Chapter Text
Akira doesn’t have any particularly strong feelings about the Phantom Thieves’ costumes. He supposes that it’s interesting to see how his teammates envisage liberation; how the Metaverse makes manifest their deepest values and childhood dreams. Yusuke’s exquisitely-painted kitsune mask, Ann’s sleek, latex catsuit and Haru’s cavalier hat all represent their unique perceptions of rebellion. The psychological implications behind the clothing are intriguing to puzzle over, sure - but Akira isn’t all that concerned with the physical fabric and decals.
That is, until Akechi’s costume changes.
Akechi looks extremely different in his black and blue get-up. The sharp contours of his outfit seem to cut into the clinical white backdrop of Maruki’s Palace, drawing Akira’s gaze with the slightest movement. A cape flutters over his shoulder, tattered and incongruous. Akira only glimpsed this ensemble briefly in the Engine Room last month, so he welcomes the opportunity to study it in more detail. It’s wildly impractical and tight, with studded belts and buckles wrapped around Akechi’s arms and legs like half-severed restraints. Razor-edged gauntlets turn his bare hands into weapons and his mask locks over his entire face, lending him an eerie anonymity.
In retrospect, it fits him far better than the Prince outfit ever did. There’s nothing righteous or noble about him right now. He rips through the shadows crawling around the laboratory with frightening efficiency, dispatching them with bursts of manic, exhilarated laughter.
The casual brutality of it is admittedly unnerving. It’s almost animalistic, the way he hacks the hordes of enemies into mincemeat. Poor Sumire would probably faint if she saw the vicious joy shining in Akechi’s eyes. Maybe her abduction has a silver lining; at least Maruki is keeping her from witnessing this.
Akira wonders if it should scare him, seeing Akechi acting so unhinged. Strangely, all he can summon is amazement - and an odd, inexorable fascination. He’s so distracted that he misses his cue to target the last opponent’s weakness, allowing it to take a swipe at them both. Akechi snarls out a curse that could be directed at Akira or the shadow, and finishes it off with brute force.
As it crumbles into ash, he wheels on Akira, eyes blazing behind his visor. He looks severe and beautiful and terrifying. But mostly he just looks angry.
“What the hell was that?” He demands, punctuating the question with an aggressive flick of his sword. “Is this a joke to you? Maybe you’re used to kicking back and letting your endless teammates pick up your slack, but we do not have that luxury right now. We can’t afford to let our guards down.”
Akira holds up his hands before Akechi can continue. “I know.”
Akechi’s lip curls. “Then act like it.”
“Are you the Leader now?” Akira quips, then immediately backtracks when he sees Akechi’s murderous expression. “I will. Sorry.”
Akechi makes a rough sound of acknowledgment and stalks away, searching for more prey to slaughter. Akira exhales heavily. He isn’t used to such harsh reprimands - but Akechi is right. When he reminds himself that Sumire is trapped somewhere in these halls, being slowly brainwashed, it becomes pretty difficult to justify his preoccupation with Akechi’s new attitude. Any mistake right now could cost them dearly and Akira shouldn’t be letting his mind wander.
During the next encounter, he forces himself to focus on the fight, dodging and healing Akechi in perfect synchronicity. After the battle is over, Akechi simply nods, tossing him one of the items the enemy dropped.
“That’s better.” He mutters, scanning the nearby doors. “I knew you weren’t as amateurish as you were behaving.“ He points forwards, rolling his shoulders. “There’s a Safe Room there. Let’s recuperate before we continue.”
Akira nods mutely, following Akechi and sitting down at the wide white table. The space feels too big for just the two of them, and his chest twists uncomfortably when he remembers why the other Phantom Thieves aren’t here.
Akechi clears his throat. When Akira glances over, he sees a pot of Jagarico on the table. “Eat.”
Akira shakes his head, playing with the hem of his gloves. “I’m not hungry.”
“Did I ask if you were hungry?” Akechi retorts pithily, pushing the snack towards Akira. “Eat it. Your health is flagging. I won’t protect you if you fall behind because of your own stubbornness.”
“Yeah you will.” Akira mutters, but takes it anyway. It tastes inoffensive enough and when he bites into another one of the potato sticks, he realises how long it’s been since he last ate. He’d grabbed a few spoonfuls of rice before he left this morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to stay for curry with Futaba, Morgana and Wakaba. He’s spent days trying to convince them that they’re living out a fabrication - and it’s had exactly zero effect. It hurts to watch them talking and laughing without him, happy to forget the truth and embrace blindness.
So yes, maybe he’s been avoiding meals with them. He’d snuck out a couple of times, to buy convenience-store dinners, but he rarely has the energy to make it to 777 in Shibuya. Mostly, he just lays around his room and tries to ignore his rumbling stomach.
When he finishes the pot, Akechi stands, unfolding his arms. “Come on.” He mutters shortly. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.” He strides onwards, as alert as ever. He evidently didn’t need the rest - which means that their little break was solely for Akira’s sake. Fondness and guilt unfurl in Akira’s chest, squeezing and scratching at his heart. No matter how blunt or catty Akechi acts, he cares. He might make an effort to keep his emotions hidden and masked by apathy, but he really does care.
With an impatient gesture, Akechi calls Akira, rolling his eyes. Akira obliges, clutching his dagger and attempting to ignore the insistent throbbing of his pulse.
Barely a minute passes before they walk into the next swarm of shadows. Akira fires the first shot, shouting a warning to Akechi, who is busy inspecting a series of posters about cognition. Akechi’s head jerks up and he dives towards Akira - but he’s not fast enough. Three enemies charge forwards, cutting them off from one another. Akira curses, summoning Metatron and raining a barrage of shining arrows down upon them. Luckily, the creepy, scythe-wielding shadows shriek, dissolving into dark ooze. Akira guessed their weaknesses right. Thank god.
Before he can take the time to congratulate himself, another enemy lurches forward, throwing a jab at Akira’s torso. A Hastur, he realises as he dodges, slashing at its tendrils. Now that he’s dealt with some of the foes, he can glimpse Akechi through the crowd, tearing into a cluster of flying robot Byakhees. He seems to be handling himself just fine, but Akira doesn’t like the way he lists the side slightly, clearly favouring his right hand. He’s been injured.
They can’t keep fighting like this. There are still at least five shadows circling them and they need each other’s support. Akira makes a split-second decision, rolling up his sleeve. He feints, ducking away from the Hastur, and hurls his grappling hook towards the ceiling. It catches and he leaps up to meet its swing, flying over the heads of the enemies. He twists in midair, angling himself towards where Akechi is standing - and lands on top of the last Byakhee, reducing it to ash under the heel of his boot.
Akechi blinks, then hisses something that sounds a lot like “Show off.” Akira grins and casts a quick strengthening spell, readying them both to take on the rest of the foes.
They split the work, positioning themselves back-to-back. When Akira is confronted with an enemy he can’t damage, Akechi steps in, calling on Loki, whilst Akira darts around to hold off the shadows behind him. It’s wonderfully effective. Akira always knew that they worked well together but this is a new high. He beams as they finish off a huddle of opponents in one fell swoop, leaving them with only two Hasturs to deal with.
Unfortunately, they’re pretty powerful. Akira grits his teeth, blocking an attack with his dagger and nearly skidding in the process. Akechi elbows him out of the way, slicing off one of the Hastur’s arms. The serrated blade snags in black flesh but Akechi doesn’t even hesitate; he just keeps ripping until the tentacle falls to the ground, severed. It’s brutal... and captivating. Akira swallows, his throat dry.
It’s not a good idea to get distracted in the middle of battle. There’s a whistle of moving air next to his ear - and the next thing Akira knows, he’s sprawled across the floor, reeling from a blow to the face. The pain blinds him, everything fading to buzzing white. Akechi yells his name and Akira has the sense to raise his gun and pull the trigger. There’s an inhuman scream and as his surroundings slowly slide back into focus, he realises that he killed one of the Hasturs.
Which also means Akechi is facing the final one alone. Akira leaps to his feet, yanking out a Life Stone and using it on himself as quickly as possible. He turns, Yoshitsune’s name on his lips.
The shadow’s limbs flex, undulating and humming with strength. Its arms are tipped with turquoise, just like Maruki’s tentacles. A spark of unease kindles in Akira’s mind. Why does this creature resemble Maruki’s persona? What does it mean—
The Hastur lashes out and Akira ducks on instinct - but the movement is pointless. It wasn’t aiming at him.
To his left, he hears the thump-thump of a stumble and a sharp inhale. He chances a glance over his shoulder, hardly daring to take his eyes off the enemy for more than a second.
Akechi has retreated a few strides and is doubled over, face obscured by the helm of his mask. He’s breathing hard, shoulders shaking. The Hastur’s attack has knocked his sword halfway across the room. His hands hang limply at his sides, claws unmoving. He looks, for lack of a better word, defenceless. The sight makes Akira’s stomach clench, dread washing over him in an icy wave.
There’s a thin purple film clinging to the lines of Akechi’s body, pulsating like it’s alive. The bizarre discolouration, along with his quivering shoulders, are telltale signs of an ailment. The realisation hits Akira when he gasps, backing away from the shadow with unsteady steps.
Akechi is afflicted with fear.
Shit.
Akira has never once seen Akechi look weak; not even after the battle in the Engine Room on Shido’s Ship. Tired, beaten-down, desolate - yes. But weak? Not even slightly. He’d always had the utmost confidence in his Metaverse abilities, and the skills to back it up. But now he clutches at himself, head whipping wildly from side to side as he searches for an escape route. He’s trembling like a child after a nightmare. Loki is nowhere to be seen. Akechi is alone.
The Hastur’s tendrils knot and thrash menacingly, but it doesn’t attack Akechi’s shuddering figure, which is a small mercy. The atmosphere fizzes with accumulating power as it charges up its next attack.
“Crow!” Akira shouts, digging frantically in his pockets for a recovery item. How does he not have anything to cure ailments?
Akechi flinches, an awful wail spilling from his mouth. “Stop it! I— I don’t wanna do this scary shit anymore!” He’s transparently, profoundly terrified, stuttering over the simplest sentences.
“Crow, listen to me!” Akira tries again, but he receives no response other than more garbled pleas. It feels wrong to see Akechi like this. It hurts, in a piercing, uncomfortable way, although Akira isn’t precisely sure why. Maybe it’s because Akechi is rarely this forthcoming with his emotions - especially those that might imply vulnerability, like fear. It’s horrible to witness him acting so utterly unlike himself. But maybe— Maybe this is how Akechi acts when he’s scared. Somehow, that hurts even more.
The Hastur draws itself up to its full height. Shit, Akira doesn’t have time to think. He switches his persona and throws a Garudyne at the shadow, stepping in front of Akechi. The creature sways and Akira wants to scream when it drains the attack, healing itself. Stupid, stupid. Of course it absorbs wind.
The shadow casts an Almighty spell and Akira groans as he endures it, shielding Akechi. “Goro!” He cries, forgoing codenames - and this time, blessedly, Akechi pauses his panicked mumbling. He glances up, seemingly recognising Akira. His eyes flicker with self-awareness.
And then he does something that Akira couldn’t have predicted in a million years. Akechi jams his hand into his helmet and sinks his teeth into his wrist.
Akira watches, dumb and paralysed by shock, as he rips a strip of skin off his wrist, blood spurting down his arm. Immediately, the purple sheen recedes and Akechi stops shaking. He darts left, retrieving his weapon.
The Hastur lunges and Akechi meets it head-on, sword moving in a jagged blur. It slices through the creature’s legs, unbalancing it.
“Persona!” Akechi howls and Loki bursts forth, as if he’s been waiting for this moment. Akechi flashes a wild grin, teeth red with his own blood. “Slaughter it.” He commands - and Loki does just that. The shadow is dispatched in less than a second, crumbling under Loki’s enormous blade.
Akira stares, wide-eyed and silent. Akechi is hunched over but when he meets Akira’s gaze, he straightens his back. “No good items.” He shares - as if that’s what is running through Akira’s mind - and turns away. Loki dissolves in an implosion of red light and a whisper of deranged laughter.
Akira shakes his head, baffled. “Your fear... How did you...?”
“Pain can override most things, Joker.” Akechi spits out dismissively, wiping his hand across his chest. His fingers leave a red streak of blood upon the dark fabric of his costume. “If you haven’t realised that by now, then I’m seriously beginning to doubt your Metaverse abilities. It’s the principle behind your Harisen Recovery technique, no?”
Akira opens his mouth, then closes it again. He’s a little stunned, he won’t lie. The only other person he’s ever known who could cure themselves of an ailment (without a spell or an item) was himself. Even then, he’d only acquired that ability after extensive training with Maruki - back before his counsellor went insane and decided to usurp god.
Akira’s questions pile higher and higher. Has Akechi always been able to rid himself of ailments? When did he learn? How?
Then Akira realises, quite abruptly, that Akechi probably didn’t have a choice. When you’re a party of one, you can’t rely on a teammate for a convenient Amrita Shower. Akechi’s only option would have been to fight, evolve, survive, and keep moving forwards.
The thought makes Akira’s chest feel like it’s caving in. He hates being reminded of how much Akechi has been through; how much he suffered for people all too eager to toss him aside the minute he wasn’t useful anymore. Akira can’t imagine walking through Mementos on his own, let alone fighting there. And at fifteen - at Futaba’s age—
Akira’s hands clench into fists. He forces himself to breathe slowly, thinking of Morgana’s paws and Yusuke’s dramatic poses and Haru’s vegetables - anything except Akechi’s past. If he continues to linger on such matters, he’s going to do something stupid and sentimental, like try to hug Akechi - and that will probably end with a gun pressed to his forehead, so... It’s definitely best to let the moment pass without comment.
As Akechi stalks away, his wrist drips, leaving a stream of red splotches across the white tiles. It reminds Akira of a painting Yosuke once showed him: a solitary figure, trailing red, trekking through an everlasting expanse of snow.
Akira’s face pinches into a frown. He should let this go, he knows. There’s still an entire floor left to map out and they need to gather clues while they’re here. He should make the logical choice and join Akechi’s unrelenting forward momentum.
But the image of Akechi, walking through an infinite spread of white, completely alone, occurs to him again. He swallows, grimacing. This is a bad idea - and he tells himself that it’s a bad idea over and over again, even as he darts forward and grabs Akechi by the shoulders.
Akechi immediately tenses under his hands. “What the hell are you doing?” He questions flatly, expression unchanging. When Akira doesn’t offer an explanation, his lips quirk into a smirk. “What, did it finally sink in that you’re working with your murderer? That’s rather a delayed reaction, but I won’t fault you for coming to your senses. Are you going to take revenge?”
“No.” Akira retorts. I’m not you, he wants to say. I won’t let some notion of karmic justice cage me.
Akechi tsks. “Then get off of me, Joker. We have work to do.”
“After this.” Akira asserts, in his Leader voice. He steers Akechi back towards the Safe Room, pushing harder when Akechi shrugs him off. “Your wound needs treating.”
“It’s fine.” Akechi grits out, looking phenomenally pissed off. “Use some healing magic, if you must, but there’s no reason for us to retreat.”
Akira sighs, brow furrowing. “Goro—”
“I did not give you permission to use my first name.” Akechi interrupts, unmistakably acidic. “You’ve presumed too much, Joker.”
“Okay. Akechi, then.” Akira corrects himself reluctantly. He briefly considers arguing, since it was his use of Akechi’s first name that momentarily snapped him out of his delirium and made him recognise Akira... But there are more important things to focus on. He tugs at his fringe, brow furrowed; he’s trying to think of the right thing to say but all of his attempts are just making Akechi draw back. Akira wants to help Akechi, more than almost anything - to show him that he doesn’t have to hurt himself any longer, that Akira is there for him, that they’re teammates and friends and maybe—
A hot flush spreads across the back of his neck, crawling over his collarbones. The exact category that he and Akechi’s relationship falls under is a difficult subject and one he should not be mulling over right now - not when Akechi is glaring cagily at him, sweat beading on his forehead.
With no other strategies, Akira lands on the idea of just telling the truth. He exhales, letting go of his hair and squaring his shoulders. “I want to help. Let me do this for you; let me dress your wound. It’ll take ten minutes, max, and the injury will heal better this way.” He coughs, scratching his cheek. “Plus you can keep all of the yen we collect in battle today, as recompense for wasting your time. Deal?”
Akechi levels him with an unconvinced scowl. A tense minute passes. Neither of them speak. Then Akechi huffs, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Right. Whatever. It’s a deal. Clearly it will take longer to talk you out of this than it will to go along with your foolishness.”
Akira can’t suppress his smile. “Exactly. Glad you understand.”
Akechi rolls his eyes, setting off without a backwards glance. Akira jogs to catch up, falling into step with him easily enough.
Blood continues to seep from Akechi’s wrist and by the time they reach the Safe Room, his sleeve is wet through. Akira shoves the doors open and sits down, immediately searching his jacket for the bandages he keeps handy.
Akechi takes the chair next to him, turning it so it faces Akira. He removes the clawed gauntlet and presents his forearm with a put-upon sigh. Surprisingly, he doesn’t make any snarky remarks about the speed at which Akira finds the medical supplies. He just sits there, seemingly bored - but when Akira looks up, he sees the traces of nervousness beneath the unbothered front. Akechi is grinding his teeth so hard that the muscles in his jaw are visibly twitching, and Akira can hear the faint, erratic sound of him tapping his foot under the table.
He reaches out and gently takes ahold of Akechi’s wrist. There are no other visible marks, which is a relief until Akira remembers that injuries obtained within the Metaverse don’t carry over into the real world. If Akechi has done this before - and Akira gathers that he has - then there won’t be any scars. No visible ones, anyway.
He swallows, removing his Shadow-stained gloves. Then he fishes a slim vial from his pocket and uncorks it.
Akechi arches a brow. “Exorcism water? Very funny.”
“No, that’s not— The cut needs to be cleaned and this is the only water I brought, so...” Akira blurts, before he notices the way Akechi’s eyes are glinting. He isn’t actually offended; he’s amused, and the realisation draws a tiny huff from Akira.
“Figures that Joker would be quick to jest.” Akechi muses, watching as Akira soaks a scrap of gauze in the liquid.
“Gotta live up to the codename,” Akira murmurs, dabbing at Akechi’s skin. When he retreats to dampen the cloth again, his fingers brush Akechi’s palm.
It’s warm. Akira pulls back as if he’s been electrocuted.
Akechi has the good grace not to comment on it. “You’re going to take five hours at this rate,” he says instead, and Akira hastens his pace with a nod.
When he opens the bottle of Takemi’s antiseptic, he grimaces. The medicinal odour brings back bad memories. “Uh, fair warning - this stuff stings. Like, a lot. You never had to use it in Sae’s Palace because you didn't get injured, but it’s not exactly pleasant.”
“What am I, a toddler? I’ll be fine.” Akechi responds coolly.
“Yeah... I think it would be best if I could see your expression better though.” Akira gestures to Akechi’s visor. “That way I’ll be able to tell if I’m hurting you and know when to stop.”
Akechi gazes at Akira for a couple of seconds, with the tired tolerance of a nurse to the clinically insane. Then he mutters something about being on his last reserves of patience, and yanks off the top half of his mask.
Akira bites back a laugh when he sees the way the helmet has matted Akechi’s hair around his temples. It’s cute. Akechi runs his fingers through his fringe, instinctively fixing it - before extending his arm.
Cautiously, Akira pours some water into the antiseptic bottle to dilute it. Then he dips a piece of gauze into the mixture and presses it against the wound’s surrounding area. He expects Akechi to hiss or flinch, but he doesn’t react at all; he just studies the weeping gash numbly, not even wincing.
Akira stares at him, astonished... And then appalled. He can tell that Akechi isn’t faking stoicism. To him, this level of pain really is negligible. Which begs the question: what the fuck has Akechi been through, if he’s inured to this?
Akechi’s mouth twists into a frown. “What?”
“Nothing.” Akira shakes his head, a little unbalanced. “Nothing.” He repeats, trying to banish the awful images flashing through his mind.
Akechi gives him a searching look, eyes narrowed. Akira clears his throat, focusing resolutely on the injury. Slowly, he wipes around the cut, scrubbing off the last of the blood. The bite mark is a ring of deep purple imprints, twining around Akechi’s wrist like a bracelet. It seems like it hurts.
Silently, Akira picks up a sterile pad, placing it over the wound and securing it with a roll of bandages. He wraps it around Akechi’s arm, making sure it doesn’t restrict joint movement.
He cups Akechi’s fingers, adjusting his position, then hesitates. It’s almost like they’re holding hands.
There’s a long, hushed pause. Akira realises, with a quiet inhale, how close they are; without meaning to, he’d leaned forwards to see the gash better and slotted one of his knees into the space between Akechi’s legs. He’s not... touching anything, but it doesn’t feel like the kind of pose he’d end up in with Yusuke or Ryuji - or any of his other friends. This is... different. Somehow. In a good way.
Akechi shifts in his chair and Akira startles, snapping out of his daze. “There!” He announces, taping the last strip of gauze and ignoring his racing pulse. “Good as new.” He pats the injury softly.
Akechi turns it over, testing out his range of motion. He’s unencumbered by the dressing, just as Akira intended. “Hm. Not bad.” He meets Akira’s gaze, expression guarded. Akira wonders if he’s imagining the slight conflict, or the shred of tenderness. “You did a decent job.”
“Thanks.” Akira replies, voice hoarse. He glances away, feeling like an idiot. He killed a god - summoned a demon-lord and shot Yaldabaoth through the damn head - and yet here he is, getting jumpy over a little eye contact.
When he looks back, Akechi is still staring at him. “We should go.” He mumbles.
Akechi exhales. “Yes, I suppose we should.” The way he says it sounds almost sad. It makes Akira want to hug him all over again; it makes him want to grab Akechi’s face and— And kiss him, as absurd and reckless as that is. He wants to kiss Akechi.
Outside, there’s a loud clatter. Akechi jerks back, turning towards the doors. “The Shadows are regenerating.” He informs Akira, who is reeling with the abrupt reminder of where they are.
Akechi rises, delicately avoiding Akira’s knee. “We really do have to go now - or we’ll burn through all of our energy dealing with these new enemies, and not make it past this corridor.”
“Right.” Akira agrees, after taking a moment to collect himself. He breathes in, then out, chewing the inside of his cheek. He needs to calm down and gather the medical supplies.
Akechi stretches and grabs his sword, swinging it experimentally. He hums approvingly when the bandages really don’t inhibit him. He collects his gauntlet and locks it back into place, slipping it over the dressing with a satisfied nod.
Akira turns, everything successfully stuffed into his jacket - and stills when he sees the genuine contentment on Akechi’s face. He looks gorgeous, grinning and flexing his hand.
Akechi picks up the top half of his mask and Akira’s brain screams at him that if he doesn’t kiss Akechi now, he’s going to lock his visor back into place and his lips will be enclosed by inches of spiked metal. If he’s going to do this, he needs to do it now, now, now—
Akira takes a step forwards, heart thudding in his chest. Akechi glances up, holding his helmet. Akira takes another step. And another. It seems so easy when he takes it one movement at a time. He reaches out. He grasps Akechi by the shoulders. He pulls Akechi in. He presses his lips to Akechi’s, muffling a gasp.
Akechi’s helmet falls to the floor. For a long moment, he’s rigid. Then, like a dam bursting, he’s kissing Akira back, shoving himself into Akira’s personal space and clutching his face.
Akira’s entire body feels like it’s full of bubbles. Akechi is reciprocating this. Akechi is licking at the seam of his mouth, dipping his tongue past Akira’s teeth. Akechi is humming a muffled curse, the sound vibrating against Akira’s palate. Akechi is scraping at his throat with the bottom half of his mask, presumably by accident, but Akira doesn’t even care.
“This is a terrible idea.” Akechi murmurs into his lips.
“I know,” Akira whispers back, winding his arm around Akechi’s waist. He clings to him frantically, deepening the kiss with a tilt of his head.
“Do you?” Akechi punctuates the question by winding his clawed fingers into Akira’s hair and tugging.
“It doesn’t matter.” Akira gets out, when his knees stop feeling like they’re going to buckle. “It’s just us here.”
Akechi goes still. Then, slowly, he pulls back. Akira blinks at him, vision a little blurry and eyes still fixed on his mouth.
“Just us?” Akechi echoes lowly. His expression is unreadable.
“Well... yeah. Unless there’s someone hiding in one of these lockers.” Akira jokes weakly. He strokes Akechi’s jaw and tries to kiss him again, but he’s stopped by a firm hand.
“I see.” Akechi withdraws, putting some distance between them, and the warm illusion shatters. He’s untouchable once again, arms folded and gaze turned away.
Akira flounders, unsure of how things had derailed so quickly. “Akechi, I don’t... What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Akechi retorts, bending down to pick up his visor. It clicks back into place with finality, obscuring Akechi’s eyes. “I’d just rather act pragmatically. If your friends are going to join us - which you insist that they will - then this misbegotten experiment will have to end soon enough; it will no longer be just us. We might as well cut things off now. I’d rather not waste my time with such an ephemeral mistake, thank you.”
Akira’s stomach drops. “Akechi, that is not what I meant.”
“Oh, I see.” Akechi scoffs, deflecting Akira’s concern with pure malice. “So you’d be fine with it then? Us kissing in front of the Phantom Thieves? In front of Sakura and Okumura-san?”
Akira wants to say yes - he really, truly does. But he can’t. At least not honestly.
Akechi huffs, taking his silence as confirmation. “Fucking coward,” he mutters, but he doesn’t seem surprised. He looks resigned as he heads out of the double doors, ready to inflict his frustrations upon some unsuspecting shadows.
Akira watches him go, lips moving helplessly but no words coming out. “Shit.” His hands drop to his sides, shoulders sagging. He really screwed that up, didn’t he?
Akechi doesn’t speak for the rest of their expedition, except when absolutely necessary. If Akira tries to start a conversation or stares at him for too long, Akechi stalks off in the opposite direction. It’s exhausting and excruciatingly awkward. Akira treks after him, regret weighing heavily on his shoulders.
They map out the rest of the floor relatively quickly, despite the lack of communication. When they withdraw from the Palace, it’s snowing softly outside. Their Phantom Thief costumes melt away, leaving them in their everyday attire. Secretly, Akira mourns the loss of Akechi’s black mask outfit.
Akechi jabs at his phone, closing the Metaverse app. Akira is very aware of the lingering, unresolved tension, standing between them like a physical wall. They need to talk. He takes a deep breath, raising his chin. “Akechi, about what happened in the Safe Room—”
“There’s nothing to say.” Akechi interrupts, spinning on his heel. “Goodbye, Akira.”
Akira darts forward, snagging Akechi’s coat sleeve before he can think better of it.
Akechi yanks out of his grip, scowling, but Akira just grabs onto his wrist. “Akechi—”
“No. We’re done talking about this. You were right. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. Focus on reconciling with your friends - and I’ll focus on figuring out how Maruki is altering people’s cognitions.” Akechi’s firm tone brooks no disagreement. His expression is cold and closed-off. “We’ll meet back here on the 9th of January to rescue Sumire. Goodbye.”
“Akechi!” Akira repeats, volume rising in exasperation - but it’s too late. Akechi has already twisted out of his grasp and is striding away. He rounds the corner and slips into the sea of blank, beaming faces, disappearing without a trace.
Akira groans, kicking at the pavement. Akechi always has to have the last word; he always leaves on his terms, abandoning Akira to stew in confusion and conflicted turmoil. He hadn’t even asked for the money that Akira promised him, in exchange for allowing his wounds to be treated.
Maybe his abrupt exit is his way of lashing out. What Akira said clearly hurt him - which is upsetting enough, given that Akira didn’t even mean it in the way Akechi took it, but for Akechi to not even let Akira explain—
A flake of snow lands on Akira’s nose, startling him out of his frustrated deliberation. Above his head, clouds are moving over the deep blue sky, gathering around Maruki’s laboratory. With a huff, he gazes up at the colossal tower, wondering if Maruki is watching him now; wondering if he'll ever understand the unanswered questions he has about this world.
Maybe it will all make sense later. Akira has to hope, right? With a shiver, he wraps his coat tighter around his body, letting the frosty temperatures numb his roiling emotions. He has no doubt that the next four days are going to suck, but at least he’ll see Akechi again on Monday - and perhaps Akechi will be in the mood to talk by then. Akira could try calling or texting, but he highly doubts Akechi will reply when he’s in self-defence mode.
Maybe Akira’s problems will miraculously solve themselves in the space of the next week. Or maybe they won’t - either way, Akira needs a cup of coffee.
He sets off back home with a sigh, watching snow gather on the doorsteps and roofs of Odaiba. It’s pretty, like the happiness of the grinning passers-by - and just as dangerous.