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When the door to Leblanc closes with a resounding click, Akira spends the following moments in a state of emotional paralysis.
“What’s a life worth in a reality that was cooked up just to satisfy someone else? I say none.”
He feels numb, raw and cut open to the bone with only the silence for company. The grief is back in the same magnitude that it was a month ago, forming an empty void in his chest where his heart once was. Never did he think that there'd be anything worse than losing Akechi Goro, but now he realizes that having him back for a few weeks only to have him ripped away from him again is far worse.
“We have to win this–no matter what.”
Akira wishes he would have tried to stop him, wishes that he would have had the courage to catch his wrist and ask him to stay. Would it have mattered in the end? Probably not. But at least he would have tried.
“Joker?” Mona questions from his spot on the counter. “You okay?”
There’s clear worry in his feline gaze, and Akira isn’t quite sure how to answer.
Mona is his best friend in the entire world, and was the only one who’d been there to overhear the conversation that just occurred between the three of them. If anyone could understand what he’s going through right now, it would be him. And yet, Akira doesn’t know how to talk about any of this without falling apart, doesn’t know how he’s supposed to describe the feeling of losing Akechi for a second time. The first had been hard enough.
“I’m fine,” he lies instead, and then turns on his heel to walk upstairs.
He considers going to sleep, but he isn’t tired. He wonders if a movie or video game would be enough to distract him from the ache that permeates his soul, but he knows it’d be fruitless.
It’s so unfair, he thinks, sitting on his bed and putting his head in his hands. He thinks about Akechi and all aspects of him—-of the Detective Prince who’d perfected his image, and yet somehow still always looked out of place. He thinks of how Akechi must have been when he was younger, eyes bright and hopeful with the childish dream of becoming a hero. He thinks of him as he is now, snarky and cunning, eternally distant…yet there were times when Akira would notice his lips catching on what might be a real smile.
Akechi deserved so much more than this.
There’s a gentle weight that dips into the mattress beside him, and he looks to see Mona with his ears flat against his head.
“Why didn’t you go after him?” Mona asks.
“I didn’t know how to make him stay.”
It might be an oversimplification, but it’s true enough.
They fall into a heavy silence, and the sudden cold air drifting in from the now-open window is the only indication that Mona slipped out at some point, but Akira can’t help but be a little thankful for it. He’s never been one to cry in front of anyone.
*
A sudden knock at the front door startles him.
Akira hasn’t moved in what feels like hours, but could have only been a matter of minutes. His joints ache from the cold air coming from the window he hasn’t bothered to close, and his eyes are blurred with tears. There’s really no telling who’s knocking on the door this late at night—maybe Sojiro came back for something and forgot his key, or maybe Mona assumed he’d shut the window and didn’t feel like breaking his way back in. Either way, Akira forces himself to his feet and rubs the moisture from his eyes to make himself look presentable. He’s always been a silent cryer, self-taught to hide his tears and emotions away well enough that his parents never knew.
When Akira reaches the bottom step, there’s another series of knocks, harsher and a bit more agitated this time. Maybe he should be slightly concerned, but unless the person behind the door happens to be Maruki with another world-destroying revelation he forgot to mention, he really doesn’t care who it is.
Or well, that’s what he thinks, at least until Akira opens the door and his heart stops beating.
“Akechi,” he says weakly. “You came back.”
His hair is adorably windblown, his cheeks flushed from the cold, and yet his eyes are just as intense as he sweeps his gaze over Akira’s face.
“Have you been crying?”
“No.”
“Liar. Get out of the way, it’s cold.” With that, Akechi pushes his way past him and moves to stand in front of the counter, arms crossed. Akira shuts the door and locks it, knowing Sojiro would have his head if he didn’t. And if his hand shakes a little when turning the lock, nobody has to know.
“I was on my way back to my apartment when your cat stopped me,” Goro says the moment Akira turns to face him. “He seemed to be under the impression there was more we needed to talk about. Care to explain what he was referring to? I trust you’re not having second thoughts.”
It takes a moment for his words to sink in and Akira swears he can feel the winter chill that’s coming in from his upstairs window. Mona. He’d given Akira one last chance, an opportunity to get a little more time with Akechi before the night ends and tomorrow comes.
And yet…he’s not sure what to do, or what he’s supposed to say. A part of him still refuses to believe that Akechi is really dead, but right now that hope is a muted feeling. The weight of their promise buried under the mountains of grief and regret, stifled beneath the heartache that’s been piling up ever since that bulkhead door closed between them.
He can practically hear Mona hissing in his ear: Talk to him.
But Akira’s never been good at talking. All he has is the constant reminder of the time he’s grieved over the boy in front of him. The memories of all the time they’ve spent together in this false reality, and all of the times Akechi could have told him what he knew. The constant echo of the crass way Akechi claimed his own life was trivial, and the lasting afterimage of the way he’d walked out of Leblanc, as if he didn’t care about how it could be the last time he’d ever get to do it.
And so, Akira says;
“You’re a dick, you know that?”
Akechi’s brows shoot up, and Akira thinks this might be the first time he’s ever seen genuine surprise on his face.
“Excuse me?”
“You thought you might not be real from the beginning, and you never thought to tell me. You still think you need to handle everything alone–”
“You’re saying it’s a problem that I might not want to pour my bleeding heart out to you?” Akechi cuts him off with a sneer. “Were you expecting me to come crying to you, Joker? Would it have made you happy if I begged for your sympathy? If I was vulnerable for you, waxing poetic about how benevolent and kind you are?”
“No.” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair before gesturing vaguely to Akechi, trying to put his feelings into words. He’s always been bad at this. “The problem is what you’re doing now. You’re acting like your life isn’t worth caring about. As if you never once considered….”
He trails off and Akechi takes a menacing step forward, his eyes two gleaming slits in the dim lighting of the cafe.
“Considered what, Joker?”
“How it feels to lose you.”
Except, the admission seems to have the opposite effect as intended, the dangerous glint in Akechi’s eyes so similar to the way he’d looked at him the night of their duel in Mementos. Malice mixed with something else, dark and undefinable.
“I’m sure it was so hard for you, knowing there was one person you and your merry band of heroes couldn’t save,” he snarls.
What the fuck, Akechi?
“Is that really what you think I’m upset about?” Akira retorts a little louder than necessary, frustrated and hurt. “You think Maruki could have used anyone against me if they’d been in your place?”
“Of course he could have! This is all about your fucking hero complex!”
“Is it so hard to believe I care about you?”
“Bullshit,” Akechi seethes, the two of them now practically nose to nose. “Was it because you considered me one of your friends? Or perhaps you pitied me.”
“I think you know I care, and it scares you.”
“Fuck. You.”
There’s that wild look in Akechi’s eyes again, the same one that both thrills him and makes him fear for his life. It’s as if this is an extension of their fights in the Metaverse, charged with something that makes Akira’s heart race and his skin prickle. A fire lights in his stomach and he finds himself glancing down at Akechi’s lips.
“Maybe you’re right,” Akira says, lowering his voice and catching Akechi’s almost imperceptible shiver. “Maybe I never went a day without thinking about how I could have done things differently, how I could have saved you. I should have tried harder, maybe I could have gotten past that engine room wall somehow. I fucked up, I’m sorry.”
“Joker, stop this,” Akechi grits out, his jaw tight. “I don’t want your goddamn apology. Or have you forgotten the part where I shot you in the head?”
“You got outplayed.”
“That doesn’t change the intent.”
“I knew you planned to do it and didn’t do anything to try to change your mind. I could have helped you–”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Akechi laughs, sounding half manic. “I never would have accepted your help and there’s not anything that would have changed my mind.” He holds Akira’s gaze as he backs up a step, his eyes intense and posture rigid as he crosses his arms. “I’m not spending my last night alive listening to you berate yourself for things I chose for myself. If that’s the case, I’ll leave.”
Fear instantly coils in his chest, and belatedly Akira realizes that he’s only been making things worse. Another fuck up to add to his list of regrets.
Akira offers him a sad smile. “You’re right,” he concedes. “If this is really your last night alive, you should make the most of it. Is there anything that you’ve always wanted to do but never could?”
In response to his words, something changes in Akechi’s expression, the indignation shifting to something far more contemplative. It’s a curious yet hungry look, akin to how a cobra might look at a particularly tempting rat before it strikes. It makes Akira’s stomach tie into knots, his heart constricting as he watches Akechi’s gaze drop to his mouth.
“Something I always wanted to do…” he echoes, the edge of his lips lifting into a smirk.
The fist striking his jaw is a surprise, and it knocks Akira off balance as the sharp pain hits him. Then Akechi’s grabbing his shirt and yanking him forward into a hard kiss.
Their noses bump and Akira’s immediately greeted with the taste of blood from his own split lip. Akechi makes a noise that’s startlingly close to a growl and drags him in closer by the hair. He kisses like he fights, or like how he plays darts, violently and as if it’s a competition to be won. Teeth bite at Akira’s lower lip and Akechi’s tongue finds its way into his mouth, their teeth gnashing together.
“You punched me,” Akira states dumbly when the kiss breaks, breathless and stupefied.
Akechi grins. “You’ll look good with a bruised jaw,” he purrs like the devil, dipping down to place an open-mouthed kiss over the throbbing skin and making Akira gasp. When he withdraws, it’s Akira’s turn to cup his chin with his hand and guide him into another kiss.
This time, Akira becomes a far more active participant, leading them into something slow and languid, exploratory in the way that he searches Akechi’s mouth with his tongue. It’s addictive hearing all of Akechi’s little noises, and he feels his pants quickly growing tight at the combination of that and the way Akechi continues to pull roughly at his hair. Akechi’s a study in contradiction, all soft skin and jagged edges. His lips are softer than Akira imagined, but his teeth are sharp where they bite into his lip. Akira groans at the pain, feeling the way Akechi smirks against his mouth in response.
It’s only when Akechi’s back bumps into the counter that two of them break the kiss for the second time, their chests heaving and lungs starving for air. Akira can’t stop staring at the way Akechi’s lips look when they’re kiss-swollen and shiny with spit, desire coiling in his stomach as he thinks: I did that. It’s a sight that makes something primal rise up in him, makes Akira want to bend him over the counter and ravish him.
“Aren’t you worried that this is just Maruki’s distortion giving you exactly what you want?” Akechi murmurs, tilting Akira’s chin in a silent demand for him to meet his eyes. They’re darker than Akira’s ever seen them, pupils dilated with lust. “Will your decision change once you think you can have me?”
He swallows thickly.
“It won’t change.”
Akechi smirks, satisfied. “Good.”
Their next kiss contains the addition of frantically roaming hands, as if they can’t touch everywhere they want to fast enough. It’s true enough for Akira who tugs at Akechi’s coat like a drowning man as he kisses a path along Akechi’s jaw, moving down until his scarf gets in the way. With a frustrated noise, Akechi pulls it off, discarding it to the side. He then reaches for the buttons on his coat, and Akira’s quick to help him remove it. Once he’s free of the garment, Akira’s hands instantly slide their way beneath Akechi’s shirt, his lips returning to the supple skin of his neck, chasing the little breathless noises Akechi makes with unwavering focus. He mouths at his throat, surely leaving marks against his pale skin, up until Akechi threads his gloved fingers back into his hair and pulls him back up into a hard kiss.
“Take me upstairs,” Akechi murmurs when they next part.
Akira doesn’t need to be told twice.
A desperate hunger has awakened in his stomach, filling the gaps where the guilt and regret once reigned. It makes it so he can’t make it up the stairs fast enough, stopping every few steps to press Akechi against the wall, or to capture his lips in a kiss that leaves them both breathless and aching. But eventually, with Akechi’s impatient urging, they make it up to the landing and find their way to the bed.
It’s freezing and Akechi grumbles something about the cold, but when Akira sits on the edge of his mattress, Akechi completely ignores the partially open window. Instead, he immediately moves to straddle Akira’s lap, pulling his head back by his hair and attacking his mouth with untamed ferocity.
Akira’s hands settle on Akechi’s waist, marveling at how it fits perfectly between them, before sliding them up his sides, feeling the boiling heat through his thin dress shirt. Needing more of him, he makes quick work of the buttons with dexterous fingers, leaving the shirt to hang off Akechi’s shoulders as he slips his hands inside to meet his warm skin. Akechi moans into his mouth, his kisses turning even more hot and fervent, making Akira’s jeans strain to the point of being painful.
Then, in a single purposeful motion, Akechi presses their clothed erections together, grinding into him, and Akira briefly seizes up at the wave of sudden pure white pleasure. His fingers tighten in Akira’s hair, and he repeats the motion, causing Akira’s hips to involuntarily thrust up into him. Akechi whimpers, breath catching and body trembling.
“Do you want to fuck me, Joker?” Akechi breathes against his ear, biting down on his earlobe. The immediate pain has Akira swallowing a moan, and all he can do is nod.
“Yeah.” Only, it’s then that the reality of the situation hits, the one that exists outside this little bubble that they’ve created. The reality that doesn’t exclusively consist of Akechi Goro grinding against his lap and mouthing at his neck. “...Is that what you want?”
Akechi laughs. “It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m not real, remember?”
Ice immediately settles deep into Akira’s stomach, permeating his veins as he’s reminded of the uncertainty of tomorrow. And yet Akechi’s skin beneath his fingers is warm, and when Akira runs his hand up his chest he can feel his heart beating, fast and true. Maybe it’s naive of him, but he refuses to see Akechi Goro as anyone other than exactly who he is. No one could make a copy of him that consistently surprises him in every way. No one could recreate the way Akechi always tests him, how he pushes him to be the best version of himself without even meaning to.
“You can’t honestly believe that–”
“Save me the egregious sentiments, Joker,” Akechi interrupts with a roll of his eyes. “I’m here and I want this, does that satisfy you?”
Akira looks into his eyes and sees the same person he fell in love with half a year ago. A little different, yet the same.
…And yet, if there’s still that slim chance that none of this is real, then how fucked up would it be if Maruki’s cognitive influence was causing this? In a world where even someone like Futaba could believe her mother never died, how was Akira supposed to distinguish between what’s true and what he just wants to be real?
“I don’t know,” Akira admits, voice quiet.
A warm pair of lips captures his.
This kiss is far softer than the others. A little hesitant, a little tentative, but Akechi’s lips linger anyway in a rare moment of gentleness. “You should know I’d never submit to anything unless I chose it for myself,” Akechi says when the kiss breaks, his eyes intense and beautiful in the dark. “You asked me what I wanted, and I chose this. Do you understand that?”
He does.
With a weak smile, Akira tucks a lock of hair behind Akechi’s ear. “How do you want to do this?”
“I’d suggest you take your dick out and get the lube. I’m sure you can figure out the rest.” With a smirk he then slides off of Akira’s lap, moving further onto the bed.
Immediately, Akira gets up and fishes between the wall and his mattress for his rarely used bottle of lube. It takes him a moment to find, and in that time, Akechi slips out of his pants and underwear before lounging comfortably against the pillows, watching him.
Returning with the lube, Akira climbs over him, bracketing Akechi between his arms and meeting his eyes with a small yet fond smile. He takes a long moment to admire the sight of Akechi laying back on his bed like this, naked from the waist down and achingly beautiful. He still has his white button-up on; although, with the buttons undone, the material spreads out beneath him, putting his chest on full display. He’s also still wearing his gloves, a small detail that makes Akira’s throat tighten with the memory of a bulkhead door and an impossible promise.
He’ll never forget how he felt that day, or the endless weeks that followed. Akechi had died, even for as much as Akira naively hoped otherwise, he’d struggled to find any possibility of the contrary. The fact of the matter is; Akira has no idea what Maruki is really capable of and what’s going to happen when the walls come crashing down tomorrow.
This could be the last night I ever get to see him.
Could he handle that? Akira isn’t sure. But he knows he needs to prepare himself for the worst. The rest of the thieves gave up their perfect realities, the things that they’ve wanted more than anything. And now it’s Akira’s turn to let his wish go; Akechi Goro with his piercing eyes and prickly demeanor. Arrogant, caustic, petty, maybe a little bit crazy…
Akira loves him so much it hurts.
A warm hand finds the back of his neck, and Akechi pulls him in closer, his eyes narrowed and concern palpable. “What is it?”
“I already lost you once,” Akira says, feeling embarrassed and pathetic as his voice cracks on the truth. “I didn’t think I’d ever have to go through that again.”
Akechi rolls his eyes. “If we’re going to do this, I don’t want any of that ‘feelings’ shit. This is a means of distraction, nothing more.”
Maybe he should be upset that Akechi clearly didn’t take him seriously, but Akira catches the way he avoids his eyes and shifts uncomfortably, so he knows that’s not exactly true. It’s not that Akechi doesn’t believe him, it’s that he can’t believe him. Akira was right earlier; he’s scared.
And so Akira decides to drop it and attempts a cocky grin instead. “I know I wasn’t just imagining all that sexual tension between us. Are you sure that’s all this is?”
“Don’t delude yourself,” Akechi sneers in answer but Akira sees right through him. He’s being difficult on purpose.
Under normal circumstances he’d give Akechi all the space and time he needed, never pushing him into something he’s not ready to admit he wants. If this was any other night, he’d keep up the pretense of indifference, giving Akechi everything he wanted while keeping his own feelings out of it. But right now, he doesn’t think he can do that. Not when tonight could be the last they’ll ever have.
“Will you let me be selfish tonight?” Akira asks quietly. “Help me go into tomorrow without any regrets?”
Akechi doesn’t answer at first. Instead he tentatively reaches up to run his fingers through Akiras hair, playing with the strands. “Some might say a lack of attachment will make things easier,” he says, tone unusually soft.
“Well, jokes on them.” Akira leans in to press a tender kiss against his jaw. “I’ve already been attached for a long time.”
Akechi answers in the form of a sharp inhale, a sound that ends on a sigh as Akira kisses a path down his neck until he finds a spot to latch his lips onto. Tilting his head back in open encouragement, Akechi breathes out; “Akira,” like it’s a benediction.
Akira shivers and places one last lingering kiss on the patch of skin he just marked, withdrawing to lightly skim his thumb over it. There are other marks along Akechi’s neck from earlier, already having grown dark and striking against his pale skin. Between Akechi’s helmet in the Metaverse and the scarf he always wears outside of it, there’s little chance that the others will notice a thing. Still, the two of them will know. Like this, it’s so easy to pretend that he can have him, that Akechi is his.
His heart aches at the thought, and so he occupies himself by leaving a kiss at the hollow of Akechi’s throat, then another at his sternum. He slowly trails his lips down his body, mapping out Akechi’s chest with his lips and grinning at the choked sound Akechi makes when he runs his tongue over a nipple.
When he reaches his lower half, Akira presses a lingering kiss against Akechi’s hip and sucks at a patch of skin on his inner thigh. He can’t help but put all of his yearning into every touch. Using action to say all the things he doesn’t know how to put into words, and trying to make Akechi understand that he’s wanted. That he’s special. That he’s loved.
For a moment he swears he sees tears form at the corner of Akechi’s eyes, but then he’s turning his face to the side, borrowing his head partially into Akira’s pillow.
Akira places another kiss on his inner thigh before sitting up and reaching for the lube. He uncaps it with a faint click, and at the sound, Akechi spreads his legs wider, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position. As Akira warms the lube on his palm, he can’t take his eyes away from Akechi laying there in front of him, all flushed skin and rapid breaths. Alive.
“Do you just intend to look?” Akechi snarls, his words ripe with nerves and impatience.
“I’m just savoring the moment.”
“What the fuck is there to–ngh—”
His words end on a whine as Akira starts to push in his first finger. He’s immediately hit with the tightness of his hole and his quivering walls, hot enough to make his dick ache. He works him looser and looser, starting with one finger and then sliding in a second. Akechi hisses at the stretch, bringing a hand to his face and harshly biting into his gloved palm.
As good as the view is, Akira needs to be closer to him. Needs to feel his panting breaths against his skin and wants to memorize the way his face looks when he’s deep in the throes of pleasure.
He looks better than I ever could have imagined, Akira thinks when he moves out from between his legs and props himself up on his elbow at his side. When he next sinks his fingers into his hole, he grabs Akechi’s hand, pulling it away from his mouth and replacing it with his lips. The kiss is frantic and filthy, Akechi’s muffled sounds fueling the increasing heat collecting in his stomach.
“Fuck,” Akechi gasps as Akira starts to push in a third finger. “Joker, I’m ready.”
Akira knows better than to ask if he’s sure, trusting Akechi to be aware of what he can take, despite how tight he still feels around his fingers. So, he sits up, taking a moment to lube up his cock before getting into position between Akechi’s thighs, the tip of his dick playing with his fluttering rim. Wrapping his legs around his waist, Akechi guides him that final bit of distance, allowing the head of his cock to breach his entrance.
Akira’s knees almost buckle from the sensation alone, all that searing heat and twitching warmth squeezing around the most sensitive part of his dick. The way Akechi curses and moans only serves to make it harder to stay still, Akira’s muscles straining to contain the urge to thrust entirely inside of him. It’s slow going, but after a few more instances of Akechi urging him deeper, Akira’s hips are finally bumping against his ass.
Now that he’s all the way in, Akira focuses on placing kisses along Akechi’s face and jawline as he waits for him to acclimate to the feeling of being so full. It drives him a little crazy, having to stay still when all he wants to do is fuck him into the mattress, so it’s a sharp relief when Akechi gives him the go-ahead only a few moments later.
“Move.”
Finding his lips, Akira swallows Akechi’s following cry as he pulls his hips back and then penetrates him all the way to the hilt again. Akira repeats the motion in a series of steady thrusts, licking into his mouth while Akechi mindlessly tries to reciprocate through his series of nonstop gasps and moans.
Akira fucks him slow and deep, trying to show him through this alone how much he means to him. Akechi breaks the kiss with a particularly shrill whine, his fingers clawing at the sheets. Akira finds his wrist first, pinning it to the mattress and the writhing stops under his touch. When Akira slides his hand forward, he slips a finger beneath the material of Akechi’s glove, just enough to feel the heat of his palm. Akechi shudders, his back arching off the mattress and a choked cry leaving his lips.
“Harder,” he demands, cries, pleads. “Come on Joker, I know you can do better than that.”
Akira really tries to make it last for as long as he can, but after a series of harder thrusts, the heat within his stomach reaches an unignorable height and he knows he’s close. Taking Akechi’s dick in hand, Akira strokes him to the rhythm of his hips, earning a fractured cry. Akechi wraps his arms around his shoulders and buries his face into his neck, and Akira can feel moisture against his skin. When Akechi comes it’s with a muffled sob and a full body shudder, his hips jerking up as he comes into Akira’s hand.
As soon as Akechi’s orgasm seems to subside, Akira pulls out and begins stroking himself to completion until Akechi catches his attention with a disapproving grumble.
“Come here,” he says, his hand outstretched in invitation.
When Akira moves closer to him, Akechi wraps his fingers around his dick, and it only takes a few steady strokes before he’s coming hard into his hand.
For several moments Akira’s lost to the world, his breathing heavy and legs shaking in the wake of his orgasm. But slowly, Akira’s mind begins to exit its euphoric daze, forcing him to step back into the cold water of reality. Or…lack of true reality, as it were.
Akechi silently stares up at his ceiling, and Akira grabs his own discarded shirt, wiping his hands with it before tossing it to Akechi. He blinks at it in confusion for a moment, looking completely out of it, which Akira probably shouldn’t find as cute as he does. But then Akechi seems to regain his bodily functions, and he uses the shirt to clean himself up with only a brief expression of disgust. He then tosses the soiled garment to the ground.
Exhausted, Akira moves to lay down on the bed beside him, his eyes never straying far from Akechi’s face. Although Akechi won’t meet his eyes, the drying tears on his face are obvious, and the sight makes something deep within Akira’s soul ache.
“You okay?”
“Don’t coddle me,” Akechi says with a defensive glare thrown his way, but his voice is clearly much thicker than usual. It leaves his words without any real heat, and Akechi sighs. “I should go.”
As if his decision has already been made, impulsive and written into the core of his being, Akechi sits up and moves as if to slide out of bed.
Akira catches his hand, stopping him.
“Stay,” he says and it’s only then that he manages to catch his eye. “You shouldn’t have to spend tonight alone.”
Akechi hesitates, indecision weighing heavy on his features. Ultimately it’s his choice, but Akira knows they’ll be okay either way. The steady reassurance of their promise burns bright, and the feeling of his gloved hand in his only serves to remind Akira of the single identical glove that’s currently tucked safely into his coat pocket.
If Akechi leaves, Akira will text him four simple words. He knows Akechi won’t respond, but he wants him to have a reminder anyway, for as long as he needs it. If Akechi stays, Akira will write the words across his skin with careful strokes of his fingers. He knows Akechi will pick up on it, even though he’ll pretend not to notice.
You’re real to me.