Archive of Our Own

He slips through the door just as Crossroads is winding down for the night, a tall young man Lala doesn't recognize. She calls out the regular greeting—Welcome, welcome! I'm Lala from Crossroads!—and with a polite nod, he sidesteps her lingering regulars and claims a newly-vacated seat at the far end of the bar. For all the world, the newcomer looks like he's in Crossroads three times a week, and it's not just that he doesn't gawk at her makeup or kimono. It's in his posture, his total disinterest in Tomomi-chan falling out of her dress next to him, the fastidious way he removes his coat and tucks his hair behind his ear. It all tells a certain story, if you know how to listen.

The bar is quiet enough that Lala doesn't need to make him wait. "What can I get you, honey?"

His eyes are an unusual color under the bar lights, almost red. "Sparkling water, please."

Her eyebrows rise. For a moment she worries, but the weather is cool enough that her foundation holds up. Every year she needs more; that's how you know you're getting old. "You came out for that? Let me get you an umbrella."

He thanks her when she gives him his glass, although he gazes at the red umbrella with a complicated expression. But Mayu-chan needs help further down the bar, so Lala leaves him to it.

The young man—not much more than a boy, really—sits with his gloved hands wrapped around his glass and watches her as she works. The work is the same routine as always, both invigorating and relaxing: pouring drinks, chatting with patrons, and handing empty glasses to the dishwasher, a new hire she's still not sure about. It's the time of night when she needs to start calling cabs or partners for a few of her regulars, so she does that; and all the while, the boy at the end of the bar watches, nursing his sparkling water. He has the look of a boy with something on his mind; Lala can see that as clear as she can see he's not ever going to give poor Tomomi-chan a second glance. But if he's not going to speak up, there's not much Lala can do about it.

Eventually, his glass empties, which is a small miracle. Lala was half-convinced the water would go flat first. She gets off the phone with a taxi company and hands Mayu-chan's phone back to her. "There's a cab on the way, honey. They'll give you a call when they get here."

Mayu-chan blinks muzzily up at her. "Thanks, Lala-chan," she slurs. Her lipstick has smeared across her chin, somehow. "You're the best."

"You're sweet. Drink this while you wait." Lala sets down a glass of water for her, and the dishwasher visibly grimaces. He's on thin ice. Lala gives him the side-eye for a moment; then she heads over to the quiet boy, to check on his water in turn. "How are you doing with that? Can I get you another?"

"Please." He pushes his glass across the bar. The ice has melted to nothing; why he even finished the drink, Lala can't imagine. She takes it away and makes up another, nice and carbonated, with a new umbrella in a calm, subdued blue.

The boy doesn't seem any more pleased to see it when she presents it to him. Tough customer. "Do you charge extra for the umbrellas?"

"Five hundred yen each." That's an idea. Maybe she could afford to hire a second dishwasher. Ren-chan belongs behind the bar, of course, with his talent for flashy drink mixing and his flawless sense for when to be sassy and when to be kind. But everyone she's hired to wash dishes since his promotion has come up short.

Her current customer only raises an eyebrow at the concept. But then he sighs, and deflates on his stool. "Maybe you were right," he murmurs. "Maybe I should've stayed home."

There it is. He hasn't come to Lala's bar to drink water with an umbrella, he's come to talk. She gets started organizing clean glasses for the night; boys like him do better sometimes when they think they're not the sole focus of her attention. "Then what brought you out here?" she asks. "To pay a premium for sparkling water?"

"Oh, you know," he says restlessly, lip curling. "Life. Love. The sort of thing you hear a lot, I imagine."

So he's one of those types. She wouldn't have guessed it, from how prim and proper he looks. Neat haircut, well-fitted coat, close shave, gloves, a contained demeanor, and, apparently, a love for drama. "Honey," she says sincerely, setting a stack of shot glasses to the side, "I've heard it all."

His lips quirk again. "Something tells me I could surprise even you."

"You think so, do you?" She stops to give him a dubious once-over. He barely looks any older than Ren-chan, who... well, Ren-chan probably has stories that would turn her wig grey, but he's still barely more than a child. Lala didn't even allow him to stay till closing until a couple of years ago.

But the boy's strange little smile grows as she eyes him over. It suits him better than his composure. "Mm." He sips his water, eyes glinting with amusement. That look is almost enough to make Lala wonder what he's thinking about, that he's so sure would blow her mind. But he'll either tell her whether she asks or not, or try to retain an air of mystery whether she asks or not; that's how it tends to go.

But then, as she reaches for a disorganized pile of rocks glasses, the boy's smile drops off his face, and he says, abruptly, "Why do you do it? The clothes."

That'll be it, then. The reason he's here.

She puts her glass back down and turns to face him. She gathers the trailing sleeve of her kimono in one hand and leans against the counter, only dropping the sleeve once it won't get trapped between her and the wood. The boy watches, like he's done all night, with something dark and brooding behind his eyes.

But the question wasn't cruel. Lala gets asked all the time; it's practically part of the job. Everyone asks for their own reasons, but over the years she's learned to categorize. She rules out mockery at once, but also the prospect that the boy is thinking about crossdressing himself. Too emotionally charged behind his shuttered mask for plain confusion or curiosity, and therefore probably...

"I don't mind answering questions," she says, which is true enough, if they're asked in good faith. "But are you sure I'm the one you should be asking?"

The boy's eyes flick up to her, momentarily alarmed, although for the life of her she couldn't say why. He studies her face for a moment; then he relaxes again. Strange young man. "I'm asking you, aren't I?"

They always say something like that, even when they should be talking to their loved ones. Lala sighs.

Obviously, the question itself is impossible to answer completely. So much of it is wrapped up in things she can't even fully explain to herself, much less strangers at the bar. Which is why she has some answers prepared that hint at the true reality of it, like shining a light on the truth and showing the world its shadow on the wall.

"You know," she says, "I've passed some of my regulars on the street while I was buying groceries. They didn't look twice at me. Had no idea who I was." The boy listens closely, eyes intent. "Some people wouldn't like that, but I do. And looking like a man all the time, it's like being caught in a trap. I wouldn't want to be en femme all the time either, but before I started crossdressing, part of me was cut off from the world." Suffocating in the darkness, year by year and month by month and day by day, until she finally put on her mother's lipstick, and then it could breathe. Only until her mother got home, though, and after that it was worse, because she'd known how to fix it, then, and she couldn't. Moving to Tokyo was the best thing she ever did.

"And the kimono is cute," she adds. "This fabric? Stunning." She lifts her arm to let her sleeve catch the light. Tonight she's wearing a gorgeous dark kimono with a hand-painted scene of cranes and flowers. Cost a week's income, but so worth it. She's been getting compliments on her matching eyeshadow, too.

The boy doesn't even glance at the kimono. He swallows. "The anonymity, I understand," he says. "Take off a mask, or a costume, and nobody knows who you are. But doesn't it..."

He trails off. Lala glances down the bar, but her few remaining customers are chatting or getting ready to leave; no one else needs her. Interesting that what resonates with the boy is the idea of taking off a mask, not putting one on. That's not usually where people go. But that doesn't seem to be what he wants to discuss, so she waits.

"It would feel wrong for me," the boy says at last. "Which, whatever. It's not me doing it." He sips his water. Despite his claim to indifference, his gloved hand is clenched tight around the glass.

"Then don't do it," Lala agrees. "It's good for some people, it's not good for other people. Like most things."

"Yeah," says the boy in a hollow voice. Why that should bother him, Lala has no idea. He puts down his glass, then, and says grimly, "My boyfriend does it."

"I figured."

He glances up, irritation in his eyes. Lala cocks an eyebrow and meets his gaze. "There's only so many reasons a boy like you comes in here asking why I'm dressed up."

"It's not that I care what he does," the boy says again, even less convincingly than last time. "It's his business." He stops, as if he's done speaking, but if that was all there was to it, he wouldn't be here, and they wouldn't be having a conversation that's clearly hard for him. So Lala waits some more, and eventually, as if the words are being dragged out of him, he continues, "It just... feels wrong." He stares miserably down at the umbrella in his glass.

Now they're getting somewhere. Lala spares a moment to think of the unknown crossdressing boyfriend, a boy like she was probably twenty years ago. She didn't open Crossroads to do community service for baby Lalas, but she's ended up doing it before, and no doubt she'll do it again after tonight. It's nice, in a way. A comfort to the kid inside of her that still sometimes wants to curl up away from the world and cry.

To the boy in front of her, she says, "Wrong how?"

A series of conflicted expressions crosses the boy's face. "Dangerous," he says after a moment. "It puts me on edge. If you must know. Like he's not himself."

Lala hums thoughtfully. She's never had a conversation exactly like this before, but the boy doesn't seem like an ass. That means there's hope.

"Pathetic, right," mumbles the boy into his water.

"No."

He glances up, mistrustful. Lala raises her eyebrows at him. "People trip over gender stuff all the time, honey. The number of times I've had people's partners in here asking these questions. It's normal."

"A hazard of the industry...? I suppose it would be."

"I don't mind answering questions," Lala tells him again. "But I have one for you."

The boy doesn't seem to like the concept. Skittish, is what he is; like Lala might unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole. But he doesn't stop her from asking.

"Have you ever worn an outfit to cause a certain effect?" The counter is starting to dig into her hip; she shifts slightly and the pressure eases. "To change how you're seen?"

The boy's mouth pulls at the corner. "On occasion."

It was a safe bet. Most people have. "But you didn't magically transform into someone else. You were still yourself, just in different clothes."

He takes a breath. Something sparks in his eyes as he looks up at her. "That's—not correct," he says, clearly biting back some stronger language, as if Lala's going to be offended by a swear word uttered in her bar. "The clothes we wear change who we are." She raises an eyebrow, and the spark flares brighter. "Dress one way, and you perceive yourself differently. You are different. Dress another, and..." He takes one hand away from the glass to gesture, more animated by argument than he's been since he came in. "Clothes are a mask. You wear them to hide other things about you, and—"

He presses his lips shut. His hand drops down to the counter, curled into a fist, and he gathers himself back in behind stiff posture and a flat expression. As if he's just realized how he was acting, and didn't like it; or as if his own words hit too close to home.

"And you're still yourself," says Lala. "Underneath that. That's what you said, isn't it? He seemed like he wasn't himself."

The boy glances down. His fist clenches. "I can't see him," he says, almost too quietly to hear. "He's always there. Always was, the little shit." Lala can't help but smile; but the boy's not done, though the anger has drained from his face, leaving only a pensive awareness. "But when he's dressed like that, it's like there's a—a wall. A mirror. Like I don't know what might happen."

You don't need a bartender, boy, you need a therapist, Lala does not say. First time this week she's thought it, but she's sure there are plenty more to come. "Some of that is above my pay grade," is safe enough to say, so she does. The grin he flashes seems too dark for his pretty face, but at least he looks less lonely and small than he did a moment ago. "Have you talked to him about any of this?"

The boy stares at her with wide, startled eyes, like he's fifteen years younger and Lala caught him sneaking sweets. "Uh-huh," she says, and the surprise splinters into a scowl.

"Don't uh-huh me," he says snippily. "He'd just... stop. Because it's what I want, or some shit."

Heaven save her from young men. "That's sweet of you to stay quiet, then. ...Is that what you expect me to say?"

"Say what you want. I'm not paying you," says the boy, who is a paying customer. Lala lets it slide.

"I think unless he has no brains at all in his head, he's already noticed." When the boy fails to recoil from this, she continues. "He's probably self-conscious about it. Most of us are at first. Makes it easy to spot whenever anyone has a problem."

The boy swallows hard. He opens his mouth, but his face twists in discomfort, and he glares at the wall in silence instead. Lala checks again to make sure no one needs her. No one does, and moreover, when relatively unbothered by patrons, her dishwasher is making decent progress and keeping things organized. Interesting. Maybe instead of letting him go, she should try training him a bit more. See how that goes.

"I," the boy begins hoarsely. "I want him to be free. I suppose." When Lala turns back to look at him, he's redirected the force of his glare to the bar in front of him. "To put it in greeting card terms. He should—be who he is. But I... I don't want that, too." The words spill out faster, like he's finally confessing to a grave sin he's kept sealed behind his lips for a lifetime. "I want to keep him. Except I don't, I don't want that. I've seen where that shit leads—"

Oh, boy. Lala steps in before he can really get going. "The reason I asked whether you'd talked about it is, there's something you could try."

His frantic gaze snaps up to her face. Definitely a good therapy candidate. "It sounds like you have no moral objections," she says. "Just a gut reaction you don't like." The boy nods, the tiniest movement of his head. His entire body has gone rigid with tension. "And you've said more than once that you have a hard time seeing your boyfriend when he's en femme." Another, slightly more confident nod. "So," says Lala. "If I were you, I'd ask if the two of you could start small and build up."

He actually bites his lip. His calm, composed mask has long since left the building. "Maybe," he murmurs.

"Ask him to wear a necklace for a few days, for example, just to start. A guy still looks like himself wearing a necklace. Once you're okay with that, he can add a hairclip or something. Eventually, he'll just look like himself to you no matter what."

The boy holds himself excruciatingly still, the look in his eyes not quite pain, but too frightened to be hope. "But," he says, struggling against every syllable. "What if it doesn't... what if I still..."

Honestly, maybe Lala really should charge five hundred yen per umbrella. She really should charge a therapist's rate. "Look, honey," she says, as kindly as she thinks the boy will welcome. "I can't give you assurances about how you'll react."

His eyes flick up, reading her face like Chihaya-chan down the street reads palms. Lala wonders again what it is he's looking for. "I should hope not," he mutters.

"But," she continues, leaning in, "you shouldn't give up so easily. You seem willing to work on it. Here's something you can work on."

"I'm not giving up on him," the boy snaps. Lala gives him a flat, unintimidated look; he glares at her, vulnerability forgotten, his lips curled back on the verge of a snarl. For a second, something dangerous flickers behind his eyes. That language must have hit a nerve. But then he falters. "I don't even know how we ended up..." He makes a discontented noise. "I don't tell him enough, but I want to..."

"Tell him," says Lala. "Don't tell me."

The boy presses his lips together and stares down at his glass. A shadow falls across his face, and he looks away.

"Another water?" asks Lala dryly. "That one's gone flat."

After a second, the boy holds out the glass in the tips of his gloved fingers. "Please."

Lala pours him another sparkling water, taking the chance to look over the bar. Nearly empty now. The umbrella she chooses this time is a pleasant pastel orange, shaded darker and more pink in the neon bar lighting.

"Another five hundred yen," he says when she hands him the glass. "I'll need to speak to my bank manager."

Lala nods. "That's what really keeps the lights on. Umbrellas."

The boy laughs under his breath. "I want to tell him he brought me back from the dead," he tells the umbrella. "That sometimes I see value in the world, now, because he's in it. That I can face the future because of him. I don't want to—tell him not to wear a fucking skirt." He glares at his water as though he's hoping to transmute it into something stronger by sheer force of will, then takes a gulp, narrowly avoiding a poke in the face from the orange umbrella.

Lala won't be surprised if no one surpasses this boy in dramatic declarations for a solid week. Any real contenders will probably be drunk. For a moment, she envisions an alternate reality, in which the boy came through the door, sat at the bar, and ordered hard liquor. Terrifying.

Instead of sharing any of this, she says, "We keep coming back to you talking to him. About his crossdressing, and about your feelings."

"I'm scared," the boy mumbles. "Isn't that fucked up? Of all the things to be scared of."

"Being scared of talking to people is normal. That's how a lot of stuff goes wrong. People are scared of it. At least that's what I've seen from this side of the bar." She settles against the bar again, careful with her sleeve.

He glances up. "Why are people scared of it, would you say? In your experience?"

What a question. Like Why do you do it, with the clothes?, it has as many answers as there are people. "You have to be vulnerable. And you might not like what you hear."

The boy goes back to scowling at his water, his shoulders tight and tense. "I can handle whatever he might say. I'm the problem. He thinks he's seen the worst of me, but there's..."

"You're being too hard on yourself." The boy gives Lala a look like he wants to say something dismissive, so she crosses her arms and stares him down. "If I had a boyfriend with your hangups, I'd want him to find someone to ask for advice."

He puffs up like a cat and opens his mouth to protest, only to close it again the next second with a scowl. "He deserves more," is all he says in the end. "I wouldn't change any of... what's happened. But he still deserves more."

"I couldn't possibly comment," says Lala, and she means it from the bottom of her heart.

The boy smiles humorlessly and glances at his phone to check the time. "You should charge more for your umbrellas," he tells her. "They're worth at least a thousand yen."

He's a sweet boy, deep down. Maybe very deep down. But it's there, somewhere. Lala can see it. "Thanks for the good review."

He gets out his wallet and drops some money on the bar, far more than a few sparkling waters are worth. "I'll be sure to leave you one," he says. "Expect it."

"Take care getting home, honey."

He nods to her as he collects his coat and heads for the door. Lala counts the money and laughs—exactly enough for three sparkling waters, plus three umbrellas at five hundred yen each.

She hopes he can work things out with his boyfriend. She'd like to imagine there's a little more joy in the world tonight.

It's fucking cold—well, no shit it's fucking cold, it's past midnight in Buchiko Square. Another half hour and the trains will stop running. Goro plops down on a freezing metal bench and hisses. A quick impatient noise through his teeth, fog in the night air.

He used to time hits so he'd come out of Mementos around midnight. A plausible workaholic hour for the ever-so-diligent Detective Prince—you're still a student, Akechi-kun, you need your sleep—ahaha, but there's just so much to do, the victims of these crimes are counting on me. But not so late that the few stragglers trying to catch the last train would wonder why the hell he was out and about. He rarely got early nights when he went into the Metaverse.

And yet he'd go in right now if he could. Rip a few Shadows apart. He misses it. Talk about pathetic.

Ren would get it.

Goro tilts his head back and stares at the sky. There are stars up there, somewhere, behind all the light pollution. He's never seen them. You had to go to a Palace to find some semblance of wilderness in Tokyo, back when there were Palaces. Goro had done it sometimes just to see the stars shine. Not every Palace had been a facefucked, solipsistic mess.

If Ren was here, if Goro was so dissolute as to ramble this dumbfuck stream of consciousness in his ear, he would listen attentively. And then he would say something infuriating like, Is there something you want to talk about?

No, he tells the imaginary Ren. There really fucking isn't.

The imaginary Ren gazes at him. Depthless eyes, patient and knowing. Fuck him.

Talking to that bartender was an exercise in nerve-shredding misery. Not that Lala Escargot wasn't... nice. She reminded him a little of Ren, in fact, in that way. It was just—the conversation itself. Opening himself like a clam for some stranger to study. He'd never have done it in a hundred years, except that Ren deserves for him to figure his shit out. And he's been trying, dammit. Trying and getting nowhere.

And after he turned the shucking knife on himself and dropped his innards on the bar, Lala's advice was to do it all again, except this time with Ren. Whose opinion matters.

Useless advice. If he could talk to Ren, he'd have done it already. But there's such a danger there, because this whole thing is so—so fucking stupid.

It's Ren he's talking about here. Ren is indomitable. Ren survived the Metaverse and came out the other side stronger. It's not that he doesn't have scars; Goro knows that firsthand. But he's not afraid of some lipstick.

And he'll see. Goro will talk to him about a necklace or whatever, and he'll see not the depths of Goro's amorality, which it's clear Ren doesn't give a shit about, but the cringing, pathetic thing that cowers at Goro's core. And he'll realize he's wasting his time on Goro. And then—

Abruptly, like he's been smacked in the face, Goro loses patience with himself and pulls out his phone. What is he, an infant? He can face down a usurper god but he can't have a chat with his boyfriend, is that it?

He opens his chat history with Ren.

Ren 🎯 (8:47pm)
image_3984.jpg
how does he even sleep like that
like
do cats just not get back pain or what

Ren 🎯 (11:23pm)
wyd

It's been over an hour since Ren sent that message, but Goro responds anyway.

Goro Akechi (12:31am)
Shibuya. Bored.

Of all the absurd messages to have him gripping his phone, heart in his fucking throat. This whole thing is getting out of hand—as if it wasn't out of hand the moment it was born. It's just makeup. Makeup and skirts.

And Ren might already be asleep, of course. That would be an easy solution to the problem. His cat probably woke up and told him to—

Ren 🎯 is typing...

No such luck.

Ren 🎯 (12:32am)
are u ok?

Goro scowls at his phone.

Goro Akechi (12:32am)
Nothing's wrong.
May I join you?

And then he's sent it. Ren's not going to refuse, and then they're going to have to talk, because now Ren knows there's something going on. Goro's stomach rolls.

Ren 🎯 (12:33am)
ye i'll leave the door open

Goro Akechi (12:33am)
You'll be murdered in your bed.
Perhaps I'll do it myself, just to teach you a lesson.

Ren 🎯 (12:34am)
can't learn the lesson if i'm dead

Goro Akechi (12:34am)
We'll see.

He's almost been coaxed into a smile, so of course that's when Ren springs his trap.

Ren 🎯 (12:34am)
ok but
u know i know u didn't say u were ok right

The near-smile drops like a stone off Goro's face. He stands up abruptly, startling a salaryman slumped on the horrible metal bench nearby. Goro spares him a single glance, brimming with years of pent-up contempt; wide-eyed, the man shrinks back. Satisfaction pools in Goro's gut. Ugly, like the rest of him; like everyone can see except Ren, for some reason.

Goro Akechi (12:35am)
You don't need to worry.
I'll be there soon. Are you in bed, or should I bring food?

Worry radiates from the chat window, which is irritating; irritating, and nothing else. Goro heads for Central Street without bothering to wait for an answer. And, indeed, before long:

Ren 🎯 (12:36am)
......... what food

Translation: Ren is still in bed, but can be convinced to get up.

Goro Akechi (12:37am)
Name it.

Ren 🎯 (12:37am)
beef bowls

Goro Akechi (12:38am)
Noted.

Strange thing to want to eat after midnight, but a smart request twenty minutes before the trains stop running. Fifteen minutes later, Goro steps out of the metro station into Yongen-jaya and, like a man carrying two beef bowls to the gallows, makes his way toward Ren's apartment.

He lets himself into the building, against the rules of the complex, and from there to Ren's door, which is, indeed, unlocked. The tiny galley kitchen is so close to the genkan that he can lean over and set down the beef bowls before he takes off his shoes, coat, and gloves. No quiet call greets him, no barely-there sound of cloth rustling as Ren stands up or gets out of bed. Goro glances through to the living area and finds that Morgana has vacated the premises, perhaps when Ren unlocked the door—but more importantly, he sees Ren lying on the couch, head propped on the armrest, eyes closed and limbs slack with sleep.

For a moment, all the grim certainties slip from Goro's mind. He watches Ren sleep, thinking about nothing and feeling something hard to name, even as Ren starts to stir, eyelids fluttering, nose wrinkling. Then Ren opens his eyes and meets Goro's gaze, and his face lights up, and Goro remembers why he's here.

He goes to sit next to Ren as Ren pushes himself upright. "Hey."

"Hi," says Ren, still only half-awake. The moment Goro sits down, Ren turns and curls up against him, dropping his head onto Goro's shoulder.

His breath is warm against Goro's neck, his weight soft and familiar. What would Goro do if he lost this? He would rather face Maruki again and go out at the bottom of a cat-helicopter, crushed under the feet of teenage vigilantes. He would rather die at the hands of his cognitive double. He'd rather anything else. "You're worse than your cat," he says, instead of any of that, as he wraps an arm around Ren and pulls him close. "There's food, if you can wake yourself."

"I do want food," mumbles Ren, half to himself, warm and sleepy and trusting. Goro doesn't understand him at all, but it almost doesn't matter when they're together like this. Despite everything—despite, indeed, Goro himself at times—they've built themselves into something solid. Anything that weakens that connection, or threatens it, is to be loathed. To be seized by the neck and destroyed.

And so for that reason, Goro loathes the talk they're about to have. But he loathes the future that will unfurl if they don't have it even more. This is all his own stupid fucking fault. If he could just—just be normal, for once in his life, it's just clothes—

"Goro," says Ren. He's not the cute, sleepy Ren of a moment ago. He's the serious Ren that Goro hates, because he only comes out during Goro's most hated conversations. "What's up?"

He can't. He can't be a normal fucking person about it. Even thinking about Ren in a skirt makes him feel cold with dread. He pulls Ren closer and sighs against his hair. "I was thinking," he says. "That's all."

He doesn't even know how to bring it up. He used to have people dancing in the palm of his hand with just a few words and a vapid smile. Now look at him.

"I want you to be free," he says into Ren's curls. "The way you wanted for me."

Which is a good thing to want, he thinks, except Ren freezes in his arms. Even his breathing stops. Goro frowns for a second, trying to figure out—

"For fuck's sake," he snaps, shoving Ren to disguise the way his own stomach has dropped.

Ren glares. "What was I supposed to think? The way you said it?" He opens his mouth to continue, but his face crumples. He grabs Goro around the waist and pulls him close.

Goro wraps his arms around Ren and exhales slowly, waiting for his heart rate to settle. This is stupid, too. They weren't actually on the verge of breaking up just now; it was just poor wording. It's a small comfort that Ren is as shaken as he is. Makes him feel a little more sane.

Then again, Ren is sensitive about things like this. Sometimes, for no reason Goro can discern, or sometimes for reasons he can guess at, Ren's shoulders curl in and his eyes go wide and haunted, and he pulls Goro into his arms and clings like he's never going to let go. Like he's afraid of what'll happen if he lets Goro escape from his grip. He never explains himself afterwards, just apologizes, but, frankly, Goro can put the pieces together on his own. Not exactly a great mystery why Ren might have a complex about Goro leaving.

Anyway. They're fine. And eventually, Ren mumbles, "Sorry." He lifts his head a little and settles it against Goro's shoulder so he can talk more easily. "Keep going."

"Shut up," says Goro, like a normal person does in response to an apology. And then, as his fingers curl possessively into Ren's shirt: "This is about your dress thing."

Ren goes still again, but not in the same way as before. A listening stillness. Goro's throat feels tight. "I don't want to—get in your way."

"I know you don't." Ren kisses Goro's shoulder. "Did you really bring me food at one in the morning to say that?"

"Well," murmurs Goro, allowing a hint of a drawl to slip into his voice. "I was also hoping we could fuck." Ren perks up in his arms, predictably. "But—it was mainly to talk, yes. Are you saying it's not important?"

"It's not that it's not important." Suddenly, Ren has the air of someone choosing his words carefully. "It's..."

He trails off. Goro waits. The pit in his stomach widens with every second. It's on his tongue to tell Ren to just spit it out when Ren breaks the silence. "What brought this on?"

That's definitely not what Ren was thinking about saying, but whatever. "I've been thinking about it," says Goro, drawing the words out of himself one by one. "It's... not easy for me."

"I noticed." Ren squeezes him. "You know I don't, like. Want anything from you. Right? It's not a sex thing for me."

Goro's muscles lock up, even though he did know that, even though there's no reason... But it's like missing a step going down a flight of stairs to even think about Ren en femme. It's like hurrying through the halls of a Palace, exhausted and impatient, not noticing the alarm system until he walks past it and every shadow in the damn place turns its attention on him. Danger crawls over his skin.

His eyes trail over the walls of Ren's apartment. Pictures of his friends, pictures of the two of them together. No family photos. A couple of posters, the water stain in the corner. All of it mundane and familiar. Goro knows where he is. He knows when he is. He's safe.

"Do you have a trigger," he says, when the panic has subsided a little. "In the back of your head? That goes off when you're in danger, except it gives a lot of false positives?"

If Ren says no, after everything that's happened and with the way he sometimes jumps at shadows, Goro will be astonished. And—yes, he nods silently. Goro presses his face into Ren's hair and breathes in his scent.

"A tripwire," he murmurs. "I always had it." He gathers the shreds of his courage. Utterly pathetic. A walking bag of weaknesses. If Ren finds out—if he sees—

He's so fucking tired of this. "That's what—all of it sets off."

Ren processes that quietly for the longest few seconds of Goro's life. And Goro's experienced some long fucking seconds. The interrogation room, for one, after he pulled the trigger; and the endless moment between being ordered to kill Wakaba Isshiki and failing to refuse. This silence can take its place among those heavyweights.

His skin crawls. Words rise to his tongue: Forget it, it's nothing. Stop thinking, you're embarrassing yourself. You think you can actually have that effect on me? You're so fucking full of yourself. The world doesn't revolve around you anymore, Joker. He might've actually said them, when he was a teenager. He might not be able to stop himself from saying them now, if he has to wait for Ren's judgment for much longer.

Ren pulls back—Goro's stomach drops—and looks earnestly into his face. "I'm sorry."

What.

Actually, no, that's the only thing Ren could ever have said, isn't it? "Don't," snaps Goro, as Ren takes a breath to continue. "I don't care." Ren closes his mouth, his eyes still full of the same fucking sadness and remorse, like it's his fault that Goro is fundamentally broken. "I don't care how you dress," he says doggedly. "After—everything—that should be the last thing to bother either of us. It just..." Words fail him, like they did at the bar. He gestures helplessly. "It feels wrong. Unpredictable. Like we aren't—as secure as we were. You can tell me it's stupid."

Ren won't, of course, but Goro wishes he would. He wishes Ren would just say it, so it's out in the open and they've acknowledged the truth. But instead, Ren furrows his brow and says, hesitantly, "This is probably a stupid question."

Thrilling. Goro eyes him skeptically. "I'm listening."

"Is it that you just. Don't know when you might come over and I'll have makeup on, or whatever? Because I could text you."

That's not as bad as Goro was afraid of. He relaxes. "It's not that." But he doesn't want to say what it is. Even the idea is as menacing as his father's office door. His limbs itch with restless energy. "Do you want that food, by the way? We can talk and eat."

"Sure," says Ren, the mirror image of the Ren Goro saw in his mind earlier—calm and patient, giving Goro as long as he needs to pull out his guts and present them on a platter. "Stay here, I'll get it." And he leans forward and gives Goro a quick kiss before standing up.

Left behind, Goro sits on the couch and listens as Ren pulls the beef bowls out of their bag and rustles around for chopsticks. He doesn't have to look to be able to picture Ren's hands moving, steady and dexterous, and the calm concentration in his eyes. That's his. Ren is his. Ren belongs to him.

Except there's a plastic box in Ren's bathroom, chosen to be as bland as possible. To incite no curiosity. And inside it, Ren keeps eyeshadow palettes, and lipstick, and bottles of face makeup that Goro remembers from early mornings as the Detective Prince, hiding the permanent shadows under his eyes; and various other pens and brushes and powders, and a curved clamp that looks like a small torture device, but which is actually for curling your eyelashes. Goro knows because he used to watch his mother use one just like it. He's seen all that stuff in action, makeup and jewelry and pretty clothes. His mother never wore any of it when they were at home together; she was too tired, he knows now, with the benefit of hindsight, and probably repelled by the implications of it all.

But before work, she painted herself like a canvas. And once she was all painted and decorated and sparkling, cheap makeup and jewelry and peacock-bright nylon, she sent him to the bathhouse. And sometimes she was fine afterwards, but sometimes she was sad, and occasionally she had bruises. Sometimes Goro lingered in the bathhouse locker room, afraid of what he'd find when he came home. Even after his mother took him by the hand and led him across the city to their new life, she still had to dress up, and she could never explain why.

People expect it.

Why?

They just do, Goro-chan. Hand me that lipstick, please. Thank you, love.

Before the end, every time she went to one of her jobs, she came back a little more distant. Every time she dressed up, Goro lost her a little more. His six-year-old self wanted to throw her jewelry out the window; he wanted to scribble all over the floor with her lipstick until there was nothing left. If she couldn't decorate herself, then she couldn't go out, and then—

"Here."

Goro blinks. Ren is holding out Goro's beef bowl and a pair of chopsticks, frowning in concern; but he doesn't ask. He just waits for Goro, like he always does, arms extended in offering. For a second Goro feels the full weight of his unworthiness dragging his limbs down through the floor.

Fuck off, he tells it. He takes the items from Ren's hands. "Thanks."

As Ren settles next to him again, Goro stares down into his bowl, which looks like any other fast food beef bowl he's ever seen. He's twenty-three years old. He's in his boyfriend's apartment in Yongen-jaya. His mother is gone, forever, and he can't do anything about it. There is no threat regarding his mother that he will ever need to address again.

He fiddles with his chopsticks, a small outlet for his restlessness, and sneaks a glance at Ren, who's picking at his food, chewing slowly with a pensive little wrinkle in his brow. Goro's thumb itches to reach over and smooth it out.

If Ren has ever prioritized himself in his life, Goro will go back to Crossroads and eat every garish paper umbrella Lala has in stock. Already, in Ren's eyes, he can see the future he predicted to Lala. Trash bags full of makeup and clothes, left in a dumpster on a day when Goro is too busy to come by; showing up at Ren's apartment to find it wiped clean of any hint that Ren once liked dressing en femme. And Ren wouldn't even hold it against him. Ren would say that it was fine, that Goro's comfort was more important.

The cold of a years-ago February creeps in. Ren staring at him, his eyes blazing with outrage but his face streaked with tears. We're stopping Maruki. The bone-deep knowledge that Goro could trust Ren with not just his life, but his soul.

Goro will die again before he takes the ghost of Maruki's hand. Before he lets Ren fucking... actualize himself. If nothing else, he's not going to be weaker than Ren.

"I was wondering if you could start slowly," he says. "In front of me, anyway. Like a necklace or something at first."

Ren turns to him and blinks. His cheeks bulge with food. With his uncombed hair and his stained sleep shirt, he looks achingly familiar, at once nothing like Goro's mother and exactly as safe as he had once thought she was.

Abruptly, Ren waves Goro back: Stay there. He puts his bowl down on the floor, because he doesn't have a coffee table like a civilized person, and heads over to his dresser.

Goro stares at Ren's back as he rummages around. His chopsticks grate past each other as they dig into his fingertips. It's not too late; he could stand up and follow, wrap his arms around Ren from behind and say he's changed his mind, it was a stupid idea really, why doesn't Ren come to bed?

Trash bags full of perfectly good clothes, and a smile that doesn't reach Ren's eyes. Or, even worse, a sincere smile, as Ren cuts away a part of himself to be what Goro wants him to be.

Ren returns to the couch having swallowed his food, with something cupped in one of his hands. Goro eyes it with trepidation. "Here," says Ren, and, keeping hold of the chain of the necklace, he lets the pendant drop.

The necklace he's chosen is delicate: a small, faceted black stone in the shape of a teardrop hanging from a thin silver chain. It fits the brief in that it's feminine, but it'll barely be noticeable once it's around Ren's neck. Ren was clearly listening when Goro said he wanted to start small. "I could handle more than this," he mutters, for the sake of his pride.

And yet, the more he looks at it, the more he likes it. It suits Ren, as strange as it is to think of. Understated, and yet... He reaches out and takes it by the chain, between an ungloved finger and thumb. "Come here."

Ren's eyes light up as he leans forward, which twists something unpleasantly in Goro's stomach. What does that say, that something as small as fastening a necklace around Ren's neck should mean so much to him? What was it Lala said? Unless he has no brains at all in his head, he's already noticed. He holds Ren's gaze as he carefully clasps the delicate chain of the necklace in place.

The teardrop stone settles into the hollow at the base of Ren's throat. Its facets catch the light in a rainbow of artificial color. Goro gazes at it, waiting for the alarms to sound. When he lifts his eyes, Ren is watching him uncertainly, his calm, supportive facade finally set aside.

"Fucking tripwire bullshit," Goro mutters. Why can't he just have damage about guns like a normal person, that's what he wants to know. But the knot in his gut is starting to loosen. Even in the necklace, he sees Ren still. Ren is here; and if he left, he'd come back, just the same as he was when he went out. And Goro isn't six years old anymore.

Which means the experiment is a success so far. He touches Ren's cheek, and Ren leans into it with a little sigh. "It looks good on you," Goro murmurs, and Ren's lips curl up in a tentative smile. But it's a real smile, a smile they can grow into something bigger. Like when Ren found Goro again after they destroyed Maruki's reality, and punched him in the face, and then refused to let him walk away. It was a rough start. But they grew.

Then Ren leans in and kisses Goro's forehead, and all those half-shadowed hopes short-circuit. He closes his eyes with a sigh as Ren follows up with a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks," Ren murmurs in his ear. When Goro opens his eyes, Ren's smile has warmed. "This means a lot."

Goro clears his throat. His face is warm. "You told me to get beef bowls, so fucking eat," he says brusquely. "I'm not made of money."

Ren laughs, low and amused and present. Alive, and warm next to Goro, and close enough to touch. Ignoring everything he just said, Goro puts his food on the floor and pulls him in for a kiss.

Ren-chan works most busy nights now, tending the bar with Lala, sometimes en femme and sometimes not. Tonight she's shown up in a classy black number, high-necked but sleeveless, her wig held in an artfully messy style by a gleaming red hairpin the same shade as her lipstick. A choker with a glittering mask pendant completes the look.

"What do you think?" she asks, grinning. She spins in place, artfully balanced in her stiletto heels. That's one thing she never struggled with at all, right from the start. Lala knows some people who would kill for that kind of grace.

She runs an appraising eye over the ensemble, looking for areas to improve on and finding none. Ren-chan has always had a natural talent for dressing, and she's certainly come a long way from the college first year who tentatively approached Lala before opening one day. Um, Lala-chan, if you don't mind... I was wondering if you could help me with something? It's just, I don't know where to start...

"Divine," Lala pronounces. Ren-chan's smile brightens even more.

"High praise." She heads for the closet, where they keep wood polish and cleaning supplies. "Want me to get started on the bar?"

"That would be wonderful."

They work in companionable quiet, focused on their tasks, and finish just a moment before the bar is set to open. Ren-chan reaches up and runs her fingers over the pendant of her choker with a soft, private smile.

"Can I take a look at it?" asks Lala.

"Huh? Sure." Ren-chan drops her hand and Lala leans in. The fabric of the choker is thin and soft, a simple black velvet band; what stands out is the large Venetian mask pendant, catching the bright off-hours lights with onyx gems and what might actually be small, genuine diamonds, with their unmistakable luster. It's a beautiful piece, meant as a statement and not as an accent, which is how Ren-chan has styled it, drawing attention to it with the neckline of her dress. It also reminds Lala of something else.

She straightens up and meets Ren-chan's eyes, one eyebrow quirked. Ren-chan flushes behind her foundation.

"A little on the nose, isn't it?"

It's the first time Lala has implied that she knows, but Ren-chan shouldn't be surprised to hear it. Lala has eyes in her head; she has ears. All that talk between Ren-chan and Ichiko-chan at the bar, right in front of her. And then Ren-chan stared right into the camera on a broadcast that played on every screen in Tokyo, the self-declared leader of the Phantom Thieves, eyes fierce behind a black and white mask. Honestly.

Ren-chan laughs nervously. "It doesn't really... look like it. Except for the colors. I don't think people will make the connection unless they already know."

Lala hums. "You might be right." It is like Ren-chan to wear an open declaration of her criminal identity, in a language no one will be able to read. "It's a wonderful piece. Must have been interesting to style it."

She expects Ren-chan to light up and start talking about the process, but instead her eyes soften and go distant. "Funny story about it, actually," she begins—but then the clock strikes eight, the lights dim, and the neon signs flicker on. Opening time.

Patrons come through the door the moment Ren-chan opens it, because Saturdays are like that, and whatever Ren-chan was about to say slips out of Lala's mind as the two of them chat and serve drinks. The bar pulls in more profit now that there are two bartenders on nights like this. It's a shame Ren-chan has that café. Lala would love to increase her hours.

It takes a bit before the Saturday opening rush slows down and they have a true quiet moment. Lala has almost forgotten that Ren-chan was interrupted at the start of a story, but Ren-chan turns to her at once, as though it's only been a few seconds. "So like I was saying... uh, an hour and a half ago, wow. There's actually kind of a weird story behind this necklace." Again, she brushes the pendant with gentle fingers.

Lala hands some dishes to the dishwasher. She's done some training with him the past couple of days after closing, and his process is already more efficient. It's good she thought to give that a try. "Go on," she tells Ren-chan.

"My boyfriend—I think I've mentioned before, some stuff happened in his past. And he felt weird about the crossdressing, but he wouldn't..." Ren-chan gestures vaguely. "Talk about it, you know. I didn't know what to do."

Lala remembers the young man of a few days ago, rigid and haunted but determined. "That's a common story."

"Yeah?" Ren-chan pauses to think about that. "I guess that makes sense. But yeah, on Wednesday night, he came over to my apartment out of nowhere, and we finally talked about it. About how he was feeling, and why, and..." Ren-chan's voice trails off dreamily. "He's sweet." Her lips quirk in a wry smile. "Our friends would think I was crazy if I said that to them. But he's always concerned about me. He wants me to be able to be who I am without damaging the relationship." She sighs, as lovestruck as a teenager—indeed, as lovestruck as she used to be when she was a teenager, talking about this same boy. It is sweet. A little too sweet, as far as Lala's concerned, but if it works for them, then she's happy for them.

Then Ren-chan says, "He'd come up with this... strategy. For getting him comfortable with me crossdressing. We'd start with me wearing a necklace, and once that was chill, we'd get more and more in-depth."

...Wait.

"Wednesday night, you said?"

"Yeah." Ren-chan looks quizzically at Lala. "Why?"

"Nothing. Go on."

Ren-chan frowns for another moment, but her need to tell a cute story about her boyfriend wins out in the end. "So I chose the most low-key necklace I have. Because I wanted to start small, right?" Lala nods dutifully. That boy, stiff and brittle with strangers, with a dry sense of humor and a dramatic streak a mile wide—all of it tracks with what Ren-chan has said about her boyfriend. Because Ren-chan has said a lot about her boyfriend over the years.

"But he didn't like that," said Ren-chan, with that small, fond smile on her lips again. "Starting so little, I mean. I think it insulted him. And then yesterday, he came by with this. He said he'd just... seen it, and he thought I should have it. And he thought I should wear it instead of the little necklace. I have no idea where he found it." Her hand closes gently around the pendant. Onyx and diamonds glitter between her fingers.

It is a sweet story, yes, if Lala could only wrap her mind around the fact that her star employee's boyfriend came in and had a deep, emotional conversation with her, about her employee, without letting on who he was. "You said he just brought it up out of nowhere?"

"Yeah. Like, it was after midnight. I was about to go to sleep. So I guess it was on Thursday, technically?"

"Huh." Well, if the boyfriend didn't mention their talk, it's not Lala's business to do it. "Sounds like he's a good guy."

Ren-chan's eyes crinkle with happiness. "Yeah."

And then Lala has mentored the young gays of Tokyo enough, so she lets herself say, "You should bring him by sometime. When he's more comfortable."

"I should." Ren-chan tilts her head, thinking about it. "Yeah. I should. I will."

"Can't wait," says Lala, sincerely. Whenever that happens, it'll be the funniest thing that happens in Crossroads for the whole week.