#p5fic

[aubadechild]

{ shuake week day seven: conclusions | betrayal | justice? }

// Years after the mysterious disappearance of Akechi Goro, Akira still believes that someone knows what really happened to him, that traces of his existence must still be present, that he has simply gone missing. Desperate for answers, for something to cling on to, he creates a website dedicated to discovering the truth. 

And that's when he receives a mysterious email.

[lpwrites]

sea

for @aliceinmisanthrope i promised pegoryus for cheesecake

“Let’s go to the beach,” Ryuji muttered under his breath. “It’ll be fun, she says. We’ll all get to hang out, she says.”

He wouldn’t be so bitter if Ann hadn’t disappeared with Shiho exactly five minutes after they arrived. Left with no other options, Ryuji dragged himself to the beach, all alone. 

It was fine, he was used to it. Still sucked that his only friends ditched him to go make out under a palm tree or whatever, but he couldn’t be angry for long. They deserved to have some good times.

Still left him wandering the beach alone, picking up shells to chuck back into the water. The hermit crabs he left alone, but all the empty ones were fair game. He wandered along, grumbling under his breath, and eventually gave up, perching on a rock further away from the beach. 

The ocean was beautiful, with the waves nice and steady and the sky a hazy blue. Like one of Yusuke’s paintings, but bigger and brighter and taking up the entire horizon.

Ryuji sat on the rock for what felt like hours, the sun slowly beating on his back. It wasn’t that bad, though he’d probably feel it later. But it was worth it. The scenery would have been nicer shared, of course. But it was nice.

He took some pictures to share with Ann and Shiho once they got back to the hotel, and let himself doze off in the sun.

Ryuji woke to a splash of cold water ripping a startled yell out of him, half asleep as he was, flailing his arms around to find his sheets.

It took him longer than he cared to realize he wasn’t in his bed, or in the city at all. 

The fish man in front of him holding his leg helped a little, though. He looked about as startled as Ryuji felt, his mouth open and hovering over Ryuji’s leg like he’d just been about to take a chunk out of him before his rude awakening.

“Is this for real, or am I dreaming?” He asked the fish man nonchalantly, not doing a damn thing to move his leg away from what could possibly be a carnivorous beast. Those teeth looked sharp as hell.

The fish man very slowly released his leg, shutting his mouth with a soft click. His eyes were huge and gray, and what looked like hair was damp and clinging to his face in dark black waves. His hands were more like claws, his nails deadly sharp, and now a little more awake, Ryuji could start to feel the little pricks on his leg as the salt water continued to rush over him. 

Still, at least it didn’t actively try to kill him. In fact, the longer Ryuji watched him, the more embarrassed the fish man seem to be, caught and struggling to find the best way to leave without making a bigger fool of himself.

Despite himself, Ryuji grinned, pulling his legs up to his chest to hug his knees, the rock he had been napping on starting to disappear under the rising tide. “Did you think I was dead? You that hungry?”

Fish man huffed and crossed his arms, the scales running up his forearms glinting black and silver. Ryuji laughed. “I’m probably not that tasty, but if you stick around I can try to find you something. How’s that sound?”

Sharp gray eyes narrowed at him, but Fish Man lowered his arms and shrugged, sinking into the water slowly. Ryuji figured that was as much of an answer as he was gonna get, so he slipped off the rock into the water, groaning at the cold. “Wait for me!” He called, hoping Fish Man would hear him. “I’ll bring you something good, I promise!”

There was a response, a splash of a dark finned tail, and the sensation that something was watching as Ryuji swam back to shore. Ann and Shiho were gonna regret not going to the beach with him, that much was for sure.

[aubadechild]

{ shuake week day eight: possibility | acceptance | sacrifice }

// Just when he thinks the surreptitious crossing of their paths might have been a one-time fluke, Ren's end-of-summer party grinds to a halt when Akechi Goro shows up to crash it. | (conclusion to closed casket and wake.)

[aubadechild]

wake | { shuake week day three: neglect | rejection | death. }

// Two (or more) years post-canon, Amamiya Ren finally moves past the first stage of grief. And that, of course, is when he catches a glimpse of none other than the deceased himself standing outside the door to Leblanc fifteen minutes after closing. (companion piece to closed casket.) | Rated G. | READ ON AO3.

At some point he had stopped checking his phone altogether.

It was hard. Took almost a year of actively trying, of saying it aloud to himself (he’s dead, Ren; you can’t speak him back into existence so speak him out of it, anchor yourself by the finality of his absence), of even Haru (of all people) growing impatient with his failure to reconcile his stubborn hope with the truth.

She said to him over coffee one rainy afternoon: “What are you more afraid of, Ren? Accepting that he’s gone, or accepting the fact that you couldn’t save him? Because there’s a very important distinction between the two.”

And Ren couldn’t look her in the eyes for the rest of their time together, found excuses to stare intently at the carpet or attempt to divine the future from the leftover coffee grounds collected in the vague shape of a skull at the bottom of his mug.

His failure to rescue Akechi Goro in those final crucial moments called into question not only his qualifications as the then-leader of the Phantom Thieves, but also his value as a human being. Who is Ren allowed to be now if at the time he failed to protect the one person who most desperately needed the Thieves’ help? Is he entitled to mourning if he is also responsible for that which he mourns?  What is permitted to fill the space Akechi left behind?

The look on Haru’s face at his silence said it all.

What “it” was, Ren wasn’t, still isn’t entirely sure. Couldn’t put words to it. Only knows implicitly that his soul understands its shape, and that is enough. And after that conversation, after Haru asked him, spoke aloud the question with which he had subconsciously grappled for months, years—after that, he finally severed from his mind the last lingering hope.

And he stopped checking his phone.

And then, as though whatever powers-that-no-longer-be suddenly decided on a whim to wind up their ironic clockwork universe, Akechi returns to him. Just shows up at Leblanc like it’s nothing, looking a bit worse for wear and decades older but it’s him, all right; he’s still wearing the gloves…

And he even stays for coffee.

And every time Ren looks at him he thinks, Did no one ever teach you that you don’t have to die for something to make it love you? Didn’t you know there’s no romance in a death wish?

Because there was a time—

Back then—

Centuries ago, perhaps—

Eons—

When Ren could have said he—

But he shakes his head, and if one can somehow pour coffee angrily, well, he does just that.

Because the curtains are drawn; the chairs are stacked atop the tables. The shop is closed for the night. Has been closed for awhile now. He has no room left in his heart for people who linger after the lights go down.

[aubadechild]

closed casket | { shuake week day one: food / foil / antithesis. }

// two (or more) years post-canon, Akechi Goro suffers a brief lapse of judgment that leads him to temporarily wander out of his new life and back into Ren’s, an unwelcome apparition from a life Ren left behind. | READ ON AO3. 

Against the foggy windowpanes of Leblanc’s familiar front door the rain mimics Akechi and demands to be let in. The first rule Akechi’s ever broken was the one implied by the ancient Closed sign hanging from the peg. Don’t knock, it warns. Don’t be that person. And now, watching Ren manage to remove any trace of affection from the way he moves as he brews Akechi a cup of coffee calls into doubt whether this small act of rebellion was worth it, but seeing as he’s inside (the look on Ren’s face through the window, smeared like watercolor and pale, as though he’d seen a ghost—well, hadn’t he?), and as warm as a drowned rat could hope to be, it must be. Might be.

“How’s post-obituary life treating you?” Ren asks. It’s an accusation thinly veiled behind a joke. He pulls the apron tighter and his lips thinner and Akechi’s stomach tenses in preparation for violence even though there is no threat of violence and then his sides ache like the aftermath of an embrace, like the absence of hands where hands once were.

“Which would you prefer: good news, or the truth?” Akechi responds. The beginnings of a smile twitch at the corners of his lips. Finger by finger he peels off sopping gloves and lays them out to dry on the stool next to him. Ren glances over his shoulder and he’s got a stranger’s eyes, the kind of expression that says if his friends were here he’d be whispering something to them.

“That bad, huh.” Something sizzles and Ren curses. It’s been two years, more, but he still tugs at that single lock of hair that never seems to match the length of the rest, little outlier always sticking out. It eases something in Akechi that hasn’t been eased since long before they watched each other disappear behind opposite sides of an impassable wall in a cognitive world. “I went to your funeral, you know. Closed casket. Sojiro helped cater. I made sweets for the reception.”

Akechi’s shock has never been an act. Even when his authentic self had been buried under layers of sediment and ever-shifting masks, his bruised heart of hearts had always had this annoying habit of crawling up his throat whenever Ren was around. Like it resonated in proximity to his sworn enemy. Like they’d been carved from the same star—

He shakes the sentiment from his head. Now is not the time to wax poetic on years of pining, of loss. Now is the time to apologize.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I—I didn’t realize…”

Ren’s knuckles are visibly white around the handle of the coffee pot.

“You never do, do you,” he tells Akechi. He’s turned around now, not quite able to meet Akechi’s eyes. “I mourned you. We all”—he pauses, shakes his head—“well, a lot of us did. I still do. And part of me still doubted—always did—but do you know what they call that? The first stage of grief. The one I never moved past.”

Akechi searches for somewhere to rest his gaze, somewhere not facing Ren’s brokenness. The cracks he caused. Had he had a choice? No, he couldn’t have. If someone—if Ren tells him, if he even implies that there might have been another path, a path where his betrayal of the Thieves was not a forgone conclusion, where his brief stint among them had saved him instead of serving as yet another reminder of his own shortcomings, that knowledge would destroy him. He could not have changed. Rebirth requires death.

He reassures himself of this, casts the mounting doubt aside (as he always has).

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I suppose I don’t really know why I’m here, other than the fact that in all honesty I expected you to be miles away from Tokyo. I only stopped by for old times’ sake, to see if I could find some small clue as to what you’ve been up to... part of me was sure this place would have collapsed in your absence.”

“It didn’t,” is Ren’s curt reply. He pushes a steaming mug in the vague direction of his only patron before brushing a hand back through his hair (is it shaking?). “Finish it quickly. We’re closed.”

Akechi smiles sadly and holds up his hand to refuse the cup. “No, I…I’m sorry for bothering you. I should leave before I miss the train. Forgive me for taking advantage of your hospitality. I’ll make it up to you someday.”

Ren swallows. His bulky frames—the same ones he wore in high school, but far worse for wear—do little to hide the sheen of the tears that threaten his eyes. He tilts his chin toward the ceiling and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“You really don’t have to do that. I think you should probably just go.”

Akechi looks down at his bare palms, then balls them into fists. Even after abandoning his favorite tan-coat-and-black-slack combination, after abandoning all aspects of the life he thought defined him, the gloves remained. He’d thought they always would.

He leaves them on the stool when he departs.

[aubadechild]

{ shuake week day six: welcome | initiation | cheating. }

// In which Akira discovers he was part of a video game the whole time, and exploits a glitch. | Rated G.

[aubadechild]

trust fall | { shuake week day four: domestic | home | trust. }

// Akira teaches Akechi the meaning of friendship, and in the process Akechi learns that, yeah, that whole "trust" thing was probably overrated in the first place. | Rated G. | READ ON AO3.

“What’s a ‘trust fall’?” Akechi asked, unprompted, and Akira did a spit-take that would prompt the world’s most esteemed comedians to grovel at his feet. Sometimes he wondered if Akechi was just a prototype android in the vague likeness of a man designed by an alien species in order to infiltrate modern society, what with the “hello fellow humans” way he spoke half the time, and his complete lack of awareness of normal teenage activities. Other times, however, Akira found himself caught off guard by his off-beat sense of humor, or taken by surprise by an oddly insightful comment.

But usually his experience of Akechi Goro was more in line with the former thing. 

“A trust fall is when you T-pose and let gravity do the rest,” Akira responded matter-of-factly, not bothering to pause as he half-heartedly wipes down the countertop. “Oh, and you’re supposed to have someone catch you. That’s a pretty important part.” 

“Hmm, I see. And what’s a ’T-pose’?” 

Really he should have expected that one. He should have. Akira slid over to where Akechi sat, prim and proper (robotic, almost? like an android?), pinky finger at the perfect angle to denote politeness as he sipped from a mug of steaming coffee. He had a usual stool now—that was significant, somehow—a usual order, and was verging dangerously on being deemed a “regular” of Cafe Leblanc. The fact that not only had Akira gotten somewhat used to his presence, but felt as though something was missing from the decor, as though something of the ambiance was lacking in the detective’s absence, was, in a word: troubling. 

He stared down his nose at his expectant young friend. 

“Let’s do it,” he said, and Akechi’s failure to swallow turned into a wet cough. 

“Do what, Kurusu-kun—“

“Look, there’s no one here right now. I’ll show you how to do a trust fall. Trust me. It’s the easiest thing in the world. So easy even Ryuji could do it.” 

Akechi seemed to consider that with a certain gravity that had not been present prior. His trademark way of considering involved pressing a gloved finger to his lips and frowning. Akira always wondered if he was actually as deep in thought as he appeared to be. If he was, then any ounce of concern Akira had ever held for his mental integrity was justified, full stop. 

“All you have to do is trust?” Akechi asked. 

Akira nodded twice in rapid succession. 

“I… suppose…" Akechi continued. "But what if no one catches you?”

With a wink charming enough to rival Ann herself Akira told him, “Now you’re catching on.” He emerged from behind the counter and held out his arms. “Do you trust me?”

Akechi eyed him with all the requisite suspicion of a superstar detective. “Can I?” 

“Trust me, you can trust me.” 

Akechi sighed himself upright and dusted invisible crumbs from his lap. “This is ridiculous,” he said, to make sure someone was aware of how much he disapproved. 

“That’s something a quitter would say. You like games, don’t you, Akechi-kun?”

“I enjoy the occasional strategic—“

“If you do this I’ll make you sweets for a week.” 

“So I just lean backwards?”

Akira laughed. “You just lean backwards, and I’ll do the rest, alright? Like I said, it’s not exactly complicated.”

He thought he heard Akechi mutter something like You don’t know the half of it, but given the context of their location it could have just as easily been something about half-and-half, so he ignored it entirely. 

With Akechi in position, back turned and arms folded against his chest, Akira couldn’t help but feel a bit foolish, but it was the childhood way of being foolish—the kind of foolish that really relied on an adult catching you in the act of being foolish, but on its own could just exist and be kind of, actually, fun, devoid of grown-ups’ eyes. 

“I’ll count down from three, okay?”

Akechi gave a hoarse affirmation, and Akira began to count:

“Three… two…”

And that was when three things happened at once, because much like a comedian the universe understands the hilarity implicit in groups of three: Morgana, feeling feline frisky, darted out from some dark corner, the bell on the door to the cafe jingled, causing Akira, startled, to look up to welcome the incoming customer, and, of course, Akechi decided, for the first and last time in his life, to trust another human being.

In such close proximity, when Akechi went down gravity had no choice but to drag Akira down with him. Their skulls made a thick, sick sound against the hardwood as they hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and bruised egos. 

“What in the world are you kids up to?!” came Sojiro’s gruff voice from the entryway.

Akira’s hand shot into the air. “Trust exercises,” he said weakly. 

[aubadechild]

turbulence.

The boy—well, Akechi—shifted in his seat. The safety presentation had reached its conclusion despite their ignorance in the matter of operating emergency exits, and Akira joked that in the unlikely event of crisis, his life was in Akechi’s hands.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” was Akechi’s curt reply.

{ raw first chapter of a scrapped ake/shu “seated together on a long plane ride and became unlikely friends due to being trapped in a large metal tube for nine hours” AU. i think there was some kind of subplot with their dads being the CEOs of competing companies? }

“Lovely night,” the boy—well, he looked to be about Akira’s age, and Akira still skirted around the territory of “man”—observed. His gloved hands turned a steaming paper cup into an object of luxury with a slight extension of his pinky figure so natural he might have been born that way. On the overhead an exuberant woman instructed them to turn their attention to the front of the cabin.

Akira made a prediction, then. This boy seemed the kind to follow along with the safety card located in the seatback pocket in front of him. Akira had watched him get on the plane. Saw his briefcase, engraved with what at first glance he’d mistaken for the Avengers symbol. Too young for proper business, he wore the attire nonetheless: an overcoat the color of desert and smooth as a dune over black slacks tailored to the perfect tightness. Contrast this against Akira’s ratty sweats and oversized travel T. Different strokes for different folks, he figured, but why someone would willingly suffer a nine-hour plane ride in a full-on suit and gloves was beyond him.

“There’s something uniquely exhilarating about simply being on a plane, don’t you think?” the boy continued, lost in the annals of his own time. “Just the anticipation of a new place, the prospect of adventure…”

Right, this guy was breaking cardinal rule number one: Speaketh Ye Not To A Headphone Wearer, Lest Ye Invite The Evil Eye. Akira looked sideways at his seat partner.

“I apologize for disturbing you,” the boy laughed. “Seems I got lost in thought yet again. It happens from time to time.”

Then, either inexplicably drawn to his seat mate in a charged, mysterious way that defied comprehension, or unwilling to piss off the only thing between himself and the bathroom on this nine-hour journey through the skies (but likely a healthy dose of both), Akira removed his headphones.

“I like to watch the cars,” Akira found himself saying. “When the plane takes off and they start to look like toys. And as you go higher and higher and you watch the people going about their everyday business, oblivious to the fact that there are passengers above them, eating and drinking and breathing, you realize…”

He trailed off, about as surprised at himself as the other boy appeared to be.

“How small we really are,” the boy finished. “Akechi Goro. It’s a pleasure.”

“…Kurusu Akira,” Akira replied. Akechi Goro. He couldn’t place why the name sounded familiar. Some passing article, some background character on TV? That doesn’t seem right.

The boy—well, Akechi—shifted in his seat. The safety presentation had reached its conclusion despite their ignorance in the matter of operating emergency exits, and Akira joked that in the unlikely event of crisis, his life was in Akechi’s hands.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” was Akechi’s curt reply.

As the flight attendants prepared for takeoff, so, too, did the boys. Tray tables were folded and seatbacks returned to their upright positions. Despite first class boasting extra legroom, Akechi fidgeted, his knees knocking against the seat in front of him. Akira adjusted his neck pillow and replaced his headphones to drone out the bass of the engine. The small window had been halfway open when he’d taken his seat, and now he slid it the rest of the way to reveal a runway of endless flashing lights laid out in a language foreign to him. The language of pilots.

“Do you mind if I?” Akechi asked, gesturing to the window.

Akira just shook his head and extended an arm as if to say, “Be my guest.”

Akechi leaned over as far as the seatbelt would allow, which, to Akira’s chagrin, happened to be a bit too damn far. He was a bit too breathing in his general vicinity, a bit too aura-brushing-against-aura, that kind of close. Like “could instantly identify what kind of shampoo he used if presented a line-up and asked to sniff” kind of close.

It was a pleasant scent, though.

The plane gathered speed. Lights flickered past in short, straight bursts, the frequency between them growing shorter with each passing second until they blurred into a single yellow line.

“This really never gets old, does it,” said Akechi. His voice was a low hum to complement the engine’s whine.

There was always that split second—that jolt behind the navel that warned the body of its falling—that thrilled as much as terrified. Despite being no stranger to plane rides, Akira still had to suppress the incredulity that sparked as they rose: Can something this big really fly?

He looked to Akechi, felt his stomach drop with the altitude.

He said, “They’re already so small.”

Akechi smiled. “To them, it’s we who are small.” With that, he leaned back to return Akira’s much-needed breathing room.

The rattle of the plane and thrall of the engine noise rocked Akira into a sleepstate just short of REM. In the moments of relative consciousness where his thoughts ran wild, he kept coming back to Akechi Goro… Akechi Goro… where had he heard that name? A student at Shujin? Someone from another class, perhaps; someone he had bumped into in the halls once or twice but generally faded into the background? No, he would have taken note of someone so pretty—oh, redact that thought, redact it! Then, a regular at Leblanc? Unlikely, for the same reason.

Curiosity finally pestered him awake. He glanced over to see his seat partner had pulled out his laptop and was typing furiously, pausing on occasion only to hold a gloved finger to his lips and furrow his brow. From this angle Akira couldn’t quite tell what was on the screen. Some kind of document, it seemed. Official-looking. Akechi Goro…

“Oh, you’re awake?”

Click, went the laptop lid. Not quite fast enough to be suspicious, which led Akira to believe this was the calculated speed of a man who wanted to pretend he had nothing to hide. Akira removed his headphones again and rubbed his eyes.

“Are we there yet?” he said.

“Unfortunately, it’s only been an hour since we took off. I trust you found my shoulder comfortable?”

Akira blanched. He slid over in his seat, but it was impossible to put any semblance of space between them.

“Did I…?”

“Yes, but I don’t mind. It’s bound to happen in a situation like this. Suppose I got lucky, though. Usually I end up next to…”—he groped for words—“…less amicable sorts.”

To be othered from the “less amicable sorts” brought Akira a sense of satisfaction, until he realized it was pretty much a bare minimum compliment.

“You fly often?” he asked, eager to change the subject.

“For work. You know, it’s quite refreshing to talk to someone my age who doesn’t treat me like an idol. Truth be told, it gets tiring having to keep up such a pleasant public persona.”

Akira nodded. Though his memory of the boy’s name still eluded him, he listened to him divulge thoughts about his job, his life. Akechi spoke in a shaded way that obscured the gritty details, and Akira was left to connect the dots across the newspaper-clipping wall of his experiences. At the end, he sighed.

“I think most people our age can relate to having to hide their true selves,” Akira told him. Akechi, still too long for the seat even with it pushed back, lightly bumped his knee against Akira’s.

“You may be right. Thank you. I hope it’s not presumptuous of me to say I feel we ended up next to each other for a reason.”

That reason being the adjacent numbers on our tickets, Akira almost said, thought better of it.

Instead, he asked, “What was it you said you do for a living?”

Now it was Akechi’s turn to blanch. He studied Akira’s face.

“I… you really don’t know? I admit, I’m a bit surprised… of course, expecting everyone to know who I am would truly be presumptuous, but I have become somewhat of a household name as of late. The public have taken a liking to the moniker of ‘ace detective’.”

Akira blinked. “Oh… when you introduced yourself I couldn’t place it! So that’s where I’ve heard your name before. Huh. Imagine that.”

“I promise not to be a rude seatmate if you promise not to troll me online,” Akechi said wryly.

“I would never,” Akira replied in mock disgust. This earned him a laugh, hidden behind a gloved hand. “And I’ll try to keep my head to myself.”

“Seems we’ve struck a deal.”

“Yeah, it would seem that way.”

Their conversation dwindled to a close. Try as he might to ignore the way gravity bent toward his seat mate, how his every thought wandered back to him, Akira couldn’t douse the spark. But he could pretend it didn’t exist.

Well, that’s a surefire way to cultivate a flame, his subconscious tittered.

He ignored it.

For the next two hours he occupied himself with in-flight entertainment (where else could he watch the Angry Birds movie for free) and a puzzle game on his phone. Akechi had opened his laptop and started typing again. Out of respect, Akira no longer tried to catch glimpses of his screen. He snuck only glimpses of Akechi himself, biting his lip in concentration, or tugging nervously at the fingers of his gloves.

Their knees knocked once in awhile. Neither of them acknowledged it, but it happened. It felt strange, like it wasn’t supposed to. Akira felt the heat between them like a tangible thing. Young men really do get worked up at the slightest things. Your knees touching? The smell of his shampoo? Gimme a break.

He decided that a crowded plane next to a celebrity was neither time nor place for the thoughts popping into his head unbidden, but luckily the shouting yellow bird on his screen all but completely drowned out any unsavory ideas.

The movie ended just when Akira had started to believe it never would. He shut the screen off and chanced another glance at Akechi, who had since stowed his laptop and was now nodding off over a crossword puzzle. He swayed with the movement of the plane, already half asleep.

Akira tapped his shoulder.

“Tired?” he asked.

Akechi jumped, eyes wide before they landed on Akira.

“Oh, was it that obvious?” he said. “I can never seem to keep myself awake on airplanes. Not for lack of trying, though.”

“It’s the lack of oxygen,” Akira told him. “Your brain wants to put itself out of commission till it can breathe again.”

Akechi seemed to consider this. “That does make sense.”

Doesn’t it? thought Akira, acutely aware of his own brain fighting against him because under the full weight of Akechi Goro’s gaze he couldn’t quite gather enough air.

Time and place, he reminded himself. He adjusted his glasses.

“You shouldn’t fight it,” he said.

“You’re probably right,” Akechi replied. He folded his crossword into a neat square and placed it in the seatback pocket. “I’ve got a full day ahead of me when we land… which reminds me, why are you flying to Hawaii, Kurusu-san?”

Akira shrugged. “Family vacation. I had exams, so I had to come late.”

Something dark shifted across Akechi’s face, but it was gone before Akira could surmise what about. “That must be nice.”

“It’s alright, I guess. Nice to have everything paid for by someone else, if that’s what you mean. And you?”

“I’m actually bound for LA for some interviews, some photoshoots. My ‘American debut’, as it were. But I’m staying in Honolulu for a few nights beforehand. I have an interview there as well. Later today, as a matter of fact, but after that I’m free until I leave.”

After that I’m free. Did he drop that breadcrumb purposefully? With the way Akechi looked into him, brows slightly raised, Akira was willing to believe he did.

“Whereabouts in Honolulu?” Better to probe a little more. Casual curiosity. To admit his curiosity was already approaching the more-than-casual mark would be less embarrassing than it was downright pathetic.

“I… I’m supposed to keep it under wraps… if certain kinds of fans were to, ah, conveniently discover my location, it could be troublesome…”

Troublesome or not, he frowned and touched a finger to his chin, considering.

“Yet you still deign to fly with us commoners,” Akira said.

Akechi shot him a pointed look. “When necessity demands.”

“Well, my parents are staying at some fancy resort,” Akira continued. Casually. “The Hilton, I think? I don’t know, it doesn’t seem like my kind of place.”

Akechi smiled then. “Perhaps we’ll bump into each other.”

“You think so?”

“There’s no telling what could happen. After all, fate brought us together here. Who’s to say we won’t meet again? In fact I’d say it’s almost guaranteed”—he lowered his voice—“seeing as we’ll be staying at the same hotel.

Strands of mousey brown hair veiled his dark eyes. His lips curved upwards into an accentuated Cupid’s bow… Cupid’s bow… Akira’s breath hitched, but if Akechi noticed he said nothing. If he hadn’t become famous on his crime-solving merit, he probably would have risen to stardom on looks alone. And he had no goddamn right sitting so close, gloved hand mere inches away from Akira’s own clammy fingers.

“Finally, something to leak to the presses,” Akira said. Instead of diffusing the mounting tension, it heightened it.

“Doubt I’d have the freedom to bump into you if I were swarmed by obsessive fans.”

“Touché.”

Akechi looked away and began to fiddle with his gloves again. As much as Akira wanted to believe that he might be coming on to him, he couldn’t ignore the air of loneliness the boy projected. More than likely he yearned for a friend. Someone his age to talk to. Besides, in the scheme of things they’d only just met. He’d learned to take strangers’ offers of future company with a grain of salt.

It didn’t stop him from hoping, though.

Sensing the end of their discussion, Akira busied himself with the view. The night opened around them like a throat. Stars floated in cliques above, and a great, dark maw below yawned where the sea ought to be. Akira thought, We’ve glitched off the map. Ocean texture erased. It might have made for a more interesting landscape in the daytime, or it might not’ve. He rested his head against the window and dozed again before he could realize he wanted to sleep.

He awoke later (could have been half an hour or ten, no way to tell in the air) to the distinct feeling of weight on his shoulder. Something soft brushed against his neck. He swallowed, but slowly, so as not to disturb the form sleeping against him.

Akechi’s head rested on his shoulder. He breathed quiet sleep breaths. Their thighs were pressed flush. Akira could feel him breathing. His chest moved up and down. It was a deep sleep that he sighed in occasionally, mumbled indistinct words. Deep enough he wouldn’t hear Akira’s runaway trainwreck of a heartbeat.

Waking him up was the right thing to do. It would only embarrass Akechi to find he’d used Akira as a pillow unknowingly; best to get it over with so he’d feel less bad about it in the end. But he’d let you sleep when you did the same to him, hmm?

Whether out of an unwillingness to disturb such a peaceful slumber, or his own selfishness, Akira let him sleep. The smell of Akechi’s shampoo was—dare he be cliche—intoxicating. Akira focused on taking mental snapshots of this moment for future reference. Click. Long eyelashes casting long shadows. Click. The slant of his nose. Click. His cheekbones, collecting light from the overhead console. Click. The curve of his thigh. How would Akechi react if he rested a hand atop his kneecap? He wouldn’t, of course (or at least, not without express permission), but it was a nice thought exercise.

—O—oh, Kurusu, that—

—Please, call me Akira…

—Akira-kun, I didn’t expect you to be so forward…

—But you like it, don’t you?

—Y… yes… Please, keep going…

Akira returned to reality with the abrupt realization that real-Akechi was staring up at him. He recoiled instantly, knocking his funny bone on the armrest in the process.

“S—sorry,” he said. “You fell asleep, and I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“What? Oh, it’s fine. Like I said earlier, it’s bound to happen.” Akechi rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Usually I’m not the one resting my head on other people, though.” He paused, then: “Is something the matter?”

Akira shook his head. “It’s nothing. Just…”

The seam of Akira’s sleeve had indented a red mark into Akechi’s cheek, and a strand of his hair curled up in a cowlick. It humanized him. Made him seem more young adult, less vague approximation of what a movie producer might believe a high school student genius looked like.

“I don’t mind, you know,” Akira told him. “It’s a long ride. Might as well get comfortable.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve slept long enough. I think I’ll get back to my work. But if you want…” He trailed off. Then, as if he hadn’t meant anything more by it at all: “I’ll wake you up when food service starts.”

So close.

The plane touched down in Honolulu at eight in the morning Hawaii time, jolting Akira awake. He scrambled to open the window as they taxied so he could catch his first glimpse of the island. Beside him, Akechi leaned over too.

“There’s the ocean,” he breathed. It tickled against Akira’s neck.

“It’s so blue,” Akira pointed out helpfully. “My parents have tours planned, but I’m really just here to swim.”

“The hotel is supposed to have a fantastic pool,” Akechi said, but Akira shook his head.

“I didn’t spend nine hours next to you to go swimming in a pool,” he teased. “I mean, haven’t you heard of personal space?”

Akira didn’t know him well enough to determine whether Akechi’s expression was real or mock surprise. “I believe it was you who fell asleep on me first.”

“Relax. I’m just teasing. No harm done.”

Come to think of it, if Akechi had as few peers his age as he claimed he did, i.e., none, he’d probably never experienced the gentle insults of friendship before. Best not overdo it, but he seemed like he could use a little fun.

When the plane pulled into its gate Akira couldn’t quell the disappointment brewing in his stomach. He had the sinking feeling the next time he saw Akechi would be on TV back at Leblanc, the place he called home for the duration of his studies. He sent off a quick text to his parents and watched Akechi gather his things as the passengers prepared to deplane.

“Well, it was a pleasure getting to sit next to you,” Akechi said. “I hope we do end up meeting again while I’m here.”

Now or never, Akira thought. He cleared his throat and gripped his phone till his knuckles whitened.

“Do you think we could exchange contact info?” he asked. There was probably some rule, some contract clause somewhere that prevented Akechi from divulging personal information, or else maybe he’d decline on principle, but at least Akira could say he tried.

A passenger bumped into Akechi on her way out the door before he could answer.

“I’m so sorry—wait, Akechi-san? Is th-that… really?”

The crowd pushed her along before she could protest, but a murmur of Akechi’s name traveled down the length of the plane like a shiver down a spine. He stared at the floor.

“I… can’t take the risk,” he confessed. The way his features drooped seemed genuinely apologetic. “But… it’s possible I’ll bump into you at the hotel’s coffee bar tomorrow. Perhaps around nine in the morning?”

Akira pretended to think about it. “I guess I could swing by. For the coffee.”

They shared a secret smile.

“Good luck on your interview,” Akira said.

“Don’t get caught in a riptide,” Akechi responded, and, oh, his grin was too damn bright.

They parted ways once Akechi caught sight of his landing party, and Akira couldn’t stop replaying the entire plane ride over and over in his head. Stepping onto the plane that afternoon, he’d thought nine hours of boredom lie ahead of him. He couldn’t have been more pleasantly disappointed.

[aubadechild]

{ shuake week day five: blackmail | exposure | trickery. }

// The worst kinds of prophecies are the self-fulfilling ones. Set in the real world's interrogation room, Akira tries to talk his way out of death by appealing to Akechi's kinder nature, but sometimes exposing someone's weaknesses only forces them to defend them all the more violently... | Rated T. 

[aubadechild]

intuition | { shuake week day two: teamwork / partnership / compatibility. }

// Amamiya Ren can tell within an hour of meeting someone whether or not he’s romantically compatible with them. | Rated: T (for “tame”) | READ ON AO3.

Amamiya Ren can tell within an hour of meeting someone whether or not he’s romantically compatible with them.

It’s not an exact science, of course. It’s a matter of intuition. A matter of the heart, as it were. He knew with Ryuji, way back in high school. His first conversation with the blonde delinquent had been erratic, crass, and downright hilarious, and Ren had felt his chest light up like a field full of lightning bugs.

He hadn’t fallen in love right then; he wasn’t a child playing at love-at-first-sight. But part of him had known implicitly that at the very least he had the potential for it. And Ryuji must have felt the same, as they ended up dating off and on throughout a tumultuous three years. And it had been that way with Yusuke as well, the eccentric art student he’d surreptitiously swiped right on, and then most recently with Makoto; he had known it by her laugh.

Though he still remained in close contact with his previous paramours, he wasn’t with-with any of them anymore.

Because if he was, he wouldn’t be at the bar right now, scanning the after-work crowd in the vain hope that someone might catch his eye, or, less likely, that he might catch someone else’s.

He’s contemplating a second shot when he feels someone slide onto the stool beside him and hears a confident voice rise above the usual din to order a specific, obscure whiskey on the rocks. Ren might have found it amusing had the bartender not immediately understood the unusual request and returned moments later with a glass of beautiful pale gold liquor.

“Do you always do that?” he finds himself saying, still gazing into the empty space that now fills his own shotglass.

“Do what?” says the man, and Ren has no choice but to turn his heavy head to check out who he’s now officially conversing with.

He opens his mouth to reply but forces himself pause to catch his breath because he had not expected to have it knocked out of him; it’s just that the man who deigned to sit next to him is so handsome, and truth be told, as of late Ren has felt so lonesome, and sometimes love is worth less than a pretty face to spend the night with.

“Um,” Ren struggles. “I was going to say, ‘know exactly what you want and how to ask for it?’”

To his unending surprise, his new seat mate laughs.

“If that’s a serious question then the answer is no, but if it’s a thinly-veiled attempt at a pick-up line then I commend your ingenuity.” He raises the glass as if to congratulate him, and Ren is mesmerized by the hypnotic motion of the man’s throat as he sips the pungent liquor. His hands, Ren notices, are gloved despite Tokyo’s rapid progression toward the peak of summer heat.

“Maybe it’s both,” Ren tells him earnestly. “I’m Amamiya. Amamiya Ren.”

He offers a hand, and after a tense second’s worth of hesitation the other man takes it.

“Akechi,” says the man. “Akechi Goro. A pleasure.”

“Oh, trust me. The pleasure is all mine.”

—

Amamiya Ren can tell within an hour of meeting someone whether or not he’s romantically compatible with them.

Tonight, in the back seat of a taxi with his palm resting gently on the inner part of a stranger’s thigh and a smile resting gently on his lips, he wonders vaguely how reliable that formula has proven itself to be, or if it’s merely the effect of that pesky bias known as creeping determinism. He supposes in this case only time will tell whether his hunch about love was right, but, then again, who’s to say they don’t part ways come sunrise only to dissolve back into their separate lives, never to see each other again? Ren rests his cheek against the window and watches heat lightning illuminate the abstract outlines of skyscrapers, content to let the night unfold and let tomorrow work things out for itself.

When they pull up at Akechi’s apartment building Ren almost laughs and asks if the driver got the wrong address, but the ease with which Akechi slides out of the car and pays for the cab fare forces him to hold his tongue. These are luxury apartments, a single square foot of which is approximately equal to two weeks of Ren’s humble barista salary. He leaves his jaw at the reception desk (which is very much a thing they have here) and follows Akechi past the concierge (a service which, in Ren’s opinion, seems entirely irrelevant in a building whose occupants are at the very least semi-permanent residents of the city, but who is a poor man to tell the rich what frivolities they should and shouldn’t waste their money on?), around a corner (even the corners are fancy) and into a small hallway where no fewer than three elevators welcome them with open doors.

“After you,” Akechi says with a polite gesture, and that’s when it hits, the realization that he is in the middle of something he hasn’t done since his desperate college years: leave a bar with a stranger for the sole purpose of fucking them.

Ding, goes the elevator, and they’re on the twenty-ninth floor.

“They make you press your own buttons around here?” Ren jokes, but Akechi just shakes his head.

“There aren’t any attendants scheduled past ten o’clock,” he says. Ren smiles through gritted teeth.

Akechi leads the way across the short distance from the elevator to his apartment, and here it is, the awkward moment of silence while he fumbles with his keys (or in this case, in a stunning, technologically-advanced turn of events, a keycard) until the door finally decides to release them from the strange and unavoidable tension of unlocking it.

Now Ren’s peering into the dark of a stranger’s stainless-steeled, granite-countertopped kitchen, and he can see the glitter of the city lights through a massive picture window in the distance. And he wonders when his body became so uncomfortable speaking the language of one-night stands. He hovers on the stoop, unwilling to take the final step because once that door closes he’s in it, there’s no going back from that.

But then Akechi flicks on the lights and the modern furnishings of his minimalist-dream apartment come to life under a warm glow and Ren all but locks the door and throws away the keys himself.

“Well,” Akechi says, picking at an invisible thread on his shirt, “welcome to my home.”

“You probably get this a lot,” Ren says, slipping out of his boots, “but you’ve got a really nice place.”

Akechi smiles. “I… actually don’t have visitors all that often,” he admits. “That is to say, you’re the first person I’ve had over in”—he pauses, thinking, and Ren can track the trajectory of his host’s embarrassment as it dawns across his features—“well, in awhile. Feel free to make yourself at home. If you don’t mind, I’d like to shower…”

Make a move now or don’t make one at all, Ren tells himself firmly. And you’ve already come this far, so don’t chicken out. What, did you lose all your guts when you became a Real Adult and got too tired to sleep your way around town? This is the perfect chance to prove to yourself that you still got it.

“What a coincidence. I’d like one, too. I guess we really do have a lot in common.”

“I’ll leave some hot water for you,” Akechi says.

“Er,” Ren stutters, “that was kind of a hint, there. Like a ‘let’s shower together’ without me outright asking you if we could shower together. In case that was—“

“Oh, I know.” Akechi reaches up to untie his hair from its ponytail and shakes it out a few times. “And I’m saying you can go after me.”

With that he leaves, and the water starts soon after, and Ren brainstorms new ways to crawl out of his own skin. But before Ren can finish weighing the morality of ruining the inoffensive grey sofa that looks as though it has never before borne the weight of a human body against the fact that he’s been on his feet at work all day and will be tomorrow, too, the water stops and Akechi comes to tell him it’s his turn.

Ren showers. Years of his life wash down the drain under the gentle yet steady pressure of the luxury showerhead. When he’s done he’s almost ready to pass out then and there but refrains, out of respect.

He finds Akechi lounging in bed, drowning in an oversized bathrobe, and a towel twisted into his hair, and in the split second between Ren seeing him and Akechi noticing Ren seeing him, Ren concocts a strange imagined scenario where they’ve been married ten years and he’s the doting husband about to flick the lights out and climb into bed beside his beloved after a long day of grinding at the office. This shatters as the color drains from Akechi’s face, as though Ren’s caught him in the middle of something mortifying. He quickly tugs the towel from his head and shoves it into the hamper sitting beside a sleek black dresser.

“I didn’t hear the water turn off,” Akechi offers by way of explanation for some unknown wrong.

Ren quirks an eyebrow and smiles. “If you’re worried about how you look, don’t be. I think casual is charming.”

Akechi settles back down and pats an empty spot on the comforter beside him.

“And what’s this?” Ren laughs.

“Well,” Akechi says slowly, “I know exactly what I want, and this is me asking for it.”

Ren lowers himself onto the bed. The mattress is one of those memory foam ones, which in and of itself is enough to get him drooling. He reaches up to cup Akechi’s chin, to smooth a thumb over the soft skin of his cheek. Then he leans in to kiss him like a question: remind me, is this what you meant when you said you know what you want? It is, isn’t it?

And Akechi kisses back. Yes, it is. It is.

Amamiya Ren can tell within an hour of meeting someone whether or not he’s romantically compatible with them.

And sometimes, before that hour is up, he’s already fallen in love.

[lpwrites]

WHUMP-TOBER: Day 4

“No, stop!”

The blast was completely unexpected, and even the strangled “No, stop!” didn’t reach Joker in time. The concentrated ray of energy knocked him off his feet, and he fell back into a wall with a groan.

He heard footsteps, and a small voice at the back of his head urged him to get to his feet; the enemies wouldn’t go easy on him even if he was on the ground. He groaned as his lungs struggled to refill after the impact, and his fingers closed around the hilt of his dagger, bracing himself for the next round of combat.

The footsteps slowed, and he grit his teeth, bracing against the wall he had landed against. They just needed to turn the corner and he’d be able to strike.

A heavy step crunched in the debris littered around Mementos, and Joker struck, crouching low to sink the dagger in a joint, incapacitate the enemy before they had a chance to retaliate. There was a giggle, and a startled shout that morphed into a grunt of pain. Further down the tunnel there was a shout of warning, and more footsteps.

Multiple enemies, and the chance of sneak attack. This wasn’t looking good for Joker.

He twirled the dagger in his hand and used his new handle on the weapon to slash again, raising his gun in the other hand to shoot at the incoming reinforcements. Shouts and shots rang down the tunnel, echoing – he had to finish this quickly before the commotion attracted others.

Despite the gloves, Joker felt blood splatter on his arm, and he turned to the closest enemy, eyes flashing to the yellow markers. Zio, then. He didn’t think he had the energy to fight multiple enemies, so best dispatch the one beneath him, already injured and bleeding, and escape to recover.

“Akira,” a voice coughed, thick with something, and Joker stopped with his dagger in the air. Something was missing, something was…off.

The voice coughed again, almost gagging, then swore. “Akira, buddy, c’mon, are you for real?” There was a hint of teasing in the tone of the voice, but it was overtaken by the continued struggles for breath.

“You gotta be kidding me,” the voice said again, and the enemy closest to Joker stood. Lightning sparked at his hands, and Joker raised his gun again. However, the enemy just raised his hands up, slow, to avoid startling him. “It’s just me. I’m your friend, remember?”

That was some trick for the enemy to pull, trying to make itself seem like Ryuji.

It almost worked, too, but Joker had to steel himself. Memento was bound to play tricks on them all, they just had to be stronger than it. So Joker stood his ground, and shot his gun.