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Akira didn’t know why he was finding out it was his boyfriend’s birthday from Twitter. Sure, Goro didn’t tell him everything. He was working on it, Akira knew—but sometimes he felt like Goro had been more open with him back in that cozy café in Yongen-Jaya than he was when he was curled up in Akira’s arms. Maybe it was because he’d been lying so much back then—the truth had slipped through more easily. Now being honest was a chore for Goro rather than a release.
Still, this was next level. What kind of person finds out about their significant other’s birthday from Twitter?
He had wondered initially why “Goro Akechi” was trending, fear creeping into his heart as he thumbed through the top posts. Had someone discovered them? They’d done their best to stay on the down-low, in their little Tokyo apartment while they both worked their way through college.
“The detective prince” seemed to have faded from the public’s cognition—whether that was mainly due to the Metaverse, or simply the fickle nature of fame, Akira wasn’t sure. It had certainly started with Shido’s downfall, and even though he felt certain that the Metaverse’s effects had faded on society after all this time, there had been no real whispers about the once-famous detective.
With a slightly different hairstyle and no press appearances since Shido, so far Goro had gone unnoticed in the city. That was one of the things Akira loved about Tokyo, so much preferred to his tiny hometown. You could never hope to disappear in a small town, but in a city it was as easy as changing addresses and keeping your eyes down on the street.
A few posts assuaged his initial fear. It was mostly people wondering vaguely what had happened to Goro, since he’d vanished so quickly and utterly. A part of him was slightly resentful it had taken them so long to notice. It had been a year since his high school graduation, two years since he was the leader of the Phantom Thieves.
Why now did anyone care about Goro, when they’d been fine for years pretending like he never existed? While Akira had thought that he was dead?
---
Twice he’d had to live through Goro’s death, only to discover that it wasn’t true. First he’d met him in Shibuya on Christmas Eve. Even now, his heart seized up at the memory. The utter pain and relief that had flooded him—their greatest mistake, the one person they couldn’t save—at the sight of Goro Akechi standing in front of him.
Then Maruki. Then came the night when he’d learned it was all a lie. And of course it was—of course, seeing his friends surrounded by the people they’d loved and lost, he hadn’t thought to consider that the dead person he’d loved, who was standing in front of him, wasn’t an exception.
The last few months of that year felt like a blur. As much as he loved his friends, he felt a distance from that he hadn’t before. He knew they all thought he was still in mourning, and he supposed he was. He hadn’t broken down—not like the first time he’d lost him, in Shido’s palace. The last time he’d cried was on the night Akechi told him that Akira had to let him die.
But Akira had a hard time saying no to Akechi, even after living through being murdered by him. So he had let Akechi die, again. No elegant goodbye this time—just, when he came back to consciousness after Maruki’s defeat, Akechi was gone.
And then, he’d gone home for his last year of school. It felt very uneventful in comparison to his previous year—his parents were rarely home, and his school friends were nice enough but he wasn’t close to any of them. Certainly not enough to tell them about everything that he’d been through.
He’d had Morgana, but the cat was still holding a bit too much of a grudge against Akechi for him to be much of a confidant. He understood why, of course—it wasn’t like he’d ever blame Futaba or Haru, or any of them really, if they never wanted to see Akechi again. But it didn’t stop him from wanting.
He’d returned to Tokyo after graduation, as he’d wanted to for the entire year. He knew it was important for them all to move on with their lives, but he missed the former Phantom Thieves. He missed his team, the café, and the city.
While he was looking for an apartment, he’d stayed at Leblanc again. Sojiro had grumbled like it was a huge hassle to put him up, but Akira knew him well enough to know that the full cup of coffee and plate of curry waiting for him every morning was closer to Sojiro’s true feelings on the subject.
He’d started school, and picked up a few of his old part-time jobs to help him get by. Lala was even happier to have him now that he was out of high school and she wasn’t so worried about getting in trouble for employing him. He was less happy about returning to the convenience store, but rent didn’t come cheap, even on the outskirts of the city.
Akira spent his free time at Leblanc whenever he could. It was a good place to study, and Futaba always dropped in when she could. He had been so proud to see the way she ran through the streets of Yongen-Jaya like she owned them, remembering the days when traveling from her home to Leblanc had been nearly insurmountable for her.
The rest of them came around to visit when they could. Haru was busy with her business, and from the sound of it Makoto was facing her college career with as much intensity as she had high school. Ryuji and Ann both were around a little bit more often, but their extracurriculars kept them busy and happy. Yusuke was… Yusuke, so as unreadable as ever, but he seemed content. The walls of Leblanc bore more than one Kitagawa original, now. Even Sumire came by a few times. She seemed so much smaller with her glasses and without her ponytail, but her smile felt much more real.
There was only one face missing. He’d thought being around all of his friends again would help fill the gap, but being surrounded by the past just made the edges of the hole in his chest ache more acutely.
Just like Christmas Eve in Shibuya, he remembered exactly where he’d been. Sitting in the middle booth at Leblanc—his friends’ favorite study spot, but he was alone that night. Chewing on the end of his pen unconsciously as he tried to write a paper and ignore Morgana’s yowling.
A bell, over the door. He looked up, ready to tell the unfortunate customer that they were closing in just a moment.
His pen clattered to the table.
And there he was. Goro Akechi, in the flesh. He looked a little more haggard, hair a little longer and cheekbones slightly more prominent. He’d lost that little bit of baby fat that had rounded out his face, and it left his edges sharper. Akira had felt like this Akechi was a closer approximation of the boy he’d known that last semester—the only time he’d felt like he’d ever truly known him. Before it had all been fake, of course.
He was wearing that same brown coat, and for a moment Akira almost expected Maruki to be behind him, smiling sheepishly with a new illusion in tow.
But there was no one. And the way Akechi’s eyes had widened made Akira feel in that moment like he hadn’t expected to see him, either.
Akira shot to his feet, knocking the table away and pushing Morgana abruptly off of his lap. The cat yowled in complaint, but then he too was shocked to silence at the sight before them.
“Kurusu,” Akechi said, and it was that same bitter tone. The same melodic voice. “I—I didn’t know you would be here.”
Akira didn’t say anything, just stepped slowly closer. He felt like if he spoke, it would break the spell and Akechi would disappear.
“I understand you may have mixed feelings about seeing me,” Akechi said, eyes downturned. “I did not mean to surprise you with this, and I swear—”
Akira was right in front of him now. He could see the extra inch of hair closely now, the split ends fraying, the patch on the jacket’s elbow that hadn’t been there before. Every imperfection reminded him that this was not a dream, no perfect Maruki fantasy.
Akira cut Akechi’s sentence off by wrapping him in a tight hug.
In that moment, he realized he’d never hugged Akechi before. Not even the night that Maruki had told them the truth. He’d never thought Akechi would let him.
But the boy in his arms stiffened for a moment, and then relaxed. After a long moment, he felt Akechi’s arms gently come to rest on his back.
Akechi’s coat was chilled from the cold outside, but he was so warm. Akira felt the tears begin to slip down his face, and he buried his face in Akechi’s shoulder.
“I thought you were dead,” he said thickly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t…” Akechi said quietly, so quietly that Akira didn’t think he would have been able to hear him if he hadn’t been whispering into Akira’s ear. “I didn’t think you’d ever want to see me again.” With a start, Akira realized that Akechi might have been crying too.
“I thought you were supposed to be smart,” Akira said, pulling back so he could meet Akechi’s eyes. “Aren’t you the detective prince?” Their eyes were both watery. He reached out one hand, brushing the side of Akechi’s face even as he kept his other arm wrapped around him. He wasn’t letting him go so easily this time.
“I don’t think I’m anything, anymore,” Akechi said, looking away with a scoff and a glare, but he leaned slightly into Akira’s hand. The contradiction was so funny and sad, so utterly Akechi, that Akira didn’t think he could have been held responsible for what happened next.
He leaned forward, still holding Akechi’s face with his hand. Akechi’s eyes snapped back to look at him, and he paused, his face a centimeter away from Akechi’s.
“Can I?” he said.
Instead of answering, Akechi surged into him, knocking their lips together for a kiss. It was more violent than it was romantic, their teeth clacking together slightly and Akechi’s hair tangling in Akira’s grasp, but as his hold on Akechi tightened, Akira couldn’t complain.
Akechi was living off of his last few paychecks from Shido, but without further income it was drying up. He’d been a well-paid assassin, but not for a long time. After six months, it hadn’t taken too much persuasion to get Akechi—well, Goro, now—to move into his ramshackle Tokyo apartment. Honestly, after the awkwardness of having to re-introduce him to all of the Phantom Thieves and Sojiro, this was an easy step in their relationship.
Akira felt like they were closer than they’d ever been, and not just because of their relationship. That, honestly, didn’t feel all that different from the not-dates they’d been going on all throughout high school.
It was that Goro was making a real effort to lower his walls, to be honest about how he was feeling. His therapy was slowly helping, and Akira was so proud that Goro was beginning to act like he expected to live longer than the remainder of the year. Goro still had nightmares most nights, and still never liked to discuss his mother or Shido, but Akira was fine with that.
He had nightmares a lot of nights, too. When he shot awake in the middle of the night, sometimes he had to stare at Goro for a few minutes, just to make sure his chest was still rising and falling. Only then could he slowly relax and slip back asleep.
---
But why, he had to ask himself, did he have to find out about Goro’s birthday from Twitter? Through “Whatever happened to that detective Akechi?” and “Remember that special he did for his birthday? I used to watch that every day!”
He felt horribly guilty for a few moments, but then reminded himself that Goro hadn’t once told him what day it was. Hadn’t even made any snide comments or playful looks, like he knew something Akira didn’t. And Goro loved knowing something Akira didn’t.
Had Goro forgotten? That didn’t seem likely. Although he may have been solving his own crimes, Goro was one of the most intelligent people Akira knew. If he could remember all of the obscure names and dates in his history class, it wasn’t likely he’d forget his own birthday.
Had he just… not wanted Akira to know? Akira could understand that, to some degree. His own parents had never really gone out of their way to celebrate, so Akira had felt slightly intimidated when the Phantom Thieves had thrown him a huge birthday party.
Still, as soon as he’d been able to settle into the idea, it had been a lot of fun. Haru and Makoto had baked a beautiful, perfect cake, and Ann and Ryuji had baked a… cake. They’d had streamers up all over Leblanc, and Sojiro had yelled that they were scaring away his customers even though he’d closed up hours prior. They’d even sprung for sushi so Morgana could enjoy the day, since he didn’t really know when his birthday was.
As soon as the thought occurred to him, Akira realized what he needed to do. He’d throw Goro a small party! Just the two of them, of course—they didn’t really have many friends in common who weren’t the Phantom Thieves, and those kind of gatherings were still somewhat uncomfortable.
Although for the most part they’d forgiven Goro, it was still strange for them to be around him in casual contexts. And besides, their presence didn’t do much except remind Goro of all the wrong he’d done in his life, and that wasn’t what Akira wanted for him on his birthday.
So he’d… bake him a small cake, hang up some streamers, and maybe they’d go out for a movie or drinks. They could go back to the jazz club—it had been a long time, and he knew Goro loved it there. It was a bit of a distance from their new apartment, but it would be worth it to make the trip for an occasion.
Springing into action, he hopped on the train. It was the perfect day—Goro would be out at class until the evening, and it was Akira’s day off. He couldn’t have planned it better, which was good, because he couldn’t have planned it.
He went by the flower shop, which still gave him a discount from his old job, and bought a bouquet of roses. If nothing else, he’d plan this like it was an elaborate date night. That way Goro couldn’t get mad, even if he hadn’t wanted Akira to know.
Next, to the grocery, for a few ingredients he wasn’t sure they had. Flour, sugar—he’d never been much of a baker, so the only things they kept regularly stocked were vegetables, rice, and meat for curry. Goro told him sometimes that he ate curry like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Still, if he kept enthusiastically eating it in spite of his complaining, Akira might even tell him Sojiro’s family recipe someday.
He grabbed a few cheap streamers from the convenience store. He was sure Goro would hate them, but Akira thought they were funny, so up they were going to go.
After another quick train ride, he began to decorate. First he covered the kitchen with the hanging streamers, and was pleased to discover that one of them was definitely for a child’s birthday party. He spent several minutes arranging a banner wishing Goro a very happy sixth birthday to his satisfaction, and then started in on the cake.
Cake was easy, right?
After managing to cover himself, the countertop, and most of the floor with flour after he’d ripped the bag, he concluded that mostly, it was. The cake had gone into the oven without much trouble, and it looked nice enough. He’d settled for a simple circle cake, since Goro didn’t really care much for sweets anyway. It was more about the gesture of the thing, after all. He’d make a nice dinner to accompany it, but in that, at least, he was confident in his skills.
Then, he started in on the frosting.
A half hour later, staring at a half-melted lump of butter sitting covered in powdered sugar, resolutely refusing to whip into anything resembling icing, Akira made the coward’s choice. He called Haru.
“Akira!” He heard her familiar cheerful voice, and a low hum in the background. She was probably working at her café. He immediately felt guilty for bothering her.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have called while you were at work,” he started, preparing to hang up.
“No, no! It’s a slow day. You’re distracting me from being bored,” she said, and she sounded genuine enough—although he was sure she’d answer the same way if she had a line out the door.
“I have… a frosting emergency,” he said.
“A… frosting emergency?” she repeated.
“Haru, I need to make frosting for Goro’s birthday cake, and I have no idea where I’m going wrong,” he said, words spilling out before he could stop them.
“Oh, Akira,” she sighed. “Why didn’t you just buy some?”
“I am going to make my boyfriend a birthday cake,” Akira insisted. “Frosting and all.”
He heard what might have been a hidden giggle on the other end, but she sounded perfectly composed when she responded. “Okay, tell me what you’ve done from the beginning.”
Fifteen minutes later, a perfect bowl of frosting sat in front of him. Well, perfect enough—he was sure Goro wouldn’t mind some lumps. Who was Goro to be picky, anyway? He’d once shot Akira in the head, and here Akira was making him a birthday cake.
“Haru, you’re a genius,” Akira said.
“Oh, stop,” Haru said with a laugh.
“You’re perfect. You’re an angel,” Akira said. “Haru, forget Goro. Leave Makoto. I’m in love with you—”
“Oh, would you look at that,” Haru said. “I suddenly have to get back to work. I’m sure that has nothing to do with this conversation. Well, talk to you later!”
“But Haru, my heart can’t go on like this!”
“Too bad,” she said sweetly, and then she hung up on him.
He cackled, putting down his phone. Then he checked the time. Something about it seemed wrong to him, even before the acrid smoke smell reached his nose.
“The cake!” he shouted to no one in particular, running over with oven mitts and retrieving the perfectly black circle that was now smoking in the oven. He set it on the counter and blew on it furiously, opening the window and hoping he wouldn’t set off the smoke alarms. After a few minutes, the danger had passed. He poked the cake hesitantly with a spatula. Maybe if he just… scraped off the burned parts, it would be okay?
He sighed. He’d clean up the kitchen, bake another cake, and then get dinner started. He still had a few hours before Goro got home, anyway.
Just as this thought occurred to him, he heard the door open.
“I’m home!” came the usual call, as Goro walked into their home. Akira suddenly knew he had only moments. He lunged for the streamers. Should he try to make it look nice, or just tear it all down? Goro was taking off his shoes, but any moment he’d be—
“Ahem,” came a voice from the doorway, and there he was.
Goro’s eyes took in the scene in front of him. The black cake still smoking faintly on the counter, lumpy frosting sitting in the center of a baking disaster zone, and Akira—coated in flour and half-tangled in a streamer he wasn’t sure if he was tearing down or putting up.
Goro stared at him in silence for what felt like eternity, only indication that he was seeing any of it the slight widening of his eyes.
Then, he burst out laughing.
There had only been a few times Akira had seen Goro completely let himself go, and even less when those times weren’t explosive rage or misery. His laughs were often left over from his celebrity persona—pleasant, not too expressive, even when the emotion was real.
But this—this snorting, cackling mess—was unlike anything Akira had seen before. Within moments, Goro had doubled over completely, face red, as he wheezed with laughter.
Akira decided at this point, all he could do was lean into it. “Happy birthday,” he said with a snarky smile, striking a pose against the counter. At this moment, the streamer decided to fall on him, giving him a new set of glittery, floor-length bangs.
He’d thought Goro couldn’t laugh any harder. He’d been wrong.
“It’s not that funny,” he said, slightly ruffled. He brushed off the streamer and sat down on the floor next to Goro, instantly coating his pants with the flour from the floor. Ah well. He was pretty covered in the stuff regardless, although he noted that Goro was of course, still spotless. Ever the perfect one.
Finally, Goro seemed to sputter out, enough for him to be able to speak. “What were you thinking?” he said, voice hoarse from the outburst.
“I was trying,” Akira said, “to make you a nice cake and decorate for your birthday. But then you decided to come home early and ruin it!”
“My class was canceled,” Goro said, wiping a tear away from his eye. His face was still flushed. “Besides, you seem to have done a pretty good job of ruining it all on your own.”
“I—I was going to fix it!” Akira spluttered. “I’ll make us dinner later,” he said with a put-upon sigh, “but first, we can go to the jazz club. There’s live music today, I checked.”
Goro smiled. “We don’t have to do anything,” he said.
“But it’s your birthday!” Akira said.
Goro looked around at their mess of a kitchen. “Yes, but… this is already more than anyone’s ever done for me. I don’t need anything else.”
Akira sat up slightly. “Can I hug you?” he asked. He wished he hadn’t said anything, because there was the sad look in Goro’s eyes that he hated, wiping out the mirth from only moments earlier.
Goro looked him up and down, and some of the humor returned to his expression. “Hmm, I’d rather not be hugged by the human embodiment of flour,” he said with a smirk.
“Oh, now you’ll get it,” Akira said, and jumped forward. With usual grace, Goro extricated himself from the floor and was somehow back at the doorway before Akira had the chance to blink.
“Go shower,” Goro said, rolling his eyes. “Then we can go to the jazz club, if you insist.”
Akira stood up, brushing off his pants with a cloud of white dust. “I insist.”
One long shower, a kitchen clean-up, and a long train ride later, the two of them found themselves in front of the Jazz Jin Bar in Kichijoji.
“How long has it been?” Akira said fondly.
Goro chuckled. “I… I’m not sure we’ve been here since we moved back to Tokyo.”
Before Maruki, went unsaid. Before you died, twice.
“Then it’s about time, hmm?” Akira said, taking Goro’s hand and leading him downstairs.
He’d been able to reserve their favorite table on the phone, near enough to the stage to hear the music clearly but not so close that they felt like they couldn’t talk. They ordered, and then relaxed as the music began to play, the singer swaying to the slow beat.
Akira felt like if he closed his eyes, he’d be back in high school, listening to Goro talk about philosophy and trying to figure out why Goro was trying to kill him.
He shot a sideways look at Goro, who seemed absorbed in the music at first glance, but his fingers were twitching as he drummed them against the table.
Akira wasn’t sure if he should ask, but he wanted to know.
“Goro,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Goro met his eyes for a moment, and then fixed them again on the table. The waiter brought them their drinks, distracting from the moment, and they both took a long sip before Goro finally answered.
“I… never celebrated my birthday,” he said. “My mother was too… busy to do much, and then… no one ever cared.”
Akira reached out his hand and took Goro’s in his, holding it closely. It was cold.
“Two years ago,” Goro said slowly, “Shido had me kill someone. Just one of many, but… it was my… father. Having me kill someone for him, on my birthday. I’m sure he had no idea. Or he did and didn’t care.” He let out a sigh, eyes looking haunted. “I just wasn’t sure I wanted to be reminded.”
Akira reached out his other hand, now wrapping Goro’s cold hands in both of his. He was relieved that Goro didn’t wear gloves much anymore, so they could have this contact. He still hadn’t been able to tell Goro about the glove that still sat in one of his coat pockets, from the first time he’d believed him dead.
“I’m sorry,” Akira said. “I shouldn’t have… I should have asked you if you wanted to do anything.”
Goro smiled, lifting one eyebrow. “Since when have you ever thought anything through? Certainly don’t start on my account.”
Akira scoffed. “I’m trying to be serious,” he started.
“And I’m trying not to be,” Goro said. “I’m—I’m fine with this. Just laughing and doing nice things. I just want to leave it all alone and forget for right now. Okay?”
“Of course,” Akira said. “So… can I tell you happy birthday?”
Goro rolled his eyes. “I’m not made of fine china, Kurusu. You can tell me happy birthday.”
“Oh, I’m back to Kurusu, am I? Well, then—happy birthday, Akechi,” Akira said.
“Petty fighting, is it?” Goro said. “But I thought I was the birthday boy.” He said it with such utter coldness and disregard, like the words were made of poison. Only the faint twitching of the corner of his mouth revealed the joke Akira knew he was making.
“Oh, now the birthday privilege comes out?” Akira said. “You’re evil.”
“I shot you,” Goro said. “I thought we knew that.”
Akira smiled, looking at the boy in front of him. The boy who’d died twice, and yet here he was, celebrating his twentieth birthday. “Happy birthday, Goro,” he said. “I’m just… thanks for coming with me tonight,” he said.
Goro’s smile softened a little bit from the bitter thing it had been. He looked slightly confused the way he always did when Akira got a little more sentimental, but it was getting more casual. “Thank you, Akira,” he said softly.
Akira leaned over the table to close the distance between them, lingering for a moment in front of Goro’s face.
“You’ve got flour on your nose,” Goro said.
“And you’re an asshole,” Akira said, leaning in.