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Their mornings have a routine now. There’s a peacefulness in early predictability, Akira revelling in having somewhat of a regime to start his day. He gets up first and starts cooking breakfast and lunch, gathering what he’d prepared the night before to make sure all is ready by the time Goro wakes.
He enjoys this; cooking is an art in many ways, and something Akira strives to excel at. Creativity, experimentation, and care, all in one package. It took his mind off things in high school, and Sojiro’s teachings last to this day. And, well, considering how abysmal Goro is in the kitchen, it’s a blessing one of them is competent.
He’s just making coffee, savouring the smell of the fresh brew, when there’s a string of screamed profanity, a loud crash, and Goro bursts into the kitchen.
“I’m fucking late!” he yells, shirt untucked, wearing only one argyle sock and almost slipping as he strides towards the door.
Akira stares at the clock, pausing the pour over. “You’re fine, it’s only seven-thirty.”
“Shit, I forgot I have a meeting at eight!” Goro yells back, even though normal volume would be fine.
Akira pads to the doorway, where somehow Goro’s managed to get his jacket and footwear on, frantically running his fingers through the knots of his slowly decreasing bed head. He sighs, leans forward and kisses Akira; sharp and deep in the way all of Goro’s kisses are.
He pulls back with a smirk, Akira’s mind a little out of sync with the brutal affection. “I’ll try not to be back too late.”
“Have a good day,” Akira says as Goro sweeps out, dashing to catch a train which will only just get him to the office on time.
He stands, watching the space Goro vacated, raising a hand to brush across still tingling lips. It’s strange how even now, years into this life, it remains a miraculous sensation each time they collide. Akira almost hopes it never loses its shine.
“He works too hard.”
Akira turns to see Morgana padding across the floors, and he smiles. “Yeah, but he’s happy. I wish they’d let him rest though.”
“He needs to sleep more this weekend,” Morgana replies as Akira moves back to the kitchen, frowning at the half-made coffee, the breakfast he’ll now need for one, and-
“His lunch,” Akira whispers in dismay, staring at the finished bento, just needing to be packaged up.
Goro is terrible at eating lunch, always has been, and at his rate, he’ll go through the day without eating a thing considering he skipped breakfast.
“I’ll bring it to him,” Akira says, marching over and adding the finishing touches, securing the lid and opening the drawer on his left for a lunch bag that had been folded away neatly.
Morgana hops onto the counter, ears flattered. “The train’s already gone, you won’t make it.”
“Yes I will,” Akira replies, picking up his bag, adding in the bento before moving to the door.
“Wait how- Akira, no,” Morgana says.
But Akira’s no longer sixteen, and his not-cat telling him to stay home doesn’t have the same effect. “It’ll be fine. I’ll just drop this off, do a few errands, be back in no time.”
“That’s not what I’m worried ab-”
“Bye, Morgana!” Akira calls over the yowling protests, closing the door and practically sprinting down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator.
The garage in the basement is rarely used, most people commuting via train, so Akira’s not surprised he’s alone when entering. He jogs to the bike rack, unhooking his own, and gives one last glance to his surroundings before reaching for his phone.
A push of a button later, and he’s in Mementos.
It doesn’t give off the same aura it once did; there are less frequent Shadows and less menace without the god of control, but the other world will always exist. It’s still a dim, pulsating beat along railway tracks, but with more of a grey undertone, and easier to traverse when needed.
And Akira needs to. Right now.
The bike rides as smoothly as outside, his cognition ensuring he can cycle in the same way that a cat-turned-bus could do so without damage from the rails. He’s been exploring the tracks for the past few years whenever he can get away with it, so by now he’s confident in knowing exactly where each segment leads. It’s changed enough that there are multiple exits and less depth, making it more of a reflection of reality. Akira keeps an eye on any changes too, just in case something like Yaldabaoth thinks it can return.
It is somewhat awkward cycling through the metaverse in heels with a leather coat, and Akira’s huffing by the time he reaches the escalator up to the surface. He has to hide from a wayward Shadow, grinding his teeth with the urge to battle. He doesn’t have the time though, nor does he want to risk the bento being ruined.
Reality sweeps in, disorienting for a moment, but the cool breeze of an early hour revives him. He looks up, noticing the time outside the station, and quickly jumps on the bike, heading towards Goro’s office.
He makes it perfectly; he sees a familiar brisk walk and pumps his legs, swinging the bike around and coming to a stop straight in front of Goro.
There’s a light of rage in Goro’s eyes, quickly muted into perplexity when he absorbs the situation. “What the hell are you doing here?” he says mildly.
“You forgot something,” Akira replies brightly, digging in his bag to find the bento.
“And you managed to beat a train on your bike you- Akira, you didn’t-”
“Here- your lunch,” Akira says, interrupting what he knows is about to be a well-worn lecture that he’ll receive in duplicate from Morgana later.
Goro, though, cuts his statement short as Akira holds out the lunch. He blinks, then takes it carefully, inhaling once before stepping forward. “Thank you, Akira. Sorry I rushed out when you’d worked hard on this.”
Akira smiles, a warmth trickling through as Goro leans up to press a kiss against his cheek. “Don’t you dare use Mementos to get home, you absolute moron.”
“Love you too, honey!” Akira calls instead as he leans back, waves once, and pedals off, leaving Goro to fume on the street before entering his office.
He manages to get three streets away into the more commercial district before they clock him. Akira shakes his head but keeps going; perhaps he’ll be lucky enough that they’ll just tail him on his way home. He’s getting hungry; he really wants to finish his errands and get back to the breakfast he didn’t have time for.
“Hey, you! Stop!”
No such luck. Akira slows the bike in time for a man in a pristine black suit accompanied by a local police officer to jog up to him.
“Good morning,” Akira says cheerfully. The officer nods, slightly strained but polite, while the agent in the suit’s eye twitches.
“Open the bag,” he says, stern and yet anticipatory as Akira dutifully pulls it from his shoulder and unzips it before them.
The officer steps forward instead, peering in for a moment, and reaches a hand inwards to root around before looking up.
“I need to drop these shirts off at the cleaners. Too nice for the laundromat, sadly,” Akira says.
The officer nods in what he thinks is solemn agreement, while the agent grits his teeth. Akira manages to suppress a smile.
“Akira Kurusu, correct?” the officer asks, flipping over a notepad, exchanging a clearly annoyed look at the agent as Akira hums in agreement. “And your occupation?”
This time, he can’t contain the grin. “I’m a househusband.”
They moved into this apartment shortly after the wedding a year ago. It’s closer to Goro’s office, in a slightly nicer part of town, and, Akira has to admit, the balcony is a bonus. Ryuji carefully sidesteps one of the many herb and vegetable plants Haru’s painstakingly helped him cultivate as he peers outwards.
“They ain’t good at hiding. His glasses keep catching the light. And the old guy’s tried to smoke twice,” he says as Akira joins him.
Not that Ryuji is being inconspicuous as he stares. “Glasses guy is new, enthusiastic. The other guy just wants his pay. I get that.”
“So you get the newbie and the retiree. An insult for the former leader of the Phantom Thieves,” Ryuji says, turning with a shit eating grin that Akira can’t help but mimic.
It used to infuriate him, the constant monitoring. He’d saved the world twice over, been to jail, and still couldn’t step foot in Tokyo without being tailed. All throughout university he’d spy them over his shoulder, not letting him live in peace and just move on with his life.
But things changed. He’s changed. Goro came back into his life and as the years wore away, the agencies loosened their hold. When nothing altered, the best were reassigned until the tabs on him became mild, an afterthought that allows him a semblance of normality- a chance to live after all that they’ve endured.
And Akira’s learned there’s some things he actually doesn’t want to get away from. Which are so much easier now he’s under minimum - and pretty incompetent - scrutiny.
“Okay, so. Don’t be mad, and please tell me it’s rescuable,” Ann’s voice calls from inside, causing Akira and Ryuji to turn to look.
She’s holding up a beautiful cream woollen sweater with the most appalling maroon stain across the middle.
“Holy shit, is that red wine?” Ryuji says, almost falling over a basil plant as he moves closer.
Ann grimaces. “Yeah. I tried pouring Shiho’s glass of white over it, but it didn’t help.”
“You just poured a glass of white wine on yourself?” Akira says, trying not to laugh.
“I was drunk, okay? And, err, also these pants,” she says, pulling out a pair of light-washed blue jeans covered in grass stains.
Both of them stare at her until she turns crimson. “D-don’t ask! Just please tell me they can be fixed.”
Akira looks at them for a second. It’s serious business, alright. He turns and marches to one of the slim cabinets of their new kitchen before opening it carefully. It unveils a double set of shelves, the top of which rotates. He points to the carefully arranged mason jars.
“I think one scoop of detergent, but we’ll use the softer brand,” he says, spinning it slightly to tap the lid of the powder with the pastel blue scoop, “then oxyclean,” he says, rotating it once for the jar with a red scoop.
“I have a couple of fabric softeners, I recommend this scent though,” he says, tapping the pink vial out of the gold, blue and purple ones, “and we’ll use a pre stain wash first,” he says, bending down to pick up the bottle with the green nozzle.
His friends stare at him for a second. “Why is that sexy?” Ann mutters.
“Beats me,” Ryuji replies.
“Do you want your clothes washed?” Akira says, Ann jumping to attention as they set up the wash, Ryuji helping him measure out the right amounts.
They jointly talk Ann through the process despite knowing she won’t remember a thing, Morgana attempting to help but getting fur over everything. Akira adds a few of his own things to the wash, but they mostly spend the time catching up.
“Where did you get this stuff? I need some, man, my shirts never stay white,” Ryuji says, tipping the jar of detergent.
“My guy can hook you up,” Akira says, pulling out his phone. To his surprise, there’s a message a moment later. “Oh, we can go get some now, he’s in the shopping district.”
“For real? Let’s go!” Ryuji says as Akira walks back to the balcony.
“Hold on, I need to collect some herbs. He never lets me pay so we trade now,” he says, collecting as many as he can, as well as a few pre-made items from the fridge. His bag is still wet, having been included in the wash after Morgana upended sushi in it yesterday, so he uses Goro’s briefcase. It will be fine for a few minutes.
Ann eyes the washing now drying outside. “I’ll order us dinner. You won’t be too long, right?”
“Thank you, yeah, we’ll be less than half an hour,” Akira says.
“Order something that’s not just cake,” Ryuji begs, and Ann glares back.
They’re just getting cake.
The eyes on their backs are obvious as they walk and Ryuji slouches in frustration. “Wanna lose them?” he says after five minutes.
Akira rolls his shoulders. “Just like old times.”
And then they're off. The confusing criss-cross of side streets and crowds seems to be enough to shake their observers quicker than Akira would have liked. He’s always enjoyed a chase, but they have a mission, and he doesn’t like keeping others waiting.
“Wait, your guy is Iwai?” Ryuji says as they make their way across the square to where he stands against the wall, smoking in the shade.
“Yeah, he has the best stuff,” Akira says, swinging the briefcase as he walks.
Iwai sees them coming, stubbing out the cigarette and straightening, remaining in the shadows. “Did you bring the goods?”
“You have not changed, man,” Ryuji remarks, then flinches slightly as Iwai stares at him.
“Yeah, I even threw in a little homemade concoction,” Akira says, balancing the briefcase on one knee as Iwai reaches into his jacket pocket.
“Freeze!”
The cock of a gun and a pistol relatively close to his head has Akira doing just that. The case falls from his hand, a muted crack which barely registers as his mind halts, before a slow terror seeps from his fingers.
All he can see are the gun and the officer, gesturing to him as his vision flickers; a darkened space, the late afternoon light, a fractured fear causing an undulating haze across his vision, sound vanishing in the wake of his frantic heartbeat.
“Wait, what the hell is this?”
“It’s basil, man!” Ryuji’s voice yells, pissed. It’s a bizarre enough statement to knock Akira back into the moment.
The cops - and of course the two who are obsessively tailing him - are staring at his now annoyingly crushed selection of herbs. Goro’s briefcase is on the ground, having spilled open when Akira dropped it, its contents clear for all to see.
“I grow them on my balcony. Oregano, mint, some tomatoes. That salad is made with garlic, olive oil, onion, and a squeeze of lime,” Akira says, listing the ingredients in an effort to take control of his potential spiralling.
“It’s the best in the business,” Iwai suddenly says, snatching up the Tupperware before the older officer tries to grab it.
Akira realises their guns were holstered at some point so he warily bends, retrieving the spilt goods, and picking up the briefcase. That had dented where it hit the ground. Great. Goro’s extremely picky about his belongings; he’s not going to be pleased.
“And what are you carrying?” the younger officer snaps, glaring at Iwai, who holds out a bag of white powder.
He takes in the glee on Iwai’s face, fleeting but there before Iwai resumes his usual air.
“The best detergent you’ll ever see,” he says, opening it up to show the older cop, who looks at it with sudden interest. “I buy it in the US, can’t get better than this. Used it on all my kid’s shirts; got every damn stain out you can imagine,” he says, before handing one to Akira, and another to Ryuji.
The agent nods seriously. “Parents really do know best about cleaning products.”
“Soft on skin and a bastard on stains,” Iwai says.
“This is the weirdest thing I’ve seen in at least... a month,” Ryuji comments. Akira has to swallow his laughter as the other officer glares at them.
“Is there a problem, officers?”
Ryuji yelps, spinning, Akira turning more slowly in a mixture of pure relief and slight nerves, hiding the briefcase behind his back. Obviously there’s a crowd forming, whispering slightly at the altercation, but before them stands Goro. A local police officer seems to be ushering the crowd away as best as they can, but allowed him to go through.
“Akechi,” Iwai says with a nod, which is returned.
“Good to see you again. May I ask why you appear to be detaining my husband, my friend, and a local businessman?” he says, pleasant as a blade.
Adrenaline seems to have replaced the panic, and Akira finds himself smiling brightly at the agents. “It’s fine, honey, just a misunderstanding. They’re admiring my basil.”
Goro shows his teeth when he smiles. “Ah, good. Well then, since I got out of work early, how about we go for a walk?”
There’s nothing the officers can do of course, so Akira waves to them as the group turns and moves away. Goro sets a demanding pace, each step tilted with anger.
“Always a pleasure,” Iwai says with a grin as they part.
Ryuji shakes his head as he watches him go. “Wow. You okay, dude?” he says, turning to Akira.
Akira opens his mouth to say yes, but the words catch, even when he tries for a second time. Ryuji glances at Goro before stretching. “I’m gonna go pick up some food for dinner. Ann can’t be trusted. See you guys back at the apartment,” he says, slapping Akira’s shoulder then walking away.
Akira watches him go for a baffling moment before Goro’s sighs deeply and turns to him.
“Come, it’s quieter this way,” he says, leading Akira through the streets, twisting into alleys until they reach a quieter part of town. While the world underneath is Akira’s to traverse, Goro can shift his way across the surface like no one else.
There’s a tea shop on the corner, so out of the way that only those aware of its existence can find it. Akira’s never been able to do so without Goro, and bemusedly tries to store its location in his mind as Goro slips inside and returns with oolong.
He lets Goro pour their cups, taking seats outside. The grounding nature of the tea in his hands, the warmth of the cup, and the earthy aroma do wonders for knitting up his remaining frayed edges. It doesn’t seem to be affecting Goro in the same manner, though; the tension filters off him so clearly Akira’s sure passers-by can feel it.
“Sorry I messed up your case,” Akira says into the quiet.
Goro sips his tea. “Yes, that’s what I’m pissed about: my case.”
Akira almost winces at the tone, but feels a bloom of joy flutter across his chest. It always does at the depth for which Goro feels for him.
“They pulled a gun on you, didn’t they?” he says, the underlying threat in his voice a rumble through Akira’s bones.
“Yeah,” he says, gripping the cup tighter, only realising so when Goro’s own cool hand touches his.
He places the cup down on the small wooden table, unclenching his hands, an ache dulled as Goro winds his hand into Akira’s. How Goro still remains chilled, even holding a warm object, Akira will never know.
“I’m alright. I think.”
They’ve learned over time that pretending to be fine when it's clear they are anything but is ridiculous. They aren’t posturing fate-of-the-universe-on-their-shoulders teens anymore, and there’s nothing to gain from a façade. They aren’t immortal, and don’t feel infinite.
“Tell me if you’re not. Please,” Goro adds, stumbling through a sentiment as Akira raises his hand to his lips.
Goro’s face heats, just a dusting of the cheeks but it solidifies the joy brewing within Akira. The years pass, the world turns, and injustices still attempt to shake their efforts, but he can still catch Goro Akechi off guard, and that will always be worth more than he can express.
Goro squeezes his hand before sighing. “You’d think they’d have better investigations to do. Waste of fucking money and people,” he mutters.
Akira shrugs. “I make it my life’s goal to show them that.”
“Of course you do, Joker,” Goro says, a glint in his eye and teeth in his smile, the code name rolling off his tongue like gunpowder toffee.
Goro sees the dual syllable prickling of skin, smirk growing. “It’s a shame we have company at home,” he says.
Akira pulls up his phone, takes a swig of his tea before looking up. “There’s a love hotel two streets away.”
By the time they get home, Ryuji, Ann, and Morgana have argued their way through dinner troubles, meaning they actually get a balanced meal, as well the usual groanings at the state of their appearance. As days go, it’s not the worst.
Akira will never get tired of kissing. The methods and multitudes vary, the reactions differing on days, times and moments, even if he’s been kissing the same person for years. There’s a heat, familiar and soothing because of its intensity, the messy ones which are more of a push and a wanting than an action of itself. The sweet ones; brief ones that say ‘hello,’ ‘welcome back,’ and ‘I’m glad you’re here’ in their own language.
Then there’s lazy kisses; soft in the mornings where Akira himself is not conscious enough to recall who started it, just basking in the bliss of its existence. Warmth exudes from both of them, from the sunrise, from the embers of the night-time. It’s a sedated heaven, time slowed and consumed in each breath and touch, a joy of still existing. Of still having Goro to exist beside.
That is, until the shrill blare of the fourth standard alarm on Akira’s phone pops their bubble.
“Shut it off,” Goro grumps against his mouth, Akira smiling into a final kiss before spinning to turn it off.
He sits up. He’s never been one to need multiple alarms; the noise alone is jarring enough to begin his day.
“Why is that even on,” Goro hisses into Akira’s pillow as he steals it from his back.
Akira’s caught for a moment in just watching him grumpily pound the pillow into submission before curling around it. Such adorable aggression, all with his eyes closed.
“Sorry honey,” Akira says, tipping to press a kiss against his forehead, in view for once due to the turnings of sleep. “Need to clean this morning.”
Goro makes another disgruntled noise, Akira chuckling but getting out of bed swiftly for fear of being kicked out. Goro’s alarm goes off in half an hour; it’s hardly a huge difference, but for someone who is not a morning person, he’s committing a cardinal sin.
In the forty minutes before Goro can extract himself from sleep Akira’s only just started on the cleaning but is quickly interrupted by a box shoved in his face.
“Here, I forgot I bought this. Work sale last month,” Goro says, words cut short as he sips coffee in an attempt to waken.
Akira puts down the mop with a grimace as he sees what the box contains. “Goro, we don’t need a Roomba. I clean just fine.”
Goro scoffs. “It’s not about that. You shouldn't be...cleaning up after me,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the left, before he strides back to the counter.
Akira abandons his mop, holds onto the Roomba, and follows as Goro sits down to eat. “I like cleaning,” he says.
“No one likes cleaning, Akira, don’t be like that,” Goro snaps before eating.
Akira wouldn’t claim he adores it, but he has always found it soothing. He likes to lose himself in chores; the small sparks of success when he completes things appeal to the part of him that needs a checklist of good deeds.
It tides him over until he can stalk his real targets.
Before he can say anything further, Goro sighs and leans over the counter to kiss him, just once, in a memory of those exchanges of not so long ago; another brand of affection, sweetened with morning routine.
“You do so much. At least get some fucking sleep by using an appliance,” he says, before taking his coffee back into the bedroom to drink while getting ready for work.
Akira stares at the box. This is really his own fault for buying Goro one of these in what was possibly the worst attempt at flirting the world has ever witnessed. At least he liked it, and apparently enough to bring it back into their lives now.
“This is like the pod coffee machine, isn’t it?'' Morgana says, hopping onto the counter.
“Exactly like the pod coffee machine,” Akira agrees, as no person with any real appreciation for good roasting technique would use a pod machine. And no one would substitute a Roomba for proper cleaning, but Akira is unfortunately a sap and the meaning doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Say hi to Futaba for me,” Goro says as he walks back in, finishes off a bite of his breakfast, and kisses Akira on the cheek. He steps back, appraising him once. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I would never,” Akira says with a grin, Goro muttering to himself before leaving for the day.
Futaba is as punctual as ever, meaning he’s only got half the cleaning done, and makes a fresh batch of coffee as she fires up her computer.
“He bought another Roomba? Old habits die hard,” she says with a laugh.
“I should at least use it,” Akira says, despite having not unpacked it at all.
“Put it on while we go take down this embezzler,” Futaba says with a shrug, gesturing with her latte made with premium ground beans, and only premium ground beans, thank you very much.
Akira grudgingly agrees, seeing as while time moves differently in Mementos, he’ll probably be too exhausted to do much later.
“Are you sure you don’t need me to come?” Morgana asks.
Akira shakes his head. “No, it’s a simple request. He just likes to hide,” he says, feeling his blood start to pound in a slow uptick of his senses.
Their target has a nasty habit of somehow managing to either blend in or bend Mementos around him- quite a feat when the cognitive world is hardly what it used to be. He’s too wealthy to be actually accused of anything, although many have tried, and it’s the type of occasional request that Akira’s happy to fulfil. He just needs Futaba to help with the location.
Once Futaba’s fully caffeinated, and the Roomba's buzzing around the room, they head out. Akira’s usual tail appears to be taking a break; after the gun incident the local police seem to have lodged a complaint, as he hasn’t seen them in a while. He almost misses them; it’s not quite the same trying to sneak into Mementos without them.
But it’s short-lived, seeing as how tricky it is to find the bastard once they’re inside. Futaba gets a lead on him early, but despite being able to traverse far easier than years before, Akira’s almost regretting not asking Morgana to help them out.
Their target’s presence seems to be triggering more Shadows - which is another reason why they’re after him - but it has the bonus of them gaining cash. Akira’s really not sure how the economy of Mementos works, never has, but he’s not going to turn it down.
“You’re splitting this with me,” Futaba says as they go another floor down, her voice echoing in his head.
“Better keep up your end of the bargain then,” he says, laughing as she huffs.
“You’ll regret that when I don’t buff you later,” she says, the smile clear in her voice.
He’s glad she re-awakened. It’s more of a choice nowadays, being able to tap into that part of themselves that had never truly gone. But Futaba’s an active participant on the same level as him, although he’s sure she doesn’t just nip in for fun or to dodge traffic. Wild card perks and all that.
Eventually they find their target. Futaba might be messing with him slightly as she holds out on the buffs until the last second, but it’s almost more interesting that way. They take him down and stumble out into the real world, legs shaking, the world one asshole less and their pockets richer.
It’s been a few hours so they walk slowly back to Akira’s apartment, taking a winding way on the off chance that anyone is watching. With no interruptions, Akira unlocks the door and ushers Futaba in first.
“We should use some of this to get a fancy lunch. Maybe take Mona for sushi? Oh, oh, Inari mentioned some fancy place he went for a celebration-”
She cuts off with a shriek and Akira almost walks into her as they turn into the front room and see absolute carnage.
It takes a moment for Akira’s mind to absorb that this is actually his house: the cleaning supplies he’d laid out earlier are spilled all over the floor; folded laundry is cast around in heaps like overgrown confetti; dishes, previously stacked up and waiting to dry, are broken; and a shelf has tipped over, its books and knickknacks spilt everywhere.
“Did someone break in?” Futaba says, spinning around.
“Morgana? Morgana!” Akira calls in heightened panic, only for a yowl from the bedroom to capture his attention.
He runs, hopping around the destruction, his heart pounding as Futaba clatters after him. The bedroom is miraculously fine, although Morgana is cowering in a corner, fur covered in a sticky substance he’s obviously disinclined to lick off.
“What happened? Are you okay?” Akira says, skidding on his knees.
“Of course I’m not! That- that thing is responsible,” he says, bristling as he stares over Akira’s shoulder.
He turns, just then noticing the Roomba is stuck in the corner of the room in a clear cry for help as it inches backward and forward. Akira’s eyes narrow, then turn back to Morgana.
“It trapped my tail!” he yowls, as Akira scrubs at his face in pure frustration.
“I’ll turn it off,” Futaba says quietly, switching off the source of all of Akira’s recent problems.
He inhales deeply, pushing past the tiredness of the metaverse. “Alright. I need you both to help me clean this up before Goro gets home.”
After checking Morgana’s not injured and promising to give him a proper bath to wash out whatever’s fallen on him, they get to work. It’s slow going, as half of Akira’s cleaning supplies are depleted, and he has to heft furniture around in the process.
“Oh shit,” Futaba whispers, after they’ve been working for almost two hours.
“What else is broken?” Akira asks with a sigh, mentally calculating just how much spending he’s going to need to do in the coming weeks.
“Um…” she says, her hands cupped gently around an object, looking as if she might cry.
Akira thinks he might join her when he recognises it.
“The limited edition R2 series Red Falcon collectors item from the Feathers Unite compilation,” she says in growing horror, lifting the figure up to show how it’s been sliced clean in half.
Akira’s definitely going to cry. It’s so rare that Goro didn’t take it out of the packaging for a year after they’d moved, and he’d held it on his lap in the van to make sure he didn’t leave it anywhere.
“Can you glue it?” Morgana asks.
Futaba chokes and Akira just shakes his head, numbly wondering how his day has gone so wrong.
“Okay. I need you, with all the powers you have, to find me a new one. I don’t care where it is or what I need to sell to own it: we’re getting a new figure,” he says, gripping Futaba’s elbows.
“It’s too rare; the chances of us getting anything in the next…two hours are-”
“Futaba,” Akira says, flexing his fingers to draw her attention. “No one is more suited to this than you. I believe in you.”
She huffs, but her smile grows, as does the glint in her eye. “Alright! I’m on this.”
Akira cleans as much of the mess as he can while she furiously types away at her computer, muttering and hissing unintelligibly. He attempts to absorb all his concerns into cleaning. The house finally looks like its old self (minus the casualties) when Futaba yells in triumph.
“Ah-ha! Got you, they actually have one in town. But, err... it’s going to cost you,” she says, turning the screen.
Akira starts at the zeros, then nods once. “We’re going into Mementos.”
“I’ll drive,” Morgana says.
So for the second time that day, Akira ends up in Mementos, this time with the Mona bus and Futaba tracking every single Shadow she can from the backseat. They slog through level after level, slowly adding to their funds from the morning, until they finally have the correct amount.
Akira practically runs into the store, startling the person at the desk when he hunches over on wobbling legs, and slams the money on the counter. He no longer has any yen for sushi - and probably won’t have for a while with how many Shadows they threatened, bargained and destroyed - but they do it. They have the new figure.
“I’m going to sleep forever. Call me tomorrow,” Futaba says, falling into a hug before pulling herself upright with a groan, and shuffling off to her own home.
Morgana falls asleep on the train back, and Akira just barely manages to stay awake himself, hunching protectively over the figurine he just spent an extortionate amount of money on. He gets back with just under half an hour to spare, spending a while delicately positioning the new figure, before setting an alarm and just collapsing on the couch, too exhausted to do anything more.
He awakens with an acknowledgement of affection, his forehead tingling in the memory of a kiss, and opens his eyes to Goro pushing back his hair, staring at him with amusement.
“Seems like you had quite a day, as you’ve repositioned every damn thing in the room,” he says.
Only Goro Akechi would have calculated the exact distance between the couch and the previously overturned bookcase- or whatever he’s measuring. It makes Akira bizarrely fond that Goro’s added their space, their things, into his mental inventory of important things. Drowsiness still permeates, so Akira lazily lifts his arms, heavy weights that he can barely maintain, while Goro looks at him with derision.
“Oh for the love of- useless trash,” he affectionately says, rearranging Akira’s loose frame until he’s half perched on Goro’s lap, curled into him.
“Seems like Mementos took it out of you,” he says, chest rumbling against Akira’s ear.
He hums, wondering if he can go back to napping, just like this. “Got the guy, though.” And thousands upon thousands of yen that Goro will never need to know about.
“Of course you did,” Goro says, conviction and perhaps a hint of pride in his tone. It serves to warm Akira further, as does the barely there kiss placed to his hair.
“I’ll order us dinner. Did the Roomba at least help?” Goro says.
Behind Akira’s eyelids, he sees the destruction caused by the small round demon of nightmares. He sits up, smiling down at Goro. “It made the day go faster.”
Goro narrows his eyes but says nothing more, huffing and lifting Akira slightly in order to get up. Akira tries to not let the sudden spike in heat at the casual hefting of his entire body weight distract him.
“Are you sure you want to order in?” he says.
But Goro’s stopped at the shelf, staring at the figure Akira had positioned an hour ago. Akira gulps, hands tensing as Goro tips his head to the side, leans forward and hums. Then he turns, smiling sweetly. “Yes, I’m in the mood for sushi.”
“When are you not?” Akira says, unsure what the hell such a smile means, as Goro’s sweetness usually comes with a side of danger.
“True. But I also stumbled on some interesting information in my work archives. Seems we have some rather sophisticated election tampering,” Goro says, the grin widening.
Akira sits up, his energy seeping back as he feels his own lips tilt. “Sounds like a job for the remaining Phantom Thieves.”
Goro cackles, shaking his head. “Dinner first. Don’t move,” he says, padding through the apartment, the faint elation of Morgana heard from the distance.
Akira flops back down, closing his eyes and stretching out on the couch, smiling widely. Planning to rid the city of corruption through unearthly powers over a quiet dinner with the person he loves.
It’s the perfect evening for a househusband.