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The nightmare jolts Goro awake, eyes springing open. His vision still sees Akira, broken face pressed, forever unmoving, against the table in the interrogation room. Blood pooling around him, dark hair sticky with it as it cools in the room whose temperature has been set to freezing on purpose.
He blinks the vision away, the faint outline of the smoke detector solidifying in its place, tiny green light holding strong in the dim lighting of the room. Goro’s hand reaches out beside him to find the other side of the bed cool, empty of the warmth he wanted to be there.
The emptiness sparks his heart to racing faster, breath catching in his throat.
It is all he can do to kick off the sheets, sending them spiraling into a mess on the floor, tangling about his ankles as he jumps out of the bed. He kicks at them again, feet slipping away from the last trailing warmth sticking to them to touch the bare floor of the apartment. Cold seeps through his feet as he moves.
He stumbles to the door, hand ignoring the light switch to fumble at the handle instead, flinging it open, his heart in his throat.
It’s a mere few steps to the living room, and yet it feels like a mile.
Yellow light warms the room, emanating from the corner where Goro’s small Featherman themed lamp rests. It’s a special edition that includes Grey Pigeon in the ranks. All six posing as the base. Goro has no idea where Akira got his hands on it from, and Akira has never offered up that information. Choosing to leave the gift’s origins just one more secret between them. Its wattage has never been good, which makes it perfect for lighting late evenings when eyes prefer dimmer lighting to that of a good, harsh bulb.
The warm light illuminates Akira, elbow resting on the arm of the couch, chin tucked into his palm as he reads. It is a scene both so familiar and comforting Goro instinctively wants to chide him for folding the cover over itself so he can hold the book in one hand. Instead he lets the breath he didn’t realize he was holding out in a whoosh.
Gray eyes flicker up to him, free of the glasses Akira wears in public, open and clear just for Goro. The book instantly drops to his lap as his head snaps up, off his chin, “Goro?”
“It’s nothing.” his voice is raspy, he wonders if he cried out during the nightmare.
“It’s never nothing.” Akira’s words are quiet as he pats the cushion next to him, “Here, join me.”
It is rare Goro does as he’s told right away, choosing to be contrary more often than not for the simple freedom of being able to do so. Tonight his feet are carrying him to Akira’s side before the words have even left the other’s mouth.
He all but collapses onto the cushion, sinking comfortably into its softness. For all its comfort it is one of the ugliest couches Goro’s ever owned, brown and red mottled fabric over plush cushions instead of the leather Goro wanted. Leather, Akira had claimed, was only good for giving Morgana something to scratch up. Ultimately he’d let Akira pick the couch after he rejected all of Goro’s original choices for being too firm, too showy, too much like the life he’d cut and pasted together from catalogs to be picture perfect.
With a hand, Akira tugs him over, meaning to pull Goro into his shoulder, but even that level of comfort isn’t enough for him tonight. Goro goes boneless, dropping his head into Akira’s lap, temple bumping against the paperback he’s displacing.
He feels more than hears Akira chuckle, as he moves, turning to get more comfortable. Together they shift, and shuffle, the book falling forgotten into a crevice of the couch where Goro will inevitably have to dig it out of later. Soon, Akira’s leaning against the arm of the couch, Goro resting more or less against his torso, legs tangled together, face and hands buried in one of Goro’s favorite shirts Akira has pilfered for the evening. The citrusy scent of the body wash Akira likes to buy in bulk soaks through the shirt and into Goro’s senses. A scent Ann had gotten him hooked on that Goro used to hate but now finds he can’t live without.
Hands find his hair, combing through it in gentle motions.
Goro closes his eyes and focuses on that feeling. His head tingles as fingernails scratch his scalp before tugging gently through his locks. The motion repeats again, and again, soothing in its rhythm. It grounds him in the same way Akira’s chest rising and falling with even breaths does.
“Must have been some nightmare.” Akira murmurs.
“Hmm.” Is Goro’s response. He doesn’t want to talk about it.
The hands shift to rub at his back and Goro makes a sound of disagreement, not a whine. He doesn’t whine. But he does miss the fingers in his hair.
“Needy, needy.” he can hear the smile in Akira’s voice, but those fingers return to his hair.
“I’m going to braid it.” Akira tells him, “Don’t complain.”
Goro doesn’t. There is nothing in the world like having his hair played with. Akira’s habit of reaching out to fiddle with it, idly, whenever the two of them are close is half the reason he’s never bothered to cut it shorter than the length he’d had it at when they met.
He wonders at Akira’s insistence on braiding it though. His hair isn’t that long. Not like Futuaba’s or Ann’s, where they can do all kinds of interesting things with it. Goro’s either rests comfortably at his shoulders, or is pulled up into a tight ponytail, keeping it from smothering him during the summer or when he’s working out a particularly difficult problem.
Deft fingers tangle in his locks, picking at them now, nails only grazing his head by accident as he brushes much of it back to free up whatever bits he’s intending to attempt to pull into a braid. This feeling of intentionality is new, Akira’s hands holding strands together, tugging gently at them as he weaves, pulling in extra hairs here, and there, shifting the warming fringe that layers itself over Goro’s ears, temple, and cheeks, up and away to leave open skin for the air to caress, shifting around Akira’s wrists as he moves.
He resists the temptation to reach up and clasp one of those wrists. Fingers curling around skin now only slightly marred, a scar that has mostly faded. A white line where handcuffs once dug too deep, breaking open skin, rubbing it raw through hours of pressure. He’d kiss the white line, lips lingering against the proof of his mistake, never more thankful for something he’d initially seen as his greatest failure.
Instead, he curls his hands tighter into the shirt, knuckles pressing up against Akira’s chest as his own hitches.
Ever the Phantom Thief, Akira’s hands do not falter. He hums instead, chest rumbling with the sound, like Morgana’s purrs when he’s particularly content. The soothing hum becomes melodic, as Akira continues his ministrations, hair on the left side of his head growing tighter as the arrangement is worked neatly into place.
“I killed you.” Goro tests, “I won.”
The humming stills, but Akira’s fingers don’t, “Did you?”
“Before then, I’d never killed anyone outside of the Metaverse. I didn’t know what to expect.” He directs his words into the shirt, cotton soaking them up, yet they still make it to Akira’s ears like he knows they will.
He’s never told him that before.
“I bet you looked really cool doing it. One shot for the guard, and one for me.” One hand holds the hair in place while he leans back, reaching to the table behind them, “Did you have a monologue?”
Goro snorts into his chest, “You are well aware that I did.”
Akira isn’t though. Hasn’t been until this moment. They don’t talk about what happened in the interrogation room. About the decision he made. And the one Akira ignores to this day.
Akira grunts, the sound mildly irritated, “Why don’t we keep rubber bands on our end table?”
His hand apparently finds something because his chest contracts, easing back into its original position as he pulls his arm back. Goro tries to turn his head to see what he’s found, but Akira’s hand in his hair tightens just a bit, keeping him from moving.
“You’ll mess it up.” he admonishes, “All that hard work, gone to waste over a little impatience.”
They’re talking about two separate things. They’re talking about the same exact thing. Two timelines twisted together. Goro’s not sure he can continue with it.
“I didn’t know you could braid.” Goro turns the conversation.
“Ann taught me.” Akira’s voice is a little distracted, and something sharp pokes Goro’s head making him hiss.
“Not Morgana?” Goro counters.
“Sorry.” Akira huffs, “Pencils are not hair ties, but it’ll hold for now.”
“They certainly are not.”
Akira’s fingers find the other side of Goro’s head, where his hair still hangs loose, covering his eye and view of the rest of the living room. He swallows as they comb it back, teasing out the occasional tangle before Akira lifts a few strands to start again.
They both lapse into silence again as Akira’s fingers move a little faster now, the braiding less a way to calm Goro and more so he can have the task finished. He’s gentle all the same, and Goro’s eyes are drifting closed the further he gets through the process. He’ll have to remember to ask Akira to do this again, during the day, when he can actually care about the results.
“It wouldn’t have been a victory.” The words are so quiet he hopes Akira doesn’t hear them.
“I know.” Akira’s timbre matches Goro’s.
“I didn’t want to do it.” There is a warble in his voice he can’t stop, a heat behind his eyes he doesn’t know what to do with.
Akira’s words are gentle, “I know that too.”
It is as close to an apology Akira will get. And as near absolution as Goro will allow. Nothing more needs to be said.
“Hold this.” Akira loosens one of Goro’s hands from his shirt, and moves it up to his hair. He grips two ends of braids, as Akira slips the pencil out of his hair, “And wait for me.”
Goro does whine, this time at the loss of warmth as Akira untangles himself from him, slipping off the couch to leave Goro laying there, face pressed to the fabric, as of yet unmarred by little cat claws. Akira had been right, Morgana had little interest in picking apart the fabric when he had a smooth leather armchair to dig moats into.
He turns his head to watch Akira slip out of the room, towards the bathroom, socked feet quiet against the floor.
As he waits, he flicks his pinky against the hair at the end of the braids, soft tufts like one of Yusuke’s paintbrushes. The edges of the nightmare are still there. Hanging on at his periphery, shoved away by how close Akira had been. Without him, they start to close back in, anxiety tripping alarms in Goro’s chest he can’t unwire fast enough.
It’s only a few moments before Akira is back, and Goro finds the constricting pressure in his lungs start to ease.
Akira slips back onto the couch, into the tiny groove of space Goro had not taken up. He reaches down and plucks a braid from Goro’s hand. Obediently, he keeps a grip on the other, holding the plait in place.
A flicker of red flashes in Goro’s vision, wrapping around the end before Akira releases the now contained braid and takes the other one, freeing up both of Goro’s hands. He tugs the end, short as it is, close to examine the tiny band that was wrapped around it. Where on earth had Akira gotten ties so small?
The other soon drops against his head, its weight strange but comforting, “There. Though, next time I think I’ll just do one side. It’s more fetching that way. Plus I’ll still have something to brush out of your face.”
“And leave me half blind?” Goro lifts himself up on his elbows to look up at Akira, leaning against the arm again.
“If you cut it, you could see just fine.”
“Pot, meet kettle.” Goro eyes the mess of curls currently threatening to block all of Akira’s vision.
“You’d be devastated if I cut my hair.” Akira runs a hand through said curls, tugging them back so he can hit Goro with the full force of a wink. The act itself is devastating, not that Goro will dare admit it aloud. No need to give Akira power he doesn’t need.
Akira leans down, voice warm against Goro’s ears, “I’ll be entirely honest with you, detective.” he whispers, and Goro’s chest constricts again. Anxiety surging forward, every alarm tripped.
“I braided your hair just for this.” He presses a kiss to Goro’s temple, free now from the hair that usually hides it.
The panic unspools into something giddy, nightmare banished for good at last.
“I hate you.” There is no heat in Goro’s words as he lets his face drop into Akira’s chest.
Another kiss finds itself at the top of his head, warm against his scalp, “Ready for bed?”
In revenge Goro snuggles a little closer, looping his arms around Akira’s chest to pin him to the couch, “I’m quite comfortable here. Perhaps you should finish your book.” He doesn’t mention that the corner of it is digging into his hip.
A snort shakes him, and Goro turns his face up to Akira’s, “Or am I too distracting?”
Gray eyes go steely, “Challenge accepted.”
Akira reaches around Goro, whose arms are quite occupied thank you very much, and plucks the book from the abyss where it had dropped, freeing his hip from a morning of stiffness. After a moment’s consideration, he scoots a little deeper into the couch, leaning back so Goro can lay against him comfortably.
Then, because Akira too feels the need to be contrary whenever possible, he begins to read aloud, voice rhythmic as Goro picks up on words from Pride and Prejudice of all things. He lets himself drift as he listens to Darcy falling in love with a pair of fine eyes and finds himself in complete agreement with the sentiment. A pair of fine eyes are lovely indeed.