just a guy with too much brainrot

Mona waits, frowning up at him from the cushion on the gondola, he’s suddenly intense enough to pull him up short, “Hey, don’t joke about that.”

He looks away, rubbing at the back of his neck, feeling inexplicably like he’s revealed to much again, “Yeah. Right. Poor taste.”

Mona squints at him for a moment longer, before deflating with a sigh, “I get why you wouldn’t ask Futaba, but I really wish you’d at least brought Violet along.”

“… She’s busy.”

“You know she’d drop everything to be here. She liked him too, you know? Akechi.”

“I know, Mona. I just… don’t want to bring her more stress, with the meet coming up and all.”

Mona’s ears press to his skull, “Well.. if you think that’s for the best. I won’t say anything.”

“Thanks bud.”

Joker turns his gaze back to the dark waters, smoothly parting for their boat as they move on. His mouth twists to the side because he does know, Sumire would be over the moon, with a chance to repay her Senpai outside of the one day they call and reminisce on February 3rd these past two years running. She’d told him lots of things, like how Akechi was always kind when he met her and her sister at the TV station, how once he encouraged her on their first interview, and let her practice with him.

To Sumire he was her “Broadcasting Senpai” long before he was “Crow”.

Akira didn’t know Akechi had that kind of soft spot.

It’s funny, how he probably knew his rival deeper and more intimately than anyone else, and yet if you put him on the spot he doubts he could even tell anyone what the other boy’s favorite color is, foods, the town he grew up in, his life before Tokyo and after his mother’s death.

He really does wonder how much of the Detective Prince was an act and how much of it was just the person Akechi always wanted to be. There was a bit of dramatic irony there—however much his rival insisted he was all alone, he sure had a tenancy to leave an impression everywhere he stepped.

There’s not a single person in this world who didn’t matter to somebody somewhere.

“Whoa!”

Joker shakes out of his thoughts, raising his head from the water ripples. The wetness in the air sticks to his bangs again as he looks up… and up, craning his neck as he takes in the intimidating set of stout stone gates. The designs are paradoxically floral compared to the rot and desolation hanging over the palace, Sakura blossoms branching, intertwined with elegant laurel hedges, married in an arch at the flood gate’s apex.

Upon closer inspection, there is an empty pedestal rising from the bed of the canal where the waters are more shallow, sitting ever so innocently in front of the blocked way forward. Joker hisses sharply through his teeth, shoving his curls out of his face trying not to curse, he knows a puzzle when he sees on.

Mona only groans behind him.

“Ugh, of course it wouldn’t be this easy.”

-

-

-

“Considering the themes so far, we’re probably looking for a bust or a statue.”

Joker drags a hand down his face, hours later, watching Mona hop around the next abandoned shop—a smithy of some sort, he thinks. It doesn’t matter, the most they find are scrap metal that he’d sooner sell to Iwai-san than use for himself.

“But this place is huge! How are we supposed to find something like that, Joker?”

“It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

Something weighs down his shoulders, his mind more lethargic than when they first entered, even Mona is starting to flag again, sitting on a waterlogged plank with an exhausted plop. Though it’s no longer raining, the air is thick and misting with fog and a chill that sinks into Joker’s very bones, his hair is so wet now he has to slick his curls back with both hands every twenty minutes or so.

He clicks his tongue, lips twist to the side with the kind of frenzied irritation only Akechi Goro can drag out of him, fingers tapping impatiently at his bicep as he crosses his arms. That guy really couldn’t make anything easy, could her?

“My senses have been on the fritz since coming here, I think it might be some sort of passive effect of the palace.”

There was something hopeless in the air here, it reminds him of Mementos—but instead of madness and desire this was just a hollow sort of emptiness. Like the longer Joker stayed, with only the stillness and the whistling wind for company, the more sluggish his reactions, the more his mind seemed to drift.

He’s had to shake off the urge to nod off several times, even while actively standing.

Joker shivers a bit, wondering how the hell Akechi’s apparently been here for months when he’s already slowing down after a scant handful of hours. Is he really safe here? He can’t imagine being here for days, weeks even, what if—

Relax. Lavenza said he’s still alive, he’s been alive for years now. If he were dead he would’ve have a palace. You can do this, you can still save him.

His breath is measured as Mona hops up, a bit unsteady, gripping his gloved hand between his paws.

“Joker? Your hand… it’s shaking.”

His lashes flutter behind his mask, Joker, crouches down to Morgana’s level lips quirking wearily, “I think there’s a limit for how long we can be here at a time.”

“Hmm, I think you’re on the right track there, maybe it’s similar to a time out?”

“A “time out”?”

Mona nods, already tugging Joker towards the boat, “Like a stamina gauge! You’ve been using your eye a lot, right? You’ve also been doing all the rowing this entire time.”

“… And the palace might have a more passive status effect to make up for the lack of enemies so far.”

“That’s right!”

Joker puts a hand to his chin, inclining his head, “You know, I’ve never used energy drinks outside of battle, but do you think caffeine might help us stay for longer periods by that logic?” His shoulders are still stiff, so he cracks his neck this way and that much to Mona’s visible disgust, rolling his upper back muscles a bit.

“I mean, it’s possible. We won’t know until we try! Let’s call it for today and try it out next time.”

Reluctantly, he has to concede the Metaverse feline’s point, Mona is always wise.

“Yeah… alright. Let’s head back and regroup—have you been keeping track of the buildings we’ve already looked through, Navigator?” He can’t help teasing as Mona puffs out his chest, climbing onto his cushion in their gondola.

“Why of course! I’m no rookie—I’m a very illustrious thief, I’ve been mapping things out as we go.”

Joker can’t help rubbing over his friend’s head, ignoring the theatrical squawking, echoing through the otherwise empty canal maze.

“Thanks, Mona, don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Wind up in a ditch, probably.”

“Wow, can’t even give me a fighting chance?”

“Nope! I have to keep an eye on you, who knows what you’ll get up to.”

“Dunno, probably go to sleep at 4:00AM every night and subsist on caffeine and sugary snacks.”

He grins as Mona immediately protests—“Joker, don’t you DARE!”—turning the gondola around and herding them back in direction of the palace entrance.

(Akechi lingers at the forefront of his mind; the mosaic piece Akira picked up seems to burn a hole in his pocket, ever judgmental, ever watchful. It stays with him even after returning to the real world, Akira sets it on his shelf of souvenirs that night for reasons he can’t quite grasp.

He just can’t get that peculiar shade of pink out of his head.)

////

“The “Renaissance”, a french translation of Italia’s rinascita—meaning ‘rebirth’, coined by a Mister Giorgio Vasari! To paraphrase a certain Florentine humanist, the movement was a homage to the noble of achievements of humanity’s ancestors, to the lost and forgotten techniques that modern men have allowed to fall to the wayside! That’s right, the Ancient Greeks and the Romans!”

Professor Malkevich’s flamboyant voice bounces off of every far-reaching corner of the lecture hall, Akira’s ears prick up from where he’d been texting Ryuji about rehab exercises.

His luck has always been good. Seems like this class was just one of those many contrivances that liked to fall into his lap.

“—Matteo Palmieri’s outlook was that it was our duty to rescue those achievements from mere obscurity, breathing new life into the arts with the fresh blood and burgeoning genius of a bold, new age! To preserve is to renew interest in the arts and culture of a bygone era, to study that beauty and revive the creativity stomped down by the likes of the Catholic Church. Humanists, unlike the Gothic arts of old, introduced topics taken from the classics—political ideologies, myths, literature! Innovation! To move forward into a better tomorrow it is pertinent for us to study those ancient texts, and learn from what was once lost—now found once more…!”

‘What was once lost, now found once more.’

Akira raises his hand, before he knows what he’s doing—“Ah! Kurusu-kun, my apologies, I got carried away!” The man exclaims, spinning around to face the room at large with a pep in his step, he’s been stuck on the same slide for at least twenty minutes now: “This is a free space for learning and constructive discussion, don’t be shy—did you have a question?”

Another quirk about the good professor was his knack for learning every student he had, at least by surname. No matter how large the class. The man’s interest in his studies was genuine and so was his hunger for discourse.

“… What if that something that was found is too broken to restore? Isn’t it lost forever?”

Raising his voice isn’t necessary, it resonates from deep in his chest, the words feel desperate, hopeless—brought on by the events of a few days ago, and the creeping realization that Akechi’s palace may be a months long endeavor, rather than a frantic handful of weeks.

(The thought of failing crushes his lungs like he’s drowning in sea water.)

“Hmm!” The professor crosses his arms, ignorant to Akira’s plight, as he leans back against the podium, “Well, I can see why you’d think so! Restoration is a meticulous profession, but Palmieri had a vested interest in the worth of those lost things, from the old Latin translators, to the painters, to the poets and the sculptures—those remnants of the past were worth preserving, to breathe beauty back into them.”

“But what if there’s only ruins of that thing that’s been lost, is there really a way to restore what once was?”

“In truth, there is no such thing as absolutely ‘lost’ in this world, Kurusu-kun. there are only things waiting to be ‘found’, again!” His laugh is bright like wind chimes, Akira hadn’t realized how heavy the knot in his chest was until it begun to unwind. “There’s many ancient texts and mosaics we only have fragments of, but those too, hold value.

“Human history is a long and storied tapestry, there will always be traces, and there will always be remnants. So long as it continues there will be at least one person who looks back and finds treasure where others may only see paltry ruins and the skeletal remains of what is no longer great! Take kintsugi as a case study, to most a broken vase is a broken vase. But rather than hiding the flaws, kintsugji strives to highlight the repairs—of course there were pieces of that vase that can’t be found, but the end result of filling those cracks and granting them new life is still beautiful in a different way, no?”

You can still salvage what remains.

“Hunting for those shattered pieces is a lot like that idea of ‘rebirth’ from before. To be reborn is to advance, and grant a new home to that which as previously lost.”

Professor Malkevich seems like he can go on forever, but, he abruptly cuts himself off, his laugh is warm and sheepish, something in Akira unfurls. The tension in his shoulders ease.

“Oops! I got carried away again—does that answer your query, Kurusu-kun?”

Akira has to clear his throat twice, so he doesn’t make a fool of himself getting choked up in front of a bunch of strangers—but his eyes are clear, and Arsène is steady at his back: “Yes, Professor. Thank you for humoring me. I know the question was odd.”

“Nonsense! Life’s oddities are what makes it worth living. Now where was I… oh, yes, Humanism!”

Akira notices the good Professor has a fondness for Orion apples after passing him and his colleagues by chance during lunch hour. He brings one to every class after that. Finding good teachers was always a pleasant surprise, Akira figures he doesn’t mind paying back this much with what he’d gained in turn.

////

“Sooo, how exactly are we going to do this and keep it from everyone?” Morgana eyes him in disapproval, clearly still not on board with Akira’s infallible two man infiltration strategy. “We’ll have to check all the buildings… I guess, or at least find one that looks distinct enough to hold a bust.” “This palace is huge though! That could take weeks, we need a bigger team!” Akira shrugged, “Not necessarily, it’ll just take longer.” “God this is awful, Akechi makes you so... irrational!”

His cat flopping over the desk with a skeptical huff, Akira pauses in his tool-making to scratch between his ears, they’d gone in again today—still no enemies, only the mist, and that mysterious feel of eyes crawling down his back.

“I’m being perfectly rational,” he hums, “I don’t need input from the team on this, this isn’t a true heart change, it’s a rescue mission.”

“… That sounds like a loop hole you’re exploiting.”

Akira’s lips quirk as he scoops Morgana from his workbench in a flourish, cradling him in his lap—Morgana shoots him a dirty look but settles down to loaf in his lap. He gets back to sorting through their loot.

“I know you’re worried, but I promise I know what I’m doing.”

“Akira…”

He prods a furry cheek affectionately, “I don’t want to trouble the others with this, alright? Ann just started college in America, Ryuji’s busy on the other side of the country, Haru and Yusuke are overseas, even Futaba and Makoto have their own lives to worry about.”

Morgana’s ears lower, then, quietly, “They’d come running in a heartbeat if you asked, you know.”

“But would they for Akechi?”

His friend can’t meet his eyes, Akira feels a little bad. It’s one of those harder questions, the type that keeps him up at night reckoning with his and his friends’ justice and their human blind spots. He isn’t an idiot, he knows the Phantom Thieves work in less shades of gray than the power they wield should probably facilitate. The choice was unanimous but that didn’t necessarily mean they couldn’t make mistakes.

(It was Akechi’s favorite flaw of theirs to point out.)

Akira flips an aged drachma in the air, it lands topside. “What do you think will happen if I tell everyone out of the blue like this? Without what we’ve learned—‘Akechi Goro is alive and he has a palace.’”

“… They’d probably think he’s up to something if you don’t give them any context—”

“So you’re saying their first instinct would be offense?”

“I mean yeah, palaces are pretty hostile, even Futaba’s almost wiped us all out once or twice.”

“But I’m taking about the person. Would they genuinely want to help him? Do you?”

“Of course I do!” Morgana leaps off of his lap, yowling, Akira watches him in silence, even leaning a casual elbow again his work desk, “Even I feel a bit of responsibility too, ya’know! I-If we’d guided him down the right path in the first place, there’s a chance things wouldn’t have had to end like they did…” his white tipped tail droops, entire posture slumping as he exhales, “He… helped us a lot. He at least tried to be better by the end, and he was. He continued to be even after he could’ve just washed his hands of us and lived his own life for once.”

A beat.

“He’s the one that got me out of juvie,” Akira adds, quietly, “he found the woman who Shido blackmailed, and got her to re-testify, got my charges dropped and everything. I had a lot of people in my corner, but no one knew the details of that case. We thought she came forward on her own, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Sae contacted her, Akechi used his detective prince persona to persuade her, apparently.” Akira huffs in amusement “Man, he must’ve hated that.”

“A lot of humans become distorted for selfish reasons,” Morgana continues, voice subdued, “their core desire becomes an unhealthy obsession, and then they hurt others. Akechi hurt a lot of people, but he never lied to himself, or made excuses the way our other targets did...

“He did good, in the end, at least. And-and I don’t think it’s right that all he gets for it is that palace that’s just rot and misery—no, it’s wrong.” Morgana says firmly, “That’s not a punishment its just self-flagellation. Instead of other people he’s just hurting himself.”

Akira presses his fingers through his hair, shoving it away from his forehead, his lips twitch, “I mean what was working for his shitty sperm donor if not a certain brand of self-flagellation?”

Morgana squints. “I see what you’re doing.”

He smiles, the very picture of innocence: “And what am I doing? My darling Mona who is great and magnanimous, whom I love so much and makes for a wonderful space heater during the winter nights—ow.”

Tiny needle-like teeth pull away from his bare ankle as Morgana gives him a bland look, “You don’t think they’ll see it the same.”

“I know they won’t. He got executed in front of us in the depths of his father's psyche and everyone's first question in Janurary was whether or not he was planning on betraying us,” Akira paused, “sorry, that’s not fair, he did kill Okumura senior.”

(Well, there was also Sae's palace and the interrogation, but Akira more counted that as a 'thing' between him and Akechi rather than a betrayal to the group. He's not sure what that says about him.)

This is another reason why Akira can’t tell his friends, he’d probably slip and say something just a little too off color. He still held no love for Okumura senior, any of their targets, really. He respected Haru, for being able to love her father and all of what could have been in the fragments of their fractured relationship, while Akira held his grudges and stored them away, letting them settle under a layer of permafrost.

Morgana shoots him an exasperated look, “You could at least pretend to care.”

Blink. “After Yusuke’s everything?”

“Well, talking to Madarame wasn’t bringing him ‘closure’, it was making him worse…!”

And hadn’t that been a mess and a half, convincing Yusuke that he no longer had any responsibility to the man who all but killed his mother, that the man Madarame was probably incapable of love in the first place—before and after the heart change.

Makoto’s sister was different, she’d changed her own heart. Madarame on the other hand, had to be dragged to the altar of accountability kicking and screaming, trampling on the graves of young talents he’d long buried all the way. He’d crushed Yusuke’s unconditional love just as easily, the way he’d crushed his mother.

Hands soaked in blood, soul twisted enough to build a museum to his own narcissistic vanity.

It’d been a team effort of texts, group video calls and late night brainstorming to get Yusuke to stop his visits. To stop expecting love from a ghost and let go of the gentle mentor that likely never truly existed. The harrowing experience had brought Yusuke and Haru closer together, at the least.

(That’s honestly all Akira could ask for.)

“And Haru having access to her shell of a father who was going to traffic her for political gain would do wonders for her mental health, I’m sure.” His voice is so dry it makes him wince a little.

“Akira, we’ve talked about this, it wasn’t our choice! It was Haru’s choice, and Akechi took that away, and—oh.”

Akira arches an eyebrow.

“… Fine. I see what you mean.”

“There’s too many factors to take into account, it could cloud everyone’s judgment.” Inhale. Exhale. “I’d go it alone if I could, Mona, I can’t just leave him.

“This isn’t a circus act, or some quest for answers, this is a rescue mission. I don’t care about past betrayals or who’s wrong or right, I just want him safe.” I want him here.

Silence.

Morgana’s velvety ears are flat against his skull again, he sighs but eventually—he bends, just the way Akira knew he would. “Okay, fine. But the moment I feel like you’re in danger, real danger, I’m calling in the cavalry, whether you want the help or not.”

Akira nods once, crossing his arms over his chest in a closed off gesture, “Right. It’s a deal.”

Mona hops onto his lap with a grumble, arching up to rub their cheeks together, “Don’t be an idiot—we’re friends, Joker. I’ll always be in your corner.”

[end part 1]

///

Sometime last year, when Akira was breezing through his midterms, his new Tokyo family started to fall apart.

He was four hundred miles and several stations away, stuck in the boonies when his phone starting pinging with the telltale sirens of: Alert! Alert! Leader needed immediately! This is an emergency! Futaba had called him in a frenzy, followed by Ann while he was trying to get the story from Futaba, turning it into a somewhat chaotic three-way call.

After a fragmented explanation he’d learned three things of equally terrifying proportion:

One, a panicked Ryuji had heard from Mishima, who had heard from one concerned Togo Hifumi that Yusuke hadn’t attended classes or returned to his dorm for a week. Two, Yusuke’s phone had been off for almost all of this time. And finally, three: the last two places his cellphone pinged were at the old—now condemned—shack he used to live in with Madarame, and the local prison where Madarame was currently incarcerated.

The wee hours of that stressful morning were accented by a myriad of texts, phone calls, and blind panic—Akira tugging strands of his curls by the handful. He was close to just saying fuck it and ordering a train ticket back to Tokyo as he received too many updates from far too many conflicting perspectives he’d woken up, desperate for information.

The uncertainty of it all had made him want to scream.

As he tore out of his parents’ house an hour before dawn, jaw clenched with Morgana following close at his heels, there had been men in black watching him from across the street. They’d still been lingering, then. And for a wild moment he had considered driving a fist into one of those smug bastards, with those accusing eyes and glinting sunglasses. It had taken everything in Akira to keep from making a scene.

(‘They’ wanted a reason to take him in again. Akira wasn’t giving them one.)

—His parents weren’t home, his mom was in Osaka and his father went overseas with his campaign secretary, Akira rationalized, if he left now he could get to Tokyo in five hours where he could join in the search.

It was his fault.

He should’ve checked in on Yusuke more. The thieves’ ‘Inari’ was quiet and elegant, spacey with his head in the clouds, full of big ideas and an obsessive itch to create and not much else. He was sharp, precise, and stubborn when he dug his heels in on the oddest things, but he was also theirs. They hadn’t worried because, well, Yusuke was Yusuke. Nothing ever seemed to phase the boy, he got over things quickly and moved to the beat of his own drum.

How could Akira mess up like this—? He’d promised himself, after Ryuji, after Mona, after him, that he wouldn’t ever let this happen again. He was supposed to be wiser, better, why wasn’t he better?

What if someone took him away? What if Akira was wrong about being the only one followed? Yusuke was by far the easiest thief to guess the identity of, Akechi and Makoto both had said as much. The most vulnerable, the odd one out who didn’t even go to the same school. Unprotected.

Always a step behind, always too slow on the uptake, Joker.

But he wasn’t Joker anymore now, was he?

(He couldn’t save anyone as useless, boring, Kurusu Akira—just like he couldn’t save that woman from a monster masquerading as a politician as a first year brat.)

He was halfway to mumbling out a destination to his hick town’s sole train station employee, hands clammy with a cold sweat, barely keeping his voice from cracking, when Ryuji called with Haru on the line.

They’d found Yusuke in that cursed storeroom that had previously held the defiled work of his mother. It had long been swept clean for evidence by the police before the building was condemned, the electricity was cut off, so Yusuke had set up a candlelight.

The hunched figure’s fingers bled around a worn, half cracked pencil, eyes bone dry from blinking too little, not sleeping enough, thin lips cracked from dehydration. Haru had apparently held his free hand in hers while Ryuji put Akira on speaker, and they all gently coaxed the boy out of his stupor like their noble, unflappable Fox was made of nothing but porcelain.

Ryuji gently pried open that tightly clenched hand from around that pencil, clutched like a lifeline, while Haru softly asked when Yusuke had eaten last, why not stay with her for a while. She’s taking a gap year, she thinks, perhaps they should spend it out of Tokyo together, wouldn’t that be nice, Yusuke?

And Akira had held the phone to his shoulder 400 miles away, counting his breaths, replaying Ryuji’s discomforted words over and over in his brain, stomach squirming in his gut:

“Hey leader, Yusuke’s in a bad way and Ann’s still searching all the way in Shibuya. I need your help on this.”

They still call him ‘leader’ sometimes, in high stress situations, because Joker’s stoicism is reassuring, steady and stout like a load bearing pillar—so, 'Akira' must be too. His chin shook slightly as he sat heavily on the grass outside of that tiny station after the ordeal, gulping around the lump in his throat as Morgana curled up in his lap, ears flicking with wide miserable eyes.

“I miss everyone, Joker.”

“I know, me too, Mona,” he whispered like it was a secret, and it was a little bit, because ‘Joker’ was strong, he wasn’t meant to be human, he was the one to lean on, he didn’t get scared he—

[Powerless, handcuffed to a chair in a dark concrete room meant to be his graves. A sharp pain and a blow. His ribs screaming as a large leather boot slams into his gut, nausea crawling up his throat, a sense of disorientation from the drugs and the vertigo drowning his senses:

“You still don’t get it, do ya? Give it up!”]

(He hadn’t been able to sleep that night, he didn’t want to bug Mona with his nightmares.)

Apparently, Yusuke had been seeing Madarame for months, the siren’s song of Maruki’s reality weighing far more than he’d ever let on to the team. He didn’t want to raise any concerns so he’d kept the renewed visits to himself, hoping for reconcile. He’d grown desperate to see a sliver of the man he’d admired, anything to see that the heart change had magically cured his old mentor, his father.

What he’d found was a hollow shell that was devoid of inspiration, one who apologized to the point of excess and rattled on about past sins like a mad man—a perverse degradation as opposed to genuine atonement. He’d insisted there were moments of lucidity sometimes, where Madarame gave him advice, like he used to. They weren’t often.

Yusuke had called it ‘moments of weakness’, that lingering hope. At his lowest, he’d go to the prison and pretend, just for a moment, that Maruki’s reality had been real. And for that same moment, he punished himself, consumed by an all encompassing guilt that he loved this man still—more than a dead parent he’d never known, a parent Madarame had all but murdered.

What unfilial son makes a wish like this?

Yusuke had asked three days later over video call, bundled up in one of Haru’s fluffy towels looking for all the world like a bedraggled stray, eyes haunted and fathomless, looking at something far beyond the screen. So far away it made Akira’s heart race, hands carding through Mona’s fur in his lap, stressed and trying not to show it.

(What’s the plan, ‘Leader’?)

Akira had wanted to reach through the screen, hold Yusuke’s hand and promise to fix this but… it’s like the world was seeped in sepia tone, there was a buzzing in his ears that reminds him of November again. That concrete room. The cops and their heavy boots.

“It makes you human.”

Powerless. He’s useless to them like this.

/////

Sturdy combat boots crush a wad of waterlogged newsprint in the alleyway where Iwai’s shop is located. Akira hasn’t helped out much this year, the man having waved him off once he was back in town, just telling him to drop by when he has the time.

Kaoru was starting college exams next year, Akira wonders if Iwai-san was finally feeling remorseful for working him so hard as a second year high school student. Also the whole Yakuza thing. That had been a fun side adventure.

(Not that anything would’ve stopped him, but it really was the thought that counted.)

With a bright smile, Akira deftly drops a canvas bag full of scraps and tin on the counter with the same energy as a cat dropping a dead animal at their benefactor's door. Iwai clicks his tongue in response, snapping his inventory notebook closed with a snap. He huffs a laugh through his nose.

“Been a while kid, this is nostalgic.”

“Yeah, brings back memories doesn’t it?” Akira shoves his hands in his jacket pockets rocking back on his heels while Iwai-san studies the junk he’d—quite literally—dropped in his lap. He’s already picked out the things deemed useful enough for infiltration tools, so really the rest is just dead weight.

In the interim, Akira finds himself leaning his elbows on the counter, eyes squinting in mirth. It’s familiar here, in this dimly lit air soft shop, so nostalgic he hadn’t even realized how much he missed it.

“So, are we haggling today or are you gonna give me a discount?”

“You’ve sure gotten cheeky.”

“Not at all! I just know you’re one big softie.”

Iwai levels him with an unimpressed look, “Uh-huh. And I’m guessing you won’t be telling me what all this is about? Do I have to worry about the skies raining blood anytime soon?”

Akira’s lips twitch into a crooked grin.

“Not likely, weather’s safe as far as I know. I’ll throw in some scraps and some manual labor for your trouble though.”

“Fine, but you’re helping me with inventory while I work, you interrupted my lunch.”

“… You weren’t eating lunch though, Iwai-san.”

“Sure wasn’t.” Iwai huffs a laugh, “Now, help me make sense of these numbers.”

“Ehhh, I thought you needed me doing inventory, not your books.”

“Don’t whine, hop to it.”

///

“How’s your blood pressure, it was high last check up wasn’t it?”

“Anyone ever tell you how creepy it is when you do that, kid?”

Akira takes a sudden interest in the handwritten notebook that has Iwai’s entire lively hood neatly written in the margins, yanking at his bangs. He shrugs, feigning bashful silence—there’s no remorse at all.

The older man only rolls his eyes with a grunt as he bites into the Big Bang Burger he’d used his sporadic part timer to procure, also result of said part-timer’s needling. “Don’t put on that good boy act around me, I already know you’re a troublemaker.”

Akira really couldn’t help himself, Iwai-san didn’t text all much, Kaoru however…

(He’d always planned on coming back, Tokyo was where his people were, and Akira liked to keep track even if no one would do the same for him.) Another beat where Akira mentally counted down the seconds before—“It’s fine. Just need some different medication.”

“You should take care of yourself.”

“I take care of myself the correct amount for a middle aged Japanese man.”

“You got a D on your last physical exam. Not even Boss’s score is that low and he still smokes like a chimney.”

Iwai curses under him breath, grumbling about meddling sons and cheeky brats, “But seriously, you’re not in any trouble, are you?” His leans his elbows on his knees, brows furrowed into a familiar worried scowl.

Akira blinks, he twirls the pen in hand, expression going carefully blank: “No, Iwai-san. Nothing I can’t handle.”

For some reason that doesn’t make his scowl ease any. Akira runs over what he’s just said and can’t find anything wrong, necessarily. The uncomfortable silence stretches on, Akira’s born out of confusion as Iwai studies him like a common math problem, fingers tapping against his knees.

He’s about as intimidating as Boss at this point, he’s seen the guy cowed by a fifteen year old’s righteous anger about long work hours, after all. Akira tries not to frown as he puzzles over the conversion from a few more angles and—oh.

He couldn’t be…? Was he…

Iwai finally clicks his tongue, jolting Akira out of his stupor, “Hell—whatever. As long as you stay safe, I suppose.”

The blood rushes to Akira’s face so quickly it leaves him lightheaded. He cuts his chin and hunches his shoulders.

“I’m not a kid anymore.” He mumbles, like a kid.

Iwai snorts, “You just graduated high school last year, kiddo. You really, really are.”

“Can you please just upgrade these for me?”

“We—ll, since you’re bein’ so polite about it…”

Akira pouts for the rest of the afternoon, physical log book plopped in his lap with a calculator in one hand and a pen in the other, he’s being a bit dramatic. It’s not like this is ‘hard’ work, skimming numbers and inventory, memorization, noting down quarterly sales and stock.

It’s just tedious.

He’s a bit too wound up for tedious these days.

At the end of his shift, Iwai places a steady hand on his shoulder, the way Sojiro does. Akira blinks—they’re mostly eye level now and it gives him a sense of vertigo, realizing he hadn’t reverted back to that mischievous second year just being back here. He doesn't even need to tilt his head up anymore to meet Iwai's gaze.

The older man takes him in for a moment, while Akira shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, “… I really am okay, you know.”

That gets him an eye roll, “Sure, kid, you’re very strong and capable. Just don’t get too in over your head.”

Flick.

Akira’s nose scrunches up, rubbing at his smarting forehead as Iwai finally releases him, a faint smirk flickering over his grim features, “Fine, fine, I won’t go any further. Just don’t wind up behind bars this round.”

Looking away, Akira fiddles with his overgrown bangs, the fraternal worry makes something in him smart in a way he really doesn’t have the spoons to examine too closely right now. “I’ll come help out again next week.”

A defeated sigh. “Just be careful, for Kaoru, alright? Kid would be a mess if anything happened to you.”

Akira stifles a snort, seeing right through him—still such a softy—“Sure, Iwai-san, I promise… for ‘Kaoru’.”

“Don’t sass me, hurry on home already.”

His confidant waves him off with a grimace, looking thoroughly harassed, messing up Akira’s hair on his way out the door with a vengeance.

It’s weird getting his hair ruffled. Usually only Sojiro does it, and even then, he can’t recall his own biological father ever doing such a thing so informal. Akira bows his head a little, ears burning. Ah, yes, the consequences of befriending a bunch of adults as a teenager with blatant abandonment issues—he’d sure gotten an bizarre web of patchwork aunts and uncles out of it.

(He is not looking forward to Ohya-san realizing he’ll be of drinking age in a handful of months.)

As he makes his way home, Akira turns his head to the sky, too lit up by the lights of the city to show any stars. This had been a comfort back in his hometown, a childish hope that though they were separated at least he and his rival were looking at the same moon during those long, sleepless, nights.

But now he has confirmation that he was wrong—Akechi is not looking at the same sky as him right now. He’s rotting, his psyche collapsing in on itself and its own grief. Akira doesn’t know if he’s slept at all, if he’s safe, or warm… Was he a mess like he’d been in the engine room, at the end? Or maybe, he was grimly reflecting in the depths of his palace, surrounded by all his trauma and past hurts, accepting of what he deems a ‘worthy punishment’.

It’s fit to drive Akira mad.

The emotions are a constant buzz, boiling him from the beneath the surface, between every conversation and daily routine.

“Ah, you’re back.”

Akira’s brain stops, he meets Sojiro’s half smile and slides his gaze to Futaba, still in her uniform, tacking away on her laptop at a frankly concerning pace, while draining an energy drink one handed. One by one he relaxes his muscles. Mona weaves between his legs.

“How was the air soft store?”

“Fine,” Akira’s lips quirk passively, “he was utterly dazzled by my stellar inventory skills—unlike someone I know.”

“Uh huh,” Sojiro rolls his eyes, “I’ll trust you with my inventory when you can tell a Hawaiian Kona bean from a Gutamalan Antigua.”

“Come on, Boss, can’t you cut me some slack?”

“No way, my shop’s reputation’s on the line, you’re still a hundred years too early.”

The bickering is safe—familiar. Sojiro’s the first adult Akira’s ever trusted, the first to give him space, to offer him a home to come back to instead of simply exist in.

(Futaba watches him intensely from beneath her bangs with furrowed brows, Akira forces himself not to linger on it.)

////

ANN Hey, guys~ Guess who totally nailed their first show! You know I didn’t think I’d be as into fashion as like a /medium/ but putting together the outfits is surprisingly fun!

Akira tilts the phone back a little at the counter, eyes flickering over a brunette model in sleek black leather and with a sharp silhouette, accented by fluffy gray peacock feathers. It’s a lazy afternoon, Akira didn’t have any classes so he told Sojiro he’d cover for today while he and Futaba went to see that Featherman revival she’s been antsy over.

There’s only so much time before Futaba had to start studying for her college entrance exams, after all.

Ann is grinning ear to ear next to her model who holds up a peace sign, breaking the elegant immersion. The other members of what Akira can only assume are her group are making similar silly expressions.

She’s in her element, it makes something in Akira beam with pride seeing so many people that won’t judge her for her looks, that look just like her, even.

He’d been worried about her, going so far away but Ann’s always been strong—he should really stop underestimating her.

AKIRA Lookin good. Don’t forget about us.

ANN !!! Never! I was just talking about you actually. And your terrible taste in fashion~ Your face is so handsome in contrast, it made everyone depressed…

AKIRA Hey.

ANN I showed my group a picture of you on our rode trip and got bombarded with inspiration boards. It kinda spiraled from there and now you’re the class’s mini pet project!

AKIRA Rude. I feel like there’s an insult there but I don’t know how to put it into words…

RYUJI I mean, dude I’ve seen your wardrobe! I wouldn’t call black on gray a ‘fashion sense’ in the first place.

ANN I mean you’re not exactly a winner either, Ryuji…

RYUJI Wait, what???

ANN I’ve never seen anyone mash up clashing patterns like you do.

RYUJI Oi, I just like color is all, yellow’s cool!

ANN Those graphic tees sure aren’t…

YUSUKE I believe Ryuji’s taste in clothing to be quite unique. Quite inspiring, to use such neon colors with yourself as the canvas…! I almost admire it in a way.

RYUJI You guys are really starting to piss me off.

AKIRA So what’s worse, too much color or too little color

ANN You’re not off the hook yet, I’m going to wrestle you into so many designer jackets. If you even think about pulling out that polo shirt again I’ll start eating the polyester.

AKIRA Wow, that’s intense.

HARU I do admit, Akira for someone so flashy as a thief I find it somewhat surprising that you’re so... What’s the word?

ANN Basic?

YUSUKE Neutral.

RYUJI Underwhelming?

AKIRA Yeesh, tough crowd.

ANN Your failboy wardrobe justifies the toughness honestly. Do you even go out? Futaba worries, ya’know.

AKIRA Ehh, I moonlight as a server at Lala’s bar sometimes. It’s nice, the stage makeup’s fun at least.

RYUJI ???? The place in Shinjuku?????? The gay bar What???

He could’ve sworn he mentioned it… ah. Akira thinks back, mentally running through past conversations. That was Akechi. He'd never really told his team, he really should break that habit. He pops a hip against the bar, lips quirked in amusement as the chat all but explodes.

AKIRA First, its not technically a gay bar—secondly, where do you think I suddenly got all that money for palace supplies back in highschool? I was always gone on Sundays. Mama’s cool, she pays well.

RYUJI MAMA!?!

ANN God, Ryuji, grow up will you—Akira pics. Now.

HARU Oh my! Perhaps we’ve misjudged you… My apologies, Akira-kun!

YUSUKE Fascinating prospect, makeup is an art of it’s own. I’ve always been quite androgynous, perhaps you should introduce me to this “Lala”

RYUJI I really think you guys are under reacting to all this…

ANN Shut it, Ryuji.

Akira rubs his neck, cheeks a bit pink, he’d honestly mostly wanted to get them off his back about his wardrobe but, well… Morgana peeks at him from where he’s laying in a sunbeam, rolling over on his belly in front of the window sill.

“Akira, who are you talking to?”

“Ann, she had her fashion show.”

“Ohhh! Show me! Show me!”

Mona makes an impressive leap from the booth to the counter, Akira tilts the phone to show his friend the picture, smiling slightly—“One second, I gotta prove something.”

“Prove what?”

Whistling a soft tune he skims back through his phone’s gallery to the second or third week he moved back to Tokyo, he finds a picture from game night, Ohya had taken it, drunk as a skunk, giggling as the bar’s ambient lighting caught him behind the bar just right, curly wig in place with ruby red lipstick, well-defined jaw softened by contouring and blush. His smokey eyes were half lidded, stuffed into the punishment cop fit Lala keeps threatening to just gift to him since he picks it so often.

[[“Ahh, what a surprise…” Words gasped out between desperate chuckles that lit up a boyish face that faded into a mysterious sort of smile: “There’s never a dull moment with you, is there?”]]

Akira blinks out of his daze, he sends the photo.

“Ann says I’m boring.”

He wonders how Akechi would feel seeing him in proper drag, as opposed to the soddy hack job Lala had lamented over back when Akira came to her with an impossible request as an awkward high school kid who wanted to impress his rival. Would Akechi still laugh? Would he react with shock like Ryuji, or admiration like Ann and Haru?

Akira’s cheeks heat as Morgana climbs onto his shoulder, ears flicking at he reads the chat.

“Wow, you really do look good in everything, huh?”

Akira shrugs, “Naw, I just look good in black.”

He spends the afternoon chatting with everyone, catching up—Ann’s show and her designs, Ryuji’s new coach and the specialized brace his scholarship paid for, Yusuke’s ever growing social media following and Haru’s notes on coffee beans after their trip to Paris. He has no doubt Makoto and the rest of the girls are following their dreams with the same amount of gusto.

Yet here he is, standing still—waiting—while everyone he loves keep moving forward.

Akira’s stomach twists, hearing the cheerful chat pings from his front apron pocket. It’s awful and selfish what he’s doing, and he knows it deep down. Everyone felt guilt over Akechi, Akira wasn’t special. The reasons he’d given Morgana were nothing more than excuses.

He just wasn’t ready to give this up yet—give Akechi up, that is. Not when he’s finally grabbed hold of that hand again. Not when Akira’s finally found a way forward after so long spend frozen in place, never moving on, simply going through the motions always hoping Akechi Goro would return one day to finish what they started.