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i'm the lesser of two evils
or am i, am i tricking myself nice?
if i'm a lesser of two evils
who's this man, who’s this act i hide behind?
Hold your friends close, and your enemies closer.
Only Akira is pretty sure Sun Tsu didn’t mean a scenario like this: Goro Akechi in front of him on his hands and knees, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the little broom closet as Akira drives Akechi forward with the force of his thrusts, leaning over his slender back. His gloved fingers dig into Akechi’s waist, the red fabric against the pale skin a delightful sight encouraging Akira to move faster, tighten his grip to leave bruises he knows Akechi adores and wears like a war badge.
Akira can’t remember how this all started. What once were accidental brushes of hands, and lingering touches on shoulders as encouragement during their heist through Sae’s palace escalated quickly into the deliberate search for skin contact and secret meetings where they learnt to do all kinds of things with their mouths and tongues, mapping each other’s bodies with greedy, ambitious fingers. Despite that, Akira can’t say he’s satisfied yet, and apparently neither is Akechi.
“Come on, Joker.” Akechi’s head hangs low but he’s still able to look back at Akira over his shoulder, provoking him with his razor sharp smile. “You can do better than that.”
Ignoring challenges has always been one of Akira’s vices. He leans forward, rolls his hips against Akechi’s ass and doesn’t miss the content sigh. It’s only short lived though, followed by a surprised gasp when Akira takes one of Akechi’s arms and pulls it back, his free hand curling around the back of Akechi’s neck to push his head down. With one cheek on the cold, dirty floor Akechi turns his head, and watches Akira with a curious fascination, his cheeks flushed and eyes blown with arousal. Akira shifts, 0brings one leg up, and puts it on Akechi’s cheek. Realisation hits Akechi, and he moans against the bottom of Akira’s shoe, pushing his hips back, and urging Akira to move. Gladly, Akira obliges.
His hips snap forward; his hands pull Akechi back to meet his thrusts and when he notices Akechi’s finger try to curl into a fist where Akira’s holding his thin wrist, he leans forward and licks between his fingers, bites at his joints. Akechi rewards him with a sultry moan and heated whispers of Yes and Fucking finally and God, Kurusu.
Akira wonders how fucked up he is, falling for someone he knows is planning to kill him, and that it’s this exact thought that carries him over the edge as he spills into Akechi.
——————————————
The first time Akira noticed something was wrong with him was in elementary school.
Something about girls just didn’t sit right with him. Even though many of his female classmates were fun to play with, there was this unspoken rule that you were not to harm them, and any offence against them was punished gravely. Akira remembers a boy from another class with a smile Lucifer himself must have been wearing moments before God banished him from Heaven. His favourite hobbies: pulling at braids and pinching soft skin just under the rim of skirts where the fabric covered his little secrets. Eventually, he got caught and branded a little monster; a mean, horrible boy that was cruel to girls, and so Akira himself never befriended any of his female classmates out of fear to make the wrong move and follow in the same footsteps. He liked his classmates in those early years, and yet no other person affected Akira as much as his homeroom teacher, Sakatarou Fukikage, a young newcomer who had just finished his teacher training. Back then, rumours had already started spreading about Akira’s family. His grandfather had just died, and his father had taken over the company. With that, all of his grandfather’s frauds surfaced, and their family tumbled into debts until calumny destroyed every remaining chance the Kurusu family had to regain their status.
Children can be so cruel. Akira is glad he doesn’t remember all of the things he was being called. At some point his time in school became a dark, blurry memory with short spots of clear, bright light, all consisting of the clear image of his homeroom teacher, who was so nice to him; told Akira how smart he was, what a treasure he was; how joyful and beautiful he was, and oh, the presents, young Akira always thought, so happy and delighted that someone cared, liked him.
“You’re such a good boy, aren’t you,” Fukikage had said after school, resting his large hand in the crook of Akira’s neck, and stroking the sensitive skin with his thumb.
Akira had nodded, shuffling closer. Since his parents were occupied with shouting at each other, he’d hoped for some praise in school. At that time, Akira was starving for love.
A soft sigh had escaped Fukikage’s parted lips. “My beautiful boy.”
One day, during his third year, his teacher was gone. Other faculty members put Akira in a small room with police officers, where Akira had to tell them everything Fukikage had said and given to him.
“Where is he?” Akira had asked at the end when the teachers went to call his parents to pick him up.
“Gone. He won’t come back,” they had told him. “You are safe now.”
“But,” Akira had said, and that was his first, very big mistake. “I like him. I want him to come back. He is the only one who likes me, and makes me feel nice.”
The officers exchanged glances. One of them, and Akira will never forget that sight, put his head into his hand, speechless, horrified. Instinctively, Akira had known that what he had done with his teacher was very, very bad. Only he didn’t feel bad about it.
After that, things became worse at home.
——————————————
Chances of Akechi being in a good mood are less likely than surviving a round of playing Russian Roulette with a semi automatic. Not that Akira knows much about it, and he definitely did not try it out with foam bullets while helping out at Iwai’s, caught red handed during the act, which resulted in a house ban for one week he really didn’t need as they crawled painfully slow through Shido’s palace. The original plan to have Akechi work in their favour, and lead them through Shido’s unconscious after changing Akechi’s heart was successful in execution, but everyone has underestimated the aftermath, even Akira himself. Akechi is a ticking time bomb, waiting to detonate and destroy everything in close proximity. It certainly doesn’t help that some days Akira is the spark igniting the fuse. Signs of Akechi’s changed heart don’t come in full forces like a tidal wave, swallowing him whole like it was with their previous targets. With Akechi, they come in short, sharp punches; choked whines and occasional breakdowns triggered by little things like a broken cup or waking up late at night to the blaring sirens of police cars driving by, leaving him wheezing, crying, screaming and biting into his hands to maintain some sort of control. In the beginning, Akira didn’t know how to handle this raw, unchecked and exposed eruption of Akechi’s dense, cramped feelings bursting to the surface. Akechi himself didn’t know, but very quickly, they discovered sex as an effective way to make Akechi forget until remorse and guilt caught up to him again, curling around his throat and robbing him of air.
Whenever Akira finds Akechi in a corner or hidden under the blankets, gnawing at his fingers to prevent the screams from alarming people passing and inside the cafe, his whole body stiffens in uncomfortable expectation, only seconds before Akechi notices his arrival and pounces on him like an unleashed beast, pounding Akira’s chest and clawing at his throat while Morgana hisses behind him, seconds away from attacking Akechi.
“Why did you let me live?” The same question, over and over again. “You worthless piece of shit, finish your job and end this!”
It always throws Akira back to the day after they changed his heart, when he went to Akechi’s apartment to check on him. To his surprise, Akechi opened the door, looking like he’d just returned from the dead. The black shadows under his eyes were deep enough to have their own tunnel systems, and Akira didn’t want dwell too long on the meaning behind the angry red scratches on Akechi’s arms.
Akechi gave a low, unidentifiable noise, before he turned around, and walked back into the living room, leaving the front door open so Akira could enter. A stinging stench of antiseptic drilled into Akira’s nostrils as he entered the living area, taken aback by the clinical and spare furnishing— or lack thereof. A large TV hung on the wall furthest away from the door, opposite from it a dark, leather couch and a little table with dozens of used paper tissues littering the surface. A slim bookshelf beside the TV filled with titles seemed the only place with some sort of personal belonging that could actually tell Akira something about the resident of this apartment. Dark curtains hid the inside from sunlight fighting its way through thick snowy clouds, casting dark shadows into the furthest corners.
Akechi didn’t bother to tell Akira to take a seat. He slumped on the ground beside the table, and stuck one hand into the pile of tissues, producing a thin knife between them.
Akira stopped breathing.
“Are you here to gloat about your victory?” Akechi asked, his voice hollow and detached, so far away as if he was talking about an accident that happened to a distant relative. “I am quite sure you must be pleased. Seeing your enemy destroyed, on the brim of the end. You must be so proud of yourself.”
Without loosing sight of the knife, Akira sat next to Akechi. His fingers tingled with the anxious need to do something, most preferably hold a gun in his hand to defend himself.
“It was never about beating you in that sense,” Akira said after Akechi didn’t launch at him. He considered that a good start. “I just prefer being alive.”
Akechi didn’t laugh. “Do you think this is some kind of joke?” The quiet indifference in his voice was so much worse than any sort of heated snarl. “Of course it is … it must have been from the very beginning. A Game. To make me look like fool. I hope you and your dumb friends got a kick out of it.”
“No need to be so impolite,” Akira said with a much calmer voice than he wanted, because apparently in the last 24 hours Akechi had forgotten that he’d deceived them all, shot Akira in the head, and was a treacherous weasel who committed mass murder. And yet, instead of calling the police or submitting Akechi to a psychiatric clinic, Akira visited him in secret with a half-assed plan to ask him for help. The problem in all of this lied pretty much in Akira himself: He couldn’t let go. Maybe he was the one needing therapy.
Eventually, Akechi asked in a hoarse whisper, “Why have you come?” His eyes focused on the knife he put back on the table. “There’s nothing I can give you.”
“Except your life, and knowledge about the most powerful man in Japan,” Akira didn’t say because Akechi wasn’t a tool to use and dispose of like every adult thought. Like his friends thought. Akira refused to be that person.
“I don’t want anything,” he said instead, folding his hands together. Somehow lying was easier for him like that. “Just for you to live a good life.”
Silence sat heavy on their shoulders, until Akechi’s loud bark of a laugh cut it into half. It lasted for a whole minute, a brutish and uncomfortable sound, finally ending when Akechi fell on his back.
“What the hell is wrong with you,” he blurted, staring at Akira with that intense, keen gaze Akira knew from serving Akechi in Leblanc from the other side of the counter. “A good life? You’ve destroyed everything I’ve worked for, so what life do I have left?”
And this was the point of no return, and Akira threw all cards on the table without having an ace up his sleeves. He took a deep breath. “You can have a life with me.”
Akira waited for another laugh, and for Akechi to immediately ridicule the thought. He waited for Akechi to tell him: Yes, they’d fooled around and fucked, but whatever Akira thought they’d had, he’d only imagined it. You didn’t need love for sex, and Akira was stupid to even consider Akechi would so much as like him.
Instead, Akechi considered him for a long moment. He lifted a hand to Akira’s face like Adam in Michelangelo’s masterpiece. Akira leaned into the touch, slightly flinching when those cold fingers met his warm skin. An impulse overtook Akira, like a snake striking with venomous teeth.
Slowly, he moved his own hand to caress Akechi’s cheek, watching his face closely as his fingers travelled to Akechi’s throat and curled around his warm skin.
“Ah.” Akechi smiled, a heartbreaking smile, young and gentle. “Revenge, at last.”
And revenge it was Akira thought about when he settled on Akechi’s stomach, his other hand joining his first, tightening his grip, staring at Akechi’s lips curled into a smile.
Do it, do it, end him, a voice— Arsene? Joker?— whispered in the back of his mind, urging him to use this one in a lifetime chance. It’s only fair.
Is it though, he wondered, searching for resistance in Akechi’s eyes. Because wasn’t this exactly what the world had taught Akechi? Kill or be killed, no mercy for the weak. No love, no trust. The world is a battlefield where only those win who are willing to sacrifice everything.
Akira exhaled slowly, and with that his hands slid around the back of Akechi’s neck until they rested between his shoulders. He pressed his face in the crook of Akechi’s neck, and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smell of sweat and this pinch of citrus soap and mint that was so distinctively Akechi that his breath got stuck somewhere between his lungs and mouth. He shuddered.
“You’re okay,” he mumbled against Akechi’s skin. “Everything is okay now.”
They knew it wasn’t, but just for this moment they pretended the world wasn’t against them, they’re all by themselves, in their very own universe that was kind and allowed them to be happy. In their private world it was okay for them to be kissing. It was okay for Akira to run his hands through Akechi’s smooth, soft hair, and no one told Akechi he wasn’t allowed to turn their positions, to straddle Akira and convert all his locked up feelings into bruising kisses. No one broke them apart when they became one, and Akira rocked his hips up against Akechi’s, swallowing his screams and growing faster, faster, harder—
“Don’t—” Akechi choked on a moan. “Too much.” He yanked Akira’s head back to get his attention. His whole body tensed. Tears fell from Akira’s cheeks, his eyes were screwed shut.
“Stop it,” Akechi hissed, clawing at Akira’s back in search for purchase. “Stop crying over someone like me.”
But Akira couldn’t stop, too overwhelmed with emotions. So unfair, he thought when Akechi hid in the crook of his neck, whimpering. That even in their very own world they were not allowed to be kings.
“I was serious,” Akira said after they napped through the afternoon. “Come live with me.”
The sun had disappeared behind the skyscrapers, giving way to the artificially lit streets. Akechi didn’t look up from where he pressed his face in the pillow, and Akira wasn’t sure if he was still asleep or trying to suffocate himself. Just to be sure, he gently disentangled the pillow from Akechi’s hands, and met half closed, dark eyes.
“You think that will solve anything?” Akechi’s voice was hoarse, and Akira leaned down to hear better. “You’re just as much of a lost cause.”
“Maybe.” He pulled at black curls falling into his eyes, noticing his glasses were missing. “I just—” Akira shook his head. There was no just with Akechi. “I don’t want to give up on you.”
After a long silence, Akechi eventually said, “One day, you may have to.” It’s quiet and quickly drowned in his next words, “Please don’t tell me you’re doing this because you love me.” He made it sound like a disease, so Akira did him the favour and remained silent, but his answer hung between them, and Akechi knew it. Akira doubted it was as easy as labelling it with four letters. What they had, how they were was complicated. Akira was sure even Akechi didn’t fully understand it himself, judging from the way he tapped his fingers against his thighs, staring at a spot on the wall. “Boss won’t be happy to have me around. And what about your friends? I’m sure Okumura and Futaba wouldn’t want to see me even if I were the only person left alive.”
“They’re … upset,” Akira phrased carefully, underestimating the situation gloriously as echoes of angry screaming and crying resonated in the back of his mind from his talk with Haru and Futaba. “But we all want to help you. You’re just like us.” He carefully reached a hand out, and stroked the ends of Akechi’s hair draped over his forehead.
Akechi snorted. “Don’t put me in the same box like you.”
Akira ignored him. “So, what’s your answer,” he asked. Akechi raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t said no yet.”
As Akira waited for an answer, and held his breath, counting one, two, three, four seconds, and then Akechi tugged his head under Akira’s chin and pushed his leg between Akira’s. He felt the words against his skin, quiet and hoarse, “Don’t let me go, Akira.”
——————————————
“Have you tried equivalence? Or description?” Akechi asks from behind the counter, drying a set of cups with a worn out kitchen towel. It’s a slow day. The only customers, the old couple frequently visiting Leblanc, both very smitten with Akechi, left a few minutes ago, and Akira tries to solve the last month’s crossword puzzle he’s snitched from Sojiro. Asking Akechi for help is kind of cheating, yes, but cheating on a puzzle shouldn’t be on top of Akira’s reasons for ending up in hell. The skin on his wrists is still sensitive where Akechi’s tie has left angry, red marks from yesterday’s night. As he watches Akechi refilling the empty bean glasses, Akira thinks about how much he loves to dominate him, to have him on his knees in front of him, sucking him off while showering Akechi with praises. But he also loves to feel Akechi’s weight on top of him, hands tied together behind his back and Akechi’s smooth, silky voice whispering degrading words to him, biting at his earlobe.
“Can you try and not think of sex for at least five minutes?” Akechi’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and Akira looks up. He can only imagine what he must look like to Akechi: Eyes blown wide with rising arousal and flushed cheeks clearly visible on his pale skin. He can’t help but grin and wiggle his eyebrows, a silent offer Akechi declines by spraying water drops from his wet hands on Akira’s face like he’d do with Morgana whenever he tries to steal Akechi’s serving.
“That’s why Morgana left you,” he notices, drying his hands while Akira scrubs at his face with his sleeve.
“Morgana left because he knows Futaba will spoil him,” Akira defends his honour.
Akechi rolls his eyes. “No, it’s because you’re horny all the time.”
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you, Goro,” Akira says, and gladly wants to tell him how often they fuck because Akechi is frustrated or angry, or frustrated and angry, when suddenly the door bell chimes and cold wind carries the smell of winter inside the shop. Akira is shook. Leblanc usually doesn’t see two different customers on the same day. He swirls around on his stool, showing their new customer his most charming smile. It vanishes quickly. In the doorway, Makoto is standing and looking at him like she’s never seen him before. And here is the thing. Akechi has been living with Akira for around one week, a very little but important detail Akira has only told Futaba. His ears are ringing, filled with Sojiro’s words, I won’t tell them, but you should consider what good it will do to keep something like that from them.
“What is going on here?” Makoto asks, glancing from Akira to Akechi and back. Akira jumps to his feet. His mind is a rollercoaster of different arguments, all entangled chords he can’t find the beginning or end, as he thinks of what to say to contain the fallout. Makoto takes in Akechi’s appearance. He’s wearing one of Akira’s shirts that still don’t fit him with how scrawny he is. Makoto is too keen for her own good, and Akira is sure she noticed the apron hugging Akechi tightly like a second skin, like something that he knows will keep him save. Akira knows before he evens tarts, that he will lose this.
“I can explain,” he tries anyway. Makoto shuts him down with a sharp glare.
“What do you mean ‘explain’. I don’t see how anything you’ll say could make this better.”
Something in Akira uncoils; something dark he hopes doesn’t win the battle of moral inside him. He really doesn’t want to take it out on Makoto, because she doesn’t know; doesn’t know how much he hates the word ‘better’. Akira hates that people try to make them ‘better’; that they want to ‘fix’ them like they’re broken and unable to function.
“Goro has agreed to help us deal with Shido,” Akira explains, not missing how Makoto’s eyes widen for a second, and all colour drains from her face. He doesn’t understand why. It was her idea to convince Akechi to join them after changing his heart. He can see how Makoto’s jaw works, and he knows that whatever she is going to say, it won’t make him happy. In moments like these, she looks so much like her sister, Akira feels it’s late October again and he’s back in the interrogation room, bound to tell nothing but the truth or his life is at stake.
“When did you think you’d tell us about it,” she demands, a suspicious calm to her voice Akira fails to identify as anger. He panics. A raging Makoto, he can handle. A quiet, distraught one not so much, because it means there is something she doesn’t or can’t tell him, and secrets are Akira’s Achilles’ heel. He knows what it’s like to choke on them. In search for help, he looks at Akechi, who doesn’t look concerned at all; for some reason unknown to Akira, Akechi doesn’t even feel like participating in the conversation. He gives Akira a little shrug, hands tightly intertwined in front of him, like a child being scolded.
“Akira, you can’t do this to us,” Makoto finally snaps. It sounds a lot like she actually wanted to say to me, which hits Akira square in the face like a brick, because he knows, he knows Makoto’s feelings, but pretends he doesn’t to make it easier for himself. “We’re so close to dealing with Shido,” she continues. “When do you think you’ll send the calling card?”
“Don’t underestimate him,” Akechi finally contributes. He’s back to busying his hands, taking Akira’s half empty cup and draining the coffee in the sink as he cleans the little porcelain thing. A thumb brushes against the soft rim of Akira’s cup. Akira’s lips tingle. “You have to prepare carefully, and expect Shido to react accordingly. Whatever you do, he will be one step ahead, and if you don’t keep that in mind, he will destroy you.”
Did the same happen to you?, Akira wants to ask, watching Akechi closely.
“But I guess that won’t happen with me on your side,” Akechi continues, the confidence seeping back into his voice and posture as he carefully places the cup in the sink. “Everything else regarding my punishment and explaining it to your friends can wait until we deal with Shido—”
“No, don’t give me that bullshit!” Makoto is a volcano ready to burst and scorch every living thing inside. “Why are you doing this?”
It can’t get worse than this, Akira hopes, and hopes wrong when slender arms close around Akira’s shoulders, and fingers curl around his neck. He feels Akechi’s breath on his cheek, his head gently bumping into Akira’s.
“Why do you think, Miss Student Council President?” Akechi purrs against the crook of Akira’s neck, and the realisation lights up Makoto’s face. “We’ve been fucking since we were trying to save your sorry excuse of a sister.”
Akira is speechless. So is Makoto, until she twists her face in disgust and all of Akira’s nightmares come together in that single moment. He wants to say something; that’s the least he should do, but Makoto’s already taking a step back, shaking her head. “What the heck is wrong with you?” Akira doesn’t know if she means Akechi, or him, or them both, but Makoto is already out of the door, not looking back. The silence settling over them is suffocating, much more than Akechi’s fingers tightening their hold around Akira’s neck.
“Goro,” Akira whispers. “What the fuck.”
“Well, it looks like the saying is true. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”
Akira pushes him away, and falls back onto the stool. “Not helping.” He slouches his shoulders, unable to carry the weight of people’s misused trust and his own treachery.
Akechi retreats back behind the counter, and picks up more plates to clean even though they don’t need it.
“Aren’t you glad now?” he asks, voice tense with a strange resignation. “Your dirty secret is finally out.”
Akira considers him for a moment, then places his elbows on the wooden surface, and his head in his hands. A shaky breath escapes him between his trembling fingers. How can he even start to explain to Akechi out of all people, that the greatest thing between them has been the secrecy of it all. When they were together like yesterday evening, they had been their own private universe, bounded just by themselves, a population of two. Akira doesn’t need to keep up the role of the responsible, trustworthy guy, and Akechi doesn’t need to play the perfect role model. They are the world, and the world is them. And no one deserved to know.
Akechi misunderstands Akira’s silence, and adds, “Maybe you should have left me alone after invading my palace. It would have spared you a lot of trouble with your friends.”
Akira gives a low, helpless noise. “How much more until you understand that I don’t regret any of this?” When he doesn’t get an answer, Akira looks up and sees Akechi flat against the bean shelf like an animal trying to scurry away, and the thought of Akechi leaving him scares Akira so much, he forgets how to breathe for a moment as the ground disappears from under his feet and his all limbs go missing.
“I— You are … so,” Akira draws a shaky breath, exhales and tears prick in the corner of his eyes, “so important to me, Goro.” He doesn’t even know how to put it into words. “The only reason why I’d keep you from them is because I don’t want anyone else to hurt you. If I could, I’d keep you in the attic forever. Which is screwed up and selfish, but maybe I’m past the point of acting like a good person.”
“A thief to the core,” Akechi supplies with a little smile stretching his lips into a soft line. He slowly makes his way around the counter, moving as if Akira was the animal ready to flee. “You can have anyone. And yet, you chose me. Why?”
Akira doesn’t have any control left. As soon as Akechi is in front of him, his hand shoots forward and grabs the front of Akechi’s apron. “Because I need you.”
“I see.” Akechi loops his arms around Akira’s shoulders and leans in. His nose bumps against Akira’s. ”Then we’re not that different, you and I.”
That might be the point. Because Akira knows, they’re alike. Because he knows he can have soft with Haru or Hifumi, or Mishima or Yusuke, but he doesn’t want soft. Akira is looking for a cruelty that reminds him of his mother enduring pain and terror out of love for his father. Akira wants a relationship like that, he wants this dedication; this devotion to a person, and he knows only Akechi can give him that because Akechi himself is looking for something only Akira can give him. A part of his conscience tells him this is wrong, it’s so fucked up; he needs therapy and that very soon, but then he’d feel a deep, soft hum in the back of his mind, and the gentle brush of feathers on his back. Akira knows this is part of him; a dark, twisted core deep inside him hidden behind an infinity of masks he’s learnt to carry so he could hide behind them all. Still, there’s a reason Arsene was his very first, and just like that, he’ll also forever be Akira’s most truest, purest self.
——————————————
Some people have the luxury to regard physical abuse as sheer unthinkable, but to Akira, it is ignorance. Once he’d helped out Sojiro with preparing curry for the next day. As he stood in front of the stove, mind all over the place as he tried to outline every possible escape route in case something went wrong in Madarame’s palace, he noticed the kettle was overboiling too late, and before he could react, Sojiro was right right next to him, his arm reaching out— and reflexively, Akira flinched back, raising his hands to shield his face because people ask you about the bruises in your face, they don’t ask you about bruises on your arms or legs—
Sojiro’s arm froze midair, eyes large in a very unfamiliar way showing his surprise. His arm fell back to his side, but he didn’t look away, and more than anything, Akira wished to disappear as he pressed his back against the bean shelf, hoping to merge with it.
“Kid, I don’t know how your parents treat you,” Sojiro said, and something in his voice sounded like he was insulted; like he couldn’t believe the audacity Akira had to be afraid of him. “But don’t you dare expect the same kind of treatment from me.”
Akira nodded because that’s the reaction you are supposed to have to an announcement like that. But even then, it didn’t change how Akira would duck when Sojiro moved around the small space behind the counter or have his hands ready to absorb punches—a lot easier now that he is taller compared to when he was a child.
After the police took Fukikage into custody, Akira’s parents did their best to keep the whole deal a secret, and a secret it remained through all their time together; a creeping, black ruin festering on their fragile construction of coexistence Akira very early knew would crumble to dust. He still remembers the first time his father swung at his mother, knocking her unconscious. Drunk as was he didn’t notice the blood sinking into the carpet’s fabric, ruining it like he’d ruined Akira’s childhood and his mother’s face. Fear didn’t come close to describe what Akira felt. He’d quietly stood up and left, hiding in a dark corner in his room. He can’t remember how long it took for his mother to find him. At some point there was a warm blanket around his shoulders, and his mother leaning into him. When he woke up, he waited and stared into the darkness, listening for her breaths to see if she was still alive. When he finally felt her slightly stir beside him, Akira’s throat had hurt so much from withholding a sob. He tugged one half of the blanket around her, and shifted to close the little distance; to be as close as possible to her. Even today, he still remembers this bittersweet tugging and longing only a mother can quench. It’s like being lost in a supermarket as a little child, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and towering shelves. There is no hope, no joy; there is only this feral fear that you will never see your mother again, that she will forget you, and with that there is no safety in this world, no guarantee of survival. But when her bright eyes pop up from behind the corner, her joyful “There you are!” because she’s been searching for you— just like that, the world moves back into its right order, and you’re save again.
Back then, even though he was practically sitting in her lap, Akira had missed his mother.
“Akira, go to bed,” she whispered, her voice raw from crying. “Don’t catch a cold sitting here all night.” But she didn’t move, and when Akira didn’t either, she tugged his head under her chin and closed both arms around him, surrounding him in warmth and her flowery scent.
“Why is he angry,” he asked quietly, rubbing his face. Sleep lurked behind his closed eyes, but he didn’t want to give in yet. His mother made a strange sound, something Akira thought he’d already heard an animal do.
“Oh, daddy just had a bad day,” she whispered back, kissing the back of his head. “He’ll be better tomorrow. He’ll be much better tomorrow. Do you want to help me make pancakes for daddy tomorrow? I’m sure he’ll be happy about that.” She nodded into his head, and Akira mimicked her and nodded as well. He’d really believed her then.
It wasn’t better tomorrow. It wasn’t better the day after.
Every day Akira would look to his mother and search for the reassurance in her eyes that soon, everything would change, and his dad would really get better.
Eventually, his mother stopped looking at him. Akira learnt how to keep his head down, what to say to perform damage control. It didn’t change the result, and how every evening Akira had to apply ice packs to the bruises, and whenever it was too bad lie to his teacher that he was sick and wouldn’t attend classes. Whenever someone asked what had happened, Akira could easily put the fault on the boys from other classes, who for some reason were very much against his bisexuality, even though Akira himself didn’t understand how at school and at home suddenly everything revolved around who he liked and who he wanted to kiss. He will never forget his father’s face when he walked in on him and a friend making out. The sight of another boy in Akira’s arms was so shocking, it momentarily sobered him up before his fury exploded like a gas can, and he’d beaten up first Akira’s friend, then Akira himself.
In the hospital, when his mother sat beside him and wept, he asked why his father hated him so much.
“Oh, sweetheart, daddy doesn’t hate you,” his mother said, clutching his hand tightly in hers. “But what you did was wrong. You can’t do that, not with boys.”
Why, Akira wanted to ask. Why is it wrong to love.
“I’m so sorry, Akira.” His mother shuffled closer, kissing his bruised knuckles. “This is all my fault, I’m so sorry. Whatever I did wrong, please forgive me that you ended up like this.”
Akira turned his head away, his throat hot with unshed tears. To see his mother like this didn’t hurt as much as knowing that whatever she was going to say, he wouldn’t change, and he wondered if that made him the villain of their story. Knowing what it would cost them, and still going down the path he knew was the only one that promised him happiness regardless of what would happen to him or his mother. Akira felt ashamed, and that shame shackled him all those years from fighting back. Sometimes, it makes him laugh that all it took to free him from his binds was a magic, parallel dimension. The truth is, Arsene didn’t come because Akira wanted to save Ryuji or stop Kamoshida’s tyranny. The truth is that he was so fed up with being hurt, with being the victim that for the very first time in his life he wanted to be feared, wanted to be violent, and unleash year’s of suppression into a nature’s force of devastation. With an unquenchable desire Akira wanted to wreak havoc. He is sure that if Ryuji had been able to hear Arsene’s words— perform all sacrilegious acts for thine own justice; though thou be chained to Hell itself— he’d beelined out of the dungeon and told the policemen they’d encountered afterwards to put a restraining order against Akira.
Thanks to his calm, quiet appearance, Akira can get away with a lot of things, and since he’s aware of that, he uses it as a weapon as lethal as the dagger cradled comfortably in his hand.
——————————————
“I have a present for you,” Akechi opens the conversation, smiling widely. Akira puts his copy of Dazai’s No Longer Human aside, watching how Akechi pulls two long ropes out of a bag. “Since you said you’d follow me anywhere, why not put that to a test? It’s a game,” Akechi continues, already heading to the chair Akira’s only used once for pull ups before failing royally after managing three. It’s a dare, but Akira doesn’t even think about the consequences. He gets to his feet, noticing the slight widening of Akechi’s eyes because apparently after all they’ve been through, Akira can still surprise him with his deeds. It’s exactly this reaction that gives Akira the final encouragement, the last bit of fuel to this nagging fire inside him. He closes the distance, and takes the rope, pushing Akechi to turn around. Slowly, Akechi follows until halfway through he understands Akira’s intention, so he bows his head delicately, a prince awaiting his coronation. It’s so strange, Akira thinks. In a different scenario, with a different person, the rope could have been a slim, golden necklace. But the rough fabric and weight in his hands doesn’t allow him to follow that thought of what if, and once Akechi turns around, rope resting around his neck, looking up at Akira through half closed, alluring eyes; long, pretty lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones— Akira’s sure that from their very first encounter Akechi had bewitched him, but out of anything he can think of, he’s reminded of a lamb bearing its neck for slaughter, and he shivers with the realisation of what power he holds and how vulnerable Akechi is in front of him. He bows his own head for Akechi to place the rope around his neck, not missing how Akechi’s finger tips brush against where his pulse is rapidly beating against Akira’s skin.
They climb onto the chair, tiptoeing to get the loose ends around the creaky bar, and Akira uses it shamelessly to push his body against Akechi’s who stays unfazed by it, but Akira is pretty sure he doesn’t imagine the ghost touch of fingers on his hips.
“Feel anything already?” Akira asks, tugging at the rope to make sure it’s secure.
“Like what?”
“Don’t know.” Fear? Remorse? Regrets? Akira isn’t sure what he himself is feeling. Relief?
“It’s cute that you think this is my first time seeing a sight like this,” Akechi says, shifting on his toes. Akira’s fingers itch to steady him. “I’ve been here before, Akira. But it’s your first time, isn’t it?” Slender arms encircle Akira’s shoulders, pulling them closer— no, Akechi is putting his weight on him, and now Akira is inches away from losing balance and falling off the chair. Reflexively, his hands search for hold. They find the small of Akechi’s back, those traitorous bastards, and Akechi nods, pleased.
What Akira doesn’t say is that yes, suicide is something new for him, but his forearms are very familiar with the scorching edge of heated pans; the sharp pain of singes comforting friends to Akira during his last years of middle school. It’s a lot cleaner than cutting, and by now the scars have faded into slim brown lines and pale spots people don’t question because they’re easily overlooked.
Akechi notices Akira’s mind is somewhere else. He steps on Akira’s toes, causing him to flinch and pull further back. “I’m right here, Akira,” Akechi breathes against his lips. “But where are you.”
Akira wants to show his awareness with a kiss, but Akechi turns his head away, displaying the crook of his neck, so Akira aims there instead. The effect is always quite beautiful; Akechi flinches, one shoulder jolts upward and hits Akira’s chin because he’s just so sensitive there— it’s enough to make them both lose balance and topple off the chair. The bar above them creaks in protest.
Firstly, Akira notices how much his neck hurts. He’s heard sometimes you’re lucky and your neck snaps before you suffocate, but that’s supposed to be the bad deal. He’s lucky (unlucky?) enough, nothing like that happens. He’s just left hanging in the air, his feet dangling uselessly. There’s no air, obviously, and even though his mind is calm like a motionless sea, his body fights instinctively the danger; very much like during heists in the palaces where his thoughts race against each other in clear lines, each manageable and easy to access, but his body is a bundle of nerves ready to combust if he isn’t running, jumping, dodging, doing something. His fingers curl around the rope. It’s futile, and then one arm is outstretched, searching for Akechi— who’s not flailing at all. He’s so calm, an unmoving piece of flesh. Akechi has already given up; no, he’s never started to fight against this at all. His lips are a thin, white line Akira wants to kiss, and open with his tongue to steal the last bit of air inside Akechi’s body—
The bar breaks.
Ironically, Akira’s already thinking about how he’s going to explain that to Sojiro. The fall only lasts a second, and every sharp intake of air is like thousand needles drilling into Akira’s lungs once he crashes onto the ground, and coughs, gasps for air. One hand is fisting the fabric of his shirt just above his lungs, and then he notices that he’s hard from that, and one look to Akechi tells him he feels the same; cheeks flushed, eyes black. Visible hunger inside them. Akira wonders if this is what his life has come to, but when Akechi straddles his lap, one hand already cutting off Akira’s air supply; his fingers digging into where the rope left an angry, red ring around Akira’s throat, the other unbuckling his pants, Akira notices numbly he doesn’t mind.
When Akira wakes up, a soft laugh escapes him. Warm fingers run through his hair, and he turns on his stomach, looking up at Akechi.
“Your thighs aren’t comfortable at all,” he says, but that doesn’t stop him from circling his arms around Akechi’s waist and nuzzling his cheek against the smooth skin.
“Obviously. I’m not a girl,” Akechi says, flipping through the book Akira’s previously been reading, his fingers never stopping dancing through dark curls. It’s been some time since comfortable, peaceful silence surrounded them, and Akira counts the seconds as he listens to the busy street outside; to the doors opening and closing to warm places, to people talking. The sound of laughing children draws closer. He’s lying on Akechi, who’s pulling at his strands. Out of nowhere, Akechi asks, “Do you think you can bang your Persona?”
Akira opens his eyes. An old man is shouting at the child in front of his window. Very softly, he asks, “What the fuck, Goro.” He’s been saying that a lot lately.
Akechi gives a huff that passes as a laugh. “Just joking. But if it would be possible, I’d go for yours.”
Again, Akira only manages a “What the fuck,” before leaning in and nibbling on Akechi’s thigh. It’s stupid to feel jealous of yourself, and Akira ignores the low chuckle of Why thank you that brushes against the vulnerable spot on the back of his neck like a soft breeze. Akira puts much intensity into telling Arsene to fuck off, then focuses on biting into Akechi’s skin, marking him and when Akechi gives a low, content sigh as response, Akira realises that’s been his plan from the beginning. They stay like that for a while, lying in each other’s arms and thriving in the unmistakable warmth only a living being can give. Akira lives for those soft, warm moments just as much as for their dark, twisted desires.
He shuffles and turns around, head still in Akechi’s lap to turn on the news. They’re covering the rising of a young, brilliant lawyer currently in apprenticeship in one of Tokyo’s most eminent Attorney’s Office. Akechi stills for a moment, and when Akira looks up, he’s witness of a face he’s never seen on Akechi’s face: Remorse.
“The director of the SIU promised me a scholarship to study law,” Akechi says quietly. “He wanted me to specialise in criminology.”
Akira considers this, considers the future Akechi can’t have anymore. Still, he says, “You could still do it, couldn’t you? You’re brilliant, and any company should compete for giving you a scholarship.”
Akechi rolls his eyes. “Stop flattering me.”
“No, really,” Akira says. “You were born for this.”
Akechi flinches hard under him, and looks away, brows drawn together in pain. Akira doesn’t know why, he didn’t do anything wrong, did he? But he knows Akechi is like an ever-changing painting of vast landscapes. Sometimes Akira comes across a dense forest, an empty field. Sometimes it’s a scorching desert or cold icescape, and without a map to navigate through any, he’s always exposed to lethal environment. He waits for when his kindness bites him in the ass, for it is a double-edged sword, but eventually, Akechi relaxes again, and so does Akira. It isn’t always bad times. Ignoring all the circumstances surrounding them, Akira is sure, no he knows that he and Akechi are a match made for heaven. Around Akechi, Akira can be his true self. He doesn’t need to be polite or think thrice about what he is going to say and how it will affect Akechi. He doesn’t have to think about his appearance, how his body language has to be focused solely on the person in front of him. With Akechi, he is free, and allowed to be his own person. He still can’t believe he is allowed that sort of happiness, so with a shaky breath, he asks, “Is this even real?”
Akechi’s fingers stop caressing Akira’s hair. Only after he puts the book away, they continue, now joined with an additional hand to pet at Akira’s unruly hair. “I guess you won the game,” he says, pulling Akira’s hair to both sides to free his forehead. The quiet snort is a sufficient indicator that a middle parting does not suit Akira. “I thought a reward would be required,” Akechi continues, and bends down to place a little kiss on Akira’s forehead.
Akira blinks. “That’s all?”
“That’s all there is.”
“Okay.” Akira nods. Then, “I want more.”
Akechi rolls his eyes, mutters “Insatiable,” but he’s quickly to oblige, placing little kisses all over Akira’s face; between his eyebrows, on his cheekbones, his nose, his closed eyes; his mouth travels to the corner of Akira’s lips to his chin, along the sides of his jaw, and then Akira notices Akechi is crying, and he tightens his arms around the slim, frail waist, curling his fingers like hooks in Akechi’s sides, and maybe he cries a little as well, but sleep drags him back into a dark world before he can say, “I will never let you go, Goro.”
————————————
“Sit down,” Sojiro says. “We need to talk.”
Immediately, Akira knows it’s the bad kind of we-need-to-talk, because Futaba is hiding behind Sojiro, the counter a physical obstruction between them but Akira feels it’s also a mental one; Futaba doesn’t meet his eyes. Still, he remains calm, after all Futaba wouldn’t betray him, she is the sister he’s never had, and he loves her, just as he loves Sojiro for accepting him into his home and heart, like he loves every single person he’s become friends with in the last year.
Akira obliges, but Akechi remains behind him, placing both hands on Akira’s shoulders, squeezing in a reassuring way.
Sojiro rubs his chin, probably thinking about a proper way to start their talk which surprises and unsettles Akira; usually Sojiro would just go for it and speak up. Hesitance is an unfamiliar concept with Sojiro.
“We thought it would be best to … offer you help,” Sojiro finally says, shifting his eyes on everything but Akira and Akechi. Akira feels Akechi curling his fingers tighter into the fabric of his shirt, but he’s silent. “The thing upstairs with the bar? That can’t be happening again.”
“It won’t,” Akira immediately replies, but everyone assembled can tell he’s lying, even though Akira doesn’t know it himself. “We were just messing around.”
“Messing around, are you f—” Sojiro stops himself, shakes his head. When he addresses Akira now, he’s a lot more straightforward. “You have to realise what you are doing is absurd. Please, for the sake of your friends, get help. I’ll even pay for it, damn it.”
“They aren’t my friends,” Akechi says quietly and just behind Akira’s ear, maybe Sojiro and Futaba didn’t hear it at all. “But if you want it … I’d do it for you.” He sneaks a hand to the back of Akira’s neck, drags it slightly over the base of his scalp.
“We’re … fine.” There’s still something inside Akira defying that ridiculous notion, the thought that they need professional assistance because they’re what … what exactly do Sojiro and Futaba think is wrong with them? He meets Sojiro’s eyes dead on, encouraged by Akechi’s presence behind him. “Sojiro, you know me. I don’t mean to harm anyone. Goro and I—”
“Stop it.” It’s the first thing Futaba says, and it cuts through Akira because it’s quiet, resolved. Grim. Worse, because she’s crying. “Just stop it, Akira.” The air around them changes. Dark clouds hang outside Leblanc, and cast shadows inside. Futaba still avoids looking at him. “Akechi is dead.”
With a certainty equal to established empirical knowledge, Akira knows Akechi isn’t dead. The thought itself is absurd; how can Futuba even think that anything could continue working as it is without Akechi? Akira knows the Gods are very cruel, he is not in their favour, but even Yaldabaoth understood that a world without Goro Akechi is no world at all, and decided to spare him his fate. Behind him, Akechi snickers quietly, and that’s all Akira needs to know. Futaba is just confused, she’s probably missed some hours of sleep. He turns around, raising his hand to place it on Akechi’s—
No one is behind him.
His fingers land on his shoulder, no warm hand in between.
Akechi is gone. The seconds tick relentlessly; time continues, and the world spins, and Akira can’t process; can’t accept that Goro Akechi died on the 27th of November in a last act of redemption. A sacrifice. A lamb bearing its neck for slaughter. Akira doesn’t want a world like that; he firmly believes a universe like that cannot exist, because what would that even mean? That they never changed Akechi’s heart? That Akira and Akechi never found solace in each other over the cruel fate a God placed upon them? That they never found the one person, this one in a billion chance to be with their soulmate? Sojiro and Futaba can see the all those questions on Akira’s face. Sojiro is the first who breaks the silence. “If you are still mourning, don’t mourn alone, Akira. Talk to us. Talk to your friends. We will give you all the time you need, but eventually, you will have to let him go.”
“I—” Akira closes his mouth. His hands shake. Nothing makes sense. It’s cold. He wants to crawl in his bed and stay there forever, where it’s warm; where he spent so much time with Akechi; where he learnt about Akechi’s sensitive waist just below where his ribs drew sharp lines into his skin; where he promised he’d hold onto him forever.
He only notices the tears running down his face when Futaba bolds around the counter to hold him, crying so much as well. His body slightly shifts towards her, and his arms loop around her small frame— an automatic impulse he’s developed whenever Akechi needed it. In the reflection of the front door’s glass, he still sees Akechi’s face behind him. Bony fingers push into his shoulders.
Akira smiles.
kiss me on the mouth and set me free
sing me like a choir
i can be the subject of your dreams
your sickening desire