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There's something familiar.
Scratching the back of his mind behind the energy, excitement. Behind warm skin, warm hands. Smile against cheek to match his, expression of joy at being here. With someone worth doing this with.
But he’s somehow drifting.
“A private audience with the detective prince… I’m honored.”
“Yeah.”
A feeling in his stomach as the butterflies spit and bite, churning into something…
Something…
He can't think. The room has grown too cold suddenly, growing around a bundle of black hair, foggy glasses that are removed. Clicking loudly on wood when he’s reached past.
The rush of excitement tries to cling with their faces pressing together. He moves but how much of it is want? Impulse? Going with the motions?
“Do you want to… move? Like upstairs?”
“Yeah…”
He can feel the bile. Gagging his throat. Stirring in his stomach under his proper clothes. Palm stroking a distant face. And when they move to escort him elsewhere, the cold envelopes him harsher, like a sickening ache for them to come back. Them to never touch him again.
There's a hot mouth against his, two hands on his hips. Rubbing his thigh in slow, loud circles. Grey eyes in his face. He looks right at them, himself stuck on his spot, and sees nothing.
No.
There's the shadows. Real shadows, not manifested conscious seeking form. Just a blackness from the poor lighting on dim night. A frame for a pretty face that he shouldn't be looking at, let alone get to have to himself, talking just to him. Saying words that can't stick over the static.
“...Crow?”
There's the words. Whispering into his ears louder as someone scoots closer in front of him, sofa dipping. How he has a pretty face too. Handsome face. Soft face. Well-behaved face. Adored face.
“Crow.”
And to be adored is just as simple as listening and obeying. Following guidance. Learning quickly. Keeping secrets.
He just wants to be adored. He’s so smart. Mature. Special.
Who is he with? Whose hand is on his leg?
Panicked voice tries overriding sweetness that makes alarms pound in his skull. Warnings for what? Comfort? Safety? Someone finally seeing how good he can be? That can't be right…
His limbs feel like air, every vein throbbing to lift them to a chest he can't decide between shoving away or pulling closer. He can't remember whose room this is. Who he’s sitting on a creaking, musty sofa with.
But they know his name.
But so many other people know his name too.
Palms hold his face and it stops. Or it’s tunnel vision taking over with a new subject because everything else is a blur in wide eyes.
“...Huh?”
No those are tears.
“Cro- Akechi? Hey, are you… alright? Are you okay?” It's Akira’s voice. He recognizes it. That and the worry flavoring it, making his gut ache in guilt and anger. Don't you dare pity me.
If he blinks, he thinks the tears will roll and that only makes the ache worse. He can't cry in front of someone. Especially not him.
“Of course.” Throat shakes with each letter, cracking without a hint of weakness hidden. “Why wouldn't I…”
He can't do it.
For a moment, he starts to choke the feeling down, buzzing over everything fading. But within kind, worried eyes, ability to keep ignoring and lying vanishes. And instead, in another moment of drawing into reality, realization hits.
His teeth clench. Hard. It's the only thing that stops a pathetic whimper in his throat but not fast enough to not still be heard. Even behind his hands as they grab his face. Then he can pretend if he can't see Akira, he's not sobbing in front of him and that he's alone in his old apartment feeling hollow over nothing he can place.
“I'm so… I'm so sorry if I did something -- Can I do anything or…”
God, he can place it now.
He knows why it's familiar.
The thoughts, this memory makes him curl forward to stop how much harder he scrapes his teeth together, eyes squeezing in a desperate attempt to make the images flooding his mind go away. Nails itch to scrape his eyes out and keep digging until nothing of him is left to know this terror. He can't even care that he’s leaning into Akira, boy babbling again, trying to help.
“ Shut up...”
He wants to be alone. He wants nobody to be near him ever again. And he wants to be held forever and forever.
“Akechi, can you tell me what's wrong? I can… I can get water or--”
“ SHUT UP!”
Quiet. Only the sound of him trying to breathe through a stuffing nose, calm the shaking and not make any sound. If he's quiet, Akira won't know what he's doing.
He can't breathe.
A hand touches his head. Hair brushed. Back held closer. Chest burns. He wants to rip his heart out where it pounds. Reach forward and strangle whoever tries to stop the anger searing through his blood. Dare make him feel the building emotion he doesn't want to name beneath it.
“... You're safe, okay? I won't hurt you. Nobody's gonna hurt you.”
Akira holds him closer but it doesn't feel like enough. Only when his own arms go around the boy, face digging into his neck, does it approach being enough.
He's so pathetic. Weak. The fire is dying and its smoke in his brain makes him cling tighter.
But the fingers in his hair feel grounding. Like he's being told the truth from who they belong to, a someone who showed him enough organic kindness to push away the panic.
Someone…
He's someone, isn't he?
“I've got you, okay? Just... Just keep breathing.”
Not a scared child, desperate for attention. Or the remnants of bad decisions and regrets. Guilt and shame.
“Can you hear me?”
He thinks he nods. It's the first time his body feels real again. It's all his again, even through the sadness.
“Yeah,” Akechi chokes out. “I… I hear you.”
Akira’s face tucks into his hair. “Good. Then you know I'm here and I'm not letting anyone hurt you. And… And if I did, I-”
“You didn't.”
Quiet. Safe quiet over his headache as he memorizes this feeling of comfort. The way he tucks into Akira’s body, differently than they'd stepped into the room for, but even more like a place of belonging. Firm against him, holding him in real space, real time.
This... It's new. It makes Akechi smile. This can be its own memory to start with.
There's nothing familiar about it.