mostly, on trying anything else with Akechi, for a full week - until a run-in with Maruki during a lone excursion leaves him with one simple answer to his impending question. It was a wonder how he hadn’t thought to ask the therapist before that moment about the strangeness.
His necks rolls slightly to the side, pulling a persona to the forefront of his mind in the off-chance that he’d be forced to use it against the peaceful palace ruler. “So you know about it?” The nod in return only offers Akira slight relief. Nothing of this can be too good.
“Of course I do. That ability is what you wished for, no?” Maruki smiles, not unkindly - a sort of smile that the trickster came to understand would make everything much tougher, in the end. The palace shifts around the two; white walls flickering with a penchant need.
Akira tells him that he has no idea what that means, clearly voicing his confusion. There was nothing in this benevolent reality that could replace the truth of the real world, where… what was so much better about a world with no guaranteed happiness?
Maruki seems pleased, watching the uncertainty play out in his grey slated eyes. The doubt he had planted with his show of Sumire was growing - could that be the reason Akechi denied Akira’s requests lately? was he sensing his hesitation and keeping his own distance defiantly? “If I’m to be correct, I believe you’ve answered your own questions, Kurusu-kun.”
A shadow, one of minimal threat, appears to guide the trickster back to the entrance. Even through their deal, a month of exploration and a chance to steal Maruki’s heart, the palace ruler still treats him as a patient. Akira’s promise of changing his heart remains seen to be just as empty as the rest of his friends’ eyes after having their wishes revoked from their conscience. Could he really be taken seriously if everyone around him was fighting back against the cause? Even Akechi, who Akira hadn’t heard a word from in almost a week, was most likely enjoying the freedom - the second chance - that this dream brought him.
Outside the palace, the air whips cold. His phone beeps with missed text messages and the familiar ding of the metanav disengaging. Akechi stands a mere few feet away from him, further from the entrance. It’s the closest they’ve been since Akira took control in the attic, and the shock of seeing his slitted pupils in front of his is disarming. He offers a smile, quickly, only to be shunned away with a frown and Akechi’s crossed arms. Akira’s hands retract into his pockets.
“Cafe?” The other suggests, and they’re there.
Outside LeBlanc, the scarf around his neck protects him from Akechi’s piercing glare. There’s not much to be said out here, in the manufactured storm, that can’t be shared between their eyes. Akechi has told him time and time again about how much he despises Akira; yet they continue to allow fate to push them back, until they arrive in the attic at the end of most days, as they did today.
Morgana spills out over the furthest bar stool, but he hops out the door when the chime sounds. He, along with a sizeable portion of the Phantom Theives, still tend to make themselves scarce when Akechi’s in the vicinity.
In the attic, Akira takes off his outerwear and gestures for Akechi to do the same.
“What did you want to discuss?” He looks downtrodden, oddly, gazing around the dusted room with a sullen expression. Even as Akira lifts his own coat across the railing, Akechi frowns, folding his garment closer into himself.
There’s a tonal shift, through the near still air of LeBlanc - Maruki’s doing, Akira presumes.
A blink later and Akechi’s standing outside the cafe again, clinking the door open. There’s a light smile on his face, a wave of trust greeting Akira as he hurries down the steps to gape at the situation.
It’s uncomfortable, the change. “Akechi,” he whispers. Something tugs the door closed, shut tight behind the detective. “Please don’t…”
A jolt moves through them. Akira feels mild relief.
Akechi sighs, and the beginning of a frown tugs at his lips. “Did you do that?” Akira shakes his head frantically, the need to refuse the idea overwhelming, until he realises he can’t hide from the probability. He shrugs instead.
“I don’t know.” He says, when the other doesn’t let up his gaze. “Could be Maruki. Do you want a coffee?”
His face falls into another unnatural facade; to hide the pain that anguishes his features - for just a second, almost unnoticed. “Take me upstairs, Kurusu.”
Upstairs? Akira blinks; his fingers twitch against his jeans. The coffee pot he’d picked up lands back onto the counter with a thud. LeBlanc isn’t open right now. There’s a possibility that the two of them are the last people awake in Yongen-Jaya. Even Maruki wouldn’t know what went on here, tonight. As if the two of them were the only real people left.
Akira Kurusu isn’t one too complain when presented with a prime opportunity, though he does question whether the god that orchestrated this exact moment was one he knew - perhaps the one he killed. The answer isn’t exactly one he wants to know.
At the top of the stairs, there’s another shift in the air that nearly knocks him off his feet. Akechi’s moved to the end of his bed - his leg crossed over the other, head tilted slightly while his arms stood support behind hs back. Akira swallows. The sight of the other, displayed in the same moonlight which bathes Akira of his sins during the night, burns the edges of his ears. Akechi’s face is screwed up from his forehead to his chin in a thoughtful expression; he’s thinking hard, probably deciding if it was too late to run or if sticking a gun in Akira’s face for the second time would be too much.
He looks over as Akira looms closer, blinking twice with the beat of the falling footsteps. Eyelashes hit Akechi’s cheekbones; a breath puffs through his chapped lips, though Akira’s own lungs have stopped functioning properly.
“Can you…” Given in response to his half-hearted attempt at playing civil is an illusive eye roll. The delinquent tries again, with a tilt of his head to the left and a rapidly growing cavity in his chest. “Lie down, Goro.”
His eyes slit. Akira’s never seen an expression quite like it - dazed and lustful and open. With a swallowed sigh, he leans into the mattress, pressing a knee between Akechi’s thighs. They twitch under his watchful eye, waiting for the slightest hint of regret in the other’s body. All it took was one sign. Akira’s view though, is full of a panting detective - in his bed - and a hand grasping for his hip through the cold air.
Complying, he shifts forward. His knee brushes against the juxt of Akechi and a whimper breaks the silence. Twin shudders run through the two. The other waits - for something, for a command - and presses his cheek into the pillow.
The crevice in Akira’s chest is aching with a certain need and an indescribable want. This is is his fated rival, someone destined to fall into his arms. Was this really the way it needed to go? Even as toned legs wrap around his waist and smooth fingers bury into his hair, he lets a repressed anger swell - until he has to do something, with every synapse in his brain firing at the same time in the same direction, and he snaps forward into Akechi.
Moans and soft voices fall into place, and the dust of the attic around them shakes with the energy put off by only a few of Akira’s words. The other trembles beneath him, withering in sheets only ever laid in before my one, gasping for air only ever breathed before by Akira.
He still needs to find a way to fill the hole created by his leaving behind his senses. Leaning in, close to Akechi’s ear, he whispers a last directive that has him biting into Akira’s neck to keep from screaming:
“Give in to me.”
and they let go.