Archive of Our Own

Akira can’t remember how much time has passed since they all changed Masayoshi Shido’s heart. It might’ve been days, weeks; he didn’t know anymore. They days were all beginning to blend together while he hid away in his dark little attic. The days were all the same.

He would spend his nights pacing the floor of Leblanc long after he had locked up for the night, mulling over all his regrets, all the while clutching onto Akechi’s glove tucked securely into his pocket. Akira avoided sleep at all costs; it seemed all he could dream about lately was either that engine room or that interrogation room. He didn’t want to think about either. Eventually his body would give to sleep in the strange hours of the morning and he would collapse in a booth, or on a bar stool with his head in his arms on the counter in front of him.

That was where he was this morning when Sojiro came to wake him up and usher him off to his bed. His head in his arms, face down on the counter with over half a cup of coffee growing cold and congealed beside him.

”If you’re going to sleep, you should do it in your bed.” Was all Sojiro said when Akira was awake. It pained him to see the pity and sadness in the older man’s eyes.

It was all Akira could do to nod and trudge back up the stairs to do exactly that. He curled up on his cot, eyes fixed on the crack in the wall beneath the window sill while his mind fixed itself on that glove in his pocket; on the last words that Goro Akechi said to him, on whether or not they would be able to keep their promise.

Akira knew that they would not. He knew that Akechi was dead. He knew that a little piece of his own heart had died in hat engine room. He knew that he would never see Goro Akechi again.

He knew that.

From downstairs he could hear Sojiro sighing. It all sounded distant, like a memory he had half forgotten.

”What are we going to do with him, Morgana?” His faded and far-off voice asked.

Morgana did respond, but Akira couldn’t understand what he said. He wasn’t listening that closely anyways.

”it’d be great if I could understand what you were sayin’ like the kids,” Sojiro sighed again, deeper, more remorseful. “Maybe you could tell me how I’m supposed to help him through all of this.”

Morgana spoke again, and a minute later Akira could hear his soft paw steps climbing the stairs.

”You look tired,” The little cat said, lying on the stretch of empty bed behind him, his little spine pressing reassuringly against Akira’s own. “You should sleep for now.”

But Akira would not sleep. He could not possibly sleep. Not when he saw Akechi’s scared face peering out from behind the cracks in his black mask—not when he could still feel the bruises on his face and ribs, and the constricting pain of the handcuffs rubbing the skin on his wrists raw—whenever he closed his eyes.

He feared it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

”The chief is worried about you, you know,” Morgana continued speaking in a soft voice, so as not to disturb Akira if he had indeed found his way into some peaceful sleep. “We all are.”

Akira said nothing, he didn’t even move. He had always known that he was a burden, he didn’t need Morgana’s reminders.

He had already decided on returning home to his parents’ house once his probation ended. That way he couldn’t constantly be nothing but trouble for all of these people he loved; he wouldn’t be haunted by the ghost of Akechi every time he stepped outside of his room.He couldn’t stay here, there was nothing here for him anymore. Nothing but his own shortcomings, and the ghosts that would forever haunt him.

Akira just needed to figure out how he was breaking that news to everyone. How could he ever explain it in a way they would understand? How could he explain what he had lost in words?

”I’m not sure what’s going on in that head of yours,” Morgana whispered. “But I really hope that you’re going to be okay…”

Akira curled in on himself tighter, pressing his back closer to Morgana’s. He simply didn’t have it in him to speak.

Akira wasn’t sure what was going on in his own head either. All he knew was that he wanted to lay here, alone, until he simply wasted away and died. That he should’ve been the one in that engine room when the bulkhead doors closed, that Goro should’ve shot him down right then and there.

Maybe then he would still be alive.

His head began to hurt again and he wanted to sob. These migraines made him light-headed, and made it hard to breathe. Sometimes he wondered if whatever they had injected him with in the interrogation room had lasting effects, because this had never happened to Akira before and he wanted to vomit and felt like he was going to die.

He hoped his death would be kinder to him than that. He hoped Akechi’s death had been the kindest thing to happen to him, hoped it was gentle and warm, and dimly-lit just like Goro’s favorite jazz bar.

A silent tear rolled down Akira’s cheek, fueled far more by the pain in his heart than the aching of his head. He choked his sobs down and shoved those thoughts away, intensely studying the crack in the wall as if his life depended on it. Focusing on the way his splitting headache seemed to radiate out from the center of his brain. He had to steel his heart, he couldn’t afford to break down just yet; he feared that if he did it would truly be the end of his life.

He was too scared of his own emotions to try to understand them now. Too scared of what exactly he might find beneath his own facade.

”Goodnight, Akira,” Morgana whispered after a long stretch of silence. “… I hope his dreams are kinder to him than reality has been.”

Eventually that terrible headache ebbed away, leaving Akira exhausted in every sense of the word. His stomach continued to churn uneasily, driven by the fear that he would indeed die alone on this rickety old cot. That, too, subsided after hours had passed, and Akira eventually succumbed to a dark and dreamless sleep. The vast nothingness of that sleep was far more welcome than the memory of Goro’s terrified eyes staring right through him in the last moments of his life.

Akira awoke in a daze late in the afternoon. The side he had been laying on ached so fiercely it burned. Careful not to disturb Morgana, he rolled over onto his back, staring up at the cobwebs that had recently begun growing beneath the rafters. He knew he should probably do something about that soon, should probably clean soon. He knew that. He knew lots of things. What he didn’t know however, was how he was meant to get out of this bed now.

How could he possibly move when he felt so heavy? He felt like there were little balls of lead in the tips of all his fingers, and in his wrists, ankles and elbows, and like his brain was one giant lead ball rattling around in his skull. He was so tired, but he simply couldn't afford to go to sleep, not when…

He absent-mindedly reached for the glove in his pocket. Akechi. He slipped the glove onto his own hand. It didn’t help. Nothing did.

Akira closed his eyes just for a moment, just to relieve the burning in his tired eyes. It was not darkness that greeted him behind closed eyelids however. No, instead what he saw was Akechi staring at him with that steadfast leer as the bulkhead door dropped shut between them. Another reminder that all of this was his fault.

If only he hadn’t hesitated, dove right under that closing bulkhead door; if he had done that much at least Goro might still be here right now. If he had done that, Goro might not have died alone in that dark and cold engine room, all the while trapped in the mind of the man who had ruined and controlled his life for so long.

All of it had been Akira’s fault.

How was he supposed to live with himself now? With all of Goro’s blood staining his hands. How could he go on with that knowledge weighing on his shoulders?

Akira would’ve given anything to go back to the day he met Akechi. To run away, to never have met him from the start. Maybe that would’ve kept Goro safe, if he and Akira had never met at all. Or, perhaps, as Goro himself had said, if they had met a few years earlier.

It was true that Akira seemed to make a habit of saving every wayward soul who he crossed paths with; but that had never truly been his intentions. The only person Akira Kurusu had ever been trying to save was himself. He saw so much of that self in Goro Akechi that he felt the need to save him too.

And in the end the only two people Akira Kurusu had not been able to save, were Goro Akechi and himself.

And those two failures pressed down upon his very soul thousands of times heavier than any of his many accomplishments.

If only we had met a few years sooner, Akira thought bitterly. I could have saved him. His heart, His justice.

Tears blurred his vision but Akira blinked them away. He could not remember the last time he had truly cried, and he wasn’t going to start now. This would not break him—it could not —not now, not after everything he had already been through. He redirected all of his sorrows, his anguish, channeled it into anger, into hatred; hate for the gods, his persona, himself, it didn’t matter what. Hate, Akira was convinced, was the only thing keeping him breathing at the moment.

It was that very hate that he used to wall off his heart. To keep his feelings far enough at bay that nothing might actually hurt him anymore. It was best this way, he decided. He did not want to hurt anymore.

Outside his window the sun had dipped below its zenith and was growing dark and heavy in preparation to set in a few hours. Surely, Akira reasoned, the others would be out of school by now. It couldn’t hurt to indulge a little.

Akira crawled out of his unmade bed on shaky legs that had gone underused in the past few days. Every muscle in his body ached, his bones too screamed in protest as he moved. He would not be deterred however, he was drowning in this feeling and there. was one way he knew how to fix it. The one thing that kept him safe from breaking right open and spilling everything he once was out onto the floor.

He reached for his phone, and told the others to meet him at the entrance to Mementos.

Gently, he roused Morgana from his ever-shallow sleep. The cat stared up at him in some mix of confusion, worry, and—as always—a little bit of hope. Akira could not continue meeting that gaze and looked to the floor. It made him feel sick, all of that worry and hope. There was no more hope for him, Akira Kurusu was already dead.

He just wished the others would realize that too.

”Let’s go.” He said to his little friend.

”Got plans today?” Morgana asked through a yawn.

Akira did not answer him, but his ever-loyal friend went along with him regardless. Morgana took a heartbeat to stretch the sleep out of his bones before padding across the floor and leaping up onto the table, to make himself comfortable in Akira’s open bag.

Every breath the tired-eyed boy took had to be perfectly measured, every step taken with care and forethought. He knew this. If he didn’t, he would fall apart. He knew this. None of it would bring him any closer to seeing Goro Akechi again.

He knew that too.

”Okay,” Morgana said once he was settled. “Let’s go.”

Akira slung the bag over one shoulder, and forced himself to have it in him to offer a nod in response to Sojiro’s worried “Be careful, okay?” On his way out the door. Sojiro didn’t need to know what was going on in his head, didn’t deserve to be burdened with one last mess of Akira’s.

Nobody needed to know that he left that night silently hoping that he would not return alive.

The city was quiet in those hours after school, the train cars were too. Most people were arriving home just now, few of them, like Akira, were leaving. He liked those strange and empty hours in between it all. Liked the way strangers went out of their ways to advert their gazes from one another; Akira was always sure to do the same. He liked the way he was able to blend in with the background during those hours, as if he had never been there at all.

Vision unfocused, Akira climbed the stairs out of the Shibuya underground, drifting along in some state between all-consuming rage, and unfeeling nothingness. He felt as gray and bleak as the concrete walls all around him.

”Oh, there he is!” Ann‘s voice was the first thing he heard when he stepped out onto the street. “Hey, Akira—over here!”

Ann and Yusuke were peering out of an alleyway at him, tucked away from the eyes of the masses. Akira’s feet seemed to move on their own as he wandered toward the familiar duo in a daze. They were comfortable, and the warmth of their hands on his arms and shoulders as they greeted him was almost enough to chase away the dark and empty nothingness that had permeated his very being. Almost .

But Akechi’s glove on his right hand would not allow him the freedom to forget, even for a little while. Akira’s heart would not allow him to forget either.

”Have you been keeping him fed, Morgana?” Ann asked, only half joking, as Akira settled in beside her.

The little cat yawned and stretched up to stand with his front paws on Akira’s shoulder. “I’m trying to anyway, but this guy isn’t making it easy on me!”

Ann huffed and shook her head, staring Akira down with her frosty blue eyes, her hands planted firmly on her hips.

Yusuke, too, turned his attention to Akira’s tired, sunken eyes. Unlike Ann however, there was no fire in his gentle slate gaze; just an ocean of sadness with unfathomable depths.

”You have been eating, haven’t you, Akira?” The taller boy asked.

”Of course.” Was all Akira said. It wasn’t entirely a lie, Sojiro had made him eat curry at the counter downstairs two, or maybe it was three days ago. Akira had promptly thrown it up afterwards, but what the others did not know could not hurt them.

”You know you need to eat, right?!” Ann balked at him, leaning in as her eyes traced the sunken hollows of Akira’s cheekbones. “Sometimes you look like you’re wasting away right before my eyes…”

”Ann…” Yusuke reached a hand out to comfort her.

The pain in her crystalline eyes was just another thing to stab at Akira’s heart. This, too, was all his fault. He was at fault for everything it seemed. The love and concern in her eyes fueled the hate and self-loathing in his heart. How could he ever have made her feel this way? Did the others feel the same? He loved them all, he didn’t mean to hurt them.

He didn’t want to hurt them.

”I’m fine, Ann,” He told her. He wanted to mean it.

”I know you are, I know,” She said softly, as if in prayer.

He didn’t deserve her. Didn’t deserve any of them—any of this —nice things weren’t meant for mistakes like him. They all deserved far better than he was able to offer.

The others arrived one by one. First Makoto, then Futaba, Haru(who was a “little late” because she had a meeting with some of the BBB executives). And, finally, Ryuji, who had just come stumbling into view.

”Hey, guys!” He said almost nervously as his approach was greeted with silence.

The groups’ pointed stares were apparently enough of a question for him.

”I’m sorry I’m late—ya don’t gotta look at me like that, y’know! I was doin’ something important I’ll have you guys know!”

”Oh, yea?” Futaba asked nonchalantly. “And what was that, exactly?”

Ryuji got quiet, scuffed the ground with the edge of his sneaker fo a couple heartbeats.

”… I was doin’ some shopping for my mom…” He mumbled, head down, gaze darting away at every second.

That explanation seemed to suffice because no question were asked and everyone’s immediate attention shifted away from Ryuji once more. Akira continued to look past him however, to the crowd of people weaving about just outside that alley, hoping to catch a glimpse of his rival in the sea of faces; knowing that he would not.

“Everybody’s here now,” Morgana’s voice brought him out of his little trance. “Whaddaya wanna do?”

The reminder set his pain back into purpose. There were fires burning in his silver eyes. Rage and anger would protect him now he decided, would wall off his heart and keep him safe until finally some sort of end found him.

”Mementos.” Was all he had to say.

”Roger that!” Futaba cried out, giving a mock salute as she booted up the nav and tucked her laptop under one arm. “To Mementos we go!”

There was a warm and foul air blowing through Mementos, it was damp and sour, like the breath of some terrible beast. Akira sneered as he stepped out onto empty train tracks and that dark breeze came rushing out to meet him. He studied the darkened hallway in the distance, searching for some sort of movement; a shadow skulking about—Crow— anything . He was met with only darkness.

Morgana leapt into the air, in preparation for the transformation from cat to car, but Akira caught him by the scruff and gently placed him back down on his paws.

”We walk.” Was the only explanation he gave, taking his first step towards the dark o the tunnels, dagger clutched tight in his black-gloved right hand.

”Are you being for real right now, man?!” Ryuji balked in premature exhaustion.

”Deathly serious.” Akira said, and he continued to walk, not concerned with whether or not the others would follow him.

”Does Joker really plan to travel Mementos on foot?” Futaba asked in hushed whispers behind him. He heard every word of course, but he ignored them. He would let them talk. He had more pressing matters on his mind.

”We’ll just have to go with him for now,” Haru was assuring her. So they were going to follow him. That knowledge brought Akira no comfort now.

”Yeah,” Ann chimed in. “ We have to go with him, we can’t let anything happen to our Joker, can we?”

“Yes, Panther’s right,” Haru said.

Movement at the far end of the corridor caught Akira’s eye, and the world around him fell away into nothing and darkness. It was just Akira and that distant shadow his keen eyes had spotted.

All that rage inside him, all that burning hate and anguish finally had somewhere to go. A wild grin tore across Akira’s face.

No more was he Akira Kurusu of Yogen-Jaya, friend of Ryuji, Ann, and the others. No more was he Akira Kurusu, diliegent and unnotable highschool student. He was once again the leader of the righteous Phantom Thieves. He was once again the rogue delienquint from the shadows, who had forsaken the ways of a world that had so wronged him and everyone around him.

He was Joker, the instinctual creature who had defeated the fell ways of the human heart, and who would repay all of society for the wrongs committed against him and those dearest to him.

He was Joker, who sealed his mind against all but survival, who put aside the emotional pain of the loss of Goro Akechi.

Dagger leading the way in the dark, Joker charged, sprinting silently on light feet towards his first victim. He heard not a sound, saw not a thing save for the brutish shadow in the distance. With a grace that possessed Akira moreso than he possessed it, he side-stepped and twirled away from the sluggish but powerful swings from the shadow. His dagger weaved in and out, fienting left and right to keep his enemy unaware. When he spotted an opening, he did not hesitate, one deep slash through the shadow’s throat left his blade and and coated in quickly drying black fluid. Whatever it was was far too thick of be the blood of humans.

His unaware opponent crumpled to the ground pathetically. The last thing it saw was the flash of steel wielded by a nimble, dark silhouette. And those silver eyes. Flaming eyes. Burning eyes.

Joker did not pause to savour the kill, did not even stop to breathe, just stalked off in search of more prey. Whether the others followed him did not matter anymore.

He was on the hunt now.

Shadows came at him in a rushing onslaught, and one-by-one they each fell to his blade. Every battle he fought, Akira’s movements became more sloppy; he left himself open and unguarded more and more, often just to land unnessicary and shallow hits and cuts. He paid the price for it as well, trading blow-for-blow with every shadow he came across. Although in these moments, Joker felt no pain, no exhaustion, his bladearm never once slowed its leathal weaving and dancing.

That would come later; the pain, the exhaustion. Like the weak and deblitating emotion of grief, he didn’t need those things anymore.

He parried away the arm of one shadow with the dagger in his right hand, and drew his gun with his left to down a distant shadow just rounding the corner. He was perfectly in his element here, surrounded by and darkness and hoardes of enemies on all sides who would not relent until either he or they were dead. This was exactly where he needed to be; where Akira the dreamer could sleep, while Joker the hunter was awake. He would not tire, would not relent.

”Joker!” Futaba’s voice called out to him, shrill with panic.

Akira pivoted on his heel immediately to face the group, ready to spring at the first shadow he saw. Except he saw no shadows. Only the terrified faces of his friends on the opposite end of the corridor as him.

’Look out!” Makoto cried.

Akira began to turn on his heel again.

”It’s behind you!” Yusuke shouted.

He was too slow. Too late.

A powerful blow to Akira’s shoulders sent the boy crumbling to his knees, the air knocked suddenly from his lungs. Three more shadows came melding out of the dark around him. He was surrounded. He sa the others rushing towards him, and the claws of the shadows bearing down on him.

The others would be too slow. Too late.

It was exactly as Akira had planned.

Joker, however, was far from satisfied with the amount of carnage and destruction he had sown.

A scream, wild and feral, tore from Akira’s throat, originating from the very core of his essence. Rising to his feet once more, he tore the mask from his face, warm blood blossoming in its place as Joker called to his Persona; to he hunter within him, to his anger and rage.

He would die here, yes, but he wanted to drag at least one more down into the dark with him.

The brilliant flash of a well-time Egia had the shadows crumpling to the ground around him. Joker was quick to incapacitate three of them with two bullets in the back of their heads. The fourth one however, lying in a husk at his feet; Akira took his time with that one.

Akira stabbed out blindly, driven by his anguish and fury. He couldn’t even see the movements of his blade, just felt the hammering of his arm and the icy chill of the black blood of shadows. Even feeling that was far too much for him. Akira drove his blade home again and again and again, and did not stop stabbing even after he had worn a wrist-deep cavitiy in the dead thing’s chest.

Akira likely would not have stopped until he collapsed, but a warm and rough hand pulled him back suddenly, but carefully.

”It’s already dead! Hey—it’s dead, man! Snap out of it! ” Ryuji’s voice called out to him.

Akira turned to face him with pale and sunken features. And his—Oh, those eyes!—Ryuji was chilled to the core, he was certain he would never forget those eyes as long as he lived; spiderwebbed by red veins from his exhaustion, pupils shrunken in his furious rage, the fires that burned in those silver eyes, all of it masked by the bright crimson of his blood staining his face where his mask once was.

“What the hell has gotten into you, dude?”

Akira said nothing, just continued to stare up at Ryuji with those haunting eyes that were drowning in a mask of his own blood. A dark bead of blood streaked down his jawline and dripped from his chin. Akira could hear the sound of it hitting the ground echoing through the tunnels.

”Are you… Okay? ”

Akira opened his mouth to speak, but he felt like he was choking. He coughed and gagged and sputtered until something viscous and warm filled his mouth and spilled past his lips. The exhaustion and pain came creeping back in as thoughts of immdieate survival slipped away. His limbs trembled, his body ached. Once again he tried to tell Ryuji that he was fine, and again he coughed up another wave of blood onto the ground beneath him.

And then Akira was falling.

And the the world went dark.

When Akira opened his eyes again, he saw the concerned faces of Futaba and Morgana fussing over him. He frowned.

”Joker!” Futaba cried in relief.

”He’s alright, everybody!” Morgana announced proudly.

“Why am I still here?” Akira asked, bitter.

”Because Mona and Oracle worked their butts off to make sure you didn’t die on us!” Ann barked at him, her voice breaking as tears welled in her eyes. “And you’re going to be here with us for a long time yet, you got that?”

Akira wished he knew how to agree with her.

”Come on,” Makoto said forcefully, leaving no room for arguement. “We’re going home.”

Akira looked longingly to the corridors that wold lead to his own demise. He never got his chance to make a run for those tunnels however, not with Makoto and Ryuji firmly holding onto one of arms each. There was no room to protest, and his arms were far too exhausted from his frenzied battling to possibly break free.

He resigned himself to this fate for now,  knowing he would never be able to finally give in it his fate while they were in his life. No matter, he would go back home as soon as he was able.

Nobody who loved him would have to pick up his corpse when he moved back into his parents’ house.

In a daze Akira allowed them to drag him out of Mementos and back to the real Station Square. Inevitably, they would all part ways for the night here. He hated that. He didn’t want any of them to lead his side, not even for a day anymore. What if he failed to protect them too? He couldn’t let that happen.

”We’ll all see each other soon then, ya” Ryuji asked.

”I certainly intend on it, yes,” Yusuke replied.

”Yeah, me too!” Ann chirped.

”Well then, shall we break here for the night” Haru asked, to which the others nodded their agreements..

”Take care of him for us, okay Mona?” Ann asked, afraid.

”I always do my best for you guys,” The cat replied. “Don’t worry, he’s under my care!”

Akiraw watched them all head for their different trains home with an ache in his heart. He wished he could follow each of them at once.

Futaba was the only one who remained at his side. Probably waiting to be walked home, Akira assumed.

He turned for their train line, but her small hand caught his wrist, stopping him where he stood.

”U-uh… Uhm,” she stammered, her voice trembling. “Come with me, okay?

Akira only nodded. Futaba understof being a shut-in, and unlike th others she did not tend to keep him away from his room until he began to feel unreasonably anxious and upset.

He didn’t know which train she took him on. When they arrived in Kichijoji, he wandered through the streets beside her like a lost ghost left clinging to this world. When she led him to the entrance of the Jazz&Jin he nearly collapsed to his knees all over again.

Why ?

Why here? Why now? Why this ? Why?

”You haven’t eaten in over a week,” Futaba said, answering his silent questions. “I know you’re sick of curry by now, so let’s have some greasy bar food, it’s my treat, so don’t worry about it, ‘kay?”

”I’m not-“

” I’m not giving you a choice,” Futaba cut him off, narrowing her eyes up at him. “Got that?”

He said nothing, just stared down at her with those cold, stoney eyes. She pulled at his sleeve and he reluctantly trailed along after her.

He felt dizzy—felt sick. He wanted to go home.

“I’m sorry things have been rough lately,” Futaba said to him as they sat down in that familiar set of seats by the stage.

The place where he sat with Goro.

Akira fixed his eyes on his colorful drink. He knew he had to say something to her, but he could not find the words. All he had to offer was pain. The pain in his body. Pain in his heart.

He wanted to say something to her.

She sighed, eyes heavy with sorrows and sympathies. She knew, in a sense, what he was going through. And yet, even she could not duly comprehend all that Akira had lost.

”I know it isn’t easy right now,” She began hesitantly. “I know everything feels helpless and overwhelming and dark. But you can’t let this rule your life forever—you’re the one who taught me that, don’t you remember?”

Of course he did. How could he ever forget?

But surely Futaba could see it just as well as Akira could. Goro’s death could not possibly be ruling his life, for Akira had no life left in him. He was just a husk of yearning and hurt and hate. That was all there was now. No life, only agony.

”He’s gone, Akira,” She pleaded with him in hushed whispers. “I’m sorry, and I know… I know it hurts— but , that doesn’t mean you have to give up on your own life too.”

She fell silent. Waiting.

Akira said nothing.

” I miss you ,” She whispered on the brink of tears. “ We miss you.”

Akira said nothing.

At the behest of Futaba’s nagging, he attempted to eat some of the simple noodles she had bought them to share. The food tasted bland and gray in his mouth, his throat reflexively closing up. He wanted nothing more than to spit it back into the bowl it had been served to them in. Eating caused a cold chill to tear down his spine. He didn’t deserve food, not even shitty bar food. He didn’t deserve anything.

It was all his fault. Everything was always his fault.

He had to atone for it somehow.

”Let the dead rest, Akira.”

He continued to shovel food into his mouth, knowing that she couldn’t possibly be expecting him to speak while he was eating. She wanted him to eat. This way she could not force him to speak.

It all tasted like rot in his mouth. Like something foul and decaying before he ever got his hands on it. His stomach roiled, and his throat filled with bile that he wold force back down under another mouthful of food.

”This isn’t just depression and rotting anymore—I should know, I’m an expert—“ Futaba looked at him with wide eyes wet with the beginnings of tears. “You’re decaying on your bones right in front of me… If you go on like this, there will be no more Akira Kurusu soon, whether you’re alive or not!”

Her words were like a shot to the guts, and all of Akira’s well-honed composure unfurled before his eyes. He gagged on his next bite of food, and could no longer suppress the bile rising in his throat. He opened his mouth to tell her that everything was going to be fine. To reassure her. No words came out, only vomit and bile that spilled onto the food on the table in front of him.

Vomit, bile, and blood.

“ Akira …!” Futaba squealed in horrified shock. “Are you okay?! Can you stand? Come on, we’re going home.”

But Akira could not stand, could not even breathe. His throat was tight like someone was trying to strangle the life out of him. He gasped and heaved, straining to fill his chest with air until his ribs felt as though they might break. Still it was not enough, he was air hungry, it felt like his breath never reached the bottom of his lungs no matter what he did.

He was lightheaded and dizzy, and the metallic tang of blood and bile burned all the way down his throat. Akira felt like he could collapse on the spot, and wished that he would. He wondered again what exactly they had injected in him that fateful November day. Akira wondered again if he would die here.

Again Akira wondered if it mattered if he did.

Wondered if he might just simply lay down and give into it.

Futaba fumbled with her phone, first trying to call Sojiro, then trying to text the others. Her little hands were shaking so badly that she was not able to do either. Akira rose to his feet, wiping the blood and bile off his lips with the back of one hand. He watched her with dead and hollow eyes ringed by darkness and exhaustion, before he took her hand in his black-gloved own delicately, to gently lead her out of the jazz bar.

He couldn’t breathe the air outside correctly either. Not that it mattered either way. He already knew that the gods would never grant Akira Kurusu of all people a sudden, and merciful death. They likely would not grant him the kindness of any death at all.

Still laboring for breath, Akira strung Futaba along back to the train station. At some point she put her pone away, he never noticed when. The jazz bar, his guilt, her concern, Akechi’s ghost. All of it had been too much. He wanted to go home. He needed the safety of hiding away behind the closed and locked door of Leblanc.

“Are you okay?” He asked her as they stood side-by-side on the train.

She stared up at him incredulously.

”Are you okay” She asked him trepidatiously.

”I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me. I know what I just saw.”

He said nothing. The only thing to say would be to admit that he missed Goro. And how could he ever say that aloud? How could he ever admit that to himself, let alone others?

Akira silently studied the stubborn resolve etched across her face. Futaba’s tired eyes spoke of worlds of hurt and pain that her lips would never utter. Fear lived in those eyes too. She had already lost so much.

But it wasn’t the same, Akira decided as they left the train-car hand-in-hand. It would never be the same. It couldn’t be. He refused to believe that there was anyone alive on this earth that could possibly know exactly what he had lost. No one else could possibly know the true depths of the pain in his heart. Not anymore.

Futaba stopped him just outside of Leblanc. Her dark eyes studied his face as if she was desperately trying to commit every detail to memory. As if this was the last time she would ever see him. That time would come eventually, yes, but it was not this night. She didn’t have to look so afraid.

”You can rot and be depressed if you have to, that’s fine, y’know,” She said to him. “But don’t you dare make me mourn the loss of another person that I love—you got that?”

Akira offered her a shadow of his former smile and a quiet nod. The hurt in her eyes softened, but did not diminish. She had already lost so much.

What right did he have to take even more from her? Akira was truly disgusted with himself for being this selfish at times.

”So I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? You have to promise that I will…” She stemmed on the verge of tears.

”I promise,” He said, if only to make her feel better. Akira knew in his heart that he could not actually guarantee anything of the sort.

”And don’t you forget it either,” She snapped playfully. “Welp, it’s time for me to make like a tree—goodnight Akira.”

With those parting words Futaba started on her way down the road. She paused only once to turn and look at Akira one last time. She lingered there a moment, until Futaba had found whatever she was searching for and she turned around once more.

Inside Leblanc the customers had all since left for the night. Still, Sojiro remained, waiting patiently for him to return home. Akira made a point not to stare at the open pack of cigarettes on the counter as he set his things down and let Morgana out of his bag.

“You’re back,” Sojiro remarked, as he often did, when Akira returned home. “… I wish I could do more than just welcome you home while you’re dealing with all of this Shido nonsense. But, since I can’t, I’m going to do my damn best to make sure you have somewhere safe to come home to.”

Akira appreciated the sentiment, as well as everything that Sojiro had done for him. He wished he wouldn’t though. He wished he would save that kindness for someone who actually deserved it.

He sat down at the counter, and Sojiro looked down at him with tired and heavy eyes. Akira took a deep breath, still desperate to fill the bottom of his lungs. Sojiro sighed as well.

Wordlessly the older man slid a fresh cup of coffee across the counter toward Akira, before he slowly sat down on the bar stool next to him.

”The last time I saw a face like that,” Sojiro began. “Was the first time I dared to look into a mirror after Wakaba died.”

Akira fixed his gaze on the reflections of light swimming around in the surface of his coffee. He had no idea how he could begin to explain this situation to Sojiro. So he wouldn’t even try. Akira silently curled in on himself, desperate for the safety of being small and unseen.

”Uh-huh, I thought so.” Sojiro said. He placed a reassuring hand on Akira’s shoulder for several heartbeats. The warmth of human contact in any form, which Akira so very rarely received, sent emotional shockwaves through his tired heart. “I don’t know who or what you lost, but I can tell that you feel like you lost your own life along with it.”

”… Something like that.”

”Well, I have bad news for you, kid, you didn’t. And like it or not, it’s too early to be digging your own grave too.”

Akira said nothing, just hung his head in shame.

”It’s okay to let the dead rest, Akira. You will see them again someday.”

He nodded weakly and pathetically. ‘Someday’ wasn’t good enough for him, he wanted to see Goro again now.

”It’s no fair to the living that you go wandering around like a lost ghost now.”

Akira finally sipped his coffee to soothe his sore and burning throat. The drink was warm, but in his overwhelming grief, he could not actually taste it.

Sojiro stood slowly, letting his words hang in the air as he gently clapped Akira on the shoulder one more time. “I’m goin’ home now, alright?” Sojiro looked at Akira like he was trying to figure something out, with all of that concerned scrutiny of his. “Get some sleep tonight. You look like you need it.”

Akira wished it was that easy.

”Goodnight, Akira,” Sojiro said as he left, closing the door carefully behind him.

Akira forced himself to choke down his coffee as quickly as possible. The pale brown color kept reminding him of Goro’s eyes. Life itself mocked his loss. All he wanted was to curl up in bed and never wake up again. Even that was asking for too much it seemed.

Still he intended to sleep either way.

Exhaustion pressed down on him with every step he took towards his bed. Exhaustion from his reckless rampaging through Mementos, from his violent sickness in the jazz bar, all of it. His body felt sluggish, he could barely keep his eyes open, and despite this he still could not actually fall asleep when he laid down. He tried to sleep, tossing and turning for hours, the blanket shoved up against one end of the bed.

Still, he could not sleep.

His legs ached and burned with the need to stand, to move, even despite everything he had done in the day. His eyes burned too, ached with the need to shut his eyelids and rest, however Akira was unable to keep his eyes closed for more than a second. He wanted to sleep, but he could not. He wanted to stay here, but he could not.

The moon crawling towards its zenith outside his window seemed to taunt him. Morgana’s sleeping form on the bed beside him even moreso.

Until Akira finally grew tired of pretending. Of just laying there with his eyes refusing to close, wondering ‘what now?’

So he crawled back out of bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping cat at his side. Morgana, at least, deserved to sleep, even if Akira did not. Morgana was not the one who continued to burden others with his problems. Akira was.

That was why he had to leave, he reminded himself as he crept silently down the stairs into the dark and empty cafe. If it weren’t for him, none of them would be in this mess now; if he wasn’t here, maybe Goro would still be alive. It was too late to stop any of that now, so he would disappear back into the hole he had crawled out of to atone for it. That was all he knew how to do.

In a daze, Akira wandered behind the counter to fill his empty cup from earlier with more coffee. The others would all be better off without him dragging them down with him all the time; without him putting them in situations that could get them hurt or killed all of the time. He set his coffee aside, rifling around the various jars on the shelf for a handful of assorted coffee beans, before finally sitting down at the counter. Everything was his fault. It was always his fault. Akira popped a coffee bean into his mouth to chew on, the taste too bitter to be ignored. He had to go, didn’t he? How else could he make everyone else happy?

Akira sighed roughly, scraping a hand through his unruly hair. They would forgive him, eventually, for choosing to vanish without a word. Someday they would see that it’s better that way, without him; where he couldn’t hurt them anymore. Would see that with every fiber of his being he wanted to stay with them, but he had to leave. For their sakes.

Akira had lived a life alone before, he could do it again. A year was not such a long time, it was still possible to revert back to who he had been before them. Wasn’t it? That lone, solitary thing he had been before was not lurking so far beneath the surface of who he was now after all.

He took deep sips of his coffee, hoping caffeine might be what makes him feel alive again. It is not. All it does is make his bad thoughts move faster through his tired mind.

Akira didn’t want to be alone again. He feared it more than anything, the return to that being of solitude and lonesomeness. But he would rather endure the suffering he had always known than risking hurting the only people who had ever loved him enough to lift him out of that place.

So he would leave. It would be better that way.

His friends would forgive him someday.

Akira downed a second cup of coffee, a third, a fourth. He still felt so exhausted. He paced the floor of Leblanc, chewing on coffee beans as if the bitter taste in his mouth might override the far more profound bitterness stewing in his heart. He could feel the exhuastion finally creeping up on him. It terrified him.

He didn’t want to sleep. His dreams were nothing but nightmarish memories lately. He didn’t want to relive the pain and drug-induced confusion of being in the interrogation room. He didn’t want to watch Akechi vanish in real time. If he could just stay awake a little longer, the morning sunlight would make thoughts of sleep obsolete. If he could just stay awake a little longer, the death of Goro would not come to haunt him for his failures this night. If he could just stay awake a little longer, then he would be safe.

If he could just stay awake a little longer…

But Akira’s limbs were growing heavy. The coffee cup on the counter seemed awfully inviting, and his legs seemed to simply give out beneath him as he collapsed back down onto the barstool. He stared down at the mostly empty cup of coffee with an empty glare, reaching out with unsteady hands to pour himself more.

The dark liquid looked like pure darkness in the unlit Leblanc. Akira couldn’t help but remember how Goro’s eyes used to look like that same charcoal color in the dimly lit Jazz&jin. Akira couldn’t help but remember Goro.

Goro…

That had been Akira’s fault too, hadn’t it? Of course it had. It seemed he could save anyone in the world except for the person he wanted to save. The person he had been trying to save.

Akira cradled his head in his hands. He wanted to scream, but he could barely even breathe. Tears stung at his eyes, and his whole body trembled from the great effort it took to prevent those tears from falling.

It wasn’t fair. Neither of them had ever asked for this. It wasn’t fair and there was nothing that could be done about it.

If only they had met sooner, Akira silently lamented; or later, or in some other life, or not at all. Maybe then, he convinced himself, things could have been different. Maybe then Goro wouldn’t have had to die. Maybe, then, they could’ve both found some twisted form of happiness.

A single tear broke free of Akira’s well-worn facade, rolling down his cheek silently. He could not recall the last time he cried, and in his current state Akira could not say with confidence if he had ever cried; prison had been too shocking for him to cry, and the trauma and drugs had effectively blocked out any of his remaining childhood memories. Even all of the times he had cried could not prepare him for the emotional dam that teetered on the edge of breaking open.

First it was one tear, then another, and another. Silent tears streaked down his face and he slowly lowered his head into his arms folded on the counter in front of him. Fat and wet tears soaked into the sleeves of his dark jacket, and his shoulders began to shake with quiet and broken sobs. This time, he did not fight his tears. He did not build a wall of anger and stone around his heart. Akira welcomed his pain, allowed himself to feel his hurt.

Images of Goro raced through his mind and Akira welcomed those too. Goro facing down against him in Mementos, him playing billiards, Goro’s terrified eyes behind the cracks in his black mask; their first night in the Jazz&Jin, Goro’s last moments behind that closing bulkhead door. Akira welcomed all of it.

He wanted to feel all of it. His pain, anger and frustration, the betrayal, the heartache, the absurdity and unfairness of it all. He let those thoughts in, let them race through his mind and fuel the anguish of his terrible sobbing.

Akira wailed into his sleeves, a snotty, drooling, teary mess. It was disgusting. He was disgusting. Chook in on every gasp for air, unable to control or stifle he pathetic whines and whimpers that bubbled out of his chest between every breath.

This crying was terrible, overwhelming and messy, he hated it. It was suffocating and ugly, and Akira desired to be neither of those things. Yes, it was awful, stifling, agonizing, repulsive, messy, and myriad other terrible things.

But it was also so very freeing.

The pain in his heart that had been building for all his life slowly, bit by bit, began to unravel. It wasn’t a lot, he still hurt more profoundly than he ever would again; but it took that stinging edge off of old and far more distant pains. That wall of stone around his broken heart began to crumble, and for the first time Akira did not panic and rush to set it back into place. For the first time, Akira let the walls around is heart crumble.

It was so very freeing.

Eventually however, Akira had nothing more in him to give, and his tortured sobs began to quiet and slow. In place of his erratic and uncontrollable crying, the dim apathy of his guilt and self-loathing came creeping back to envelope his mind. He unfurled from the counter slowly, lifting his head to face the world around him once more. Akira felt cold without his arms cradling his face.

With a weak and sluggish hand, Akira reached for the half empty pack of cigarettes lying on one end of the counter. Sojiro never seemed to notice when Akira took one on nights like this, and if he had he’d never said anything about it. So, surely, he thought, what harm would taking one more right now do?

Akira held the cigarette loosely between his lips, lighting it with the lighter he stole from the 777 to make infiltration tools with. The smoke was hot when he breathed it in, felt like it was tearing up his throat. Akira winced, but forced himself to maintain his composure long enough to blow it smoothly back out of his lungs, choking down the incoming wave of coughs by greedily drinking down his coffee.

His mind continued to wander as smoke filled the dark and empty cafe, not to memories of Akechi however. Sojiro’s words were still weighing heavy on his mind.

Had he truly been wandering around like a ghost this whole time? Drifting the streets like a phantom?

Akira found that he felt more like a walking corpse than a lost spirit.

He combed a hand slowly through his hair, taking another drag off his cigarette. Maybe Sojiro was right, maybe it was selfish of Akira to behave this way; but he simply could not control how he felt. It was also true that it was becoming a burden on those around him, the events of today were all the evidence he needed to prove that. Ryuji and Ann had scolded him for his reckless attempts in Mementos; even Futaba felt the need to void her opinions on the matter, something that he knew she would not do lightly.

That was why he had to leave, Akira reminded himself. If he wasn’t here he couldn’t trouble them like this anymore. He could not hurt them anymore.

He didn’t want to hurt them anymore, so he would go home again and condemn himself to solitude once more.

Akira smoked the cigarette in his hand down to the end of it. With a scowl, he tossed it into the ashtray on the far end of the counter. He supposed it was no real mystery why he struggled to breathe lately.

Exhaustion came creeping up on him once more, tired and heavy, and Akira found that he could not keep his eyes open despite his best efforts. He blinked once and his eyes stayed shut, in the darkness behind his eyelids, Akira could see the scared and worried expression of Goro Akechi, surrounded on all sides and trapped in that horrible engine room. He forced his eyes open again, his arms crossed on the counter in front of him. He glanced longingly at his still-full cup of coffee, but he never bothered to reach for it. Akira’s eyes closed again, and this time he saw the scared and worried faces of the Phantom Thieves watching him risk his life in Mementos only hours ago. Maybe Sojiro was right, maybe he should stay here instead.

Akira’s eyes closed once more and did not open again until the sun had risen.

that was where he was when Sojiro woke him up to usher him off to his bed. His head in his arms, face down on the counter with over half a cup of coffee growing cold and congealed beside him.

”If you’re going to sleep, you should do it in your bed.” Was all Sojiro said to him, sadness and pity shone in the older man’s eyes.

It was all Akira could do to nod and trudge back up the stairs to do exactly that. He curled up. On his cot, eyes fixed on the crack beneath the window sill, while his mind fixed itself on that black glove in his pocket.