#tdoi

The world is blurry as he slowly blinks away the haze. He doesn’t feel like he’s still all there. After being sent flying and landing squarely on his stomach a good few feet away from where their fight just took place, Akira isn’t sure if he will ever be all there. No, he’s pretty sure this is where their journey ends if the victor doesn’t care to show them mercy. And, why? When they’re so close, why does it have to end here?

And, why? Why didn’t he side with them? Why couldn’t Akira convince him? What did he miss? What did he—

In his mess of thoughts, he hears someone swear, their executioner. But the words he says make Akira wonder if he’s genuinely hearing him at all.

“...Not this time either, huh? Am I truly so overwhelming?”

None of the disdain from before. The hatred dripping from everyone — no, the emptiness, the futility in his tone makes that all seem so far away. A mask.

Akira blinks again and tries to look at his friends. It hurts to move, but he has to. He has to know if they’re okay. Right across from him he can see Ann and Ryuji unmoving, a pain shoots in his heart. He needs to summon a persona and heal them before it’s too late. Agonizingly slow, he manages to turn his head more to look around. Makoto fidgets a little and Futaba releases a low groan. Morgana begins to push himself up a little, muttering Akira’s name before collapsing once more. Haru and Yusuke remain silent on the opposite side of him just like Ann and Ryuji. 

How did he fail them so badly?

Akira hears footsteps behind him and knows full well that it’s him. Despite his body screaming at him to not move, he forces himself up and pushes his body off the ground. He tries to stand as he turns to face him, red mask fixed squarely on his face, movements slow, almost like he’s tired, but not from their fight surely. Akira doesn’t think he broke a sweat — they barely lifted a finger against him. Once on one knee, Akira grabs his dagger and tries to push himself up on the other leg but in the process loses his balance — he’s too weak; his legs are giving out on him. For a moment, it looked as if this shocked him — Crow, Akechi, Goro — and he almost seemed to reach out to maybe stop the inevitable fall, but Akira collides with grounds once more, squarely on his back this time and he stares at the ceiling. It didn’t hurt as much as it should have.

The footsteps grow closer and now Akechi is in his sights, looming above him. He would be a menacing presence — no, he still is even though Akira is terribly attracted to him for god knows what reasons. Even as he plays the role of Death for them, Akira can’t help but think about how much he meant — no means to him. Why?

Why didn’t he join them?

What was Akira missing?

What—

His broken thoughts shatter and stutter to a stop when he realizes that Akechi is now much closer to him, straddling him and a gloved hand rests slowly around his throat. Is he going to strangle him to death? It certainly feels cruel to do so when Akira can see the gun on his hip, but he feels the hand tighten ever so slightly, before relaxing and certainly feeling the way Akira swallows beneath him. He’s terrified and he’s ashamed to admit it. But as he’s certainly the only one who remains conscious and maybe the only one left alive now, he supposes it doesn’t matter what he feels when it’s inevitable. 

But he feels so warm as Akechi’s thumb swipes across his throat and he swallows once more, nervous — is he searching for his pulse point?

“I hate you,” Akechi says suddenly, but his voice cracks as he says it. “Why does it have to be me? Why, you? What is it about you…?” He shakes his head and Akira wants to ask what he means, but his voice doesn’t work. Then, Akira is looking at his handsome face as broken and somber as it is — empty yet devastated — he removes his mask so effortlessly and his brown hair falls into his eyes. A face Akira could never forget. “I hate you so much,” yet he gives the most terribly beautiful, yet heartbreaking smile Akira has ever seen from him. Those burgundy eyes filled with such a flurry of emotions. And as he leans further down and his hair is suddenly touching Akira’s mask, a quiet “Diarahan” leave his lips. Akira is too focused on the feeling of his lips against this to truly realize what’s happening — the life returning to his body, the feeling so intense that Akira truly feels the heat of the connection — what he would have missed with the growing numbness of his originally dying body.

Yet, when he parts from Akira, the feeling of his lips still lingers. He wants it again. Why now?

“Goro,” finally, his voice works. “Goro,” he repeats.

Akechi shakes his head, “It won’t matter. What you say won’t matter.” He drops his mask to the ground. “It won’t to you. It’ll be irrelevant. Don’t waste your breath and certainly don’t waste any more of my time. Not again. Fucking figure it out already.” But Akira doesn’t know what he’s talking about. 

“What are you talking about?” Akira mutters reaching for the hand on his throat and it’s removed so easily that he knows there was no ill intent there. That he never meant to kill Akira that way — certainly not after healing him so.

“If you don’t know, it doesn’t matter,” Akechi replies simply, voice raw. 

“I love you,” Akira states it so plainly that he sees Akechi freeze. 

“You don’t— you can’t,” Akechi forces out. “I hate you.” He doesn’t though. Who kisses someone they hate? Who heals someone through a kiss if they wanted to kill them?

“But I do.”

Yet, it’s at that moment that Akira realizes that maybe the healing didn’t completely awaken his brain or his reaction speed. Even as he sees the gun pulled out from behind his back, even as he squeezes Akira’s hand ever so gently, even as he sees the gun pointed at his head, Akechi’s head, he doesn’t truly register what’s happening until it’s just too late. 

“Sleep and wake up again. Just as you always do.”

Shooting up, Akira reaches forward eyes wide with panic and fear—

Akira jolts up clutching his chest. It’s tight and he feels like he can’t breathe. There’s a name he wants to shout at the tip of his tongue but nothing comes out but an angry, sorrow-filled scream. He swallows and feels the faint lingering pressure of a hand on his throat, of something on his lips. Yet, even as Morgana calls out to him in concern, Akira feels like he’s so far away. An unnatural relief fills him that Morgana is there breathing, alive, and not dying, but he doesn’t know why he feels that way.

He doesn’t know why he’s so desperately reaching for his phone. It’s nighttime, but he’s searching through his phone. Scrolling through his contacts. Looking for a name he can’t remember. Looking for a number he certainly wouldn’t recognize. Looking for… 

The screen is blurry and it’s only when he feels a wet drop hit his thumb and another one land on his phone does he realize it.

He’s crying.

For who? For what?

What was he doing? Who is he looking for? And why does his heart feel so broken he can’t breathe?

Morgana’s cries for concern grow louder.

So do the cries in Akira’s heart for a thing he can’t remember. There’s an emptiness he can’t explain, but he knows it hurts. A pain that can’t be cured.