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[ O ]
Akechi is sick.
“Akechi is sick,” Akira tells Sojiro, nodding solemnly to the tamagoyaki he’s flipping. Sojiro looks unimpressed; however, Sojiro always looks unimpressed, which Akira has come to take as a sign of consent, approval, and/or pride depending on the situation. This one is a cocktail of the three.
“So he ordered tamagoyaki?” Sojiro says. “Not exactly on the menu. Didn’t even know you could make it.”
But Akira shakes his head and nods significantly to the bar – or, more specifically, to what has quickly become Akechi’s usual spot at said bar, an errant ghost in Leblanc’s lowlight and all the moreso for the pallor he’s wearing now. He’s surrounded by papers, which is normal enough; less so the fact that he’s currently using them as a pillow, a canopy of notes tucked under his arm with his head plopped unceremoniously on top. It’s extremely out of character. It’s extremely cute. Akira flips the tamagoyaki again and thinks about religion.
Sojiro grunts his understanding. “Well, as long as he’s not hitting anyone else with it, I guess it’s fine,” he says. Akira nods. Akechi is, unfortunately, not hitting anyone in the café any which way at the moment. He wonders if it’s moral to be thinking these things about someone currently up to their widow's peak in mucus, and resolves to ask Ann about it later.
Not that Akechi had mentioned being sick. They’re not… friends, exactly, because bonds-of-fate or no Akechi has him approximately thirty-three arms’s lengths away at all times. (Akira really wants to be Akechi’s friend.) But he comes by the café nearly every evening, and he somehow manages to make small talk something charming (even if, Akira thinks, it’s a little sad, somehow), and he’d come in today sneezing bullets with circles under his eyes that looked like charcoal. And now he’s asleep.
Akira really wants to be Akechi’s friend, but more pertinently he really wants Akechi to feel better.
So he’s making tamagoyaki.
He ends up having to go upstairs before closing – homework to do, and Ryuji to help with it over the phone – so he leaves it on a plate at the bar with a little hand-written note (get well soon! and would a smiley face be too much? would another exclamation point be too much? would–), asks Sojiro to let him know it’s nothing shady if he asks. He’s just rounding off his last derivative when Sojiro knocks at his door in a strange stroke of politeness; rolling off his bed, he chirps a come in before he’s even halfway to the door.
“Kurusu-kun? I– oh!”
Akechi hovers staring in the doorway like he’s been frozen in time, and Akira starts, running his hand through his hair in embarrassment. Morgana yelps and knocks over a stack of papers. World’s worst wingman.
“Akechi! Hi, I… wasn’t expecting…?” Well, duh. He sounds stupid and he knows it, but he’s reeling, flustered by the close quarters and the unexpected confrontation regarding what he’d done. It was probably silly. It was definitely silly. Why was he–
“Deepest apologies,” Akechi says with a tiny bow. He sounds almost as flustered as Akira feels, a little pink starting to stain the sick-pallor under his cheeks. “I wanted to thank you for your kindness, and– when Sakura-san mentioned you were upstairs, Kurusu-kun, I hadn’t realized he meant–”
What? Oh. Yeah. What do you mean, Akechi-kun don’t you live in a café attic too? “Don’t worry about it,” he says. He smiles as brightly as he’s able to under the butterfly-plunge of embarrassment, sheepish as he scratches the back of his head. “And just Akira’s fine.”
And maybe it’s the sickness stuffing his head with cotton, but that gives him a pause, eyelashes brushing the swell of his cheek. “Akira, then.” He clears his throat. “I should be going – I'm, ah, very sorry again for intruding upon your quarters.”
He can’t help but laugh a little at that. “Intrude whenever you like. You’re welcome any time.”
Akechi fusses at that, politely, and they keep up their usual rapport; when Akira offers to walk him to the station, he doesn’t say no.
(“I know it would come across the wrong way, and I won’t,” Akira says, focusing intently on the smiley-face he’s drawing on Yusuke’s notebook. “But I really do think it’s a good idea, like in theory—”
“No!” Ann says sternly. She whacks him with her English binder, lined with color-blocked notes. “You can’t tell your crush he’s welcome to sleep in your bed if he ever needs some down-time away from home, no matter how much you think he needs it. Now, what did you get for number four again?”)
[ K ]
In retrospect, Akechi isn’t really sure how Akira convinces him to come up to his room to watch... game shows, of all things, and on a school night at that. Not that the term ‘school night’ has meant much to him in years, in all honesty -- more a polite excuse to be made or a point of endearment during interviews than anything of actual substance -- but the fact remains that he does have to be up early for work in the morning, and Akira doesn’t have the detective excuse to fall back on. Still, something about him is indelibly charming; one hopeful smile and bounce on the balls of his feet has some perfumed corner of Akechi’s brain mumbling excuses about conversation pieces and gathering intel.
He stays – too long, really (implying he should’ve been there in the first place), and Akira’s attic bedroom isn’t small so much as it’s painfully not a bedroom. Still, Akira settles in like it’s nothing, pats the spot beside him on his bed like it’s the same. They settle in shoulder-to-shoulder to watch on Akira’s cheap television, and Akechi tries hard not to wonder about the last time he was touched for so long.
Akira falls asleep on him, in the end. Dozes on him, more like, and suddenly he can’t fight off the sense of vertigo anymore; all of it comes crashing around at once, perfumed and dizzy, and this is not the room he should be in. Time for the inevitable vanishing act, the first of many, pulling himself out from beneath Akira’s sleeping frame like a tablecloth from under a chinaset.
–except Akira has other ideas about that, apparently. Sleepily, he grapples Akechi into a bear hug and clings to him with surprising strength, effectively weighing him to the bed. “It’s rude to leave without saying goodbye, you know,” he says, managing a dry tease well enough for someone on the edge of consciousness.
He laughs, gentle and polished. The sound grates his own ears. “Forgive me – I didn’t want to disturb. Regardless, it’s late. I should be getting home.”
“Or you could stay.”
And that – gives him a start. Stay? No. He couldn’t possibly. “Thank you for the offer, but I really shouldn’t – work in the morning. And reporters wouldn’t take too kindly to me walking to the station with someone in the yesterday’s clothes… or, well, I suppose they would.” He laughs a little, more genuine this time, throat pleasantly sticky as he tries not to consider the underlying suggestion. Something normal.
And Akira – either senses his discomfort or doesn’t notice, because he doesn’t comment, and either way Akechi is grateful. Instead, he hums. “There’s still time before the last train…”
“Kurusu-kun,” he says, trying for fondly stern. “Dislodge.”
“Oh – breaking out the detective voice, huh? Awful seductive, gotta say.” Oh, so he’s feeling playful – like the limbs wrapped in a finger-trap around him didn’t give that away. Excellent deduction, tantei-ouji.
He hums, wriggling a bit in an attempt to get Akira off of his person. No good. “Akira, I really should…”
“It’s not even eight yet! One more episode.”
Laughing: “You’ve said that twice already– Akira–”
“A-ke-chi–”
Ultimately they end up in a heap on the floor, bodies tangled together in something warm and pillowy; Akira’s glasses are askew on his face, and he’s laughing something soft, head resting on Akechi’s chest. “You know, Akechi,” he says, just this side of thoughtful, “you’re a lot of fun to hang out with.”
(Much later: “Kurusu – that one night, watching television. Why did you want me to stay so badly?”
Akira looks up from the coffee mug he’s drying, eyes wide as the rim behind his glasses. “What, back in July?” he says; then, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world: “I always want you to stay.”)
[ A ]
They're closed, is the thing -- they've been closed for the better part of an hour, and Akechi's been flitting by the door for the better part of an hour, absently fiddling with the cuff of his glove. "I really don't want to intrude," he says for the umpteenth time. Akira pours him another cup of coffee. He has the exact amount of cream and sugar Akechi likes memorized by now, and it's pleasing to some distant mathematical part of him.
"Not intruding," he says easily. Tries not to be too bright about it, but, well. Gee. "I live here, remember? Maybe I can even wring some overtime pay out of Sojiro at this rate -- see, you're doing me a favor."
Akechi laughs lightly; still, his eyes still flicker towards the door. It's a September sort of ache, the blue-washed windows in the rain and the firefly nimbus of streetlights disappearing around the curve of the block. He can make it home, still, if it would just stop raining. He's never stayed so late before. Akira’s heart doesn’t know what to do with those kinds of numbers.
“At least come sit with me,” Akechi says after a moment. Probably to make up for being so obviously desperate to leave, but Akira takes it, pours himself a cup and settles in on the other side of the bar.
The problem is – the problem is Akechi is always approximately two feet away from the door no matter where they are, neatly and politely closed off. A polish that’s exhausting just to look at for too long, and one that Akira is increasingly desperate to become the antidote to. It’s raining. Akira doesn’t doubt that if he got too close Akechi wouldn’t give the weather a second thought.
“You write, sometimes,” Akira says. He’s choosing his words carefully. Akechi has sharp eyes and a soft mouth, and being close to him makes Akira’s tongue feel thick and bubblegummy in his mouth. The teenage condition of being smitten. “When you’re not doing police work.”
He doesn’t know how to read the look that Akechi gives him, ends up approximating it, reluctantly, as thoughtful. His head falls a bare degree to the side. “You noticed?” he says, then shakes his head and laughs in a way that suggests the answer is obvious. It’s a stupidly small gesture to be flattered over, but– “Sometimes, yes. It helps… ease my mind.”
“That’s good,” Akira says. Too fervently, too earnestly, and Akechi’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline and Akira flushes and looks way. “Sorry, I – you just, you seem awful stressed, you know? Not to suggest you can’t take care of yourself, but – it’s, it’s good. That you have something like that.” Ah, the ever-charming cocktail of condescending and ineloquent. He briefly and pleasantly considers pouring hot coffee all over his face but wouldn’t want to disrespect Sojiro.
But Akechi – looks at him, really looks at him, maybe for the first time, makes him feel like he’s being flayed alive in the best of ways, and he can’t help it, sickness and antidote, just blurts out, “Can I kiss you?” before he has time to think it over.
Over by the TV set, he hears Morgana leap down and scurry upstairs. World’s best wingman, he thinks, much more gratefully this time.
Akechi doesn’t answer, just laughs soft and breathless and surprised and closes the distance himself. And that’s – perfect, that’s better than whatever smooth confessions he’d absently daydreamed up in the past month or two, nothing could be better than this, Akechi’s mouth soft and pliant against his own and the skin of his cheek under Akira’s hand.
It feels like ages later that they pull apart – barely, their foreheads still brushing against each other’s. He can’t hear anything but the sounds of Akechi’s breathing, warm and spring-soft against his face, and his own heartbeat, and “Oh,” he says, voice faraway and dreamy in his own ears, “I think the rain stopped.”
Akechi kisses him again, and Akira doesn’t think about the weather any more that night.
("You looked so panicked for a second the other night," Akira says with a flush, eyelashes dipping to brush his cheeks. "I wouldn't actually keep you there, you know -- I just wonder why you look so worried about leaving sometimes."
Because I have to; because I don't want to. Because I'm afraid I'll stay, and then I'll never want to leave. Akechi kisses him again and feels at home, and it's enough for now.)
[ E ]
Akechi is… yowling.
“I am so sorry,” Akira says again. From under a laugh, again. He can’t help it, really, has always been bad at stifling this sort of thing, so he makes up for it by pressing another chain of kisses into Akechi’s fluffy towel-dried hair. This does not do much to impress.
“You’re not,” Akechi says with a sniff. He fiddles with the sleeve of the white feather robe: a habit borrowed from Akira just as much as the robe is.
It isn’t that he’s actually mad. Akira is… actually thrilled that Akechi isn’t immediately retreating into the polished polite schoolboy out in embarrassment, and not just because he’s, uh, sort of cute all pouty like this. An antidote for that feeling: he ducks down and kisses him on the mouth, then settles down beside him on Akira’s bed. But he can’t help but think about it again, and his nose is crinkling again, and, “To be fair, it’s not like I–”
“Who takes cold baths! And at night for that matter..!”
“It’s migraine season!” he wheedles. More kisses, from Akechi’s temple down his jaw. He feels pink blooming underneath his cheeks in spite of himself. More quietly, he says, “I didn’t, ah, know you’d be joining me.”
“That was the point…” And all at once Akechi’s indignant pride-catching recedes into shyness. He shifts. The mattress pulls awkwardly under them, and Akira gives him the few inches of space he wants, watches him curl in on himself a little even as the urge to reach out itches under his fingernails. Dryly: “Well. I suppose I can mark that one down as a complete failure.”
“Nothing you do is a failure,” Akira says. It rolls off his tongue before he can really think about it, heavy and sticky and bubblegummy, and Akechi’s glancing knives away at the cliché. He flushes. “I mean – listen, at the risk of sounding really stupid, you could… probably run screaming into my bath every night and I'd just be really happy you were there, you know?”
Akechi looks away. Snorts lightly. Something tells Akira the two aren’t related. “There’s something perverse about that.”
Akira laughs. “Well, that too.” He closes the gap between them tentatively, nosing the curl’s behind Akechi’s ear. His face feels like it’s on fire – God, they really are just. Stupid inexperienced teenagers playing pretend-Lothario, aren’t they? That’s okay, playing pretend with Akechi is better than any real deal with anyone else could be – and he murmurs warm and low against Akechi’s ear, “Hey, are you still cold?”
Akechi’s frame goes taut in parts, as though pulled by marionette string; Akira is just admiring the bow of his shoulders when he says, carefully, “Why would I be?”
Akira closes his eyes, tongue heavy and thick with the unique knowledge that what he’s about to say is exceptionally stupid but that Akechi is going to let him say it anyway. He smiles in spite of himself. “So I can warm you up.”
If Akechi says anything about it being a terrible line, it’s lost somewhere to Akira’s topsheet.
(Akechi falls asleep there for the first time, warm and sticky; when he wakes up, he hyperventilates for all of four seconds before Akira murmurs, sheepish and dandelion-soft, “Oh – I’m sorry, I wanted to make you breakfast, but I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”
Things are okay, after that.)
[ R ]
The thing about the world is that it ends, and it doesn’t, and Akechi doesn’t really understand any of it at all. He dies and wakes up in a blue room (What happened? asks the little one in a way that suggests it’s for his own benefit, and he says I killed a boy and slept in his bed, among other things), and he sleeps and wakes up in Akira’s arms, and ultimately waking up is the one thing that seems to stay constant no matter the circumstances. Ironic, considering he died.
Akira is a strange thing, a pale shadow on which to whet his newfound state of forgiven (healing, Akira insists) and determined to paint himself as something mundane as possible – some kind of everyman, your regular everyday boy who goes around taking in boys who’ve shot him in the head at giving them homes. Akira says Akechi is not as strange as he makes out to be. Akechi says Akira is much stranger.
“You’re dozing again,” Akechi says lightly, hands still petting his hair. This has become something like routine; Akechi will read in bed, and Akira will play on his phone, then read over him with his cheek on Akechi’s shoulder til he eventually starts to snooze. The changing of the seasons tends to make him lethargic. Spring is coming in fine.
“Hnn.” Then, a touch more eloquently, “Yeah, probably.” He pops up, dislodging a snoozing Morgana by his feet as he does. “I’m gonna make an ice cream run, or I won’t make it through my homework – what does everyone want?”
Morgana nips his ankle affectionately, sulks, “I can’t eat ice cream, dummy.”
“Oh, you never know, Mona,” Akechi says absently, nose still in his book. “They might have invented a tuna flavor yet.”
“Pff! I might even believe you if Akira could go two days between ice cream runs–”
“Hey,” Akira protests. “No need to shoot the one with the wallet, here, I’m already planning on getting you a piece of sushi or two on the way home.”
Morgana yelps something adoring and rubs up against Akira’s leg, purring pleasantly when Akira reaches down to scritch between his ears. A strange friend, Morgana – quick to understand and accept and forge forward, perhaps even more perplexingly than Akira, but. Well. Hope hasn’t abandoned him yet, huh? He leans down and pats hope’s butt affectionately.
Akira turns to him. “And we can split a strawber—”
“Mint chocolate chip.”
“Wait, what? No, strawberry’s your favorite, it’s why I’m letting you live here rent-free.”
“You like mint chocolate chip too, Akira,” Morgana points out, voice still bumpy with the underside of a purr.
“But it’s all Futaba eats, so it’s all we ever have.” He grimaces. It is quite possibly the most upset Akechi has seen him since the world ended. He’d kiss the fracture from his brow if Morgana didn’t have a tendency to yowl at PDA.
Instead, he crosses his legs, doing his best to look alluring but subtle about it and getting the impression he probably looks more like a nun on public transport than anything else. “So get two cartons?”
Akira sulks. “We aren’t exactly making regular runs to the metaverse anymore, you know – the economy…”
“So you can buy Morgana fancy sushi but not two separate cartons of ice cream.”
He scoffs. “It’s not fancy.”
“What!”
Akechi laughs and burrows back into the blankets, studying Akira’s bouncing profile and the point of Morgana’s nose and wondering if it’s possible for someone’s luck to change so quickly.
(“I lied,” Akira murmurs into the crook of his thigh later that night. He leaves a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses over the skin there, mouth still a little cool from the ice cream. Akechi shivers. “Morgana’s sushi is fancy.”
Akechi hits him with a pillow.)
[ I ]
When Akechi steps through the door at Leblanc, Akira barely glaces his way – just smiles, goes to brew him a cup of coffee. Called from the machine: “Okaeri!”
(A kiss on the forehead, over the counter and a mug. “Tadaima.”)