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When Ann first met Akira— all those months ago, sheltering beneath the overhang of Jeunesse et Beaute, she'd thought nothing of it.
She had been more worried about Kamoshida, back then. About Shiho, about her career; feeling so cornered that she wants to snap, wants to take the wheel from Kamoshida’s sweaty hands and swerve his car into the nearest telephone pole.
Ann doesn’t have the time to care about the supposed ex-convict transfer student trailing her, or the inexplicable meowing of a cat, or the way her vision melts and warps when she walks past an alleyway she could've sworn Sakamoto just ducked into.
Nothing felt real— not when Shiho’s standing on the edge of the roof, not when Kamoshida’s everywhere, around every corner, in every crevice. Not when Ann’s standing in the girls’ bathroom, reapplying her mascara with a lashline still soaked, mind snagging on the same useless mantra: It's supposed to be waterproof.
Days pass in a haze of school, work, after school, home, and shower— repeating over and over again until she can make the trip to the girls locker room with her eyes closed, a path worn through the white linoleum.
Then, suddenly, she was Panther, and the world is spinning in dreamy circles round and round until she’s slamming a gilded claymore through the shadow version of herself— near indecent, wailing like a child when it melts to the floor. Ryuji and Akira’s eyes are hot on her neck, needling her. Shame pools in her stomach, and she wishes, more than anything, that they'd covered their masks.
She flits around Kamoshida’s palace, closing her eyes and covering her ears when they walk past occupied prison cells, Akira’s hand on the small of her back and Morgana’s paws at her calf as they rush away, searching elsewhere for treasure.
Ann gets to tear into Kamoshida’s prison guards— whip glinting silver when Akira calls on her to cast Agi, Carmen swelling behind her.
Her heart’s racing— fingers itching beneath the latex. Ann’s standing before Kamoshida with the gun in her hands, and Akira— Joker, locks his gray-gaze with hers and nods, like he won’t mind if she kills Kamoshida right there with her own hands.
She's a Phantom Thief now: planning heists and pressing herself into leather-bound café seats, squished between the wall and Ryuji— a latte with creamy microfoam flowers blooming at the lip of the cup staring up at her.
She records it, of course. Kamoshida confesses, and Ann’s been liberated in the way that she's been clawing toward— turning a corner and seeing nothing but a carefree Akira waving at her, Ryuji hanging on his arm, Morgana squawking inside his bag. The lights in Kamoshida’s office are off.
May melts into June— Ann tucks herself in the back booth of Leblanc, pouring everything she has into Akira’s JSL lessons while Yusuke sketches the curve of her fingers and nails when she mirrors him, graphite kicking clouds of dust into the air. The Sayuri's gentle gaze pricks her back, the iced tea that she’d badgered Akira about sitting half-empty at her side.
Spring melts into fall, the ranks of the Phantom Thieves growing with more friends than she ever thought she'd have, suddenly feeling like the girls she admired so much, phone constantly buzzing with the promise of conversation.
Ann fails fewer tests with Makoto’s help, has plenty of caffeine with Futaba, explores new high-end stores with Haru. Hell, she’s even shared a few breathless moments with Akechi, yanking his arm to drag him away from a particularly pointed Ziodyne.
Right— it's November now. That's why Akechi’s here.
Mere weeks away from Akira’s predetermined execution, and Ann’s gut flips at the thought. Akira alone— in the basement of the diet building. If they don't get this right, he's dead.
She wants to latch onto him like a leech and never let go, to pull him in for a hug so crushing that he’ll never never end up being another name on TV, existing in the program of whatever late-night talk show Akechi is starring on.
But that would be weird, so she does the next best thing, whipping out her phone.
you [16:06]
no palace tonight?
my glorious king akira [16:08]
Nope
I’m working tonight
you [16:09]
which job!?!?
there is a thing and it's being too employed and guess what it's you
my glorious king akira [16:10]
Crossroads
If you want to come over and chill until my shift, that’s fine.
It doesn't start until later tonight
you [16:11]
are you being serious
because if so i WILL be there
my glorious king akira [16:12]
Yeah
I don't mind!
you [16:14]
ok wait if i'm coming over b4 ur shift
i actually have a question!!! u can say no
it's actually been killing me How do u get ur eyeliner so even and how do u get ur falsies to look like that
my glorious king akira [16:13]
I can show you, no worries.
It’ll be fun
Girls night
you [16:15]
yes ma’am!! omw ♡
my glorious king akira emphasized your message.
₊ ⊹ .
Ann rounds the corner to Leblanc just as Sojiro is stepping out, whistling something to himself. He waves at Akira through the window panes, clouding with the warmth inside.
Sojiro jumps when he sees her, hand tightening around the take-out bag in his grasp.
Ann stiffens, impossibly so, waving politely with her brightest I’m not up to any hijinks with your teenage son smile.
“Closing up early?” She asks, pausing to twirl a strand of hair around her finger. “Super slow today with all this drab weather, I bet.”
As if on cue, a gust of bitter early-winter wind sweeps past them, rattling the shingles on the bathhouse.
Sojiro only sighs, reaching out to pat her on the shoulder. “Akira’s manning the ship. You go on in. He's already brewing something.”
Ann offers him a mock salute and fiddles with Leblanc’s loose doorknob as Sojiro’s footsteps fade into the Yongen-Jaya night, shoes scuffing against the rough pavement.
The warm, coffee-heavy smell of Leblanc wraps around her the moment she steps inside, bell chiming overhead. The overhead lamps are half-off, dimmed in the way Akira likes it and Akechi loathes, always complaining about the lack of light. Ann shakes away the thought, shrugging off her winter jacket.
Akira doesn't look up from what is presumably her mug, diligently working at whatever latte art project he's started this time. Steam coats his glasses in a thin film.
Morgana vaults himself onto the counter at the sight of her, breaking Akira's concentration, and Ann glares daggers at Morgana for the both of them.
She slides into the seat across from Akira, it's easy, like she's coming home. It could almost be routine, if Akira didn't have so many side hustles.
Morgana’s meowing something— Lady Ann this, Lady Ann that, probably. She scratches him behind the ears absentmindedly, watching Akira white-knuckle the pitcher, milky lines wobble uselessly across the surface of the drink, ruined when Morgana spooked him.
Guilt pulls at her. She replays a conversation she had with Akira only days ago— all the hours he takes on, all the work he does just to be able to afford their medicine and supplies for the Metaverse. Like it's nothing.
Ann has her suspicions regarding his doctor, too, but she doesn't bring it up. Maybe she should.
He’d assured her that yes, it's certainly a lot to juggle, but he likes most of his jobs well enough— he's making more than he ever has, and he's found an actual community at Crossroads, which Ann thinks is cute.
She's the only one that knows the extent of Akira’s seemingly endless work ethic, and she frowns, drawing shapes on the counter. She's the only one who knows about Crossroads, specifically.
Not that any of their friends would be disgusted by it— absolutely not. That's not the kind of company they keep. Everyone knows Akira’s bisexual, anyhow. It's not like he's hiding it.
It's just… hard. Makoto and Haru would have an aneurysm if they knew Akira was serving alcohol underage, Ryuji’s head would probably explode with the concept, Yusuke would be too excited to maintain himself, Futaba— Futaba probably knows, actually, and Akechi also… probably knows. Ann bites her lip.
She's ripped out of her thoughts by the clink of a mug against its saucer and Morgana’s indignant meowing trying to dip his little paw into the leftover cream.
Whatever design Akira had tempted to pour into the cup has long since fizzled out, a stringy mess of foam that resembles nothing in particular. Ann smiles anyway, nails clicking lightly against the porcelain.
She cups the mug in both hands and breathes in. It smells like chocolate and creamer, overly-sweet and sticky at her lips.
“Is this hot chocolate?” She asks, wincing at the heat rising from it. “Like, real hot chocolate? Not the powdered stuff?”
Akira flashes her a quick nod, eyes still flicking to the TV buzzing in the corner. “I know you hate the fake kind,” he signs with a small sigh.
Ann’s fingers tighten around the mug. For a split second, her mind jumps to the cold steel and fluorescent lights of the Diet Building, heart aching.
The first sip is perfect, but anything Akira makes usually is. He has a knack for it, really. He’s good at mixing something that appeals to everyone’s palate, only increasing in accuracy the better he knows you. Ann wouldn't be surprised if he melted an actual bar of chocolate, just for her.
“So good,” Ann hums, reaching across the counter to flick Morgana when he goes for the cream again. “How are you so good at this?”
Akira shrugs in response, rolling his wrist. His joints crackle faintly. Ann mirrors him, popping her own knuckles in response. He swats at Morgana, who now has half his paw lodged in his mouth.
They lapse into a comfortable silence, interview thrumming quietly on the TV beside them. Every so often, Akira’s nails tap against his phone, now laying flat to the counter. From Ann’s angle, it looks like he's messaging that reporter he knows. Something short, from the sight of it. I have plans tonight. Sorry.
She swallows and looks away before she can think about it too hard.
The interview is promotional junk, nothing but commercials she’s already seen a dozen. Ann knows why it's on, though.
It's the one Akechi appears on.
It's smart to keep tabs on him, she knows— Ryuji is probably hate-watching from his couch right now, itching to spam the Akechi-less group chat about his pretentious aura and annoying comments.
But judging by the sparkle in Akira's eyes when Akechi lets a bit of him slip in the Metaverse, a quick, “You're supposed to dodge, you know,” he’s watching for real.
Ann scrolls on her phone absentmindedly. They do this sometimes, existing quietly beside each other. This is why she’s granted late-night Leblanc privileges— she knows when to shut up.
When the host finally pivots from perfume ads and pop idol trivia to the evening's guest, Ann rolls her eyes, keeping her gaze glued to the cat video Yusuke sent her.
“And joining us tonight,” the host chirps, voice caught warbling through Leblanc’s shitty speakers, “is the brilliant young detective—”
Ann tenses her shoulders, preparing herself for Ryuji’s barrage of hateful text messages.
Akechi appears onscreen in a wash of studio light, all sharp-eyed and perfect posture, legs crossed neatly at the knee. His voice follows quickly, thin and crackling when it filters throughout the café.
Ann doesn't bother listening, keeping her eyes on her mug while he greets his cohosts. The surface of her hot chocolate trembles faintly with the sound, a thin ripple breaking the foam into uneven lines. Morgana’s tail lashes beside her.
Akechi laughs at something, voice ringing clear and airy. Ann traces the rim of her mug with her thumb, breathing in sugar and cocoa— trying to forget the scent of Akechi’s floral cologne that clogs the Monabus when they tumble through Mementos.
She glances up at Akira, not surprised to find him leaned back, staring at the TV. Light scatters across his glasses, obscuring his expression. Morgana sighs, pressing his flank to Ann’s arm.
The interview meanders in circles, saying a whole lot of nothing. Phantom Thieves this, I’ll bring them to justice that, the whole Akechi package. His laughter rings polished and narrow, sliding in a pointed jab at the Phantom Thieves whenever he can.
Her phone is drowning in the volume of messages, everyone getting their Akechi lashings in. Save for Makoto, ever the peacekeeper, who has decided to remain diplomatically silent. Even Yusuke jumps in, announcing his disdain for the color grading that turns Akechi’s blazer to an off-putting tan. Ann can’t help but agree.
Akechi makes some sly remark at the leader of the Phantom Thieves’ bleeding-heart, and Akira grabs the remote with barely concealed conviction. It powers off mid-sentence, bathing the café in the rattling of the refrigerator and heater running, shaking the cups on the drying rack.
Ryuji must be losing his mind in the group chat. Ann’s phone vibrates like it's about to jump out of her hand. Akira must’ve muted his.
Silence fills the space between them, even Morgana remaining quiet.
“Okay…” Ann starts slowly, dragging the syllables between her teeth. “Teach me how you do your smokey eye, yeah?”
Akira huffs something that resembles a laugh, eyes lingering at the door.
“Akechi’s just trying to find something bitch about,” Ann reasons, swirling the last dregs of her hot chocolate. “He probably doesn't really mean it, right?”
Akira shoots her a look that says absolutely not.
Ann sighs. Worth a shot.
She nudges her mug and saucer toward him and slips out of the booth. He needs space to clean up and breathe. She heads for the bathroom instead.
She can hear the kitchen sink churning as she goes. Akira hasn't let her help with the dishes ever since she cut her finger on a soapy knife. She drags a palm over her face at the memory, though she is the reason Akira stocks up on bandages. Small victories.
Leblanc’s bathroom is small and stuffy, really only enough room for two people, three if you're lucky. Her mind flashes to the summer, Makoto attempting to help her wrangle Futaba into swimsuit, Ann slamming her hip into the counter and threatening Akira with baby-proof guards.
There's not a whole lot of personality— she supposes there can't be, it's technically a public restroom, even if it's locked half the time. There's no clutter, just a sad bar of soap in a crusted dish and a box of tissues.
It's whatever, really. Better than her bathroom anyways, sink dusted with coats of glittery eyeshadow and setting powder.
Ann sighs, hoisting herself up onto the counter, knocking her heels gently against the cabinet below.
Akira pops up in the doorway a moment later, eyes widening slightly at the sight of her already perched on the counter.
“Move over,” he murmurs, already attempting to squeeze past her legs.
Ann shifts her knees out of the way so he can enter the room completely, sidestepping so he can close the door the whole way, locking it behind him. He pivots, fingers stretching towards the small medicine cabinet above the sink.
Ann jerks her head out of the way. “It's locked, genius!”
He smiles, fishing a key from his pocket, and pops it open with a practiced twist, wincing when the hinges protest with a shriek. He rifles past bottles and gauze until he finds what he's looking for— a ratty little makeup bag shoved all the way in the back. He tugs it free and lets the cabinet swing shut with a soft click.
Ann's always amazed at the true lack of product he owns— nothing more than the basics. She's tried to put him onto tinted moisturizer, but he won't budge.
Akira looks at her expectantly, unzipping the bag.
“Oh— um, right!” Ann starts, wringing her hands out. “Okay, remember the last selfie you sent me?”
Akira nods, rolling his eyes. When he goes into work, Ann begs him for photos. A little embarrassing in hindsight, but she likes to see her friends authentic and real, and these are the steps she must take.
“Yeah, well. I was totally in love with the eyeshadow look you did,” she starts, flipping her phone out to swipe through their messages. She finds it with a victorious hum, double-tapping to zoom in on Akira’s eyes. “This. Seriously, so good.”
And it is good, the glitter and dark inner corners are blended pretty well, knowing Akira doesn't use a brush half the time. But Ann is no stranger to makeup— she could do this in her sleep.
They both know that, she thinks. Still, he leans in to get a better look.
“It looks good because it was dark when I took it,” Akira supplies, voice weary with effort. “LED signs are putting in a lot of work.
Ann tuts, dropping her phone back into her lap. “A good look is a good look, Akira. Learn to appreciate that.”
He shrugs and flips open an eyeshadow palette, dipping a finger into the darkest black.
“Are we doing this on you or me?”
Ann straightens, thinking. “I look like trash with a dark look. You know that!”
“Just asking,” Akira mumbles, with no real bite behind it. He slips off his glasses, resting them precariously on the edge of the sink.
They lapse back into silence again, Ann watching him layer the shadow at the corner of his eye, building it up in the crease. He's quick with it. She supposes he has to be, though, since he gets ready at work.
She should say something normal, be the rock-solid, reliable best friend that she yearns to be— but seeing him like this, dimly lit by the fluttering bathroom light— her chest tightens around nothing at all.
Less than a week. Less than a week until he dies, theoretically. Semantics. Maybe.
Less than a week until Akechi fabricates his death certificate with that cut-throat smile, a space waiting for him in a cell or a morgue that's just as cold. That's no way to live, backed into a corner with a countdown ticking in your head.
Ann coughs, clearing her throat. Akira doesn't look up.
“Sooo,” she breathes, kicking her shoe gently into his shin. “What's the first thing you’re gonna do when this is over?”
“Go to work?” Akira deadpans, switching to a softer gray.
“Go to work,” Ann mimics flatly, twirling her fingers around the hem of her skirt. “No— I mean like, post-interrogation. Once that’s over. And you're home.”
Akira falters, only briefly. “Ah— well. Sleep, I guess.”
Ann frowns, breathing in the faint chemical-sweet scent of cheap makeup. “Sleeping’s good,” she decides. “But you're not gonna— I dunno, do something else? Anything else?”
“There's not going to be much for me to do,” Akira says, matter of fact.
Ann exhales a humorless laugh.
His look is coming together now, black and gray shading outward, silver collecting in his inner corner. It looks good on him.
“Be honest,” Ann starts, Akira looking at her. “Are you scared? Like. At all?”
He seems to mull over the answer in his head for a while, sifting mindlessly through his bag.
“Not really,” he says, coming up with a glitter palette that Ann had gifted him back in September. “You guys’ll get me out of it.”
He’s probably lying, Ann thinks, balling her hands into fists. She hates when he does this, the whole holier than thou act.
“Well, personally,” Ann counters, picking at the hole in her tights. “I haven't been this scared since April.”
That gets him to pause, looking lopsided and incomplete with half a face of eyeshadow done.
“Hey,” he says lightly, “It's okay.”
Ann’s stomach twists, exploding into a bout of ill-placed nausea. It's not okay— not really, because April and November are months apart and bleeding into a messy, ugly swirl.
Her fingers dig into the edge of the counter. “That's not what I meant,” she says, but her voice comes out thinner than she means it to. “It's not okay.”
“It’s going to be,” Akira replies, tone unchanging. Still halfway through his eyeliner. “It's just how it is. I just have to deal with it.”
“You're stressing me out, Akira,” Ann whispers, weary of the way she flipped their night on its head. So much for good vibes. “It's like. Talking to myself.”
And it is, in a way. Eerily reminiscent of the girl she used to be, when she'd plant herself in front of a mirror after school, itching to lock herself in her room and never come out.
Akira doesn't seem to get it, and Ann gets even more frustrated.
“That's how I spoke to myself,” she half-snorts, half-cries. “In April. You sound like me in April.”
Akira’s jaw tenses an inch, and he exhales.
“That's not what I mean.”
“I know,” Ann rushes, quick to do damage control. “I know. And you're not me— this isn't even remotely the same, but. Y’know. Maybe I’m weird.”
Akira shakes his head. The bathroom light flickers, punctuated by the heater kicking up.
“Ugh. I’m sorry,” Ann groans, pressing her palms into her eyes. “I totally killed your vibe. I’m just so worried.”
“I don't want you freaking out,” Akira supplies, fiddling with the mascara tube in his hands.
“Too late,” Ann adds, voice still shaking, muffled through the sleeves of her sweater.
Akira anchors a hand to her wrist, not saying anything, rubbing small circles through the fabric.
₊ ⊹ .
you [21:45]
thank you for the hot chocolate and good cry
ilyyuuuuu :sobs:
my glorious king akira [23:47]
You're welcome!
[Photo_Attachment]
Good shift
you [23:48]
wow… right before bed… a photo of my dearest friend
lookin cool thoooough
whered u get the latex idea from. couldn't be anyone you know
my glorious king akira [23:50]
Not sure
Saw it in a dream.
you [23:48]
copyright infringement is in fact a crime
whatever you look good
my nighttime wish is akira kurusu safe in his bed
my glorious king akira [23:51]
[Photo_Attachment]
you [23:51]
take the damn lash clusters OFF
my glorious king akira [23:51]
yes ma’am