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akechicrimes · 5 years ago

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Prompt 15 for ShuAke, please? (Your other answers are really really good, by the way.)

(aaaa THANK YOU yes of course!! also jsksjksjksjksjsj THIS PROMPT……. THANK YOU FOR THIS it was SO fun)

15. “Don’t tell me you’re fine, I can see the blood!”

akira has an adrenaline problem and is more reckless in sae’s casino that akechi expected. also akechi cares more about it than akechi expected.

***

The Thieves get overprotective of Joker in Sae’s casino, which is too bad, because it’s very big with many moving parts and it’s best for them to divide and conquer the place, which is how he explains it to them during a Thieves meeting that Akechi is not invited to. Also, when Joker splits them up into groups, Joker is sometimes paired up with only Crow.

The rest of the Thieves give each other unimpressed looks. “That’s… the opposite of reassuring,” Makoto says with a pained sigh.

“If anything happens, I’ll be fine. Plus, Futaba knows where I am at all times, and she can always reach me through the comms. I’ll say something if anything happens.”

Everyone gives each other such a significant look that Akira wonders if maybe the Thieves are having secret meetings that he isn’t invited to, either. But they don’t push him on it.

He asks Ryuji about it when everyone else has gone, Haru’s taken Morgana for the night, and it’s just the two of them in Akira’s attic. “We’re just… worried for you,” says Ryuji, scratching the back of his head. “The entire reason Akechi’s even here is to kill you, right? Guy’s a liar and probably a murderer and we don’t even know how dangerous he is. His Persona’s already crazy strong and Makoto thinks he’s got more tricks up his sleeve, too.”

Akira thought that through already. The probability is that Akechi can’t kill him until they’ve gotten to the end of the palace, and stolen Sae’s “heart” on the exact day that Akechi requested. On the other hand, it’s still just a probability. Maybe Akechi can kill him whenever he wants. “It’ll be fine,” says Akira.

“I mean, I know that,” says Ryuji, and sighs. “I guess… it’d be one thing if we just thought he might kill you the second we’re not lookin’, but I–I dunno. We were all worried ‘cause we thought that you kept pairing yourself up with Crow on purpose ‘cause you liked that he might…”

Ryuji trails away. “Uh, actually, never mind. Sounds dumb now that I say it aloud, honestly. Forget about it. See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” says Akira.

***

Akira Kurusu is a good boy, who lived in a good town, with a good family, with only good neighborhoods. There were never any bad neighborhoods to duck into and pick any fights with the wrong kind of people. There were never any bad bars to lose yourself in and make out with the wrong person. There were no criminals or thieves or so-called bad influences for a boy to get involved in.

Akira Kurusu is still a good boy. He lives in Tokyo now. He never finds himself so furious he can’t think, and he never heads to Mementos to punch shadows full of bullet holes, or (hopefully) get the shit kicked out of him. Akira Kurusu never scales the highest, tallest buildings in the Metaverse’s palaces, just to feel the ice-cold fear in his stomach hit him like a shot of vodka. Akira Kurusu never cuts it too close to the Palace deadline, just to feel the danger prickle on the back of his neck, or see the nervousness in his teammates’ eyes. He never makes an alliance with someone who doesn’t love him, just to wring some mutual benefit for the both of them like pulling blood from a stone.

Akira Kurusu never lurks on the school roof, or picks up shifts at Crossroads, or skulks in alleyways long after his bedtime, hoping for some douchebag to take a dislike to his face and give him a good reason to get some blood under his nails and feel alive for an hour. Whoever walks the Tokyo streets is some nameless, faceless specter, of no future and no past, to disappear when the sun rises.

Akira Kurusu is a good boy who gets good grades and runs Sojiro’s coffee shop when Sojiro is out. His face is blank and impassive, and there’s definitely no grudges locked behind his teeth. He goes to school on time and answers all the questions right and speaks to no one. He doesn’t think about girls. He also doesn’t think about boys.

Akira Kurusu is a good boy, who, one day at a TV station, met another good boy named Goro Akechi, who smiled politely and said all the right things, who never had a bad thought in his head or a fury in his throat. When Goro Akechi comes to set up camp in Leblanc, it is of course no problem, because Goro Akechi is a good boy who would never wait for hours just to see the whites of his prey’s eyes, and Akira Kurusu is a good boy who’s never done anything wrong, and never hungers for the sharp jolt of being pursued pressed like a blade against his neck.

Because they are both two very good boys, it is never a threat when Goro Akechi smiles at him in the subway station, and Akira’s smile back to the quick heartbeat of adrenaline is never real.

***

Anyway, the next day a Ganesha throws Joker through a slot machine.

“Joker!” Crow is probably saying, although Joker can’t hear a whole lot while upside down and covered in casino chips and bits of machine parts. Joker appreciates the concern, though, considering that Joker’s just split up the group again, and it’s only Joker and Crow against this brick shithouse of an elephant god. When Joker springs back up, his coattails and bits of bloody chips go flying; his whole body is singing. Crow says, “Hamao–”

That’s Joker’s least favorite move. No fun when Crow’s Hamaons or Mudoons land right, and the shadow drops clean like a cut puppet, no blood, no mess, no struggle. “Hecantoncheires!” Joker interrupts, and feels another chunk of his life force get gouged out as payment for a Swift Strike.

“Ganesha resists physical!” Crow snaps.

Joker pulls out his gun and unloads the whole clip and only stops when Crow kicks him out of the way of Ganesha’s angry swipe. “It’s weak to Psychokinesis, Joker! Finish this quickly!”

Trust Crow to have memorized all the shadows’ weaknesses. He sounds just like Queen does when Joker’s not taking it seriously enough for her. Joker pulls Kunishinada from his soul and casts a weak Psi, sweeping the shadow right off its massive feet to hit the ground with a floor-shaking crash. Joker pulls out his dagger. If Ganesha was going to beg or bargain, Joker’s not interested. He wants a good old-fashioned fight.

When Joker’s dagger slices through Ganesha’s fat stomach, Ganesha’s death throes slam a fist right into Joker’s back, crushing him and tearing Joker’s dagger straight through Ganesha’s body. Ganesha explodes into shadow dust and a shower of yen.

When Joker stands back up, he can feel himself beaming like a maniac, and Crow seems to almost smile back just out of pure shock. And with the Ganesha gone, it’s just Joker and the last and only enemy that mattered in the middle of the casino floor, surrounded by the Sae’s machines chattering out numbers of the highest, highest stakes. Joker’s enemy is sizing Joker up in the wake of battle, examining the blood streaking down his face; Joker’s enemy is sweeping his body from head to toe with his dark red eyes, lingering at the cinch of Joker’s vest waist, the high collars. Joker’s enemy’s eyes are wide.

“Gorgeous,” says Joker, and then collapses.

Crow’s over him in a second, but before he can say anything, Oracle’s voice comes over the line: “Joker? Your reading’s are a little wonky, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” says Joker. He sounds remarkably fine, actually, considering that his vision’s going a little grey.

“You’re not–”

Joker presses a finger to his own lips. Crow shuts up, his eyes glittering and rapt. “I’m fine,” says Joker again to Oracle. “It was just a skirmish with a shadow. Nothing big.”

“Uhhhhhh… Okay? You know where the safe room is if you need it? Noir’s not too far away if you need a hand, too.”

“Thanks, Oracle.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” says Oracle, which makes Crow’s lips purse for some reason. The line clicks off.

“Don’t tell me you’re fine,” says Crow immediately. His voice is shaking.

“I am fine.”

“I can see the blood–!”

“That’s a flesh wound.”

“This is no time for jokes,” says Crow sharply.

“Worried?” asks Joker. His to-be murderer, fretting about death coming a little too soon for his tastes? Ah, his to-be murderer is tracing his gloved fingers by Joker’s exposed and open neck.

Crow ignores him. “Robin Hood doesn’t know any healing spells. Can you heal yourself?”

“I’m out of magic.”

Crow looks like he’s trying very hard to be a good, straight-laced detective who doesn’t say “fuck” and also doesn’t panic. Crow is taking deep breaths, like he’s the one who go punched in the chest twice by a two-thousand pound elephant. “That was incredibly foolhardy of you.”

“It was just a bit of fun.”

“Pardon me for saying so, but what part about getting the shit kicked out of you was fun?”

Joker has the stupidest, goofiest smile on his face, he knows, because he’s half-drunk on all his wounds and, in his defense, there is a very pretty murderer with a sharp, sharp sword and gun that never misses staring down at him, their masks close enough to touch, Crow’s hands close enough to strangle him to death right there on the casino floor. Joker wants to see what would happen if Crow tried. “It’s not fun if it can’t at least kill you,” he says, more sincerely than he meant to.

Crow’s throat works and swallows hard. His hands are tight around Joker’s chest. “I–think I have some medicine in my pocket,” he says suddenly, and tears his eyes away. It turns out that he actually does, surprisingly, in the form of one of Takemi’s pill packets and a crushed protein bar. Crow watches Joker carefully to make sure that Joker actually takes them both. He keeps watching everything Joker does, really, from the way Joker pulls the packet apart, to the tiny bites he takes, to his careful swallows. When Joker spits a wad of blood out to clear his throat, Crow stares at it like he’s never seen the color red before.

“Let’s go back to the others,” Crow says, when Joker’s finished regaining whatever strength he can. “We can hardly have the illustruous leader of the Phantom Thieves dying here.” And all the way back, Crow refuses to leave Joker’s side.

For Joker’s to-be murderer, Crow seems to care an awful lot about whether or not Joker lives or dies, Joker thinks.

***

(i love procrastinating. send a prompt)

#me reading this prompt: yes............... yes................ YES #mine #Anonymous

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hyacinthetic · 4 years ago

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[p5/FOREVERDUMPED WIP] you should know i’m temporary.

shuake loveless-flavoured fantasy au. dumping this here in its unpolished glory because my god, i’ve got to focus, i am so close to having an actual finished multichapter on the internet, GET THEE BEHIND ME, BEGUILING NEW-OLD FANDOMS.

"I'm sorry," the Academy boy says. His gloves whisper, gaunt under the silence. "Someone should have come for you much sooner. Sacrifices aren't permitted to meet the fighters before the day of selection, but—I trusted in the system. I should have known better."

There's a story in his words, an invitation, a point like the barb of a fish-hook. Akira keeps watching. The cold flush of his lips. His bowed and shining head. The arch of his outstretched hands, neat as porcelain, neat as paint, lit by the pixellated glow of the chamber like a projection of mercy.

"Do you," the boy says, "still remember your name?"

He's drowning when his sacrifice comes.

Hands haul him out of the dark water. Impact, sensation, impact. Light spatters his vision. The cold carves through him with a stroke that should split him open to bone. He's all limbs, all hurt; his heartbeat's thrashing in his ribs, veins roaring, whole body singing like iron under flame—

"What have you done—?"

He twists. Hits the floor. The fall punches through him. His body judders, coughing, gasping; his shoulder pulses in dying flares. Through the tiles, he can feel the simmer of footsteps, outrage, a voice cleaving down like a season.

"—didn't know that the Academy had resorted to human offerings in order to win the war."

"Partner-select Akechi. There is no need to shout. Arrangements for your fighter are as you—"

"My fighter. Please. Let me assure you: if he'd been mine from the beginning, it never would have come to this. Do you need further instruction? Well, then. Help him up, you trepanned tool."

A new voice; the snarl of it remakes the air. Everything before it was darkness; everything in its wake is a star. Steps flurry around him. He's wrenched to his knees. A servitor's cold hand glosses his cheek and throat, taking his pulse like an instrument.

When Akira opens his eyes, there's a boy crouched before him.

"Are you all right?"

His throat works. He is looking at an Academy creature: red-eyed and sleek, dressed in the crisp black suit of a senior student, all arrow-flight movements and a body as slight as mystery. Akira shifts. Water's still coiling around his wrists, dripping manacles. Its taste clumps in his teeth like resin, clinging. He holds the stranger's gaze, and waits.

"Do you," the boy says, "still remember your name?"

Water flickers in his ears: a whisper, an itch. For a moment, he thinks of saying so; but the faceless servitors have stopped across the floor, props scattered across the stage of this new clockwork quiet.

Everything's waiting on them.

His knuckles grind tile. Cold traces the curves of his bones. "Kurusu Akira," he says.

"Kurusu. Akira." The name cracks between them like a shell. "I'm afraid we don't have time for much more, as far as pleasantries go. My name is Akechi Goro. You're going to be my fighter, if you'll have me. The bond-title that I offer is Chainless. Do you accept it?"

Akira bites back a sound—tastes salt, adrenaline, a thickening bruise, the echoes of a snarl. There are moments that aren't scenes—moments that exist as a cluster of heartbeats and coincidences. This is not one of them. The question has a constellation of answers, but only one's been scripted for him.

He understands, then: no one in this room is dying. There's a reason for that.

His pulse churns. His damp hair prickles his skin. Breath after breath rasps between them in a slow, shackling line.

"Do I have a choice?" Akira says, and feels his sacrifice stiffen. A grin splits his mouth, stark as a stage-light.

By night, the Academy's deserted.

He follows Akechi across the grounds. Their footsteps overlap like whispers, trailing through courtyards and grainy corridors. The night lies icy and still; the halls have been scratched down to cold constellations. Only the wards are awake: a thrum in the shadows, a sense of something teeming along the spidering grey walkways, fishbone stitches and silken eyes.

"Don't test your boundaries too soon," Akechi says, two steps ahead. "Memory implants aren't uncommon in the final preparations before the fighter's awakened. If you have them, they may take some time to come to rest."

May. Akira opens his mouth, then stops. His reflection keeps going, head slung low, body set in steering lines, a ghost in the vindictaglass windows. "I know this place. I've been here before."

"I see," Akechi says. There's still a smile in his voice. "Do you remember the name of the room where they were keeping you?"

Memory jolts through his spine. He wants to answer the question—feels wanting with the clarity of hunger, honey glittering on his tongue. Akira tugs the lock between his brows. "The battle-chamber," he says. "It's where bonded pairs go for battle training at the Academy during their final year."

In memory, the room opens with a sense of endless vertigo. His throat turns against the taste of preservatives and spellwater. He remembers sickly light on flagstones; needle-slick silhouettes; the testing hollows, narrow as coffins, crossed with cage-bars. Nothing like the chamber that he'd left, moving towards the doors with Akechi's steady grip bracing him up. Rows of bodies suspended in a nameless, timeless dream.

"Hold on," Akira says, and feels a pang when Akechi stops. The heft of his own voice seems unreal. "What's happening outside?"

"You mean in the provinces. If it's news you're interested in, we can call a bell-runner in the morning."

His voice shivers down the hall, a wind before rain. The lamp-flames bow; the wards murmur a warning chorus. Akira ignores them. "There's been a war going for the last seventy years," he says, hooking fingers in a pocket. "Did you fix it while I was out?"

"Unfortunately not. The war goes on." But the question seems to settle something. Akechi's shoulders sink. He moves forward. "But if you have particular people that you're concerned about, I can arrange to have a few messages sent by bell in our name."

"Messages," Akira says; Akechi's inflection is clear as a spotlight. "Seniors sure get a lot of privileges at the Academy."

"The fortunate ones do."

"Is that all you are."

Akechi tilts his head. "I've done my best to earn my place," he says. "In terms of skill, I'm a little worse than my betters, and a little better than everyone else. Labels are difficult to apply beyond that. Drawn spellwork tends to be more precise in its effect, but spoken spells offer speed and opportunity for improvisation. Some students choose a style, then make up for its inherent flaws with their choice of school—the Kanshori system offers the opportunity for grounded shorthand spells, and there's a theory being passed around the Kanshoshi scholastic community in terms of honing verbal accuracy…"

It's clear that he could go until morning. His voice is a trained curve, answers swaying without root or end. Akira closes his eyes. Beneath his eyelids, he sees the gleam of a fish-hook again: bait and shaped steel, drifting over an unruly tide. There's a conversation that they should be having, a script as old as wanting; but he's already given the wrong answer once.

Inside the Academy walls, he knows, language is a blade and a mirror. Each word carries a double-meaning. A true student of the arts would say fallible, and mean trap.

He's fallible. It's unforgivable.

Akira picks at his damp trousers. "Can you show me?" he says.

Silence flinches down Akechi's stilled back. "It's fairly late to be practising spells."

"I don't see anywhere to sleep yet."

"We're nearly at the dorms, Kurusu. Are you truly so impatient? Or is this an issue with your endurance?"

There's an easy retort to that—but it's meant to be easy. He swallows, and feels the pull of Akechi's voice scathing across skin. "Whether or not I'm your fighter," Akira says instead. "You're gonna have to show me sometime."

One by one, every echo withers between them.

Akechi turns. His gaze is a phalanx, armoured in light and fury, a spell to core the heart out of anything it touches. "Your hand, then," he says. "Please."

Something crackles through him—livid, starving, magnetised. He doesn't mean to move. It's the only thing that he means. Akira stirs, and Akechi catches his hand before it strays too far. His fingertips lock against bone; he yanks and Akira pitches towards him, clean as a breaking fever.

A gloved hand catches his arm.

Akechi's brows have snapped down; his lips are parted, reddening. Akira breathes in. His lungs are heavy, cloying with the sweetness of cologne and worked wool. The heat of a breath drawn between them like a blade.

Akechi's grip clenches. Without looking, he sketches a line across Akira's palm: delicate, intricate, a circle that tangles then unravels again. "An elementary restraint," he says, as Akira shifts on his heels. "You'll have to tell me if I go too far."

He's moving in a faultless rhythm, mapping patterns across Akira's skin. Loops into lilies, a sine-wave, a tide of stars, a name on the cusp of sound. His heartbeat's thinning in his teeth. He knows this touch, this sense of gravity; his body's unraveling beneath the airless weight of it. If he shuts his eyes, he could follow the memory down.

All he has to do's shut his eyes.

Akira blinks. The walls sway around him, shimmering with hungry lights. "Huh," he says, and hears himself as if through spellwater. "It's taking a while."

"I did warn you," Akechi says. "In theory, it's possible for the presence of a fighter to stabilise the sacrifice's focus, and minimise the weaknesses of their spellwork. Unfortunately, I've yet to see those results for myself."

His voice's unraveling. Akira tenses, or means to—but he's gone. The spell's eating through his vision. Everything's blackening, fading, lost. All that's left is a memory: shape after shape flashing where his pulse had lain. A gamepiece, a constellation, the shudder of a ship's anchor tearing loose from its home shore. A spell like winter: terror, longing, grief crystallising into every breath.

He knows this ache. He knows its name.

Akira's shoulders flex. Through the cold, he reaches up. His hand hooks over Akechi's glove. Light prisms beneath his eyelids.

The spell shatters.

Everything comes flooding back: grey floors, white sills, shadows long as drowning. The lamps leap in their sconces; the hallways glow like bone. Only Akechi's still looking at him, fox-eyed, wordless, mouth clipped sharp as steel. His grip digs in. Akira feels every point of his fingers like a heartbeat.

"Better keep watching, then," Akira says.

Akechi lives in a modest space—pale walls with skeletal furniture, mendasilk sheets and a scholar's table, every surface as glossy as a shogi piece. The windows frame a spectral winter, towers and stripped black trees prickling through the white like ancient bone. From the threshold, it's almost impossible to see where the snow ends and the walls begin.

"Taking my bond-title," Akechi says, as Akira's stare swings from corner to corner, "means that you're assigned to my room by default. We won't be able to occupy separate beds until we've graduated."

"Do you cast a lot of spells in your sleep?"

"Supposedly it's a matter of adjustment," Akechi says as Akira crosses the floor. "Fighters aren't always comfortable with the thaumaturgical weight of the bond at first. Keeping the sacrifice close to the fighter seems to increase the rate of improvement."

He sinks onto the bed. His gaze drifts back to Akechi, still perched by the doorway. "Well," Akira says, rolling his head back. "Where do you want me?"

The distance beats between them, a spell on the tip of the tongue.

"It's strange for you," Akechi says. "Isn't it. I didn't know that a fighter could remember so much of their history after awakening."

"I don't need sympathy."

"No." It cracks in the air, sparks from flint; Akechi's mouth curls with a slow, brimming light. "I see that. Still, there must be something I can do to make you comfortable."

Akira looks at him: tense and coal-eyed, body drawn against the door like the string of a bow. But Akira isn't a sacrifice, and so he knows: there are no words that'll get him what he wants.

He waits.

In a certain light, silence is its own kind of spellwork. Akechi's frame tightens under the weight of it. His hands drop; his lashes sweep down. Step by step, Akechi trails over to him. His fingers slide under Akira's jaw; Akira tilts his head up with the touch.

"You're my sacrifice," he says, low, to the flicker in Akechi's shuttered eyes. "You tell me."

It's a guess, a goad, the kind of answer that's no answer at all. Whatever the Academy'd meant to make of him, they hadn't etched their commands deep enough. Sacrifice and fighter are only words, shrapnel that could scatter with a sigh. He doesn't owe anything to Akechi Goro; he has that lesson branded across his skin.

But it's Akechi who moves first. His hand drops. He turns with a gesture. "You'll find a change of clothes in the first drawer," he says over a shoulder, "when you're ready. Treat my rooms as your own."

Akira touches his own cheek. The ghost of pressure beats through his fingertips.

"Thanks," he says to the empty air.

He dresses in the baths. Sleeve by sleeve, the shirt settles over him, sure as fate. Like something measured and made for him.

Akira goes out. The lamps are drooping down to silhouettes. In the dark, there's only the floor, the bed, the curve of Akechi's spine under thin sheets, sketched in pearling light. He doesn't make a sound as Akira crawls in; but the last of the candle-flames dip, and then there's only night.

"You're taking all of this very well," Akechi says.

There's an edge to his voice under the shadows, loose and jagged as a puzzle-piece. Someone else might be able to feel out its place—but not him. Akira tugs the pillow. "You haven't killed me yet."

"I wouldn't."

"Right. You don't kill."

A laugh feathers across his lips. "I've been waiting for my fighter since the day I turned fifteen," Akechi says, with drowsy sweetness. "Much like any other sacrifice, I suppose."

Akira shifts. "Do you ever stop?"

"Hm. Talking?"

Akira closes his eyes. Visions are racing through every nerve: Akechi's fingers on the curve of Akira's palm. The last bitter throb of a spell, collapsing. All the words he's holding aloft between them in the dark. "No," Akira says.

The quiet sways in the air.

"Even if you trust nothing else in this place," Akechi says at last, "trust that you will never be an acceptable loss to me."

There's no good answer to that.

But he's awake long after the echoes of Akechi's husky murmuring melt into dreams. One night in, and he knows too much. The hard slope of Akechi's cheek, the star of his hand over the pillow, the haze of his body heat. Every line of him's a memory, a regret, a signal-fire burning on some promised shore.

Soundless, unseeing, Akira reaches out. His palm drapes over Akechi's knuckles; their fingers interleave. He knows better than this. Of course he knows. But it's this shape that follows him into dreaming: hand over hand, bodies curled like reflections. Fitted together, simple as a heartbeat.

It's different, walking the Academy as a bonded fighter.

For the first week, Akira does nothing but wander. He walks the circuit of its battlements; he counts the click of his footsteps through a deserted hall. Whatever scholars had laid the foundation for the Academy, their parchment hopes had been overwritten a long time ago, caged in towers, in stone worked with vindictasteel, in sigils scrawled across the bronze of the archive domes. The Academy's a garden for sacrifices now, coaxing them to bow, to bloom, to bleed themselves into spellwork. Anything else that lives in it's an afterthought, numberless as soil or light. He can speak, and be answered; he can move without drawing a single glance.

Invisible, knowledgeable, alive. It's a good combination.

They go on, apart and together. In the mornings, Akechi vanishes to study. Akira loiters in the bone-pale stairs, listening. Every powerful institution thrives on gossip; the Academy's no exception. Passing students argue over spell translations, new territories fallen to the Council's Own, the nature of the lingering sentience in the faceless servitors. They whisper over old flames and new romances, the sour young wines delivered to the Academy as a yearly tithe.

They tell stories about Akechi Goro, too.

Akechi Goro's an orphan. He's the secret heir of a Councilman, sent out under a false name to protect him. In his first year, he shattered an instructor's shields with a single ballista spell. He once foiled an assassination plot on the Academy's chancellor. No student's marks have ever come close to his since he entered the school. The head of the Demiurgic Council broke off treaty negotiations with the Suzhen Isles last year for the chance to offer him the school's first-rank prize in the spring ceremonies.

"They say he joined the Academy to keep his promise to his childhood love! Once he's covered in glory, worthy of our republic, he'll go back home and be married." "Well, I heard that he's a compendium project—like the servitors, you know, only sane. He comes from a long line of spellworkers. His whole family planted memories of their specialisations in his head before he ever set foot on Academy grounds." "And I know for a fact that he's a long-lost descendant of the old Emperor, smuggled out before the war, come to restore the old order—"

It's gossip, a nest of mysteries and fantasies without root or colour to them; but Akira collects them all the same.

He wants to know it all.

"You think he's going to trade out his bond-title soon? It's not like he's gonna get anywhere as is. Everybody knows the Council hasn't promoted a Chainless pair outta the advisory unit in, what, thirty years?" "Who knows how Chainless thinks. But I wouldn't want to be in his shoes. Half the senior class's titled and qualified for partner-select by now. There can't be much choice left in the archives." "Oh, be fair! Chainless's much too noble to turn against his allies." "He better not stay that noble once he graduates. You ever see him in a match? Even Kingless'd be hard-pressed to touch him. Put those two together, and they could end the whole war." "Well, if he's interested in taking someone else's name, he'll have to handle it while he's at school. Stripping the bond-title from another student's nothing compared to what they'd do to him for violating the thaumaturgical autonomy of one of the Council's Own." "Execution, you mean?" A round of laughter, ringing slim as porcelain. "Please. As if Kingless would ever let the Council waste a sacrifice. Worst come to worst—all they'll do's execute the fighter."

The days wing through. Lean winter starves down to spring. In the quiet, Akira listens, and waits.

"Oh. Welcome home."

Classes aren't over for the day; but partners-select aren't bound by the schedules of ordinary students. Now and then, he forgets that—Akechi splits his hours between the Winter Archive and the parlour rooms of the Academy; he comes back to the room late in the night, smelling of parchment and sweet, wasting smoke. But this isn't Akechi the scholar, or Akechi the society boy. His shoulders are braced hard against his chair. Sunset's tangling through his hair—a fever's halo, fire glimmering in the hollow of his throat, as easy as a touch.

Akira presses the door shut; its click snaps through the walls like a shot. "Thanks, honey," he says. "Long day?"

"If you needed a more extensive tour of the Academy," Akechi says, "you could have let me know."

"I'm not getting lost."

"I assumed that much," Akechi says as Akira heads towards him. "I have some faith in your abilities."

Spring's settling over the Academy, but not in any hurry. The bones of the school have barely started to thaw; its grounds are a riot of stinging winds and crumbling, icy drifts, a landscape bruised in stone and snow. Kneeling at the foot of the desk, Akira feels through the carpet for the points where the warming alchemy run thickest. "You're not afraid I'll get lost," he says. "So what are you afraid I'm going to find?"

A hand brushes his cheek. Akira turns, and lets Akechi tilt up his chin.

"You have a skill for drawing trouble," Akechi says, iron-eyed, with a voice that's all veneer. "In case you've missed it, I'd prefer not to see you hurt."

Akira closes fingers around his wrist. A wire of tension thrums into his grip, then goes still. "A lot of people in the school're talking about your bond-title," he says.

"They're uneasy," Akechi says. "They have a right to be. After all, my progress hasn't been following the standard timeline."

With Akechi, the best hook is always silence. Akira shifts in place, and waits.

"Twenty years ago," Akechi says, with a thin twist to his mouth, "the Kingless sacrifice simplified the Academy's steps for graduation. Every partner-select chooses a fighter at the beginning of the year. Generally speaking, fighters will manifest the marks of the bond-title somewhere on their bodies within a few months of the pact. It's then recorded in the Academy archives with all of its pertinent details. Whether the mark was ink, scarring, or ethereal. If it was located in approximately the same area as the sacrifice's mark. The predecessors who've held the title, and any pattern in their achievements. It's meant to guarantee that we'll have as a grace period—providing the bonded pairs with a chance to prepare for their initiation trial into the Council's Own."

"It's spring now," Akira says.

"And," says Akechi, "here you are."

He hasn't looked away. In the rusting light, his gaze is stark as coal. A look like a question—a look like burning. Akira swallows. "What would happen," he says, "if a sacrifice tried to take a bond-title someone else already had?"

The hand withdraws; Akechi settles in his chair. "That's precisely what the archives are intended to prevent. Every student's expected to have researched their bond-title, and to have it recorded within a few weeks of beginning their final year. But," he adds, all rue and unfaltering gold, "to answer your actual question: the original pair would notice over time. There's a sense of violation—a displacement. Paranoia, recklessness, and instability aren't unheard of—in both the usurper as well as the original claimant. Your title is your destiny. A destiny can't be shared."

"And your destiny's being 'Chainless'."

It hasn't been a season yet since he'd swallowed blood and spellwater, and bowed his head to a new name. But some things need less than a season. Akechi leans on a knuckle. The flex of his throat rolls through Akira's nerves like sparks. "I wonder," Akechi says, "what brought that question to your mind."

"You know why," Akira says. "Everyone sees what you can do. But no one who's taken the name Chainless has been sent out into the field for decades."

The room rings: empty, empty.

"Every sacrifice has secrets," Akechi says at last. His fingers skim the arch of a glove, restless as a spell. "It's our nature. I understand that mine may feel somewhat heavier than most. And if you can't live with that knowledge, I'm afraid the bond between us won't last for very long."

Less than a season together, Akira thinks—but he knows Akechi Goro. The uneasy prickle of his lashes when he's dreaming. The fall and rise of his voice working through a new translation. His hands at work, sweeping through line after vicious, perfect line: engraving patterns, chemical patterns, patterns taking shape like—

"That's not much of a threat," Akira says.

Akechi laughs. "Is that how it sounded?" he says—husky, startled. "Well, then. Let me be more clear. Fighters are used as amplifiers and vessels. No fighter should be able to overturn a sacrifice's spellwork on his own. You're a comet in a closed system. Whoever holds you at the end of next year will rewrite the story of the republic." His knuckle digs against his mouth; his shadow trembles like the fringe of a flame. "You understand, don't you. The bond-title hasn't manifested for you yet. You still have some time."

The pattern unravels. The world shivers into place.

I wasn't aware that a fighter could remember so much of their history after awakening, he'd said.

There must be something I can do to make you comfortable.

I've been waiting for my fighter since the day I turned fifteen.

Akira blinks, sharp and clearing. His heartbeat's pounding between his ribs, gutting, roaring, electric as a storm. "I thought a title was destiny," he says.

"If destiny doesn't bend to our choices," Akechi says, "I don't see how it's worth anything to us."

There's a mystery about Akechi Goro. It's written into his skills and mannerisms, scrawled like poison down to his roots. How a boy who entertains visitors in the Academy parlors every week could have drawn so few allies over four years. The way his voice turns with every word, clarity to knives, cynicism to certainty. What it is about Chainless that had drawn him—this boy bound by every title and grace that the Academy could grant him.

How he could have waited years for his fighter, and offer to give him up at a word.

Akira leans onto a knee. His hand clasps Akechi's; he ignores its stutter beneath his palm.

You will never be an acceptable loss to me.

"So," Akira says. "I'm choosing now."

Akechi stares at him; but he's learned by now. The flex of his hand; the way his fingers curl against Akira's palm. The triumphant surge of his smile, unsteady but pristine, like a blade drawn from the forge. Every touch a heartbeat, rising.

#real procrastination and fake prose

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cherubchoirs · 5 years ago

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cat cafe by day phantom thief by night akira but after thinking he was dead all these years one day goro just walks in. bonus points if he doesnt recognize akira/vice versa. trauma is easier to cope with if you are also petting like 3 cats i speak from personal experience

ooohhh my goddd coming in here with some big brain shuake ideas.....i can totally see it being the case too where they don’t recognize each other at first because they’ve both changed a lot and it’s been so LONG. i mean, just for my own personal designs, akira and goro both look pretty different as adults, and just the fact that growing up changes features and tones of voice...but i also just really want the factor of them striking up a conversation and the slow realization overtaking them - something feels familiar in the way the other one speaks, the flow of the conversation, the back and forth feeling overly natural, comfortable, both of them more open or more sincere than they maybe would be with a perfect stranger. it starts out as something that nags them in the back of their minds and slowly moves to the forefront, something that they can’t quite place their finger on and while it’s nice in a way, it’s sort of disconcerting, you know? they’re both guarded people, even as adults, so why the instant connection to this cafe manager or this customer off the street? but when the conversation gets more intimate, akira coming in closer, paying more attention, that realization would hit both of them like a truck lmao it’s definitely NOT the reunion goro had had in mind, like he wanted to be more prepared...or at least not be totally blindsided. and akira...what does he even do? he’s been through that death, he’s grieved already, wrestled with that pain, the idea that goro died without ever having lived for himself, without akira being able to love him the way he deserves and goro doing the same in return, and he’s moved forward in his life, he might almost keep thinking that his brain is playing tricks on him (because honestly even when you’ve grieved, that pain doesn’t ever fully leave). how does he accept within the span of a few seconds that goro really is in front of him, that not only is he alive but there’s so much time that they’ve missed out on with each other? and i think there would sort of be a silence that falls in between them, neither of them the type of person to let out a big burst of emotion or go all teary eyed, but the shock and the quiet that hangs there leaves enough of an impact on them without some huge display. they both know, and they know the other one knows too, so much to say but there’s a lot of time for that now and while goro wonders if it’s for the best, if he should just leave before it only gets weirder than it already is, akira tells him he’s so glad goro finally found his way back to him. (the truth is they’re both happy and not letting themselves become visibly overwhelmed but akira is now clinging to his favorite cat and goro is petting two of them at once)

#petting cats is the ONLY coping mechanism #honestly anon me too having a cat is one of the best ways to deal with trauma sdkfjsf #but for this scenario like don't get me wrong #the minute they're alone there WILL be a lot of crying ToT #right now tho they're holding onto those cats for dear life #p5 #akira kurusu #goro akechi #shuake #Anonymous

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krisseycrystal · 4 years ago

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Please, o' Granter of Wishes, in these dark days, I have but one request. On the Decree of Fluff, there lies both Soulmates & Reincarnation. Might I implore thee to pick a preferred option with the Fated Shuake pairing from the tale of Persona 5?

[sage voice] it is done....

shuake + “reincarnation” anyway alskdjf gOING TO WORK ON SHUAKE + “SOULMATES” NOW because i can’t help myself and couldn’t decide and honestly that sounds like a LOT of fun and also I have an idea (it will be a LOT happier than this one i promise alksdjfasdf)

thank you SO MUCH for the request, friend!! hope you enjoy and sorry for all the poetry

The Fool’s Courage [Read on AO3]

It starts with the tiny scribble of a pen in the corner of a crossword puzzle book and a, “Hey, any idea what 23 across might be?” which isn’t the way Akechi had ever planned on starting something that could remotely be considered a tragedy or a romance, but here they are.

He knows Kurusu sees the tiny, I think we’ve met before, because there’s a small furrow to his brow and a bend at the corner of his mouth and it’s not that Akechi’s been staring at the slope of that mouth, per se, but he’s always thought everyone else’s claims that the transfer student was hard to read was completely bogus if one just paid attention to the tiny inflictions in his face.

Kurusu adjusts his glasses and pivots the open magazine around the axis of his finger. He grabs Akechi’s pen out of his hand before Akechi can say a word--the nerve--and Akechi would say something, he probably should, but his own fingers are still tingling at that brief contact and he thinks if he tries his voice might betray him.

So he crosses his forearms over the counter and watches his pen--his--idly swing in the space between Kurusu’s thumb to index finger. It’s a rapid, thoughtless movement; it has no right to be so charming.

When Kurusu finally scribbles in the boxes and returns both crossword and pen, Akechi scoffs. “You could have given me a hint. No need to show off.”

Kurusu’s smile is something that handsomely reads, Isn’t that usually my line?

Akechi tries not to smile back. When Mr. Sakura walks up with a phone pinned between his shoulder and cheek, he and Kurusu share a Look that means another order to-go and immediately, Kurusu moves for the disposable containers tucked above the fridge.

Akechi taps his pen against the puzzle and hums.

In the string of boxes, the poet of Infinitati Sacrum has been penned in Kurusu’s jagged, near illegible English (really, who taught this boy his English characters?): J-O-H-N-D-O-N-N-E.

He doesn’t know how the hell Kurusu knew that but the echo of possibility makes some, jaded part of him feel hopeful again. More importantly: written to the side, is a dark and small, I think I know what you mean.

When Akechi lifts his eyes, Kurusu is watching him with those quiet, steady eyes. He is too clever, too brilliant, for such an unassuming young man who hides behind thick glasses and a cafe shop counter.

- o - o - o -

It is England and it is Westerham and 1817 and he drank too much wine and made a fool of himself in the downstairs parlor, but it seems there is mercy yet to be found in the inoccupation of this room because damn the sounds this man’s tongue draws out of him are obscene.

In the cooling afterglow, he slips his long-awaited reply in an inside pocket of the man’s black coat, which had been heedlessly tossed over an upholstered chair. After a sweat-slick grin and teasing jibe about being more careful with the articles of his wardrobe or else people might get ideas, he straightens his cravat and dismisses himself out the servant’s halls with a, “Until next time, my dear burglar,” tossed over his shoulder.

It would not be good for him to be seen here.

They will meet again outside of Kent and then it will be strictly business. They have their roles to play after the Good Lady of Ramsgate complained about her missing silver after opening her doors for a social evening. If he wishes to uphold his post, he cannot give anything away about the promiscuous nature of his relationship with the man who is undoubtedly the culprit.

Not if he wishes to see him again in the fall.

- o - o - o -

It’s not just crossword puzzles. Over time, sudokus, word searches, cryptograms--passed from one hand to the other over LeBlanc’s counter--also become the means of their secret correspondences, the channels by which those burning things on the edges of their hearts finally have their chance to speak. Akechi would say he isn’t sure why or how he has become so certain of his and Kurusu’s strange connection, if only every time he looked at the young man, he wasn’t absolutely certain that the soul of him, even if not his face, was somehow familiar.

They start to use ciphers where well-placed puzzles and requests for help with English word searches to loop the letters R-E-I-N-C-A-R-N-A-T-I-O-N with a scribbled question mark next to it aren’t enough.

Kurusu struggles with the ciphers at first (adorable), mouth pinched and brow furrowed at the extra effort it takes to work out Akechi’s true message (also adorable). He himself doesn’t attend Shojin, so he can never watch him to verify this hypothesis, but it’s clear that Kurusu must spend some time working on his ciphers during his lectures or between his Metaverse missions because it only takes a single day for Akechi to receive each response, folded inside the cursory napkin between his daily coffee cup and saucer.

And each time, he is forced to stifle the fluttery, warm feeling in his chest.

There is nothing for Akechi to be affected about. Certainly not the idea that Kurusu spends at least some of his non-renewable hours and minutes thinking about him and what it is he wishes to tell him.

The happiness is silly. Foolish. It shouldn’t make him glad that a young man who he has been told should be his enemy wants to pursue these conversations, especially when Akechi makes it so difficult to do so in the first place in the hopes of keeping their written messages safe from unwanted eyes.

But their letters are a simple joy.

And Akechi does not have many simple joys in this current life.

- o - o - o -

It is Greece and it is 159 and a new shipment of papyrus has arrived when that damned thief strikes again. This time, just as the previous time, and the time before that, the thief steals more than his employer can afford to lose. At last, at last, having enough of this, the guard lays his trap.

When, by torchlight, with men at either shoulder, they corner the thief in a stone alcove, there’s something glinting in those dark eyes that, ironically, arrests him.

It is something old.

Something familiar.

And he cannot escape the wondering question: have they done this song and dance before?

- o - o - o -

It is 1816 and there are times, though they are few and far inbetween, when his burglar stays late into the night, entwined in the cotton of his sheets, and though he knows it won’t last until morning, the brush of their legs tangled together are enough to power him through centuries apart, he is sure.

“Tell me something you’ve read lately,” he whispers with his cheek pressed to his pillow. He breathes softly as his fingertips trace over the back of his burglar’s hand, following the soft ridge of blue veins under his skin.

“I’m afraid all I have for you are poems,” his burglar murmurs.

“How typical of you.”

“Is Donne too morbid for our faire?”

“If it’s recited by you, it’s perfect.”

And his burglar frowns thoughtfully, eyes askance. Slowly, he rolls onto his back and his arm twists so that his palm is up and settled beside his ear. His own hand follows it and their fingers intertwine.

“I sing the progress of a deathless soul,” his burglar hushedly murmurs and for not the first time, he finds himself marveling at the man’s perfect, rote memory. “Whom Fate, which God made, but doth not control, placed in most shapes; all times before the law yoked us, and when, and since, in this I sing…”

Angels know he could listen to the rumble of that quiet voice forever.

- o - o - o -

The ciphers, admittedly, get out of hand. What starts as, Do you believe in past lives? You probably think I’m crazy and You’re too good at chess to be crazy; I will see what I can find in the school library turns into You seriously need to better your handwriting and I can tell the news station the Detective Prince drinks his coffee here anytime then I have a geography test coming up that I am NOT looking forward to and Have you been sleeping well? You’ve been looking exhausted lately.

They start writing about anything and everything in between. The latest celebrity gossip from the news on the ancient TV with the crooked antenna in the cafe’s corner to their personal likes and dislikes. You can call me Akira, you know, and Very well; then call me Goro. They share childhood experiences both good and bad and dreams and, Have you ever thought about what you might do after your probation year is finally over?

It’s a question Akechi has always longed to ask as someone who has never fooled himself into thinking he might live past the age of eighteen.

He would be lying if he tried to claim that he didn’t look forward to their notes.

They talk over the counter, as a regular and barista so often do.

But it’s so nice, he thinks, so very nice, to have this one good, hidden thing that he can take home and read alone and know the secret message within is meant for his eyes only. He wonders if there is anyone else in the world so lucky as he is to receive an encrypted message in such a scratchy and slanted font.

- o - o - o -

Eastern Han period, China. 768, Egypt. 1511, Italy. The lives and the motif of their stories blur together in a vague idea of memory. They are not sure how and why everything first began. Ask either one and the answer will be a shrug or a turned-away head, beleaguered by a small smile. Have they always been an ill-fated pair? Has their star-crossed story always been that of a thief and a hero? But who is the hero and who is the thief, because Akechi isn’t quite sure he knows anymore.

If the hero is supposed to be the one who saves the day, then he already knows the answer to their age-old riddle.

In this life, anyway.

- o - o - o -

It’s done.

Things are as they should be. Maybe how they were meant to be.

Akechi lays in a pool of his own blood, sirens blaring around him, and stares at the steel ceiling of Shido’s ship and knew, somehow, in the center of him, that it would come to this.

“Great Destiny the Commissary of God,” he whispers and it’s funny, isn’t it? It should be funny. A 1601 poem being somehow relevant and applicable four hundred years later. Akechi supposes that’s what happens when you have two lives who are again and again and again remembering old things and experiencing new ones but are never able to change the repetitions of their fate, these damnable roles they were meant to play.

“That has mark’d out a path and period for everything,” Akechi murmurs and touches the blood pooling over his chest. He lifts his hand above his face and watches the way his own blood webs between his fingers. “Where we of-spring took, our ways and ends see…at one instant…”

He thinks of Kurusu, which might be precisely what summons him. He can hear the others’ indignant, pitched cries of, “Joker!” as he jumps onto the top of the bulkhead door. With a graceful leap, arm extended, he grabs the railing that lines the walkway along the side of the partition and flips down. Elegant. Stunning.

A fool.

“What…” Akechi coughs and doesn’t get to finish his question. Kurusu’s knees push under his head, red-gloved hands clutching at his shoulder and pulling him up--up--and suddenly there is screaming pain that whites out his thoughts. “Don’t! Don’t…that hurts.”

“Good. Because you’re supposed to live.”

Kurusu is not one to often talk so when he does, it feels like all of nature snaps to attention. Akechi lifts his head in surprise, which is when Kurusu takes the opportunity to press his fingers into the lining where his dark helmet meets the neck of his suit. Akechi opens his mouth to say something like these costumes aren’t supposed to work like that in the Metaverse, idiot, but then Kurusu yanks up and the helmet slips free and--well--shows what he knows.

Maybe he’s the fool.

“Stay with me.”

Kurusu’s hand is new and startlingly warm on his cheek. Akechi decides he likes it.

“Thou knot of all causes, thou whose changeless brow ne’r smiles nor frowns.” Akechi laughs and coughs and murky, red spittle dots his lips.

“Stop it.”

“I always thought that part described you rather well.”

“You weren’t supposed to be a murderer, Goro.”

Oh.

Akechi sighs and with it, he feels his strength ebb. “You think so?”

“I know so.” There’s something in Kurusu’s voice that sounds like anger and it is surprising. It is comforting. It is enough to hear it. “You never have been before. You--you have always been brilliant and clever and just, but Shido took you and made you this when we could have been friends. I won’t forgive him for it.”

“Good.” Akechi’s stomach spasms against his will and the pain is near enough to make him black out. It’s time. “Then get him for me, won’t you, Akira?”

“I will.”

“Who knows. Maybe in our next life, we’ll have better luck.”

Kurusu tilts his head close and leans in. They have never, not once, shown any intimacy but somehow the feeling of those chapped lips against his brow isn’t in the least bit foreign, nor unwelcome. It is all Akechi has ever hoped for.

“I’ll find you,” Kurusu promises and the words seal like a vow in his chest. “And this time, I won’t let them change you.”

- o - o - o -

Memory blurs, that’s the point. If memory didn’t blur you wouldn’t have the fool’s courage to do things again, again, again that tear you apart.

- Joyce Carol Oates, We Were the Mulvaneys

#persona 5 #p5 #shuake #akechi goro #kurusu akira #amamiya ren #fanfic #it's kinda longish #sry #krissey writes a thing #fluff bingo!#fluff #angst #romance #tragedy #all that good stuff #i hope u enjoy!!#ardentknight

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judette-mathis · 7 years ago

Text

Morning breakfast

Series: Persona 5

Pairing: Protagonist/Goro(shuake) if you squint

Characters: Akira, Goro, Morgana, Soujiro.

Rating: PG

Words: 1,300

AO3

Summery: Akechi comes by LeBlanc while Akira is working, so Akira decides to treat him to some curry.

Note: spoilers up to 11/21

***

Being stuck working didn't feel too bad considering he had just found out the previous night that Akechi was plotting his death. Being at work gave him time to think without distraction. Even though they did come up with a plan, he still felt an odd feeling of fondness towards him, as if knowing he wanted him dead did not have affect on his opinion of the guy.

As he started to wipe the counter, the bell jingled as the door opened and a customer entered the cafe. Akira looked up to greet the customer and paused when he saw it was Akechi, who also seemed to freeze momentarily.

They stood staring at each other with a strange awkward tension settling between them, before Akira coughed and said, “Welcome!” With a warm friendly smile. He was relieved his voice didn't crack at all when he spoke.

The greeting seemed to break the tensions as Akechi walked further inside and said, “Good morning.” He sat at his usual spot at the counter, and returned Akira’s smile. “I didn't expect you to be running the shop today.”

“Boss had business to attend to. You'll have to settle with me today,” he said as he went to wipe out a mug. “The usual?” Akira asked, and Akechi nodded his head in response. Akira had learned all of Soujiro’s common customers favorite orders, so he knew what Akechi usually asked for when he was over.

“I'm surprised you know what I usually order.”

“I'm rather observant,” he answered, glancing at him from the side of his eye as he prepared the coffee. The TV blared in the background as a talk show played on the screen. Akechi rested his chin on his hand and watched it looking disinterested.

A small growl resounded inside the cafe and Akira’s eyes wandered towards Akechi whose cheeks were now a faint red. Akira grinned then moved away from the coffee machine to the pot of curry Soujiro had started. Soujiro’s curry would be done soon enough, so he could just fix Akechi a plate in a few minutes.

He returned to Akechi then looked at him with a grin. “Didn't get anything to eat?” He questioned curiously.

“I had an apple,” Akechi responded.

“I'll take that as a no then.”

Akira went to the coffee machine to finish fixing his cup of coffee, and once he was done, he poured Akechi a cup then placed it on the counter in front of him.

He grasped the cup then took a sip, and his eyes widened. “It actually tastes good…”

“Didn't think I could make a good cup of coffee?” he asked, which caused Akechi to give him an apologetic look.

“I... didn't mean it like that. It was simply unexpected.”

“There are a lot more things about me I can surprise you with,” Akira teased. Akechi responded to him with an amused chuckle. Akira wasn't joking though.

“Here you go, LeBlanc special curry on the house!” Akira said as he placed the plate of curry down on the counter in front of Akechi.

He looked at him with confusion as he hadn't ordered anything, but he couldn't deny that he was hungry. Even so he couldn't bring himself to just accept a free meal. “I wouldn't want to impose…”

“It's fine, think of it as a thanks for your help.”

Akechi's eyes widened in surprise from the words. Akira wondered if it was because he felt guilty since he wasn't actually helping them, or because he simply didn't expect such generosity. He looked down with flustered cheeks and quietly mumbled, “If you insist…”

He took a bite of the food and his look of surprise returned. “It's good…”

“Never ordered the curry before?”

He shook his head then continued eating more eagerly. Having finished cleaning up the dishes already, Akira simply stood and watched him eat. The way he tore through the curry almost gave Akira the impression that he hadn't had a real meal in a long time. “When was the last time you had a meal?”

There was a pause as Akechi looked to be recalling the last time before he answered, “About two months maybe?”

“Two months!?” Morgana exclaimed after having remained silent for most of their conversation. Akechi turned to him and nodded his head. He looked baffled as to why they were giving him such surprised stares.

“Is that odd?”

“Akechi… Are you okay…”

He laughed in response to his words. “Concerned for my wellbeing?”

Despite knowing Akechi's plans he couldn't help but nod his head as he said, “Greatly…” His words caused a brief look of shock to appear on Akechi's face who narrowed his eyes at him.

“Wait you're serious…?” he asked, as if the fact was for some reason hard to believe. “You never cease to amaze me.”

Unable to follow what Akechi meant, Akira simply tilted his head in confusion. Akechi apparently had no intention to continue the topic any further though as he resumed eating and said no more.

Akira felt a little confused and scratched his head, but decided to drop it. With their conversation over and nothing better to do, Akira grabbed one of the bottles of hot sauce off the counter and dangled it in front of Akechi. “We have hot sauce if you want any?”

Akechi paused then looked at him as if he had just said something ridiculous. “No thank you.”

“Are you sure? I remember you mentioned how much you love spicy food,” he teased, knowing full well that was a lie that time, but he wasn't going to give up the chance to tease him about it.

“I'm fine… thank you,” he said as he gave him a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Silence returned as Akechi continued eating. When his plate was mostly empty, he paused and looked at Akira as he said, “Is it really okay for you to be giving me this for free?”

“I can afford a plate of curry,” Akira replied, but snorted as he said, “A bit late to be questioning it don't you think?”

Akechi looked down at his plate and fiddled with his rice, an odd look on his face. “I… thank you.”

“You're welcome, Honey,” Akira teased.

Akechi huffed in response then finished eating the rest of the food off the plate. Once he was done, a look of satisfaction settled on his face and he gazed at Akira and said, “Thank you for the meal… dear.”

Akira blinked, and stared at him in silence, before a good minute passed and he erupted into laughter. “Dear?” he questioned before snorting and wiping a stray tear. “That's really rich.”

A pout appeared on Akechi's face as his expression turned annoyed and he averted his eyes. He opened and closed his mouth before finally saying, “I was only playing along...”

Once his laughter finally began to subside, Akira leaned on the counter and said, “You're actually pretty awkward sometimes huh?”

Before Akechi could retort, the door opened and Soujiro walked in. He looked at the two curiously, but they both acted as if the previous conversation never happened. Akira found it a little amusing that Akechi didn't seem to want to argue with him in front of Soujiro.

Akechi sighed then reached into his pocket and pulled out the money for the coffee. “Thank you for the meal, but I must be on my way,” he said as he stood and placed the money on the counter.

“See ya later…” Akira said as he waved. Akechi nodded his head then left the cafe.

Akira’s eyes wondered to Akechi's glass, and he thought to himself that he may have enjoyed his little morning with Akechi a tad bit more than he should have.

#Persona 5 #P5 #shuake #Akira Kurusu #goro akechi #my fanfiction #my fanfic

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mistresseast · 4 years ago

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A big thing too is there is no guarantee Atlus will do anything with what they baited in Royal and I know that's why I'm frustrated. I know a lot of people don't have confidence because nothing they've done with Goro makes sense, and its based on getting fans to spend money, not because they care about a character, so it feels like sunk cost? He's still left out of things and I wouldn't feel negative about Royal if I knew for sure they would bring him back. Ppl are tired of being baited.

If you were just after commiseration: ugh! I know!! It’s so frustrating! Atlus is bad in general about payoff and the problem is on glaring display with Goro. You’d think with a whole ass remake and all the money Vanilla made, they’d have the resources to figure out how to handle a complex character in a satisfying way, but those homophobes couldn’t write their way out a wet paper bag and the brilliance of Goro Akechi was almost certainly a happy accident.

If you want my more tough love advice and analysis: expecting a big company like Atlus (ESPECIALLY one with Atlus’s reputation) to deliver on the very specific stuff that fans like us want is indeed a one-way ticket to frustration. I won’t go into speculation about how the character of Goro came to be, but I will say that he feels like a character who was developed for one purpose and then as the writing went on he adopted more importance to the story but the initial plan for what happened to him didn’t adjust to match. Stuff like that happens in writing all the time, and particularly in stories as complex and with as many people working on them as p5. So when I feel like something about Goro’s handling doesn’t make sense, I try to look at it from that perspective. It’s not a deliberate mishandling or a disregard for the character; it was just an early-development failure to accurately predict what would be necessary for his specific arc. And imo Royal put a lot of work into fixing that, but the simple fact is that a truly satisfying outcome for this character would require some significant rewrites and adjustments to the basic fabric of the game, and the devs just aren’t in a position to do that, for lots of reasons. So no matter how much I like the third semester, nothing we were going to get was ever going to feel as complete as it could. So if you are holding out for canon content to somehow justify or validate all of the energy you’ve put into this character and shuake as a ship, then I’m sorry to say you’re probably right and that nothing we get will ever feel like enough. If you feel like that means being engaged with the story and characters isn’t worth it, then you should consider putting your time into something else, to save yourself the frustration. I can’t say how much of the “baiting” around Goro’s character is intentional, but I don’t have any confidence that this lingering feeling of incompleteness is going to be resolved, and I know that people do leave fandoms for that reason. Personally, I am pleased and compelled enough by what we have to stick around, and in fact I might prefer Atlus leaving well enough alone at this point. They’re notorious for wrecking character arcs and tbh I don’t trust them not to ruin Goro Akechi. They can just hand him off to us, it’s fine. We’ll treat him better.

As for Goro being left out of stuff, maybe I just don’t pay enough attention to the tie-in media, but I’ve never been as upset by that as I know a lot of people are. It’s disappointing that he’s not in Scramble, it really, really is, and I wish he could have had at least a cameo, but I also understand why he’s not there and it’s not a malicious choice by the company. Scramble was in development at the same time as Royal, so characters whose very presence would spoil Royal obviously couldn’t be included, which also leaves Sumi and Maruki in the lurch. It’s not ideal but it is understandable. Goro is in the dancing game, as well as pq2, and he just got to be a major part of the train mystery AR game that happened a while ago. He’s even getting a lot of love in the musicals, showing up early and getting more attention at this point in the story than he did in the actual game, almost like the writers are realizing his importance should have been seeded earlier and now, with hindsight, are able to correct some mistakes. He gets a lot of fun stuff in the anime, which I generally don’t like, but their handling of Goro is one of the things I approve of. Rokuro Saito, who writes the Mementos Mission manga, obviously likes him and puts effort into his appearances. I suppose I’m not really sure what he’s been “left out of” other than promo material and like,,, some official art. Due to the nature of who he is in the story, he’s a difficult character to work into things. The people creating this content walk a thin line between not wanting to spoil Vanilla OR Royal for folks who might still spend money to buy the game, and knowing that Goro’s status as a “traitor” means it’d be weird for him to just be included in group shots of the characters. Do I wish there was more content of him? Yes, but I also don’t really see a concentrated effort to leave him out of stuff.

I’m not trying to invalidate your feelings at all, of course. I see sentiments like yours all over the fandom from people who clearly enjoy the story and care deeply about the characters, and I know exactly how frustrating and pointless it all feels. I toss and turn at night thinking about all the ways the game could have treated Goro better, treated Akira better, treated its own themes better, and sometimes I just want to claw my own skin off at all the wasted opportunities, But ultimately, I channel that discontent into my own creativity and appreciate the folks who work to make sense of the nonsense. It’s not a dealbreaker to me. These negative feelings only serve to remind me how much I love these characters, and I know none of us would rage so hard if we didn’t connect to this story in some way. But I can’t count on the source material to make me happy. That’s not the source material’s job. And in the end you have to ask yourself if it’s worth it to you to stick around for something that’s only going to keep disappointing your specific needs.

I don’t want to discourage people from coming to me to vent, but just know that I've been through the gamut with this fandom and I’ve got opinions about Everything, so if that’s not what you need, sorry! I just want to soothe negativity if at all possible but I know not everyone is interested in a lecture <3

#ask tag #anon #isablogging

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akechicrimes · 5 years ago

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Prompt 19 for Shuake? I read it and my brain immediately “̶A̶̶n̶̶g̶̶s̶̶t̶ Material for New Game+” (Just a suggestion)

19. “Do you want to know the hardest thing about having a soulmate? It’s not the separation in the beginning, not the endless nights lying awake, hoping and praying that someone was made for you. It’s…it’s the love. It’s too strong, and you can’t fight it. I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried…but I’m always going to love you. And I need you to know that.”

summary: goro akechi meets his soulmate akira kurusu, falls in love instantly, and immediately resolves to kill him.

When Goro is twelve, he hates two people equally: his father who he’s never met, and his soulmate who he’s never met. When Goro is eighteen, he meets Akira Kurusu, falls in love instantly, and resolves to kill him.

***

“Oh,” says Sae, when he walks into work next. “Take the day off, Akechi-kun.”

“That’s entirely unnecessary--!”

“I will be liable in court if I make you work,” says Sae promptly, and before his very eyes, starts to move case files over onto his (very small) section of her desk. “You met your soulmate, you get a whole two weeks of paid leave. Goodbye.”

“I didn’t meet my soulmate,” says Goro, trying very very very hard not to snarl.

“You’ve got lovesick all over your face,” Sae replies.

Goro immediately pulls out his phone and checks himself in the front view camera, because Goro’s only dedicated entire years of his life to having perfect, flawless control over his face and public image and it’s simply not possible that one scruffy-haired teenaged boy who probably doesn’t even wear deodorant could undo all his hard work, but no, Sae’s right, Goro’s got this hideously piteous wide-eyed fawning look like he’s some kind of blindly dedicated fangirl star-struck over a local celebrity. Goro has the sudden compulsion to break his phone, and maybe get rid of Akira Kurusu’s phone number while he’s at it.

“Enjoy the honeymoon period,” says Sae. “Don’t come back or I’ll get sued.” She thinks about it. “I think you may have to still go to school. You seem to have met your soulmate unusually young, so you may want to check if your school has a policy on it.”

“Right,” says Goro. His fists curl; the leather gloves creak. “I’ll... go, then. If anything happens with the Kamoshida case--”

“I will not call you before two weeks is up.”

“How... very kind of you,” says Goro with determined pleasantry, as if she’s not booting him off the very case that Goro worked for two years to have an opportunity to even look at, not to mention the case that Shido will have his head for if Goro screws up.

Maybe Sae hears it in his voice, because she pauses, and gives him the neutral look that could very well pass as her smile. “When your leave is up, the case will still be here. You only get to meet your soulmate for the first time once. It’s a special time. You could try to enjoy it.”

Just then, Goro’s phone buzzes with a text from--ugh--Kurusu, speak of the soulmate devil: My school just told me to take the day off because of soulmate stuff, is that legal?? Goro’s heart jumps. Sae does smile then, in that smug, triumphant way she does when she’s just won a legal case. “Have fun,” she says, and in the reflection of Goro’s phone screen, he can see himself smiling against his will.

***

There’s nothing for it. Goro’s just going to have to kill Kurusu. Or put him in jail, or make him go psychotic, or hand him over to Shido or his cleaner friend for disposal. Whatever works. But Goro cannot continue on with this shackle around his throat.

Life is a series of unfreedoms: first you can’t choose who you’re born to, sometimes strung up with a bunch of birth complications, possibilities carved away from you by the map of your genetics and DNA predispositions. Then all the things you can’t afford: maternity leave, a good diet, child care, a good preschool. More still: Duck and bow your head to the social workers, the school teachers, the bosses who want nothing more than to fire your mother for the slightest mistake. Don’t speak too loudly. Don’t make eye contact. When your mother dies, you can’t cry too loudly at her funeral or it’ll make your aunt mad. No, you can’t afford the train fare to visit her grave.

And people have the nerve to say: Oh, isn’t it romantic to have been assigned a soulmate from the moment of your birth? Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it reassuring to have no choice in who you love?

Isn’t it the peak of romance that one day, you just look across a TV studio and your entire life gets turned upside down? The entire insides of your head gets rewritten according to some cosmic match-maker game. All of a sudden, you’d take a bullet for some shitty kid in glasses you’ve never met. And it doesn’t matter what you want; it doesn’t matter what you need. You love him and you can’t even hate him for it.

Isn’t that romantic?

Maybe Goro shouldn’t have been surprised when the public started thinking that a group of thieves reaching inside the heart of another person and forcing them to admit their crimes could constitute as justice.

***

Shido doesn’t give a shit about Goro’s soulmate problems and also Goro would rather sit on a cactus and spin than tell Masayoshi Shido that Goro’s fucking soul is tied to the very thieves that are currently being a pain in Shido’s ass, which is to say that Shido calls him on the subway and rattles off three more Mementos targets that he wants taken out before the end of the week and Goro has no choice but to simper and nod and tell Shido yes sir, anything he wants, sir, right away, sir. Halfway through the phone call, Goro realizes that he could just tell Kurusu that Goro’s a murderer, and Kurusu, the leader of the righteous and just Phantom Thieves himself, would have no choice but to love Goro anyway, murders and all, murderer and all; and it wouldn’t even be a lie, wouldn’t even be an obligation; Kurusu would love him genuinely and sincerely and he wouldn’t even be able to stop himself, even if he came to hate himself for it. Shido hangs up on him. A nice old lady next to him says, “Did you get some good news, dear?” and Goro realizes that he’s grinning ear to ear.

***

Well, if Goro’s going to kill Kurusu, then he might as well meet the boy before he does--especially if Kurusu’s offering. Since they both have the days off and nothing better to do than to figure out what to do with the person they’ve found their soul bound to, Kurusu suggests that they meet up at some place called Leblanc, which, if Goro isn’t wrong, is the same place that Sae’s been hounding because of that child neglect case. Goro reminds himself that Kurusu has no choice but to love him because of this stupid soulmate thing, and therefore it’s patently ridiculous that Kurusu will have much of an opinion on the state of Goro’s hair. Goro fixes it anyway. He also brushes his teeth in lockable restroom in a Wild Duck Burger place. Almost leaves, then goes back and applies deodorant.

This is the stupidest thing that’s ever happened to Goro. Kurusu’s the phantom thief Goro’s trying to catch. Odds are Shido will have Kurusu killed or put in jail within the next eight months. Goro walks into Leblanc, sees Kurusu lurking in the corner booth in his school uniform, and feels his own heart do a dozen cartwheels. Oh, wow, Goro really does love him and he doesn’t even know him. This isn’t stupid. This is disgusting.

Goro isn’t familiar enough with Kurusu as a person to know what his stare means, but the man behind the bar apparently does. “Take it somewhere else, lovebirds,” he says. “Actually--for god’s sake, Kurusu, take him somewhere nice for the occasion.”

“Here is nice,” says Kurusu.

“Somewhere fancy. Geez, have some class and show your soulmate a good time.”

“Upstairs is nice,” says Kurusu.

“No it’s--ugh,” says the barista, and mutters something about kids these days as Goro considers the possibility that Kurusu is going to try and show his love by skipping straight to the part where they fuck on the first date, and Goro will have the pleasure of cutting his own soulmate’s dick off. Greatly cheered by this opportunity, Goro says his hasty goodbyes to the barista and goes upstairs, curious to see the room of the boy that he’s going to have the honor of murdering.

Goro takes the couch. Kurusu sits at the desk chair. (Not backwards, thank god.) “How good to see you again,” Goro lies cheerily. “Have you been well, since we last spoke?”

And Kurusu--Goro doesn’t know why he thought the boy from the TV station, who argued with him on live TV, would disappoint him--Kurusu looks him square in the eye and says, “The soulmate thing doesn’t have to matter.”

“Oh?” says Goro, and leans forward. Why did he think Kurusu wouldn’t make an interesting move? It’s Kurusu. Of course he’d approach the soulmate issue with the same fascinating approach that he took to justice itself. “Most people would say it matters quite a lot. Most people would be delighted to have found true love. So young, too.”

“Are you?” asks Kurusu.

Goro blinks like he’s been thrown an unfair question in a TV interview. Kurusu smiles, slow, sure.

“Not to sound like a cynic,” says Kurusu evenly, “but it doesn’t feel much like love if it’s not a choice.”

Goro’s smile widens. “Is free will a prerequisite of true love, then?”

“If it’s going to mean anything that’s worth anything.”

“Even if such free will costs you your shot at happiness?” Goro presses.

Kurusu doesn’t blink. “Would you be happy, chained to someone you love but had no choice in loving?”

Obviously fucking not, but Goro doesn’t want to hear that from Kurusu, because it makes Kurusu sound like he understands Goro, and the last thing Goro wants to hear from the boy he’s going to kill is that he’s not just Goro’s soulmate, but his soulmate for a good reason.

“The idea of soulmates is a practically immoral phenomenon,” says Goro, so as to avoid the question. “At some point, it’s hardly any different from brainwashing or psychological manipulation, or even Stockholm syndrome. But the fact of the matter is that it’s a widely documented phenomenon, too. There’s no doubt that it’s real, and it exists, and that you and I are bound together. Speak practically, Kurusu. What are you proposing we do?” Besides just murdering you in Mementos, Goro thinks and doesn’t say.

“Pretend it didn’t happen. It doesn’t have to matter if we don’t let it,” says Kurusu. “I’m only in Tokyo until the end of this school year, too. We just have to wait until then, and then I’ll be hundreds of miles away and it won’t matter anymore.”

“You’re proposing that we outwit fate itself.”

Kurusu pushes his glasses up. Behind his hand, his lips just barely turn upwards. “Don’t think you can do it?”

Goro’s eyes narrow and his smile sharpens. “On the contrary, I’m only worried you won’t be able to keep up with me.”

“It’s a deal, then,” says Kurusu.

“We’ll choose our own paths of our own free will,” Goro agrees, “and we won’t let such a silly soulmate phenomenon determine the course of our lives.”

Kurusu’s smiles softly and takes Goro’s offered hand and shakes it. And for just a moment, Goro’s heart doesn’t feel like a besotted, weak traitor, but entirely at peace.

#mine #this is the second soulmate shuake fic i've written how does this keep happening #Anonymous

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