Archive of Our Own

For all he had imagined their reunion occurring, Akira doesn’t think any amount of fantasizing could have ever predicted how it would actually go down. That is, assuming that this even counted as a reunion in the first place. 

Set the scene: Akira, lurking about in the back alley of Shibuya late at night, just having finished his shift at Untouchable for the day. The vivid fluorescence of the lettering from the sign bathed the alley in a hazy uranium light that sets a misty sort of glow. Half-stylish, as if Akira was in some sort of nightclub, and half-ominous, as if Akira was going to get mugged and then suffocate in what may actually turn out to be poison gas.

After saying his lengthy goodbyes to Iwai, and reassuring him that yes, Akira wasn’t going to take any back routes, and yes, that he would go straight home, thank you, (he could be worse than Lala, sometimes) he finally steps away from the door and into the alley. 

At first, he thinks it is nothing more than a trick of the eye, a dancing spot in his vision where the haze of green light shines a little more turquoise than the rest. A street lamp is the most reasonable offender, but then again, it’s not as if Akira has ever been the most reasonable of people, at least that is what he tells himself as he curiously approaches the strange light right up to where the Velvet Room used to be located before the world righted itself back again. As soon as he gets close though, the strange light glows, an overwhelmingly bright blue that has Akira rearing back and squinting his eyes. Through the blinding light, he watches as the space within seems to fold into itself, ripping apart as a small blue butterfly flutters out. 

Akira’s heart stops in his chest.

His body moves on its own as he follows the butterfly out of the alley and into the quieter central streets, pedestrians walking past and towards the train stations, ready to head back home after a long day of work. Akira follows it mindlessly, shouldering past people with muted apologies falling deaf from his lips. 

And that’s when he sees him. 

A young man steps outside the Triple Seven convenience store, hair (brown? black? he can’t see) tied back into a small ponytail, wearing an oversized hoodie, plain black jeans, and, most importantly, black leather gloves. 

Akira’s heart, for the second time in the last ten minutes, comes to a full stop in his chest. 

He takes a step closer, then another, and then another. Distantly from the corner of his eye, he notices how the butterfly twirls in the air in a graceful arc, disappearing in a shower of sparkles in something like encouragement, but it gets pushed aside as he attempts to take notice of every feature of the familiar stranger in front of him. 

Their eyes meet; slate silver to a pair of dark sunglasses. 

Before Akira could possibly say anything, a quiet affirmation, a light joke, an outraged growl, the stranger is turning, bolting away within a blink of an eye. And Akira does blink, just once in shock, before he’s dashing after him, uncaring of how he’s now roughly shoving at people through his chase in his need to catch up; he can’t let him get away, not again, not anymore. 

The man seems to be in good shape, as he hardly falters as he skids around the sharp corner of a small family restaurant, sprinting into the dark alleyway without missing a beat. Akira, vaguely somewhere in the back of his mind, recognizes that running into a dark, secluded area with some guy who was probably the mass murderer who killed him wasn’t the best idea. Another louder part of Akira's brain simply didn’t care. 

He turns the corner too — albeit with less grace than his counterpart — and stumbles down the alleyway, keeping track of the figure now leagues ahead of him, when he notices the man holding a plastic bag on his arm. Right. He had just come out of a convenience store, had he? Akira strains his ears, the sound of rustling plastic aiding in his chase when his eyes fail him. It was too fucking dark for this type of elaborate game of tag. His target is far more agile than Akira would have thought too, and is certainly not making himself easy to catch, darting in and out of so many different passages and turns that it almost makes Akira go dizzy (he is so severely out of shape, isn’t he?) just following him. Does this guy even know where he’s going?

The man turns sharply when Akira is least expecting it, disappearing for a moment around the corner. Akira swears through his panting breaths, following suit seconds later and immediately noticing the same plastic bag the man was holding at the dead end of the alley. Running straight past the rest of the dips in the path, he grabs ahold of the bag and whips his head around, looking for any sight of the man to no avail:

He seemed to have just vanished into thin air. 

Standing there in the back street of multiple apartment blocks, in the middle of nowhere, with a plastic bag in hand that doesn’t even belong to him, the only sound that can be heard is that of Akira’s own gasping breaths. He opens the bag. 

Bandages. 

Akira could almost laugh. 

He doesn’t.

Here’s the thing: he has no idea what he’s supposed to say to Morgana. 

Explaining that “yeah, I saw Akechi Goro — the guy who killed me, who was my greatest wish, who is also supposed to be dead — running around Shibuya after I finished my ass o’clock shift at the shadiest part-time jig in all of Tokyo” would probably get Morgana, and as a result the rest of the thieves, pushing him into going to therapy again, which would probably be a valid suggestion if mixing therapy and even the faintest notion of Akechi Goro were a valid option, which historically, it wasn’t. 

And even if Akira wasn’t hallucinating from whatever fumes could have been in Untouchable’s alleyway that night — which he wasn’t, couldn’t be, considering he has the evidence right in his hands in the form of a bag of Triple Seven store purchases that most assuredly does not belong to him — where would that lead him next? There’s no chance of Morgana not blabbing the secret out to the rest of his friends.

Akira can’t help the near hysterical laugh that forces its way out of his throat at the sheer irony of it all, collapsing heavily onto his bed that protests against him with a loud shriek. Rolls of bandages and various other medical equipment tumble out of the bag and onto the ground. For a split second, the inane thought that Akira could’ve possibly killed Akechi again shoots through his mind, as quick and numbing as a bullet. There had to be a reason why Akechi would have purchased this sort of stuff, isn’t there? If he were injured— Akechi could be bleeding out again somewhere, only this time Akira would have been too fast instead of too slow, having chased him down and taken away what Akechi had needed.

“Joker?” 

But then again, Akechi didn’t seem to be limping earlier. For all Akira knew, his rival was just as agile as ever, sprinting through alleyways with a reckless grace that suggested he was in perfect health. But then again, this was Akechi, and he of all people should have taught Akira that looks could be deceiving. 

“...Joker?” 

The worst part is, Akira can’t return the goods to him. He doubted Akechi still resided in his old apartment, and even then Akechi was secretive enough about its location that he had no clue where it could be, beyond a vague area. His old phone number still sat prettily in Akira’s phone, but it had long been repossessed (not that it had stopped Akira from texting him updates anyways) and therefore useless. 

“Akira?” 

Or maybe who he was chasing just wasn’t Akechi at all. Maybe Akira finally lost it. The mist, the velvet room, the hunt— maybe it just wasn’t Akechi at all, and Akira feels the guilt bubbling up at the sheer idea that he could have possibly mistaken some unextraordinary person for someone as exceptional as Akechi Goro.

God. He just hoped that wherever he was, Akechi was okay.

“Akira!”

There’s a biting pain that blossoms on his thigh, and Akira is immediately and forcefully launched from his thoughts (probably for the better) as his brain hisses and he instinctively shoves away the claw that’s currently digging through his skin and into his flesh. 

“Mona, what are you—?”

“You weren’t responding!” Morgana’s tubby body leaps its way off his lap, landing lightly on the ground at Akira’s feet, looking up at him with his bright blue eyes, wider than usual. “You were spacing out and breathing weirdly and wouldn’t look at anything except the bandages, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do!” 

He was… what? Akira blinks once, then twice, and finds that his eyes have suddenly gotten very dry, moisture springing up at their corners with a sharp pain that accompanies it when he does so. He flexes his numb hands, shaking them slightly, and takes one deep, trembling breath that takes far too much effort for how little air seems to have made it into his lungs. 

Okay, so maybe his friends had a point with the whole therapy thing. He’d make a note of it in his notebook, afterwards. 

“Akira,” Morgana murmurs softly, rubbing his little face against his ankle, grounding him in place. “Are you alright? Did something happen?” 

And still, Akira has no idea what he’s supposed to tell him. He purses his lips and decides to lift Morgana up so he’s resting on his lap, idly scratching behind his ears as Akira’s mind slows into a lull. Morgana purrs, settling in and curling up against his stomach in a way that makes Akira’s breath come in easier as they sit there for a few moments in complete silence as Akira organizes his thoughts. 

Morgana clearly has no clue about any happenings within the Velvet Room, otherwise he’d probably have shouted it to the sky already; it also isn’t as if the Velvet Room came back (he had checked on his way back), so it probably wasn’t anything of concern, but rather just Lavenza sending him a signal and leading him to (who perhaps was — Akira is keeping his hopes low, he doesn’t want a repeat of February, thanks) Akechi. And on that note, he also doesn’t want to tell Morgana about Akechi— no, not yet, not until he gets some definitive proof, not until he sees Akechi in his entirety and can finally believe it, fully and completely, contrary to the lingering doubt now. Eventually. He’d tell Morgana and the rest of the thieves eventually, when he’s certain. 

(Frankly, Akira wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he never saw Akechi again after this. He tucks that away for an I’ll deal with it when it happens sort of day to agonize over.)

His fingers hook lightly into the fold of Morgana’s bandana, twirling the soft cloth around his finger and tugging gently. “It’s nothing, Mona,” he says, quietly, “Thanks for your concern, but it’s just some work stuff.”

Morgana tilts his head, getting up on his two back paws to turn and face him. For a cat, his round face looks awfully serious. “The cops didn’t show up… did they?” 

Akira winces at the thought, “No, nothing like that.” He rubs at Morgana’s head, pushing it lower and away from him. He doesn’t know what it may say about him that he’s afraid of his cat being able to read him. “It’s just stress, that's all.” 

Morgana makes a non-committal sound, only half believing, but he does drop it, much to Akira’s relief. Stretching his limbs (and jabbing his paw into Akira’s stomach), he springs back to the ground, poking at the plastic bag now limp flat on the ground. 

“I was wondering too why you bought this kinda stuff, Joker. I mean, we still have a lot from the Metaverse.” He pokes at a roll of bandages, toppling it onto its side as they both watch it tumble over to the opposite side of the room. To his credit, he does pad over to retrieve it, though he uses his mouth to pick it up. 

Akira sighs, sliding down to the dusty floor to pick all the goods back up and drop them back into the bag. “I know. But I can’t just return it.” 

“Why not?” Morgana blinks at him, confused, “Can’t you just put it back where you found it?” 

Akira opens his mouth, ready to teach his cat about the plentiful regulations around returning medical equipment and other hygiene products, before the sheer genius of Morgana’s statement hits him in full. Put it back where he found it. Of course. 

“You’re right.” Scooping the bag back up, Akira quickly gets up onto two feet and scurries over to the stairs, pulling his coat back on all the while, “Mona, I’ll be back in a bit, okay?” 

“Woah, woah, woah!” Morgana sprints over to the front of the staircase, blocking him. “Akira! It’s getting late, I don’t think the stores are even open at this hour!” 

Right. The store. Where he bought the bandages. And not where he stole them in the back alley of some suspect apartment block from his possibly not-dead rival. 

Morgana does have a point though. It is already quite dark out, so it’s not the best idea to be poking around in shady corners for any reason, unless he’s aiming to be mugged. Akechi probably wouldn’t be up at this time either; he’s always like that, oddly cautious in the most rash of ways. Akira finds himself smiling just slightly at the thought of him. 

“Uh, Joker? You have a weird look on your face.” 

Akira quickly shakes his head, manually twisting his face back into something closer to his usual neutrality with only slight difficulty, much like how one would plait together a batch of particularly stiff pretzel dough. Which is to say, it’s much more difficult than usual. 

“You’re right,” he repeats instead, neatly putting everything back aside and picking Morgana up into his arms, “We should get an early night’s rest, tonight.” 

Morgana’s pleased look immediately shapes into one of pure suspicion. Which, quite frankly, is just rude. Akira is perfectly able to maintain a perfectly normal sleep schedule. He just chooses not to. 

No matter; Morgana shouldn’t even be complaining that he’s actually listening to him for once. 

Tomorrow's bound to be an interesting day. 

The next morning, Akira has an early shift at Rafflesia (by which he means around early noon), so he had made sure the night before to set an alarm for even earlier so he could carry out his at least three-step plan to make contact with Akechi. It amuses him, the concept, the ritual, as if Akechi were some sort of alien life needing to be appealed to see, which would at least be true to the number of inexplicable complexities that seem to orbit around whenever he’s present. 

Akira, notoriously, is known for not getting up and out of bed until at least noon, so he makes careful sure to not wake Morgana when his alarm rings at the crack of dawn (the things he does for Crow, dammit), just so his cat doesn’t seriously start to think that there is something incredibly wrong with him. This is one of Akira’s poor life choices that he refuses to let Morgana judge; he has free reign over every other one, so Akira gets to be protective here. 

It’s second nature to Akira at this point, so doesn’t even have to think about his movements as he goes through the motions of brewing a fresh jug of coffee, the comforting aroma permeating across the café and soothing flat his frazzled nerves. A pen spins between his fingers, tapping out a steady tempo as it clicks against the counter of the bar, slowing down into a respite. The pink post-it note stares up at him, silently mocking his trepidation. 

What should he say? What can he say? Witty one-liners first come to mind, a playful long time no see, or a flirtatious late-night invitation back to Leblanc has his finger itching to scribble the thoughts down, but that was more of Joker’s thing, and not Akira, not in the right way he wants it to be. An apology or a mitigation for the accidental theft, a colour of right (as if such a thing could possibly fly); an angry rant for running, for leaving once again as soon as Akira drew too near. 

Still. It would be better to keep it simple and impersonal, really, if it turns out who he had chased around Shibuya last night hadn’t actually been Akechi. 

But well, the less he dwells on that the better. He scribbles down a banal apology on the note that sounds more like it's from an automated customer service email than an actual person, and against his better judgement, doodles a little sketch of both of Crow’s masks on the corner of the sheet. 

A cream, three sugars, and a full thermos of coffee (made from beans he had plucked randomly from the shelf; he doesn’t think they ever had the time to figure out which Akechi had liked best) later, he grabs his own satchel, the plastic bag which he had placed an extra roll of bandages inside as an apology for the one Morgana had bitten into, and a roll of tape for good measure. 

Then, he’s off. 

It’s easy enough finding his way back to the same alleyway, something almost like muscle memory despite only performing once, directing his route down the same sharp turns and straight passages until he’s there. 

There is no indication anyone has been by already looking for their goods, which Akira isn’t sure is a relief or not. The day’s still new so perhaps if he’s lucky, someone will eventually show. 

Not that he's going to be there if they do regardless. He has a job to work. 

He props the bag up against the cleaner-looking wall, setting the thermos next to it, looped within its handle. The note though, he debates on its location, before settling on sticking it to the wall, right above the bag, taping all four edges down so it wouldn’t be blown away in the chilly wind. He’s planning to return later tonight anyways, so he can take it down then. By definition, it isn’t vandalism. Probably. 

A nightmarish shift and a long overdue grocery run for Sojiro later, Akira manages to stumble his way back to the alleyway just as the sun begins to set above him. No matter how quick his heart may be beating from the jog he made to retrieve the note before dark (the idea of some gangly guy crouching by the side of a building in the pitch black is not very appealing, and would probably get the cops called on him), every droplet of blood freezes in his veins when he arrives. 

The bag is gone, the thermos cleared out and thoroughly cleaned, resting in its exact same position. 

But most tellingly is the bright pink post-it note on the wall — or rather, the complete lack of it. 

Instead, within the small box of tape he had left earlier that morning, lies a blue post-it note with a simple black and white drawing of Joker’s mask. 

Akira tries to rationalize it all on his way home, legs numb, knees threatening to buckle out from under him with every step. 

The design of Joker’s mask itself isn’t a secret. Shido’s calling card had been displayed all over the city, crisp and clear, and was still up for free viewing on online streaming services under Futaba’s account, though through a further elongated version. A memento, she had said in much less polite terms (not that he didn’t agree), a future piece of evidence of all of Shido’s crimes and how he had failed at the hands of the Phantom Thieves.

The issue wasn’t Joker’s mask, not really. It was that Joker’s mask was in response to Crow’s own, who was dead (or at this point, presumed dead; MIA, in politer terms) when the calling card was first broadcasted, and certainly wasn’t in the video at all, even in the extended version, which Akira made sure to watch again on his way back home. The fact that it was there at all—

Akira swallows, and starts walking a little bit faster. 

At this hour, the train to Yongen-Jaya isn’t too packed, allowing Akira to catch his breath without any elbows jamming into his ribs. It does have the unfortunate side effect though, of giving Akira time to think, which is just making his head run around in circles of ‘is he, isn’t he’ over and over and over again, that by the time he steps onto the platform, he feels slightly nauseated from just standing straight. 

He starts his trek back to Leblanc, grocery bags knocking into his legs as he does. He should be ecstatic, should he? Akechi is alive, more likely than not. A year ago, that’s all he could have ever asked for, was quite literally everything he had wished; now, the same sentiment still rings true. Yet, why does he still feel so… dejected?

The beat of a sole up ahead interrupts his thoughts (or perhaps Akira is easily distracted). He looks up, and freezes. 

A single figure stands in the middle of the street, right at the junction where the movie theatre branches off. Tall and shadowed, the figure stands facing him, without the slightest bit of movement other than the brush of its shoulder-length hair as it sways to the sudden breeze. 

The yellowish street lamps of Yongen-Jaya make the stranger’s eyes glow gold; the light flickers; their eyes spark red in the smouldered embers. 

Akira doesn’t even register that he was running until he’d already taken off, shoes pattering loud against the concrete, plastic grocery bags slamming against his legs with a solid clack and rustle with every pace. 

His adversary too, at some point, had also started running — unfairly quickly for someone wearing leather loafers and a trenchcoat — in a straight line down the street, passing through the residential area of the town and continuing on. 

It’s a completely straight chase. The roads start to become more and more unfamiliar over time, a minute, three minutes, five and perhaps ten, and Akira can eventually no longer ignore the burning sensation in his lungs as he finally gives in, doubling over with his hands on his knees as he takes in large, gulping breaths. It’s times like these he wished he hadn’t slacked off so much on his runs with Ryuji. But then again, it also wasn’t as if he’d ever predicted he’d be literally and actively chasing people down like this either.

It’s only when the ringing in his ears subsides he registers the lack of footfalls echoing along the street. He jerks his head up and sees his target a few metres up the street, breathing loudly enough to be audible, but nowhere near as heavy as Akira’s. 

Their gazes meet.

There’s no forgetting those eyes, a wine red dipped in rust. The colour of dried blood, a promise in his most vivid of dreams. 

There’s no forgetting those lips, curved upwards into a delicious smirk, mocking and tempting in equal amounts in a way that has the pang in Akira’s chest doubling in fervour. 

It’s him. It’s really him. 

Slowly, as if to not alert the dimmed homes of neighbours completely apathetic to the world suddenly reforming in Akira’s mind right outside their door, his rival dips forwards into a low bow, arms sweeping to his side, lithe like a water’s flow. His chin tilts up; his smirk grows impossibly more serrated. Akira’s messed up heart flutters impossibly quicker at the notion. 

A final curtain call; another missed opportunity. 

Akira stands there in the pitch dark, long after he’s gone. 

Then, he goes home. 

“I think I saw Akechi last night,” Akira says to Futaba the next morning, while in the middle of brewing a fresh jug of coffee. Somewhere (upstairs), a cat screeches and tumbles straight off a bed.

“Um,” a very unprepared Futaba says back, before promptly blaring out an emergency meeting notice into their group chat. 

“What do you mean you saw Akechi yesterday?!” The entirety of the Phantom Thieves basically shouts as they crowd him when they all arrive about an hour later. 

It’s a mixed bag of reactions, ranging from amusedly horrified, to amusedly intrigued, to simply just amused in general. Akira, after a solid night of restless sleep categorizing how the rest of the thieves may react to the news, feels the slightest sting of whiplash. It’s not as if he expected purely negative reactions, but he would have thought there would be more hesitance. 

“Akechi-senpai is alive?” Sumire gasps. Her hands have been over her mouth since the moment Akira declared the news. Akira thinks there might be actual tears in her eyes. 

“Wait, didn’t this happen already?” Ryuji said. 

“I can’t believe Crow got to come back to life twice. Most people don’t even get to do that once,” Futaba mumbles, curling into herself, concerningly jealous. 

“Um, Futaba-chan, I don’t think that’s a situation people tend to get into often enough for it to happen once…” 

“Well, it makes sense if you think about it.” Ann slides into the seat across from him, her hand resting over Akira’s own on top of the bar counter. She gives him a blindingly bright smile, and squeezes his hand. “If anyone’s going to cheat death twice, it’d definitely be Crow.”

“Is no one freaking out over the fact that Akechi’s alive again?” Morgana shrieks into Akira’s ear. 

Needless to say, it's a lot. Akira, even having to pick apart the voices all talking over each other at once, can’t help but laugh as everyone bickers and not quite rejoice over the news, but at least take some sort of relief at the fact that Akechi is alive and kicking, and not rotting away somewhere in the corpse of the Metaverse. At any rate, Akira knows he is. 

Some time between spacing out in his thoughts and serving up two whole jugs of coffee, he manages to tune in enough to hear some sort of notion of a plan to track Akechi down, which wakes Akira up enough to pipe in with a, “Wait, what?” 

Eight pairs of eyes immediately swivel towards him, and Akira can’t help but startle slightly at their intensity, taking one tiny step back. 

“Do you not wish to know of Akechi’s whereabouts?” Yusuke asks, twirling a pencil between his fingers in large, thoughtful, looping circles. “Out of us all, I would have presumed you would wish to reunite with Akechi most.” 

“Well, uh,” Akira says as his words decide that then would be a perfect time to fail him. 

Morgana snorts, “You say that as if Akira doesn’t want to see Akechi again. This guy talks in his sleep sometimes, y’know that?”

“Uh,” Akira repeats, feeling his face burst into flames, which everyone politely ignores. 

“I don’t mean to be a… downer, or anything, really. I fully agree to going through with this plan, but…” Makoto tucks a strand of her hair behind her ears, before looking Akira straight in the eyes. “But you’re a hundred-percent sure that who you saw was Akechi-kun, right?” 

Akira might have not seen his face in its entirety, but he still thinks of the chases both, thinks of the thrill, the way his heart had threatened to leap straight out of his chest, an exhilaration reminiscent of his time slicing up shadows in Mementos with Crow by his side, his rival in everything. Thinks of a sharp smirk and burgundy eyes, a low sinking bow in slow-motion, a promise and challenge all at once, and his words suddenly come clear. 

“There’s no doubt about it,” Akira says, his voice ringing across the room like the strongest tides bell. “There’s no way I could possibly mistake anyone else for someone like Akechi Goro.”

A silence sweeps across the entire café, eyes wide as the rest of the thieves stare at him, shocked at his words, betraying in its wording like a confession. For an uncharacteristically panicked minute, Akira considers backpedalling, but is promptly cut off as he is nearly knocked over into the bar by an arm slinging across his shoulder. 

When he turns his head to the side, Ryuji is there, grinning widely at the rest of the group, not a trace of doubt in sight, “Well? You all heard the man!” He claps Akira’s back, nearly again launching his face into the counter, “I’ll keep an eye out for that asshole on my mornin’ runs — no way that dude can outrun me!”

The silence previously clouding the room gradually begins to dissipate, Futaba cackling under her breath as she types away at her keyboard so quickly that the clicking noises blur into one continuous sound, “Good luck to that jerk. As if he can get past the super combined power of Alibaba and CCTV!”

“I’ll ask Coach Hiraguchi for help! She knows plenty of people,” Sumire says, pumping her fist with an honestly terrifying amount of determination on her face. “I’ll make sure to look for Akechi-senpai during my training!” 

“And I shall utilise my own keen eye to seek out Akechi in the Shibuya Underground.” Yusuke smiles to himself, seemingly pleased as punch for some reason. He chuckles, low. “Of course, this shall occur during my bidaily people watching sessions. If I am to spot Akechi, I’ll ensure to make quick work of him.” 

“Uh, Inari, I know what you mean and all, and that it’s like, completely innocent coming from you, but that just sounds funky.”

“Oh, oh! I’ll contact some people I know too! Mika probably knows something! And I’ll get Shiho to help out as well!” Ann reaches across the table with her other hand, joining the first in squeezing the blood out of Akira’s own hand. “I know a few photographers who owe me tons of favours.” 

“It may turn out fruitless, but I will reach out to Sis to see if she knows anything about Akechi-kun’s revival,” Makoto promises, already pulling out her phone. “I’ll see if I can convince her to let me pour over some official files.”

“While I may not have the same amount of time as everyone else, I will keep an eye out for Akechi-kun as well,” Haru, despite her soft tone, sparks with a deadly sort of tenacity. “I’ll be frequenting many locations with popular cafés in the area looking for a suitable location for my own. I remember Akechi-kun being quite fond of such establishments, so it’s certainly a possibility I could stumble upon him then.” 

“Hey! Don’t forget about me!’ Morgana cries, leaping up to perch on Akira’s shoulders, a comforting weight of warmth as he rubs against Akira’s cheeks. “You said you saw Crow in Yongen-Jaya yesterday, right? I’ll make sure to be the one to drag him right back!” 

Ann laughs, “Of course! After all, there’s no escaping the Phantom Thieves, especially if you’re someone specially chosen by our Leader!” 

“Okay, wait a minute there—” Akira tries, even though a grin starts to break across his face, even as his heart swells in pure affection for his friends. 

One more mission, Akira thinks, one final promise. There’s no way Crow will ever get away now, with all of them on his tail. 

Akira’s not letting go this time. 

Like with most Phantom Thieving pursuits, Futaba is the one to find something first. 

“So, I started checking the CCTV footage starting from when you last left, last year.” The two of them huddle together in front of her multiple monitors in her room. She is seated on her desk chair, knees curled up to her chest, while Akira sits on an old wooden stool Sojiro pulled out from a spider-infested storage closet about three minutes ago. “So far, I’ve went through about… uh, to about three months ago—”

“...Futaba, how many hours of sleep did you get last night?” 

“—But I didn’t find anything until I hit the footage from two months ago, which probably means he left Tokyo for a bit and came back recently,” Futaba continues loudly, swatting away the pillow Akira slowly brings her way. “But from then on, Akechi was everywhere, like seriously, he wasn’t even trying to hide then.” 

The two of them lean towards the screen as Futaba quickly clicks through a slide of images screenshotted from security cameras all around Tokyo. It’s blurry, and the quality is objectively awful, but there’s no denying that the small caramel blobs in each image cutting through the busy streets is Akechi Goro; Akira feels his heart race quicker at the knowledge, ignoring the shrewd look Futaba sends his way. 

“Anyways, I kept poking around to more recent times, tracking down Crows like Waldo’s y’know, when suddenly!” She pauses here for dramatic effect: “Poof! He just completely disappears from the radar!” 

“Disappeared.” Akira echoes, just so Futaba can get on with the explanation, which she giddily does. 

“You were right about the fact that ‘kechi’s aware of the blind spots of law enforcement’s CCTV cameras, ‘cause I couldn’t find him anywhere starting from maybe around… a few-ish days ago?” She seems to check off something in her head, shrugs, then moves on again. “Not the train stations, not near any government buildings, or fancier skyscrapers, the works.” She idly clicks around, opening up a new tab, “And he couldn’t have skipped town either, since you saw him just the other day.

“So I started poking around some more, right? Getting into private surveillance records was easy (Akira ignores the ethical implications of this sentence), but then I had to choose somewhere to start looking. So I picked out Kichijoji to start ‘cause that’s where you two losers used to hang, and ding, ding, ding, jackpot!” Futaba sings as she pulls up some blurry footage of a figure entering a dubious, run-down-looking building. “I got a phone number!”

And Akira can’t even poke at her for the whole loser comment, because his heart had suddenly decided to jump its way into his throat and lodge itself there. “What?”

“Yeah, yeah!” Futaba spins around in her chair, vibrating out of her seat at such a frequency that Akira is afraid she just might whirl straight off it. “Turns out that place he’s entering in that photo? Which was taken like, a month ago by the way, it’s a smaller motel-esque building — so I doubt he’s still there now — but you still need some kinda contact info to check in, right? And luckily, those guys running the place don’t use the whole pen-and-paper ghost hotel shtick, so I was able to get a phone number, and a…” 

Akira watches Futaba’s spinning slow as her grin simmers down into someone closer to hesitance, and Akira has a feeling that whatever it is she’s uncertain about, he probably isn’t going to like it.

A spreadsheet pops up on the screen, a single row highlighted near the bottom of the log; a room number, a date, a phone number, and a single name:

Kurusu Akira. 

Akira’s heart, still stuck in his throat, immediately dislodges itself and falls into his stomach as he begins to choke on his own poor life choices. Futaba, clearly not expecting such an overreaction from the constantly-expressionless-Kurusu Akira, instantly shrieks, diving underneath her desk and grabbing an offensively green energy drink that she hurls at his head. 

“Don’t choke, don’t choke, don’t choke! I dunno how to do the heimlich manoeuvre! My arms can’t manage it, Akira!” 

Two bottles of lime-flavoured sodas and a near-concussion later, the two of them relocate to Futaba’s bed, where she crouches curled up against the corner with her laptop resting on her knees. Akira lies on his back with an ice pack stuck to his forehead with glitter tape, slumped over the bed like a weighted stuffed animal with far too many pellets in its limbs. 

“You don’t have to worry about the name thing, by the way. I already swapped it out with a random one,” Futaba said. “Is your head… okay?”

“Aurgh,” Akira replies intelligently. 

“...Right-o.” Shifting her position slightly, she prods at Akira’s head with her toe. “Well, I don’t have anything other than that… or any clues for why Akechi decided to pull a Fey and come back to life but without being helpful,” she mutters the last part under her breath, “Or why he went back to being a spirit so recently too…” 

Something shifts within Akira’s brain with the last sentence (and no, it's not the concussion, he does not have a concussion, please stop freaking out mind-Futaba) and he finds himself scooting over to his sister, shoving into her side to squint blearily at the screen, “What date did you say he disappeared on?” 

“Uhh.” A few commands entered later, she answers, “Unless I missed something, three days ago.”

And bingo. Akira can almost feel the flashing lights going off in his head (and maybe he should go see Takemi after, just in case), “That’s the day after I first saw him.” 

Futaba squints at him. “Are you sure you’re okay, ‘Kira? Didn’t you tell us you saw him yesterday before the emergency meeting? The emergency meeting you called specifically because you saw Akechi yesterday morning?”

“Aurgh,” Akira repeats, very intelligently. 

Futaba’s squinting intensifies, before she’s whirling her head around back to the screen without once looking him in the eye, “Yupppp, I don’t wanna know,” she said, ignoring Akira’s heartfelt protests that it isn’t what you think. “But well, at least the case files are updated. So he probably disappeared from the footage ‘cause he knew you would tell me, and that I would find him and prove he isn’t actually dead again.” She tuts, “Yet even though he seems adamant on burrowing himself away, he still used your name at reception so long before you even reunited…”

All the pieces click together at once for both of them. It’s only obvious what Akechi is playing at here. The minute Akira finds out he’s alive, Akechi vanishes in a way so that Futaba wouldn’t be able to steer Akira in his direction, making it so that Akira had to do his own legwork to find him. Leaving small clues of his continued existence scattered around the city to be tracked down to some final destination—

“...He’s taunting me.” Akira’s voice comes out in a barely there whisper, brittle around its glass edges shining through the realization of what Akechi had chosen to do.

The rhythmic clicking of the keyboard immediately stops. 

(Fragments of her past anger simmer within Futaba, aimed directly at Akechi for her mother, his disappearing act, for what he had done to make Akira speak in such a tone, for all of this and then more, for not even telling at least one of them that he was alive so they could relay it to Akira who didn’t deserve anything like this—)

She turns her head, racking her head for the right words of comfort to give out, only to find that such things weren’t necessary at all.

Because Akira—

Akira’s lips were split into a familiar sharp smirk of which hasn’t been seen since Joker was around, sparkling eyes and a fatal determination written out so clearly on his face that it has Futaba’s own smile widening into something just a tad bit more wicked. She pops her finger joints once with a satisfying crack, wiggling them around before turning her attention back to her screen.

“Hehehe, well he’s chosen the wrong enemy once again!” Futaba’s fingers fly across the keyboard with more vigour than ever before, lines upon lines of code being rewritten in front of their eyes before she slams down on the enter key with a thunderous clack. “Just you wait, Crow! You’ll rue the day you cross the Phantom Thieves!”

After that, there’s nothing for two whole weeks. 

Akira has the new number Futaba sent him, but he hasn’t done anything with it yet; it’s just sitting there on his phone. He hasn’t even changed the contact information to Akechi, hasn’t linked it to his old number to get some kind of answer to where he’d been all this time. 

It isn’t as if he doesn’t trust Futaba’s handiwork. He has no doubt that the number he was given is entirely accurate. It simply just didn’t feel right. 

(Futaba looks at him weird when he tells her this. He tries explaining it to her for all of two seconds before she shuts him down. 

“Uh-huh, you and Crow have some kind of weird mating ritual, got it,” she mutters through Akira’s protests. “What was even the point of me digging that info up for you then? I thought you’d finally start getting all that horny flirtation out of your system,” she continues completely unnecessarily, as Akira’s now flustered protests grow much louder to the point where Sojiro bursts into Futaba’s room to wack Akira in the head with a newspaper since he can’t hear the damn television from all the way downstairs.) 

A day after the two-week mark (Akira perhaps has been counting), Ann steps into Leblanc in the middle of his shift while Sojiro is out, sliding into the chair furthest away from the door, in front of the coffee siphons, beaming at him in a way that makes him slightly uneasy. 

“You don't have to look so excited to see me, you know,” she pouts. Akira slides her a freshly brewed cup, witnessing the moment she mixes in a horrifying amount of sugar and cream into her coffee that would have had Sojiro kicking her out of his store, if she were anyone else. 

“I’m incredibly glad to see you,” Akira says, which ungraciously goes ignored as Ann reaches for her purse, pulling out a small manila envelope and setting it on the counter in front of her. 

Akira pours himself his own cup, before leaning forwards, resting his elbows on the surface of the bar. “I like the envelope.”

“Thanks!” Ann beams at him. “It makes everything seem a bit more… professional, don’t you think?” 

Flipping the flap open with a perfectly manicured nail, the contents of the envelope flutter out onto the counter, countless photographs of a very familiar model scattering across the surface. 

“These are unedited photos that were taken in Akihabara just the other day,” Ann explains, picking up one of the prints between her fingers and examining it carefully. “Mika-chan was running a shoot with the theme of, mmh, American Retro. Even though it doesn’t really look it.”

Akira flips through the images. “She looks pretty.”

“I know,” Ann says bitterly.  

“You always look very pretty too.”

“I know!” She slams her hands against the counter, forcing Akira to look up. “Mika-chan thinks she found Akechi-kun in one of the photos, so she sent me the whole album. It’s way too nice of her!” 

Akira leaves the whole rival-debate for Shiho to deal with when Ann returns home, mostly because his own idea of rivalry may just be a tad off the mark with a little too much murder and violence to be of any use. “So then why did you print out every single one?”

“…It isn’t as cool if there was only one picture there, isn’t it?”

Akira’s lips quirk up into the smallest of smiles. He scans each photo, one by one, looking for any sign of Akechi lurking about in the background; even in the more awkward of shots, Mika seems to pop out of the image, completely distracting. The power of charisma from a supermodel, he supposes. He tells as much to Ann, who goes back to sulking. 

“I know, you don’t have to keep telling me! It’s unfair how cool she looks.”

Akira keeps flipping through photo after photo, Ann helping out now, until he finally spots a blur that is Akechi, bringing the print closer to his face to make sure. And there he is, in the very corner of a shot where Mika is posing in front of a shelf of gachapon machines that Akira immediately recognizes. He lifts his head back upwards. Ann is staring at him with a twinkling smile and mischievous eyes. 

Knowing Akechi, it’s near impossible that this photo was caught by accident. Knowing Akechi, he probably found a way to insert himself into the shoot for Ann to stumble upon. Knowing Akechi, he’d be there in Akihabara right now, waiting for him to catch on and chase him down. 

“What are you waiting for?” She laughs, sorting out the rest of the prints back into a single pile with one hand, the other waving him away. “I’ll cover for you with Boss.” Ann winks at him, sly, “Go get him, tiger!”

It’s probably an irresponsible thing to do, and Sojiro would probably murder him afterward in cold blood, but Akira practically rips his apron off anyways, darting around the counter and to the door. 

“Sojiro usually takes exactly eleven minutes and twenty-six seconds to go get cigarettes,” Akira says in a rush, before he leaves. “So he’d be back in about four minutes and eighteen seconds as of now,” he tells her for apparently no reason, before dashing right out the door.

“What? W-Wait a minute, Akira!” Ann sputters to the empty air where he once stood, “How do you know something like that?!”

He manages to snag a seat for the train ride. The entire ride, his leg jiggles in place no matter how much he tries to get it to still (to conserve energy, he tells himself, and not so he doesn’t look like a frantic insane person). There’s a strange sense of anticipation in the air, Akira thinks, and for the first time in a while, he finds himself looking forward to the chase, for the thrill of the hunt he had never truly appreciated until now. 

Akira does his best to taper down the feral grin that’s probably sprouting on his face, even though he’s certain it wouldn’t happen.

Round three; the game is on.

It doesn’t take long to find Akechi. 

He’s leaning against the same gachapon machine he was seen poking around at in the photos, phone in hand as he idly scrolls through whatever app he’s entertaining himself with. To any outsider, it simply looks as if he’s waiting for someone to arrive; waiting for Akira. To Akira, the sheer notion that Akechi had enough confidence in him to waste an entire day waiting around for Akira to finally arrive sends a meteor showing (shattering rocks included) shooting through Akira’s stomach. 

Akira steps up to him. It’s almost as if Akechi has some kind of radar to alert him whenever Akira comes within a certain radius, because his head jerks up, directly where Akira is, giving him the very first full view of Akechi’s face (smug, freckled, slightly tired, but expecting). The meteor shower evolves into simply stones dropping from the sky. 

In the typical fashion of their renewed relationship so far, Akechi takes off running. Akira isn’t far behind, reaching out and barely brushing the sleeve of Akechi’s cardigan.

Akechi, this time, seems to have properly planned out a route for this chase, making several sharp turns across the city, ducking in and out of stores too with an ease that suggests it was practiced. The image of Akechi running across the entirety of Akihabara at jet-speed for no reason other than so he can outrun Akira for the real thing is hilarious enough, is just Akechi enough, that Akira can’t help but let a laugh bubble out of him, a searing sort of joy slicing through his chest. 

It’s fun. It’s fun, genuinely so, chasing Akechi around like the two of them were a bunch of rowdy kids and not full-grown adults playing a game of delayed reunions, but that was also half the fun of it, wasn’t it? Akechi was the reward Akira would receive if he pushed himself far enough, to match Akechi in his own game, to be his equal. 

That’s why they’re rivals, after all. 

Akechi eventually leads him back to their beginning street, tearing down the road, bumping past nerds and children and maids as he ducks his way into the arcade in between two middle-aged men who had triggered open the automatic door first. Akira gets caught behind the two, and by the time he steps into the arcade and its flashing lights, Akechi is once again, nowhere to be seen.

Kurusu Akira

youre such an asshole, you know that?

the absolute worst

i’ll find you again, i promise

i’ll find you in any crowd

[ Unknown Number has come online.]

Unknown Number

Catch me if you can, thief.

Kurusu Akira

i will

i swear by it, crow

there is no way you can get rid of me that easily

[ Kurusu Akira is typing…]

Kurusu Akira

crow 

i’m glad, really really really glad, that you’re okay

really.

[ Kurusu Akira changed Unknown Number ’s contact name to Goro <3 ]

It just keeps happening. Planned or not, every time Akira would spot Goro out in the wild every few days, once or twice a week, they’d both immediately start running, without even a hello or an acknowledgement. And every time, Goro would get away, and every time, Akira would get just a little bit closer to grabbing onto him and claiming his prize for himself. It keeps happening, and every time Akira wonders if Goro had always been here all along, somewhere just a few metres away outside of Akira’s reach, because now that Akira has seen him once, it’s like he can’t stop ever catching glances of Goro everywhere, during his store runs, his new bidaily trips to the gym, during his working shifts.

It’s fun, incredibly so, sending Akira’s heart racing and a grin splitting his face with every chase. It gets more thrilling each time instead of less, adrenaline rushing quick and hot through him whenever he catches the slightest glimpse of the man. 

His friends don’t quite get it, but they’re still enthusiastically cheering him on despite how their own clues have suddenly run dry. 

“I mean, whatever makes you happy, I guess!” Ann says over one of their weekly meetings at Leblanc. “I mean, weird foreplay, but whatever you two are into!” 

“It is strange though, that we haven’t managed to spot Akechi-kun for ourselves considering the amount of times you have, Akira,” Haru muses, swirling her spoon around and around the final dregs of her coffee. “Ah, not that I’m doubting you, of course, but considering it’s Akechi-kun, it can’t be a coincidence.” 

Ryuji snorts, leaning back in his seat and kicking his feet up on the booth’s table only to get them shoved right back off by Futaba. “The way you’re sayin’ it makes it seem like Akechi’s purposely showin’ himself to Akira only,” he says in a manner that’s neither here nor there, when everyone in the room suddenly straightens up with the realization that Ryuji had actually said something smart for once. Ryuji seems to notice too, posture stiffening with wide eyes, “Oh, shit, do you really think ‘Kechi’s—?”

“Oh… that’s kind of sweet really,” Sumire ponders. She claps her hands together with a bright smile, “No, that’s actually really sweet.”

“There’s a sense of poetry present, wouldn’t you agree?” Yusuke says. “The thief, once the hunted, becomes the hunter, and the detective, once the hunter, now the hunted in a second game with the odds only held in their own favour. It’s quite beautiful.”

“Dude, that makes like, no sense whatsoever.” 

It comes to a head another half month later. 

It has gotten quite cold again, the new winter freezing over the ground in thin sheets of frost, hidden under a thin layer of early snow. Akira trips and slips around more than once. Futaba glides like a figure skater straight into a lamp post in Yongen-Jaya and nearly breaks her nose. Morgana slides down the awning over the door of Leblanc and is thrown right at the wall. 

It’s a fun time.

“It’s the perfect time to catch Crow! Who knows, he might just slip up,” Futaba snickers over Akira’s battered and bruised body lying flat spread across the street as the newest victim of black ice. 

Though, Akira thinks Futaba might have been onto something, because that very same day, he spots Goro again for the first time in a while, standing on the other side of a crosswalk, seemingly not yet noticing Akira gaping at him like an idiot.

So Akira sprints, cutting through the crowds, half-hearted apologies falling from his lips as he darts past, his eyes not once leaving the back of the man only paces away, dodging around the traffic with the same reckless grace as himself. Goro, as soon as he notices him, turns tail and runs straight in the direction of Inokashira Park, a smart decision really, with the park's dirt paths being clear and unfrosted as compared to the concrete, unsalted streets. He’s close; Akira is so close, the furthest and nearest he has ever been to reaching his goal, and he knows these routes, knows the backstreets of the city like he knows the back of his own hand. 

Just because the park may be free of ice does not mean it’s free of any other obstacles. Akira watches, stunned, heart beating a mile a minute at his opportunity, as Goro trips over and stumbles on a shallow tree root protruding out of the ground, slowing down his pace to prevent himself from falling over completely.

It’s the final stretch, and Akira reaches, leaning, leaping forwards, his hand curling around a gloved hand, tugging him around—

Akira doesn’t even hesitate for a second when he swings his free hand around in a tightly-wound fist, directly into the man’s face. 

There’s enough momentum from the punch, the chase, the fact that Akira hadn’t quite made a full stop on his feet quite yet, that Akira tips forwards as Goro tips back; hands, still tightly held together, pull as they both fall into a pile of freshly shovelled snow. 

“I believe I deserved that,” Goro, Goro, says, in a half-groan as Akira collapses on top of him, hands instantly pinning Goro’s own gloved ones against the ground by the side of his head, knees locking around each side of his hips, as Akira finally gets a chance to take him in.

Goro, his voice, his eyes, his skin. His voice was like a balm Akira never knew he needed, smoothing and soothing over his skin in a caress; his eyes, dark and piercing, but sparkling with a new light Akira has never once seen before in their relationship; cheeks flushed pink from the chase (slightly red from a slowly blooming bruise), highlighting a smattering of pale freckles. 

It’s him. It’s really him. Not that Akira had doubted it before, but it’s really him. Here, wonderful, beautiful, alive. 

“Hi,” Akira breathes out for lack of anything else to say, any anger he may have held evaporating like the puffs of breath coming out from his mouth, pushing in a thin cloud that brushes across Goro’s lips, which pull upwards into that familiar smug smirk Akira had always liked; as a result, his heart starts beating quicker when it had just begun to slow. He worries over if Goro would be able to hear it, even over their coats. 

“Hello,” Goro replies, and despite only saying one word, Akira shivers. His voice. “You have gotten slower, Kurusu.” 

“I still caught you, didn’t I?” He says in favour of saying something else stupid again, such as where have you been the last year .

Goro’s smirk grows wider. “Only because I had tripped on some fucking branch.”

“Well, that’s your own problem to deal with, isn’t it?” 

Goro laughs, loud and unrestrained in a way that has Akira stunned, his grip loosening around his wrists, which turns out to be a bad idea when Goro immediately takes advantage, flipping them around so it’s now Akira with his back to the ground. It isn’t a bad position, really, especially when Goro moves one of his gloved hands to grab Akira’s chin, tilting it up. 

“Next time, I won’t make that same mistake,” Goro says, smiling as he watches the movement of Akira’s throat as he swallows. “How about that, hm?” 

“As if I’d ever let you go again after this.” Akira grabs Goro’s wrist — the one holding his chin — and gently pries it away, raising it instead to his lips, letting his teeth catch lightly on the small patch of skin hidden between the crevice of his gloves and the cuff of his sleeve. Akira revels in the way Goro’s breath catches at the contact, feeling his own smirk grow in turn. “Bold of you to assume you’d get the chance to flee, Detective.”

Goro’s next laugh is airy, almost incredulous as he looks down on Akira with wide eyes, all bravado seeping away with the chill. “Really? Even still— You’re always just so…” He trails off, but Akira already had a clue of where his sentence was heading. He presses a kiss against Goro’s skin once, then again, just for good measure.

“I really did miss you, Goro. You can't just get rid of me so quickly, or that easily,” Akira mutters into his wrist, suddenly aware of how quick Goro’s pulse is fluttering under his lips. “You could have come back at any time, no matter how long, and I would always feel the same.” 

Akira pretends to not notice the sudden trembling he feels from the person above him, or how Goro dips his head down, burying his face in the crook of Akira’s neck, his breaths quick against his throat. He instead takes his time, raising his free hand and burying it in Goro’s hair. Icy and slightly damp from the snow, but still as soft as ever. It’s quite nice, being held like this, even if his back is starting to go slightly numb from the cold seeping through his coat, and the fact that Goro’s knee seems to be jabbing awkwardly against his stomach in his weird half-pin half-sprawl across Akira’s body. But it’s nice. Akira wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

Eventually, Goro emerges from his weird huddle, returning to stare at Akira with an equally weird expression that Akira can’t help but grin at the sight of. “Better?”

“I would have. Come earlier, I mean. But I only came back a few months ago,” Goro tells him instead, his voice quiet, shaking his wrist away from Akira’s grip and instead tightly fisting it in the other’s raven hair, which he can’t really complain about since his own hand is still in Goro’s own. “And you, only slightly before that.”

“About half a year, give or take,” Akira beams back, feeling the warmth of Goro’s admission — the idea that Goro had missed Akira just as much as Akira had missed him — filling him like warm coffee, which then reminds him of the thermos that he’d have to ask about later, and then how he had managed to escape from him all those times, and also everything else Goro had done during their separation. And there’d be no more hunts, or fleeting deals, or stupid roadblocks stopping the two of them from where they should have always been, because now, they have time. 

Goro is still staring at him like he was the strangest thing in the entire world, and he opens his mouth, probably to retort with some kind of smartass reply, but Akira, thinking that this was enough small talk for the meantime, pulls Goro’s head down into a kiss. He smiles at the strangled sound Goro makes, before he is suddenly letting out a noise of his own as Goro dips down deeper, refusing to let himself be outdone, pulling at Akira’s hair in just the right way that it has sparks shooting down his spine. 

When they pull away, it’s too heavy breathing clouding the empty space between them with a foggy haze, and it’s not before long that Akira is leaning forwards again, hands on the collar of Goro’s coat, pulling him close, chasing down his warmth. 

It’s enough.