Archive of Our Own

The first letter is soft and humiliating at the same time.

I heard you crying last night. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, but I still wanted to tell you to hang in there, things will get better.
Have you seen the trees outside? They’ll bloom soon.

Goro tears it to shreds, wrinkling his nose. Pity is disgusting. Kindness is sweet, tastes like sugar cubes in his coffee, and it doesn’t belong to him—so the note must die. The words stay, though, against his will and his better judgment.

The second letter is a ketchup-stained napkin. While leaving for work, he almost steps on it.

Hey, it’s been a while. Heard you move the furniture around.
Are you OK?

This time, Goro watches flames devour the words, cigarette dangling from his lips and the urge to scream. Nothing is okay. Nothing has ever been, but he certainly won’t offer his secrets to a stranger. The wind tousles his hair. “This case,” Sae says at his side, between twirls of smoke, “is the worst.”

When the third letter comes, written on coffee-scented paper, Goro already knows the reason.

Sorry. Sorry, I know this is none of my business—it’s a bad habit, a savior complex. A stupid thing, really, but I swear there’s no malice. Point is, I heard you screaming last night and I thought I had to knock, or call an ambulance or—well, not the police. I don’t like cops, don’t worry. What I’m trying to say is, I was scared, and I wish you’d tell me if you’re doing okay, if you need someone, anything.

I’m not sure I can help, but I’m a good listener.

“People like you are unbearable,” he says, before taking a deep sip of his coffee. The apartment is a disaster of shattered plates and torn books, furniture in disarray, rage still lingering everywhere. Sunbeams seep through the shutters. Goro stares at the shadows they paint on the walls, and what is left of his phone. He’s been back for a while, Sae’s voice rings in his ears, haunting him like a nightmare. Don’t you want to see him?

A stranger kneels before his door at dawn. Goro watches him carefully through the peephole, watches the man flinch when he realizes a letter is already there, minimal and unscented, and his wicked grin is the only part of his face the night doesn’t hide. He slips away, quieter than a ghost. Goro goes back to the bundle of documents and drafts on his kitchen table, and smiles. His words weren’t kind, nor grateful. They were vicious, sarcastic, a declaration of war—a way to shatter the stranger’s heart, which is something Akechi Goro knows how to do with his eyes closed. Poison, after all, has always been the most familiar taste in his mouth.

The fourth letter is followed by a loud knock that manages to wake him up and make him stumble to his feet. Rolling his shoulders, he lurches to the door, still half-stuck in a dream. He collapsed on the table, with his cheek pressed against the most boring report, and now his thoughts are all about inept serial killers, fingerprints and their poor escaped victims. Such mistakes, Goro thinks, yawning, would have been unforgivable for Shido. But his father is in jail, he’s no longer there to judge and order sins. His son, too, no longer kills.

A withering flower is tied to the letter.

Thank you. Thank you. You don’t know how happy your reply made me feel.

He pauses for a moment. “This man is insane,” he says, with a little brow raise.

I spent all night thinking oh no, oh no, he must be dead, what will I do? What about the body? Then you replied and sure, it was a bit mean—you’re not used to kindness, are you?—but I felt relieved, like discovering a test didn’t go so bad or that there will be a second date.

Anyway, yes, thank you. You mentioned my letter smelled disgusting, do you happen to hate coffee?
To tell you the truth, the scent wasn’t on purpose. I was brewing a cup, messing with the beans. Sometimes the smell gets stuck on my fingers, and it’s hard to scrub off.

Sorry, sorry. I added a flower as an apology, stole it directly from the landlady’s garden (don’t tell her!!! please!!!)

Am I forgiven?

He doesn’t hide the flower in his pocket because he’s grateful, or because it’s been years since his fingers last held something beautiful: he does it out of boredom, with mild interest. Life, when there are no fathers to please and shadows to slice, is dull and meaningless. It’s worrying about rent, a recent case, buying instant rice at the mart and standing in crowded train cars. It’s going home with a nice guy, sometimes, and gulping down cheap wine, hoping this weekend will be more thrilling than the last.

Nothing comes close to exploring Tokyo’s bowels, watching his rage manifest as a striped monster, or planning the murder of the best rival he’s ever had, the boy he wanted the most. Nothing. Not even these letters. But they’re pathetic and amusing, and he’s a stupid man with stupid whims, so Goro writes—between coffee cups and manila folders, before solving another murder case and after ignoring Nijima Sae’s calls.

(He asked about you again—a daunting text reads—and I told him I haven’t heard from you in a while. He’s aware you’re alive, he just hasn’t realized you’re still here. But he will, you know he will, and I won’t be able to help you, Akechi.)

Goro leaves his letter outside before the sun dies, and spends an awkward amount of time with his eye pressed to the peephole. When the stranger comes, he’ll push the door open and catch him in the act, call himself the winner of this game, and enjoy the humiliation on his face. When the stranger comes, he’ll tilt his head to the side, flaunt the most charming smile and say, What? You want to be friends? You want to save me? Don’t be ridiculous.

(Years ago, another boy tried and failed. “Let me choose you,” he cried, clasping his shoulders, knocking down a bar stool. “This can’t be your end.”)

But the stranger doesn’t come, after all, and he forces a sleeping pill down his throat. In his dreams, Goro sits at Leblanc’s counter, drinking sweet coffee from a familiar white cup. It’s just him, the warmth, and the last letter he wrote.

Aren’t you apologizing for the wrong sin? Despite being disgusting, the smell wasn’t worse than your annoying savior complex. Tell me, why do you keep crossing boundaries?

And what do you think would happen, if I told the landlady about her stolen flower? I wonder… would she launch an investigation? That would be exciting.
You must know, just like everyone else in this building, how neurotic she can be when it comes to her pathetic little garden.

You said your fingers smell of coffee. That’s a huge hint. A good thief should never be so careless.

I could help her. I could examine the hands of every tenant, their nails, and after finding you—because I know I would—I could expose you as the criminal, and tell people all about your delusional letters. Would you be embarrassed, thief? Would you beg for my silence?

When Goro leaves for work, later than he should and with his tie loose, the reply is waiting for him in its usual spot, red envelope kissed by the sun.

Are you always this intense? Don’t misunderstand, I don’t mind a man with issues (again, the savior complex…) but I wonder if I’m allowed to kick my feet and consider myself special.
I’m not a bad thief, by the way, I’m just not used to stealing flowers. I target hearts, usually.

Hearts. Nausea writhes in his stomach. He mumbles the last sentence to himself, savors the way each word tastes on his tongue, and wishes he could throw up: blood, memories and guts all tainting the floor of this damn train car. The woman sitting beside him gives him a concerned look. He wears his best plastic smile. Whenever he does, there’s a ferocious pressure against his temples, as if his head were stuck behind a buzzing television screen. In his gloved hands, the letter goes on and burns.

You, though… acting like the greatest detective, talking about investigations and threats… I hope this is not your actual job, because you kinda suck (no offense)(here, I’ll draw a smiling cat for you). I wouldn’t be embarrassed, I’d laugh. I mean, would a person with shame ever write silly notes to their neighbor, in the first place?

And I don’t beg, detective. Only in bed.

(did you laugh?)(here, have another cat.)

“Oh god, what now?” Sae asks, rolling her eyes. “Why are you drawing cats getting stabbed? That’s dark.”

He looks up from the files on his desk. His stomach says it’s break time, his mind couldn’t care less. “Just,” he tells her, reaching for his mug, “this case is the worst. I need a new job.”

“The Setagaya murder? You poor soul, I told you.” She steals his lighter, glancing at the pile of folders beside it, neat and never-ending. An ashtray lies there too, filled to the brim. “Let me offer you a drink later.”

“Thanks. I hope it kills me.”

But it doesn’t, of course—and why would it? Goro survived bullets, illusions and even gods. He shook Death’s hand, promised her he’d follow two times in a row, and then woke up limbs splayed on dirt and concrete. Alone. A drink can do nothing. If this were a Greek tragedy, and not the least pathetic arc of his life, he’d think the Fates are keeping him alive for a greater mission, a greater purpose.

Except there’s no such thing. He was born to be miserable and unloved, he’s not the hero, and gods are only shadows with selfish intentions, even in his world.

(Atropos, where are your shears?)

He writes his reply in the middle of the night, sipping more alcohol from a lowball glass, thoughts all tangled and disgusting. The ink smears his hand, the paper, and he’s a bit drunk, he’s had enough.

He’s not mad at the stranger. He’s not even mad at the universe, really, he knows these are the consequences of his actions. That the sneering ghosts in a corner are people he murdered. That Amamiya Ren is searching for him, asking about him, and Goro is frustrated because he can’t call him back, can’t say—Look, I’m too much of a sinner for death, and you don’t know what it means, you’ve never seen a withering man beg, so spare me. Leave me alone. Don’t let me taint you, this is a crime I can’t commit.

Goro understands he brewed his own poison and no, again, he’s not mad at the stranger, but lethal drops still spill from his chest, into his words, and the end result is something more raw and cruel than originally intended. While leaving the letter outside, he tells himself it doesn’t matter if the stranger gets hurt, or stops replying at once. A few notes from a faceless man are fun, but not an antidote.

He can live without him. He’s already living without Ren, has been doing so for the past several years, and look at him. Look. His heart might be frozen, yet he’s fine. He’s absolutely fine.

(Sometime before sunrise, he pukes out his lies, the alcohol and his dinner in the toilet bowl. “Ren,” he says, in a daze. “Ren, you think you could cleanse my soul? Would you do it?”)

You’re right, you have no shame: you hide yourself in the dark, you torment me with your nameless letters, and You won’t even admit you’re just a pathetic Coward. Coward. Coward coward coward coward. What, you want me to laugh? To be comforted by your Words? I don’t know you and you don’t know ME. If you actually cared, if you weren’t just a performative asshole, you would hAve KNOCKED on my door but no no no you keep writing letters. these letters. and the questions.

You want to know if I’m OK? I want to fucking die. If I had a gun, I’d just go BANG! and you’d hear it, wouldn’t you? but you still wouldn’t come. no one would sorry. sorry. wont fucking scream anymore. go steal your flowers somewhere else, your fucking hearts. i dont have one to give you.

 

Friday. Saturday. Sunday, and at six in the morning someone finally knocks on his door, after days wasted drowning in regrets and the most unnerving nightmares. Goro doesn’t rush to the peephole, nor to pick up the letter. He waits. And waits. And when his chest no longer burns with shame, and he’s tired of watching time run around him, his hand slips outside, through the smallest gap, to grab the envelope.

I’m sorry for hurting you. I thought you wouldn’t talk to me if I had a face and a name, if I proved to you I’m real, but you’re right, you’re right, I’m also just a coward. In a way, it’s easier to help someone when you don’t know what they look like. Easier to ignore your own mistakes.

(i was wrong)(karma?)

I’m sorry. Seriously. I did want to comfort you, to make you laugh, and I used to be so much better at this, but now the best I can do is doodle cats and give flowers and shit, shit, shit. Hey. Hey, I’d come to your door, you know. If I heard that bang. I’d come even before that if you’d let me.

You asked me why I keep crossing boundaries. Savior complex aside, there used to be someone in my life who would scream and cry just like you, every night, and I didn’t notice in time, couldn’t help them in time.

So think of it this way: when I write to you, when I ask you questions and make jokes, I’m also trying to atone for my sins. (rip sorry for trauma dumping)(but you kinda started it)(will you write to me again?)

Children, he thinks, are a blurred reflection of their parents. In his veins, his father’s blood burned and made him a villain: it taught him how to sharpen his words like knives and use them to his advantage; taught him, the child he was, the softest spots on a man’s body, where his blade would inflict more pain, which wounds would turn the proudest mortals into a weak little mess. His reasonable side, his ruthless side, inherited through blood. Honed by trauma.

And then there is his mother, whose bleak days were cut short by her own hands, whose greatest lesson was: Love, this life will never improve and it’s not worth the trouble. Eventually, you will understand.

Goro understood from the moment he was born—that, too, he always thought was in his blood. Loss and experience only made him more aware. But Shido was still his father, his curse, so he kept on living out of spite, because of his natural thirst for violence and revenge. Inherited. Honed.

The Phantom Thieves could never fully grasp his actions, nor the reasons behind them. They tried to, tried harder after his first death, with less interest when they were all in a god’s hands. They couldn’t understand why his grief and resentment would manifest so differently from their own, why would Goro push people away, instead of accepting their warmth. Why would he kill, not torture or save. Why would the world be meaningless to him, a bastard. Revolution, just a delusional joke.

“Don’t you see?” he’d tell them in his mind. “I have poison in my veins, you don’t. If you ever did, there would always be someone by your side, offering you the antidote.”

(“Go fuck yourselves,” he’d say in the worst dreams. “You and your black-and-white justice. Watch your mother hang for days, watch your father lie and thrive. Watch people spit on you for breathing, and then tell me how it feels. Tell me. Wound me, if you can.”)

Before dying the first time, while fighting on a ship, Goro showed them what his father had given him, how ruthless he could be, how weapons and blood just seemed to belong in his fingers. Ren didn’t waver. When his gun fell—it never happened, it caught him by surprise—his mother’s traits, the flaws he inherited from her instead, came to the surface: the vulnerability, the desperation, the lack of control he tried to hide. Everything spilling, seeping, with tears and screams, with Loki and Robin Hood ringing in his ears. That made Ren falter. Made them all quiver, actually, but Joker and his words were the only things Akechi Goro ever cared about.

The Phantom Thieves never understood. Joker, brilliant and sick, always did—if there had been Crow, before Skull and the rest, they would have been the same. Maybe that’s why, back then setting the world on fire for him didn’t seem a big deal. A word, an order, he didn’t need more, he would have done it. Would have done anything.

At eighteen, Goro would have killed men for Amamiya Ren. At twenty-three, he can’t even call him back.

He takes a deep breath. “Ah,” he says, pen in his hand, “I did it again.”

He glances at the letter he just finished writing, and it’s there: his mother, her influence in his veins, her vulnerability. His head spins—this is like the ship, this is like realizing you’re not dead, this is like telling a boy to pick the universe over your life, so you’ll both be free.

Goro closes the envelope in a rush and places it where it belongs. He washes his face in the kitchen sink, scrubs his hands with scorching water, and when his memories don’t disappear, when the feeling of Ren’s fingers curled around his wrist doesn’t fade, he slams his fists against the counter. The walls quiver. He needs a drink. He won’t drink. Goro grabs his jacket, he makes sure his cigarettes—and the flower—are still tucked away in his pocket, and leaves. Just leaves.

His own letter watches him run down the stairs. As he goes, he doesn’t hear another door unlock behind him.

I must apologize for my outburst. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you (we keep clarifying this, we’re such fools). I shouldn’t have unloaded my anger on you or painted you as my butcher. I’m sorry.

When I was a teenager these words would have been so difficult to write down. Even now, I don’t think I could say them to you in person. I’m a coward too, and I admit it feels safer and easier to stay just a stranger, a blurred figure in your head.

I don’t hate coffee. It helps me survive, actually, but it also worsens my insomnia, which is why you hear me more at night. Something tells me you’re no different, considering I always find your replies in the morning. And I appreciate the flower, too. Not the cats, they’re stupid. You’re also a bit stupid. It’s tolerable for now.

I need to be frank and I hope you won’t mind—look, I just think you don’t realize you wouldn’t have been able to save that person anyway. People can’t save each other, only themselves. Love, friendship, they can be useful but what can they do against rotten roots? You’re not the sinner you think you are. The worst don’t even try to atone. I don’t.

Write to me again. No cats.

Moonlight drips onto the floor through a partially open window. The breeze also slips in, carrying the pleasant scent of roses, and the less delightful stench of the city. Goro heaves himself up the stairs, with frequent breaks. Outside, Tokyo still roars, neon lights and drunken laughs, but here there’s a soft silence, here the tenants sleep. Maybe his stranger, too, is having a nice dream.

When he reaches the door, wheezing, the reply is already waiting for him. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion, the few drinks he wound up having, or the fact stress has been ripening in his stomach for a while and it’s time for the consequences—Goro thinks the letter asks him if he’s alright, tells him he looks sick. “Don’t worry,” he says, snorting. “I’m a dead man.”

He goes inside. On the left, another door closes again.

Look, this is you as a cat. I’m sure you always walk around with your chin up, and you also sound too cocky to ever leave the house like a mess, so I gave you fluffy ears and a frown.

You drinking the coffee I brewed (I’m the black cat beside you).

You with the flower on your nose (I’ll be honest, I forgot what it looked like, have a rose instead).

You with a detective hat, dozing off (you never told me if you’re really a detective or just a big Sherlock Holmes fan).

Anyway, you’re a bit dark, you know? Love and friendship can be useful…? Is that how you see them? Something you can use? I’m not judging you, really, or maybe I am—I just think (and I hope you also won’t mind my frankness) you wouldn’t say that, if you were kinder to yourself. Less, what’s the word, nihilistic.
I know I wouldn’t have been able to save them, but I should have at least tried harder. I should have made him them understand I was there, I was going to stay. That’s my sin.

Tell me yours. Tell me anything.

Goro falls asleep on the couch with the letter tight in his fingers. Instead of the usual nightmares, his dreams are made of spoiled cats, coffee cups outside Leblanc, blooming roses—and Ren’s ghost, in the distance, staring back at him.

“Don’t you dare.”

The vending machine spits out a diet cola. He lifts his gaze. “What?”

“Die before solving the Setagaya murder.” Sae folds her arms, eyebrows drawing together. “You look miserable.”

“It’s my usual look.”

“No, it’s worse. Are you sick?”

“Who knows.” He leans back against the wall, taking a shallow sip. “Might just be the stress.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Go home. You can’t die here, they’d close the building for days.”

How unfortunate would that be, he almost says, picturing sneering coworkers and funeral wreaths, snowflakes in February—but his head hurts, his lungs feel sore, and all he can offer instead is a detached hum, which she accepts with a sigh. He’ll never listen to her concerns. They both know, yet she still tries. It’s amusing, he thinks, and also a bit sad.

The ceiling fan whirs. Someone’s boisterous laugh escapes the break room. Cheerful and uninteresting conversations echo in the hallway; the air smells of chocolate cake and instant coffee, and in his mind, Goro jokes they must be celebrating his death, not a birthday.

(Happy birthday, happy birthday! He’s gone, he’s gone!)

“He’s not staying at Leblanc, you know.”

His shoulders tense. “And why are you telling me this?”

Sae shrugs. “Just in case,” she says, as if she were not disturbing the dead. “I can ask Makoto for his new address.”

“Sure.” Goro throws the can away, with frustration boiling in his chest, with Ren violating his thoughts, making his head spin. “Let a religious cult have it, they’ll send him pamphlets.”

“You should give him closure, at least. You owe him that much.”

“I’m dead. I don’t owe him anything.”

When he finally returns home, later in the day, he slumps onto the floor the moment the door shuts behind him. Sunset filters through the shutters. You poor soul, Sae’s voice says, somewhere.

His mind lies to him often, automatically, unconsciously. It lies by omission when it lets details fade—his mother’s last strained breaths, the mention of a daughter in Wakaba Isshiki’s pleas.

It lies by denial and minimization, twisting warmth into cold pity, painting soft words and touches as lies. I don’t want you to die, Ren says, back in Leblanc. I want you to stay by my side. And that can’t be a confession, can’t be love, it’s just his savior complex acting up, his need to help everyone—because his life only seems to be worthy to him when he risks it all, and Goro knows this, and doesn’t let himself believe Ren could ever be sincere.

(An echo in his head says, “The hero would never save the villain, the hero would never love the villain. He’d never cry for him. Stop dreaming.”)

Sometimes Goro’s mind also lies by distorting reality: sinning is fun, the stench of death isn’t unbearable; it’s fine if blood will always stain his hands, they weren’t supposed to hold beautiful things in the first place. He loved killing. He didn’t care about Shido’s opinion. His tears were only ever out of exhaustion, not guilt.

His body can’t hide the truth, though. Three different lives weigh on his shoulders like boulders he can’t remove. Constellations of scars, bones that still hurt when the weather’s bad, stress and the way it devours him whole. He’s always more tired than he should be. It’s harder to wear a mask, these days. Maybe, Goro thinks, it’s all just a reminder he’s supposed to be dead, he’s supposed to be in Hell.

The pen drops to the floor. “Fuck,” he mutters, shoving his letter into a white envelope, hands clammy and weak. His breaths are shallows, nausea threatens to force his mouth open, but he has to leave his reply outside, has to know what the stranger will write. While lurching to the door, feverish and pale, Goro tries to pretend his mind is quiet, that it’s not saying—Oh, you fool, you’re growing out of control again. This vulnerable shit will come back to haunt you. It’s just like February, isn’t it?

“It’s not,” he says, clasping his head. “He doesn’t know me, he can’t hurt me. I can’t hurt him. I’m a ghost.”

(“Back then you were also a ghost,” his mind tells him, with a laugh.)

Sunrise is already blooming when he finally falls asleep. Knees to his chest and tear-streaked face, this time Goro dreams of Ren brushing his hair, whispering the softest things. At their feet, a pile of red envelopes. Look, this is you as a cat, another voice says.

You’re a menace. If you were a cat, you’d be the most annoying stray, always meowing for attention. I’d ignore you out of spite.

I should be kinder to myself, you say, but what about you? Aren’t you also being harsh to your soul, thief? Look at you. You sound so wounded, so stupidly warm-hearted. This is what happens when you let love devour you, instead of using it to your advantage. You should be, “what’s the word”, less romantic.

My sins, my sins. I have too many, thief. I’ll tell you the most pathetic one, just because I’m sick and in the mood for exceptions: I was the villain who fell in love with the hero, once. I almost tainted him, almost dragged him to Hell with me.
I stopped in time. There are crimes even the worst can’t commit.

Tell me, what would scare you away?

Someone pounds on his door for three minutes straight. Goro drags himself out of the bathroom, grumbling, and his eyes hurt when meeting the midday sun. There are no ghosts waiting for him in the hallway, just the usual red envelope, taped to a plastic bag. Inside, medicine, a bottle of orange juice and the first home-cooked meal he’s had in months. His fingers quiver. His head is all soft, soft spins.

How could you fall sick, you idiot? How could you be so irresponsible? Take the meds. Quickly. I made you some porridge, too—don’t you dare skip your meals!!
Here, have another doodle: you as a cat, stuck in bed. Do I look cute as a nyaurse? I do, right?

Yes, yes, I’m a warm-hearted romantic. I’m also stupid, delusional, and reckless, whatever you want to think. I’m free, though. Suffering for love will always be worth it. You might act cold and detached now, but you’re still just as wounded as me, aren’t you?

Tell me if you need anything, OK? I’ll run.

P.S. Nothing can scare me anymore, detective.
P.P.S. Don’t act strong when you’re sick. Sexy men accept help!

“I hate you,” he says, pressing the letter to his face. Just like the stranger’s fingers, it’s tainted by the scent of coffee beans—and something else, something warm. Maybe love. “I hate you so much.”

The paper crumples in his hands. Goro staggers to the kitchen table, trying to rub the fatigue away from his eyes, tears before they can fall, and seizes his lighter. Flames bloom. His mind tells him to burn the words, every trace of the stranger. You don’t deserve this comfort, it says. You don’t deserve this care, it’s wasted on you.

His heart twinges, and for a moment he’s back in Leblanc, with Ren behind the counter. His beautiful sin, scolding him for being stupid, for overworking himself. Akechi, you’re not invincible. And he almost says, I have to be. I have to be. His grip on the cup—the letter—grows tighter. This care is all he’s ever wanted, what he’s been obsessively craving his entire life, but he knows he can’t have it. Crimes have a price. It doesn’t matter if you were a miserable child when you sinned, you must pay anyway.

(You’re still just as wounded as me, aren’t you?)

He hurls the lighter across the room. Goro thinks about knocking on every door in the building, trashing the place, till he can find someone whose fingertips smell of coffee. He thinks about telling the stranger to stop, this is stupid, his heart isn’t made for love, his hands will only let the warmth slip away—but he’s so tired. He’s so tired.

“Just this.” His tears stain the paper. He’s a shivering disaster on the floor, begging selfish gods to grant him the most pathetic wish. “I won’t ask for anything else. Let me have this.”

The sky doesn’t speak. And so, Goro writes.

Spring is occasional thunderstorms, more cases, and their back-and-forth of letters. Tokyo blooms. Sometimes, flowers give the faint impression winter will never come again. Life moves forward, and the stranger slips into his routine like a puzzle piece always meant to be there. His mornings begin with instant coffee and red envelopes; his thoughts at night are kinder than before, and he grows used to his ink-smeared fingers.

They write to each other more than they should, talking about dreams, asking questions, spilling secrets and sins. He tells him of his father (on impulse, a little vague) and the stranger doesn’t say oh, but he’s still your dad, you must forgive him—he goes, Damn! I hope someone kills the asshole in jail. And Goro laughs aloud, sincerely, for the first time in years. For the first time since Ren.

There are occasional gifts. More stolen flowers to keep safe—the best in a vase, the frailest in his nightstand—and chocolate chip cookies, polaroids (“the view from my childhood bedroom,” “I went to the beach, the waves were pretty,” and “look at this weird mandarin I found at the market!”). Goro carefully collects every piece of this man he doesn’t know, and he can never stop his replies from being too sincere, too stupid.

On his way home, he often wonders if antidotes can taste like coffee and ink.

The day the stranger mentions some of his letters smell of alcohol, as a joke, he spends the evening pouring cheap wine down the sink. He becomes self-destructive in a different way: less drinking, more running after impossible things, thinking love and blood could coexist in his hands. But the cigarettes stay, and so do the spirits. So does missing Ren to death.

“You know,” she says, leaning against a column, “you’ve been doodling cats a lot.”

People shuffle down the street like frantic ghosts, spring rain needling at their umbrellas. A silent flash wounds the sky. Behind them, a man curses aloud after pushing the door open. Shrouded in gray, Tokyo looks beautifully miserable.

“I’m stressed.” The wind strokes his face. His mind has never been quieter. “It’s a new coping mechanism.”

Sae scoffs. “Better than that shitty red wine you used to drain every weekend, I guess.”

The same breeze lifts again, and his eyelids sink. He listens to the soft rustling of leaves, the drizzling rain, people and their hurried steps—maybe the stranger is also there, rushing home, cursing gods. Goro thinks it would be so easy to notice a sunbeam among all that gray.

“He called me yesterday,” she says, and her voice is almost too low. “Should I tell him you’re dead?”

He snorts. “He wouldn’t believe you.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing.” Goro shrugs, rummaging in his pockets. “If he finds me, I’ll just run.”

And Sae sighs, like always, while offering him her lighter. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“Thanks.” Between his fingers, a cigarette burns and rests there for a moment, leaving ringlets of smoke in the air. “Nijima, why do you still put up with me?”

“I don’t know.” She glances at him, and the sad glint in her eyes makes him quiver—makes him feel pathetic, even. “You always look so lost. Sometimes I think you’d just disappear if I stopped paying attention.”

“Like a one-hit wonder?”

Sae shakes her head and lights up a cigarette. “No, like a ghost.”

So, my dear detective, my terrible 202 (new name!) did you hear the blossom forecast?
Will you have your own hanami picnic with a special someone?

As if I had the time. What about you, thief?
And that’s just my apartment number. Your names suck.

I’m missing the special someone. Interested, 202?
Even fluffy cats are allowed in the park, you know.

You insufferable menace.

This time, the red envelope comes with instructions written on the front. Goro twirls the letter in his fingers, shutting the door behind him. Jazz music fills the apartment.

1. Top of your head
2. Upside down
3. Open

“Insufferable,” he says, with a stupid smile—and then he shakes his head, wrinkles his nose, as if the stranger were there to judge him.

When Goro follows the instructions, pink petals fall on him, and they’re soft kisses against his face, a sudden warmth blooming in his chest. His heart stops. He catches a small note, wide-eyed.

Because we can’t see them together.
I want to have a hanami picnic with you.

Goro laughs, with his cheeks burning and his heart now frantically humming. He doesn’t remember the last time he let himself be this happy.

Maybe his mother was wrong. Maybe, he thinks, life can improve.

Well, will you ever let me taste a cup of your famous coffee?
Or are you all talk?

One day. One day I will, I promise.
I’m sorry, detective. Truth is, there is
another customer I must serve first.

I can wait. I don’t mind wasting my time on you.

You’re dangerous, you know?
When you say stuff like that, I always
feel the urge to see your face.

June begins with warmer days, iced coffees, and someone softly knocking on his door at midnight. A small chocolate cake greets him, pretty strawberries, and candles that brighten his face—but Goro doesn’t even notice he’s not shrouded in darkness, no longer safe; his heart won’t stop shivering, thumps so loud they bury the alarm bells in his head. There’s a door ajar, his mind says, and he doesn’t listen. He picks up the envelope instead, while still standing outside. There’s a door ajar. There’s a door ajar.

Happy birthday, happy birthday! You’re shocked, aren’t you?
Man, I’ve never wanted to see your face more. Oh no, wait, what if you teared up? Does that mean… I also won’t get to witness… the harshest man in the world… cry…? My life’s ruined.
Here, even my catself is pouting.

Thank you, 202. Thank you for being born. Your letters have been my greatest comfort lately, perhaps the only thing keeping me sane. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you (ha!) but when I read your replies, when I think about this stupid game we’re playing, I’m less afraid of the future. You’ll call me a delusional romantic again, I can feel it—yet you must know how important you are to me, 202, and how before our friendship, the thought of living in the present never tempted me. Never.

You once said our respective ghosts seem to linger in our words, as if they were writing the letters themselves. I agreed with you back then, and I still do now, but these days I find myself thinking that (maybe?) we can keep them in our hearts and move forward anyway.

This is all stupid. Sorry, sorry. Just… living in the past is tiring, isn’t it?

Happy birthday again.

Love,

your favorite thief

His eyelids dip for a moment. The letter is pressed against his chest. Goro’s head is full of blurred ghosts, self-imposed rules he must follow, and reckless hopes he desperately wants to taste. The dead belong to the past, there can’t be a present for them—but when he pulls out his phone, on impulse, he thinks it would be nice to have one. It would be nice to be found.

Ren is still his emergency contact. Goro calls him before his fears can prevail again, and his heart can stop beating, and the gods can realize how selfish he’s being. A little space. It doesn’t have to be love, just a little space in his life would be enough, he thinks. It would be everything.

The door on his left shuts abruptly, making him flinch. Ren doesn’t answer. A playful wind rushes through the hallway, and Goro laughs, because this is what happens when you wait too long. This is what happens when you realize it’s too late to stay.

“The witness is an idiot.” He slams a manila folder on her desk and pinches the bridge of his nose, with a sigh. “They’ll bury us both before we solve this case.”

“Thanks.” Sae riffles through the pages, sipping coffee from a lipstick-stained mug. “Work harder, and maybe that won’t happen.”

Goro lifts an eyebrow at her. “How the hell am I supposed to work harder.”

She shrugs. “Doodle more cats or go back to being an alcoholic.”

“I’d rather die.”

Sunshine touches their faces. Desks are drowning in documents and yellow sticky notes, yet the office is unusually quiet. A soft laugh comes from the break room, the sole place where the ceiling fan still works. Goro loosens his tie.

Sae places her mug down. “Hey,” she says, without looking at him, “did you meet Amamiya?”

His stomach turns. “What?”

“Makoto told me.” She leans back in her chair and lets a tired sigh escape. “Apparently, Amamiya saw you yesterday.”

The hesitation in her eyes is horrific. There are shards of glass stuck in his heart.

“Well, she told him it could have been a hallucination—he barely sleeps, she says, and it was also your birthday. Ghosts don’t exist. A hallucination would make sense, but oh, he wouldn’t listen. He started freaking out. He’s sure you’re alive, and that he saw you.”

Her fingers draw nervous circles on the folder. Goro can’t stop staring at them. His mind is slipping back and forth between memories, and she’s the sole distraction still anchoring him to reality.

“So, did he?”

He laughs, but it comes out like a distorted noise, all wrong. “I don’t know. I—we didn’t meet.”

“Then maybe it was a hallucination,” she says, reaching for her mug again. “Though… Amamiya has always been good at lurking, don’t you think?”

There is no answer. There can’t be, because his body is on automatic now, plastic smile and rigid posture, and he bows a little, he’s so perfect, his thoughts will crack his skull open. He’s such a grotesque painting.

“Excuse me,” he says, with his pleasant voice, an audience cheering and clapping in his ears.

Goro runs, he leaves his briefcase behind; he rushes through packed streets as if he were back in Tokyo’s bowels. Vivid lights. Pop music. A yellow taxi screams at him before he can cross the road, and he plummets to the ground, like a crow with broken wings. His legs move once more, mechanically. He lurches to the closest subway entrance, and he’s thinking about going home, but his mind can’t recall where that is. It’s not in Yongen-Jaya. It hasn’t been for years. He doesn’t belong anywhere else.

He winds up hiding inside a bathroom stall. His back hits the wall, and he’s out of breath. Goro can feel himself falling apart—like the first time he died, the first time he wanted to kiss a boy, the first time he realized he wanted to stay, back in Leblanc.

Nausea pushes up his throat as his unstable hands clasp the toilet. “Fuck,” he says, and his eyes are burning, dread is devouring him whole. He wanted to be found. Ren freaked out. Ren freaked out, and Goro can’t control his fears, can’t stop thinking there will be explanations to give, questions to answer, expectations. Expectations. Things he wants, but won’t be able to beg for, because that little crumble of courage he had died the moment no one picked up his call.

Ren might hate him, too. Pretending to be dead is immature and cruel, after all. Goro doesn’t want to know. His heart is already frayed at the edges, he can’t handle anything else. His body slips down like a withered flower.

He looks for him in his memories, a trace he could have missed, a shadow he didn’t catch in time. And he can’t find an answer, because Ren is everywhere, he’s always been. He’s brushing his hair in the softest dreams. He’s dying again and again in his nightmares.

Goro sees his pierced skull reflected on every surface. He still feels the warmth left by accidental touches, can hear his disembodied voice say life has more to offer than blood and regrets. Ren is there when he drinks his coffee, when he wears his gloves, in his replies to the stranger. In the stranger’s letters. Ren’s heart is in his left hand; his right holds a gun. Loving him is the worst thing, it’s the best thing.

His pocket hides a pen. Goro knows it’s stupid, yet he can’t stop himself: he writes a pathetic note on toilet paper, a second reply to leave outside his door. It never happened before. Their game has silent rules they religiously follow. But he needs the stranger, his doodles, he needs to be told—202, thank you for being born. Thank you.

He vomits again, and this time, he thinks moths are escaping his mouth.

The stranger doesn’t respond. Two weeks pass, and Goro’s routine changes: his mornings begin with scrubbing away leftover nightmares from his mind, no coffee; mechanically going to the door and waiting for a red envelope to appear. It never does. His thoughts at night are vicious. There are too many beer cans in his fridge, again.

“You should take a break,” Sae says, her voice softer than usual, and he declines with a pleasant smile, an audience roaring in his ears. These days he lies well, more often, like the plastic monster he used to be at seventeen, when he’d constantly try to manipulate both his heart and his father.

A new witness comes forward, and Goro makes his life revolve around the case, files everywhere, because this time no one will scold him if he overworks himself. There won’t be home-cooked meals or warm coffee cups. His mind is unbearable. The silence is dangerous.

When he last felt this way—like a walking catastrophe, a dying star—Goro thought he murdered Ren. And while it’s not the same, he still blames his weakness for the stranger’s disappearance. This vulnerable shit will come back to haunt you, his mind said, and it did: once again, he ruined everything.

In retrospect, Akechi Goro is a sinner, how could he ever ask the gods for more? Of course they punished him. He doesn’t deserve the letters, he never did, and he certainly doesn’t deserve Amamiya Ren. Don’t delude yourself, his mother would often say. Life is a disappointment.

He’s such a stupid, miserable man.

A red envelope is waiting for him in the usual spot, beside a rose. Goro stands on the stairs for a moment, briefcase in hand, three days of overtime visible on his face. He tries to rub the fatigue away from his eyes, because maybe he’s hallucinating, he already lost his mind—but the letter doesn’t disappear. His fingers frantically shiver as he holds it. The building is too quiet.

I’m sorry for not replying sooner. Something happened, and I just couldn’t write.
I miss you. How are you?

“Are you fucking with me?” Goro wheezes a laugh, crumpling the note in his hand. He slams the door shut behind him, going for the wine bottle on the counter before even loosening his tie. His heart twinges with every sip. It’s pathetic, he thinks, how glad he is the stranger is fine, still alive. It’s pathetic, yes, and it’s not fair.

I’m sorry, he says. I miss you. How are you. Goro showed him his soul, discarded his mask for him. He believed his most painful secrets would be safe in those fingers, like the fool he was born to be. I’m sorry. I miss you. How are you.

“I told you I was scared,” he cries, tearing the letter apart. “That I needed you.”

His reply stinks of alcohol, and his handwriting is disgusting. He doesn’t care. Life’s an awful joke, nothing much matters at this point. He mourns the relationships he destroyed, the love he’ll never deserve, that piece of himself he gave away—to Ren first, by mistake. To the faceless man, with full intent.

You said you were a good listener. You said you’d be there for me, to tell you if I ever needed anything, and the only time I did—the one fucking time I was vulnerable with you on purpose, you abandoned me.

You miss me? What do you miss? Fucking with my feelings? Telling me I can trust you, my heart can be safe with you, because then watching me fall will be so much funnier?
What do you miss. What do you fucking miss.

I don’t need anyone. I never did, but at the time I couldn’t breathe, and I thought—like an idiot—you’d listen to me. That you’d say some delusional bullshit (“You deserve love!” or “Your life matters to me, 202!”) and I’d be fine, my heart would be alright. You didn’t. You left me.

And despite this, I missed you, too. Desperately. I missed you in the same way the trees miss the sun when winter comes, and the birds miss roaming around when the weather’s bad. I missed you, and I’m not okay.

Tell me what happened. Tell me why you couldn’t write. Give me a reason for your silence, just a single truth. You owe me this much.

Their back and forth of letters becomes faster, harsher, dumber. Lies die. Their replies are like violent waves, then calm waters, an uncontrollable ocean again—it’s a cycle, and Goro can feel himself drowning, his thoughts always in disarray.

You think I wanted to fuck with your feelings? That I didn’t miss you just as much, and this silence didn’t almost kill me?
Yes, I left you, I abandoned you. I had to. I had to, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, detective, but don’t you dare doubt my sincerity.
I didn’t play with your heart, and I would never want to see your downfall—you know why.

No, I don’t. I don’t know anything, thief, because
you won’t tell me. I asked you to give me a reason for
your silence, and until you do, your words will only be
meaningless lies to me. Talk to me. Please.

“Tell me what happened”, you say. Fine, here is: I’m in love with someone who doesn’t want to love me back.
Mind you, it’s not that he can’t, he just doesn’t want to.
I don’t even recall my life before him, but remember the letter I sent on your birthday? I finally wanted to move
forward—I wanted to at least try, for fuck’s sake.
I didn’t know where he was, if he were 100% alive, and you were there.
Then I found out we were painfully close the whole time! Did you laugh? You laughed, right?
The truth, 202, is that life’s a sick joke, and even delusional romantics like me can get tired.

You should still turn the page. You can.

Did you move on from the ghost you told me about?

I tried.

The vase on his kitchen table is full of wilted flowers. Goro sees a weird mandarin at the market. Life is dull and meaningless again, despite the waves.

Can I ask you a question, 202?

You would do it anyway.

If they knocked on your door today, or tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow,
and they told you they love you—that they really do, with their soul.
If they said they don’t care what the universe thinks, they want you.
It’s always been you. What would you do?

I don’t know.

But not a single ghost knocks on his door in the following days. The letters stop again, and though it’s not as devastating as the first time, Goro still finds himself craving more cigarettes, shallow drinks, cases to solve. “Looks like you worked harder,” Sae says, closing a manila folder, and he can’t even wear his worst plastic smile. He misses Leblanc. He won’t stop doodling cats. If dying inside counts, then he broke his record again—Death scoffs, somewhere.

A sudden knock. The final letter is soft and humiliating at the same time.

This is the last reply I’ll write. I know you, and you think you know me, but we’re both fools. We’ve always been.

I love you, Crow. You don’t need a better hint, do you?

I wasn’t trying to deceive you, I only realized the truth on your birthday—I saw you. I’m sorry for breaking our rules, I just wanted to see your smile so bad. Isn’t it funny? The person that made me trust the future again is the same reason I couldn’t leave the past behind. It’s hilarious, you can’t deny it.

You asked me what I missed. Right now, I miss serving you a cup of coffee. I miss your voice, how it drops a little when you’re being a teaser, how it’s just as delicate as your letters when you’re being sincere. I miss watching the wind play with your hair, and your constant need to fix your gloves. I miss losing at chess against you, and winning our fights in the Metaverse.

I miss 202, too. The way he’d treasure every gift, his stories, doodling cats for him. You will never understand how important you both are to me. Words aren’t enough. I wish you’d just rip my chest open and take a peek. (sorry)(that was dark)(but you’re also dark so)

Akechi Goro, Crow, 202. Detective. I love you. Every part of you, even the vulnerable side you despise. I’ve been loving you for years, desperately, sincerely, and at this point I’m sure I’ll never be able to stop. I mean, I tried. Didn’t work. “You’re an idiot!” the prince says, and his knight nods.

This is the last time I’ll seek you out, though. I’m tired, prince, and so are you.

If you want to stop running, knock on my door before Sunday. 203. If you still don’t have a heart to give me, don’t worry. I’m moving out.

Thank you for everything, 202. Crow. Goro.

Forever yours,

R.

Sunday is the warmest day of the month, cardboard in the hallway and uncertain steps towards a different door. His heart threatens to stop with every breath. He mumbles a pathetic little speech to himself, hand lingering in the air, and his mind says—You fool, this will be your greatest sin, your worst mistake. This will be your end.

(“So what?” He laughs in his head. “I already died before. Let’s break the record again.”)

Dread simmers in his stomach, and Goro lets his eyelids sink. He forcefully steers his thoughts towards softer things, warmer memories: stupid doodles, pink petals, the scent of coffee beans; Ren writing, I love you. I love you. Even after years, I still love you.

“Me too,” he says, with a bashful smile. The gods will never forgive his greed, but the letters brighten his soul like fireworks in the night, and he can’t bring himself to care anymore. Let them rage, he thinks. I’ve defeated a deity before; for him, I can do it again.

He takes a deep breath. The silence following his knock is unnerving. His fears begin pushing up his throat once more, anguish devouring him from the inside, because this is such a huge risk, such a stupid whim—and then the door opens. His thoughts die at once.

They don’t speak. Ren tilts his head, wide-eyed, and Goro can see the years they spent apart painted on his face: his features are sharper, his stare less intense; there’s a faded scar on his left cheek, a story he doesn’t know yet. And he thinks, with his heart thumping madly, there has never been a more beautiful man. That he should be careful, because he’s looking straight at the sun.

“You came,” Ren says, his voice still deep as the ocean.

“Yes,” Goro replies, letting the waves engulf him.

The silence has him growing self-conscious, nervous, and his gaze slips to the floor. It’s only occurring to him now that time also kissed his body, and he’s no longer a teenager hiding behind perfect makeup and creaseless shirts—his dark circles are visible, his face must be slimmer and dull. Maybe Ren is disappointed. He was expecting a prince, but the man at his door stinks of tobacco and looks like a catastrophe. Goro’s never felt more embarrassed.

“Akechi,” he says, reaching for his wrist. “Hey, eyes on me.”

Goro hesitates for a moment. He lifts his gaze, and it’s hard to stay still.

“Good.” Ren’s thumb brushes against his cheek, along his jaw. “You’re like a falling star.”

He laughs, leaning in. “A falling star? That’s not a compliment.”

“Just,” Ren says, tracing the outline of his lips, “you’re beautiful like a wish come true.”

“You’re delusional.”

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Maybe I am.” His fingers itch. They wind up drawing ringlets on Ren’s chest, counting the buttons of his shirt. It’s mechanic and subtly desperate, and it’s proving to himself this is not a nightmare. Love doesn’t burn him. “You could be in Hell.”

Ren takes a shallow breath. “Well, well, well,” he says, letting a stupid grin bloom. “Give me a kiss, then? To make sure.”

Goro hauls him in by the collar, and suddenly he’s eighteen again, willing to wound the world for this man—to murder his own fears, enrage the universe, give away a piece of himself.

The first kiss is ruthless and thrilling, similar to fights in the Metaverse. The second kiss is soft, tastes like years of prayers and bottled-up feelings. When the third one comes, the door shutting behind them, he already knows he won’t be able to run anymore. Ren bites his bottom lip, savors his mouth with the desperation of a man fighting death, and Goro’s falling apart in his arms, dismantling layers till there’s only raw vulnerability left. They stumble further inside, knocking down a chair on their way. Ren groans, and he melts.

“Are you sure?” he says, seizing Goro’s face with his trembling fingers, pressing their foreheads together. “Are you sure you want me?”

“I’ve always wanted you.”

“You won’t run?”

He kisses him again, and it’s gentle, cathartic. “Let me stay.”

Ren wheezes a laugh, grabbing his waist. His hands can never stay still, they trace every detail on Goro’s body as if he were beautiful marble, they burn him, they give him life. In his fingers, he does feel like a falling star, one that doesn’t mind dying to grant a brilliant boy his wish. And then he’s pushing Ren against the kitchen island, kissing his neck; he savors his shivers as though they were cigarettes, shallow drinks, cases to solve.

“I’m sorry,” he says, chin resting on his shoulder. “For being so late.”

Ren hums, playing with his hair. “You should be. It’s not your worst sin, though.”

“What is, then?”

“You had instant coffee before coming here, didn’t you? I can taste it. You suck.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

Ren laughs once more, and Goro’s heart flutters painfully as he thinks—ah, I want to hear that again, I want to combust in his hands.

“We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

Goro frowns at the sudden distance between them, but then Ren’s waltzing around the kitchen, rummaging through drawers, and he can’t prevent a stupid smile from blooming on his face. There’s magic in this intimacy. It’s not the supernatural of the Metaverse, unthinkable palaces and their illusions; it’s something human and real in his fingers, a domesticity he couldn’t afford before. Now he can.

“Do we? Your letters were pretty detailed,” he says, picking the chair up to sit on it. The scent of coffee grows in the air.

“C’mon, just stay put. This one has been waiting for you for a long time.”

A white porcelain cup is placed before him, filled to the brim. There’s a napkin too, and cats doodled on it. 

Ren smiles. His cheeks are a soft pink. “Tell me what you think. Tell me anything.”

The sky doesn’t speak. And so, Goro talks.